The Lingering (3 page)

Victoria turned and looked at Bartholomew. Her face had aged a decade in minutes, and she now looked hard and resolved. “Doctor, is my husband among those who have not passed from The Lingering’s veil?”

A tear ran down Bartholomew’s cheek. “Yes, Your Majesty. He walks, but he lives not.”

She dabbed at her eye with a delicate lace handkerchief. “Has he become unmanageable?”

Bexley stepped forward. “No, Your Majesty. He has not tasted blood, he remains at peace.”

She turned her gaze to Bexley. “So, Sir William, what do you propose?”

He averted his eyes from her gaze. “Ma’am, we feel it is best to dispatch him before the blood lust takes him.”

“Sir! Kindly look me in the eye when you tell me you want to murder my husband!”

Bartholomew approached her. “Your Majesty, he is no longer your husband. Albert has passed.”

She turned her angry gaze to Bartholomew. “Nonsense, Doctor, if he has not passed from this world, then he is still my husband! Gentlemen, leave me. I need time to consider what to do, but killing him will not ever be my decision. Now go.”

Bartholomew and Bexley bowed their heads and left without another word.

Location: Saint Mary’s Hospital for the Poor in Whitechapel, London

Date: March 26
th
1843

Time: 7 a.m.

Bartholomew stood before the dirty, soot covered building and stared at its doors. Once, his volunteer work had brought him pleasure. The thought of his skills helping those less fortunate than he, always brought him comfort. Now the doors of St. Mary’s offered him nothing but pain and sorrow. Since The Lingering, much of his work had involved dispatching those who had become Lingerers. He felt like a vet whose only job was euthanizing sick animals. He knew the work had to be done, but it still sickened him.

Finally, he headed for the door and rapped on it with his cane. He heard the sounds of locks being pulled, and then the old doormen, Rogers, swung them wide.

“Dr Bartholomew, it is good to see you, sir. Could I take your hat and coat?”

Bartholomew removed his top hat and passed it to the bent man before him. “Thank you, Rogers. Tell me, has the night been quiet?”

“Yes, sir. I am gratified to say that the worse seems to be behind us.”

“And how are you feeling after your brief glimpse into the abyss?” Bartholomew asked as he handed Rogers his coat and cane.

“Much better thank you, sir. I hope I find you well today?”

“I have the constitution of an ox, but thank you for your concern. Have we any new guests since yesterday?”

“Yes, sir, a few. The good news is some of them have not been touched by The Lingering. We are beginning to see people suffering from run of the mill maladies again. God forgive me for thinking such a thing a blessing, but that’s how it feels.” The old man tugged at his cap apologetically. “Beg your pardon, sir, but this hospital has been like a slaughter house for too long now. It is time to get back to treating the sick.”

Bartholomew patted the question mark shaped man on the back. “Well said, Rogers, you took the thoughts right out of my head. Now, point me towards my first patient.”

The old doorman smiled. “Matron is on the first floor, she has the list of our new comers. But seeing as you asked, I think your first visit will be with Martha Skinner. She lives just up the road from me, and she is with child.” Rogers moved closer to Bartholomew and gestured for him to bend, so he could whisper in his ear. Bartholomew lowered his head with a smile. “She is a bit of a sort, this young Martha. I wager the father could be one of half a dozen men. She has no idea who the bastard’s old man is. She has had one blessing though.”

Bartholomew straightened. “And what blessing might that be?”

“For some reason The Lingering left her whole family untouched. She lives with her dear old mum and dad. Her four brothers are still at home too. Not one of them suffered the curse. Not even when every house in the street had fallen to it.”

Bartholomew raised an intrigued eyebrow. “Really, how old is the girl?”

“Sixteen, sir, but she fornicates like a brass from the gutter.”

Bartholomew stared at Rogers disapprovingly. “She is a child! Comparing her to a prostitute is hardly the act of a Christian.”

Rogers tugged at his cap. “Sorry, sir, I got carried away.”

“Well, remember where you are. We are here to help the unfortunate. We are not here to judge them. Now be off with you.”

Rogers scurried off, cackling to himself as he went. Bartholomew shook his head, but smiled. In spite of his short falls, Rogers was a good man. He knew the old orderly never left his post, not even through the worst of the outbreak. Even when many of the other staff ran, he stood strong. Only a good man would act so.

