Tower of Silence (14 page)

But she was no longer sure if the encounter had really been all that hateful. Writing that careful note, going stealthily through Broadacre tonight, was beginning to feel fiercely exciting. It was much more exciting than waiting for Ingrid to come on duty and signal to Mary that they should meet in the small bathroom at the end of the corridor, or somewhere equally secret. And after the first time Mary had been aware of a faint impatience with Ingrid. ‘No penetration,’ the doctor had said that night, but there was no penetration with what Ingrid did, either. What Ingrid did was ineffectual. Incomplete. It was all very well to stroke and kiss and lick, but after a while it had made Mary remember how her attacker’s body had felt–hard, insistent, masculine. How would it have been if the attendants had not come running to separate them…?

The male dormitories were in a different wing from the female ones. You had to go along a dingy corridor that crossed a stretch of scrubby garden where the inmates were supposed to plant spring bulbs and make herb borders. There were not many people about at this time of early evening but there were some, and so Mary walked swiftly and purposefully, nodding absent-mindedly at anyone she met so that it looked as if she was expected somewhere.

The corridor was draughty because of having windows on both sides all the way along, like a railway carriage, and it smelt of damp. But underneath the damp was another
smell that Mary could not at first identify. And then she knew what it was. Human despair. The agony of minds that were locked away–not just locked inside Broadacre, but locked inside their own bitter, lonely incomprehension. For the first time since coming here Mary saw that Broadacre was different from the Young Offenders’ Hostel; the YOH had been where the yobs and the joyriders and the teenage drug-dealers were put because they were not old enough for grown-up prisons. But Broadacre was where the helplessly mad people went. And if I am not very careful, I shall become part of the madness.

There were cold electric light-bulbs overhead, and at this time of day they were switched full on, making the windows into oblongs of blackness. Mary could see her reflection in them, a bit blurry because the windows were misty with condensation, but recognisable. She glanced across to the other side. Yes, the reflection was there as well. And then her heart leapt suddenly, because wasn’t there another reflection there?–a second person, no more than a hazy shape, like a ghost twin or a phantom image, walking alongside her?

Christabel?

Mary’s heart began to thud against her ribs. She had surely imagined it. No, there it was again, an indistinct outline against the dark garden. Small and thin and pale. Like something struggling to materialise. Christabel, walking alongside the sister she had never met, her mind locking into Mary’s and filling her up with that dark strength, just as she had done four years earlier…

Do it, Mary
…

Yes, whispered Mary to the night-garden. Yes, I’ll do it.

The men’s dormitory was almost identical to the women’s–there were the same rows of iron-framed beds, and the same curtain tracks overhead so that you could curtain off your few feet of space and feel private. In the women’s dormitory there were odds and ends of make-up on the lockers, and magazines with articles about pop stars and royalty strewn about. Here, there were shaving brushes or electric razors. There were magazines as well, but Mary thought they were different ones. At the youth place there had been a lively trade in porn mags; there would be sure to be something similar here.

If you were romantically minded you would not think this a very nice place to lose your virginity–properly lose it, not fiddle and finger around with it as Ingrid did. But it did not matter that there was no scented garden or flowery bower, and in any case that stuff was for those wimpish creatures you read about in books. This was not about romance, it was about getting screwed as thoroughly as possible, and getting pregnant. It was about showing that doctor that she was neither trivial nor boring, and it was about reminding the outside world that she still existed.

Yes. Good. And stay with me, Christabel.

She moved along the row of narrow iron-framed beds, searching. Here was his bed–there was a plastic name-tag at the foot, with ‘Darren Clark’ written on it in a round, careful hand.

The large plain-faced clock over the door pointed to three minutes to seven. Exactly right. Mary lay down on the bed, listening intently for sounds beyond the door, watching for signs of movement beyond the square of frosted glass in the door’s top half. The minute hand ticked its way up to seven o’clock, and there was a stab of disappointment–he’s not going to come!–and then hard on the heels of this a lurch of hope, because soft footsteps were coming along the corridor. Was it? Yes, it must be.

There was the dark outline of a man beyond the frosty glass, and then the door was pushed open, and Mary smiled the secret smile and felt the excitement spiral upwards. He had come, just as she had known he would.

What surprised her was not the physical side–she had known what to expect, more or less. It was the way she felt after it was over.

