Thyla (13 page)
This is the point where you rejoin the story, Connolly. Do you remember?
It was morning when I called you. Rhiannah had not returned that night at all and, first thing the next morning, I walked to the office in my pyjamas. I told Ms Hindmarsh I was sick – that I had caught the same sickness that Rhiannah had. I said I did not think I was well enough for lessons that day, and I asked to call you.
You came straight away, like you said you would.
When I told Ms Hindmarsh I wasn’t well, she looked at me curiously, and I wondered if she had heard about Charlotte and me and the washroom and my stripes.
I didn’t have time to think about it. I didn’t have room in my brain to think about it. I just needed you, Connolly. I needed you to come and to look at the book and to tell me that I wasn’t dreaming. I had seen so many things in the past few days that had seemed like a dream; that had seemed so unreal that I thought I must have been imagining them. I needed you – with your policewoman’s logic – to tell me this was real.
‘Tess!’ you called out as you knocked on my door. ‘Tess, it’s me. Connolly.’
I raced to the door and yanked it open.
You looked tired and you looked worried, but you looked like …
you
.
I flung my arms around you and squeezed you as tightly as I could. I needed to believe that you were really there.
‘Oi, oi! Tess!’ you cried out, giggling. ‘Very,
very
happy to see you too, but can I have my lungs back?’
I relaxed my grip a little bit, but I kept on hugging. I honestly didn’t feel like I was capable of letting you go.
‘I’m so glad you’re here,’ I said, feeling more unwanted, unruly tears springing to my eyes. ‘I’m so, so glad you’re here.’
‘What’s up, Tess?’ you said, pulling away slightly so you could look at me. ‘I mean, I figured everything was going okay. You hadn’t called, so I guessed that meant you were just having too much fun.’
I sighed. ‘Come inside, please,’ I said, grabbing you by the hand and pulling you into room 36.
‘Your roomie’s not here?’ you asked, looking around.
I shook my head. ‘She’s gone on another bushwalk,’ I replied.
Your face suddenly looked pale beneath your freckles. ‘Alone?’ you asked.
‘I’m not sure,’ I said. ‘Probably with our friends, Harriet and Sara.’
You looked relieved. ‘Good,’ you said. ‘You girls should never go out into that bush alone. But, come on, Tess, I’m super curious. What have you got to tell me?’
I shook my head. ‘I can’t tell you, Connolly. I have to show you.’
‘Okay,’ you said. ‘Show me.’
‘I think you should sit down.’
I took you by the hand again and led you over to my bed. You sat down and I picked the book up from where I had placed it carefully on my bedside table, with a piece of card between its pages.
‘Here,’ I said.
You opened the book to the spot I had marked.
A few moments later, the book landed on the floor once again.
‘Read it to me,’ I said, once you had recovered.
‘Let me hear the words. If I hear you say it, I might believe it’s real.’
You looked shaky, and I could see the goosebumps that jostled with freckles for space on your arms.
You cleared your throat: once, twice –
And then you read.
‘“Name: Theresa (Tessa) Geeves. Born: Hobart, Van Diemen’s Land, 1836. Age: 15. Sentence: Ten years for the crime of bodily assault. Mother’s place of origin: Skipton, Yorkshire.” Then there is … there is a picture of … of, well, it looks like
you
, Tess,’ said Connolly, looking up at me. ‘But, it can’t be you. You know that, don’t you? I mean, this photo was taken over a hundred and fifty years ago. It might be one of your ancestors, but it can’t be you.’
‘Please keep reading, Connolly,’ I asked. You nodded and went back to the text.
The following is a report from Female Factory guard, Isaac Livingston, on the convict Theresa Geeves, dated the first of February, 1851:
This report is compiled at the request of Female Factory Overseer, Mr Albert Hopkins, in response to the events concerning Miss Tessa Geeves. The abovementioned inmate has always been a quiet and courteous worker at the Factory, and we staff have watched her grow from a dumpling infant still in swaddling clothes, to a good, strong girl, who is brave, never cries, and is admirably keen at following instruction. It is often with a heavy heart that we farewell the children of convicts, though we know that the Factory is not a suitable place for the upbringing of young men and women. We were especially fond of young Tessa and thus it was a pleasure mixed with sadness as she joined us here again. It transpired that she had been rather too aggressive in her defence of a fellow student at the orphanage against a schoolyard bully. While her crime may, in many people’s eyes, be seen as heroic, the matron of the orphanage thought it a sure sign of vicious, violent tendencies.
