Looking for Jane (101)

It’s time to go.

She folds the letters in half and slides them down into her boot. With confident steps, she strides down the hall toward the kitchen. A mouse scurries along the countertop and out of sight, fleeing the disturbance. Maggie heads straight to the knife drawer. She slides it open and selects her favourite, a paring knife she always prefers. Medium length, with excellent control and a broad handle.

She stomps back across the foyer and with one last glance at Evelyn’s body, she creeps back up the staircase, almost stepping on the squeaky stair halfway up. But she won’t need to keep quiet much longer. She turns right at the top. She knows the locations of all the creaks in the floor; she sees them like a map in her mind as she picks her way down the hallway, carefully avoiding the floorboards that could betray her.

Gripping the knife so tightly her knuckles stand out white against the black handle, Maggie reaches for the doorknob of the Watchdog’s bedroom. An excited flare sparks in her gut at the thought of the justice she’s about to deliver. She knows her Bible. It’s been drilled into her brain since birth and aggressively reinforced over the course of her time at St. Agnes’s.

Assuredly, the evil man will not go unpunished.

She redoubles her grip on the knife and closes her eyes for a moment, preparing. She can feel the crinkle of paper in her boot and the hard steel of the knife handle as she sees Evelyn’s handwriting dance across her mind’s eye.

We were never in control. And this is something I can do to be in control.

She can still smell her own attacker’s breath on the back of her neck late at night. She can feel the strength of Joe’s hands holding her down.

She lets the rage flow freely again, lets it fill up her heart and mind and permeate every cell in her body as she pushes the door open into the dark silence of the Watchdog’s room. The heavy curtains are drawn over the large window and it takes Maggie’s eyes a moment to adjust to the dim light. She blinks several times, then sees the outline of the ornate chest of drawers, the bedposts, the lumpy blankets. She moves into the room. The Watchdog is lying on her back, fast asleep, arms curled up over her head like a serene child.

Maggie wonders, briefly, what she’s dreaming of. Then the corners of her own mouth curl up at the knowledge that she’s about to interrupt whatever sweetness the Watchdog is experiencing right now. That she’s in complete control, about to change this woman’s life forever, just like she’s changed theirs.

Tonight, the Watchdog is everyone Maggie needs her to be.

The mantel clock above the small fireplace ticks away the seconds, counting down for Maggie as she hesitates to act. The Watchdog moves, twitching one arm, then her head. Slowly she wakes, her eyes heavy with sleep. They focus on Maggie, whose heart skips a beat in her throat. It’s now or never.

She tightens her hold on the knife at her side and lunges forward, plunging the blade into the Watchdog with every ounce of her remaining strength.

The blood blooms onto the white linen sheets as the nun’s agonized scream fills the room. Maggie raises the knife and lowers it again as the nun’s arm whips out at her in panic and fury.

The Watchdog lets out another piercing scream, scrambling to press the sheet against the wounds in her leg and hip. She slides off the bed with a gasp, landing roughly on her knees.

Maggie flies from the room, leaving the Watchdog kneeling in a pool of blood, and nearly collides with Sister Agatha at the top of the stairs. She’s still in her dressing gown and cap, wide-eyed and fearful. Doors are opening all along the hallway. Maggie vaguely registers the sounds of other girls’ voices, calling questions to one another.

“What’s happening?”

“Good Lord, Maggie,” Sister Agatha gasps, taking in the blood smears on Maggie’s hands. She looks over Maggie’s shoulder toward the Watchdog’s door as the warden lets out an anguished cry for help.

“Come with me,” she mutters. “Quickly.”

She runs back down the hallway faster than Maggie has ever seen her move. Maggie is hard on Agatha’s heels as the young nun clambers down the old servants’ stairs at the back of the house and out into the kitchen. She lunges for the garden door, which is always dead-bolted and requires a key.

Agatha snatches the key ring from her pocket and fumbles with the lock, her hands shaking. Maggie can hear girls’ screams from upstairs now. Then Maggie’s blood runs cold at the voice of Father Leclerc, who has finally emerged from his room, shouting at the girls to be quiet, demanding answers.

“Your hands!” Agatha gasps.

Maggie dashes to the sink and turns the tap, runs her hands under the water, watching the blood disappear as her heart pounds in her throat.

The screaming from upstairs grows louder. Sister Agatha turns the door handle and opens it onto the back garden.

“Go, Maggie, go!” she says, breathless. “Just run and keep running. Go!”

They meet eyes for only a second, but Maggie sees everything that’s transpired over the past few months reflected in Agatha’s wide eyes.

The snap of the Watchdog’s whip.

Christmas candles and the smell of Pine-Sol.

Agatha with baby Jane in her arms, walking out the door of the Goodbye Room.

Evelyn’s body hanging from the doorway. The glittering glass beneath it.

Blood on her hands, a knife, and cold water.

“Thank you, Agatha,” she whispers.