The madness, p.24
The Madness, page 24
I step away and he grabs my wrist. “Not so fast.”
My throat closes and my vision splits, spinning on one half, twisting on the other.
Stay here, I warn myself, feeling that familiar dissociation, the memory of my attacker ripping and tumbling upward from my past like an unholy abomination. And then a spark. Which turns into a flare. Which spreads into a raging inferno.
I shove him in the chest so hard he stumbles and falls. At the same time a “respectable” man close by whispers into the ear of a young woman.
“I want to go home,” she whimpers.
Instead of pulling away, he throws his brandy in her face and she splutters. The men nearby roar with laughter.
I’m running before I realize it, the man behind me ignored—“You little cunt!”—and I’m shoving my way through the men, turning to face them, a broken bottle somehow in my hands, the young girl behind me.
“Fuck off!” I yell. I scream. I rage.
The men are surprised into stunned silence for a precious moment. Then one of them grabs for me. It’s a casual grab, as if to say, Don’t be ridiculous, but I swipe with the bottle and he swears, pulling away. Bleeding.
“Bitch!”
I spit in his face, daring the others to try me. The girl I’m protecting grips my skirt like I’m a buoy in a turbulent sea, sobbing.
“Break it up,” one of the guards says, stepping between the men and me. “She’s coming with us.”
The men look like they want to argue, but only for a moment. Then they chuckle and step away, slapping one another on the back.
“She got you nicely, didn’t she?”
“Fuckin’ hell, mate, not had one like that for a while, eh?”
“Good sport,” another drawls as the guard leads me away.
I clock another security camera and look straight at it. A red light blinks twice.
I only hope I’ve done enough not to die.
32
They keep me in a basement area with at least six other rooms off a main corridor. I never hear any other girls, and begin to wonder if I’m alone. After three days, they give me a change of clothes—a set of thin gray cotton pajama shorts and a matching top. Nothing to protect my feet from the frigid metal floor except the heels I was brought down here in. The food is good. I didn’t expect that. They don’t let me shower.
I scratch at my skin until it bleeds, yearning for the feel of bleach, the tang of Clean in my nostrils. A guard cuts my nails below the quick, shoving me back when I bite him. Pours orange antiseptic over my cuts; frowns when I sigh with relief, a junkie with her fix.
After a week, they send in a doctor.
I’m sitting in the corner, my head between my knees, wondering where I go from here—and whether I’ve made a deadly mistake—when he comes in.
“Don’t struggle and it’ll be easier,” he says, bored, a syringe with a large needle dangling from his hand.
I look up. “Oh my God.”
John Seward is standing in this basement room, in this hole in the world, under the club with no name.
The shock is mutual for a split second.
Then he laughs.
“You just couldn’t keep your nose out, could you?”
“Seward,” I whisper, choking on his name. “What are you doing here?”
As if we’ve bumped into each other on Kensington High Street rather than this brothel. He is still laughing. Breathless.
I’m reeling. This can’t be real. This can’t be happening.
He’s laughing. Laughing.
I shake my head, trying to clear the shock, the gelatinous disbelief. “John?”
“Ah, you stupid bitch.”
I get slowly to my feet. “You motherfucker.”
“Dr. Murray! Language. So much for the ‘consummate professional.’”
Everything clicks.
“That’s why you were so interested in Renée,” I say in realization, the unreality of the moment like sticky egg yolk sliding down my body, head to torso. “I thought it was negligence, but you actually killed her, didn’t you?”
“There you go again. So earnest. You know how it is in our field, Murray. Patients die all the time.”
His calm, casual, languid confidence enrages me.
I raise my chin, taking some of that back—force myself to smile. “You fucked up. You lost her. Of course you did.”
He pauses. “Can’t let the perfect be the enemy of the good.” His smile is rigid.
I shake my head as I put it all together. “She was here, wasn’t she? For days or weeks, being preyed upon, which is why her mind was so far gone. She must’ve escaped somehow, smart girl. You probably had paid-off police looking everywhere for her, and then, once she was found, you made sure she was placed under your care so that you could clean up your loose ends. But how did she even make it out of here alive?”
His smile fades for a moment, then returns. “We all make mistakes.”
“Not good enough.”
He grips my arm tightly now and pulls me so close I can smell his breath, can feel the spit from his mouth as he talks. “Most of the patients go quietly, but some cause more trouble than others. Especially since it’s the feisty ones who are brought down here. They’re the ones he wants for the feasts—they survive longer, and make it more interesting. When Renée escaped... I only had a limited window to clean up the mess before they came for me too.”
I soften my voice, try another tack. “John...why are you doing this?”
He searches my face, then blows air through his lips, looking away. “I don’t have a choice.”
“They have stuff on you,” I realize aloud, remembering the cameras upstairs, the system of blackmail Singer discovered they perpetuate.
He runs his hand through his hair. “Photos.” He looks at me and shrugs. “I’m fucked, Mina.”
“What happened?”
“There was this girl... I didn’t know she was underage.”
“You could prove that you didn’t know, that they were blackmailing you.”
