The Ghosts of Heaven (21 page)

I came to tell him that Doctor Phillips was going to try a procedure on him that sounded experimental, at best, and yet then, standing in the library of dust, I thought better of it.

Perhaps Doctor Phillips is right. If the treatment is as effective as he claims, then maybe Dexter can be cured, and there is no doubt he needs help. His speech is becoming increasingly slurred, he stammers often and the shake of his hands is now impossible for him to hide. If the cure does not go ahead, perhaps Dexter will soon be joining those he mourns in the library of dust. Very soon.

It's something I hate to think about, and so I decided not to tell him of the treatment.

A week has passed since I read his strange dark poem and since I had my nightmare of the sea, and of Caroline. I was feeling stronger this morning, and I wanted still to know what it is about spirals that so alarms Dexter.

When I tried to question him on the subject, he grew evasive.

“Do you know what Edgar Allan Poe's first published book was?” he asked me instead. “It is also,” he added, “perhaps the book that earned him the most money of anything he ever put his name to.”

I played along.

“I'm not sure,” I said. “
Murders in the Rue Morgue
?
Arthur Gordon Pym of Nantucket
? I'm sorry, I'm not as much of a reader as you.”

“Don't worry. It's a question most people would get wrong. Mr. Poe's first published volume was a short history of conchology.”

“Of what?”

“Shells, Doctor James. In fact, Poe did not write the book, someone else did, but he edited it and put his name to it because, being a noted newspaper man, he thought it would sell better.”

“What of it?”

“Why on earth do you think a man as distinguished as Edgar Poe would bother with such a thing? Shells, Doctor!
Spiral
shells. Page after page of them. Poe wrote some fine horror stories in his lifetime, but no one realizes that the greatest horror of all was a book of nonfiction!”

I became enraged by his delusions. I, who have dealt with some of the worst excesses in the minds of men, and I lost my temper at this most rational of lunatics. Because I care about him, too much.

“Spirals, Dexter? Are you not better than this? Have you nothing finer to report from your wanderings through the universe?”

Then he turned a cold stare on me, and I felt ashamed at my rage. But he wasn't done with me.

“My wanderings? Yes, I have learned a lot. And I can help you.”

“Why would I need your help?” I asked.

“I can get rid of Caroline for you. She is haunting you, from the spiral depths of the Atlantic Ocean, and I can get rid of her. If you wish it.”

*   *   *

Soon after that, I left Dexter in the basement, and I prayed that somehow the malarial blood soon to be coming this way in an icebox from New York would kill the disease in his mind, and leave his true self unharmed. Yet, as I went, I was troubled with the question of whether I, or anyone else for that matter, had ever told Dexter my dead wife's name.

 

Wednesday, April 13

Today I discovered that Verity has not been going to school.

At lunchtime, as I ate with the other doctors in the canteen on the east wing, one of the warders came over to me to say there was someone at the reception desk who wanted to speak with me.

I left my lunch, glad of the excuse to leave Delgado to his wit, but less glad when I saw a lady I did not recognize, but who soon introduced herself as the schoolmistress from Greenport.

“We do not care for truants at Greenport,” was her summary of the situation.

“I'm sure not,” I said, torn between defending myself and sticking up for Verity. “I will see to it that the situation changes.”

“I would be glad of that,” replied the schoolmistress.

“And perhaps in return, you can see that my daughter is not bullied?”

I did not smile at her.

“Is that a fair agreement?” I added, putting her in a corner from which she could not escape.

She slunk away, but as soon as she was gone I worried that I might have done Verity more harm than good.

*   *   *

This evening, however, I had to make Verity see that what she has been doing has been unwise, and placed us both in a difficult place.

“You have to try and fit in,” I told her.

She stood by her window, the one overlooking the south.

“But they're so mean,” she said, and years dropped away and I remembered my own schoolyard days. Not with any pleasure.

“That may be so. But you must endure it. You should tell yourself how stupid they are for teasing you, and just ignore them.”

