Woman on Ward 13: A haunting gothic novel of obsession and insanity (Iris Lowe Mysteries)

by Delphine Woods

  There was no vase in which to put the flowers, and Iris was not about to go into the back room again in search of one, so she lay the bouquet on Shirley’s pillow and scampered out of the house as quickly as she could.

  Shirley didn’t mention the flowers the next day until Iris asked if she liked them.

  ‘Oh. Yes. The flowers,’ Shirley said as she ladled out stew. ‘The flowers were lovely, thank you.’

  Iris didn’t press the matter. ‘Are you feeling better now?’

  ‘Yes, much. A walk yesterday afternoon did me the world of good.’

  Shirley handed out the dinner plates to the ladies, then gently placed the napkins on their laps or tucked them into their blouses. She sat beside Dot and fed her with a spoon and didn’t even flinch when Dot spat it out. She wiped the glob of gravy and potato off the old woman’s top, picked up the spoon, and tried again until Dot’s plate was clean.

  Shirley smiled for the rest of the afternoon. Nothing was too much trouble. When she was like that, she made everyone else happy, and the patients watched her as she skipped around the day room, imagining, Iris thought, of themselves at Shirley’s age.

  Shirley had gone by the time Iris had sorted Maeve out for the evening, giving her clean clothes after she had wet herself. Iris grabbed her handbag and jogged down the corridor, straining on her tiptoes until she saw Shirley’s blonde head bobbing in the distance.

  She followed as quickly as she could, but Shirley was striding away. She tripped down the hospital steps and out into the sunshine, but Shirley was not walking down the main driveway. Iris looked right, then left, and finally saw Shirley marching down the side of the building, her heels teetering with each step.

  Iris followed. She wanted to ask about going to the picture-house this Friday, seeing as Shirley was too ill to go last weekend. She was growing itchy sitting inside at night, watching the world go by. She was growing morbid with only Kath to worry about. She needed a distraction from reality.

  Shirley rounded the corner of the hospital and disappeared from sight. Iris began to run, her handbag with Kath’s diary in it punching into her side. Over the sound of her shoes she heard the purring of an engine, growing louder, revving as it sped around the bend. A flash of baby-blue metal hit her eyes as she jumped out of the way of the car, blinding her for an instant. Through the rear window, she made out Shirley’s distinctive platinum curls next to John.

  Iris plonked herself on the seat next to Kath and cursed God for the way of the world.

  A little worm wound its way through her tummy as she thought of Shirley going back to John. After everything they had said last week, how could Shirley be so stupid? How could Iris be so stupid to think that Shirley would simply move on?

  ‘Iris?’ Kath whispered, her voice hoarse and dry.

  ‘I’m here.’

  ‘Is something wrong?’

  Iris smiled as Kath peered at her through tired eyes. ‘No, nothing.’ She unzipped her handbag and retrieved the diary. ‘Shall I begin?’

  23

  1901

  Saturday, 12th January

  The dawn light is far off yet. My candle burns low. Marion is on night duty, I think – is that what she said? But she is not here, so she must be.

  I can hear Miss York beyond her black curtain. I don’t think she sleeps yet. I woke her when I stumbled through the door. I saw her face, two of her faces, both scowling as she came out of her section, then her mouth making shapes and a noise coming out which I could not understand. She sat me on the bed, and it felt like it was on the side of the wall; it felt as if I were sliding off it. I fell on the floor. She put me back onto the bed, made me lie down. She brought water to my lips, but I almost choked on it. I couldn’t grasp how to swallow.

  At some point, she went back to bed. That must have been some time ago, for now the room is still, and I can swallow once more. I was as thirsty as a dog, and I drank the whole glassful of water and still wanted more, but I did not trust my legs to take me to the tap downstairs.

  My hands can move on command now, but I apologise for my wobbly letters.

  I must write what I can. In the writing, perhaps the memory will return, for it is all a great fog.

