The Warlow Experiment Read online

  Catherine was shocked. How lucky she’d been to have escaped this situation herself. She might have carried Abraham’s child! Have lost her employment. Have had to live with him or flee and make her own way. Was Hannah simply terrified that John would get to hear, that she kept away from Moreham House? Or was it something else? It disgusted her that Mr Powyss’s child was soon to be born and he, he did nothing but sit at home and dose himself with the contraband brandy which Jenkins was obtaining for him.

  ‘He should know, Hannah!’

  ‘No. And you must not tell him!’ She rose awkwardly. ‘Please do not tell him. Promise me!’

  ‘I promise,’ Catherine said too quickly.

  Walking back, she admitted to herself that her curiosity had got the better of her, that the visit had been fruitless. There was nothing more she could tell John Warlow.

  And her feelings fought within her. For some time she had been sorry for him. The man had become like an animal; she wanted to help him retrieve his humanity if she could. But now she was more sorry for Hannah.

  She felt a terrible dread. She wanted to storm into Powyss’s room and shout at the man. Shake him into action before it was too late.

  * * *

  —

  EACH DAY he talks to the woman. He’s sure she’s not a devil: he’s seen her feet. Catherine. She tells him to take down some pieces of wood. Calls it a barricade.

  He shifts bits from the top. Wedges them under the table. Planks, boards, strips, slats. Legs, backs, seats, doors, drawers.

  ‘Much better, John. Now I don’t have to get down on my knees.’

  Same for him. He stands, expectant.

  ‘John, I have seen your daughters Margaret and Polly.’

  ‘Oh, Polly!’

  ‘They look very well.’

  ‘Oh.’

  There’s nothing else she can say about them, hearing the vagueness cloud his voice.

  ‘If only you could shift the…are they bookshelves?’ So he does and they’re face-to-face in the glimmering light.

  She takes a step back. He sees it. Don’t go, he thinks. Puts his hands to his face. Great beard all down his chest. Quick, hide away nails, claw hands! She’s trying to smile. Dark woman. Not pretty.

  If he could reach her he’d put his arms about her. Hold her close to him. Feel the warmth of her body. Hold her. Oh, hold her.

  ‘I think Cook is calling me,’ she says. He can’t hear it.

  She turns. Runs up the steps.

  He’s desolate when she’s gone.

  She won’t come back now, will she. Won’t talk to him. Kindly.

  Is his face so bad? No glass, can’t look. She saw his claw nails. He holds his body tight, embracing it. Torn with scabs, scars, pain; she can’t see that, can she, where he’s dug at the sores? But what she saw was enough.

  He should never have removed the pile. The other one will come now. She’s a devil. Or Powyss. Or Jenkins. She said they’re in the house. Not gone down to hell.

  He lifts up the bookshelves then heaves them back on the table. A finger jams in the door swinging off its hinge. He sucks it and it tastes of soot.

  Behind the pile he’s safe again.

  10

  ABRAHAM PRICE had promised Powyss never to repeat his attack on Moreham House. He felt no obligation to keep the promise. Yet despite his tendency to act on impulse he had the sense not to want to lose his employment.

  Fury would keep exploding in his head like wind in the gut. He raged at Catherine, that she refused to speak to him, turned round and walked the other way if they met outside. He despised Powyss. He was exasperated by Warlow, who’d begun so well with his destruction but now lurked in his dungeon like a dim mole and wouldn’t come out.

  He caught sight of Hannah Warlow one day with her great belly and that set him muttering and fuming. His hands trembled with a desire to grip and crush. He couldn’t keep still, ran in the opposite direction from her and took a sledgehammer to the quarry by the plantation to smash some stone to dust.

  One May morning, early, as she unlocked the outer door to the kitchens, Catherine found herself pushed backwards by Price, who burst through, clasped one hand over her mouth and snatched the bunch of keys with the other. Muffling her face with her shawl, he forced her into the dairy, where he held her down on the damp flags and fucked her until he’d spent his violence.

  No words were spoken. He pocketed the keys and left.

