by Jane E James
‘Who’s that?’ Jed’s narrowed eyes follow Dr Moses’ progress around the room.
‘Dr Moses,’ I reply smiling, mostly out of gratitude, but partly because I think everybody should know this.
‘I’ve seen him before,’ Jed tosses his head irritably, ‘going into the butcher’s shop in Little Downey.’
‘Dr Moses has never been to Little Downey,’ I state dismissively. ‘He told me so himself.’ I quote this matter-of-factly, as if it is the gospel truth, because in my eyes it is, but Jed remains suspicious.
‘In that case he’s got a dead ringer in the village,’ Jed replies ominously.
Chapter 43
White on white. A sterile barren environment without any windows or natural light. Just a set of flickering fluorescent strip lights making eerie patterns on the walls. In places, the paint peels to reveal blood-red brickwork beneath. Somebody has scratched the words “Help me” over this wall. I do not know if I am the author of these words or if somebody else, one of them, is responsible. In here, there are no mirrors to catch me out.
The communal shower block has floor-to-ceiling tiles and multiple shower heads that each pump out a weak supply of water, ranging at best from cold to lukewarm, never hot. Having turned every one of the showerheads on, I am huddled under the most powerful stream of water. It trickles down my white and blue-veined body onto the tiled floor, before disappearing with a gurgle down a brown-stained plughole.
Drip. Splat. Drip.
I am back in the slaughterhouse, where the cows don’t want to die. Some things you never get over, right? Next, I am in Dr Moses office, which at the age of thirteen, felt more like a head-teacher’s domain, arguing about the ethics of so-called humane slaughter and the human capacity to forget that the meat on their plate was once a living animal.
‘Just because you didn’t hear their screams, doesn’t mean you didn’t participate in their killing,’ I remember telling him. How clever I felt.
As so often happens, one memory triggers another, only this time it makes me start, causing me to almost drop the thing I am holding in my hand.
‘We’ll take her to Dr Moses. He’ll know what to do.’
The voice from the past is my own. I distinctly remember screaming those very words at my father. Recall even the sound of glass breaking a split second afterwards.
Then, Jed’s voice, loaded with doubt— ‘I’ve seen him before, in Little Downey, going into the butcher’s shop.’
Too well, I recall my own response. ‘Dr Moses has never been to Little Downey. He told me so himself.’
‘In that case he’s got a dead ringer in the village.’ Jed’s words come back to haunt me.
I have no reason to doubt what Jed told me. He seemed sincere enough. Is he right? Is Dr Moses lying about his connection to Little Downey? If so, what else has he been lying about? My mother, perhaps? I long to find out what else Jed knows. I still can’t get over the fact that I have a half-sister. Although knowing this brings me comfort, I can’t stop worrying about Merry and what might have happened to her. As yet I remember very little about her, but I sense that she was important to me. Has Jed found her by now? Is she safe? Can my father be trusted to look after a baby? He didn’t do a very good job raising me that’s for sure. So much is going through my head, I feel like screaming.
When I look down and see a trail of blood in the bottom of the shower, the desire to scream dies away. I cannot risk anyone finding me like this. Although horrified, I do nothing to start with. Simply watch the blood disappear down the plughole. Then, with a sense of foreboding, I open my palm to reveal the broken end of a plastic lip balm inside it. Subconsciously, I have been rubbing it against my upper arm until the skin there is sticky with blood. From experience, I know it will sting like hell later. I do not want to acknowledge, even to myself, how much I am looking forward to that.
Dead ringer. Dead ringer. Dead ringer.
I look at the pathetic piece of bloodied plastic and drop it like it is poison. It immediately fills with water, diluting the blood around it. Soon, all traces of self-harming will be gone. Will I also disappear in the end? Is this what they want? My father and Dr Moses?
