Dark Shadows (2 page)

Whilst Tom Carver spoke to his son, the doctor crawled on all fours until he managed to get to his feet some distance away from Thomas, who’d been very close to choking the life out of him. He was still coughing and holding his reddened neck as he rushed past neighbours who watched in horror. Fearing for his life, he muttered, “Crazy bastard.”

Thomas was held by his arms on the dusty ground until the doctor disappeared from sight. He was then freed but continued to sit where he was, crying, apologising, and now deaf to his father’s continued insistence that he should get back onto his feet and make amends to everyone present.

Another midwife was sent for immediately. Thomas calmed himself and walked back inside his house, apologising to everyone he passed. Minnie Fowler from next door told him that her husband had gone for the best and most reputable midwife in the area. “She’s delivered hundreds of babies, and a lot of them lived,” she said proudly.

Thomas nodded in appreciation and went back to Joan’s bedside, ignoring numerous pleas not to. “No one will keep me away from my Joan,” he told everyone quite calmly. “I’ll be there with her, holding her hand, until a healthy baby comes out of her and she falls into a peaceful sleep.”

As he closed the door behind him, he told himself not to lose hope. Losing hope earlier had caused him to go mad. He would cling to it. He would pray. He would kill anyone who mentioned the word death again.

Joan’s wailing now sounded like the dying cries of a wounded animal. She arched her back to a breaking point. Her body was wracked with spasms that almost lifted her in the air.

The mothers were with her again. Joan’s mother, Sylvie, made the sign of the cross. Thomas’s mother, Grace, ran from the room, unable to watch the ugliness of it all.

Mercy
. That pitiful word continued to fall off Joan’s tongue as though no other word existed in her mind. Sylvie tried in vain to stem the blood flowing freely between her daughter’s legs whilst urging her to push the baby out at the same time.

Joan tilted her head back on the pillow and stared up at the ceiling. “Oh, God, have mercy! Show mercy to this child! Please, mercy – mercy for my baby!”

She suddenly stopped speaking and moving. Silence filled the room. Her breathing slowed to a soft, panting breathlessness, and she closed her eyes, unconscious now to her world of pain.

Thomas left the room. He was leaving of his own accord – he was not strong enough to watch his wife’s suffering, after all.

In the hallway, he slid down the wall and once again cried openly in front of the men he worked with. He covered his face and prayed between sobs.

A large-framed midwife with a ruddy face, warts, and heavy chin trotted into the house with a determined expression, but one which also lacked emotion. She stopped suddenly when she saw the multitude of men in the hallway, staring at all the faces in turn. Her hands then went to her hips and rested there, clenched, as though they were ready to do battle.

“Right, who’s the father here? Who’s the husband that’s being a sissy, by all accounts?” she demanded to know.

The crowd parted, and Thomas looked up at her for the first time. He wiped his teary eyes, and said, “I’m Thomas Carver. Will you save my wife, please? Save her. She can always have another baby – just save her.”

“I’ll try my best, boy; that’s all I can do.”

“Please. She’s young, and she’s got her whole life ahead of her. I can live with the death of a child but not hers – never hers.”

The midwife rolled up her sleeves with impatience. Her eyes flashed Thomas a warning. “You pull yourself together. That’s enough of that kind of talk. From what I’ve been told, your wife is in a very bad way, and you sitting here on the floor like a bloody moody schoolboy won’t change that. Now, go get yourself a stiff drink and wait like any other man does in your situation. You have to be strong. I can’t be dealing with hysterical fathers-to-be. Do you hear me?”

Thomas nodded his head.

“Thomas, I need you to stay out here. I can’t have you near me. If it’s God’s will, she’ll deliver and live, but be ready for the worst.” Her voice then grew harsh as she turned her attention to the other men present. She pointed to the bedroom. “Right, you lot. No one, and I mean no one, goes in there. No matter what you hear from that room, keep
him
out.” She walked past them and went into the bedroom, closing the door behind her.

