‘Well, if I started out as Heathcliff, I reckon thee’s the inspiration for the monster he becomes at end. That there lass,’ he indicated the direction in which Emily had rushed, ‘has more kindness, more sense, and an hell of a lot more goddamned plain decency than you ever had. And she sees people true; she sees me, and she ruddy well sees thee for who thee is!’
Martha gasped in shock as his words ignited lightning in her heart that tore her apart, setting fires of rage, jealousy and humiliation burning through her, consuming her. The emotion exploded from her and she screamed as the world spun; she couldn’t make sense of what she saw: stone steps, the still looms, and Harry’s face, spinning away from her.
Part Four
April 2017
“He’s more myself than I am. Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same.”
Wuthering Heights
Emily Brontë, 1847
Haworth, West Yorkshire
1.
The shrill staccato shriek spears through my skull, accompanied by a dull, throbbing roar. Over and over, piercing the darkness; the sound a lightning strike on my brain; the roar the thunder of my pulse. The storm isn’t just overhead, it’s in my head. Gratefully, I sink back down into dark, silent oblivion.
***
A new lightning strike shocks me back into awareness. I lie still, trying to make sense of the sounds. Regular, clipped, like the piping call of a lapwing, only much louder.
There are more, beyond the loud one – quieter birds calling their rhythm. That’s right, I commend myself on the realisation. It’s a rhythm – this is no song. So why are they singing so drearily?
***
I rise from the darkness once more, cognisance seeping into me like the dawning sun’s rays – gentle at first, then more insistent. It’s quiet! No lapwings! Instead, a new pain; my eyes now. In place of darkness, all is red; a bright, resolute red – not like the dawning sun at all but a setting one the night before a glorious summer day.
I squeeze my eyes tight against the unrelenting light. That’s better.
‘Verity? Verity are you awake?’
My breath freezes. Who’s here?
‘Lara, I think the light’s too bright, will you close the curtains?’
Movement, the scrape of a chair, then the redness dims and I relax my eyelids.
That name again – Verity. It sounds familiar, but I can’t place it. Who is Verity?
‘Can you open your eyes?’
All of a sudden, it feels imperative that I do so. At least two people – strangers – are sitting over me as I lie here helpless. I need to see; to assess the danger.
I try to lift my lids, without success. They’re stuck! What’s happening to me? Again – some small success – a chink of light. Too bright. I squeeze my eyes shut again.
‘Come on, Verity, you can do it. Come back to us.’
A hand strokes my arm, another my face. Don’t touch me!
I draw in a breath, gather my determination around me and force my lids open. It’s like prizing apart two woolcombs.
The lids on my right eye give way and I immediately shut them again. I can feel my breath coming faster, as if I’d walked up Main Street. Just from opening an eye for a second? I think with terror. What’s happened to me?
As my breath calms, I try to make sense of the indistinct image my eye records before snapping shut. It’s no use, everything’s blurred.
I flinch when a cool cloth is placed over my eyes, then gently drawn away.
‘There, that’s better,’ one of the voices says. ‘Wiped the sleep away, it should be easier now. Try again, Verity.’
My fear eases. There is gentleness in that voice and action; concern.
Obediently, I try again. Now they open, the cloth has done its work. I slam them shut again, but this time in a blink; a series of blinks as I allow light into my world and thoughts, giving my eyes time to get used to it.
Two heads appear over me. Strange heads. Women, but not women. Angels? No, angels would not have such blood-red lips and blackened eyes. Devils.
A small cry escapes me and the darkness rushes back to claim me, then a child’s voice, following me down: ‘What’s wrong with her, Mummy? Why isn’t she Auntie Verity anymore?’
***
‘Welcome back.’
It’s one of the she-devils. I slowly turn my head to look at her.
‘Sorry we crowded you yesterday. It was too much, overwhelming. We were just so pleased to see you awake.’
These are not the words of a devil. I blink, then blink again, trying to focus on her features.