For what seemed a very long time he stood uncertainly at the foot of the bed, not moving, not even seeming to want to touch her. Well, what did you expect? jeered the inner voice. That he’d sit on the bed and read poetry to you? That you’d discuss love and life and undying devotion before he tore your clothes off and–what did Ingrid call it?–piston-pumped you? And then Mary realised that he was not going to be turned on purely because she was here; he needed more than that. He needed violence, and he needed his victim to be frightened. Of course! So rewrite the script, Mary, and do it quickly!

Speaking slowly, testing each word before she let it go, she said, ‘I came to ask why you attacked me that night,’ and saw his eyes widen with interest. Yes! Good!

He said, ‘Were you frightened?’

‘Yes. Yes, I was.’ Had he taken a step nearer? ‘I didn’t want you to do that to me,’ said Mary. ‘I mean, I didn’t want you to screw me.’ Was that right? Should she have said ‘fuck’?

‘They all say they don’t want it.’ Yes, he was moving nearer; he was on the edge of the bed now. ‘But really they do want it. I know they do. You want it now–that’s why you’re here.’

‘No—’ Had that sounded convincing? She shrank back against the bedhead. ‘I came to tell you I hated you—’ Remember Ingrid’s remark about initiation ceremonies, said the inner voice. ‘It was my first night here,’ said Mary.

‘I know it was. I like to check out the new females.’ He reached out a hand, and his fingers suddenly grabbed Mary’s wrist. Mary gasped, quite genuinely. ‘You won’t scream this time, will you?’

‘You’ve got it all wrong. I didn’t come here for this—’ Oh, get on with it, you prat, before somebody comes in…

But it was going to be all right. He was bounding onto the bed, dragging her skirt up to her waist, still holding her wrist with his left hand, but thrusting his right hand up between her thighs. Mary felt his fingers brush her–
there
, in the place nobody had ever touched, except for Ingrid, except for that disdainful doctor–and she
struggled and tried to push him away. At once his hand came up to encircle both her wrists, forcing them over her head, and he half knelt on her, one knee pushing her legs apart. His breath gusted into her face, and Mary struggled again, panic rising despite her resolve.

He fumbled at the zip of his jeans, and pushed them down, half over his thighs. There was the feeling of hard warm flesh against her legs–masculine, intrusive…OK, this is it. He’s about to do it—

But when he rammed into her body, she gasped, half with the sudden pain, half because she had truly not expected it to feel like that–she had not expected him to feel so huge and so hard…She had not expected the urgent pushing, either, and she cried out, wanting to stop him or at least slow him down, because this was hurting, it was a deep bruising feeling far inside her and nobody had told her about the frantic thrusting, like a sledgehammer, over and over—

And then, with a rush of movement and a sudden burst of wetness, it seemed to be over. He sagged onto her, heavy and awkward, and Mary lay absolutely still. That was it, then. He did it. He did
me
. With any luck I’ll be bleeding, and with just a bit more luck I’ll be scratched and bruised where he grabbed my wrists and grazed my neck with his teeth. Evidence of rape.

She managed to push him off her and he half fell off the bed, landing on the bare floor. Mary propped herself up on one elbow and looked down at him. He looked absolutely ridiculous, sprawling on the floor, not exactly shame-faced but not meeting her eyes. He was ugly and
gross, squirming round to try to pull up his jeans. His face was red and sweaty and his neck swollen with exertion and pride like a bullfrog, and he was stupid and hideous.

And now that he had done what Mary had wanted, he was expendable.

The thought slid into her mind, soft and serpentlike. Expendable. In fact, it might be better to be rid of him in case he told anyone about the note–in case, after all, they could see who wrote it. Handwriting experts–yes, she had forgotten about that. They might piece together what had really happened, which would spoil the whole plan. It would be better on all counts to cover her tracks, really. Kill the bullfrog? Well, why not? Wasn’t there a creature in the insect world–a spider, was it?–who killed her mate after he had impregnated her? Mary remembered learning about it in some pointless biology lesson. She remembered, as well, that this was someone who was in Broadacre for raping children, and who was known for his bizarre initiation ceremony with new female patients. Nobody would be surprised if he got his come-uppance, in fact a good many people would probably secretly be pleased. People hated child-rapists worse than anything–Mary knew that. Prison’s too good for them, they said. And they said, String the bastards up. Cut their balls off. Yes, this could be as foolproof as they came.

She got slowly off the bed, and looked about her for something to use as a weapon. Something to squash the ugly bullfrog or to slit him open. How about that shaving stuff on the locker? Was there a razor there? No, they
would not let these people have dangerous razor blades lying around. Then what about that empty Coke bottle on the table? She pattered across the room to get it, feeling strong and indestructible, feeling as if she could do anything in the world and get away with it. Was that Christabel’s strength and Christabel’s confidence again? She paused to listen, her head on one side, but wherever Christabel was she was staying very quiet and very still.

