Page 248 of The Running Grave

‘You’re going to be looking after Jacob today.’

‘OK,’ said Robin.

She yearned to lie down upon the bed and sleep, because she was almost delirious with tiredness, but she followed Hattie meekly out of the dormitory. Nothing mattered to her now except the approval of the church Principals. Terror of the box would be with her forever; all she wanted was not to be punished. She was now scared of somebody from the agency arriving to get her out, because if they did so, Robin might be shut up in the box again and hidden away. She wanted to be left where she was; she dreaded the agency endangering her safety further. Perhaps some time in the future, when she’d recovered her nerve and round-the-clock surveillance had been lifted from her she might find a way to break free, but she couldn’t think that far ahead today. She must comply. Compliance was the only safety.

Hattie led Robin back to the farmhouse, through the dragon-carved doors and up the scarlet-carpeted stairs. They walked along a corridor with more shiny black doors and then up a second staircase, this one narrow and uncarpeted, which led to a corridor with a sloping roof. At the end of this was a plain wooden door, which her companion opened.

Robin was hit by an unpleasant smell of human urine and faeces as she entered the small attic room. Louise was sitting beside a cot. There were various cardboard boxes sitting higgledy-piggledy on the floor, which was covered in sheets of old newspaper, along with a black bin liner that was partially full.

‘Tell Rowena what to do, Louise,’ said the woman who’d escorted Robin, ‘then you can go and sleep.’

She left.

Robin stared at the occupant of the cot, horrified. Jacob was perhaps three feet long, but even though he was naked except for a nappy, he didn’t look like a toddler. His face was sunken, the fine skin stretched over the bones and torso; his arms and legs were atrophied and Robin could see bruises and what she assumed to be pressure sores on his very white skin. He appeared to be sleeping, his breathing guttural. Robin didn’t know whether illness, disability or persistent neglect had placed Jacob in this pitiable state.

‘What’s wrong with him?’ she whispered.

To Robin’s horror, the only answer from Louise was a strange keening noise.

‘Louise?’ said Robin, alarmed by the sound.

Louise doubled over, her bald head in her hands, and the noise became an animal screech.

‘Louise, don’t!’ said Robin frantically. ‘Please don’t!’

She grabbed Louise by the shoulders.

‘We’ll both be punished again,’ Robin said frantically, certain that screaming from the attic would be investigated by those downstairs, that their only safety was silence and obedience. ‘Stop it! Stop!’

The noise subsided. Louise merely rocked backwards and forwards on her chair, her face still hidden.

‘They’ll be expecting you to leave. Just tell me what to do for him,’ said Robin, her hands still on the older woman’s shoulders. ‘Tell me.’

Louise raised her head, her eyes bloodshot, her looks ruined, her bald head cut in a couple of places where, doubtless, she’d shaved it while exhausted, with her arthritic hands. Had she broken down at any other time, Robin would have felt more compassion than impatience, but all she cared about at this moment was to avoid any more scrutiny or punishment, and least of all did she want to be accused, again, of causing distress in another church member.

‘Tell me what to do,’ she repeated fiercely.

‘There are nappies in there,’ whispered Louise, tears still leaking out of her eyes as she pointed at one of the cardboard boxes, ‘and wipes over there. He won’t need food… give him water in a sippy cup.’ She pointed to one on the window sill. ‘Leave the newspaper down… he sometimes vomits. He has… he has fits sometimes, as well. Try and stop him banging himself on the bars. And there’s a bathroom opposite if you need it.’

Louise dragged herself to her feet and stood for a moment, looking down at the dying child. To Robin’s surprise, she pressed her fingers to her mouth, kissed them, then placed them gently on Jacob’s forehead. Then, in silence, she left the room.

Robin moved slowly towards the hard wooden chair Louise had vacated, her eyes on Jacob, and sat down.

The boy was clearly on the brink of death. This was the most monstrous thing she’d yet seen at Chapman Farm, and she didn’t understand why today, of all days, she’d been sent to care for him. Why order somebody in here who’d lied and broken church rules, and who’d admitted questioning their allegiance to the church?

Exhausted though she was, Robin thought she knew the answer. She was being made complicit in Jacob’s fate. Perhaps the Waces knew, in some long-repressed part of themselves, that hiding this child away, starving him and giving him no access to medical care except the ‘spirit work’ provided by Zhou would be considered criminal in the outside world. Those sent to watch over his steady decline, and who didn’t seek help for him, would surely be considered guilty by the authorities beyond Chapman Farm, if they ever found out what had happened. Robin was being further enfolded in self-silencing, damned by virtue of being in this room, and not seeking help for the child. He might die while she was watching over him, in which case the Waces would have something over her, forever. They’d say it was her fault, no matter the truth.

Quietly and completely unconsciously, Robin began to whisper.

‘Lokah Samastah Sukhino Bhavantu… Lokah Samastah Sukhino Bhavantu…’

With an effort, she stopped herself.

I mustn’t go mad. I mustn’t go mad.

85

Patience in the highest sense means putting brakes on strength.