The Glass Bird Girl (18 page)

‘Plotting your escape?' she asked cheerfully, looking from one to the other. ‘What's it to be, rope of sheets out of the window?'

Edie shrank bank into the bed, but Anastasia smiled. ‘We thought we'd knock you out with a sleeping draught, Matron, then slip out down the back stairs.'

Matron chortled. ‘This one's too worn out to get far,' she said, walking over to the bed and feeling Edie's forehead. ‘If you ask me she's coming down with a fever.'

‘That'll ruin everything,' Anastasia wailed playfully. ‘Pull yourself together, Edie, and make sure to meet me in the hall just when the clock strikes nine.' As she spoke, she stood behind Matron and held up her hands to Edie, showing first nine fingers, then shaking her head vigorously and replacing them with ten.

‘Get away with you and all your nonsense,' Matron said fondly, turning round and shooing Anastasia from the room.

Fevered Flight

E
die heard the first rumbling of the storm shortly after nine. It was only hesitant at first – a low growl of thunder and a soft sighing in the trees. But soon the rain was lashing down like gunfire, and the wind rattled the sickroom window in its frame. She lay curled under the bedcovers, wondering if Anastasia would remember to fetch her coat and Wellington boots from the cloakroom, and how long it would take them to reach the barn.

The fields would be turned to bog, and chances were that the barn would be flooded. But the only thing that mattered was escape. As long as they could get away from Knight's Haddon they would be all right . . . they could make for London . . . or the sea . . . they could hide in a train . . . stow away on a ship . . . anything,
anywhere
would be safer than here.

At a quarter to ten she slipped out of bed and silently pulled her school uniform over her nightdress – but not her shoes. Shoes would make too much noise. She would put on her boots when she reached the hall.

When she was dressed she twitched back the curtain and saw a great volt of lightning tear across the sky. For a moment the whole park was lit up like a blasted landscape, its trees bowed against the gale. She drew the curtain shut in fright and stood with her back to the window, drinking in the details of the room. She would never sleep at Knight's Haddon again. She remembered the first night of term, when Miss Fotheringay had appeared in the dormitory . . . and the
exeat
. . . and finding the nightdress on her pillow, and felt a sudden well of grief, not for what she was leaving, but for what she thought she had found.

Another flash of lightning jolted her to her senses. She carefully placed her pillows to resemble a sleeping body and pulled up the covers, standing back to admire her handiwork before letting herself out.

There was a light coming from Matron's room, but Edie heard no sound as she tiptoed past the door. Then she saw the flashlight on the table in the corridor. Remembering the fierce yellow beam it had made when Miss Fotheringay had shone it for her in the bedroom, she took it with her, though she was too afraid switch it on as she fumbled her way down the twisting stone staircase in the pitch darkness. When she reached the corridor she saw a tiny torchlight dancing ahead in the hallway.

She crept on and found Anastasia waiting for her outside the staff cloakroom. She was already dressed in her outdoor clothes, and was holding Edie's coat and boots. ‘Quick, put these on,' she whispered urgently. ‘The front door's locked, but I've found a window we can undo from the inside. Hey, what's that?'

‘Miss Fotheringay's torch,' Edie replied. ‘But it's blinding; we can't use it until we're out of sight of the school or someone might see us.' She hurriedly pulled on her clothes, then followed Anastasia into the cloakroom and watched as her friend unbolted the little casement window and pushed it open into the gale.

Edie pulled up a chair and clambered out first. The window was only a couple of metres from the ground, but as she lowered herself into the flower bed below she could feel the storm raging all around, as if she were at the summit of a cliff.

She did not hear Anastasia drop down to the ground behind her; she could only hear the high, howling wind and the rain battering against her hood. She reached out blindly for her friend's arm – talk was impossible. They kept their heads ducked, screwing up their faces against the storm as they staggered across the drive. Anastasia flashed her small torch in front of them, but all they could see was the lashing silver rain.

They found their way across the field and eventually reached the woods, but the bare trees offered little shelter. It was only when she stopped moving that Edie realised her hands were numb, and her body was shaking. She could feel the fever taking its grip.

‘How far is the barn?' she asked, as another bolt of lightning shot through the woods.

‘We must hurry, Edie,' Anastasia urged. ‘The lightning might strike one of the trees.'

‘How far . . . the barn?' said Edie again, who could think only of the need to find somewhere to rest.