I remember my own father telling me the same thing. I also remember how little good it did me. Is there no escape from the circular prisons we make for ourselves?

“I've tried,” Verity was saying. “I've really tried. But they never leave me alone.”

“And where have you been spending your days?”

It seems that Verity has been absent all week.

“Walking home, and at the beach. There's an old mill by the shore. It's fun.”

“Verity, it could be dangerous. You can't just go wandering around Orient Point. You might meet anyone!”

“I'd be happy to!” Verity said then. “At least that would give me someone to talk to. I haven't spoken to anyone since the day I arrived! At least Charles listened to me. He was kind! I could speak to him!”

“No!” I said, and I tried to quash my anger. “You are not to speak to him, or to anyone. You are to go to school each day and study and if you want to speak to anyone, you can speak to me!”

Verity looked at me, scornfully, and I died.

“You? Speak to you? We never speak! At least Charles listened to me!”

“Really, Verity! This must stop!”

And it did, because that seemed to silence her. Into the silence came a thought I could not detach.

“What did you and Mr. Dexter speak about? You told me it wasn't us, and it wasn't Caroline. So what was it?”

“Geese,” said Verity, miserably.

“Geese?” I said. “You spoke about geese? Don't be ridiculous! Why would you want to talk about geese?”

“We just did,” Verity said. “That's what people do. They just talk about things.”

Then I told Verity she was going to bed without any supper, she told me she didn't care, and both of us will spend a miserable night, I'm sure.

*   *   *

I return to my diary making some hours after the previous words.

It was as I feared; I was unable to sleep.

Eventually I gave up the battle to find rest, swung my legs out of bed, and sat on its edge, in the strong moonlight that broke through the thin curtains of my room. I pulled a robe around me as I stared out of my window at the night-gray sea shimmering. The sound was calm, and the light of the moon glittered like jewels on a dark velvet bedspread. It was so beautiful, and yet my heart could not accept the beauty.

Caroline,
I thought.

I pulled myself away and, leaving my room, stole along the corridor and stopped outside Verity's door, listening.

There was silence, total silence, and after a time had passed I began to grow worried. I was about to put my hand on the door when I heard a snuffle from her, as she turned in her sleep. The springs of the bed squeaked and I knew she was safe.

Still, I knew I could not sleep and, returning to my room, I found the key to the gate, and then let myself out into the hospital, locking the gate behind me as I went.

The hospital, late at night, is a strange beast, I think.

In darkness, the wards are as quiet as they ever get, which is not to say they are silent. I found myself walking without purpose or direction, down the turning spiral of the floors. As I did so, noises rolled out of the darkness toward me, a shout that broke the stillness of the night, a murmur. A cry, a sound of banging, or a wail of fear that chilled me.

What do we do with these, our insane? How shall we care for them, when there is no care to be given? Most of them will die here, despite Doctor Phillips' proud claims of restitution. Die, be burned, and have their ashes filed in a copper can in Dexter's library of dust. To be forgotten. And if we are forgotten, surely that is when we truly die?

To be remembered after our death, that at least would let us live on, in some way, in someone's heart, but if even that is denied to us, then it is as if we never lived at all.

*   *   *

I found myself on the ground floor, in the great entrance space, and just as I was heading for the door, a voice called across the darkness to me.

“Doctor?”

“Who's there?” I said. I turned but could see no one at first; then I saw the faint glow of a cigarette's tip.

Approaching, I found Delgado lounging on a wooden chair by the doors to the women's ward.

“It's you,” said Delgado.

“Of course,” I said, stiffly.

“Well, we can't have anyone wandering around here, now can we, Doc?”

I tried to attain the upper hand.

“Is everything in order tonight, Doctor Delgado? I couldn't sleep and thought it wouldn't hurt to take a turn of the wards.”

“Take that rod out of your ass, Doc,” he said, and I was so dumbfounded I had no reply. But Delgado wasn't done. “You don't need to keep up that act. Phillips is safe in bed, snoring.”

