The Devil's Hand

by Amy Cross

  “But I'm her friend! If you're holding bad news back from her, I have a right to know!”

  “I can't talk to you about that,” I say firmly. “Your baby is coming along very well indeed, and that's all that needs concern you for now. I believe you're going to give birth to a very healthy son or daughter in a few months' time.” Limping over to the desk, I scribble some notes on her chart. “So tell me, Ivy. I know it doesn't bear any relevance to my care for you, but I'm curious. How did you end up in this unfortunate condition?”

  “You mean, who knocked me up?”

  “That's one way of putting it.” I wait for a reply, before turning to her.

  “I don't want to talk about it,” she says with calm, practiced resilience.

  “There's no reason...” I catch myself just in time. “I was just about to tell you there's no reason to be ashamed,” I continue, “but, well, I rather suspect Mr. Kane would say otherwise. I'm sure he's drummed shame and fear into your mind by now.”

  She looks down at her feet, and I can tell I'm right.

  I want to comfort her in some way, to assure her that not everything Mr. Kane tells her is true, but I suppose I should keep my mouth shut. I'm not here to interfere in the running of the school. I'm just the doctor.

  “It was a local boy,” she says suddenly. “There's no big drama about it, I resisted him a few times but then I got curious. My friends had done it and none of them had ended up like this, so I suppose I got complacent. To be honest, I think my friends were lying, I think they hadn't done it at all but...” She pauses, as there's a hint of longing in her expression, of regret that seems unusual in the eyes of someone so youthful. “My parents were livid when they found out, of course. Spitting cobs, my father was. They're not exactly Bible-thumpers but, well, they have a certain reputation to uphold within the community. They packed me off here well before I had a chance to show.” She pauses again. “I believe everyone back home has been told I've come to visit my aunt, and to get away from the war. Perhaps some of them believe that story, I don't know. Either way, I'm sure there'll be whispers when I eventually get home. People do like to gossip, don't they?”

  “But the man who -”

  “You look tired,” she says suddenly.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Trouble sleeping?”

  “This is what I was warning you about,” I tell her.

  “What?”

  “Don't play innocent with me, Ivy. You're being precocious and changing the subject.”

  “Not on purpose.”

  I open my mouth to reply, but I can see the desperation in her eyes. It's as if she's shocked at having told me as much as she did, and she's imploring me to not ask any more questions.

  “Just give it a rest,” I tell her. “You don't want to attract attention and become Mr. Kane's next project.” I make my way over to her and grab hold of her shirt, pulling it down to cover her bump. “Take this as a friendly, well-meant warning. Your task here at the school is to keep your head down, deliver a healthy baby, and then go home to your parents as if nothing ever happened. Anything else, anything that makes you stand out, is a grave mistake.”

  “Does that advice apply to normal life as well?” she asks with a faint smile. “Keep my head down and hope to get through unnoticed?”

  “Get out of here,” I tell her, making my way back to my desk. “And remember... The day you start thinking you're the smartest one in a room, is the day you're about to make a terrible mistake!”

  “Fade into the background, then?”

  “Fade in the background,” I reply as she heads out into the corridor. “Trust me. It's the best way.”

  ***

  “That girl,” Mr. Kane says as I stop next to him in the corridor, “troubles me a very great deal.”

  Glancing out the window, I already know that I'll see Ivy in the playground. She's sitting with some of the other girls, not exactly 'playing' since their bumps preclude much in the way of movement. They're talking, though, and I can't help noticing that Ivy seems very much to be in charge, playing the role of the ringleader. The others might protest, but they undoubtedly look up to her. I can't imagine what frightfully important matter is absorbing them this morning, although their discussion seems very intense and very animated. Already, Ivy seems to have forgotten every word of the advice I gave her just a few hours ago.

  “She's nothing special,” I tell Kane, hoping to assuage his concerns and steer his attention away from the girl. “Her baby seems healthy.”

  “Fed by sin, perhaps.”