  * * *

  —

  DAYS MERGED. Powyss knew no date though the light ticked somewhere in his mind. He existed in a mist, noticing nothing but what was immediately before him, his fingers, his knees, his glass. He sat at his desk, picked up his pen, put it down. Stood to look out of the window, at a scene too familiar to see. Walked to the other side of the room from the bottles of brandy, port. Checked there was laudanum in his pocket. Took up a book, flicked through the pages. James Hutton, Theory of the Earth. Why did he have that? Put it back on a shelf, any shelf. Sat down, stared at a newspaper flung at his feet. Threat of Invasion. Walked to the window again. Closed his eyes. Rubbed his throbbing temples. Half-filled a glass and drank.

  Sometimes a previous self emerged. Told him that he should have met with Price weeks ago, run through this year’s sowing plan, the tasks for the labourers; checked the condition of seeds collected last year; inspected the young trees in the orchard and plantation for signs of new growth. Had any not survived the winter?

  There was always tomorrow.

  Much later, when Jenkins said Catherine asked to speak to him he was not displeased at the diversion.

  ‘Sir, I do believe Abraham Price is planning something.’

  ‘Oh. What do you mean?’ He looked at her and remembered Fox’s comments about intelligence despite her looks.

  ‘He has stolen some keys. I could not prevent him,’ she added.

  Here was a trial, another puzzle he could not solve. ‘When?’

  ‘This morning, sir.’

  ‘Why did you not report it then?’

  ‘I was not well.’ He noticed that she was subdued, not like herself. He’d always thought her lively, even impertinent.

  ‘Of course you know Price.’

  ‘No! I have nothing to do with him no more!’

  ‘And yet you say this?’

  ‘Mr Powyss, sir, he has stolen the keys to the kitchen and cellars. I do think he has plans to get John Warlow out.’

  ‘I see. Thank you for this information, Catherine. I shall endeavour to deal with it,’ he heard himself say from a distance.

  ‘And, sir. Mrs Warlow is brought to bed this month.’

  He closed his eyes, dismissed her; she was impertinent.

  He waited for her words to take effect. When he looked up, it was still light; he longed for darkness. He wished Price would remove Warlow, take him far away into Wales, from where he need never come back. Warlow was a sore. Powyss had freed himself from the shackles of the experiment itself, but beneath, the skin had rubbed away and bled without cease.

  Yet if Warlow were to get out at last?

  Powyss had become adept at forbidding memory, at disallowing speculation. His mental life was blank, drear, his calm alcohol- and opiate-induced. Then as dusk came on an image of Hannah, swollen with child, moved slowly through his mind, slowly, silently towards darkness. Her quiet perfection, her unaccusing look of goodness, her smiles when finally won, gladsome though quick to retreat. Her pleasure. Her magnanimity. Her offer: I am yours.

  Why had he let her go? How could he have lost her? How had he carelessly let this…Oh, it was love! It was love. Finally he knew what it was. That’s what love was. And he had carelessly let it pour away into the ground! Irretrievable. Why had he done this? He had abandoned her, abandoned her just because he could not keep her.

  And the c
hild. What was that thought he’d had about the child?

  He sought his glass, brandy, the consolation of cloves and laudanum: welcomed blurring, longed-for sleep, annihilation. Stayed his hand long enough to write four words on a sheet, fold it and instruct Samuel to deliver it in the morning.

  * * *

  —

  ALTHOUGH SEVERAL MEN attended Price’s ‘meetings’ only two were swept into his plan of action. One was Caleb Hughes, young, idealistic, inspired by the knowledge that, like him, his hero Thomas Hardy was a cobbler. The other, Rhys – it was his only name – was a labourer like Warlow, long disgruntled with all employers and particularly Powyss, who once had dismissed him for theft. Neither was fired by the Irish rebellion as was Price, but both had taken part in the attack on Moreham House and were convinced by Price’s assurances that this time all was simple. For a reason, obscure even to himself, Price kept Jack Warlow out of his plan. Forbade him with threats to leave his master gardener’s cottage.

