by Sarah Rayne
Freda Porter said archly, ‘I think we underestimate our Llewellyn. We shall have him reading Shakespeare before long, shan’t we, Dr Sterne?’
Leo ignored this and said to Thalia, ‘By rights Harris oughtn’t to be here at all. He’s more handicapped than mentally ill but we inherited him and we’ll do what we can. I don’t think he’s ever known another home, so it would be cruel to uproot him.’
‘An unusual case,’ said Thalia, and then looked at Leo. ‘But then I believe you have several extremely unusual patients here.’
Leo felt the hackles rise on the back of his neck, and the expression ‘freak hunter’ slid into his mind. He said, ‘We have many different cases here, Mrs Caudle. They all have their stories. But I daresay there are some greatly exaggerated tales told about some of them in the village.’ He looked at her carefully. ‘There are certain slightly freakish conditions that most people would deny exist any longer.’
‘But they do exist?’
‘Oh yes. Any doctor or nurse will tell you that they see some very strange things from time to time.’ Choosing his words very carefully, Leo said, ‘Some pitiful and very ancient diseases, which have plagued mankind over the centuries, occasionally do still recur. In remote country areas like this one, where old-fashioned beliefs still hold, or where there’s ignorance, that can lead to some colourful stories.’ A pause. ‘Have you ever heard of acromegaly, Mrs Caudle?’
‘I don’t believe so. What is it?’
‘A rather grotesque condition that produces excessive symmetrical growth of the bones, particularly the limbs and the face. In children it’s called gigantism.’
‘It sounds appalling.’
‘It’s usually due to over-functioning of the pituitary gland – to exorbitant production of a growth-stimulating hormone, often from a benign tumour within the pituitary. There’s sometimes an imbalance of the secondary sex characteristics as well, so you get coarsened features. There might be some bearding of the females, and sometimes there’s what’s known as masking. That’s a kind of blank, stony stare – unnerving unless you know what it is, and sometimes unnerving even when you do.’
Thalia said in a soft voice, ‘The explanation of every monstrous fairy story.’
‘Possibly.’
‘Is there any cure?’
‘It’s curable providing it’s diagnosed,’ said Leo. ‘Sometimes micro-surgery can remove the hyper-functioning tissue. The real tragedies are if diagnosis is made late, when the effects might be difficult to reverse. Once bones are enlarged, reducing them is a problem. And once there’s beard growth on the skin—’
‘It’s very rare?’
‘Not as rare as all that,’ said Leo, ‘but it’s rarer for it to go untreated these days, so it’s not often encountered in its full-blown state. It’s an ancient disease,’ he said. ‘I’ve often thought that’s what was meant in the famous bit in Genesis – “There were giants in the earth in those days.” There probably were.’
‘And there are giants inside Thornacre today?’
A pause. Leo said lightly, ‘I never break the oath of confidentiality to my patients, Mrs Caudle. And sometimes Nature’s freakish tricks can be distressing to an untrained eye. Would you like to come and see our therapy wing now? It’s in what used to be the stable block. We haven’t got very far with it yet but we’re hoping to convert it so that the patients can learn carpentry and wood-turning. We’ve been promised some benches and a wood-turning lathe, and we’re hoping for photographic equipment next month as well. Do come and see. I think you’ll find it interesting.’
It was four o’clock when Leo managed to get free. Matron Porter was making twittering noises about aftenoon tea, which was ridiculous when everyone had eaten an enormous Christmas dinner at half past one. But he was glad to leave them to it because his thoughts were already moving forward to the evening’s session with Imogen.
He went quickly along to her room, his heart beating fast with anticipation, and seated himself at the head of her bed. After a moment he took her hand and, half closing his eyes, reached down into his mind until he brushed against the thin silver and gold light lying like a coiled serpent in the deepest recesses. It shivered through his mind, instantly and fiercely responsive, and Leo felt a lurch of panic. Here we go, he thought, his mind spiralling with excitement.
