THREE
635 Words
THREE
Spring, 1914
It was the monster’s shrieking that brought them to the door, and the crash of the table onto the flagged floor that encouraged them to enter. Blood flowed where his struggles had driven the leather straps into his flesh, and he stared up at them with wide, wild eyes, curses spewing forth in a dozen languages. Then his gaze sharpened, and the flow of words calmed from a torrent into a gentle, hypnotic pulse of something that resembled Aramaic, and they hurriedly plied his veins with sedatives stronger than ether until the incantation turned to drool.
The white circle painted on the floor had dried and curled up into nothing but paint chips, yellowed with extreme age.
A fragile block of blackened paper on the floor crumbled to ashy shards when Brightwell picked it up.
There was nothing at all left of the candles but a fine, white spray of wax evenly coating each wall.
Sir Hannibal lay supine, knees bent, his calves folded beneath his thighs, eyes closed. Green rushed to his side immediately.
Lang grunted, an inarticulate version of I told you so. ‘He’s gone and killed himself, the stupid sod. Put that thing out of its misery.’
Brightwell touched the prepared syringe on the sideboard.
Chancellor Owen stared at Lang, alarmed at such a callous response from a Fellow of the Academy, even one looking at his own wife’s murderer. ‘No,’ he told the Wardens. ‘Take the patient back to isolation and look after Ralston. He’s breathing, yet. When he recovers, he’ll want to record final observations. Then we’ll discuss arrangements for the patient.’
Lang’s lips drew back from his teeth in a feral expression, and he swept out of the room without another word. The door slammed behind him with dead finality.
‘I won’t pretend not to understand him,’ Green muttered, staring at his watch with two fingers pressed to the inside of Hannibal’s wrist. ‘If Ralston does recover, we’ll never be able to put the two of them in the same room again.’
‘Dinners are going to be abominable,’ Brightwell added.
The other men chuckled tensely. Owen clucked his tongue and seized Sir Hannibal’s limp form beneath the arms, nodding for Green to take his feet. ‘Hup,’ he instructed. Green hupped, and the two of them bore Sir Hannibal away to the infirmary.
Brightwell and the remaining Wardens transported the patient, none too gently, back to isolation, their thick leather gauntlets shielding them from his skin. The drugged body hit the floor of the cell with a sickly smack, leaving a trail of smudged black paint as it tumbled into the far wall. The door with its iron bars and golden seals growled into place, bolts the size of a large man’s wrist plunging deep into the steel-impregnated brick.
For twelve hours, there was silence within the cell. And then, abruptly, a gasp and a groan. The two Wardens without put down their cards and their cups of tea and listened, each watching the other’s face closely, alert for the faintest touch of fear. Each, silently, unknown to the other, counted upward slowly, waiting for the next noise.
It was a thump, rattling the door’s iron bars. The Wardens startled. A ragged sound of agony followed. Another thump. Another quiet cry. Again.
Again.
Again.
‘Jesus,’ one guard whispered. ‘He’s throwing himself against the door.’
The other waited for the next thump to come, winced, and nodded his agreement. ‘What do we do?’
‘I’d say ask Ralston, but he’s still laid out. The Chancellor?’
‘I’d rather not bother him. Are any of the other Fellows in?’
‘Lang is.’
They exchanged a pointed glance. Neither got up to get Lang.
‘He can’t keep it up for long. If he hasn’t knocked himself out in twenty minutes, I’ll get the Chancellor.’
Twenty minutes passed, and the thuds continued to sound at regular intervals. Neither of them got up.
Half an hour passed.
An hour.
Three.
Six.
Two new Wardens appeared to sit the next watch.
A day passed.
Two.
And there was silence.
- Writer
