Rookwood Asylum Read online

  In the grim tenements of London’s East End, in the foul hovels of Liverpool and Manchester, disease flourished among malnourished and exhausted families. Violence, incest, and every perversion were commonplace, according to social reformers. Madness, too, was prevalent. Rarely a week went by without some godforsaken London slum being visited by commissioners from Bedlam, the notorious asylum. Those unfortunates who were dragged to this hell-hole were put on public display, their tormented antics providing a sick form of entertainment for visiting ladies and gentlemen. The physically deformed were also treated as mere exhibits. The most notorious example among many being that of the so-called ‘Elephant Man.’ The sideshow freak was a staple draw of the traveling circus…

  Paul deleted most of the second paragraph. He had begun intending to write a sober academic paper. His topic was the overall effects of industrialization on the health of the Victorian poor. He had a few ideas that, with luck, might draw some attention and get him a little kudos. But no matter how he tried to focus on hard facts, statistics, and learned theories, he kept veering off the point. His mind was haunted by images of suffering and misery, unjust persecution, and mental torment.

  “For Christ’s sake,” he grated, slamming his laptop shut. “You’re not writing a goddam Gothic novel!”

  He got up and went into the kitchen, got himself a bottle of beer out of the fridge. He had been in this apartment for over a week now and had tried to convince himself that his new home was warm, welcoming, somewhere he could work in peace. But instead, everything seemed to conspire against him achieving anything. When his evenings were not dominated by admin and grading assignments, he found himself unable to write.

  “Publish or perish,” he said to the empty living room, then took a gulp of beer.

  Paul had not published any original research for over a year. He did not have tenure. If he wanted to hold onto his teaching job at Tynecastle U, he had to raise his profile. That meant getting his name into the Journal of Historical Studies, The Nineteenth Century Review, or any of a dozen other prestigious journals. He had come to Rookwood with a ton of good ideas, all neatly filed and annotated. But every time he tried to turn one into a paper, he struggled to stay focused.

  “Screw it,” he grunted, and slumped onto the sofa. “Looks a lot like perish from where I’m sitting.”

  There was a brief struggle to find the remote, then he tried to find something to watch that would get his mind off his worries.

  ***

  Ella Cotter had used up her daily quota of iPad time and was now bored. She had done all the reading necessary for school, finished her homework, washed up the dishes, and finished her other chores. She went into the big bedroom, which doubled as Neve Cotter’s study, and stood fidgeting until her mother noticed her presence.

  “It’ll be more fun when you’ve made some new friends,” her mother said, not looking up from her computer. “Now, why don’t you watch one of your DVDs?”

  Ella did not reply that all her DVDs were for little kids; silly stories about princesses, talking animals, and magic. She had outgrown them. Outgrown was a word she used a lot these days. But Ella knew better than to ask if she could watch TV on her own, because her mother would not risk her seeing something ‘upsetting.’ Since they had run away from Jeff, Ella’s mother had become much more protective.

  But I’m not stupid, Ella thought, as she left her mother’s bedroom. I know how to take care and look after myself.

  Ella stopped in the doorway, looking at the evening sunlight slanting across the living room. She decided to test the boundaries, see just how far her mother would let her go.

  “Mummy,” she said, trying not to sound too enthusiastic, “can I go outside?”

  Neve Cotter turned from her screen, gave her daughter an appraising look.

  “For some fresh air,” Ella went on. “I can go for a nice walk.”

  For a long moment the girl was afraid her mother would say no. But then the woman nodded slowly.

  “Just so long as you don’t go outside the grounds,” Neve Cotter warned. “And don’t go into the East Wing. And don’t pester Declan, or Kate. And don’t try to climb any trees –”

  The litany of forbidden things went on as Ella put on her shoes and scampered to the front door.

  “And be back before eight o’clock!” shouted her mother.

  “I will,” Ella replied, checking her watch. It was only half past six.

