Thorn (46 page)

The room beyond the bay was large and lit by an overhead light and by rather dim wall lights on each side of the chimney breast. They looked as if they were the original gas brackets, adapted to take electricity. A fire burned in the hearth, and the room was comfortably furnished although it was not the last word in luxury. Set against the far wall was a glass-fronted bookcase and a round table of rather florid Victorian design, and drawn up to the fire were several deep armchairs with glazed chintz covers.

In one of the chairs sat a thin-faced dark-haired lady whom Oliver instantly recognised from the photograph in
Women in Business,
and then recognised on another, deeper level. Thalia Caudle. Dan's greedy, unscrupulous Margot. In the other chair was a thin girl who looked about eighteen but who had eyes that might have been any age. She was not very pretty and she was not at all attractive, but she had a face you would find it difficult to stop looking at. She was sitting bolt upright in the chair, her knuckles white where she was gripping the chair arms, and her eyes were fixed on Thalia with the most abject fear Oliver had ever seen in any living creature. Quincy?

His first instinct was to bang down the brass knocker on the door and demand admittance, and then to grab the girl and beat it out of Thalia Caudle's reach, trusting to God or the Devil to let him get clear. But you don't know that it is Quincy, said his mind sharply. And although she doesn't look very happy, she isn't tied up or under any kind of duress.

As Oliver watched, Thalia leaned forward. The leaping firelight fell across her face, and although she was smiling, it was the mad smile of the possessed and her eyes glittered. Oliver felt a shiver of fear. This was a creature drained of all humanity, as mad as the moonlight that showered its eerie radiance into the night, as malignant as Margot when she lured the trusting Anne-Marie into the dank outhouse.

Thalia stood up and moved to the girl's chair, and the girl shrank back. Thalia smiled, as if this was pleasing, and then reached out to touch the short, rough hair. She said something that Oliver could not catch, but whatever it was, it brought a sudden look of resignation to the girl's face. She stood up and began to undress. The firelight lit her thin, immature body to soft radiance, but even at this distance, even viewed through the chink of rain-spattered window, the cynicism in her eyes was apparent.

She's hating it, thought Oliver, torn between disgust and compulsion. She's hating it, but she's not really surprised by it. But I'm surprised. Did I misunderstand about Dan and Thalia that night? Or maybe she's one of those females who likes men and women. I don't think I want to see any more of this. It's supposed to be most men's ultimate fantasy, two females making love to one another, naked in front of a leaping fire, but there's nothing seductive about this. It's grotesque. There's something evil and wrong about it.

There was a moment when he thought a ghost image moved at Thalia's side – a lady a little younger, a little sharper of cheekbone and a little redder of lips. She crossed in front of the hearth, a phantom silhouette, caught and held by the leaping firelight. Oliver blinked and the image vanished.

Thalia was standing in front of the girl, running her hands over her body; her eyes were half-closed and there was an expression of extreme concentration on her face. She's
savouring
her, thought Oliver. This isn't about sex or lust, I was right about that; this is something much deeper and much darker.

And I'm no nearer to finding out what Thalia's aim is in all this, or whether she's got Dan, and I haven't the remotest idea what I'd better do next.

S
natcher Harris had hugged his secret to himself all through the day.

There had been a lot of hours to get through but once they had stopped bothering him with their silly questions he had passed the time thinking about tonight; about taking Imogen out of her white bed, hugging her to him, feeling the soft, warm flesh through the thin nightgown she would be wearing, and then hiding her away for the Lady to come and fetch. He knew exactly where he was going to hide her; he had pointed to the place when the Lady had asked about this, and she had nodded and looked pleased.

He waited until everyone was safely asleep in the long dormitory where he had his bed and his locker, and then crept out, pausing by each of the beds. It gave you power to look at people while they were asleep; Harris liked doing it. Most people looked horrible. He stood over them all in turn, looking at their faces, seeing how they blubbered their lips in a snory way. When he left the dormitory, he did so carefully, shutting the door so that it did not click and wake anyone, and then scuttled along the corridor to Imogen's room.

