The ravening, p.25
The Ravening, page 25
“So you know my choice, but you’re ignoring it and doing what you want anyway? Yeah, that sounds like you.”
“I suppose I walked into that one.”
“And as for knowing me, piss off.”
Whitecliffe sighed. “Swearing is a sign of a limited vocabulary, Jenna.”
“It’s always been my profound conviction that such an assertion is, ipso facto, a classic example of absolute fucking bullshit,” said Jenna.
Holly gave her a wan half-smile, and Whitecliffe chuckled again. “Well, as far as knowing you goes, I believe I’m far closer than when we last spoke. I offered financial inducements to persuade you then. Not enough. You’re very self-sufficient, aren’t you? From having to make your way in the world alone. Privation’s nothing new to you. And emotionally you’ve always been the same, haven’t you? Doesn’t take a genius to diagnose abandonment issues, fear of commitment and so on. All those short-term relationships. Always walking away when things got too entangling. Hm?” Whitecliffe looked at Holly. “And yet.”
Holly didn’t reply, shoulders hunched, eyes lowered. Whitecliffe studied her in silence for almost a minute, then returned her gaze to Jenna and smiled. “Do you know the saying ‘give me a place to stand, and I will move the world’?”
“No.”
“You disappoint me. Archimedes of Syracuse said it, over two thousand years ago. Remarkable man. Know anything about him?”
“Wasn’t he the one who shouted Eureka?”
“Glad you retained some details. Yes, Eureka – meaning ‘I’ve got it’. ‘It’ being the Archimedean Principle: the displacement of water. But there was more, much more. He invented Archimedes’ Screw – not a sexual technique, before you make the obvious tiresome jokes, but a means of raising water from one level to another. And the basis for the modern propellor. He even, supposedly, built a heat-ray, using parabolic mirrors, to burn Roman ships attacking Syracuse – two thousand years ago, remember. A man of parts, as you see. But that particular quotation refers to Archimedes’ work on levers.”
“Levers,” repeated Jenna.
“Archimedes didn’t invent the lever, of course, but he was the first to prove the principle mathematically. Hence his quotation. Given a fixed point and something to lift with, you can move almost anything to where you want it to go. It’s all a question of – well. Leverage.”
Whitecliffe looked, again, at Holly.
“Fucking hell, Jenn,” Holly managed at last. “Think she’s trying to drop a hint?”
“Ah, it speaks,” said Whitecliffe. “I should really be very cross with you, Ms Finn, but in fact I’m grateful. After some initial complications, you’ve actually made my job considerably easier. As I said, Jenna, I’d rather do this with your cooperation than without, but you will insist on always having your way, won’t you? That matters to you more than almost anything else.” This time her glance at Holly was so brief Jenna might have missed it had she blinked. “Almost.”
“Fine,” said Jenna. “You’ve made your point.”
“Oh, good,” said Whitecliffe. “So?”
Inevitable it would come to this, in the end; it’d always only been a matter of time before Whitecliffe worked out how to force Jenna’s compliance. No guarantee, of course, that she’d keep her word, but at least she wasn’t James: once she had what she wanted, she wouldn’t need Jenna or Holly anymore, and was too well-connected to fear retribution.
She might just as easily decide to tie up any loose ends.
But Whitecliffe wanted to see herself as fair and rational, a healer, pro-choice. Much easier to do that if Jenna was paid off and released with documents proving her consent. Whitecliffe’s version of events would be so convincing, with time she might believe it herself. Even Jenna might.
“Jenna?” said Whitecliffe, politely.
“Babe?” said Holly, in a tiny voice.
“Fine.” There was enough give in the soft restraints that Jenna could reach out and take Holly’s hand. “Whatever you want, as long as you let us go afterwards.”
“Of course. And amply remunerated, as promised. There’ll be forms for you to sign, of course.”
“Of course.”
“Cheer up, Jenna. Once we get through all this, you’ll never have to worry about unplanned pregnancy again, and you’ll be rich. Well, relatively.” Whitecliffe beamed. “So glad we could reach an accommodation. Knew you’d be reasonable in the end.”
