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Copyright
The Borough Press
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street
London, SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk
First published in Great Britain by The Borough Press 2014
Copyright © John Harding 2014
Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2014
Cover photograph Susan Fox/Trevillion Images
John Harding asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Source ISBN: 9780007324255
Ebook Edition © August 2014 ISBN: 9780007562107
Version: 2015-03-18
About the Book
New England, The 1890s
When a young doctor begins work at an isolated mental asylum, he is expected to fall in with the shocking regime for treating the patients. He is soon intrigued by one patient, a strange amnesiac girl who is fascinated by books but cannot read. He embarks upon a desperate experiment to save her but when his own dark past begins to catch up with him, he realises it is she who is his only hope of escape.
In this chilling literary thriller from a master storyteller, everyone has something to hide and no one is what they seem.
Praise for John Harding:
‘A tight gothic thriller … unbearably tense’
Financial Times
‘Genuinely exciting and shocking’
Independent
‘The Girl Who Couldn’t Read will prove to be a delight for anyone with a love of Victorian fiction, the work of Sarah Waters or who takes pleasure in a bloody good story well told. Harding is a master storyteller and has produced another classic’
Me And My Big Mouth
‘Brilliantly creepy’
Daily Mirror
‘Hugely gripping … the most perfect ending in fiction, I swear’
Heartsong
‘A tour de force’
Daily Mail
‘Full of disturbing atmosphere, mysterious characters, and a page-turning plot. I flew through it’
A Literary Mind
‘Thoroughly ingenious and captivating … a scarily good story’
The Oxford Times
‘Nothing prepares you for the chillingly ruthless finale’
The Times
‘The tension is palpable. Leaves the reader gasping’
We Love This Book
‘A fantastic gothic horror story set in an asylum for women in 1890’s New England. It will grab you, excite you and leave you eager for more’
The Moustachioed Reader
‘Harding winds things nice and tight … brilliant tension … The eeriness pervades like a dank fog’
New Zealand Herald
Dedication
For the book-lovers of Brazil
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
About the Book
Praise for John Harding
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Bibliography
Acknowledgements
Read an Extract for Florence and Giles
About the Author
Also by John Harding
About the Publisher
1
‘Dr Morgan expects you in his office in ten minutes. I will come and fetch you, sir.’
I thanked her, but she stood in the doorway, holding the door handle, regarding me as though expecting something more.
‘Ten minutes, mind, sir. Dr Morgan doesn’t like to be kept waiting. He’s a real stickler for time.’
‘Very well. I’ll be ready.’
She gave me a last suspicious look, top to toe, and I could not help wondering what it was she saw. Maybe the suit did not fit me so well as I had thought; I found myself curling my fingers over the cuffs of my jacket sleeves and tugging them down, conscious they might be too short, until I realised she was now staring at this and so I desisted.
‘Thank you,’ I said, injecting what I hoped was a note of finality into it. I had played the master often enough to know how it goes, but then again I had been a servant more than once too. She turned, but with her nose in the air, and not at all with the humility of a lackey who has been dismissed, and left, closing the door behind her with a peremptory click.
I gave the room a cursory glance. A bed, with a nightstand, a closet in which to hang clothes, a battered armchair that looked as if it had been in one fight too many, a well-worn writing desk and chair, and a chest of drawers on which stood a water jug and bowl, with a mirror hanging on the wall above it. All had seen better days. Still, it was luxury compared with what I had been used to lately. I went over to the single window, raised the blind fully and looked out. Pleasant lawned grounds beneath and a distant view of the river. I looked straight down. Two floors up and a sheer drop. No way out there, should a person need to leave in a hurry.
I shook off my jacket, glad to be relieved of it for a while, realising now I was free of it that it was a tad too tight and pulled under the arms, where my shirt was soaked with sweat. I sniffed and decided I really should change it before meeting Morgan. I took out and read again the letter with his offer of employment. Then I lifted the valise from the floor, where the maid had left it, onto the bed and tried the locks again, but they would not budge. I looked around for some implement, a pair of scissors or a penknife perhaps, although why I should expect to find either in a bedroom I couldn’t have said, especially not here of all places, where it would surely be policy not to leave such things lying about. Finding nothing, I decided it was no use; my shirt would have to do.
I went over to the chest of drawers, poured some water into the bowl and splashed it over my face. It was icy cold and I held my wrists in it to cool my blood. I looked at myself in the mirror and at once easily understood the serving woman’s attitude toward me. The man staring back at me had a wild, haunted expression, a certain air of desperation. I tried to arrange my hair over my forehead with my fingers and wished it were longer, for it didn’t answer to purpose.