Imogen did not look horrible while she was asleep. He knew this because he had crept into her room several times while there was no one about and stood looking down at her. It would have been nice to think she had been aware of him. It would have been very satisfying to think he might have got into her dreams, whatever they had been, and been frightened.

Imogen was not exactly asleep while Snatcher Harris was making his way towards her room, but she was not quite awake either. She thought that fragments of the strange forest place clung to her mind, and once or twice over the past two days she had been aware of the sick twilight still hovering on the outer rim of consciousness. Other things hovered there as well, but Imogen had not yet managed to sort them out properly. Her parents dying and something about Aunt Thalia, and something else about Quincy. She thought, vaguely, that it was odd that Quincy had not come to see her. Or had Quincy been at Briar House? The two places still got mixed up in her mind, but Dr Sterne had said that would get better. He had told her not to worry. He had a nice way of saying her name,
Imogen,
so that you thought about smoky-looking glasses and images reflected in fathomless pools. And his eyes were like melted silver merged with ebony. If you saw him in the dark they would glow.

She was falling deeper into sleep now. If she half closed her eyes she could just make out long, reaching shadows, like purple fingers, like melted bruises, oozing forward. It was like a travesty of that poem about Christopher Robin – ‘If I open my eyes just a little bit more, I can see nannie's dressing gown on the door . . .'

But I have to
close
my eyes, thought Imogen, and if I do, I can see not the dressing gown on the door but the door itself, and it isn't a door into anywhere cosy and safe like Christopher Robin's nursery, it's the door into the dark world. And it's still partly open. But this was such a terrible thought that she pushed it down and buried it at once. You're supposed to be safe and sane, Imogen. If you start talking about creeping shadows slithering up out of fantasy worlds and doors opening up into evil forests, they really will put you in a padded cell!

She was just on the borderlands of genuine sleep when there was a sound outside her room. She did not immediately pay it any attention. It's your stupid imagination again, Imogen. Doors into other worlds and' bridges across to dream places . . . She was lying with her back to the door, and she was not even going to turn round to see . . .

And then the sound came again, and this time Imogen did turn round. The door of her room was being slowly inched open from the other side, and as the gap widened, a shaft of light from the dimly-lit corridor beyond slid across the floor. She was not immediately worried. This was a hospital of sorts and people came in and out all the time in hospitals. It was probably one of the nurses with something to be drunk or swallowed, or just to check her pulse or temperature. It might even be Leo Sterne, come to hear about her dream world.

No. Whoever was opening the door was certainly not Dr Sterne. Whoever it was was being much too furtive. Imogen propped herself up on one elbow to watch. There was another, different sound – something scuttling, something dragging one foot? – and fear began to well up. Imogen shrank back in the bed, clutching the sheets about her as if for protection. The door opened wider and standing there looking in at her was a grinning, drooling hunchback, its eyes glinting with red lust.

There was a moment when she thought he was not real. He's come up out of the dark forest to get me! flashed frighteningly across her mind. It was followed, almost at once, by: don't be stupid! It's an intruder, someone who's got out of one of the wards. Yell for help at the top of your voice!

Barely a heartbeat passed between these two thoughts, but in that time Snatcher Harris moved, loping across the room to the bed and clapping a hand smotheringly across her mouth. Imogen had drawn breath to scream, and the scream was choked. She struggled and fought but she was still infuriatingly weak from the long sleep. Harris had the advantage and he was stronger than he looked. He pinned her down on the bed and leaned over.

At any minute someone would come running. Imogen cast a frantic glance towards the door. Weren't there night staff here? Wasn't there an alarm bell? She could see the push button that Dr Sterne had indicated, but she could not reach it. Oh, blast you, let go of me, you disgusting creature! He was crooning to himself, not singing and not speaking but breathing rapidly with a dreadful wet, snuffling sound.