Jenna turned away from Whitecliffe. Holly looked up at her. Those eyes. She never wanted to stop looking into those eyes. She leant forward, resting her forehead against Holly’s, the tip of Holly’s nose brushing hers; they stayed like that for the rest of the journey. Shutting out Whitecliffe, shutting out the world.
Gravel crunched under the van wheels, snapping Jenna out of her reverie. She sat up, blinking. Holly’s hand slipped from hers.
“Home again, home again, jiggety-jig,” said Whitecliffe. “Now, we’re going to remove the restraints and let you walk to the clinic under your own steam. Escorted, of course. I’m trusting you to be sensible now.”
Only the barest hint of a threat. That was all there needed to be.
The van ground to a halt, gravel crackling underneath. Greasy Hair stood up, painfully, and unlocked the van doors. Angela unfastened Holly’s restraints, Zoe Jenna’s. Redbeard hung back and watched, a hand in his pocket, no doubt waiting for the chance to whip out some unpleasant surprise, like a cattle-prod, or a baton of his own.
Whitecliffe motioned to the door. “After you. Guests first.”
Jenna stood, stiff and awkward, then stepped out of the van onto the gravel forecourt in front of Stonebrook. Behind her the lawn she’d seen before gleamed in the moonlight, with the trees black bristling shadows at the perimeter. Fucking trees again. Jenna grimaced, turned away and helped Holly down.
“As you see, we like to keep things nice and private.” Whitecliffe stepped down and stretched. “Shall we?”
She marched round the front of the van; reluctantly, Jenna and Holly followed, the orderlies trailing after them towards Stonebrook.
It almost looked like an ordinary farmhouse from the outside, with its whitewashed walls and warm-lit windows, except for the fire escapes on either side of the building, and one other detail: instead of a normal-sized front door, it boasted a pair of heavy oak double doors that wouldn’t have looked out of place on a castle. Those were the only hint at how extensively the interior had been remodelled to fit Whitecliffe’s needs.
The main doors led into a wide reception area with a desk – unoccupied, of course, as the clinic wasn’t officially open yet – to one side. The reception area wasn’t what Jenna had expected, though; she’d thought it would be white and antiseptic-looking, but instead it had been designed with an old-fashioned, almost Victorian feel, with a marble floor and oak-panelled walls. There was a marble bust on either side of the staircase leading to the upper floors, and oil paintings on the walls. The subjects were exclusively women, in settings ranging from classical antiquity to the modern.
Whitecliffe indicated the busts. “The one on the left represents Peseshet, lady overseer of female physicians in Egypt’s Old Kingdom, two and a half thousand years before the supposed birth of Christ. Earliest woman in medicine in recorded history. On the right, Ubartum of Garšana, female physician from the Third Dynasty of Ur in Mesopotamia – around 2075 BC.” Whitecliffe’s normal bluff demeanour had disappeared: there was something close to reverence in her voice. She motioned to the portraits, going left to right. “Agemede of Elis, a physician from the twelfth century BC, before the Trojan War. According to Homer, she knew the healing powers of every plant on Earth. Agnodice of Athens, fourth century BC. Had to disguise herself as a man to learn and practise medicine; when she was exposed as a woman, the Athenian women she’d treated defended her so fiercely the law was changed to allow women to practise medicine. Metrodora – a comparative latecomer, hailing from between the second and fourth century AD. Like the busts, these portraits are exercises in imagination. We’ve no idea what these women really looked like.”
All the women in the portraits, Jenna noted, bore a striking resemblance to Whitecliffe herself.
“All we know of Metrodora,” Whitecliffe droned on, warming to her theme, “is that she wrote On the Diseases and Cures of Women – the first female-authored medical text. Next we have Hildegard of Bingen…”
Jenna did her best to tune her out.
“…and, of course, Marie Stopes and Helen Brook,” Whitecliffe finally concluded. “As ever, we stand on the shoulders of giants.”
“Wonder what they’d make of you?” said Holly.
Whitecliffe glared, her mouth tightening; for once, a barb had hit home.