  “She's a little lively,” I add, “but trust me, there's no reason to be worried.” I watch for a moment longer as Ivy continues to talk to the others. “She's nothing like Abigail Cartwright,” I tell him. “I mean, if that's what concerns you. I simply don't see any similarities at all.”

  “Nonetheless,” he continues, “I think perhaps I should pay closer to this Ivy Jones girl. She seems like a trouble-maker. When I observed Abigail, I noticed that she and Ivy seemed to spend an inordinate amount of time together. It is possible that one girl has infected the mind of the other, and so the rot might spread if I am not able to nip it in the bud.” He pauses, and I can tell that he's lost in thought, trying to imagine what he will do about, and maybe even to, the poor girl.

  “I could talk to her,” I suggest, hoping to spare Ivy any more of Kane's scrutiny. After all, I've seen first-hand where such attention can lead. “If you wish, I mean.”

  “No, it should be me. You have a reputation around here for being soft and easily manipulated.”

  “I do?”

  “You do, and I hope you'll take measures to change that situation. If the girls think they can take advantage of you, if they sense any weakness at all, they won't hesitate to act. My advice, Doctor Ratcliffe, would be to make the girls afraid of you, or you'll become a figure of fun.” He glances at me with a hint if disdain in his eyes. “I mean, you are a man, are you not? Despite your obvious weaknesses.”

  I watch as Ivy and two of the other girls make their way across the playground. They look so ridiculous with their domed bellies, but perhaps Kane – a man who is so wrong on so many other matters – might be correct occasionally. The girls have come to see me as a friend more than as a teacher or a physician, and it would be as well to fix that misconception as quickly as possible. After a moment, I see that Ivy and Sissy are talking to a different group, while Susan is sitting nearby with a pained, tear-laden expression. I suppose some little drama is occurring amongst the girls. They certainly like to keep busy.

  Suddenly I hear the sound of a distressed voice calling out in the distance. Turning, I look along the corridor and realize that it's not one of the pupils. Instead, the voice sounds like an adult woman, but it's most certainly not Miss Kilmartin.

  “Go and see what's causing that commotion,” Kane says calmly, as if not even this can unsettle his demeanor. “And while you're at it, send Ivy Jones to me. I think it's time I cracked down on her behavior. I'll straighten that girl out yet.”

  III

  “Where's my daughter?” the woman shouts as she pushes past Mrs. Kilmartin and hurries across the hallway. “Where's my Abigail?”

  “Please,” Miss Kilmartin says, trying to grab her arm, “you can't just burst in here like this! You'll upset the girls!”

  “It's okay,” I tell the woman, blocking the door that leads further into the school, “everything's fine, let me handle this.”

  “Where is she?” she asks desperately, with tears streaming down her face as she reaches me. She holds up a tattered letter, and I instantly recognize Kane's neat, ordered handwriting. “What lies are these?”

  “You must be Abigail's mother,” I reply, swallowing hard. I catch a nervous glance from Miss Kilmartin. “Please,” I tell the woman, we mustn't make a fuss in front of the children, won't you come through to the drawing room and we can discuss manners in a more civilized -”

  “She's not dead,�
� the woman continues, taking a step back. She seems to be in a state of great agitation, maybe even panic, and it would not surprise me at all if she were to hyperventilate. “This letter is a lie! My Abigail is alive! Let me see her!”

  “Mrs. Cartwright,” I reply, stepping toward her, “we must -”

  “Where is she?” she screams, lunging at me. I grab her shoulders to hold her back, but the woman is a bundle of nervous energy and she tries to force her way past. Clawing at my shoulder, she puts up a decent show of strength but I am nevertheless able to keep her from getting any further.

  “You must control yourself,” I says firmly. “You're doing nobody any good by making such an awful fuss.”

  “Where is she?”

  “Mrs. Cartwright, please -”

  As she tries to push past again, I force her back toward the wall. In the process, she trips against the edge of one of the doors and falls, tumbling to the ground. Instead of getting back up, however, she collapses into a sobbing heap, wailing with pure sorrow while still clutching the letter in her right hand.