  Last night…

  Dinner. The usual, in the dining room. I think Daniel was beside me again. Did he speak to me? I cannot remember. All I see is the back of Mrs Leverton’s head next to Mr Merryton’s, how it nods every now and again so that her hair tickles her neck. Dr Basildon to her right, the outline of his profile, the slant of his forehead, the sheen on it. Not looking at me. Mrs Basildon, staring.

  And then after dinner… The same as always, the slow parade to the bedrooms. Undressing Mrs Leverton. Persey. On her knees but no tears. Putting her to bed. She asked if I was all right, and now I remember the sensation in my stomach, the churning of hands, my insides like the slimy gloop of cake batter.

  Annie barked. Yes, that’s it, Annie barked, just once, as I was about to leave – I can see their faces watching me go, their dark, round eyes. I shut the door on them and darted to the laundry.

  I needed my cloak. I’d come down the stairs and into the courtyard when I remembered I needed a lamp too.

  My time was running out. Ten minutes past nine. There was a face at the window as I ran from the courtyard. I think it was Marion’s. Was it? What window?

  I remember running, the crunching and scattering of gravel. I remember feeling as if I would trip as I gained speed down the track, tumbling like a snowball, my legs working before my mind had time to catch up.

  I couldn’t get my breath at the bottom. I wished the corset was looser. I doubled over, my hands on my knees, the material shockingly cold and damp against my hot palms.

  There was a noise, I think. I jerked my head backward, felt the sinews snap in my neck, but there was nothing there.

  I must have walked on. I remember only the white spots of cows, and a stab of shame over my threats of murder. Innocent animals, as much a victim of anything as me.

  My lamp on our tree stump, shining light onto the smashed glass that still lay on the ground from our last meeting, poking out between fresh, dead leaves, green sludge clinging to the jagged edges.

  The stars. My breath blowing out before me. My teeth beginning to chatter.

  The watch face reading half past ten.

  I thought he would not come. I imagined walking all the way to the village and searching for Mabel. Which was the road to her farm? I would find it; if I had to walk all night, I would find it. My promises would not be empty.

  Then the tiny globe of yellow light, swinging on the horizon.

  Eleven o’clock.

  Bertie’s face, so achingly lovely and familiar, though its softness looked mean in the dim glow, his brown eyes almost black.

  What are you doing?

  What is wrong with you?

  His words cracked against the tree trunks. Insults hurled like stones. My rage boiling over. And I remember thinking, this is how Persey did it. I could understand, that fire, that agony, making insides roil, making fists shake, making voices shriek. I wanted to hurt him. If I’d had a knife I could have stabbed him in the belly, slashed his fat cheeks, blinded his eyes. If I’d had a gun I could have shot him clear through the head. If I’d had a rope I could have wound it round his neck and heaved on it until his legs stopped twitching, until his mouth stopped saying he didn’t love me.

  But I didn’t have a knife or a gun or a rope.

  I pelted him with my fists, I think – I remember the scratch of his old coat against my hands, the squeeze of his arms, holding mine to my sides until I stopped screaming.

  I remember our bodies close again, his heat on my back, his breath panting against my neck. We had grown limp, worn-out, both as sad as each other. We dropped to the floor, a pile of skirts and trousers and coats and cloaks, not knowing where one of us ended and the other of us began.

  I remember his lips. I would know Bertie’s lips from anyone’s. So
ft on mine, how they used to be, before he kissed me with anger and deception. We were gentle to each other again. I held his cheek in my hand as if it were a bird’s egg. He caressed me as he brought his lips in, again and again. There was a saltiness, his tears or mine, I didn’t know.

  The ground was somewhere. Him on top of me. Me on top of him. Swirling over and over, like currents in the river.

  Then it stopped.

  I think.

  He was slipping from me, as fluid and uncatchable as water. A black shape fumbling to his feet, his back to me. One last look over his shoulder, the white moon of his face, words hidden behind his coat. Then merging with the night, his light swinging away once more.

  And then what?

  Did I get up?

  I remember a scream, a shriek – a vixen or myself – in the silence. My head on the earth, the leaves sticking to my skin.