Anastasia looked at her anxiously. ‘We'll go to the tower,' she said suddenly, prising the heavy flashlight from Edie's hands. ‘Come on, Edie, it's not far. We can shelter there until the storm's died down – we can get in somehow, we can break a window if we have to.'

‘It's too obvious – the tower's the first place they'll think of looking for us.'

‘But they won't notice we're gone until the morning, and by that time we'll have moved on,' Anastasia said firmly. ‘There's no point trying to reach the barn in this storm. We'll never find it.'

Edie gave in. She felt dead with exhaustion, and was glad to let Anastasia take control.

They tramped on in silence, using the flashlight now to guide them through the sodden woods. Eventually they came to a narrow path, weaving through two thick banks of brambles. Anastasia shone the light upwards and Edie saw the tall stone tower rising through the rain.

Anastasia ran up and rattled the front door. It was locked, and the windows were boarded with wooden shutters. But when they followed the wall around, they saw a small window at the back of the tower whose shutters had been flung open by the storm. Anastasia
found a stone and smashed one of the thin glass panes, then carefully reached in her hand and opened the window from inside.

‘Wait here,' she shouted. Still clutching the light, she scrambled up, then reappeared at the window and passed out a stool for Edie to climb onto.

Edie heaved herself inside, into a large round room, with chairs and a sofa, all blackened with soot, and a huge stone fireplace with a kettle and some rusty frying pans hanging above it. She looked longingly at the two bunk beds pressed against the wall, covered with charred grey blankets.

Anastasia took in the damage caused by the fire with a small intake of breath, then quickly took charge. ‘Change into these,' she said, pulling a damp jersey from a cupboard. ‘There are some more blankets in the chest upstairs; I'm going to get some, then we can lie down for a bit before we move on.'

‘I'll get them. I'm all right,' Edie protested, but her teeth were chattering.

‘Just do what I tell you for once,' Anastasia said, running upstairs.

‘You should turn out that light, someone might see it,' Edie called after her feebly. She hardly had the strength to pull on the jersey, and sat on the sofa, burying her hands in it for warmth. She heard Anastasia's footsteps crashing on the stairs, then the creak of a door above.

‘Edie, I've found another torch here,' Anastasia shouted down. ‘We can take it with us. Now get into bed, and I'll bring you some blankets.'

‘I told you, I'm all right,' Edie protested, but her eyes were growing heavy; and while her body was shivering her head felt boiling hot. Then she heard a noise that made her start. She looked about her, confused. It was not the storm she could hear now, but something else . . . a car door slamming . . . voices . . . the sound of a key rattling in a lock . . .

She stood up in fear and stumbled onto the stairs, looking back just in time to see the door of the tower fling open and two tall, raven-like figures lurch into the room.

‘Anastasia, come down – it's all right, we're here to help you . . .'

Edie slunk back against the wall in terror. It was Miss Winifred's voice she could hear. Peering from the narrow staircase, she saw the other figure push back the hood of his coat, and fling open his briefcase on the table. It was Dr Browning.

‘It's all right, I'll deal with her,' he said calmly, drawing a white packet from his case. ‘She won't give us any trouble after this.'

Hide-and-seek

T
he two girls stood at the top of the stairway, looking at each other in terror.

‘Anastasia
. . . Ana – staaa – sia
. . .' Miss Winifred's melodious voice travelled like an icy breeze up the stairs. ‘Come down, Anastasia dear . . . Don't be frightened . . . Dr Browning's here . . .'

The doctor called out after her, ‘You poor child, you've had a terrible fright. Now you will come down and be a good girl. I am your friend, Anastasia . . . your friend . . .' His voice was heavy and foreign, and menacingly calm.

Edie's eyes spun round the bare stone room in a daze of panic.

‘Here, Edie,' Anastasia hissed, tugging her towards the wooden chest beside the window. Its lid was raised, and
Anastasia was still clutching one of the coarse grey blankets she had pulled from it. But there was only room for one of them inside.

‘Get in,' Edie mouthed frantically, pushing her from behind.

‘What about you?' Anastasia whispered as Edie silently lowered the lid on her.

Edie looked about her helplessly; but there was nowhere else to hide.

‘Anastasia . . . come down, dear . . . it's only us . . .'

Edie stood paralysed, listening to the two pairs of footsteps rising up the stairs. Then she saw the stone fireplace, and the chimney gaping above it, pitch black.