“Oh, come on. You know better than that. You know how it is. The moment an accusation is made, it’s over. I’d be blacklisted. Lose everything.”
I glance at the needle in his hand. “You could be the whistleblower. The one to bring it to an end.”
He laughs mirthlessly. “You don’t know these people. They’re more powerful than you can imagine. You don’t even know the half of it.”
“Vampires.”
He’s taken aback. He didn’t expect this from me. “I have to admit, I’m impressed. They’re extraordinary creatures. The science...we haven’t even begun to crack the potential of their DNA. Their saliva alone contains an enzyme that breaks down human tissue, while their own repairs itself. So you see. I can’t escape.”
“One person speaking up from inside could make the whole thing crumble. Who’s at the head? Who’s running it? Give me a name, anything.”
“You’re not getting out of here. It’s too late for that.”
“We can leave right now. We can go together.”
“They’re everywhere. They can make things happen. Open and close doors at will. I can’t risk it.”
“Unbelievable,” I say, shaking my head.
“I’m not a monster,” he says desperately. “I’m the victim, don’t you see?”
Revulsion bubbles up my throat. “How many have there been? How many women have you had come through here?”
“They’re druggies, criminals—they’re nobodies.”
“We can’t save everyone, is that it?”
He looks relieved. “Exactly.”
“And me? Am I a drug addict? A criminal?”
He looks almost regretful. “You’re just stupid, Mina.”
I fold my arms, dropping the act. “You know, I always wondered how someone so completely incompetent could be published all over the place, could have accolades coming out of his arse. Now I know. You’re no victim here. You’re complicit. They make sure your career thrives, so you can keep doing—” I gesture at the room “—what you do.” I scoff, shaking my head. “I always thought you were a mediocre pillock, and now I know it’s true. You’re sloppy and unprofessional and flippant. No wonder Renée escaped. You’re pathetic.”
He hits me. Hard.
My head jerks to the right, cricking my neck. Then he’s got me pinned against the wall, a big hand wrapped around my throat. He breathes hot and fast into my face.
“You bitch,” he says, his eyes wild.
He presses himself into me then, and I feel his erection growing. This is exciting him, I realize with revulsion.
“Remember,” he murmurs. “I’m the one with the power here.” His thumb caresses my chin. “I could end your life right now.”
He’s so much bigger than me. He can do anything he wants, and I wouldn’t be able to stop him. He probably has done anything he wants countless times.
Itching in my neck and the familiar panic rising—I force it down. He presses himself into me again, breath hot in my face, his hardness against my crotch, insistent. Bile rises in my throat.
I pretend to yield for a moment, my lips parting. I picture Jonathan, remember his lips, his skin, his scent, his body. I relax my stance, remember how to be soft and inviting. How to be vulnerable.
“I always wondered what you’d be like,” he murmurs into my mouth.
I hold my breath and press my lips to his. He looks surprised for a fraction of a second, then he’s kissing me, moaning, his hand leaving my throat to grope my breast.
I bite down. Hard.
Through his lip.
A crack, then sudden warmth. My upper teeth meeting my lowers, a clean cut.
He yowls, scrabbling back, the flap of his lip where I bit it off on one side dangling over his chin, blood pouring everywhere. The syringe is on the floor. I make a grab for it as he keeps screaming, holding his face.
He comes toward me, but I’m faster.
The bevel is in his chest, needle up to the hilt. I depress the plunger. I don’t know what’s in it, but I know a large dose to the heart can’t be good.
I always wondered what you’d be like.
“To men like you?” I whisper into his face. “I’m poison.”
33
The guards must have been watching this display on a camera I can’t see, because they’re opening the door before Seward has hit the ground. They restrain me, but I’m not punished.
It occurs to me that my blood is worth more than his life.
They leave me handcuffed for a long time—hours, days, it’s impossible to be sure. There is nothing to do except pace and think and lie on the floor and wait. After a while, when my shoulders have begun to ache and my wrists are chafing with the friction of the restraints, a new doctor enters.
“Good morning,” he says, not looking up from a clipboard in his hands. “Time for bloodwork.”
He pulls out a syringe, much like the one Seward wielded, and lays it on a tray that a guard wheels in.
“Will it be necessary to sedate you?”
I shake my head.
He nods, that same bored air that Seward was dripping with until he recognized me.
I don’t fight him when he removes the handcuffs. I don’t resist when he takes my blood for some unknown tests. I don’t make conversation. What would be the point? Instead, I watch. I watch through my pliancy, hoping to glean more information. I’ve already learned that I am important. More important than Seward, certainly. They are feeding me, keeping me healthy—making sure that I am in peak condition. For the feeding party. So I’ll make sure I reach it in the best possible shape.
It’s hard to keep track of time. They let me wash by bringing a bucket of warm soapy water and a soft cotton cloth. I yearn for strong astringents, never feel clean enough. I count one, two, three, three hundred times and then begin again. Again. Again. My addled mind focuses on the discomfort; it gives me something to do. Something to focus on. I run through old lectures on intrusive thoughts, muttering out loud.
