by Amy Cross
“You didn't see what he did to Abigail,” I mutter, grabbing my jacket from the chair. For a moment I glance at my writing paper and consider finally penning a letter to Mr. Kane that I actually deliver. Realizing that there's no point, I head back to the bed and pick up my suitcase. “He murdered Abigail Cartwright,” I continue, making my way to the door but finding that Mrs. Kilmartin is still blocking the way. “Let's not beat around the bush. He murdered her, and if he's not careful -”
Again Ivy cries out, her ragged voice filled with pain.
“He didn't murder anyone,” Mrs. Kilmartin says calmly, with just a trace of fear in her eyes. “Abigail's death was an unfortunate accident and I'm sure Mr. Kane never intended -”
“He flayed her,” I say firmly, interrupting her. “The flesh on her back was destroyed. Discipline the girls by all means, teach them to improve themselves, lay down the law, but to do something like that to one of them is far beyond the bounds of reason!”
“You were okay with it until now,” she points out. “Why are you suddenly unable to tolerate the way this school works?”
“I tolerated it until now,” I reply. “I ignored it.”
“So what changed?”
Slipping past her, I make my way along the corridor, hurrying toward the stairs. “I've reached the point where I can no longer deceive myself,” I tell her as she follows. “Every day, I've told myself that I have no choice, that I just have to go along with it all, but I can't do that any longer. This school needs to be shut down, and I intend to make sure that the authorities are told exactly what has been going on here.”
“Doctor Ratcliffe, please -”
“How do you cope?” I ask. “How do you tolerate being in the presence of that awful man? Can you just ignore the presence of evil in this school? Is there enough brandy in the world to numb your conscience?”
“At least I'm not a coward who lied to get out of the war.”
Stopping at the top of the stairs, I feel a cold shiver pass through my chest. When I turn and look back at Mrs. Kilmartin, I see that she's watching me with a stony-eyed stare.
“Your limp goes away when you're agitated,” she continues. “Besides, did you think Mr. Kane never shared your dark little secret with me? There's nothing wrong with your leg, James Ratcliffe, but there is a great deal wrong with your heart. The way Mr. Kane explained it to me, you were able to fake the injury that got you turned away by the military. He says you intentionally damaged the muscle in your right leg in just the right way to cause minimal pain, but to render you useless to the nation. You and a fellow doctor, a fellow coward, signed one another's exemption papers, did you not? I can honestly say that I have never heard of such a lowly act, not in all my life.”
“You don't know...” I pause, realizing that it's hopeless to deny anything. “I saw the people who came back from the battlefields,” I tell her finally. “In London, in the hospitals, I saw them and their injuries... I felt I would be of more use here and...”
My voice trails off.
Lies.
All of it.
“I was terrified,” I continue. “If I'd gone to war, I'd be dead by now. I'd have been churned into the ground like millions of others.”
“You've have given your life for your country.”
“I can do more here.”
“Hiding in a girls' school in the north of England? Really?”
I open my mouth to tell her she's wrong, but no words come out.
“Are you sure you're not just scared of dying, Doctor Ratcliffe?” she continues with a faint smile. “You seem like an intelligent man. Perhaps you've managed to persuade yourself that there's some virtue to your actions, but in reality you're a coward.”
“I can do good things,” I stammer, even though I know I must sound desperate. “I can help people.”
She smiles.
“I can!” I shout. “Don't you dare lecture me on what's right, not in a place like this!”
“So many brave men are out there fighting,” she replies, “and laying down their lives because they believe in their country, and because they're willing to do anything in their power to stop that awful Mr. Hitler. I'm sure they're scared too, but they still went to do what is right.”
I open my mouth to defend myself, but I can't. A shudder passes through my spine as I realize that I have sunk this low. It is a hard thing indeed to be lectured about bravery and cowardice by such an awful woman, and to feel such shame in my chest.