“Then again, wasn’t Marie Stopes into eugenics?” Holly went on. “Wanted to sterilise mixed-race kids? Not exactly pro-choice there. She’d probably be well into all this–”
Whitecliffe wheeled on her, half-raising a hand, then lowered it with a brittle chuckle. “Point to you, Ms Finn,” she said. “But we should move on to more important matters. This way, Jenna.”
“Hey, wait a minute – get off, you–”
Jenna turned: Holly was being restrained by Redbeard and Greasy Hair. She stepped towards them, but Angela and Zoe gripped her upper arms. “Let’s not be silly,” said Whitecliffe. “No harm will come to Ms Finn, Jenna, if you’re sensible. But my instruction only applied to you. This leg of the journey, I’m afraid, is yours and yours alone. And, Ms Finn,” she added, as Holly drew breath to cry out, “all either of you’ll achieve by screaming or making any other kind of scene is to irritate me profoundly. Along with the ladies and gentlemen I’ve entrusted with your welfare.” Whitecliffe indicated the orderlies.
“What happened to our agreement?” said Jenna, trying to gauge how quickly she could break free from Zoe and Angela. As if guessing her thoughts, they tightened their grip on her arms.
“My dear Jenna, I’ve done nothing to break it. Keep your side of the bargain, and neither of you will be harmed. But we need to prepare you for treatment, and I’ve no hesitation saying you’re fit for it by now. The sooner it’s done, the sooner you can both be on your way.”
“So what’s this?”
Whitecliffe sighed. “Jenna, I’m many things, but stupid isn’t one of them. Both you and Miss Finn are intelligent and resourceful young women, and each of you is a thundering great headache in your own right. I’m not compounding the problem by letting you conspire together. You can see Ms Finn after we’ve begun treatment – for a time, under supervision. That arrangement will continue throughout your stay, until you’re both released. All right?”
“And meanwhile, I’m a hostage for her good behaviour?” said Holly.
“As I said, intelligent,” said Whitecliffe. “Now, shall we proceed?”
Redbeard and Greasy Hair began marching Holly up the stairs; Zoe and Angela steered Jenna towards a door on the right-hand side of the reception area.
“Love you,” said Holly, as the orderlies hustled Jenna away.
“Love you too,” Jenna called back.
She didn’t look back. Her face was burning, her eyes filling up, and she couldn’t have seen Holly’s face and held herself together, not then.
55.
The door itself was solid oak, in keeping with the surrounding décor, but with a reader beside it, through which Whitecliffe swiped a card. A series of locks clunked. The door opened, and Whitecliffe motioned them through, into a white-walled vestibule with a uPVC door. This door had glass panels, reinforced by wire mesh.
“We like to present our newly arrived patients with a comfortable, olde-worlde sort of setting,” Whitecliffe explained. “It seems to put them at their ease. But beyond this point, our only concern is clinical excellence, as you’ll see.”
She swiped her card at the second door, then led them through into a corridor. There was a door on either side, and a fire escape at the far end. “We’ve two rooms for patients on each floor. We also offer two types of patient accommodation. You experienced the comforts of the first on your initial stay.” Whitecliffe swiped her card again, at a reader beside the first door. “Now you’ll experience the second.”
The room they pushed Jenna into was very different to the one she’d originally occupied. White and windowless, the only furnishing a bed, which, like every other surface in the room, was solidly padded.
“Necessary precaution, I’m afraid,” said Whitecliffe. “Some people resort to desperate measures. I did tell you, you might recall, that we had facilities for difficult patients. For their own good, of course. Now, if you wouldn’t mind undressing?”
Jenna minded considerably but had very little choice, with Angela and Zoe both present. She stripped, dropping the clothes on the floor in as untidy a pile as she could, refusing to be embarrassed or ashamed.
Not like you’ve ever been shy before.
True enough: she’d had an active love-life, plus a few stints as a life model for art classes. But in those instances she’d had a choice, unlike now. If it was the price of Holly’s survival, then under those terms, and those alone, she’d do as they told her. But she didn’t have to do so gracefully. So she stepped back, hands on hips and chin cocked, and presented herself to Whitecliffe and the rest. “See anything you like, girls?”
