Thorn

by Sarah Rayne

  ‘Certainly not. You’ve been working and you can go on working. I’ll make us omelettes when you’re ready. I can’t bear those red and yellow rubber pizza things.’

  Dan returned to the intriguing problem of how Margot was going to dispose of the two corpses which were still lying in a welter of gore in the wash house. He thought that the phone rang at one stage and he dimly heard Oliver answer it and hold a brief conversation with somebody. There was something about, ‘I’ll make sure he phones you back as soon as possible – has he the number?’

  Dan mentally relegated the telephone to the back of his mind and returned to Margot’s dilemma. Was it possible that she could make use of the wash house to get rid of the bodies? Yes, of course she could.

  And of course she did and it worked splendidly. She tipped both bodies into the old copper boiler, half-filled it with water, and lit the stove-like contraption underneath. Memories of visits to his grandmother in the country surfaced in Dan’s mind: there had been a small stone wash house there, which had provided terrific quarters for hide-and-seek when he and Oliver stayed during school holidays. He remembered exactly how the mechanism had worked; he understood what had to be done, and Margot understood as well.

  The stench of the boiling bodies was nauseating but there were no near neighbours so it did not matter. Margot did not mind the smell, in fact she gloried in it. She was an evil, warped bitch, and she exulted in what she had done. The abominable smell mingled with the drifting scents of somebody’s autumnal bonfire in a nearby field. It was almost two days before the bodies of Rosamund’s parents were boiled down to bones. The chapter ended with Margot standing gloatingly in the evil-smelling wash house, the twilight trickling in through the tiny grimed window and showering her with twisting purple and violet shadows.

  Dan reread it critically and thought it was not bad. He thought he had evoked the claustrophobic eeriness of the place when it was deserted and also the nightmarish quality of the huge copper boiler itself. Could any of it be used as the reason for Rosamund’s final plummet into real insanity? This had worried Dan quite a lot, because while beleaguered damsels had perforce to be consigned to pitiless stone wings of briar-enclosed castles, and villainesses had to stalk the darkness brandishing dripping knives, manipulating their wards’ bank accounts by way of spare-time entertainment, it must all be credible.

  Supposing Rosamund accidentally discovered what Margot had done? Supposing she somehow came upon the mutilated remains of her parents – perhaps her mother? Wouldn’t that be enough to send a sensitive girl rocketing into hysteria at the very least? And wouldn’t that hysteria be sufficient reason to take her from the relatively gentle, more or less humane side of her asylum and lock her away in the grim dark wing reserved for the helplessly insane?

  And then Dan thought: what if Margot makes sure she comes upon the mutilated remains? Oh, yes.

  He grinned with delight, jotted this down as the superstructure for the next chapter, and got up from the desk, conscious for the first time of aching back and shoulders. He walked round the sitting room twice to unstiffen his cramped muscles, and then went to see what Oliver had managed by way of supper, and who the phone call had been from.

  Oliver was cooking cheese omelettes and the kitchen was pleasantly filled with the scents of melting cheese and garlic. He had found a French loaf that Dan had bought earlier that morning and forgotten about, and had spread it thickly with butter and chopped garlic, and put it in the oven, wrapped in foil. He had managed not to blow the cooker fuse this time, and had remembered how to set the timer as well. He had also opened a bottle of very good red wine which was, it appeared, one of a case given to him by the bursar of his college, three bottles of which he had brought for Dan.

  The phone call had been from Dan’s agent who had reportedly said that if Dan was not too taken up with writing the Great British Novel, there was a commission for him from a magazine.

  ‘He said it would be light relief and also some income. Dan, you aren’t broke, are you?’ said Oliver, concerned.

  ‘Not yet,’ said Dan, dialling his agent’s number.

  ‘Are you ringing him now? Isn’t it a bit late?’

  ‘Piers never sleeps if there’s money involved,’ said Dan caustically.