“He's been holding it over me,” I tell her finally. “That's how he persuaded me to turn a blind eye to his cruelty for so long. He obtained evidence of my cowardice and he threatened to turn it over to the authorities.”
“You'd most likely be executed,” she replies.
I pause for a moment, before nodding.
“He'll turn you in, you know,” she continues. “Don't fool yourself into thinking he won't follow through with that threat if he feels he must.”
“I know.”
“If you leave Beacon's Ash, you'll be signing your own death warrant.”
“I know.”
In the distance, Ivy cries out again, her pained voice briefly filling the stairwell.
“I can't do it any longer,” I say after a moment. “Whatever happens to me, I must face the consequences of my actions. I can't hide my cowardice, but I can do the right thing and save these girls from being abused by Jeremiah Kane and his -”
“No-one's abusing anyone,” she spits, interrupting me.
“He's abusing them,” I say firmly, with mounting anger, “and in some cases he's killing them!”
“They're sinful little sluts!” she sneers. Clearly shocked by her own outburst, she takes a step back.
“So that's how you react to the presence of evil,” I reply. “You join in.”
“No more than you.”
“I can change that!” I tell her.
“Jeremiah Kane is good for them,” she continues, even as Ivy cries out yet again. “Look where they've ended up in life. Pregnant, unmarried, their lives already ruined at such a young age. The one thing that just might help is some discipline, some harsh truths, and that's what Kane gives them. Obviously their parents are unqualified for the job, so someone has to step in and try to heal the faults in their souls.”
“By stealing their babies away and sending the poor little things to orphanages run by men such as himself?” I ask.
“He's doing God's work.”
“And what happens to those children?”
“They're given good homes.”
“With men like Kane?”
“They'll all have very disciplined upbringings.”
“He drowned Abigail Cartwright's child,” I reply. “Did you know that?”
“He -” She pauses, clearly shocked by the news.
“I saw him do it,” I continue. “By some miracle, the little boy survived for a short while after his mother's death. By another miracle, I was able to cut him out. He was healthy, he would have lived, but Kane drowned him in the sink because he saw him as sinful. Is that God's work, Mrs. Kilmartin?”
She stares at me for a moment, before shaking her head. “You're lying.”
“I watched it happen.”
“You're trying to besmirch the name of a good man.”
“You know I'm telling the truth,” I reply. “You know Kane is capable of doing such a thing.”
“I know you're a liar,” she continues. “I know you're a coward who'll do anything to save his own skin.”
“Not anymore,” I tell her. “Now I'm going to do what's right, no matter the consequences I have to face. Let them put me on the gallows if they see fit, I probably deserve it, but I will not spend another day facilitating the torture of these girls.”
As if to underline my point, Ivy Jones cries out again.
“So what are you going to do?” Mrs. Kilmartin asks calmly.
“I shall go to London,” I tell her, “and I shall inform the
police of everything that has happened at this school. I shall not hide my own actions, I shall admit that I have been complicit, that I let myself be blackmailed into supporting awful, terrible things. So long as Kane is led away in handcuffs, I can face any fate with a scrap of honor.”
With that, I turn and make my way down the stairs.
“You're making a dreadful mistake,” Mrs. Kilmartin calls after me, with a hint of desperation in her voice now. “You're weak! You run away from everything!”
I want to argue with her, but I can't. After all, she's right, but at least I can try to put things right. When I reach the hallway, I look back and see that she's not following me, so I hurry through to the kitchen and then out to the garden at the rear of the schoolhouse, where to my relief I see that Sykes is working on the gutters.
“I need to go to town,” I tell him, my voice trembling with fear. “Can you drive me?”
“Right now?” He frowns. “I'm in the middle of something, can it wait until tomorrow morning?”
“Please,” I reply, “it's dreadfully urgent.”
“There's a lot of snow on the roads.”
“But not too much, I'm sure. They'll have been cleared at least as far as Fairfield. Please, Mr. Sykes, I'm begging you, I have to get to town immediately.”