Matron Morag Evans gestured towards a very young looking girl in a bed. “This is Martha, doctor; she is about ready to drop.” The matron’s deep, Welsh voice boomed off the walls of the stark ward. “I think the baby will be along very soon. Trouble is, doctor, the poor girl has felt no movement for over a day. I have explained to her what this means, but I think she needs to hear it from you.”

Bartholomew looked around the ward. All the other patients had their eyes locked on the poor child crying in the bed.

“Matron, might we not move her bed to one of the single rooms?”

Evans adjusted her apron; she looked annoyed by the suggestion. “Doctor, she is giving birth, the single rooms are meant only for isolation. This girl is not infectious, so she should remain here.”

Bartholomew took the portly woman by the arm and guided her to the centre of the ward, then whispered, “Matron, she is a child about to give birth to a dead baby. Surely she deserves a little privacy in her grief.”

Evans pulled her arm free of his grip. “The little trollop found no need for privacy when she conceived the child. She should have to …”

“Enough! Move her to one of the single rooms!” bellowed Bartholomew angrily.

Evans lowered her eyes. “Of course, doctor.”

“One more push, Martha, and this will all be over.” Bartholomew could see the top of the baby’s head. “Just push down for me one more time.”

Martha let out a pain filled cry, and wept, “Sorry, I ain’t got no more to give.” She slumped from her elbows back to the bed.

Evans grabbed the girl by the shoulders and lifted her back to a position conducive to pushing. “Martha, you have made your bed and now it is time to lie in it! Do as the doctor asks, and push!”

The young girl gritted her teeth and pushed. Her hair stuck to her sweat covered face, and the matron mopped it away with a wet rag. As she bore down, Martha’s face turned a startling shade of red.

With a gush, the tiny corpse emerged from her in a rush of pain and blood. She screamed, and slumped back into the sweat covered pillow. This time Morag Evans allowed her to rest.

“Matron, quickly, a clamp and some scissors.”

Evans moved with a speed which did not match her size. She shifted quickly from the girl’s side, to the tray of surgical instruments beside the bed. Deftly, she passed Bartholomew the tools he required.

He clamped off the umbilical which joined the dead child to the one that lived. Then he severed the connection completely. He lifted the tiny blue body from between its mother’s legs, and placed it on a table behind him. He then turned his attention back to Martha, who now sobbed uncontrollably.

“I am so sorry my dear, but you still have a little work to do. You have to push out the afterbirth.”

From behind him a faint gurgling could be heard, then a cry. Evans stared at him in disbelief, and he returned her gaze with equal amazement.

“I can hear my baby — is it alive?” cried Martha as she heaved herself back to her elbows.

Bartholomew turned back to the tiny infant, and examined it carefully. He watched as the child licked its mother’s blood from its lips, and its eyes turned from yellow to black. Evans now stood at his side, and she stifled a gasp. Apparently, the child now numbered among The Lingering, but how? Its mother had been free of the disease, so how had the child contracted the dreadful malady?

“Matron, pass me a scalpel?”

“What are you going to do?”

“God forgive me, but I am going to end this poor creature’s torment.”

Evans began to shake her head, slowly at first, but then more wildly. “You cannot, the child lives.”

Bartholomew shot her an angry look. “This child is not living flesh and blood. It is an abomination to God and man alike!”

“Is it alive? I can hear it cry — does my baby live?”

Both Evans and Bartholomew turned towards young Martha. Both had forgotten the mother.

“Martha, my dear,” whispered Bartholomew, “Your child is not alive. It suffers from The Lingering.”

“That ain’t possible, none of me family had it. Give it to me, I want to see it.”

Evans moved towards the tiny infant and lifted it from the table. Its head flopped on a neck too weak to hold it, but its mouth gnashed hungrily at the matron’s flesh. Evans shuddered visibly, and lifted the child towards its mother.

Martha screamed at the sight of the monster she had just born. Its black eyes blinked while its toothless mouth chomped. Then it started to screech like a banshee.

“Take it away, that ain’t my child. That’s somethin’ from Hell. I’m being punished, I am. God is punishing me for being a harlot.” Martha raised her eyes and hands to Heaven. “Sweet Jesus, I’m right sorry I am. Please forgive me and take this beast away.”