I tried not to grin foolishly at the word ‘heroic’, though it did give me some sense of pride to find my crime was an honourable one. I did not draw attention to my gallantry, though, and let you read on.
We, of course, did not believe this to be true at the time. Tessa was such a gentle child. However, in the past month, following the events of New Year’s Day, we have noticed a discernible shifting in Miss Geeves’ temperament. She has turned from sensible and amenable to melancholic and, at times, even disagreeable. Of course, we are all most sympathetic to the tragic situation that is Miss Geeves’ burden following her mother’s passing. We understand, too, that she bears a certain quantity of resentment towards the staff at the factory, due to the circumstances surrounding this sad event. Miss Geeves firmly believes that the administration of ipecacuanha and the removal of rations, coupled with her mother’s poor health, was the cause of the unfortunate incident. This belief has led her to behave in a most unladylike and, at times, frightening manner. She has been observed quarrelling with other inmates, and has attempted several times to climb the walls surrounding the facility. We have also apprehended her scratching at her clothes and, on occasion, even removing her outer layers, complaining of the heat. Finally, we have observed strange physical manifestations of her new temperament; manifestations that have caused alarm amongst some factory staff.
Suddenly visible on the inmate’s back are long, slash-like scars traversing the whole of the width of her torso. There seem to be in excess of ten of these scars in total. The scars were first observed by fellow inmate, Mary Absolam, on the fifteenth day of January, when the inmates were in the wash-house. Miss Absolam relayed her observations to me, and I duly communicated the information to Mr Hopkins. Since this day, the scars have been noticed on several subsequent occasions, and it has been noted by the observers that the scars have darkened in colour and increased in size. The transformation of these scars seemed to be in direct correlation with Miss Geeves’ mental state.
Miss Absolam believes these scars to be of supernatural origin. I, of course, being a man of reason, consider simply that some unfortunate accident has befallen Miss Geeves. Perhaps it is the folly of the Flash Mob. They are sneaky, sly women, always up to no good. And so, their involvement in this business is not outside the realm of possibility.
Mr Hopkins has entrusted me with keeping watch over Miss Geeves and her troubles, and I will report back on any subsequent developments. Mr Hopkins is, of course, always conscious of the Flash Mob and their influence on our young workers, and I will personally do everything in my power to prevent Miss Geeves from falling in with this unsavoury rabble.
Regards,
Isaac Livingston
You looked up at me, your forehead furrowed, and your eyes wide and fearful. I heard you swallow, loudly.
‘There’s more,’ I said, and my voice came out like a creaking floorboard.
You nodded. ‘I know, but Tessa, you don’t …’
I shrugged and looked down at my knees. How could I explain it to you properly?
I
knew
that the girl in the report was me.
She was the girl I had remembered when I was talking to Perrin – the girl with long, wavy, dark blonde hair, a serious face, a long cotton dress. She was
me.
I remembered seeing her reflected in the mirror. I remembered brushing and braiding that long hair. I remembered that serious face.
When I read the report, none of it seemed foreign or new. It was as though I was reading my own diary or journal. It was as though I knew everything that Mr Isaac Livingston was saying. As if it was a memory. And, as you read it again to me, I could
see
the memories.
I could see the Female Factory, with its high stone walls, peaked roofs and muddy courtyards. It was the building from my dream, and it was a building from my past. It wasn’t like the building you had pointed at as we drove to Cascade Falls. That building was a hollowed husk of what the Factory used to be.
I could see fat Mr Hopkins.
I could see Isaac Livingston, too. Well,
almost
. I could see his stocky silhouette, a quick flash of amber eyes.
I could hear his deep, gravelly voice.
I could see Mary Absolam, with her limp, sweaty brown hair and her always-dripping nose.
I could remember the ‘Flash Mob’ – an unruly group of women who refused to give up their criminal ways and incited fear in the less confident, more refined inmates. I was one of those inmates. I had an education. I had been taught to be a lady. I had arrived back at the factory in a pretty dress. They ridiculed me for this.
I remembered that my mother paid them off in rations, begging them to stay away from me.
That part wasn’t in Livingston’s report, but I remembered it anyway. I also remembered Livingston coming to me, the day after Sir Edward paid his visit – the day after Sir Edward did something to my mother that made her scream and rant and cry. Livingston told me that she had died from the ‘medicine’ they had given her to calm her, and from a lack of food.
She had given all of her rations to me and to the Flash Mob girls, and she was starving. It was a combination of starvation and the poisonous medicine – the ‘ipecacuanha’ – that killed her. Now I knew why that word sounded familiar when I’d heard it in Mr Beagle’s class.
