Cat and Mouse

by Vicary, Tim

  ‘For what? Do you want me to climb the walls or something?’

  ‘’Course not. But the other thing is you got to obey normal prison rules. Do third division work, scrub the floors and take out laundry when I order you. That's important, you'll need your strength for that. And with luck you'll be allowed into the yard for exercise.’

  ‘Exercise!’ Sarah thought ruefully of miserable women walking in circles round the prison yard, heads bowed, forbidden even to speak to each other. Oddly, she felt afraid of it. It would be so strange after this cell.

  ‘When do I get out?’

  ‘On Monday, I 'ope.’

  ‘How?'

  ‘That . . . I ain't going to tell you yet. For two reasons — please, Mrs Becket, listen and trust me.’ Ruth saw with alarm the light of combat leap into Sarah's eyes, saw how quickly emotion could engulf her. She ploughed on, determined. ‘In the first place I don't know yet, exactly, not all the details. And in the second, you got to admit you're in a highly emotional state just now. You might let slip something without meaning to, and give us both away. But if you don't know, you can't. Just trust me, please. And do what I say.’

  Sarah stared at her blindly for a moment. She hardly saw the girl, so intent was she on fighting down the flood of resentful memories within herself. The filthy bath Ruth had forced her into when she first arrived, carrying the slop-bucket to the sluice, the brutal feeding. And now she was asked to trust and obey a girl who had done all that to her. A servant who had held her down while men thrust a tube into her body. A torturess.

  ‘All right.’

  ‘Good.’ Ruth picked up the letter from the floor and put it into her purse. ‘Don't want no one to find this now, do we?’ Then she looked at Sarah for a long moment. ‘You're a brave woman, Mrs Becket. Maybe I should have said that before but it's hard, when you're in my position. If we get out of 'ere I might even come and join you in that suffragette shop. If they'll 'ave me.’

  There was a brief twitch on Sarah's face that might have been meant for a smile. She herself felt it chiefly as pain, from muscles unused for too long.

  ‘Don't worry,’ she said. ‘We take all sorts, you know!’

  ‘Mmmmm!’

  ‘Tastes good, does it?’

  Sarah did not reply. She was overwhelmed by the number of tastes, memories, and textures that could co-exist in a single spoonful of chicken broth. For the first time in nine days her salivary glands responded willingly to food; the sensation was exquisite. For several minutes she savoured it; then took another spoonful. A third.

  ‘Don't overdo it, now.’

  Sarah nodded. After the fifth spoonful she felt bloated, obese. She pushed the bowl away and shot an anxious glance at Ruth.

  ‘That's all right, Mrs Becket. You've started, that's the main thing. You'll manage some more tomorrow.’

  By the next morning Sarah's body was beginning to return normal. She had slept a little better; she managed to eat most of a bowl of porridge. Ruth let her rest for three hours, then put her on light duties, cleaning the corridors.

  It was odd, not to be supervised the whole time. True, there were always wardresses around, appearing from one place or another every few minutes; but no one stood over her continually. She could rest, as she needed to, for long minutes at a time, without being scolded. She could choose where to go, which areas to sweep next. It felt like freedom.

  It was also exhausting. In the afternoon she was allowed outdoors for the first time, to exercise. It was as she had expected — slow silent circles round a restricted tarmac quadrangle, a regulation three yards from the other prisoners. She could not talk to them, but she could exchange glances - curious, silent glances of sympathy - which were themselves a thrilling form of human contact, after so many days alone with four walls.

  And then there was the sun. She had forgotten what it was like, that unexpected caress of heat on your neck and face and arms. To bathe in warm air, breathe in light. To hear the sound of the city all around you, even if distant, over high walls topped with jagged glass. Sarah spread her arms to embrace the luxury of it all — and because Ruth was supervising the exercise, was not rebuked, the first time.

  Afterwards, in her cell, she slept. At five o'clock, when the rattle of the feeding trolley had previously made her break out in cold sweat, she was sleeping the deep refreshing sleep of a child. The trolley did not come. Dr Armstrong did not disturb her.

  Sunday was the same, but better. Sarah felt a little more strength return. She could sweep the floor and walk the yard for a moment or two longer without pausing. And she felt, too, a return of impatience.