There was a rapping on the door. ‘One moment,’ I called out. I looked at myself again, shook my head at the hopelessness of it all and heartily wished I had never come here. Of course I could always bolt, but even that would not be straightforward. An island, for Christ’s sake, what had I been thinking of? Sanctuary, I suppose, somewhere out of the way and safe, but also – I saw now – somewhere from which it would be difficult to make a quick exit.
More rapping at the door, fast and impatient this time. ‘Coming!’ I shouted, in what I hoped was a light-hearted tone. I opened the door and found the same woman as before. She stared at me with a look that suggested surprise that I had spent so long to accomplish so little.
I found Morgan in his office, seated at his desk, which faced a large window giving onto the spacious front lawns of the hospital. I could well understand how someone might like to look up from his work at such a capital view, but it struck me as odd that a man who must have many visitors should choose to have his back to them when they entered.
I stood just inside the door, looking at that back, ill at ease. He had heard the maid introduce me; he knew I was there. It occurred to me that this might be the purpose of the desk’s position, to establish some feeling of superiority over any new arrival; the man was a psychiatrist, after all.
A good minute elapsed and I thought of clearing my throat to remind him of my presence, although I know a dramatic pause when I come across one, and to wait for my cue before speaking out of turn, so I held my position, all the while conscious of the sweat leaking from my armpits and worrying that it must eventually penetrate my jacket. I did not know if I had another. There was complete silence except for the occasional echo of a distant door banging its neglect and the leisurely scratch of the doctor’s pen as he carried on writing. I decided I would count to a hundred and then, if he still hadn’t spoken, break the silence myself.
I had reached eighty-four when he threw the pen aside, twirled around in his swivel chair and propelled himself from it in almost the same movement. ‘Ah, Dr Shepherd, I presume!’ He strode over to me, grabbed my right hand and shook it with surprising vigour for a man who I saw now was dapper, by which I mean both short in stature and fussily turned out; he had a thin, ornamental little moustache, like a dandified Frenchman, and every hair on his salt-and-pepper head seemed to have been arranged individually with great care. He had spent a good deal more time on his toilette than I had had means or opportunity to do on mine and I felt embarrassed at the contrast.
‘Yes, sir.’
I found myself smiling in spite of my trepidation at the coming audition, my sodden armpits and the state of my face. It was impossible not to, since he was grinning broadly. His cheerful demeanour lifted my spirits a little; it was so greatly at odds with the gloominess of the building.
Finally releasing my hand, which I was glad of, as his firm grip had made me realise it must have been badly bruised in the accident, he stretched out his arms in an expansive gesture. ‘Well, what do you think, eh?’
I assumed he was referring to the vista outside, so, casting an appraising eye out the window, said, ‘It’s certainly a most pleasant view, sir.’
‘View?’ He dropped his arms and the way they hung limp at his sides seemed to express disappointment. He followed my gaze as if he had only just realised the window was there and then turned back to me. ‘View? Why, it’s nothing to the views we had back in Connecticut, and we never even looked at them.’
I did not know what to make of this except that I had come to a madhouse and that if the inmates should prove insane in any degree relative to the doctors, or at least the head doctor, then they would be lunatics indeed.
‘Wasn’t talking about the view, man,’ he went on. ‘You’re not here to look at views. I mean the whole place. Is it not magnificent?’
I winced at my own stupidity and found myself mumbling in a way that served only to confirm this lack of intelligence. ‘Well, to be honest, sir, I’m but newly arrived and haven’t had an opportunity to look about the place yet.’
He wasn’t listening but instead had extracted a watch from his vest pocket and was staring at it, shaking his head and tutting impatiently. He replaced the watch and looked up at me. ‘What’s that? Not looked round? Let me tell you you’ll find it first class when you do. Adapted to purpose, sir, every modern facility for treating the mentally ill a doctor could wish for. Couldn’t ask for a better place for your practical training, sir. Medical school is all very well but it’s in the field you learn your trade. And believe me, it’s a good trade for a young man to be starting out in. Psychiatry is the coming thing, it is the way—’ He stopped abruptly and stared at me. ‘Good God, man, what on earth has happened to your head?’
I reached a hand up to my temple, my natural inclination being to cover it. I had my story ready. I have always found that the extraordinary lie is the one that is most likely to be believed. ‘It was an accident in the city on my way here, sir. I had an unfortunate encounter with a cabriolet.’