  I’ll explore the woods, she thought. I promised I wouldn’t climb trees, but I didn’t say I wouldn’t explore the woods.

  Since they had moved to the edge of the city, Ella had become fascinated by what her mother called creepy-crawlies. She could spend hours watching the behavior of ants, beetles, even worms. Ella wanted to bring some back home in jars or Tupperware but, so far, her mother had been obdurate in refusing.

  I’ll get her to change her mind, Ella thought, as she closed the front door behind her. I’ll say it’s a science project.

  “Hello.”

  Ella jumped, startled by the voice. The speaker was a girl, but one a lot older than herself. She looked dubiously at the stranger, who was obviously a teenager. Ella knew that most teenagers thought younger kids were boring and didn’t want to spend time with them. But this one looked different. It was not just her friendly smile, Ella thought, but the fact that she was dressed like a sensible adult.

  The girl wore a knee-length gray dress, flat-heeled black shoes, and her face showed no trace of make-up. That was a surprise for Ella. Most teenage girls in Tynecastle wore what Ella’s mother derisively called ‘slap.’ It made her age hard to guess. Her hair was unusual, too, cut simply in what Ella’s grandmother called a bob.

  “Hello,” Ella replied dubiously, hesitating at the top of the stairs. “I’m just going out to play.”

  “That’s nice,” said the girl, sounding a little sad. “I wish I could.”

  Ella frowned. It was an odd thing for someone to say, especially when they were almost grown up. She wondered if the girl had been grounded by an angry parent. She knew from TV this happened to teenagers a lot.

  “You could come out with me,” Ella offered. “I go to the woods and – and study natural history.

  The strange girl looked puzzled at that.

  “You know,” Ella went on. “Wildlife. Like Sir David Attenborough.”

  “Who’s he?” the teenager asked. “Does he live around here?”

  Ella laughed, then felt slightly ashamed. She wondered if the girl’s family were so poor that they couldn’t afford TV, computers, any of the things her mother said Ella should be grateful for.

  “No,” Ella said carefully, “he’s on the telly. But I’ve really got to go.”

  “I’m Liz,” said the girl suddenly, stepping forward, and holding out a pale hand.

  Ella looked dubiously at the hand, then smiled, and took it. Her mother had told her to always be polite to adults, and she supposed Liz was at least a borderline case. Liz’s hand seemed cold, which was odd on a summer’s day. And there was something else, a little tingle of static electricity. Ella pulled her hand back.

  “My name’s Ella, and I live there.”

  She pointed to her apartment.

  “With my mummy. She does web design,” she added proudly, then added, “I’m ten.”

  Liz nodded but did not take the bait. Instead, the gray-clad girl gazed at the apartment door for a moment, then looked back at Ella. Liz’s eyes were very dark, and Ella thought they were rather beautiful. But she felt sudden impatience, a familiar urge to run out in the sunlight and lose herself among the trees.

  “Well,” Ella said, in her most polite voice, “it’s been very nice to meet you, but I must go now.”

  Ella set off down the stairs and felt, rather than saw or heard, Liz following her. Again, there was a slight whiff of cold air, and Ella shuddered. She was glad when she reached the foyer and saw the caretaker. He was fiddling with the automatic doors, which had never
worked properly since Ella had moved in.

  “Hello, Declan!” she shouted, almost skipping up to him until she remembered she was too old to act like that. “Have you fixed them?”

  “Nah,” shrugged the Irishman, scratching his bushy beard. “I think they’re another thing that’s permanently buggered – I mean, broken. And don’t tell your ma I said buggered.”

  Ella laughed, then glanced around. Liz had gone. There was no sign of the teenage girl anywhere in the foyer. Yet, she had seemed to be right behind Ella a moment earlier.

  “What’s up, El?” Declan asked, replacing a screwdriver on his tool belt. “You lost something?”

  “No,” Ella replied. “I just – do you know Liz? I think she lives upstairs somewhere?”

  Declan thought for a moment, then shook his head.