He grasped the thin silken coil and sent it spinning into the still, silent darkness surrounding Imogen. Come up, Imogen, and come back. Come up and up and up. Come up and out of the misty twilight woodland that that remarkable child Quincy saw and drew, come up and come back to me.
Quincy’s images were printed on his mind, and he kept them firmly fixed on his inner vision. The dusk-laden forest, the lichen-crusted archways and the tangling mats of bracken and briar.
I see it! thought Leo suddenly. I see the twilit forest and the glimmering dusk! I see the ancient trees with their wise faces, and the elusive outlines of the naiads and dryads. And between the trees, darting in and out of the light, cloven-footed beings with three-cornered faces and pointed ears and gentle, sly magic . . .
Fierce excitement blazed through him in an immense charge of power, and with it a sense of awe, because it was so complete, so perfect, this secluded hiding place that Imogen had created for herself.
Confidence poured into him. He could see and he could hear and he could feel. But could he reach deep enough in to brush her mind? She’s lying at the heart of it all, thought Leo. She’s protected by wild woodland magic, but it’s magic of her own spinning, and if only I believe, if only I can keep believing, I can enter it. And if I can enter it, I can reach her and I can wake her . . .
He gathered his entire strength and threw it forward and down. There was a sense of tremendous anticipation as if something invisible was stirring and drawing nearer, and there was a low thrumming on the air as well, as if cobweb wings were beating overhead, and then a sweet, plangent singing, as if someone was drawing a finger round and round the rim of an immense glass bowl.
Nearly there, thought Leo. I’m nearly there. Down the silver threads of his own mind, strong now and shivering with life as if they were electrically charged. Down into the heart of the uncharted amethyst dusk.
Come up out of the forest, Imogen . . .
There was a moment when the soft, sweet humming was louder and that was when Leo thought the trees parted to let him through. Imogen’s eyelashes fluttered and a soft wind stirred her hair. I’m there! thought Leo. I’ve reached her! Come up and come out, Imogen . . .
The magical woodland shivered all about him, and the violet-edged shadows closed over Imogen’s head once more.
Shutting Leo out.
Imogen knew that the ancient forest was no longer as safe as it had been. She knew that someone was coming towards her. Someone was coming through the twilight, creeping stealthily between the trees, snapping twigs with a sharp, cracking noise, shocking in that soundless twilight. Someone was trying to reach her, to take her hand and pull her up into the light, and panic rippled through the safe, secret dusk. Be careful, Imogen. Be careful, because something evil this way comes . . .
The darting jack o’ lanterns and the flickering marsh lights were spinning with panic, and the friendly glow-worm specks were zigzagging in alarm.
Because something’s out there, something’s watching and waiting and biding its evil time and rubbing its hungry hands together in anticipation . . .
Supposing that the secret forest that had hidden her was not a forest after all? Supposing it never had been a forest? Supposing it was a trick, an illusion, a cobweb make-believe?
The smoky dusk was beginning to dissolve; it was melting shred by shred, like thin, gauzy fabric held over a candle flame. Quite soon she would catch glimpses of the unknown country that lay on the other side. Quite soon it might not be possible to crouch down here in the safe, warm, scented gloaming.
Quite soon now the cobwebs would be so thin that she would be able to see the glaring evil thing
that was hiding on the other side.
And the glaring evil thing would be able to see her.
Chapter Twenty-seven
Quincy’s outing was at a time of the day when Imogen was usually with Dr Sterne, which meant it would be safe to go. Also, she would be with Mrs Caudle, who was Imogen’s enemy, and it was not possible for Mrs Caudle to hurt Imogen while she was taking Quincy to tea and to look at paintings.
She washed her hair in the morning. One of the nurses had given her a sachet of shampoo called Chestnut Glow, and helped her to use it. It had been quite easy; you just rubbed it all in and then rinsed it out and it left reddish lights. The nurse said it looked pretty – grand was the word she used, which was what people in the north sometimes said. She said why didn’t Quincy let her hair grow a bit, because you could do all kinds of nice things with long hair; you could scoop it up on top of your head if you were going out somewhere special, or you could tie it back with a velvet ribbon. That was worth thinking about.