That’s what my dream was about. It wasn’t just a dream. It was a memory. It was real.
I looked up at you and you nodded. ‘I know,’ you said, and I realised I didn’t have to explain anything. You could see it in my eyes. ‘Tess, you can understand that this seems … bizarre,’ you went on. ‘But it’s real to you, isn’t it? You believe it.’
‘I don’t just believe it,’ I said. ‘I
remember
it.’
‘Do you have … the scars? I mean, I
know
you have scars, but have they … changed?’
I pulled up my shirt and showed you my back. I heard you gasp. ‘But then, Tess, it says here in the book that …’
I nodded. ‘Read it to me,’ I said.
You cleared your throat and read again:
The following is a report from Female Factory guard, Isaac Livingston, on the convict Theresa Geeves, dated the fifth of February, 1851:
It is my unhappy duty to inform the Governors, on Mr Hopkins’ behalf, that Miss Tessa Geeves has escaped from the Female Factory.
Her escape followed a week of bizarre and disturbing behaviour, during which one staff member and several other inmates – including members of the Flash Mob – were physically assaulted, and during which Miss Geeves has been apprehended on several occasions leaving her dormitory after curfew.
It was during a reprimand for this last indiscretion that Miss Geeves escaped.
I was not at my post the night that Miss Geeves disappeared, and the account given to me by the duty guard – Thomas Walter – is dubious at best. Walter reported that he happened upon Miss Geeves in the exercise yard, in a state of agitation. It was well after her curfew, so it was incumbent upon him to reprimand Miss Geeves. As he did so – and hereafter his account enters the realms of fantasy and farce – Walter reports that he noticed a curious and quite startling transformation in Miss Geeves’ physical appearance.
Walter is quite specific in his imaginings. He tells us that her eyes seemed to have changed from human eyes into what he could only describe as eyes of a more marsupial nature. Her teeth became elongated and ‘sharp as daggers’, and – most fantastical of all – he says her legs began to buckle and bend backwards. I know it sounds quite unbelievable and, in fact, it is. I have suspicions as to the sobriety of the young guard. The transformation was, quite obviously, simply a figment of his intoxicated imagination, but I will report it here as he told it, for I hope it will serve as some excuse for his lax response to Miss Geeves’ escape.
What happened next, the guard says, was this: Miss Geeves (or the creature he was hallucinating Miss Geeves into), opened her mouth and let out a sound something like a scream. It was a wild sound, he says; a bestial sound. It was not the kind of sound a human being should ever make.
After Miss Geeves ceased her ‘demonic howling’, she turned and, on her new, back-turning legs, she galloped towards the walls and leapt right over their top.
By the time I returned to the factory, Walter had already told Mr Hopkins of his ‘observations’. Though I advised Mr Hopkins that it was quite obvious the guard had turned temporarily mad, Mr Hopkins believed the best course of action was to inform Lord Chassebury of the guard’s observations, and to take action to recover ‘the beast’ from the woodland to which she had fled.
It has now been three days since Miss Geeves’ escape and, though Mr Hopkins and Lord Chassebury have both deployed many men to scour the forests that surround our Factory, she has not been recovered.
There have been reports of strange creatures sighted in the woods – mammals much larger than any we have seen already on this island. The creatures are said to walk upright instead of on all fours, and to display bizarrely human features. Those reporting these sightings claim the beasts have only been seen in glimpses caught as they race through the trees, and yet they imagine these are creatures to be feared. They describe them to be strong, fast and wild.
Chassebury’s men have informed him of the discovery of these ‘new mammals’, and a directive has been issued that any beast captured should be culled. Chassebury has visited Mr Hopkins’ office, and Mr Hopkins informed me that a bounty much higher than that paid for the thylacines will be available to anyone who can produce a skin from one of these new mammals. He said to me that these beasts represent all that England must eradicate in this new land, if it is to be transformed from a wild and corrupted place to a proper English colony. I have, of course, told officials at Van Diemen’s that it is obvious that the men are suffering a sort of mass hysteria.
There are no strange beasts.
Miss Geeves is not, herself, a monster.
It is all a creation of their minds. This new, strange land we find ourselves in is playing tricks upon their sanity.
I hope, in time, the men will forget they ever imagined the forest to be full of monsters. I hope that they will soon call off their search and leave the wild forests for good.
And I hope also, whatever the actual circumstances of Tessa’s escape, that she now finds herself in a happy place.
Regards,
Isaac Livingston