  When Ruth brought her evening meal she said: ‘Tomorrow's the day, isn't it?’

  Ruth nodded. Sarah's decision to eat had brought a welcome interlude of calmness, of rational obedience, to her behaviour; but Ruth was acutely aware that this could change at any moment, if she said the wrong thing. And she herself had scarcely slept last night, worrying over every detail of her plan.

  ‘Aren't you going to tell me what I've got to do? I need to know something, or I may get it wrong.’

  ‘Yes, you do.’ Ruth spoke softly, her voice scarcely a murmur above the busy hum of the prison. But she had decided for herself that Sarah needed to be prepared. ‘Listen. Tomorrow morning I ain't going to ask you to do no sweeping. You've got to strip beds and carry laundry. Are you strong enough for that?’

  ‘Up to a point. I'm not Hercules yet, you know.’

  ‘Well, you got to do your best. You'll be taking dirty clothes and sheets down to the laundry room. Most third division prisoners will be doing it. I'll only give you one load, two at the most. When you're there you stuff 'em into baskets, and when the baskets are full, the laundry company takes them away.’

  The thin whisper of a smile flickered across Sarah's lips. ‘That sounds exciting.’

  ‘It will be for you.’ Ruth watched her carefully. This was the first crucial point. She thought of Sarah as a courageous woman but people could be bold in one way and finicky in others. ‘You're going out in one of them baskets.’

  Sarah's eyes sparkled. She drank a spoonful of soup and rested her elbows on the table, staring at Ruth.

  ‘In a basket. How amusing! But how?’

  ‘Exactly 'ow, you'll 'ave to leave to me. When one of the baskets is fairly full and there's no one around, you hop in and I'll fasten it down. Make yerself a space to breathe somewhere near the top, I should. Then keep mum until you reach the laundry.’

  ‘But what then? They'll find me there, won't they? I’ll come back washed and ironed.’

  ‘Not if your Mrs Watson can do what she promises. She tells me most of them women what work in that laundry are suffragettes. They've been urging her to try this trick for some time.’

  Sarah thought for a moment. ‘How long shall I be in the basket, do you think?’

  ‘An hour or two, probably. No more. We usually pack the baskets before ten and the wagon comes at 'alf past.’

  ‘And if I can't breathe?’

  ‘Don't worry about that. I'll check you can before I close the lid.’

  ‘It'll be a triumph if it comes off.’ There was a definite smile in that haggard, intense face now. I could like her, like this, Ruth, thought. Then Sarah frowned. ‘What about you?’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘When I'm gone, won't they suspect you? If you were in charge and you've lost me?’

  ‘If I'm lucky, they won't know.’

  ‘What on earth do you mean, they won't know? We're counted all the time in here, like coins in a bank.’

  ‘Yes, but I do the counting on this floor, don't I? Mostly. So before we start we'll bring some of the laundry in 'ere, and make it up into a roll to look like you're lying in your bed. If anyone asks I'll say you're tired and resting after straining yourself with the unaccustomed work. Them bundles of sheets can be 'eavy, you know. Specially for fine ladies what ain't used to work, an prefer starving theirselves instead.�
��

  Sarah ignored the jibe and frowned thoughtfully. 'I'm not sure I like that part of the plan so much. I mean, any wardress come in here at any time. And if they find out you're lying . . .’

  ‘That's for me to worry about, Mrs Becket. I've said I'll get you out and I'll do it, but I ain't about to get meself caught either if . . .’

  The cell door crashed open behind Ruth, catching her between the shoulder blades. As she stumbled forwards and turned she saw a man in the doorway. Big, burly, in respectable tweed suit. Heavy jowls, thick sensual lips, a solid fleshy face.

  Martin Armstrong.

  Behind him, an older wardress, carrying a tray. On the tray a jug, a glass with a spoon in it, and a glass jar.

  When both of them had come into the room there was scarcely room to move.

  Martin Armstrong smiled. It was a confident, patronising, avuncular smile. The sort of smile many doctors affect when going from bed to bed in hospital. But the smile did not quite reach the cold grey eyes in the flabby overfed face. There was a ghost of fear in them, Sarah thought. Fear and hatred. Or was that just a reflection of her own eyes in his?