“Compulsive cleaning is a manifestation of a fear of contamination, a perpetual engagement in compulsive acts of decontamination. Mental contamination includes rituals like counting to a certain number to neutralize a bad thought.”
I count again. Again. Again.
They bring a change of gray clothing every few days and a pair of slippers when I comment that my feet are cold. I complain about the hard floor bruising my hips and they move me into a room with a bed. Whatever this game is, I’m moving up the ladder.
Hours.
Days.
Weeks.
I fantasize about home. About Mam, about Singer and Quincey. I wonder what Lucy’s funeral was like. Did they put her in a white dress? Make her look pure and angelic? Or did they go for blue lace, like some kind of royal? Did Arthur attend, still pretending to be a high society gentleman? Or is he too ashamed of what he’s done? Too afraid to come out of hiding? Will he ever face justice for what he’s done, or will he, like so many before him, be able to carry on like nothing has happened?
My thoughts turn to Jonathan, despite the fact that I’ve been trying not to think too hard about him. I miss him differently than the others. It’s more a yearning. A deep longing. He didn’t even know I was leaving...not like this. And even through this ache, it’s nothing compared to the hole Lucy left in me. Her absence is a pit I carry inside.
I try to remember why I’m doing this.
Beatrice. Renée. Seren.
Lucy.
My name is Mina Murray.
My name is Mina Murray.
My name is Mina Murray.
My name is Mina.
My name is...
I tuck my head into my hands, face the wall, and cry.
* * *
A day comes when things are different. Breakfast is larger: eggs, bacon, homemade chips, fried tomatoes and mushrooms, and freshly squeezed orange juice. Have I graduated? Or does this signify something more ominous? I eat everything. If they are feeding me like this, it must mean I need my strength.
Some time later, the door opens and two guards gesture for me to go with them. I’m led into the corridor where all the other doors are spitting out girls who look as terrified as I feel. The girl in the room behind me rushes to my side and grabs my hand. I hold hers back tight as we are prodded with batons to follow the guard at the head.
“What’s happening?” the girl whispers. “Do you know what’s going on?”
I shake my head. “No idea. But keep your eyes open.”
We are led up, via a narrow staircase that isn’t the one I came down when I first arrived, to another corridor that ends in a fire escape. The guard at the head of the line opens it onto the cold London night—the alley behind Cloth Fair. The girl in the lead makes a break for it, but the guard was expecting it. He presses his baton to her back and it makes a horrible electric sound as she falls like a stone. Deadweight.
The guard chuckles as he lifts her onto his shoulder and opens the door of a waiting van, tossing her inside. She rolls off the seat and flops awkwardly onto the floorboard.
“In,” the guard says, poking the next girl until, crying, she climbs into the lorry.
It is so tempting to run. To try to get away. I’m fast enough...
And then I realize that my legs are weak beneath me.
The breakfast... They put something in the breakfast.
I am already passing out when I climb into the truck.
* * *
I am jolted awake as the truck judders to a stop. The engine dies with a rumble. Doors slamming. A moment of silence. Muffled male voices. Footsteps. Then the metallic rattle of the rear door abruptly rolled up, admitting a blast of brilliant daylight.
As the tailgate is unfolded and whines into operation, it is with grim satisfaction that I see the cobbled courtyard of Cysgod Castle. I was right. The castle is linked, perhaps central, to their game. There must be something to ancient addresses—easier to conceal illicit activity when the estates have not changed hands in a string of generations.
I feel a tug on my wrist and my arm lifts up as my neighbor tries to rub her eyes. She smiles weakly, apologetically. While we were out, our wrists have been ziplocked together: my right wrist to her left wrist; my left wrist to my other neighbor, a brunette who can’t stop shaking. We are all still groggy, half-dazed, and addled.
Here we go.
I fiddle with the ampoule between my molars. A grim source of comfort.
I spent my childhood basking in the shadow of Ifori Estate and Cysgod Castle, wondering about their interior and about the kind of people who enjoyed such luxury. Now, as the guards herd us into the castle, a chain of premium chattel, I realize it was I who had enjoyed the luxury—of ignorance.
“We’re going to die,” one of the girls is muttering over and over. Her voice jangles my nerves, but I can’t correct her.
We’re led through a small side door into an adjoining chamber—straight—then left down another corridor, right, right again, up a set of spiral stairs, and left into another chamber. My brain clicks like a metronome, memorizing. A flash of Oxford uni, sitting in the Bod, learning complex strings of chemical formulas. I can do this. Now reverse it: right, down spirals, left, left, right, straight.
Seven stylists await us. One for each girl. They are sinuous, blank-faced Ken dolls, readying ointments, sprays, and utensils to fluff-up their Barbies. A rack of exorbitant garments hangs in the corner. Our bodies are scrubbed, our skin moisturized, our hair coiffed, our faces decorated and optimized. They don’t bother to check my mouth. They’re focused purely on beauty.
I force equanimity as invasive combs chomp through my hair, licentious hands manipulate my flesh, insolent fingers tug my chin this way and that. So impersonal. So deeply personal. Expert. Mechanical.