  I feel dreadfully sorry for the poor woman, of course, but at the same time she has no excuse for making such a terrible exhibition of herself. Stepping back, I turn to see that several of the girls have gathered in the doorway, watching the scene with wide-eyed fascination. From the gawping expressions on their faces, it's as if they haven't seen such entertainment in years.

  “Get out of here!” I tell them. “Go back to your studies!” When they don't move, I step toward them and clap my hands loudly. “Move!” I shout, and this seems to startle them into turning and hurrying away. “And Ivy Jones -”

  Ivy stops and glances back at me.

  “You're to go at once to Mr. Kane's office,” I continue. “He wishes to speak with you.”

  A ripple of fear crosses her face. “Why?” she asks.

  “Just do it,” I say firmly, keen to establish some authority with her. “Don't question orders.”

  “But I...” She pauses, before stepping toward me. “Can't you write a note or something, saying I'm sick?”

  “You're not sick,” I point out. “Would you ask me to lie?”

  “But Mr. Kane is -”

  “Go!” I shout. “Get out of here this instant!”

  “But you said -”

  “Don't make me tell you again!” I snarl, keen to make her fear me just a little.

  Clearly shocked by my angry tone, she turns and shuffles away, although after a moment she glances back at me over her shoulder, almost as if she can't quite believe that I was so strict. I wait until she's disappeared around the far corner and then I turn to see that Miss Kilmartin is now trying to comfort the sobbing woman on the floor. It is as if a burst of true emotion has burst through the walls of this place, and the effect on my pulse has been rather extraordinary. After spending so much time at Beacon's Ash, the sight of a traumatized woman from the outside world is a great shock indeed.

  ***

  “Abigail suffered a heart attack,” I explain calmly as we sit in my office a short while later. “Such things are tremendously rare in the young, but by no means impossible. I suppose she was simply unlucky. The whole thing is awfully sad, of course, but there was really nothing that could be done.”

  I wait for the woman to reply, but she's simply staring at me with shocked, tear-filled eyes. It's as if, having passed through anger and sorrow since she arrived here, she has now entered a state of grief that borders on catatonia. She clearly accepts the truth, though, which is an improvement over her earlier ravings that we are all liars. She's still holding Kane's letter in her trembling hands, and she's making no effort to wipe the many tears that continue to run down her face. I have honestly never seen someone looks so empty and blank.

  “I did everything I could for her,” I continue, “but...”

  My voice trails off for a moment as I think back to the other day, when Kane called me to his room and I found Abigail unconscious on the floor with her dress pulled down to expose her bloodied, whipped back. There were strips of loose flesh on her back, dangling from glistening red meat. I remember checking her neck for a pulse and finding none, and I can almost still feel the jolt of shock that entered my heart at that moment.

  “She simply couldn't be helped,” I add, forcing myself to keep from dwelling on such things. “It was very unexpected and very sad, and obviously her child also perished at the same time. She was almost at full term, which makes things especially awful, but I suppose her body simply couldn't cope with the rigors of carrying a baby.” I wait for a reply, but none comes; I can't even be sure that the poor woman hears a word I'm saying. “It would have been a boy, if that's any consolation.” I swallow hard, and far a fraction of a second the sight of Abigail's ravaged body returns to my thoughts. “Did Mr. Kane not explain all this in his letter?” I ask finally.

  She pauses, before looking down at the scrap of paper in her hands. Only a handful of days have passed since Kane wrote the missive and I am certain it was neat and uncreased when he slipped it into its envelope; now the page is worn and lined, with lines that show it has been folded and unfolded many times, and there are spots where it appears to have become wet. Many tears, I suppose, must have fallen during the reading. None, obviously, during the writing.