She staggered towards it, and hoisted herself up by the jutting bricks. Her hands and feet were stiff with cold, and she could feel the freezing wind whistling down from above, the soot biting her eyes. She struggled higher, stopping only as the voices filled the room below.

‘Anastasia . . . come out . . .'

‘It's only us, don't be afraid . . .'

Edie clung to the blackened bricks, praying her feet could not be seen. The voices were more urgent now; they had shed their coaxing pretence.

‘Where the devil is she?' the doctor snarled.

‘She must be here somewhere. Look downstairs again . . . hurry, up can't you . . . if she runs out into that storm we'll never find her. If only you'd come quicker.'

‘Don't blame me, woman . . . this was your fault for letting them get away.'

‘My fault! If I hadn't checked Anastasia's bed we wouldn't have known that she'd gone at all.'

‘It was stupid of us to think we'd find them here – it would have been too easy, they'd have been mad to come.'

‘You forget, Vladimir, one of them
is
mad.'

‘No,
you
forget,' the doctor said, his voice flat with anger. ‘You forget what is true, and what is part of the story you have made up. I am afraid, I am very afraid, that you are the one who is mad.'

Edie swallowed hard. The soot was cloying in her throat, and she feared she would give herself away by choking. Miss Winifred, mad! That would finally make sense of some of what was happening.

‘They'll be here,' Miss Winifred said, her voice dreamy, as if talking to herself. ‘Little Ansti loved this tower. She loved coming here . . .'

The doctor snorted. ‘Her friend would never have let her come.'

‘The friend is an irrelevance,' Miss Winifred said. ‘It's Ansti who matters . . . poor, rich little Ansti. And I know she's here, Vladimir, I can smell her . . . I know she's here . . .'

The friend is an irrelevance
.

‘The chest! Look in the chest!' Edie heard Dr Browning cry.

There was a creak, and a muffled shriek, then Miss Winifred's sweet, nightmarish voice fluted up the chimney:

‘It's all right, dear, it's only us . . . only us . . .'

*

When at last Edie crawled down into the room she saw that the storm had stopped. Everything was calm and still. There was no sound save for the smooth rush of water overflowing from the gutters on the roof, and the wind moving softly in the treetops.

Miss Fotheringay's flashlight was lying on the floor. She picked it up and staggered downstairs where she found the door to the tower swinging open into the night – they had obviously left in a hurry. She went to shut it, and then it was that her eye fell on a small pigskin handbag lying next to the door. She recognised it as belonging to Miss Winifred and opened it at once, smearing soot marks all over its pale pink lining as she scrabbled inside.

She saw a plastic envelope and seized it, prising it open with shaking hands. When she saw the tickets for the ferry crossing her heart gave a beat of triumph. She slipped them into the pocket of her overcoat before shoving the envelope back into the bag. She was just continuing her search when she heard the sound of a car outside. She leapt up, dropping the bag on the floor where she had found it, and crouched behind an armchair, trembling.

There was a rush of cold air as the door flung open, then a hurried click of heels on the stone floor.

‘Here it is!' Miss Winifred's voice sounded relieved. ‘It's all right, Vlad, I'm coming. It's . . .
What the
—'

The voice went silent as the footsteps came closer. Edie closed her eyes against the horror, then felt her ankle being lifted off the ground.

‘Edith Wilson! We meet again.'

Edie looked up to see Miss Winifred staring down at her, dressed in a mackintosh of lurid green. In a moment of terrified delirium, Edie saw again the pretty young mistress standing over her desk on the first day of term, and the delicate white hand tracing across the page of her exercise book as she helped her with her sums. Now that same woman's features were alight with frenzied malice.

‘Deserted your friend at the last minute, I see. What a bore. You'll have to come with us now. What a pity you didn't keep your nose out of what isn't really your business.'

‘Where is she?' Edie demanded, in a voice that sounded braver than she felt.

‘Anastasia? Don't you think it's a little late to be asking that now?' Miss Winifred spat.

‘What have you done with her?'

‘I've chopped her up into dainty morsels and left her to marinate in a cooking pot in the boot of the car. I could feed you little bits of her as we speed along. You'd like that, wouldn't you, Edith Wilson? I've watched you watching her. You're obsessed with her. You'd like to eat her and then become her.' Miss Winifred arched her back, her mackintosh shimmering. She was like a garish snake, leaking poison, and Edie saw she had passed some invisible point of control.

‘Why are you doing this? What's it about?'