Different terror surfaced. He's going to rape me! And with the thought, Imogen aimed a desperate blow at his face. He dodged her hand easily as if he had been expecting it, grinning down at her. His lips were scabby and his teeth were disproportionately tiny, but the inside of his mouth was red and wet so that it was like seeing too ripe fruit split and leak rotten juices. This was disgusting, and Imogen struggled all over again, anger mingling with the fear, because she was damned if she was going to let this revolting little creature frighten her and she was damned if he was going to rape her either! She brought her knee up sharply, jabbing him hard in the groin. He let out a guttural grunt and his eyes – nasty, mean little eyes – bulged for a moment. Triumph surged in Imogen – got you! – and with it a spurt of strength, but the stifling hand did not relax its pressure, and the creature dug one hand into a jacket pocket and produced a thick scarf which he twisted round her mouth. It tasted of dirty wool and dried spittle and it was very nearly worse than his hand had been.

He pushed her on to her front, placing a knee in the small of her back to keep her down, and tied the scarf behind her head. Then, bringing out a second scarf, he tied her hands together as well. His fingers lingered over her tumbled hair, and then over the uncovered skin of her arms and Imogen felt dizzy and sick. This was appalling. None of it could be happening. But Imogen knew it was real. She was awake this time. If he touches me anywhere else I'll kick him again, she thought furiously. I'll kick him anyway when I can get a bit freer.

But he gave her no chance. He bent over and, lifting her up with ease, carried her to the door. She felt the iron muscles of his arms and shoulders again, and there was a dreadful moment when she was pressed against the concave chest. Imogen twisted her head back and forth, trying to bite through the gag or at the very least dislodge it enough to scream. No good. The gag held, and so did the knotted scarf round her hands.

Her captor paused at the door, peering out, and then, nodding to himself as if satisfied that no one was about, he carried her out into the corridor.

Lights burned out here, but they were the deliberately dim lights that you saw in hospitals at night. They were like the bluish glow you sometimes saw on films about night trains –
wagons-lits
and the midnight express. It was cold, rather eerie light, but it was enough for the hunchback to see his way and it was enough for Imogen to see where they went – along a couple of passageways and across a wide hall with a shallow staircase. There was the lingering smell she remembered in Briar House: sick people and yesterday's cooking.

Imogen was by now very frightened indeed, but she thought there would surely be a moment when she could get free. There would be a moment when she could tear away the gag and the scarf round her hands and yell for help. She would do it somehow, even if it meant she had to scratch the monstrous creature's eyes out.

They went through an oak-panelled door leading off the large hall. Imogen was still fighting to get free and hampering her captor's progress as much as possible, but she had the sudden impression of light shutting off, and of clustering darkness and dirt-crusted walls and floor. There was a stench of hopelessness and despair as well, and there was a sick unhappiness everywhere.

For a moment she was confused, because this was surely not part of Thornacre. Oh God, am I plunging into that cobwebby forest again after all? Is this the place at the black core where the slavering evil peered through the trees and rubbed its bony hands together?

As the hunchback went up a wide staircase with a scarred but beautiful oak banister, she caught sight of what looked like the remains of a printed notice. It was fixed to the wall and it was dim and age-spotted, but a shaft of moonlight lay across it and it was still readable.

. . . no attempts should be made to touch the Lunaticks, for although the Diet is extraordinary Good and Proper, yet they may be subject to Scurvy and Other Disease . . . the Lunaticks may not be viewed on Sundays . . .

Knowledge surfaced in a cold wave of terror, because even though Imogen had not been inside Thornacre for long – and for nearly all of that time she had been unconscious – she knew its history probably better than the people working here. None of the nurses had said anything, but Imogen knew about Thornacre, and she knew where the hunchback had brought her.

This was the haunted east wing. The place where the ghost was said to walk – Sybilla Campbell. Only she was once Sybilla Ingram, thought Imogen in horror. I don't suppose anyone here knows that. But I know it. And I know that this was the place where the madness surfaced and swamped her, and where she finally died in lonely, raving desolation.