‘You,’ he said, ‘are a terribly real thing in a terribly false world, and that, I believe, is why you are in so much pain.’
Thomson had spoken the single, solitary sentiment I knew to be true, but it seemed a cruel turn to show one her own image when she could not change it.
Tears rolled down my cheeks—great, heavy, hot tears. These were the hopeless tears that Ophelia cried before she leapt into the brook—the tears of every girl who has been pushed too far and cannot find her way back again. I could have filled the Thames with my tears, yet not express half of what was inside me.
My too-honest friend left his post behind the camera and knelt down beside the chaise I sat upon. He wiped away my tears with his pale, intelligent hands, and, for one moment, a moment that would likely never come again, I thought not of survival, but only of my heart.
Asylum Letter No. XLVIII
A horrible day . . .
It began with such cacophony as only Dr. Greavesly can inspire, for all inmates strike their stolen spoons upon the iron bars at the appearance of the surgeon.
The spoons proving quite as ineffectual as one might expect, Dr. Greavesly separated me from my fellow inmates. Clutching his red leather book under one arm, he forced me down the corridor and, to my considerable relief, up the stairs leading from Ward B to the Upper Staff apartments where Thomson’s temporary studio was located.
Once inside, the Doctor shouted to Thomson, but received no reply. Shrugging, he released his grip, then recognised that he could not very well leave the door unlocked lest I should escape. Tossing his book upon the desk at which Thomson developed photographs, he searched his pockets for the key. At last, Dr. Greavesly left me, locking the door behind him.
I knew it would not be long before Dr. Greavesly saw what he was missing and came back for it. I bounded to the desk. I touched the buttery leather. I had done this before, but where? The spindly fingers of memory reached out to me from another realm, another lifetime, and I was there, hiding in the attic with Sachiko, drunk on sherry, and opening the volume containing the painted portraits of the girls who had left the school.
The girls who had left the school . . .
Instantly, I knew everything—I had only to lift the cover to confirm it. I did so—oh, despair that I did so—and there they were: page after page of photographs . . . strange photographs . . . followed by records of age, physical characteristics (the deformities of particular girls were actually listed as selling points), assurances of virginity (ha!), and, of course, price. Price per hour.
All of the pretty girls from the Ophelia Gallery were there, and dozens more. Worst of all, the lurid filth commenced with a large card printed with my picture, the same that Thomson had taken of me upon that first day—the day that he had shattered glass and I had thought him beautiful. I removed the card from the book and turned it over; upon the back was a notice for a brothel, a house of prostitution—call it what you like—but it was our house. The card was advertising the Asylum.
Through my image, I was helping to sell these girls, my cellmates, my sisters, and myself into the hands of criminals who desire nothing more than the novelty of molesting a mad girl, which is (who knew?) quite a delicacy. I was helping to line the pockets of the doctors, for God knows not a penny of the proceeds would go towards the upkeep of our crumbling institution.
My photographs were featured as the very archetype of what was for sale. The prices were impossibly high, yet also impossibly low. This is how much we are worth? I thought. And how little? This, the fruit of my hours with Thomson and his camera . . . oh! What had my fair friend done to me? To all of us?
I wrenched the hideous volume from the desk and threw it to the ground; there, I tore through the pages, ripping out any that bore my likeness.
The door crashed open, and in rushed Thomson, out of breath. He bolted to where I knelt and pulled me from the floor.
‘I’ve got to get you away from here! Oh, Em, I’ve been so stupid . . . God forgive me, I’ve been so stupid . . . I’ve been to the city . . . I saw, oh, Em, we haven’t time now—you’ve got to run away from this place!’
I wrested myself from his arms and pushed him away, overcome with rage; the sting of betrayal was a piercing bullet, burning into my chest.
‘Emily, please!’ cried Thomson.