  “She might just be visiting relatives? This a girl of your age?”

  Ella shook her head.

  “She’s older, I don’t know anything about her.”

  They chatted for a few minutes, then Kate Bewick appeared and asked Declan to come to her office. Kate was obviously busy and looked a bit annoyed to see the caretaker talking to Ella. Remembering her mother’s warning, she said a polite goodbye and went outside. Soon she was running into the woods, sending the flock of rooks spiraling up into the air, cawing in disapproval.

  ***

  “Just the one bloke?” asked Declan. “Not a team? That’s a bit peculiar, especially from a health and safety perspective.”

  Kate looked slightly miffed by the question.

  “Beggars can’t be choosers,” she pointed out. “All the local firms have cried off. Most of them say they have too much work on, which is nonsense, given the current economic climate –”

  Declan listened as the manager recited the usual litany of problems. He knew that word had gotten out about Rookwood Apartments. It was deemed an unlucky place to work, somewhere that had more than its fair share of accidents. As a result, he feared that the only workmen they would be able to get in the future might be those unable to get hired anywhere else. He tried to put this concern to Kate, but she gave him short shrift.

  “This guy is a fully qualified electrician,” she insisted. “He’s offered to check out the wiring in the East Wing, at no charge, and let us know exactly what needs to be fixed.”

  Too good to be true, Declan thought. Or am I being cynical?

  “Sounds like a paragon,” he said. “Is he in there now?”

  “Yes, he wanted to get started straight away,” Kate said. “Want to come and see?”

  Declan did not want to see anything in the unoccupied wing. He was just superstitious enough to believe that some places were plagued by misfortune. The East Wing, he felt sure, was jinxed in some way. He preferred not to think about the issue more deeply.

  And it’s got nothing to do with my own issues, he told himself, as he followed Kate out of the manager’s office. That’s just paranoia. I sometimes see things because I feel guilty, frightened. That’s all there is to it.

  The electrician, it turned out, was a thirty-something English guy with a neatly groomed goatee, and a somewhat arrogant manner. Declan shook his hand, noting the slightly too-firm grip, an attempt to assert dominance. He returned the pressure, with interest. The man also had a low blink rate, which Declan had seen before in troubling circumstances. He held the man’s gaze for a second longer than normal, and the stranger looked away.

  Don’t read too much into this, Declan thought. He might just be a bit of a dickhead, no big deal.

  Kate was apparently quite taken with the newcomer, so much so that Declan wondered if she had the hots for the guy. He pushed the thought aside, tried to concentrate on what the electrician was actually saying. Soon, he had reluctantly concluded that the guy did know his trade.

  “So, Declan,” enthused Kate, after they finished their walkaround, “it’s lucky that Jeff here called me on spec, isn’t it?”

  “It certainly looks like it,” Declan responded, trying to sound upbeat.

  The caretaker left Kate talking to her new favorite. He felt sour and uneasy about the newcomer. He reasoned that Jeff was probably all right, just a bit too fond of himself. As he walked back alone into the main block, he felt a slight tingling of the spine, a sense of being watched from behind. Then the small, inner voice spoke.

  He might be one of them. He could be here to get you.

  “Balls!” he snarled at the empty corridor.

  Maybe he isn’t, maybe it’s all perfectly innocent. But maybe the first you’ll know about it is from a bullet in the back of the head.

  By the time he got back to his office, he was almost running.

  ***

  After fast-forwarding through most of a lousy movie, Paul gave up. He went back to his desk and opened his laptop. Again, he was confronted by the botched attempt at a research paper. He closed the file and checked his email. There was a message from Mari, asking him how he was ‘bearing up,’ offering to ‘meet for a coffee.’ He almost deleted it, then flagged it for follow up.

  Sure, he thought, we can be jolly good friends now. Like sensible adults, no need for any more heartache.

  Painful memories of the breakup with Mari prompted uncomfortable thoughts of Liz. He had not seen the girl since the night he had moved in. Paul had no idea what he would say to her if they did meet again.