Freda Pig did not say Quincy looked grand. She said it was very odd of Mrs Caudle to be taking her out like this, upsetting all the nurses’ routines, and what a shame Quincy had not anything better to wear than that blue jumper, and dear goodness what on earth had she done to her hair? But then that was always the trouble with cheap hair dyes, they always went wrong. Quincy was to remember her manners with Mrs Caudle and to be sure to be back for supper.
Quincy kept the blue jumper on because she had nothing else that would do, and went down to wait in the hall so as to be ready when Mrs Caudle arrived. The nurse who had helped wash her hair said this was a good thing to do, and to take no notice of Matron who was an old sourpuss; Quincy’s hair looked terrific and there was nothing in the least wrong with the jumper. She was to be sure to have a nice time and eat lots of scones, and they would want to hear all about it when she got back.
Mrs Caudle came at half past two and Quincy saw at once that she was wearing her most human disguise. It was important to remember that behind it she was evil and that she was bloated with hating Imogen. It was necessary to listen and watch carefully, and get evidence to tell Dr Sterne.
But she was very kind; she made sure that Quincy was belted into the front seat of the car, and she pointed out bits of the countryside as they went. It was warm in the car because the heaters were turned on full which made Quincy feel a bit sick. It was a bit worrying to be driving through strange countryside like this.
Quincy had thought they would drive straight to the tea and painting place, but it appeared that something had to be collected from the house where Mrs Caudle was living. It would only take a minute to stop off, it was on the way, and it was important. In fact they might even have their cup of tea at the house if Quincy liked.
Quincy was beginning to feel very frightened now, and being frightened was making her feel even more sick. Mrs Caudle seemed to think the question of going to her house had been settled, and she was concentrating on driving the too-hot car; she was slightly hunched over the wheel, and you could see that the human mask had slipped a bit. You could see the slavering lips and the too-long teeth, and you could see that underneath the leather driving gloves she wore, her hands would have huge knuckles and reaching, clutching fingers.
When Mrs Caudle said, ‘So we’ll have our cup of tea at the house, shall we, Quincy?’ Quincy heard the slurry ogress voice and saw the grinning ogress mouth. She was very frightened indeed of going into the Caudle giant’s house. In the days when the ogres had walked openly about the countryside, their houses had been littered with human hearts and livers and bones, and they sometimes hung up their victims by their hair until they were ready to gobble them up. It was in all the stories, the ones Quincy had not really believed, not until she opened the black iron door, and not until she met Thalia Caudle. But now she knew it was all true. And she was being taken to the ogress’s house, which meant that Imogen would be left in Thornacre on her own.
Quincy had only ever seen houses like October House on television, and there was a moment when she was so intrigued that she nearly forgot about being frightened and about getting evidence, and stared up at it.
They had to drive up a long drive with whispering trees on each side, and the trees bent over in the wind as they went past. It would be silly to imagine that the trees were bending over to whisper to her, to tell her to run away because terrible things happened to people who went inside this house, but it was what she did imagine. Run away as fast as you can, Quincy, run away and hide where she can’t find you. Because once you’re inside, once you’re in the ogress’s house, she’ll lock you up in the dungeon and fatten you for the oven . . .
In Bolt Place, when you went out of the house you switched off all the lights as a matter of course and returned to a darkened house, but here lights had been left burning at the windows. It ought to have been a friendly thing to see as you came up the drive, but it was not friendly at all.
Mrs Caudle smiled as she unlocked the door. There was a light over the front door as well – Quincy thought it might be what people called a carriage lamp – and it cast a reddish glow so that when Mrs Caudle smiled, her eyes shone with a red light, and Quincy could see that the human mask had gone completely. When Mrs Caudle stepped back and said, ‘Come inside, my dear,’ Quincy shivered, because this was what all the stories told you happened; the evil ogress lured you to a warm, welcoming house, and got you inside by pretending you were going to be given nice things. Sometimes she was already inside, waiting for you, and you had to knock on the door yourself, toc-toc, and then the ogress said, ‘Pull the bobbin and lift the latch and step inside, my dear . . .’