He sighs. “I suppose I can fetch the car. If Mr. Kane says it's alright, we -”
“Just go and get it,” I tell him. “I must catch the last train to London.”
He stares at me for a moment, with a hint of suspicion, before grabbing a rag and starting to wipe grease from his hands. “Aye,” he mutters, “well... I suppose if it's that important, I can oblige.”
As he shuffles off toward the garage, I make my way past the steps and then stop to glance back up at the school's windows. I haven't heard Ivy crying out for a few minutes now, but I doubt that the monster is finished with her. I don't dare go to his office and try to intervene personally, because I fear he might take steps to keep me from leaving, so for the sake of all the girls at this wretched place I must simply go to the police and secure their involvement. Turning and making my way a little further from the house, I realize that a great burden has been lifted from my shoulders. In truth, I'm not even scared of turning myself in, for at least I will never again have to live with the knowledge that I am turning a blind eye to such horrors.
“Dear Lord,” I whisper, looking up at the graying sky above as light snow continues to fall, “I ask not for your forgiveness but for your action. Protect the souls of these girls above all else.”
I wait for a moment, almost expecting an immediate answer, but of course there is none. Turning, I look toward the garage and realize that Sykes is taking a very long time getting the car. Then again, I suppose the cold weather might be causing a few mechanical problems. Glancing back toward the schoolhouse, I realize after a few seconds that I can see two figures standing in one of the windows, and to my shock I see that Kane is watching me with Mrs. Kilmartin standing next to him. She's talking about something, and it's not hard to work out that she must be telling him about my intentions.
I look toward the garage again. Still no sign of Sykes. When I turn back toward the window, I see that Mrs. Kilmartin is now watching me calmly, and that Kane is gone.
I have to get out of here. I can't wait for Sykes, I can't even trust him.
Turning, I start to make my way along the driveway. The walk to town will take a couple of hours and I might miss the train, but I simply cannot afford to sit around here and wait to see how Kane reacts. After everything I've seen, I have absolutely no doubt that he would use force to keep me here if necessary, and then nothing would change for the girls. A moment later, however, I hear footsteps hurrying up behind me across the snow and I turn to see that Sykes has finally returned.
“Sorry, Sir,” he says breathlessly, “there's a little problem with the motor right now. I'm gonna have to take it apart, so I'm afraid I can't drive you to the station after all.”
“How convenient,” I reply, taking a step back. “Never mind, I shall walk.”
“There's no need for that,” he says, forcing an unconvincing smile. “If you'd just like to wait 'til morning, I can take you then! What's one more night, eh?”
“I'm not waiting,” I tell him.
“You can't walk, Sir,” he replies. “Mr. Kane... Well, he asked me to ask you if you could go to his office. I think he'd like to have a word, Sir. It sounded rather urgent.”
“I bet it did.”
“Won't you just go and see him?” he continues. “Please?”
“Tell Mr. Kane to go to hell,” I reply, feeling a flash of courage in my chest. For the first time in my life, I'm doing the right thing. “Tell him I'll see him there.”
I turn and start walking away, but a moment later Sykes taps my shoulder.
“You won't get me to stay,” I say firmly.
“It's not that, Sir,” he replies. “It's this.”
Sighing, I turn to him. “What -”
Suddenly I see that he's holding a black, dripping rag in his right hand. Before I can stop him, he thrusts the rag into my face while placing his other hand on the back of my head, and I feel a burning pain in my eyes.
“Sorry, Sir,” he stammers, “but Mr. Kane says I'm to make sure you stay!”
Crying out, I manage to push him away, but there's a foul stench of motor oil and I can feel the burning sensation seeping to the backs of my sockets. A moment later Sykes tries again with the rag, but this time I manage to blindly reach out and grab him before he gets the chance. Filled with panic, I slam my fist against the side of his head and immediately his body slumps against me. I step aside before turning and stumbling away.