  I got up. I was going to follow him. Yes, that’s it! Because I twisted my ankle as my foot fell down a rabbit hole. I remember the pain shoot up my shin. And it made me stop and lift up my skirt and bend over to rub it better. I remember my stocking on my hand, the leather of my boot. Then...

  I don’t know.

  It is there, the memory, right at the base of my mind.

  My stocking. The cold leather. The twinge in my ankle bone...

  Something snapped. Too loud. Behind me.

  Another snap, louder still. My face turning to see...

  Whiteness. Something sharp – a pinch somewhere?

  Blackness.

  Then the stars again. As bright as fires but so far away. A bend in my back. I lifted my head to see my feet a mile away, to the right. My hands grappling on the floor until I managed to sit upright. The trees dancing in a circle, their crooked arms pointing at me, their faces laughing as they sang. I followed their fingers and found my skirt up to my knees, leaves on my stockings. I brushed off the leaves, leaning over, and I was sick. Yes, I remember the burn as it came up my throat.

  I had to wait until my legs could move whilst the trees still laughed and danced.

  I think I crawled some way, out of the woods, at least. My hands are cut now, scratched by branches and thorns. The cows parted for me.

  And then I was here, trying to open the laundry door but unable to find the handle. My hand kept slipping, unable to get a purchase on anything, until the door flew away from me and I fell on the stones inside. I took the stairs on my hands and knees. The bedroom door wasn’t shut properly, I think, and that’s how I got in.

  The scratch of a match, Miss York’s face.

  And now, my body still, controlled, but my brain in disarray. When the light comes, it will be different. When the light comes, I will know. I am sure of it.

  The light does not help.

  Marion woke me from sleep, chiding me that I would be late for duty until she looked more closely.

  I dragged myself onto my elbows. Leaves and twigs clung to my dress, and my sleeves were stained with dirt.

  ‘What has happened to you?’

  I could not tell her even if I wanted to.

  Marion helped me stand, leaving behind crumbs of earth on the bed, and when I turned she gasped at my back, which was much worse than my front.

  I felt the twinge in my ankle and took off my shoe and stocking. The flesh was swollen around the joint and tender to the touch.

  ‘Let’s get you out of those clothes.’

  She unfastened my dress, let it fall in one big mess at my feet. She tutted as she put her fingers through my hair. It had half fallen out of its pins, one side hanging about my face, knotted and flyaway, the other side harbouring a nest of undergrowth. Her fingers trailed down my scalp, then there was a sudden sting as she reached the nape of my neck.

  ‘What is it?’ She lifted my hair up. ‘Oh my goodness.’

  She walked me to the small looking glass, turned me, and showed me the clump of bloodied hair. There was blood on my pillow.

  ‘Katy, tell me what happened.’

  ‘I cannot.’

  She put her hand over her brow. ‘I am sorry about how I have been with you. I should not have said what I did. But please, Katy, I am scared for you.’

  ‘I cannot tell you because I do not know. I cannot remember.’

  ‘You went out last night?’

  I nodded, and my pulse pounded in my temples.

  ‘Where?’

  Dearest Marion, how I have missed her sweet face these last few weeks! I couldn’t lose her again. ‘Don’t tell anybody.’

  ‘I swear.’

  ‘I was meeting someone… a man.’

  Her eyes widened.

  ‘It was not like that. We are engaged – we have been engaged.’

  ‘Did he do this to you?’

  ‘No! I… don’t know. I thought he left, but…’

  She made me sit on the bed once more. ‘Do not worry yourself. I will tell Mrs Thorpe you have an upset stomach. Just stay here, I’ll be back soon.’

  I did as I was told.

  Miss York came out of her section then and looked me up and down. I had forgotten she was there; she was as silent as a church mouse. She was wearing her own clothes instead of her grey uniform and looked unusually fresh in pastel pink.

  ‘Thank you for helping me last night.’

  She stood before the mirror and fixed her hat. ‘So it is true, after all.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘What Mrs Basildon said.’ She faced me. ‘You can rest assured, Miss Owen, I will not help a slut again.’