  When the household was asleep they unlocked the door of the back kitchen and tiptoed in. Past Samuel sleeping fitfully, dreaming of brave deeds on a truckle bed in the narrow corridor between the back and main kitchens.

  They were down the two flights of steps in moments and stood at Warlow’s barrier, listening. There was no light, no sound.

  ‘Get him down,’ Price whispered, taking one corner of the bookshelves. ‘Quietly, isn’t it.’

  With remarkable delicacy they removed each piece until the entrance was restored and, Price leading, stepped inside.

  The room was completely dark. They held up their lamps, stood amazed. There was but one piece of whole furniture: a chair by the dead fire, its back stabbed, springs obtruding like mad manacles. A doorless cupboard leaned, a wooden chair sat legless on the ground. Fragments of wood, shattered glass and china covered the floor entirely except for two pathways and a space by the hearth where a cat lay in a tight ball up against the grate’s last heat. One pathway led to the doorless cupboard. Price started along the other, his finger to his lips.

  He had instructed the two not to frighten Warlow. Said that the stupid cow Rentfree had terrified him with her loud voice. Now he called out gently:

  ‘Warlow. John Warlow. Your friends are come.’ The pathway took them out of the room along the narrow corridor. They stopped to listen at a closed door, heard thumping and scuffling noises, a groan, then nothing.

  Price knocked. ‘John. Are you there? Your friends are here. Citizens, John. Will us come in?’

  Nothing.

  Price opened the door, held up his lamp as he stepped into the bedroom. It was not destroyed like the other room, yet there was no sign of Warlow.

  ‘John, where are you? I am Abraham Price. I think you knows me? And here’s Rhys. You remembers him? And young Caleb Hughes, cobbler’s son. Us’ve come to take you home, isn’t it.’

  There was a terrible sob from under the bed.

  ‘Ah, John! There you are! Let’s help you out.’

  ‘Devils! Come for me! Don’t take me, don’t!’

  ‘No, no, John. The devils are women.’ Price was well prepared. ‘Devils are women. Women are devils. Us is not devils, but working men like you, isn’t it, men?’

  Caleb and Rhys assented loudly.

  ‘Show your feet! Show your hoofs to me!’

  The men looked at each other, but Price had his boots off in a moment.

  ‘Here, John. Him’s no hoof, see?’ Pulled off an earthy stocking. ‘Toes, isn’t it.’ The other two did the same and a row of naked feet stood by the bed.

  ‘All men, see? Not a devil among us. Here, John, let me help you out,’ said Price.

  His hand was ignored. A knee appeared, a calf in shredded stocking, a foot in gape-mouthed boot. Another sob, smaller. The second leg was followed by the body squirming slowly to keep below the bed frame, heaving like a sick ram unsheared, a great shaggy head and, clear of the bed, Warlow rose onto all fours and turned his face to his rescuers.

  He was at once terrifying and woeful, disgusting and pitiable. A choking stench came out with him from under the bed and Rhys turned from the room and fled, shoeless, his hand over his mouth.

  ‘Come, John, let me help you up,’ said Price, apparently unmoved by what he saw and smelled and unwilling to call Rhys back.

  Warlow shook his head, gripped the bed frame, pushed himself up to standing with evident pain and peered with wet eyes at Price and Caleb.

  ‘Us’ll take you home, John. You needs not live here no more.’

  Warlow didn’t answer but lit a candle end with shaking hands and shuffled out. They followed him into the big room. He went over to the grate, got down onto his knees and began to scrape out the ashes with his claws and make small noises to the cat.

  ‘You’ll make a fire in your own house, John.’

  Perhaps he didn’t hear. He broke up twigs and laid the fire with small wood and coal, lit it with the candle, rubbed his hands together over the flames as they caught.

  ‘Now, John, it be a good time to come home. You can tiptoe in all quiet like. Us’ll help you. Up the stairs, out, along the path into the lane, through the wood. You remember?’

  ‘Catherine’ll bring me food.’

  Price growled. ‘You’ve a wife to bring you food, John. And childer.’