Zoe coughed and looked down; even Whitecliffe, Jenna noted with spiteful amusement, had turned pink. “Yes, Jenna, we can all see you’re in splendid physical shape. Now, if you’d just put on this gown?”
A small victory, and while she hadn’t been looking for an ego-boost, the “splendid physical shape” remark gave Jenna a welcome one nonetheless. She did her best not to smile too openly as she put on the gown. Angela gathered her clothes up, unlocked a compartment on the underside of the bed, and stuffed the clothes inside before relocking it and handing Whitecliffe the key.
“Ah, thank you. And if you’ll just put your paw print on these?” Whitecliffe handed Jenna a clipboard with a white ballpoint pen attached to it by a chain. “Sign at the bottom of each sheet.”
Jenna didn’t bother reading the documents. No doubt she’d regret it later, but it wasn’t as though she had any choice.
Being up the duff does not agree with you. Holly had been right about that, but neither did being so manipulable. Not that Holly was exactly a damsel in distress – but if (when, she told herself) they got out of here, Jenna was signing her up for some Muay Thai classes.
Didn’t exactly keep you out of trouble, did they?
Eric might have thought differently, Jenna reminded herself.
“Splendid.” Whitecliffe took the clipboard back. “You can go.”
A bizarre statement under the circumstances, till Jenna realised she meant the orderlies. They filed out; the door clicked shut behind them.
Jenna looked around the featureless room. “Alone at last, eh?”
“I’d better point out that, as before, you’re on TV.” Whitecliffe indicated a camera in the ceiling corner. “Any aggressive move on your part will provoke an immediate response.”
“I’m sure it will.” Jenna grinned. “Will it be quick enough to help you, though?”
Whitecliffe took a small step back. “I thought we had an agreement, Jenna.”
“We do,” said Jenna, although she was already doubting the wisdom of having accepted it – however little choice she’d had – or the likelihood of Whitecliffe adhering to it.
“Because it won’t just be you who bears the consequences of any untoward behaviour.”
“Yeah, I got that.”
“If you wish to be reunited with Ms Finn–”
“I said I get it, doc.” Jenna was pleased to see Whitecliffe’s face tighten at “doc”. “Just joking.”
“Were you? But I’ve admittedly been accused of lacking humour.”
“You do surprise me.”
Whitecliffe sighed. “I’ll be along later to give you a brief physical. Eaten today?”
Jenna realised she hadn’t; strangely she hadn’t felt hungry before, despite the various calorie-burning activities she and Holly had engaged in, but now she was ravenous and her stomach growled. “No.”
“I’ll have something brought to you. And some bottled water. Got to keep hydrated. Don’t do anything silly with it.”
“Like what, masturbate?”
Whitecliffe rolled her eyes. “Your sense of humour can be a little tedious after a while.”
“What can I tell you? I’ve got a one-track mind.”
“A dirt track, it would seem.”
“You sound just like my mum there. Careful about that, doc. Look what happened to her.”
Jenna couldn’t tell if the comparison amused Whitecliffe or unsettled her. “Pleasant as this banter is, I must leave you for the time being. Someone wishes to see you.”
Jenna frowned. “Who?”
Whitecliffe gave her a small, cold smile. “I’ll let them introduce themselves, I think. See you shortly, Jenna.”
“Hey, hang on–” But Whitecliffe, having had the last word, swiped her card in the door lock and swept out. The door clunked behind her.
The room was very quiet. Soundproofed, no doubt. In Stonebrook, no one can hear you scream. The silence felt loud, somehow, and along with the glaring whiteness, seemed to press in on her. She’d heard of a room somewhere that was so soundproof you could hear nothing but your own breathing and heartbeat, that no one could bear to be in for more than a minute or two. She pulled her knees up to her chest and hugged them tightly.
White silence. The only break in the whiteness, apart from Jenna’s own skin, was the black dot of the video camera lens: even the camera casing was white.
Sensory deprivation, like at the cottage. James had used a dark cellar, Whitecliffe a white, clinical room, but the purpose and intended result were the same: to break her down, erode her will to resist.
She might keep you here for as many weeks or months as this takes, babe. Till your brain melts and you’re ready for the gibber academy.