‘Please?’ I spat the word. ‘Run away? I’ve got to run away, have I? Well, that’s just bloody brilliant! Why in Heaven’s name didn’t I think of that? And which locked door shall I walk through to my waiting freedom? Which armed guard shall I trot past with a wink and a smile? Where do you think we are? Oh, Thomson . . . why did you come here . . .’
I was choking upon a torrent of tears and anger, and could not form the words to express it all.
‘Emily, please listen to me—I didn’t know!’
‘You didn’t know? You didn’t know? How could you not know? How much were they paying you to not know?’
‘They said it was all a study, a sort of experiment, an attempt to prove the humanity of the mentally . . . whatever! I thought it was all for good, I truly did, but I am so sorry, so very sorry . . . I never meant for this to happen, please . . . please believe me . . . I will fix this somehow, Emily, dearest . . .’
Again he tried to hold me close, and, this time, I did not fight him, for I knew it was the last time we would ever touch.
‘Please, come with me . . . just come with me . . . I couldn’t bear for it to go forwards . . . it simply cannot happen . . . not to you.’
‘And what of the rest of us? No, my foolish friend, you cannot fix this, for there is nothing to fix—everything has happened just as it was always meant to.’
I heard myself laughing as I held Thomson’s face in my hands, but the sincerity in his clear blue eyes only cut me more deeply, and again I pushed him away.
‘And yet, I am to believe you knew nothing? What of this clientele? Their preferences? You knew nothing? I am a prisoner here. I am nothing. I can ask no questions. But you could. And you didn’t. Did you think nothing of that?’
Thomson sank to the floor, kneeling at my feet, wrapping his arms round me like a child.
‘I thought of nothing but you,’ he wept.
‘Do not say that to me. You have killed me—if not through betrayal, then through your wretched ignorance. One is little better than the other.’
Dr. Stockill entered the room, accompanied by two Chasers, and followed by his mother.
‘What is this?’ cried my Headmistress, clearly astonished to see both the photography equipment and an inmate inside an Upper Staff apartment. Had she not known?
‘It’s nothing, Mother dearest,’ said the Doctor. ‘Leave us, please.’
‘Monty . . .’
‘Leave us!’
Indignantly, Madam Mournington swept from the room as the Superintendent turned to the Chasers.
‘Quarantine. Now!’ he ordered.
The Chasers came at me prepared for a fight, but they got none. I held out my hands to be bound, yet I never took my eyes from Thomson. It was he who protested and thrust himself between me and my captors.
‘I love you!’
His tortured screams shook the windows, and my stomach lurched, silent sobs stopping my breath.
‘I love you! I love you! I love y—’
Dr. Stockill stepped forwards and covered Thomson’s mouth with a handkerchief; my former friend quickly collapsed. It tore my heart to see this, yet I knew that Thomson was far from dead; I had seen the Doctor subdue many a rebellious inmate in this way. The victim would awaken a day later with a pounding headache, but none the worse. Thomson would be far away by then—it would be too indiscreet to murder him, and also unnecessary, for there were other ways to keep him silent.
I do believe, Diary, that Thomson had not set out to betray me—to betray all of us—yet I could not conceal my
resentment at the part he had played, and it was best to say goodbye.
I hope that, someday, he will take that picture that will change things . . . that will force people to pay attention. I wish it could have been mine.
MADAM MOURNINGTON LETTER NO. 4
To: Augusta Mournington
The Mourning Room Tea House
Coventry
From: Prudence Mournington-Stockill
The Asylum F.W.V.G.
London
My Dear Augusta,
I fear sleep.
My dream of my baby daughter comes to me every night, without mercy.
I also see the husband dead only days before my little girl was gone. His face is the cruel one he had in life. He stands before me . . . he does not advance to strike me, yet his stillness is worse, and I wake gasping for air, the odor that exists only in my fevered dreams stifling me.
I wish to tell my son—to seek his counsel and comfort, and perhaps ask him to give me something to calm my nerves, but I can speak to him less than ever now . . .
Oh! My son . . .