  ‘It’s a profile for Women in Business,’ said Piers, who answered on the second ring. ‘I put you up for it and they’re agreeable. Reasonably factual, and not too frivolous – well, you know the kind of thing, you can do it standing on your head. And that new magazine, Integra, they’re interested in something as well. I’ve had a word with the features editor. You can be as frivolous as you like for that one, of course.’

  ‘Of course. How much are Women in Business paying? Ah. And Integra? How much? Yes, I thought that was what you said. Yes, I know it’s generous. Well, of course I’ll accept it.’ He made a few quick notes, and then said, ‘Who’s the subject, Piers?’

  Piers laughed. ‘The new head of Ingram’s Books.’

  ‘D’you mean Royston Ingram?’

  There was the sound of papers being shuffled at the other end, and Dan had a swift, vivid image of his agent’s office and the serried highly-organised chaos that reigned there.

  ‘Royston Ingram’s dead,’ said Piers. ‘Don’t you read the obituary notices?’

  ‘No, I don’t. I read the bankruptcy listings, to see if I’m in them yet. When did he die? And how?’

  ‘Heart attack just over a week ago. His wife died at the same time and—Did you say something?’

  ‘No. Go on.’

  ‘She had – what was it? – oh yes, a perforated stomach ulcer. One line of gossip says it was her death that brought on his heart attack, in fact. But no one really knows.’

  ‘I don’t suppose they do.’ But I think I know, thought Dan. I know why Royston Ingram’s heart failed. He said, carefully, ‘Where do I come in? And who’s the new head of Ingram’s?’

  ‘Thalia Caudle,’ said his agent.

  There was an abrupt silence. Then Dan said, ‘Did you say Thalia Caudle? She of the voracious appetite for young men and lip-smacking mien?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘Thalia Caudle’s the new head of Ingram’s?’

  ‘In theory. Royston left her control of the lot, or as near to the lot as makes no difference. The house in Hampstead, sixty per cent of the shares in Ingram’s. The general opinion is that she’ll float a public company like one or two other publishing houses lately, but I wouldn’t bet the ranch on that. A press handout’s just come through – I’ll get a copy to you.’

  ‘How do I get to meet the lady?’ demanded Dan. ‘Am I expected to climb the dark topless tower of the necromancer? Or ride on a bat’s back—’

  ‘I’ve got her phone number,’ interrupted Piers. ‘She’s expecting a call from you. It’s all very interesting, isn’t it?’

  ‘That’s not the word that springs to my mind.’

  ‘What is?’

  ‘Fortuitous,’ said Dan. He wrote the phone number down and rang off.

  ‘In theory she’s got the lot,’ said Dan, enjoying the omelette and the wine and Oliver’s undemanding company. ‘At least until Imogen’s out of minority. I don’t know if that’s eighteen or twenty-one in this case – I’d better find that out. But until then, the Caudle’s in the driving seat.’

  ‘What’s she like, this lady?’ Oliver enjoyed stories of the world of business, which he listened to with the absorbed air of one hearing about a distant planet.

  ‘Greedy,’ said Dan. ‘In all senses. I’ll have to take a chastity belt with me to the interview.’

  ‘Oh. But you’ll do the profile?’

  ‘Certainly.’

  ‘What about your book? Will you have to put it to one side?’

  Dan grinned. This was the academic speaking. Oliver could not visualise how you worked on several projects at the same time, switching between them as finances dictated. ‘I couldn’t ditch the book. I’ll simply work on both.’
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  ‘Mortgages and food bills have to be paid?’ said Oliver, cautiously, as if trying out alien expressions.

  ‘Exactly,’ said Dan. ‘And on the subject of food, is there any more garlic bread? Oh good. And let’s have another glass of wine to go with it.’

  Chapter Nine

  For several days after she came to Briar House, Quincy had gone about very quietly and very stealthily in case there were any of the things here that there had been in Thornacre.