Something doesn’t add up. I have always known this, but Jed’s suspicions seem to confirm what I already know. There is something sinister going on in Little Downey and possibly here at Thornhaugh too. After Jed’s visit yesterday, I stopped taking my medication. If I am to discover the truth, I need to keep my wits about me.
During my thirteen years at Thornhaugh, I have come to understand that homes may change, but people don’t, and I have an overwhelming desire to return to the home and father I still fear, knowing that forgotten memories wait for me there. I feel certain that my father’s house is the key to everything.
An hour later, I am gliding down the grand oak staircase. This is a first for me, since residents are not allowed in the listed parts of the house. Secretly, I always imagined being married from Thornhaugh; pictured myself coming down the steps in a swirl of ivory—my father in a blue suit and pink carnation waiting for me at the bottom. Today, I transverse it unhindered as there is nobody milling about in the reception hall below. No father to greet me. No photographer to take snapshots of my special day. No husband waiting in the wings. Better still, no Dr Moses to whisk me back to my room on the third floor, the one with the depressingly long grey window.
I know better than to try opening the huge Gothic entrance doors as they are always kept locked. I will have to find a different way out. When I hear the clunk of a sturdy pair of nurse’s shoes approaching, I duck through a fire door into a narrow unlit corridor which brings me out on the north side of the building, by the old kitchen, which is used as a storeroom. When the sound of the footsteps grows louder, I duck into the storeroom. It is dusty enough to make me want to sneeze, so I move towards the metal door that opens into an industrial-sized walk-in blast freezer. I have no choice but to hide in here for now. Sliding open the dead bolt locking handle, I step inside.
The lights flicker on automatically to reveal an all-grey metallic interior. Obviously, it is freezing cold inside and my breath instantly fogs up. Some things I expected to see, like white-ice forming over metal racking where packages and boxes of frozen vegetables are stored. I do not know what else I expected to see until I walk straight into it—
Racks of meat suspended from meat hooks.
The pale flesh, visible through its transparent packaging, is stamped “Slaughtered in Little Downey” but these cuts of meat resemble no animal!
Stumbling backwards, until my spine smacks into one of the metal walls, I feel as if someone has plunged me into an ice-cold bath, sucking all the breath out of me. Never taking my eyes off the grotesque joints of flesh that dangle like hanging victims in front of me, I cling to the metal racking, accidentally knocking off frozen packets of peas, which split from their seams and sprinkle on the floor, creating a ghoulish carpet of green at my feet.
Knowledge comes slowly. Hundreds of different thoughts rush through my mind. No matter how I try, I cannot deny the horror in front me. This cannot be real, I tell myself. Yet, God help me, I find myself walking towards one of the monstrosities, inexplicably drawn to it. There is something familiar about the shape of its carcass, the angle of its jaw.
Black eyes. The same as my own.
Could this be my mother? Have they already got to her, while I have been wasting time at Thornhaugh, sipping tea and daydreaming of Jed?
I close my eyes and pray that I am mistaken. This is one time I do not want to be right. It wouldn’t be the first.
When I open my eyes again, I thank God that I am indeed wrong. On closer inspection, I can see that the partially open eyes are not black like my mother’s, but Little Downey blue. More terrifying though is the fact that I recognise the owner of those eyes. I may only have seen him once since my return to Little Downey, but I am sure it is Ted Abbot from the post-office-cum-grocery store, the one I saw counting
his takings out back. Why is his body here? What can he have done to warrant such a cruel ending? Nobody deserves to be treated like a slab of meat. Did he betray the village in some way? Now that I come to think of it, I believe this is the same corpse from my dream. The one I saw being dug up. I have no idea what is going on, nor what the body is doing here. But I can guess.
I almost want to say the word aloud, but fear prevents me—
You must get away from here, Natalie. I cannot bear to look at the glazed over blue eyes a second longer. They bulge at me as if trying to tell me something. But I think I already know what that something is. I cannot hide from the truth any longer. I only have to look at what has been going on behind my back all these years to know this.