It was surprisingly easy and incredibly satisfying to smash the bottle over the bullfrog’s head. He had been half standing up, fastening his jeans, trying to stuff his disgusting sex-thing into them, but when Mary hit him he went down with a grunt, exactly as her father had done all those years ago. A rim of white showed under his eyelids and there was a trickle of blood from where the bottle had cut his scalp a little. Mary considered him again. His jeans were still open and he looked grotesque. He had raped little girls and he had tried to rape Mary that first night, and he deserved to die.

Cut their balls off
, people said about child-rapists.

Mary nodded to herself very slowly two or three times, and then, wrapping her skirt around the neck of the Coke bottle to protect her hand, she smashed it hard against the iron frame of the bed. The top section splintered at once, leaving several glinting jagged spears of glass sticking up from the neck.
Good
. Mary walked across to where the bullfrog lay on the ground, and then turned him onto his back.

As she crouched over him, lifting the broken bottle
high in the air preparatory to bringing it hard down on his groin, Christabel came back to her. Christabel watched from the shadows as Mary did what had to be done.

‘It’s important,’ said Patrick Irvine, ‘to always be just a little bit frightened in here, Emily. That way you stay on guard.’

‘OK,’ said Emily. ‘I understand that.’

‘Don’t let it take you over, though,’ he said. ‘Just keep your wits about you, and make sure that there’s always–
always
–somebody within yelling distance, and that you know where the nearest alarm bell is. I’ll point those out to you as we go, and there’ll be at least two or three in the day-room as well.’

‘All right. Dr Irvine, this Pippa I’m going to be seeing—How much should I know about her? How much are you allowed to tell me?’

‘She’s potentially very, very dangerous indeed,’ said Patrick at once. ‘But also, she’s a very sad case, poor Pippa. There’s never anyone for her on visiting day–
at least, not to my knowledge–and I don’t think there ever has been. She’s been inside one asylum or another for most of her life, and she’s as institutionalised as they come. It was probably inevitable that she would end up in Moy.’ He paused and Emily waited, and then he said, ‘She doesn’t speak–not ever. There’s no physical reason why she shouldn’t, and we think she’s quite intelligent. But she’s locked the doors of her mind against the world, and no one’s ever found a way to unlock them. I certainly haven’t. Oh, and I should tell you that she lost an eye some years ago–you won’t find that distressing, will you?’

Emily said of course she would not.

‘There’s a bit of a scar, but it isn’t very noticeable, and she normally wears darkish glasses, which hide it fairly effectively. She’s been an inmate here for about three years, and I’ve been trying to reach her for all of that time. I’ve no idea what goes on inside her mind, but I’ll keep trying to find out. If we knew why she never speaks we might make sense of some of the things she’s done.’

‘Ought I to know what kind of treatment she has or anything like that?’

‘Oh God, she’s had every kind of treatment we know,’ said Patrick, thrusting the fingers of one hand impatiently through his hair. Emily wanted to touch his hair so badly that she nearly had to sit on her hands to prevent herself from reaching out to him. ‘But nothing’s worked, and although we’ll never dare let her go out into the world we’ll keep trying to get through to her,’ he said. ‘She reads a lot and she likes music so we’ve tried all of those
therapies and I’ve tried hypnosis as well, of course—’ He broke off. ‘That surprises you,’ he said. ‘That I use hypnosis.’

‘Yes. I don’t know why, though.’

Patrick said softly, ‘But didn’t you realise I sometimes play Svengali?’

He looked at her and Emily stared back at him, and eventually managed to mumble something about his having to be Russian or Romanian or something to really be Svengali. But she must still have looked a bit disconcerted, because after a moment he leaned forward over the desk, clasping his hands.

‘It
is
Svengali I play, and not Baron Frankenstein, Emily,’ he said, very gently. ‘And hypnosis is sometimes a way into their minds–it’s a way for me to find out what’s happened to flaw them–what’s made them rape and mutilate and kill, apparently without any compassion. I don’t know if evil is a disease, or if it’s something created by childhood abuse or adult tragedies–I don’t think anyone knows for sure. We’ve progressed since the Middle Ages and the superstitions about possession and demons: we know that there are malformations of the brain that account for some of the conditions we have to deal with. But no matter what name they’re given, the devils and the demons are still there. And it’s those devils that I’m trying to help exorcise.’