‘It's about to make me very rich,' Miss Winifred replied, playing with the tips of her long, thin fingers.
Then, without taking her eyes from Edie's face, she called out, throwing her voice behind her, ‘Vlad, I'm afraid there's a hitch. Nothing that one of your little injections won't sort . . .'

‘No!' Edie cried.

Miss Winifred laughed. ‘Ah! At last I have found your weak spot. I knew you would have one. So, Edith the Brave doesn't like needles.'

Edie stood up, and edged away from her.

‘Vlad! Come in here, at once.'

Edie looked up and saw that the doctor had appeared in the doorway. He said nothing, but stood there stooped and motionless, sunken eyes staring from a hatchet face.

‘It's Ansti's little friend. She's hysterical. Deal with her, Vladimir,' Miss Winifred said, her voice high and trembling.

Edie saw as if in slow motion the doctor lift his briefcase, and lay it on the chest by the door. He drew a transparent packet from within and ripped it open. She moved her lips to form a cry of protest – ‘No!' – but the sound that emerged was a strangled yelp.

‘Come here, Edith, don't mess about or this could get nasty,' Miss Winifred said, stepping towards her with her hand outstretched.

‘
No!
' This time Edie's voice was clear, a terrified, splintering shriek.

‘Get her!'

Edie heard the alarm in the doctor's voice, the hissed warning, and something in it gave her strength. Miss
Winifred made to grab her but Edie sprang sideways, then picked up a wooden stool and hurled it at her wildly. Miss Winifred gave a startled cry, ducking as the stool veered past her and crashed against the wall.

‘It's all right, I've got her,' the doctor said, his voice heavy as a stone.

Edie was aware of him advancing towards her, and for a split second stood immobile, mesmerised by the needle in his hand. Then she had a vision of Anastasia, lying unconscious in the back of the car, and as the doctor held up his needle she hurtled past him with a cry.

‘Come here!' he shouted, lunging after her as she flew like a dervish through the open door.

Edie heard a crash behind her, but kept her head bent and ran on, sprinting round the side of the tower and into the woods. It was pitch black, and she could feel the fever seizing her body as she tore on, wet branches slashing at her face. Then she saw torchlight dancing in the trees, and heard voices rising behind her:

‘Look on the road!'

‘Shut up, for Christ's sake!'

‘Here!'

Edie ran faster, but the trees were thinning, and in the moonlight she could see a field opening out ahead. She didn't dare leave the cover of the woods, and in her confusion she turned and ran left then right.

‘Quick, over there!'

It was Miss Winifred's voice this time, and now there were two torch beams slipping after her, making silver, ghost-like circles in the trees. One of them shone along
the ground just metres from where Edie was standing, showing a ditch with a steep bank grown thick with brambles, veering down into a black pit.

‘Edith, come here. Stop this nonsense at once and we won't hurt you . . .
we won't hurt you
. . .'

Miss Winifred's voice was the last thing Edie heard as she flung herself down in the ditch. A wall of soft earth collapsed underneath her as she rolled down the bank, then she stifled a shriek as she plummeted down into a squelch of mud. She could hear footsteps rustling in the leaves above her, and Miss Winifred's thin voice calling into the wind:

‘Edith . . . Where
a-rrrrre
you? Where
a-rrrrrre
you?'

Edie lay motionless in the ditch, and held her breath in terror. There were more footsteps, heavier this time, then she saw a stick smack down into the mud, tossed from the bank above.

‘Find her.' The doctor's voice was so close Edie could hear his breath – then to her horror she saw a torch beam slip over the opposite bank. She waited, rigid, almost expecting him to come tumbling on top of her. ‘Look along the ditch, I'll see if she's gone back to the road.'

‘What if she's got into the field?'

‘I don't care where she's gone. Just get her back.'

There was more scuffling, and the torch beam slipped along the bank again, circling so close it almost touched Edie's foot, then it vanished and the voices became muffled, as if they'd moved away. Edie lay very still, straining to hear, but soon the footsteps and the voices
had faded entirely, and the only sound was the low murmur of the wind. She could not move. But then she saw the woods flood with light and heard a car starting, and a will tore through her like a scream. She scrambled from the ditch, clawing frantically through the brambles – she would hurl herself on the bonnet, she would scratch out their eyes . . .
It won't happen, Anastasia! I won't let it!
That's what she'd promised.

But by the time she staggered into the wood the doctor's car had gone.