screaming.’ Peter’s hand flashed up and down and the blow caught the side of her head and rattled the bones of her jaw. ‘Do you want all the bloody servants to hear you?’
Isabel fell against the bed and then lay huddled half on the smooth green cover and half on the floor. She heard the door close and the sound of Peter walking away towards the nursery. He was going to see the baby, of course. Their two strengths, the one male and blunt and brutal, and the other primeval, mysterious, but none the less male, would meet and reinforce each other. Meanwhile her own strength had bled away into nowhere.
Oh, please, just let there be quiet. Where can I go?
Isabel lay for a while listening, unable to distinguish whether the scream was really the baby’s or her own, internal one. Then, when she felt strong enough, she stumbled to the door and locked it. She locked the dressing-room door too, and with her breath coming a little more easily she went and lay down on the bed again. She stayed wide-eyed in the darkness listening to the domestic sounds of the house, and when they subsided at last into the silence of night she was still lying, waiting and listening.
When she judged that everyone must be asleep she levered herself upright. She was stiff and cramped from lying so long in one position, but she knew exactly what she must do and she moved quickly.
The key turned noiselessly back in the lock, and she slipped out into the darkness beyond her room.
The noise. The screaming. If only I can just stop it, everything will be all right. There must be something the matter with the baby for it to scream like this. It would want me to stop it, wouldn’t it?
The door of the nursery suite was closed, and she turned the knob breathlessly and inched it open. There was a little lobby linking the three rooms, and one of the doors stood ajar. A dim light filtered through, and Isabel blinked at it after the total darkness.
Wait until you can see properly. That’s better. Oh, the terrible noise. Put it right.
Stealthily, with her hand out in front of her to guide her, Isabel crept forward. Inside the nursery the nightlight was lit. In the middle of the room was the white crib under its white canopy hung with ribbon and lace. She moved towards it, one tiny step at a time. The room was all white, fresh and pure. It’s nice here, except for the noise. Why doesn’t anyone else hear it, Bethan or the nurse? I’ll stop it myself now. Then everyone will be happy.
Isabel reached the foot of the white crib. Taking a deep breath, she leaned over and looked inside. To her surprise, the baby didn’t look as if it was crying at all, although the sound of it was deafening. The eyes were shut in the autocratic little face, and it was motionless.
Frowning a little, Isabel looked around her. There was a folded blanket on the nursing chair beside the crib. She picked it up and folded it again into a neat square and then she pressed it over the baby’s face.
Is it so strong then? The scream hardly faltering. As strong as Peter himself. Of course.
Isabel leant on the blanket with all her strength and at last, after so long, the screaming dropped in pitch and suddenly choked on itself.
The blessed silence.
‘Madam? What are you doing?’
Isabel let go of her blanket and turned round. It was the nurse, the one with the mouth like a steel trap. She was staring at Isabel in shocked disbelief.
‘The baby was crying,’ Isabel said calmly. ‘Couldn’t you hear it? I was quietening it. We can’t let it scream like that all night, can we?’
The nurse ran forward and leaned over the crib. She gasped and snatched up the white bundle and held it against her shoulder. There was a choking sound and then a thin, shuddering wail.
Isabel saw the woman’s face sag with relief, and wondered vaguely why. The nurse wrapped her arms around the baby and after an instant’s hesitation she ran, carrying it with her.
Isabel stood listening gratefully to the silence.
It didn’t last long. Within seconds a door slammed, and there were raised, urgent voices and hurrying feet coming towards her. She looked around and half-retreated behind the white-draped crib. Peter burst into the room. His face was red and seamed with sleep, and he looked even bulkier in his striped dressing-gown. At the sight of him Isabel shrank and tried to slip behind the crib hangings. But he was coming for her, and his arm reached out and gripped her like a vice. Over his shoulder Isabel saw the nurse still staring at her in horror. Standing a little to one side was Bethan, and she was crying, tears pouring silently down her cheeks. Only then did Isabel understand that something terrible had happened.
Peter could hardly speak. Something was strangling his voice in his throat. ‘You. My son. A baby. Helpless. You are mad, Isabel. You should be locked up.’
Isabel raised her free hand to try to ward him off but he was too close. She tried to twist sideways, meaning to run to Bethan as she had done as a child. Bethan’s arms opened to her, but Peter held her tight. There was no escape, and Isabel’s arm crooked to protect her head.
‘Not mad,’ she whispered. ‘Not. Just couldn’t bear the noise, any more.’
‘Is the baby all right?’ Peter asked harshly and the nurse nodded.
‘I reached him almost at once.’ She wouldn’t look at Isabel now.
‘We’ll wait until morning to speak to the doctors, then. Come with me.’ He pulled Isabel across the room so roughly that her foot caught in the hem of her robe and she almost stumbled. He jerked her upright again.
‘Let me stay with her until the morning,’ Bethan pleaded. ‘She’ll be all right with me. Won’t you, love?’ Peter wouldn’t hear her. He propelled Isabel back to her own room and pushed her inside. She fell forwards and lay with her cheek against the rug, wide-eyed in the pitch blackness. There was a moment of relief as she heard Peter slam the door between them, and then she heard the click of the lock.
Her door wasn’t locked against the world any longer.
It was locked on the outside, and she was behind it.
She was imprisoned with herself, and the memory of the nurse’s horror beside Bethan’s helpless tears and outstretched, empty arms.
Isabel lurched forward and rattled the unyielding door. At the same moment she heard the bolt on Peter’s side of the dressing-room door slide home. Her hand came up to her mouth and she bit into the heel of it until the pain made her feel dizzy and she tasted the warm, salty blood.
Then she knelt down and leaned her forehead against the door. The draught through the crack sliced down the side of her face like a knifeblade.
Amy sat bolt upright in bed. She was shivering and sweating, but the black fingers of the nightmare were already losing their grip. Isabel had been running towards her, shouting something, and there was a chasm between them that zigzagged wider and wider as Amy tried to warn her. But she was fully awake now, and she couldn’t remember what Isabel had been shouting, nor what she herself had been trying so desperately to warn her against.
Amy reached out for her alarm clock, breathing deeply to try to stop her teeth from chattering. A quarter to five in the morning, and she was due on day duty again at six. It was almost time to wake up in any case. She turned on the overhead light and looked around the little room. Her uniform dress was ready on its hanger behind the door, and her textbooks were piled up on the shelf exactly as she had left them the night before. It had only been a bad dream and she couldn’t even remember exactly what had been happening, but still the atmosphere of it clung round her. She was still afraid, with a dull knot of anxiety that sat in the pit of her stomach. Isabel was slowly recovering, she was safely back home at Ebury Street, but Amy was frightened for her. Why, so vividly, now? Was it just the effect of the nightmare?
Amy pushed back the covers and gathered up her things for the bath. There were only two bathrooms in this part