Emily considered this, and then, because it seemed an appropriate moment, she dug into her pocket and produced a sheet of paper.

‘I wrote this out–I thought you might like to read it.’
Her voice sounded infuriatingly defensive. ‘It was after you talked about the darkness and the loneliness when we were outside the Round Tower,’ she said. ‘It sort of struck a chord in my mind.’ In her own bedroom it had seemed rather a good idea to copy out the few lines and bring them with her, but now she was not so sure.

But he seemed instantly interested, and he read the lines over, once to himself, his face absorbed, and then aloud. Emily could have died just listening to his voice.

‘Emily, that’s inspirational,’ he said looking up at her, his eyes shining. ‘The hellish hurricane that never rests, but drives the spirits on with its violence…’

‘It doesn’t forgive the violence,’ said Emily. ‘And it doesn’t condone it. But it doesn’t exactly punish it, either, does it? It tries to give a reason for it.’

‘It’s eerily descriptive. Where did you find it?’

At least he did not think she had written it, like some over-eager schoolgirl. Emily said, ‘It’s a bit of Dante’s
Inferno
.’ And then, in case he might think she sat in her room poring over poetry to give to him, like a romantic adolescent, for God’s sake, she said, ‘Odd bits stick in your mind sometimes, don’t they? I mean–you’re made
to learn them as a kid, and they stay with you. That stayed with me, so after you said that about darknesses and lonelinesses, I looked it up.’

He eyed her for a moment, but he only said, ‘If you were made to learn Dante as a child you must have had a pretty unusual schooling.’

Tell him, you stooge! Tell him about Durham, and about having to come back home before Finals because of dad going to pieces when mum died! No, I can’t. It’ll sound like boasting. Emily said, vaguely, that she liked squirrelling away unusual scraps of things, that was all.

‘Can I keep it? I’d like to get it properly printed, and frame it to have on my desk. As a reminder of what some of the inmates suffer. Would you mind?’

‘Of course not. And it’d be out of copyright by this time, wouldn’t it?’ said Emily gravely, and he grinned at her, and her heart lurched with pleasure. And then, since she was here to do some useful work, and not to talk about fourteenth-century poetry, she said, ‘We’ve got off the subject, haven’t we? Tell me a bit more about Pippa.’

Patrick had regretted making the Svengali crack to Emily Frost almost as soon as the words were out of his mouth–you can’t resist the temptation to exert a little charm, can you? demanded his inner voice crossly. Even on this one who’s certainly young enough to be your daughter. As well as that, he had had to beat down the impulse to tell Emily that at times–such as the times he tried to
reach Pippa and the others who were like her–he was uneasily aware that it would not take much for Svengali to cross over into Baron Frankenstein.

He had not thought Emily would pick up the Svengali allusion–he kept forgetting how extremely young she was. But she had; she had given him the urchin-sprite smile, and made that answer about his not being Russian enough for Svengali, and had walked at his side through the fearsome system of locked gates and doors to the day-room inside A wing. The top of her head was level with his shoulder, and her hair was two-tone today: the underneath part was vivid magenta and the top was silver-gilt. It looked like a slightly ragged cap, donned in a moment of absent-mindedness.

(A cap of silver-gilt, spun from moonlight and bog-flowers and mushroom caps…? Oh, for goodness’ sake!)

He noticed that there were dark shadows around her eyes, as if she might have been out somewhere until the small hours the previous night, and he wondered where and with whom.

And
now
you’re imagining midnight revels in the depths of the greenwood shade, said his mind jeeringly. Oh sure, orgiastic cavortings with priapic elves on a bank over-canopied with luscious woodbine, all of them high as kites, banging away until dawn, was that what you were thinking, Patrick? More likely a pubful of lager louts discussing football and getting smash-drunk or out of their minds on Ecstasy—

Yes, but she knew that Dante stanza–or at least, she
knew enough to look it up and she cared enough to write it out and let you see it—God, I’ve got to stop thinking like this!

But Oberon’s sweet woodbine-couch aside, one might reasonably suppose that Emily had a fairly colourful social life. Patrick did suppose it, and it made him feel profoundly and irrationally depressed.

All the way through the maze of corridors and locked doors Emily was planning how she would talk to this woman, this Pippa, about ordinary trivial things. Things like helping with the children at Lorna Laughlin’s school and how they were having a painting competition. She had thought she could talk about Herbert, her cat, as well, and how he had caught a mouse and left it on the doorstep and given everyone hysterics, but Dr Irvine had said, ‘No reference to animals when you talk to Pippa, Emily. Not in any form at all,’ and Emily had not liked to ask why, but had just nodded.