  “She was buried in an unmarked grave,” I continue, struggling to think of more things to say, “and -”

  Suddenly the woman breaks down into a series of deep, heavy sobs that cause her entire body to tremble. She bends over in her chair and then starts rocking back and forth while letting out a set of rather alarming choking sounds, almost as if she can't breathe properly. To be honest, I have always been uncomfortable around women, on account of such hysteria and emotionality, and I have to force myself to remain seated rather than running to fetch Miss Kilmartin. Women can be tremendously lacking in self-control.

  “So there you have it,” I add, raising my voice slightly so as to be heard over the continued moans. “Do you have any other children, Mrs. Cartwright? Perhaps you can now focus your attention on them instead?”

  Whether or not she replies to my words is impossible to discern. She certainly lets out some kind of rambling utterance, but she sounds less like a full-grown woman at this point and more like a mournful beast. It's as if the seams of her soul have become loosened and all sorts of guttural howls are escaping. I feel it might be better if I were to withdraw for the room. After all, she can't enjoy being observed at such a weak point.

  “Would you like some tea?” I ask after a moment, getting to my feet. “I shall call Miss Kilmartin and -”

  “Where is she?” Mrs. Cartwright asks suddenly, looking up at me with a rather alarming, blustery red face.

  “I... As I have explained, your daughter -”

  “Where is she buried?” she sobs. “Can't I at least see her grave?”

  “Well...” I pause for a moment, my mind desperately trying to come up with a satisfactory answer. “Yes,” I say finally, offering a faint smile that I hope will be of some comfort to her. “Of course you can.”

  ***

  “This is God's way of punishing us,” Mrs. Cartwright says a little while later as we stand by the old wall at the edge of the field, some way from the schoolhouse. “He took my dear Abigail because of the wrongs that my husband and I committed, not because of her own actions.”

  Staring down at the patch of soil that Sykes has thankfully filled in, I can't help wondering how much longer I shall have to stand here. I should think it would be acceptable to leave the woman to mourn on her own, but I should like to wait a little longer, lest I might be called unsympathetic. The air is cold out here, and snow on the ground makes the entire scene appear absolutely desolate. Nearby, several ravens watch us from the branches of bare and still trees. Occasionally the birds seem to call to one another, as if they're mocking us. Or gossiping about all the strange things they must have seen around this grave since it was first dug.

  �
��We never believed in God in our home,” Mrs. Cartwright continues, sniffing back more tears. “Abigail was one of three children, and my husband and I raised them in what we thought was the modern way. My husband still believes in all of that, but I've come to believe that we couldn't have been more wrong. When Abigail got herself into trouble with a local boy, I realized that something had gone dreadfully wrong with her upbringing, that we had failed her in some way as parents. When my husband went away at the start of the war...” She pauses, still staring at the grave. “If we had let God into our lives sooner, my dear Abigail would be alive and happy right now, rather than rotting here.”

  “You mustn't blame yourselves too much,” I tell her, although those words instantly strike me as being rather unhelpful and meaningless. “I'm sure not every event in life is some strict, coded message from on high.”

  I can't help glancing over my shoulder as those words leave my lips. After all, Mr. Kane would likely want to lash me with his whip if he heard me saying such a thing.

  “We never even had a Bible in the house,” the poor woman sobs. “Can you believe that? My husband said it was an evil book. Abigail went to a school that followed a similarly modern path and...” For a moment, she seems too shocked to say another word. “She has a brother and a sister. Do you think that maybe it's not too late to save them? They're younger than Abigail by a few years, so if they start studying the Bible immediately and I take them to church, and if I get them baptized, there's still a chance, isn't there?” She waits for me to answer, and it's clear that she's getting desperate. “Isn't there? Please say that there is!”

  “Of course,” I reply, “but -”

  Stopping suddenly, I realize that we're being watched by more than just ravens. There's a figure in the distance, barely visible since it's standing in the shadow of the large oak tree at the edge of the school-grounds. I can't make out any details, not even when I squint, but there's something rather off-putting about the way the figure is just standing there and staring at us. We're so far from the nearest town, stuck out here in the middle of nowhere, that I can't imagine someone happening upon the school by chance.