  Thornacre had been a bad place; it had been the worst place Quincy had ever been. It had been a haunted place. Quincy had known without anyone telling her that Thornacre was haunted; she had sometimes glimpsed the poor sad ghosts of the people who had lived there a long long time ago. They all looked alike because they all suffered from the same things: poverty and hopelessness and fear. Quincy recognised these things because she had suffered from them herself. Not having enough to eat. Not having any money to buy things to eat. Hiding in an unlit room if a knock came at the door, in case it was somebody wanting money, or mother’s pub friends wanting to do those hurting, shameful things to her with their ugly bodies. They had not done those things to her because she was beautiful, they had done them because they would have done them to anyone who was handy.

  Quincy knew quite well that she was not beautiful; she was not even pretty. She was plain and stupid and awkward. Matron Porter said so, making little pin-prick jibes of the words. You’re plain, Quincy. You’re an ugly street-girl. Ugly little whore. Quincy had watched the words come out of Matron’s mouth and turn into evil little barbed things that flew at her and jabbed into her skin.

  Quincy always stayed absolutely silent and absolutely still when Matron said things like that, in case Matron decided to send her back to Thornacre. Quincy would do anything in the world to avoid that. Dr Sterne had said that all the bad things had been taken away from Thornacre, but Quincy knew that there was a deep badness in the place called the east wing, and she did not think that it was anything that could be taken away. It was a black place and it would always be black. It was a place where you were locked up if you did not behave, and where the rooms smelled of sick and dirt, and where the people smelled of sick and dirt as well.

  The attendants had sometimes hit patients, smacking the bewildered ones for soiling their beds, and sometimes, if the attendants were bored or broke, they had laid bets on who could feed the slops into the barely-conscious ones the quickest, or timed each other at racing the wheelchair-bound patients along the corridors. Quincy would sometimes wake up at night and hear screams coming from the east wing, which was the haunted wing. The screams would go on for a few minutes, and then there would be the sound of running feet and the angry slamming of a door – iron on iron. Someone said the night auxiliaries stopped the screaming by tying the patients’ hands to the bedposts and then putting electric light bulbs in their mouths while they were helpless – bulbous side in, so that if they screamed again the glass would break and cut their mouths. It was what the Nazis had done to Jews in the last war. Quincy had once tried to draw all this, but it had come out too frightening, like a nightmare, and so she had torn the paper up.

  There had been better things to draw since coming to Briar House, although she had to be very careful because Matron often looked through her things. That was why she had never drawn Matron herself, but if she had she would have drawn her as a fat bloated body with a horrid animal-head. A griffin like the one in the story by Lewis Carroll that she had found in Thornacre’s dank-smelling library. Or a bulgy-eyed, lollopy-cheeked pig-lady with little trotter feet and streams of horrid, hurting words coming out of her mouth: ‘Ugly little slyboots.’ Jab, jab. ‘Doing nasty things with men in the street for money. I know all about it, Quincy. Don’t think I don’t know all about it.’

  Matron did not know about it at all, of course, because men had never done the things with Matron that they had done with Quincy. Sometimes nowadays Quincy could not believe she had done them herself. Lying in the bed with Mother’s friend from the pub when she was ten, and Mother was out at work. Having to let him touch her all over, while he breathed smelly breath into her face. And then later on, when she was twelve, being made to feel the lumpy bulges in men’s trousers when Mother brought them back from the pub. Once one of the men had been sick all over her. There had been a lot of sick and it had smelled of stale beer, and the couch had smelled of it for weeks afterwards as well.

  This would never happen in Briar House, where she had her own tiny room at the top of the house. It had been a servant’s room in the days when Briar House was a big private house, so it was very small, and there was only just room for a bed and a chair and a chest of drawers. Matron had only let Quincy have it because no one else would sleep there on account of the water tanks being on the other side of the wall, and the room being stiflingly hot, and the tanks making rude gurgling noises when they filled or emptied. But this did not matter because it was Quincy’s very own.