I confess to you alone, dear Sister, that I have begun to feel a little afraid of him. You alone know how I have struggled to be affectionate with him always, and perhaps I go too far in this, if only, I suspect of myself, to disguise the strangeness that I have always felt towards him. I have tried, Lord knows I have, and I believe that I have come to love him, though whether it be for lack of anything else to love, I do not know.
Monty dotes upon me like the devoted boy he has always been. But he seems also to have become quite suspicious, and believes that either the servants or I have been in his Laboratory almost daily. His primary concern is that his chambers should not be entered, and he guards himself and his work with a dreadful passion.
Augusta, have I ever told you how, when Monty was a child, I caught him stepping upon snails in the garden just to make Violet scream? I took her up in my arms and ran into our little cottage, the one you were so ashamed to visit. I will never forget how he looked at me when I found him . . . without remorse, without apology . . . he was taking pleasure in frightening her. I never saw him do anything so vile again, but then Violet was gone soon after . . . so soon . . . and when I would often find dead rats lined up in perfect rows beneath his bed, or teacups filled with crickets floating in some strange fluid, I always wondered . . . I am surely a horrible mother . . . how could I think such things?
These dreams awaken fragments of myself that I should much prefer to let sleep, and so I keep to my bed and leave the daily running of the Asylum to my son and his staff, appearing only to unlock the Lunatic Wards for the attendants in the morning and to lock them up again at night, for I dare not trust anyone of them with the Ward Key . . . they are vagrant rogues, all.
I desire to be useful again, but I must have a rest first . . . I am not myself.
I should very much like to come and visit you whilst your granddaughter is abroad, for I am afraid it still pains me to be in the company of female children, and I hope you will take pity on me and forgive me my rude request, for I do not think that I shall ever mend.
Your affectionate sister,
Prudence
Asylum Letter No. XLIX
We, the members of the Striped Stocking Society, intend to hold a meeting in the Ward Hall this very evening. We mean to discuss the potential purposes of, and possible strategies to avoid, Dr. Stockill’s increasingly lethal chemical experiments. Sir Edward has promised to introduce to us someone who may shed a toothful of light onto the situation, and we are eager to see who it is.
‘My dearest Children,’ began Sir Edward, ‘we, the League, feel that there are truths of which it is time you were aware regarding the wicked plot with which we are all inadvertently connected. We ourselves have been endeavoring to understand the purpose of these deadly experiments that lady and rat alike have been subjected to for a very long time now, but it was not until recently that we were gifted with the very insight we require if we are to formulate any plan of defense. It is, thus, with prodigious pride that I now introduce to you the rat who has made the greatest advances in this quest for knowledge, and at immense peril to his own person. May I present, dear Children, Basil.’
Sir Edward gestured towards a smaller rat, who bashfully shrugged off the attention.
‘Oh, Sir Edward, you flatter me, you do,’ said Basil, in a brisk Bow-bell Cockney.
Then, he sneezed.
‘Oh! Do pardon me, Ladies!’
Another sneeze.
‘Ahem! It’s quite as ‘e says, Ladies. I have passed many a moon within the Laboratory of Superintendent Stockill, an exploit that was said to be impossible—or inadvisable, at the very least—due to the cleanliness and order in which the Doctor maintains ‘is surroundings, that order leavin’ us “vermin” little chance of obscurity. Nonetheless, due to my native genius for espionage, Basil Basil ‘as managed to remain entirely ‘idden from view; I’ve observed the Doctor as he tortured an’ killed countless of both our kindred species in the name of “discovery”, all the while bein’ powerless to stop ‘im, wee as I am. And make no mistake, Ladies, I am strong, but I’m wee, I know I am . . . I would’ve saved ‘em if I weren’t so bloomin’ wee . . .’
Sneeze.
‘Good Ladies, sweet Ladies, all I’ve witnessed ‘as left a stain upon my ‘eart that I will bear to the end of my days . . .’
Sneeze. Sneeze again.