‘Jayne’s taken Hannah to get a cup of hot chocolate, it’s only me here now,’ the woman says. ‘It’s quiet now, they’ve muted the machines – finally, all that beeping was driving me mad!’ I flinch as she laughs, showing teeth.
‘It was worse on the ward, a dozen of the things, all going off – a right racket. But they moved you into a side room when you started to show signs of waking. It’s much better in here. Sorry, I’m babbling.’
The woman laughs again, this time without showing her teeth. I realise she’s holding my hand. I stare into her face. She looks familiar somehow. But who ...
‘We’ve been so scared, Verity. When you and William collapsed like that, and then just lay here, day after day. Thank God you’re awake. Oh Verity—’ She breaks off, tears running down her face, leaving strange, dirty lines. Coal dust?
‘Who ...’ I try to say, but my throat is so dry no words emerge.
‘Here, have some water.’ The other woman’s back. And the child. ‘Support her head for me, Lara, that’s right. There, drink.’
She’s pushing a cold tube between my lips.
‘It’s okay, it’s water, just suck.’
I do as I’m bid, and cold fresh liquid floods my mouth. I close my eyes in pleasure as I swallow the liquid, then suck again.
‘That’s enough,’ the second woman says, pulling the strange tube from my mouth. ‘The nurse said just a little bit, your body needs to get used to it again.’
I stare at her. ‘Who ...’ An audible sound this time. I try again. ‘Who’s Verity?’
Silence. Before I receive an answer, I sink back into sleep – the effort of waking too much for me.
***
My eyes open, gently this time. The light is dim and the room silent, and I relax back into the bedding in relief. I’m alone.
But where am I? I wrinkle my nose at the strange, harsh smell as I look around the room. The walls are smooth and plain; no stonework visible, no wallpaper either. The curtains at the window are so thin and flimsy, I struggle to think of them as curtains; they’re far too short as well, finishing almost a leg’s length above the floor.
And what kind of bed is this? I grasp the metal rails to each side. ’Tis half cage, and not big enough to share, even with a bairn! Yet it’s so soft and comfortable. I rub the blanket between thumb and forefinger. Thin again, but warm enough and with some kind of loose covering. Clean too – not a speck of coal dust or fluff.
The pillows, though! I move my head from side to side. I have never rested on anything so fine and soft.
I wrinkle my nose again. What is that smell? Sharp, stringent. Caustic soda? Lye? No, not quite. I’ve never smelled anything like it.
Disinfectant.
Of course. But what’s disinfectant?
Brow wrinkling as well as my nose now, I jump as the door opens and a man walks in. Tall, clean-shaven and with no hat, he wears the plainest frockcoat I have ever seen. It’s white! How can a gentleman walk the streets in a white frock coat? It will grey with soot and coal in seconds!
He wears numerous strange ornamentations in his top pocket. And the coat itself is too short for him. Why on earth can he not fasten his buttons? Or wear a neck tie? He’s walking into a lady’s private room half undressed!
‘Ah, good, you’re awake,’ he says, with n
o greeting or manners at all.
The doctor, I think – though I know not why. This is certainly not Doctor Ingram.
He says no more, but moves to the foot of my bed, takes the clipboard hanging there and flicks through the pages.
I furrow my brow further in consternation. Clipboard?
Still silent, the man – this doctor – moves to the side of my bed, takes one of his ornamentations from his pocket and points it at me.
I scream at the unexpected, blinding light.
‘Nothing to worry about, just look past my shoulder while I check your eyes.’ He flicks the light left and right, thoroughly confusing me. I’ve never known a doctor, or even a druggist, do such a thing. And how on earth is he fuelling the light? It cannot be candle nor gas.
Batteries, I think, then frown again.
‘Watch my finger.’
I stare at the man. Is he mad? Am I in Bedlam?
‘Just follow it with your eyes.’
I decide to humour him, and watch his finger move left, right, up, down.
‘Hmm,’ he says, making a note on his – what is it? Ah yes, clipboard. Then he takes a seat. He is sitting on my bed! I stare at him in outrage.