Having had my worst fears confirmed, I slip out of the blast freezer, panicking about which direction I should take next. To be caught now is unthinkable. I no longer know who I can trust. Not my father, not the villagers, and probably not Dr Moses either, who I can see through a slit in the blinds of his office, further along the corridor. Somebody must be issuing fake death certificates for all the people that go missing. Who better than Little Downey’s own resident physician.
He is on the phone and like before, when he saw Jed for the first time, Dr Moses appears flustered and anxious. He even runs a hand through his well-groomed hair. Something I have never seen him do before.
Another first. He’s left the key in his office door. Guessing that Dr Moses must have popped into his office for only a second or two, I quickly turn the key in the lock, thrilled by my own daring. He is too preoccupied with his phone call to hear its quiet clink.
‘No. I don’t know where she is,’ I hear him say, all the while pacing up and down a well-worn track in the carpet.
‘What do you propose I do then?’ he snaps into the phone.
Dr Moses chooses exactly that moment to stare in my direction. I quickly bob down, making myself invisible behind the slats in the blind but I am too late, he has spotted me.
‘Natalie.’ He gasps, dropping the phone.
In half a dozen long-legged strides, he’s at the door. On finding himself locked in, he angrily rattles the handle, then hammers on the glass with a clenched fist.
‘Natalie! Natalie!’ he shouts.
Knowing it won’t be long before Dr Moses is released and has everyone chasing after me, I burst into the dining room. From here, I should be able to slip out of the French doors and escape. I know this room well, although I always preferred to eat my meals at the table in the corner, away from the others, but today it is as if I am viewing it, and them, for the first time.
A little girl with wild hair, aged about nine, raises a fork to her mouth. I watch in fascination as a stringy piece of meat dangles enticingly above her mouth. She has a fixed smile on her face and rocks her chair so hard, I think it will topple over.
My eyes switch to the man sitting at my table. He is chasing peas around his plate with fat sweaty fingers and wears a look of deep concentration on his jowly face. His cardigan buttons are done up wrong and parts of his hairy belly protrude through the gaps. As if he knows he is being watched, he stops what he is doing and turns slow slothful eyes on me.
I gasp when I see who it is. I haven’t set eyes on Andrew Muxlow in years, not since my mother’s funeral. But then I remind myself that there wasn’t any funeral. What memories I have of that day are as fake as my mother’s alleged suicide. Is she dead as everyone would have me believe or should I listen to my own instinct that tells me she is very much alive? Realising I do not have the answers to these questions yet, I focus on the living breathing person in front of me. Most of his hair is gone, I notice, and he is older of course, a great deal heavier too, but having always suspected him of having a soft spot for my mother, he is not somebody I would ever forget.
His eyes, once as blue as my father’s, are milky white. There is no recognition in his eyes, as he continues to watch me, just a look of hunger. His mouth opens and closes, as if he is about to say something, and I see that his tongue is stained green from the peas.
‘You don’t know what they’re feeding you,’ I gesture to the plate of food in front of him, unwilling to say the damning words out loud. As yet, I cannot admit the full horror of it myself.
But my words do not stop him. Nothing will, I fear, judging by the gluttonous expression on his face as he scoops up a handful of meat and shovels it in his mouth.
‘I know,’ he says.
I watch spellbound as undigested bits of flesh spill out of his mouth onto the plastic tablecloth. I cannot take my eyes off him, or the other patients who have all turned to stare at me. Sidling hesitantly towards the French doors, a chilling fear enters my bones as I watch each pair of eyes flare with sudden darkness.
I am not safe, I realise. I cannot help him, nor others like him, who are long gone. I cannot help myself either. Not while I am locked up in this place.