Thomas finally stood up, straightened his back, and asked for a shot of whisky. No more crying, he told himself, and no more making an arse of himself in front of his mates. He’d gone from hope to despair to hope and then back to despair so many times these last two days that he was bloody dizzy. But he had a gut feeling about this midwife. She seemed to know her stuff.

He needed a drink to settle his nerves. He’d gone off his rocker earlier, and he’d be the first to admit it. Joan lost blood every month, and he was overreacting. She was just losing a bit more than usual, that was all.

He shut out all the whispers, noises, and pitiful expressions and thought about Joan – not as she was now but as a bright-eyed beauty who had become the greatest gift a man could receive. He pictured every memory and relived each one with her. Her soft, sweet laughter rang in his ears. Her strong character that had put him in his place more than once made her even more desirable. Her eternal optimism and brave acceptance of poverty were noble and pure, unlike his insatiable ambitions and need for more money. He had quite simply married the perfect woman, and he’d make sure she knew that when this was all over.

He leaned against the wall and drank the tot of whisky in one quick gulp. Hands intermittently patted his shoulders. He drank another couple of tots. Then he awoke from his dreams to face a grief-stricken road again. His Joan was lost to him. She wasn’t going to live. He was kidding himself. He could see by every expression on every face that this was the truth of it. His seventeen-year-old bride of a year was going to leave him alone and take every bit of meaning from his life. He would not be able to live without her.

After a prolonged silence, a piercing scream penetrated the closed bedroom door. Thomas stood in silence, to attention, and as still as a statue as he waited and prayed.

In the crowded hallway and street outside, one could hear a pin drop. The silence was unbearable.

Then the sound of a baby crying loud and strong filled listening ears until every person was clapping and crying and patting Thomas on the back.

Silence again. All eyes stared at the closed bedroom door. Thomas slid once again down the wall and onto the floor. His legs wouldn’t hold him upright another second. It seemed like an eternity, but only minutes passed until the bedroom door finally opened.

The midwife marched out of the bedroom, holding a baby swathed in bloodied sheeting in her arms. She showed the infant to Thomas. “You have a healthy daughter, young Thomas Carver,” she said.

Thomas stood and gazed lovingly into the perfect tiny face. He opened his mouth to speak, but instead he stopped himself and looked deep into the midwife’s unfathomable eyes. “And my wife? How is she? Can I see her?” he whispered hopefully.

The midwife lowered her eyes. They were no longer hard or passive but filled with emotion and sadness. She focused on the baby’s tiny face, refusing to look Thomas in the eye. Her words were softly spoken with an empathy she rarely appeared to feel. “I’m sorry. I’m really sorry, son. I did everything I could – everything. She was just too weak when I got to her, and she had already lost too much blood. She was very brave, though; you have to know that. She fought hard and got your daughter into the world. She saw her just before she took her last breath.”

Thomas’s chin sat on his chest. He was afraid to look at sorrowful eyes but heard the midwife’s words. “She smiled, Thomas. Your Joan smiled. Had she lingered a day or two more, she would have faced terrible suffering, and death would have taken her in any case. Believe me, it’s better she’s gone now. She’s at rest and at peace.”

Thomas sat on the edge of the bed next to Joan. He was alone, silent, and lost in grief. He stared into Joan’s small oval-shaped face as though looking at her for the first time. A grey pallor, chapped lips, and pain were still deeply etched in her expression, even in death, but she looked better than the last time he’d seen her.

He stroked her wet skin and then looked at the bloodstained sheets. The smell of stale sweat, blood, and death hung in the air. He found it difficult to imagine that the stench belonged to his sweet wife, who always smelled of freshly cut flowers.

He leaned in closer and kissed her full lips. Then he lifted the top half of her body until it came to rest on his chest. He rocked her back and forth and stroked her damp black hair, still shimmering like diamonds.