‘Do you know where you are?’
I continue to stare at the strange man who finds it appropriate to sit on a lady’s bed.
‘You’re in hospital,’ he says.
Hospital? I look about me again. Bright, clean, too large, and this strange, rude doctor. So it is the madhouse then.
‘You’ve been in a coma for three months.’ He looks at me carefully and I stare back in shock.
Three months? I’ve been in the madhouse these past three months? How is Harry coping without me? Did he put me here? What of Little Thomas?
‘We’ve run MRIs and CAT scans, but can find no reason why both you and your friend have been afflicted in this way.’ He pauses. ‘Can you tell me what you remember?’
I look at him blankly.
He sighs, then smiles. ‘I’m rushing you – I’m anxious to work out the puzzle and am getting carried away. Let’s start at the beginning. Can you tell me your name?’
‘Martha Sutcliffe.’ I know that at least. Or do I? The name seems wrong now that I’ve uttered it, and the doctor has a strange look on his face. Worried.
‘Martha Sutcliffe,’ he repeats.
‘Yes. No.’ I realise I don’t know. I’m certain now. That isn’t my name. I stare at the man, feeling helpless. Tears prickle at my eyes and my breathing quickens. Who am I?
‘Don’t worry.’ He pats my arm. ‘You’ve only just woken, things are bound to be confusing at first. It’s nothing to worry about, we’ll just give it a bit of time. I’ll come back and see you tomorrow.’
The door opens. ‘Are you ready for us?’ A woman’s voice.
‘Ah, I’m not sure. Are you up for a visitor? It might jog your memory.’
I say nothing. A woman dressed in a strange blue smock pushes someone into the room.
I stare at the man in the wheeled contraption.
‘Harry!’
‘Martha! God, please no, get me out of here! Get her away from me!’
Darkness rushes back to claim me and I gratefully spin away from the image of the husband I killed. I know now, this is the madhouse, and Harry the devil that will plague me for the rest of my days and beyond. But I’m not in Bedlam, no. I must have died too, I’m in Hell.
2.
‘Here you go, Jayne, coffee,’ one voice says.
‘Double shot?’ says the other.
‘Of course. I don’t know how you sleep at night, the amount of caffeine you consume.’
It’s the she-devils with the red lips, I realise. I keep my eyes closed.
‘Any sign of waking?’
‘No. I wondered a minute or two ago, but nothing.’
‘We should swap her water for your coffee, Jayne, that would keep her awake.’
The two women laugh. Are they talking about poisoning me? I focus on keeping my breathing steady so they won’t realise I’m listening to their plans.
‘Vikram says The Rookery is nearly ready,’ one of them says – the one called Jayne, I think.
‘Yes, it’s looking great. Mo is just finishing off the tiling in the en-suites and he’s decorating Verity’s apartment too.’
‘There’s nothing in the budget for that.’
‘He’s doing it as a favour for me.’
‘Ah, so that’s going well, is it? Good, I’m glad. You deserve to be happy, Lara.’
‘Happy? With Verity just lying here?’
‘You know what I mean.’
A sigh. ‘Yes, ’course I do. I’m just remembering how excited Verity was about The Rookery, and meeting William. Then that stupid séance! Oh why did I do it?’
‘We were trying to help, Lara. Nobody could have predicted Verity and William reacting like this – and if we’d even thought it could happen ... Well, to be honest, none of us would have believed it and we’d have carried on anyway.’
Silence. I imagine the one called Lara nodding and hear her sniff.
‘Too much was happening in that building, it was freaking us all out.’
‘Yes, and escalating too. Those birds, and then when I saw the Grey Lady.’
‘I know, Lara. And I’m sorry I ridiculed you when you first talked about orbs and spirits.’
‘It’s fine, Jayne. You need to see or experience something to believe, otherwise it’s all claptrap. I understand.’
‘Well, I know better now, and it was all centred round Verity and William.’