Quincy drew a deep breath, ready to turn and run back down the drive with the whispering trees, but just as she was summoning up her courage, a hand came down on her arm, the fingers curling about it like steel, and a voice hissed, ‘Running away, my dear? Surely not?’ And the next minute the latch was lifted and the door was open, and Quincy was inside.
To begin with it was not too bad. There was the promised tea, served in china cups with the milk in a jug to match, and little squares of embroidered cotton to catch the crumbs while you ate. There were warm scones and jam, and slices of shortbread, and delicious chocolate cake. They ate and drank in a large room overlooking the drive; it had beautiful things in it. Later there was wine to drink. Quincy was not very used to wine, but she was afraid to refuse in case the Caudle giant became angry. The last thing you wanted to do was anger a giant. So she drank half a glass as slowly as possible, and Mrs Caudle knelt down in front of the hearth where a fire had been laid, and set a match to it, and said, there, wasn’t this cosy.
It was not cosy at all, it was terrifying. As the flames leapt up, the room seemed to change, so that it was not a nice sitting room with ordinary chairs and tables and carpets any more, it was an ogress’s lair, smelling not of the smouldering logs in the hearth and the wine but of evil magic and of old, dark enchantments. Quincy leaned back in her chair, gripping the sides.
The fire was burning up strongly, and the Caudle giant stayed there on the hearth rug for a moment, watching the flames. And then she turned her head slowly and smiled at Quincy, and Quincy felt icy terror run all over her. Yes, you could see her now for what she was; you could see that she was just like the monstrous squatting creatures behind the black iron door at Thornacre. The firelight showed up the cold glittery eyes and the slick of saliva on the ogress teeth which were large because of being all the better to gobble you up, my dear. Her voice had changed as well; it was blurred and there was a wet clottedness in it, so that you wanted to clear your throat and swallow hard.
But she only said, ‘More wine, Quincy?’
‘No, thank you. I don’t want—’
‘Just half a glass.’ The wine was poured before she realised it, and it was then that the Caudle giant said, ‘And now, my dear, I think it’s time for you to take off your clothes.’
Quincy stared at her, thrown off balance. For
the first time the fear receded a very little, and she thought, so that’s what you want! Although it would be extremely horrid to take her clothes off and do the things that Mrs Caudle would probably want her to do, it would not be anywhere near as bad as being strung up by her hair or put into a cage and eaten. Quincy thought she would not mind so very much about going to bed like this, because it could not be any worse than Mother’s pub friends with their sick-smelling breath, or the Cattersis, or the Clan.
It was a bit strange to be undressing in the living room because it was normally something you did in a bedroom or a bathroom. Quincy felt exposed and vulnerable; she had the feeling that she was being watched, and this was so strong that she looked around, almost expecting to see someone standing in the doorway. But there was no one and there was nothing, and after a moment she took a deep breath and stood up.
It was not very nice to be stroked all over, but it was not really too dreadful so far. Quincy had the idea that females used things on one another – Mother and her pub friends had sometimes made jokes about them, mostly to do with size and staying power – but there did not seem to be anything like this here, or if there was it was not being used yet. It seemed simply to be a question of stroking and touching, and of having her hands taken and looked at.
When Mrs Caudle said, softly, ‘Come with me, my dear,’ Quincy thought she meant to the bedroom, and she thought that the real business of the evening was about to begin. This would probably be when the objects would be brought out and used.
But they did not go up the stairs to the bedroom; they went down a little back stair tucked away behind the kitchen. There was a smeary light and it was hot because of being below ground. There was a dreadful smell on the air as well, like bad meat, like when you had forgotten to throw out a piece of meat and were afraid to open the cupboard or the fridge where it was, because you knew it would be a mass of weaving maggots. It was just how a giant’s lair would smell.