“Doctor Delgado—” I began, but stopped dead as the door to the women's ward suddenly opened. A guard, whose name I don't yet know, stepped through, speaking as he came.

“Hey, you were right, she is one fine piece of…”

He trailed off as he saw me, and then shot a glance at Delgado.

“Forget it, Micky, the doctor is cool. Ain't you, Doc?”

The guard shut the door behind him, guilt written all over his face.

“I said, Doctor James is cool,” repeated Delgado. “Maybe we can fix you up, too, huh? That why you came down here? A little fun?”

I understood then what was happening, but was so speechless at first that I could find no words.

“Beat it, Micky,” Delgado said to the guard, “I'll deal with the good doctor. And tuck your goddamn shirt in. Don't make it too obvious, huh?”

The guard crept away into the night, and I pulled myself together.

“Delgado,” I said. “If what I think is happening here, is indeed—”

“Shut up,” snapped Delgado. “Don't you think you can scare me. Now listen, why not be reasonable? There's this great girl at the end of the ward. Just came in. Foreigner, but that don't matter. And she's all warmed up for you, that's the best part.”

Even in the half-light I could see the leer on Delgado's face.

I stood, trembling with rage and confusion. Hoping the dark would hide my shaking hands, I did my best to keep my voice even.

“How dare you? How can you do such a thing? I will see Doctor Phillips knows about this!”

“Yeah? You don't want any? No, of course you don't. You got your own, doncha?”

Unable to stop myself from being drawn in, I spluttered.

“What? My wife is dead!”

“Not your wife. You got that pretty little girl, right? She keep you happy up there on the roof, does she?”

He stood, jutting his foul face into mine, and then I could stand it no more, and I swung my fist as hard as I could at his chin.

He went down, sprawling into the chair, which went clattering across the marble tiles.

Afraid I might leap on him and strangle him, I stepped away, but pointed at him on the floor.

“You will be leaving this place tomorrow, Delgado,” I hissed. “I swear it.”

Still, I couldn't seem to even unsettle him.

“Yeah?” he snarled. “You think you're gonna tell Phillips? Well I wouldn't, because then I might have to tell him that the girl ain't your daughter. And I wonder what else I could tell him? Like what you get up to with her.”

It was all I could do to restrain myself from trying to kill him, then and there, and instead, I found myself backing away in horror as he began to laugh at me.

I fled upstairs, running all the way, to the safety of my room.

 

Friday, April 15

Two days have passed, in unease.

I have come across Delgado in the course of my duties, and each time I have done so, he has leered at me in the most unsettling way. I need to do something about him, and soon. I need to speak to Doctor Phillips, but I need to be sure of my own position first. I will do it tomorrow, whatever. Delgado must be stopped, and whoever else is involved. I shudder to think of how Doctor Kirkbride would feel, knowing what abuses of trust are occurring in a hospital of his design.

Every time I think of what Delgado suggested about Verity and me, I go cold with rage. The very idea is appalling, and yet also laughable in a way, to me, who cannot even be sure if he should put his arms around his daughter, or not. And how he knows she is not my flesh and blood, I do not know. Dexter must have told him, but I cannot believe Dexter would have betrayed me so. At least, I do not want to believe that.

*   *   *

This evening, after supper, I told Verity she could go down to the respectable library that the asylum houses, on the sixth floor, and choose something to read. I let her out of the gate on the seventh floor.

“I'll join you very shortly, dear,” I said, and she went straight off. I must trust her to do what I say. I cannot be there for her all the time; with only me to look after her, she needs to be able to look after herself.

She trotted down the stairs and I heard her cross the sixth-floor landing to the door to the library, which sits at the back of the building, equally placed between the male and female wings, another service for the more capable inmates to use. I heard the door close again, and only then did I go back to our rooms, wondering, not for the first time, if I should try and find a mother for Verity. A wife for me.