He continued to stare at the bump and I could not help arranging my hair in an attempt to conceal it. Sensing my embarrassment, he dropped his eyes. ‘Well, lucky to get away with just a mild contusion, if you ask me. Might have fractured your cranium.’ He chuckled. ‘Let’s hope it hasn’t damaged your brain. Enough damaged brains around here already.’
He walked back to his desk and picked up a piece of paper. ‘Anyway, looking at your application, I see you have an exceptional degree from the medical school in Columbus. And this is just the place to pick up the clinical experience to go with it. Hmm …’ He looked up from the paper and stared at me quizzically. ‘Twenty-five years old, I see. Would have thought you were much older.’
I felt a sudden panic. Why had I not thought about my age? What a stupid thing to overlook! But at least twenty-five was within the realms of possibility. What if it had been forty-five? Or sixty-five? I would have been finished before I started. I improvised a thin chuckle of my own. It’s a useful skill being able to laugh on demand even when up against it.
‘Ha, well, my mother used to say I was born looking like an old man, and I guess I’ve never had the knack of appearing young. My late father was the same way. Everyone always took him for ten years older than he was.’
He raised an eyebrow and peered again at the paper he was holding. ‘I see too you have some –ah – interesting views on the treatment of mental illness.’ He looked up and stared expectantly at me, a provocative hint of a smile on his lips.
I felt the blood rush to my cheeks. The bruise on my forehead began to throb and I imagined it looking horribly livid, like a piece of raw meat. I began to mumble but the words died on my lips. Fool! Why had I not anticipated some sort of cross-examination?
‘Well?’
I pulled myself upright and puffed out my chest. ‘I’m glad you find them so, sir,’ I replied.
‘I was being ironic. I didn’t intend it as a compliment, man!’ He tossed the paper onto the desk. ‘But it doesn’t signify a thing. Forgive me saying so, but your ideas are very out of date. We’ll soon knock them out of you. We do things the modern way here, the scientific way.’
‘I assure you I’m ready to learn,’ I replied and we stood regarding each other a moment, and then, as though suddenly remembering something, he pulled out the watch again.
‘My goodness, is that the time? Come, man, we can’t stand around here gassing all day like a pair of old women; we’re wanted in the treatment area.’
At which he strode past me, opened the door and was through it before I realised what was happening. He moved fast for a small man, bowling along the long corridor like a little terrier in pursuit of a rat.
‘Well, come along, man, get a move on!’ he flung over his shoulder. ‘No time to waste!’
I trotted along after him, finding it difficult to keep up without breaking into a run. ‘May I ask where we’re going, sir?’
He stopped and turned. ‘Didn’t I tell you? No? Hydrotherapy, man, hydrotherapy!’
The word meant nothing to me. All I could think of was hydrophobia, no doubt making an association between the two words because of the place we were in. I followed him through a veritable maze of corridors and passageways, all of them dark and depressing, the walls painted a dull reddish brown, the colour of blood when it has dried on your clothes, and down a flight of stairs that meant we were below ground level, then along a dimly lit passage that finally ended at a metal door upon which he rapped sharply, his fingers ringing against the steel.
‘O’Reilly!’ he yelled. ‘Come along, open up, we don’t have all day.’
As we stood waiting, I was caught sharp by a low moaning sound, like some animal in pain perhaps. It seemed to come from a very long way off.
There was the rasp of a bolt being drawn and we stepped into an immense whiteness that quite dazzled me after the dimness outside. I blinked and saw we were in a huge bathroom. The walls were all white tiles, from which the light from lamps on the walls was reflected and multiplied in strength. Along one wall were a dozen bathtubs, in a row, like beds in a dormitory. A woman in a striped uniform, obviously an attendant, who had opened the door for us and stood holding it, now closed and locked it behind us, using a key on a chain attached to her belt. I realised the moaning noise I had heard was coming from the far end of the room, where two more female attendants, similarly attired to the first, stood over the figure of a woman sitting huddled on the floor between them.
Dr Morgan walked briskly over to the wall at the opposite end of the room, where there was a row of hooks. He removed his jacket and hung it up. ‘Well, come on, man. Take your jacket off,’ he snapped. ‘You don’t want to get it soaked, do you?’
I thought instantly that the armpits were already drenched, but there was nothing for it but to remove it. Luckily Morgan didn’t look at me, although as he turned toward the three figures at the far end of the room, he sniffed the air and pulled a face. I felt my own redden with shame, until I saw he wasn’t even looking at me and probably assumed the stench originated from something in the room.