  It did not matter that she had to work for her keep, either. She liked being shown how to do things; she liked being given polish and dusters and left to polish the mahogany table in the visitors’ room, or the table in the main hall that someone said was called a Pembroke table. She enjoyed the scent of the polish and the feel of glossy wood, or the good, fresh smell of newly-washed sheets when you ironed them.

  There were a great many very lovely things in this house, but the loveliest of them all was Imogen Ingram. Imogen was the most beautiful person Quincy had ever seen in her whole life. She was so beautiful that the first time Quincy saw her she could not stop staring, and she had drawn her almost without realising.

  Imogen had not been given a room with a hot water tank next door; she had a room on the second floor, overlooking the gardens. Just outside was a square landing with a deep window, and in the deep window was a seat with faded covers of something Quincy thought was called chintz – green and blue twining flowers and leaves on a cream background. If you sat on the faded seat and curled into the corner, you were hidden from practically everybody. It was a good place to be, and Quincy took to curling up there, within sight of Imogen’s room, pulling a fold of curtain around her and huddling into the tiniest possible space. If Freda Pig caught her she would say, ‘Oho, earwigging again, madam?’ but Quincy was not here to earwig; she was here to guard Imogen.

  Imogen had a lot of visitors. Her family all came to see her, which was what you would expect for somebody so beautiful. They brought flowers and fruit and they drove smart cars. You would expect Imogen to have family like this. Quincy was pleased for her.

  And then, just days after Imogen’s arrival, Mrs Caudle came just before lunch, and the minute Quincy saw her she stopped being pleased, and began to feel cold and shivery. Mrs Caudle was not here to be nice to Imogen. She hated Imogen.

  She did not look like an enemy, not on the outside. She was thin and she had dark hair and expensive clothes. They were casual clothes; the kind that rich people wore for car journeys and holidays, but you could see that they were expensive. She came by herself, driving her own car, and she brought flowers for Imogen and books – not paperbacks or magazines, but real books with glossy covers and photographs.

  Quincy knew at once that the books and flowers and the nice clothes were part of a disguise. There were people in the world who wore masks to hide their real selves, and the masks were often very good so that no one knew what was behind them. Mrs Caudle, Imogen’s aunt, was the most evil creature Quincy had ever seen and her mask was very good indeed.

  The impression that Imogen was being slowly drawn towards something terrible and something threatening began to form.

  Quincy was allowed to go out by herself, providing she said where she was going and told somebody when she would be back. Usually when she went out it was just for a walk, to see different faces and different places. She liked watching people in shops; she liked imagining what kind of homes they had and whether the women had husbands or boyfriends
, and what they did when they were not shopping. Usually when she went out Porter Pig found an errand for her – ‘Oh well, if you’re going near the shops, Quincy, you can bring back the fish. And since you’ll be passing the Post Office you might as well get the staff’s National Insurance stamps this week.’ Quincy always did what Porter Pig asked, because of being allowed to stay in Briar House. She could not pay money to be here like the others, so she had to work instead. This was reasonable.

  She was going out this afternoon – Porter Pig had said, ‘Then you can collect the minced lamb,’ which meant it was shepherd’s pie for supper tonight – but Quincy was going on an important errand today as well.

  The errand was for Imogen; Quincy was very pleased indeed to be able to do something for her even though it was all connected with her parents who had just died, both of them at the same time.

  It was very sad. Imogen had told Quincy about it, sitting on the bed in her room, and Quincy had known she was upset. The light was not very good in there, because mean old Freda Pig said no one could have a light, or heating, on in the bedrooms until the evening – all that waste of heating and light when the downstairs rooms were there for everyone to use – but even in the uncertain light of the dark November day, Quincy could see that Imogen’s eyes were odd. The little black bits at the centre were so enormous that her whole eyes looked black.

  ‘The funeral was yesterday,’ said Imogen. ‘A service at three o’clock, and then the burial at four. That’s why Thalia didn’t come to see me yesterday.’