  ‘So, I am pleased to see our patient eating at last. It was a wise decision, Mrs Becket, very wise. I am sure you will find that your mental faculties return to you soon, if you persevere with this course.’

  As soon as he had come in, Sarah had stood up, with her back to the wall beside her small table. She grasped her spoon in her right hand like a weapon.

  ‘There is nothing wrong with my mind, Dr Armstrong, as you very well know.’

  ‘You will allow me to be the judge of that, madam.’ He turned away from her and took the tray from the wardress who had come in with him. He put it down on Sarah's table by the bowl of soup. ‘Thank you, Mrs Canning. Since Miss Harkness is here I think I can manage. We can hardly move with the four of us.’

  As the older woman left, Sarah said: ‘I suppose you ask her to go so she won't hear my description of your abysmal character. Of how you pimp to middle-aged lechers and supply them with poor under-aged girls from charity homes for children.’

  Despite herself she found she was trembling. I thought I had stopped the violence of these emotions, she thought. The spoon rattled against the wall beside her as she gripped it in her hand.

  ‘No one wants to hear that sort of thing, Mrs Becket. But your fantastic accusations prove my point about your mental state. Now, I have brought you some medicine which may help to put these matters right.’

  He spooned some reddish-brown powder from the jar on the tray into the glass, mixed it with water, and held the glass critically up to the light.

  ‘I won't take it! I don't have to — I've had enough of your poison!’

  She swiped at the glass with her spoon, but Dr Armstrong was too quick for her. He swung the glass out of her reach with one hand and caught her wrist with the other, laughing deep in his chest.

  ‘Temper, temper, my fine lady! Every move you make proves your own lack of mental balance. Hold her arms, will you, Harkness?’

  From the moment the man had spooned the powder into the glass Ruth had been frozen with horror. What was it? What was he going to do? If she stopped him, if she refused to help, there would be a tremendous row and she would probably be dismissed at once. So there would be no escape, no hope for Sarah. But if she let him give Sarah the medicine, the woman might be dead by morning.

  ‘Come on, girl, help me, don't hang about!’

  Sarah, at least, had no doubts about what she should do. She was reaching for the glass desperately with her free left hand, trying to grab it or knock it over. Dr Armstrong held her away by twisting her right wrist across her throat, so that Sarah had to either turn left away from him or be half throttled by her own forearm. Wildly, she began to scream and kick his shins.

  ‘Miss Harkness, quick! Before I spill the damn stuff!’

  Ruth made up her mind. Feeling her arms like lead, she grabbed first Sarah's free left arm, and then the other, and twisted them both behind her. Then she swung Sarah round to the right, so that she couldn't kick the doctor because the table was in the way. She pushed Sarah forwards against it.

  ‘Let me go, you pig! I shan't take any — oooooooh!’

  Armstrong shoved his hand across her face and forced her forehead back with the palm of his hand, so that she was staring upwards into the great meaty fingers across her eyes. At the same time he pinched her nose between finger and thumb, so that she couldn't breathe. For a minute the three of them swayed backwards and forwards, but Sarah couldn't kick the wretched man because of the table and she couldn't bite him because his hand was too high up her face and she couldn't hit him because Ruth held her arms behind her and worst of all she couldn't breathe . . .

  She opened her mouth to suck in air and as she did so he poured the medicine down her throat.

  She choked and spewed half of it back. He caught most of it in the glass and when she breathed in again he poured it back into her mouth. Then he put the glass down and jammed his free hand under her jaw so that her head was tilted back even further and her mouth was closed.

  After another long minute she swallowed.

  He took his hands from her face.

  ‘All right, Miss Harkness. You can let her go now.’

  Ruth guided Sarah towards the bed so that she collapsed onto that rather than the floor. For a moment she slumped face down, ignoring them both. Martin Armstrong picked up the tray with the glass and jug and jar on it. Ruth gazed at him expressionlessly. He glanced down at the crumpled figure sprawled on the bed.

  ‘If you didn't resist, everything would be much easier, Mrs Becket,’ Dr Armstrong said. ‘Take my word for it, I only give you medicine for your own good.’

