Mark Dunn - Under the Harrow

“Am I to believe that you actually do not know?” shot back Towlinson, playing the role expected of him. “If I must say it, then I will say it. An investigation into the recent death of the T.T. patient Gamfield has pointed every finger to your singular culpability. Moreover, there was an eyewitness to this murderous act: one of the orderlies who attended you in Mr. Gamfield’s final moments. He was present to see you administer the drug that sadly ended Gamfield’s life.”

Ruth Wolf raised an eyebrow in dubiety. Now that the axe had fallen, she did not appear quite so nervous. The thing was done, her course now set. She could afford to be a mote contentious, a bit wise to the mechanics now being employed to remove her from Bedlam.

She cut her eyes to Fibbetson. He would not engage her with his own.

“The orderly stated that the patient was very much alive when you entered the room, madam,” Towlinson went on. “It was you who killed him. Either with specific intention or through gross neglect, it is no matter. You are unfit to continue in the employ of the hospitals of the Dell. Sign the paper. Return your bag on the morrow and let us put an end to the sorry chapter of your tenure here.”

“Yes, let us indeed do that,” said Ruth Wolf in a sarcastic underbreath. She picked up the quill, dipped it into the ink well that accompanied it, and affixed her signature dutifully to the document before her. Then she rose from her chair. “Sir Dabber. I shall wait for you and Mr. Trimmers in the corridor to assist you in conveying your son to Dabber Hall.”

“Hold please, my dear,” said Dabber, rising from his own chair. “I myself have no further need to continue with this meeting.”

“Now that you’ve received that chief thing that you sought from us all along,” said Dr. Towlinson with a dark chuckle. “I have never said, sir, that you are impenetrable. Take your son away and spend the remainder of your days cleaning up his incontinent shit. That will be your lot, you fat, wheezing old fool.”

I watched my friend bunch his fingers once again into fists and wondered if his pugilistic abilities rose to the level of his laureled youthful wrestling proficiency. I would not receive an answer to my musing, for Dabber did not tarry to exchange blows with his detractor, removing himself instead with a quick and contemptuous sweep from the room.

Together Dabber, Miss Wolf and I stepped away from that place where we had won a small triumph, but where one of us had suffered a great defeat, and made our hurried way through the asylum’s labyrinthine passages to the cellarage stairs.

Momentarily deterred by Oscar the attendant’s unwillingness to admit us to Bevan’s cell without proper authorisation, we did not have to wait long before consent came in the form of a verbal directive from Towlinson’s assistant Howler, who had been hastily detailed by his employer to this very purpose.

None of us — our number now having grown to four, with young Bevan Dabber in tow — spoke a word until we had safely assembled ourselves within Dabber’s cabriolet, and even then there was not much speaking in the first moments of our situation there, given that the lovers Ruth Wolf and Bevan Dabber had a personal need which took precedence: to embrace and to wipe away with great tenderness their mutual tears, and to wonder if the angels of fate had not for once smiled upon a Dinglian in a rare act of good, deserved fortune.

Only when the lovers had released their mutual hold upon one another and acknowledged with gratitude the father who sat happy and beaming to see his son restored to health and restored as well to his freedom, and acknowledged, in addition, the father’s friend who had had a hand in seeing this moment come to pass, did the nurse say in a burst of confession and contrition, “Now, Trimmers, let it be said, that I did lead you to your nephew. I wanted you to know that Newman was now in Bedlam, just as I did not want you to know that it was I who had put him there. Newman would have been killed in the Outland had I not rescued him. I’ll tell you everything else you should want to know about him, for there is nothing left for me to hide. I have been made ignominiously redundant by the Tiadaghton Project. No longer an asset. Now only a liability.”

“Does Timberry have your medical bag?”

“Yes, and a store of other drugs which I was able over the last few months to smuggle into the valley, thankfully without detection. He must guard these drugs with his life, for amongst them is enough isoniazid and rifampicin to cure every consumptive in Dingley Dell. That is, if there is to be any Dinglian extant after July 15. For I was able to see Chivery earlier this evening and have taken from him the two memoranda which he drew from the briefcase — rather — what is the Dinglian word? — valise, yes, of the dead woman, Mizz Martin. I knew of the woman, Trimmers, and I know now that I am marked to receive the same punishment as she for my acts of subversion against the Project. That is why Bevan and I must leave this very evening whilst we still have any hope left for escape.”

I shook my head dispiritedly. “Gunmen are already gathering in the woods, and, no doubt, upon the Northern Ridge.”

“How do you know this?”

“The Scadger brothers have seen them. I must advise against this course you wish to take, Ruth.”

Now it was Bevan’s turn to speak, to earnestly counter my attempt at dissuasion. “Ruth and I haven’t many choices here, Trimmers. All that we can do is take the path that carries the lesser risk.”

“If that be your decision, my son, then I choose to go with you.” This from Sir Dabber. “And we will not go unarmed.”

“Knives against guns, Dabber?” I interposed.

“But also strength in my own two hands.”

“And infirmity in your pursy lungs, my good friend. Reconsider.”

Sir Dabber shook his head. His look now darkened even as a smile graced his lips. “I have had my son returned to me. I do not intend to lose him again.”

Father and son beheld one another in tearful silence for the succeeding moment.

“And my chances of survival here are not so much better than they are out there,” said Dabber, handing to me the papers that he had been browsing since they had been given him by Miss Wolf upon our entering the cabriolet.

Here is what was on the papers:

Tiadaghton Project Communications Center

mKreis@tiadaghton.com

Re: Your ShoCKinG NeWS!!!!

Date: May 30, 2003

From: Patty Kreis

To: Michelena Martin

I am floored. Knocked totally on my ass, girl. You haven’t even given me enough time to get you a buh-bye card. Print this. Keep my sentiments close at hand, baby, as you go off and make your honest living in the world. (Better late than never, right?) My heart may be black as coal, but I’ll still miss you bunches.

I agree with everything you said, except that I can’t see any other way out of this. The ant farm has to be exterminated, case closed. I also disagree with you on one other minor point: I’m quite confident that if we’ve been able to keep a lid on this thing for the last 121 years, there should be no reason why things should have to fall apart NOW. I, for one, will do everything I can to keep that from happening. I’m much too young and beautiful to spend the rest of my life behind bars.

Anyway, Missy, it won’t be the same at Flatiron without you. (Can I treat you to a farewell lunch at Mesa? Please say yes. Don’t limit my goodbye to this impersonal electronic hand-wave.)

Original Message.

Tiadaghton Project Communications Center mMartin@tiadaghton.com

Re: Leaving the Project

Date: May 30, 2003

From: Michelena Martin

To: Patty Kreis