  She might as well have slapped me. She left me with those words ringing in my ears until Marion returned with a bowl of warm water and a cloth. She set the bowl down on the floor and began to wipe me clean, gently patting the sore at the back of my head. My hands were the worst, though, sprinkled with dried blood and crimson gashes.

  ‘I don’t like this, Katy. This is not right. What is the boy’s name?’

  ‘It’s not him.’

  ‘You said you don’t know that for sure.’

  ‘Bertie would not hurt me.’

  He had told me he would never hurt me – though, of course, he had hurt me in the worst possible way. I would be pummelled and scratched and bruised all over my body, day upon day, if only Bertie would say he loved me again.

  ‘Bertie what?’

  ‘I won’t tell you, not if you are planning on getting him into trouble.’

  ‘Don’t you think he deserves trouble after this? What kind of man leaves their fiancée in this state?’

  ‘It was not him, Marion, I am telling you.’

  ‘You did not do this to yourself.’

  ‘My ankle had turned. I was bending over… Perhaps I lost my balance, hit my head?’

  ‘Your hands?’

  ‘I crawled out of the woods.’

  She threw the cloth into the reddened water. ‘I do not see how one person can get themselves into such a state. What are the scratches on your cheek from?’

  I hadn’t seen my face properly. I wobbled over to the looking glass again. There were four red marks on my cheek, running from the corner of my left ear down towards my mouth.

  ‘How do you explain those?’

  I had no idea.

  ‘Tell me his name, Katy. Dr Basildon will find him.’

  ‘It is not him!’

  ‘Then who?’

  I stared down at her, looking as much like a little grey pigeon as ever as she knelt by my bed. She was angry for me, and I was grateful for her.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Persey said very little for most of the day. We went only for a short walk, just to the mound. Indeed, it took until after midday for my head to become clearer, and still the ache in it persisted.

  She read to Alice in the afternoon and insisted I have a cup of tea. She dropped two lumps of sugar into it and told me to sit in front of the fire, as if I were the patient and she were the attendant. Annie stayed by my side too, resting her head on my good foot, as if she knew th
e other was painful.

  Mrs Thorpe let me avoid dinner, perhaps in fear that my upset stomach would return if I saw food. She noticed the scratches on my face, even though Marion had tried to hide them with powder, but she said nothing. Perhaps Miss York had been to her already. But Persey said she heard Dr Basildon ask Mrs Thorpe where I was, and Mrs Thorpe went along with the excuse of my stomach, so maybe she does not suspect anything.

  It was not until we were in the privacy of Persey’s room that she asked me what had happened. I did not want to lie to her; she had been honest with me – her version of honest, at least. I told her what I could, but as I put it into words, I realised how bizarre it sounded, how confused.

  ‘I cannot remember it properly.’

  ‘You must!’ She grabbed my hands. We were sitting so close on her bed that her breath blew against my face as she whispered fiercely, ‘Our memories are our most valued possessions, Katy. You must not lose them!’

  I shook my head. ‘I only remember bits of it, and some things I cannot be sure happened at all. I keep trying to think. It is as if there is a wall. I keep scrambling up it, and I am just about to see over the top when I fall and have to start all over again.’

  ‘Keep trying.’

  ‘I must have tripped. There are so many stumps there, perhaps I hit my head on one.’

  She tilted her head to the side and smiled. ‘You do not really believe that, do you?’

  I was suddenly desperate for the privy when I had finished with Persey. I had not been all day, and I ran for it, reaching it just in time, but when the piss started, it was as if fire was pouring out of me. I gasped and tried to stop it, but it had to come. It gushed out of me, and by the time I had finished, I was panting.

  I pressed two strips of paper to me, tenderly drying myself. I put my fingers there, testing how much pressure I could take. Not much. When I pulled my fingers out into the light, they were pink with diluted blood.

  I lifted my skirts and let down my drawers. It was awkward in my corset – I had to raise one foot onto the seat – but then I saw them: bruises forming at the tops of my thighs.