Little Downey Beach
Stumbling along the coastal path that stretches for 186 miles, I am grateful to be heading in the opposite direction to Little Downey; towards the headland where my father’s house is. It is almost dark, and sheep in the adjoining fields appear from nowhere, like clouds of dust, to frighten me. Their startled bleating alerts me to the very real danger I face—I could easily fall from the cliff edge to the pebbled shore below. Nobody but a fool, or a mad woman, I think ironically, would come up here in the dark without hiking boots and a torch. It is such a sheer drop, I have to cling on to whatever bit of prickly yellow gorse or long grass I can, ignoring the dark patches of shadow that fall across my path.
Up here, the sea breeze whispers through the bramble and trees that cling to the side of the cliff and I imagine I hear Jed, somewhere in the distance, calling for his sister.
‘Merry! Merry!’ His voice sounds desperate, I realise. Not like Jed at all. I can see the beam of his torch shining up and down the beach and among the sand dunes. The sea, at his heels, sounds angry tonight, almost as frustrated as he is. The waves seem to want to hush him, but he won’t be silenced.
‘Merry!’ He shouts again. But again, there is no response.
Standing dangerously close to the cliff edge, I realise I am too far away to make myself heard. The wind would whip my screams out of my throat should I attempt to get Jed’s attention. On the beach below, I can make out the shape of his dog, but tonight it doesn’t cling to its side as it usually does. Jed is intent on following the path up to the house by the sea, but the dog is behaving erratically. Despite Jed whistling for it, it runs off in another direction altogether, ignoring him.
The twinkling of the oil tankers out at sea remind me that there are other people in the world besides me, but somehow it doesn’t feel that way. Longing to be among my own kind again, I climb down from the towering cliff edge that may or may not have been responsible for taking many lives and thank God when I am back on the beach.
As ever, the past is nipping at my heels, like a rabid dog, keeping me going, making me ask questions, but even though the walk back to my father’s house is only a mile or two away, I am already exhausted. Weakness and fatigue are all I ever feel when I am at Thornhaugh. They keep me this way on purpose, I suspect. I feel safer on sand but cannot shake off the sensation that somebody is following me. At times, I was certain I was going to be pushed from the cliff edge to my death. The flashing image of my body being carried away by the sea caused me panic and stumble often. I feel lucky to have made it down at all.
Relieved to see the looming shadow of the house come into view, I realise that it has never felt more like home. It might look like a daunting place to live but it is where I was born. Where I belong. Not even my father can take that away from me. I laugh when I see that he has left a light on, in a downstairs room, as if to welcome me home.
The House By The Sea
Frank
The room is cluttered, a relic of time gone by, with horsehair sofas and crochet cushions. The furniture is dark
and shabby, the carpet threadbare. There are no family portraits on show but above the fireplace there is a large framed drawing of a cow, demonstrating where the various butchered cuts of meat come from. This rather sad homage to a living creature takes pride of place on the chimney wall and is the only modern thing in the room.
The voice of Nina Simone floats upwards from an old-fashioned record player. The twelve-inch vinyl wobbles on its turntable and the words to ‘I Put A Spell On You’ are accompanied by a gentle hissing sound, lending authenticity to the jazz recording.
The door opens and a bright overhead light comes on. As if frightened of entering his own living room, Frank hovers on the threshold. His eyes are wide with alarm. Looking this way and that, as if expecting somebody to leap out of the shadows, he enters cautiously.
Appearing hypnotised by the music, Frank walks over to the player and stares at the record on the turntable; his face tight and unreadable. He has aged overnight. The blue in his eyes is all but gone and his face is grey with worry and something else— fear. Jumping at nothing, he gently removes the needle, making sure it doesn’t scratch the vinyl, and places it back in its sleeve before closing the record player lid. Then, hearing a sound outside, he turns off the light and heads into the utility room, just off the kitchen.
Unlocking a metal cabinet, Frank takes out his Winchester bolt-action rifle. Handling it with care, Frank points the muzzle away from himself. Then, grabbing a box of ammunition, he goes into the kitchen and loads the gun before sitting down at the table.