  Hi, did we have sex while I was drunk? I kinda think we didn’t but just thought I’d check. Oh, we didn’t? Great, care for a coffee sometime?

  Groaning to himself, he clicked on some sites he used for his work. He had lately been trying to draw parallels between British and American social history. There were definitely some big gaps in his knowledge of Britain, despite having lived in the country for nearly eight years. He had begun to suspect this weakness was holding him back, restricting the range of teaching and research he could do.

  “M’kay,” he said to himself. “Fifties popular culture. Nice and easy for a Monday evening.”

  Soon he was reading about a Britain where Winston Churchill was still prime minister, the Cold War was a new peril, and ‘flying saucers’ were making the headlines. He found himself becoming more absorbed in detail as he explored the early nineteen-fifties. He saw a picture of a strikingly young Queen Elizabeth, white-gloved and waving to crowds from a balcony at Buckingham Palace.

  “Bit outside my field, though,” he muttered.

  He was about to click on another web page when something caught his eye. The article he had skimmed concerned the so-called ‘new Elizabethan Era’ that people expected when King George the Sixth was succeeded by his daughter. Most of it concerned national self-confidence, largely misplaced, about new British achievements such as the Comet, the first jet airliner. Television was another novelty, and the article went into some detail about how it replaced radio during the Fifties. Paul stared at one particular sentence, which seemed to have some special significance.

  Ownership of television sets in Britain soared in 1953, the year of the coronation of the young Queen Elizabeth the second...

  He leaned back, closed his eyes. Why did the sentence seem familiar? Had someone at college been talking about it? Or had he read it in an article? His frustration grew, but he knew that trying to force the memory to the surface would only make it worse. He got up and got a soda from the kitchen, then took a gulp while looking out at the view. He glimpsed Ella running around the West Wing, vanishing from sight. Paul smiled, wishing he could still summon up that much energy.

  God, he told himself, you’re thirty-six, not sixty-three. Still young.

  Suddenly the memory he had been searching for appeared, startling him with its clarity. Liz had said something about people buying TV sets due to something linked to the Queen. Who had been crowned in 1953. Paul wondered if he had misremembered the conversation.

  Can I trust my memory? I’ve been seeing things, after all.

  He thought uneasily of the hallucination he had expe
rienced in the East Wing, the vision of the short, bespectacled doctor. This, in turn, recalled the strange graffiti above the doorway. He had already Googled it, and found nothing that suggested a link to Rookwood. However, the scrawled message kept resurfacing.

  Another distraction from my actual work, he thought. I need to get it together.

  Feeling a little stir-crazy, Paul decided to get out into the fresh air. He put on his running gear and resolved to circle the grounds, a distance of about a mile. Soon, he was pounding along one of the pathways that led across the grounds of Rookwood, smiling and waving at a few other residents. Nobody, he noticed, was jogging. One middle-aged couple seemed to be having a picnic. It was all very civilized, and he began to feel more positive as the effects of exercise took hold.

  As Paul passed the open gates he noticed the now-familiar gray-haired woman standing on the pavement opposite. She caught his eye and turned to walk away. He had seen her a couple of times since moving in and reached the tentative conclusion that she was a local with some kind of gripe about Rookwood. The most likely explanation was it increased traffic in this leafy suburb. British people, he had noticed, complained a lot.

  Like people anywhere, I guess, he thought.

  Paul turned back towards the main building, passing a section of wall that looked like it had been badly repaired at some point. This made him wonder whether the East Wing would ever be finished. He felt uneasy about going near it again, but felt ashamed of his anxiety.

  Face your fear, he told himself. Stop avoiding it.

  As he approached the East Wing he saw a figure moving behind one of the plastic sheets. Paul’s heart began to thump. His mouth grew dry. But he kept going, reasoning that it might simply be Declan. Then, as he got closer, he saw that it was a stranger, one in workman’s clothes.

  Always a rational explanation, he thought.