  Sarah was sobbing, gasping for breath. She moved her head slightly and gazed up at him from the bed, speechless. There was blood on her chin from her lips and also a rust-coloured smear, from the medicine she had spat out.

  Dr Armstrong opened the cell door. He glanced at the table where there was some soup, some of it miraculously still in the bowl.

  ‘I should feed that to her if you can, Miss Harkness. It all helps to build up her strength, you know.’

  Then he was gone. Slowly, Sarah's eyes focused on Ruth.

  Just survive until tomorrow morning, Ruth thought. Please, lady, don't die on me now. She bent down and hissed: ‘Stick yer fingers down yer throat! Quick — you've got to puke it up!’

  As she touched Sarah's chin Sarah jerked her head up convulsively and spat in her face.

  Then she turned her back and hunched into a ball on her bed, her head as close into the far corner as she could get.

  ‘Please, Mrs Becket! It may be poison. You've got to get it out if you can!’

  ‘I don't want your help! Ever! Leave me alone!’

  For a long time Ruth stood watching her sob, but she could think of no more to say. To force the woman to vomit now after what she had helped the doctor to do, was impossible. Also, she could not remember if she had heard Dr Armstrong’s footsteps going away down the corridor, and she was obsessed by a fear that he might be outside.

  She mopped up the spilt soup on the table with her handkerchief, picked up the bowl, opened the door, and went out. There was no one there. She locked the door behind her and walked away down the empty corridor.

  22

  WHEN RUTH came on duty in the morning she did not know what she would find. Maybe an empty cell with Mrs Becket moved to the hospital wing, under the intensive care of Dr Armstrong. Or an unfortunate death in the night. An inquest — who had last seen the prisoner, what state was she in, why had the doctor not been called?

  Lies to write on an official form. Collusion with Dr Armstrong. What could she say that would not implicate herself as well as him? But surely he would not use a poison that could be easily traced back to him? Surely — unless he were in such a panic about what Becket might say that he would do anything . . .

  And then what co
uld she tell Mrs Watson? I helped poison her, you see. I had to, to keep our plan secret. To save my own skin.

  She opened the cell door and went in.

  Sarah Becket sat on the bed and looked at her.

  White-faced, pale as a ghost with wide dark haunting eyes. Dazed, a little sleepy, hazy-looking. But a firmness too around the mouth, a grim smile that no ghost ever had. She stood up shakily, steadied herself with one hand behind her against the wall.

  ‘You're all right then?’

  ‘Yes.’ Sarah nodded towards the bucket in the corner. ‘I took your advice. Some of it's in there at least. If it was poison at all.’

  ‘How do you feel?’

  ‘Strange. As though my legs don't belong. But they work - look.’ She took a bold stride away from the wall towards the table, another — then sat down abruptly, hard on the stool. She swayed, clutched at the wall to steady herself, and started to giggle. ‘They don't work very well, do they? It's just that they seem so far away, and the floor is too . . . unsteady. I'm sorry.’

  ‘Don't be. Just concentrate, you've got to walk downstairs somehow.’

  ‘Yes.’ Sarah stopped giggling abruptly and propped her head in her hands. ‘Don't worry. I'll manage.’

  ‘You'll have to. We won't get another chance.’ A cocktail of relief and fear flooded into Ruth's veins, making her hand tremble. So she hasn't changed her mind, she thought. She plonked the bowl of porridge down on the table.

  ‘’Ere. Eat this if you can. To give you strength. It may mop up what's left of that medicine, too.’

  Listlessly, Sarah spooned some into her mouth. Then spluttered and choked. ‘Quick — water!’

  ‘’Ere.’

  Ruth held the mug while she drank. Then Sarah's hand came up and took it from her. Gently, but firmly. It was hard for her to grip it but she forced herself. Sipped, deliberately, then looked up. Not a kind look.

  ‘About yesterday,’ Ruth said. ‘I'm sorry, but I had to do it. You do realise that, don't you?’

  A nod. As though the matter was acknowledged, dismissed for the moment. Then Sarah said: ‘I spat at you, too. That was unforgiveable.’