  Warlow waved his hand, wishing them away. ‘Catherine’ll bring food. Her be no devil.’

  ‘John, you have a home, isn’t it!’ Price’s patience was ebbing rapidly.

  ‘Fifty pound. Fifty pound a year.’

  ‘Not any more. That’s over, Warlow.’

  ‘Not over. Fifty pound for life!’

  ‘Oh, Powyss will give you your money. Powyss owes you a lot of money, Warlow, isn’t it.’

  ‘Devils took Powyss,’ Warlow muttered. ‘Or. Catherine said…’

  ‘Her knows nothing,’ Price said with disgust. ‘The devils should take Powyss. Come now, John.’

  ‘No. No. Not now. Another time.’

  ‘Yes. You must come. You must. Powyss do fuck your wife, John Warlow!’

  Warlow looked at him bemused. He wasn’t really sure who this man was.

  ‘Your wife. Your wife, Hannah. Remember her?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said slowly. ‘I did have a wife. That were long afore. She did die, I think. I lives here now. I has my bed. My cat. Catherine bring my food. You go now.’

  ‘Warlow, you have a wife. Even while you lives here.’

  ‘I have a wife?’

  ‘Yes, you have, yes. And while you’ve been down here, a prisoner, Powyss and she…’

  ‘I be a prisoner?’

  ‘Yes, Powyss have put you in this prison, John, and him’s had Hannah in his bed. Powyss do fuck your wife!’

  ‘Ohh! Oh!’ His head jerked sideways as suddenly, finally, he began to understand.

  ‘Think on your wife’s mother, my friend. How she did fuck and fuck with Kempton, hatched all his brats. But Powyss be the devil himself, John. And now your wife do bear the devil’s brat. You must come home and see for yourself. Come now.’

  Price and Caleb helped Warlow to his feet, guided him gently by the elbows. Shuffling between them he became a docile child. He said nothing, but needed to rest often, panting with the physical effort greater than any he’d made for years. The stairs were the hardest; they must tell him which foot to raise and when to do it. Once out of the house he staggered at the slash of night air and shrank, oppressed by sudden space.

  Caleb spoke to Price in a hushed voice: ‘I’ll see him to his house, but mother’ll worry if her finds me gone.’

  ‘Her’ll not know.’

  ‘If her gets up in the night.’

  Price dismissed this, but Caleb was troubled.

  ‘I don’t think it right to tell him of his wife.’

&
nbsp; ‘Sshh!’ But Warlow, puffing and groaning with every step, neither listened nor heard.

  ‘I fear it.’

  ‘Then don’t.’

  ‘Not right to tell him. I wants no trouble.’

  Price spat.

  ‘You take him now, Abraham,’ Caleb said, shivering. ‘G’night.’

  Price thought good riddance and stood with Warlow not far from his house whilst he rested and gasped for more breath.

  ‘Women be devils, John. Devils and whores. Them’ll lift their skirts to any man with a prick big or small. Them’s itchy as hell.’

  They went on.

  * * *

  —

  POWYSS HELD the first page of Fox’s letter over the candle flame. As it blackened from the centre outwards he read:

   trial   against me entirely

     seduced Fanny ornament to her sex

  conjugal fidelity and maternal   in my own defence

  law of Greenland in respect to whales let go

    of the drogue

   implied slight    too cruel

  Then the second page:

  Thoroughly shamed!

   damages  immediately to sell my house

  income, for the rest of my  lost all my London friends

   miserable self-induced

  There came a third page:

      Throw myself on your mercy

   live in M    help you in your diff

  Few valuable books bring the new Flora Londinensis

  Curled. Blackened. All was ash.

  * * *

  —

  NO LIGHT. They find a rush on the table. The man Price lights it from his lamp. He remembers that smell of greasy scummings.

  Price shakes his hand.

  ‘Good luck, citizen,’ he says in a low voice and goes.

  Warlow’s never been so tired. Legs ache up and down. Fire’s out. He sits by its last warmth, covers his knees with a shawl hanging on the back of the chair. Falls deeply asleep.