‘I wonder who Martha and Harry are. Were.’
My ears prick up. Were?
‘I’ve been doing some research,’ Jayne says, her voice quiet and careful. ‘They’re both mentioned in the parish records – their marriage is recorded anyway: April 1837.
‘So they definitely lived in Haworth.’
‘Yes, and died there.’
Died?
‘Maybe they’re trying to talk through Verity and William, send a message. It’s strange that they both woke at the same time, spouting the same names. It’s got the nurses in a right state. Some won’t even come into their rooms, and the doctors are befuddled too; nobody knows what to make of it all.’
‘Has anything else happened at The Rookery while you’ve been staying there, Lara? Anything at all?’
‘No, nothing. I’ve told you already. Even those awful birds have gone since Vikram put those rubber spikes on the window ledges and guttering.’
‘Good, he said they’d do the trick. If there’s nowhere for them to perch, they’ll move on.’
‘You really like him, don’t you, Jayne? How’s it going?’
Silence. What’s she doing?
A clap. ‘That’s wonderful! And about time, you’ve been on your own for far too long!’
‘It doesn’t seem right with Verity ...’
‘Verity won’t mind a bit. She’s only ever wanted you to be happy, you know that.’
‘Yes.’
I open my eyes and stare at them both. ‘Who’s Mo?’ I croak.
They stare at me, then slowly smile, and both lean forward. Jayne grabs my arm, Lara my hand, and I notice she’s scraped most of the nail varnish off her finger nails.
‘Verity?’
‘Yes.’ I nod. ‘Yes, it’s me.’
***
‘Ah, Ms Earnshaw, back with us I see, good, good.’
I blink until the blob of pale colours coalesce into a man. The doctor. I say nothing. I don’t quite know what to make of him.
He looks down at his clipboard, turns over a few pages, then puts it down and clears his throat.
‘Your case is ... most perplexing.’
I raise my eyebrows.
‘We can find no sign of any kind of injury, nothing to explain why you’ve been unconscious for three months.’
I stare at h
im, it seems I can do no more.
‘And ... well ... I’m afraid we have so far been unable to determine the cause.’ He wrinkles his forehead, clearly expecting me to make a comment, then continues when I remain mute.
‘What is even more perplexing is that your, er, friend, passed into unconsciousness at the same time, and, er, well, appears to have woken at exactly the same moment as yourself. As you know, he also suffered the same delusions as yourself, although unfortunately, has not come out of it the way you have. He still thinks himself to be somebody called Harry.’
‘What?’ The news shakes me out of my stupor. Is William still stuck in the nightmare?
‘As I say, we can find no physical cause, so I have asked a colleague from Psychiatry to come and talk to you both. Although I will still want to see you regularly as well in case any symptoms re-emerge, or you experience any other, well, strange behaviours or beliefs.’
‘Strange behaviours or beliefs?’ I question.
He shrugs his shoulders. ‘How else would you put it?’
The door bangs open, followed by an immediate apology as Lara spots the doctor. I realise I don’t know his name, then another thought grips me.
‘Lara – William still thinks he’s Harry.’
‘Yes, I know, Mo and Vikram have been trying to get through to him, but haven’t managed it yet. His sister, Rebekah will be back at the weekend, hopefully she’ll be able to help.’
‘I’ll deal with Harry,’ I say. I pull off the sensor clamped to my finger, and fling the blankets back.
‘Ms Earnshaw, I really must caution you—’
He’s too late. I’ve swung my legs over the side of the hospital bed and placed my feet on the floor. I crumple as I put my weight on them, just as he says, ‘—to stay in bed.’
Lara helps me back up – neither she nor I would wait for a nurse – and I look at the doctor, my eyes wide with fright.
‘As I was trying to explain,’ he begins, then glances at Lara and softens under her furious glare. ‘You have been in bed for three months. Muscles lose their condition very quickly, and I’m afraid it’s going to take some work to build your strength back up.’
Parliament of Rooks Page 24