‘‘owever! I, your ‘umble Basil Basil, am in possession of a medical instrument of my own, and one more powerful than any in Dr. Stockill’s Laboratory . . .’
Here, Basil paused, ostensibly for dramatic effect.
‘What was your instrument, Mr. Basil?’ asked the Captain, suspecting that our honoured speaker was unlikely to continue until someone did so.
‘I’d ‘oped you would ask, Basil Basil did. The instrument, good Ladies . . . is this!’
Basil tapped his snout, then sneezed.
‘You see, dear Ladies, young Stockill may spend weeks, months, even years testin’ ‘is formulas, yet what ‘e wouldn’t give for the decipherin’ capabilities of a lowly rodent, for our sense of smell is nearly one million times stronger than that belongin’ to an ‘uman, meanin’ no disrespect to you, Ladies.’
‘None taken, Sir—pray go on,’ I said, struggling to conceal my impatience.
‘What I mean to say’, Basil continued, ‘is that I ‘ave identified the precise ingredients makin’ up Dr. Stockill’s formulas and matched ‘em to diseases rampant within both our institution and society outside. Basil Basil now believes, the League now believes, that we ‘ave all been mere whetstones upon which the Superintendent ‘as been sharpenin’ ‘is ultimate weapon.’
Allowing Basil to bask in the splendor of his analogy, Sir Edward intercepted his speech.
‘And yet, dear Children, like the whetstone,’ he gestured to Basil, who beamed with satisfaction, ‘we are, united, intrinsically stronger than the weapon we are being used to create.’
‘YES!’ screamed Basil.
A series of sneezes followed this outburst, and Sir Edward explained that prolonged exposure to the Doctor’s chemicals had irreversibly compromised Basil’s delicate respiratory system.
Having recovered somewhat, Basil continued on to tell us, between sneezes, how, through communication with ship rats arriving in England’s ports from more exotic locals, the League had already learnt that the dreaded Plague had hit Asia, and that pockets of Europe had already been infected; millions were dead with more sure to follow. There was growing terror in England that the fatal virus would demolish our own country as well, just as it had during the devastating era of the infamous Black Death; every chemist of note had been experimenting day and night to concoct a cure, though none had yet been successful.
Dr. Stockill had instantly recognized that there lay far more power in the ha
nds of one who could cause the Plague than in those of one who could cure it, and that to accomplish both would be to control society completely, rendering one a veritable god amongst the entire human race—worshipped and obeyed by all.
Of course, there could be but one way in which Dr. Stockill may insure himself to be the only man with the cure, and this was to create the disease himself.
To that end, he had been systematically infecting the Asylum rats with mutated strains of the bubonic virus in order to measure the effect of the altered illness—first upon the hosts (the rats), and then upon the surrounding population (in this case, the inmates). The Doctor had also been successfully infecting the girls directly for some time, as our Death Pits tragically corroborate, and had sacrificed thousands of us in doing so as he struggled to create an ‘improved’ form of the virus—a form upon which he could depend to be utterly resistant to any remedy but his own.
Quite aware of the dangers his experiments expose himself to, the Doctor wears a heavy black robe as he wanders down our corridor at midnight, his face shielded from pestilence by a mask chillingly similar to those employed five hundred years past, its long, pointed beak packed with protective herbs and oils, the round, screen-covered cavities, ghastly and hollow, lending him the vacant stare of the soulless executioner.
Feeling himself upon the very verge of a cure, he eats little, sleeps less, and paces our darkened halls like a man possessed. But, what is a cure if the disease cannot spread? How to infect the public? How to ensure certain death to all who shun his solution? This is what haunts the Doctor.
Yet, for all of his knowledge, there is but one excruciatingly important detail of which our enemy remains entirely unaware: Dr. Stockill has not yet deduced that it had never been the rats spreading the Plague in the first place—the fleas stowing away upon the backs of the rats were the responsible party. Therefore, to infect the rats themselves with the aim of achieving an outbreak amongst the human population is a shameful exercise in futility.