“I love you, my Joanie. You’re the only woman I’ve ever loved or ever will love.” The tears rolled down his face. Every now and then, he sniffed loudly and wiped his runny nose. He twisted her long curly tendrils around his fingers, just as he always did. He lifted her face to his and kissed her again, this time on the forehead. Eventually, he let go of her and laid her down on the bed.

He knew what he had to do. She was his soulmate, and he would have to follow her before she was lost to him in the afterlife. He thought for a moment. A small smile lifted the corners of his mouth. She might still be here, watching him, waiting for him; he turned around, thinking he might see her shadowy figure beckoning him. There was nothing but emptiness and silence in the room. “Wait for me, Joan,” he whispered into the air.

He looked at her a moment longer and then opened a bedside drawer. He lifted out a thick piece of cloth and unrolled it until it revealed a long dagger. It had a pearl and silver hilt and a long, curved blade. His father, who had received it from his father, had passed it down to him. He looked at it, turning it over in his hand. It was probably the most expensive possession he owned, never to be sold or pawned. It was meant to be passed down to his eldest son when one came along, and it was supposed to travel down the Carver line.

All that meant nothing to him now. His younger brother could have it, for this particular Carver line would end with him, here and now.

He laid the dagger on the bed beside Joan. He bent over her, kissing her forehead, lips, and cheeks for the last time. He held her hand, kissed it, and laid her arm by her side for a moment until he got himself into position.

The Bible was on top of the bedside table. He picked it up and grunted, still hating God, his minions, and the world he was leaving.

He lay on his belly face down and placed the Bible on the pillow. He measured the line and distance from the Bible to the base of his neck, near the small hollow under his Adam’s apple. He picked up the dagger and set it atop the Bible’s hardcover surface, pointing it upwards until its blade tip caressed the hollow in his throat at a perfect angle. He grabbed Joan’s limp hand and curled it around the pearl hilt. His hand then covered hers, holding the blade steady.

“I’m coming with you, my darling girl,” he quite simply said. “I don’t want to stay here without you. Will you forgive me for doing this when you see me in a minute or two?”

He closed his eyes and concentrated. He was not thinking about courage or fear, nor regret or indecision. No, it was imperative that he concentrate on the dagger’s pearl hilt, not the long blade. His neck needed to make contact with that hilt with one quick thrust downwards, for he might not have the courage or maybe even the means to push the blade into his neck a second time. The very thought of that gave him the determination he needed. He wanted to die almost instantly, without screaming out or languishing there for minutes, choking on his own blood.

He looked at Joan and tightened his grip on her hand, taking a deep breath, and with one swift push of his head downwards, he felt the blade pierce his skin. He pushed it all the way through his throat until it came out the back of his neck. He coughed silently, and his eyes widened. Blood spurted from his open mouth. He drew his last breath.

The discovery of Thomas’s dead body was only the beginning of what was to become a nightmarish and unforgettable afternoon for all concerned.

After staring at the blade sticking out of the back of Thomas’s neck, all four grandparents’ eyes began to wander in a daze. No one spoke. Each was alone in a world he or she could not begin to understand. So deep was the shock that not one single tear fell. There was only hypnotic fascination in that room where once a young couple had loved and laughed.

Blood was splattered on the walls. It was on Joan’s face and in her hair. Thomas lay face down at an awkward angle, impaled in mid-air by the dagger, the hilt of which still rested on top of the Bible. Joan’s small hand rested beneath Thomas’s long fingers. She looked peaceful and serene, unaware of her husband’s act of suicide.

Finally, the Jennings and Carvers left the room, closing the door behind them.

When the commotion outside died down, Thomas’s father asked everyone to leave the family in peace. Brothers and sisters were also asked to go home. Only Joan’s and Thomas’s parents would remain.

The undertaker, accompanied by two men in his employ, and a local copper had been and then left in quick measure. The cop had asked questions, and the answers had been precise and clear: Thomas had been alone in the bedroom with his dead wife, as was his right. He had killed himself and slumped in death next to her body.