Unable to see much with the motor oil still burning my eyes, I stumble toward the gate and out onto the frozen field. By the time I get half a dozen feet further, I can't see a goddamn thing.
II
The snowy ground crunches under every footstep as I hurry past the old stone wall. Every few seconds I glance back the way I've come, forcing myself to open my burning eyes for just a second and look to make sure that no-one is coming after me. I can barely see a thing and my vision is a mass of blurred white, but thankfully there doesn't seem to be any sign of either Kane or Sykes so far. Perhaps he is looking for me on the main road, or perhaps he has some other plan to protect himself. Either way, I must simply get to the train station and from there travel to London.
Stumbling against a patch of frozen snow, I drop to my knees and let go of my suitcase in the process. Letting out a gasp of pain, I haul myself back up. I'm already a little breathless and I've barely been walking for a quarter of an hour, but I can't stop to rest. I reach around, trying to find my suitcase, before realizing that it's a lost cause. Stumbling on, I blink furiously in an attempt to clear my vision, and then I start rubbing my eyes in the vain hope that I can get some of the oil out. Deep down, I know that motor oil will have a terribly corrosive effect, and that my eyesight is most likely ruined, but I have to try something. Reaching down, I scoop up some snow and rub it between the palms of my hands so that it starts melting, and then I stop to let the water dribble into my eyes. Blinking furiously, I wipe the fluid away and look around, and to my relief I find I can just about make out the vast, blurred white landscape.
And then suddenly, through damaged eyes, I see it.
Up ahead, there's a dark hole in the ground, and I realize as I get closer that Abigail Cartwright's grave has once again been dug up. Stepping closer, I look down into the depths and see that there is still no sign of her body, but as I glance around I can't help wondering who would dig up the same grave twice, and for what purpose. Sometimes, it is as if the area around Beacon's Ash is filled with insanity, as if the very ground beneath our feet is party to the same madness that festers in the body of Jeremiah Kane. In fact, I find myself contemplating the possibility that this land is evil, and that it has crept into the man's soul.
No matter
.
I do not have time to stop.
Making my way carefully around the grave, I trample across the rough ground, heading toward the distant line of bare trees. With the pain already returning to my eyes, I reach up and try to wipe some more oil away, but I fear the worst of the damage is already done.
Before I can take another step, however, I suddenly feel a hand pressing down upon my right shoulder. I freeze, telling myself that I must be imagining the sensation, but slowly I feel the hand tightening its grip, almost as if it wishes to start gently forcing me down against the frozen earth.
I want to slip away and run, but for a moment all I can do is wait.
“Who are you?” I whisper finally, blinking constantly now. “What do you want?”
Again I wait, but there is still no reply.
I take a step forward, but the hand remains.
I open my mouth to tell it to go to hell, but then I remember that night in my room when the hand disappeared as soon as I turned. Taking a deep breath, I pause to gather my composure and then I turn, but the figure is gone. My eyes are burning more than ever now, but I force myself to keep them open as I turn and look around. It's almost impossible to make anything out, other than the mass of blurred snow and the gray sky that hangs above the scene.
Suddenly I realize I can see a figure standing just a few feet away. I blink furiously, but my vision is only getting more blurred as the pain builds. All I can make out is the figure's general shape, and it's clear to me that this is not Jeremiah Kane, nor is it Mrs. Kilmartin or even Sykes. I take a step back, almost tripping again, but I manage to steady myself as I start furiously rubbing my eyes once more. I know full well that I'm only making the problem worse, but the pain is excruciating and I can't help trying desperately to wipe the oil away.
“Who are you?” I stammer. “What do you want from me?”
I turn and take a few steps away, before feeling the hand on my shoulder once again. This time it's a little closer to my neck, and I can feel its freezing cold touch on my flesh. I pull away and turn, finding that the figure is once again right behind me, but my vision is still too blurred for me to be able to make out its features.