The slightly battered day-room managed to be both cold and stuffy at the same time, and smelt faintly of stewed tea. Pippa was sitting in a straight-backed chair, one of the attendants with her. Emily noticed that Pippa had chosen a chair with its back to the window and remembered about the damaged eye and felt sympathetic. She saw that Pippa was waiting patiently and tidily, her hair carefully combed and the buttons of her cardigan done up to the neck. She looked like a schoolchild who has been told to sit quietly until its mother arrives, and Emily suddenly found this so unbearably poignant that
a stupid lump came at the back of her throat and tears stung her eyes.

And then Dr Irvine said, very softly, ‘You have to be a bit detached about these people, Emily.’ And, as Emily looked involuntarily up at him, he smiled the real smile, and said, ‘But I wouldn’t want you not to have feelings, my dear.’

My dear. It was the wildest maddest thing in the world to feel so absolutely thrilled because he had called her ‘my dear’. All it meant was that he had seen she was affected by Pippa, and was giving her a bit of confidence. He probably did it to everyone.

But it worked. Emily went forward, and said, ‘Hi, Pippa. I’m Emily. They said I could come to talk to you–they said you’d like a visitor for half an hour or so.’ She had rehearsed this beforehand, and it came out about right. ‘I’m not very used to doing this,’ she said, which was the next bit of the script. ‘But my dad works here, and I thought I’d like to talk to some of the people he knows. I expect you’ve met my dad–his name’s Donald Frost. He and Dr Irvine said that you’d be a good person for me to start with. So this is a rehearsal, really. I hope you don’t mind being a rehearsal.’

There was no reply which was a bit off-putting, but Dr Irvine had already explained about this. ‘Just assume she’s understanding you,’ he had said. ‘Just talk to her.’

Emily cast a glance at the attendant who was sitting in one of the chairs, leafing through a dog-eared magazine, looking bored. She said, ‘I don’t know what you like to
talk about, Pippa, but what I’ll do, I’ll tell you about the things I do and we’ll go from there. One of the things I do is help in the school for two afternoons, and that’s good, because the kids are great.’ Patrick had said not to talk about animals, but he had not said anything about children. So Emily ploughed on. ‘The kids are having a cookery day at school on Monday–I’m helping with it, and I’ll bring you some of their cakes if you’d like.’ Nothing. Emily said, ‘I don’t know what they’ll taste like, but I’ll bring them anyhow. I’ll come on Monday afternoon–would that be all right? We’ll have a cup of tea and try the cakes.’

Pippa turned to look at Emily as if trying to understand what was wanted of her. Then she nodded slightly, submissively. As if she was saying, Yes, if that is what you want of me.

This was encouraging, so Emily pressed on, and all the while there was the memory of Dr Irvine–Patrick–calling her ‘my dear’, and smiling the special smile. Every time Emily thought about that, she felt as if she could run all the way up the nearest mountain and back down the other side.

After he had delivered Emily safely to the day-room, Patrick went back to his office, and reached for the overflowing in-tray. It was annoying that Emily’s face kept getting between him and the case notes awaiting his attention. Don Frost had said something about her going out with Robbie Glennon: Patrick wondered if the heavy-eyed look was because of him. If she did get
together with that young Glennon, it was to be hoped the boy would appreciate her.

When he left her in the day-room, she had thanked him, and said, See you soon, Dr Irvine, and Patrick had had to beat down a sudden impulse to say, For God’s sake, ditch this bloody formality, and call me Patrick!

He was working steadily through a batch of case notes when the phone on his desk rang.

It was Miss March from Teind House. After a moment, Patrick recalled meeting her at some charity supper or other he had attended earlier in the year. He did not much like the slightly constrained, slightly false gaiety of these events, but it would have been churlish not to take some role in Inchcape’s little community.

Selina March had been on his table that night; she was, it appeared, one of the stalwarts of Inchcape’s little church, and an indefatigable worker for various worthy causes. Patrick had judged her to be in her early fifties, and remembered that she had worn an unbecoming camel and brown print two-piece, that her hair was arranged in no particular style at all, and that her face was innocent of make-up except for a light dusting of powder and a trace of pink lipstick. He had tried to talk to her, but she had been painfully shy, and had blushed furiously and looked down at her feet when the after-dinner speaker told a faintly
risqué
joke.

He had thanked her for her company at the dinner, and had not given her another thought until he heard her voice on the other end of his phone.