Bartholomew grabbed the baby from Evans’s hands, and slammed it back on the table.

“Give me that damned scalpel!”

Evans fumbled with the tray of equipment, and it fell to the floor. She dropped to her knees and snatched up the blade. With a grunt of exertion she struggled back to her feet and passed the doctor the knife.

Bartholomew looked heavenward too, and said. “Forgive me, Lord.”

With that he plunged the blade between the baby’s eyes and twisted. The abomination fell instantly silent.

Matron Morag Evans wavered on her feet, then threw up at the foot of the bed. Bartholomew steadied her with a trembling hand, and then looked at the young girl who had just given birth.

Martha’s eyes were distant and vague. She mumbled something he could not quite make out. He lowered the now sobbing Evans to the floor, then moved closer to his patient. He placed his ear an inch from the girl’s mouth, then began to cry at her words.

“I am damned. I am damned.” Over and over again she whispered those three terrible words.

He took her in his arms and sobbed like he had never sobbed before. “I think we all are, my dear,” he said as he gulped for air.

***

Bartholomew sipped at a large glass of port, and eyed the man sat across from him kindly. Once again Rogers had stepped up when needed. He had taken care of the tiny body, and he had treated it with respect and dignity. Something few could have done.

“What does this mean, Doctor?” Rogers asked after more than an hour of silence. “Why did that child have The Lingering?”

Bartholomew downed the last of his drink, before pondering the old man’s question. “I fear the child’s fate may await us all. Tell me, Rogers, have any other patients been admitted who were free of The Lingering, but now face their end?”

Rogers rubbed his chin, and nodded slowly. “Dr Jenkins has a patient on the third floor.”

“And for what reason does this individual now join us?”

“The poor fellow fell from a roof while fixing some slates, he broke his back. Young Dr Jenkins says he will be lucky to last the night.”

“A broken back you say. If I am right, and The Lingering awaits us all, then at least he will pose no threat. Come, Rogers, show me this man.”

Rogers heaved himself from his chair, and offered his superior a helping hand. Bartholomew took it and struggled from his seat. It took the two several minutes to ascend to the third floor. On their arrival, they saw a young doctor dozing in an armchair.

Bartholomew cleared his throat, and the handsome young man leaped from his seat. Bleary eyed, he looked at the two standing before him.

“Dr Bartholomew, to what do I owe this pleasure? Rarely do you visit my wards.”

“Rogers here tells me you have a man with a broken back, and you believe his end is near.”

Jenkins nodded and ran a hand through his unruly blonde hair. “Yes, Mr Williams fell onto a cart and snapped his back. I have no idea how he survived the fall, for he should have died at the scene. He now resides under my care, but there is little I can do for him, except make him comfortable.”

Bartholomew nodded. “May I see him?”

Jenkins brow furrowed. “Of course, but to what end?”

Bartholomew took him by the shoulder and turned him towards the doors of his ward. “Earlier today I delivered a child to a woman untouched by The Lingering. The child was a still-born, yet it continued to breathe. It had the dreaded disease, and if I am right, I fear a similar fate awaits us all.”

Jenkins stopped and looked at him. “You believe The Lingering resides in us all?”

“If this Mr Williams of yours passes from this world in peace, then I am wrong. However, if his passing is taken from him by the disease, then I must conclude my hypothesis is correct. Now come, we must not miss his passing.” He turned to Rogers. “No one enters this ward, no one.”

Rogers tugged at his cap and took the seat which Jenkins had just vacated.

The two doctors watched Williams intently. For more than three hours the man continued to live, but finally his body yielded to its injuries. However, another hour passed before The Lingering took hold.

Jenkins jumped to his feet. “Dr Bartholomew, look — you were right!”

Bartholomew struggled wearily to his feet and looked at the yellow-eyed creature lying motionless in the bed.

“Dr Jenkins, pass me a needle.”

The young doctor did as he asked. He retrieved a needle from a syringe, and passed it to the elderly doctor standing beside the bed. Bartholomew pricked his finger and allowed a drop of his blood to fall onto the thing’s lips. The change was instantaneous. In less time than it took Bartholomew’s heart to beat, the placid yellow-eyed creature, turned into a black-eyed monster.