Rolling up his sleeves, he strode over to the two attendants and their charge, his small feet clicking on the tiled floor. I followed him. The attendants were struggling to make the woman stand up, each tugging at one of her arms. At first I could not see the sitter’s face. Her chin was on her chest and her long dirty blonde hair had tumbled forward, shrouding her features completely.
‘Come on, come on!’ chided Morgan. ‘D’you think I have all day for this? This is Dr Shepherd, my new assistant. He’s here for a demonstration of the hydrotherapy. Get her up now and let’s get started.’
The sound of his voice seemed to have some magical effect upon the crouching creature, who stopped resisting the attendants and allowed herself to be pulled to her feet. She threw back her head, tossing her hair from her face. I saw she was middle-aged, her face well marked from an encounter with the smallpox at some stage of her life. She was a big woman, large boned, and towered over Morgan. Her cheeks were sunken and her eye sockets dark hollow sepulchres. She looked down at Morgan for a moment or so with a suggestion of fear in her expression, but perhaps respect too, and then lifted her eyes to me. It made me uncomfortable, this uninhibited regard. It was not like the look of a human being, but rather some creature, some trapped wild animal. It had in it defiance and the threat of violence and somehow at the same time something that tore at my heart, an appeal for help or mercy perhaps. I well knew what it meant to need both and be denied.
I stared back at her a long moment. I was all atremble and in the end I could not hold her gaze. As I looked away she spoke. ‘You do not appear much of a doctor to me. I shall get no help from you.’ And then, so suddenly she took them by surprise, she wrenched herself free from her keepers and hurled herself at me, her nails reaching for my face. It was fortunate for my already battered looks that O’Reilly, the woman who had let us in and had now come to help us, reacted quickly. Her hands whipped out and grabbed both the woman’s wrists at once in a tight grip. There was a brief struggle but then the other attendants joined in and the patient – for such this wretched being obviously was – was soon under control again. At which point she began once more to wail, making the pitiful sound I’d heard from outside, twisting her body this way and that, tugging her arms, trying to free herself but to no avail, for the two junior attendants who had her each by an arm were themselves well built and evidently strong. Having failed to free herself, the woman began to kick out at them, at which they moved apart, stretching her arms out, one either side of her, so that she was in a crucifixion pose.
‘Stop that now, missy,’ said O’Reilly. Her voice was as cold as the tiles, and it was obvious this flame-haired woman was as hard as nails; the words were spat out in an Irish accent harsh enough to break glass. ‘Stop it or you’ll find yourself getting another slap for your trouble.’
Morgan frowned, then looked at me and raised an eyebrow, a semaphore that I immediately read as meaning that it wasn’t easy to get staff for such employment and that you had to make the best of what was available. He glared at the attendant. ‘None of that, please, O’Reilly. She’s under restraint; no need to threaten the poor soul.’ He turned to me again.
‘Firmness but not cruelty, that’s the motto here.’ Then he told the attendants, ‘Get her in the bath.’
I expected the woman to object to this, but at the mention of the word ‘bath’ her struggling ceased and she allowed herself to be guided over to the nearest one. ‘Raise your arms,’ said O’Reilly, and the woman meekly obeyed. The other women lifted the hem of her dress, a coarse white calico thing, the pattern so faded from frequent washing that it was almost invisible, rolled it upwards and pulled it over her head and arms, with O’Reilly cooing, ‘There’s a good girl now,’ as if she were talking to a newly broken-in horse or a dog she was trying to coax back into its kennel. The woman was left shivering in a thin, knee-length chemise, for the room was not warm, as I could tell from the dank feel of my damp shirt against my back.
O’Reilly put a hand on the woman’s arm, guided her over to the bath and ordered her to get in. The woman looked quizzically at Morgan, who smiled benignly and nodded, and she turned back to the bath, even allowing a certain eagerness into her expression.
‘She is looking forward to a bath,’ Morgan whispered to me out of the corner of his mouth. ‘She hasn’t been here long. She’s never had the treatment before and doesn’t have any inkling of what’s coming.’
I saw that the bath was full of water. The woman lifted a leg over the edge and put her foot into it and instantly let out a gasp and tried to pull it out again, but the attendants immediately seized hold of her and pushed together so that the woman’s foot plunged to the bottom of the bath, whereupon she slipped and as she struggled to regain her balance the attendants lifted the rest of her and thrust her in, virtually face down, with an almighty splash that sent water shooting into the air, with more than a little of it raining down on Morgan and me. The woman’s screams ricocheted off the tiles from wall to wall around the room.