very fact that as she spoke the darting tongue spoke too paralysed action. Marda West felt sickness rise in her stomach, choking her, and suddenly physical reaction proved too strong. She turned away, but as she did so the steady hands of the nurse gripped her, she suffered herself to be led to her bed, she was lying down, eyes closed, the nausea passing.
‘Poor dear, what have they been giving you? Was it the sedative? I saw it on your chart,’ and the gentle voice, so soothing and so calm, could only belong to one who understood. The patient did not open her eyes. She did not dare. She lay there on the bed, waiting.
‘It’s been too much for you,’ said the voice. ‘They should have kept you quiet, the first day. Did you have visitors?’
‘No.’
‘Nevertheless, you should have rested.You look really pale. We can’t have Mr West seeing you like this. I’ve half a mind to telephone him to stay away.’
‘No . . . please, I want to see him. I must see him.’
Fear made her open her eyes, but directly she did so the sickness gripped her again, for the snake’s head, longer than before, was twisting out of its nurse’s collar, and for the first time she saw the hooded eye, a pin’s head, hidden. She put her hand over her mouth to stifle her cry.
A sound came from Nurse Ansel, expressing disquiet.
‘Something has turned you very sick,’ she said. ‘It can’t be the sedative. You’ve often had it before. What was the dinner this evening?’
‘Steamed fish. I wasn’t hungry.’
‘I wonder if it was fresh. I’ll see if anyone has complained. Meanwhile, lie still, dear, and don’t upset yourself.’
The door quietly opened and closed again, and Marda West, disobeying instructions, slipped from her bed and seized the first weapon that came to hand, her nail-scissors. Then she returned to her bed again, her heart beating fast, the scissors concealed beneath the sheet. Revulsion had been too great. She must defend herself, should the snake approach her. Now she was certain that what was happening was real, was true. Some evil force encompassed the nursing-home and its inhabitants, the Matron, the nurses, the visiting doctors, her surgeon - they were all caught up in it, they were all partners in some gigantic crime, the purpose of which could not be understood. Here, in Upper Watling Street, the malevolent plot was in process of being hatched, and she, Marda West, was one of the pawns; in some way they were to use her as an instrument.
One thing was very certain. She must not let them know that she suspected them. She must try and behave with Nurse Ansel as she had done hitherto. One slip, and she was lost. She must pretend to be better. If she let sickness overcome her, Nurse Ansel might bend over her with that snake’s head, that darting tongue.
The door opened and she was back. Marda West clenched her hands under the sheet. Then she forced a smile.
‘What a nuisance I am,’ she said. ‘I felt giddy, but I’m better now.’
The gliding snake held a bottle in her hand. She came over to the wash-basin and, taking the medicine-glass, poured out three drops.
‘This should settle it, Mrs West,’ she said, and fear gripped the patient once again, for surely the words themselves constituted a threat. ‘This should settle it’ - settle what? Settle her finish? The liquid had no colour, but that meant nothing. She took the medicine-glass handed to her, and invented a subterfuge.
‘Could you find me a clean handkerchief, in the drawer there?’
‘Of course.’
The snake turned its head, and as it did so Marda West poured the contents of the glass on to the floor.Then fascinated, repelled, she watched the twisting head peer into the contents of the dressing-table drawer, search for a handkerchief, and bring it back again. Marda West held her breath as it drew near the bed, and this time she noticed that the neck was not the smooth glow-worm neck that it had seemed on first encounter, but had
‘Poor dear, what have they been giving you? Was it the sedative? I saw it on your chart,’ and the gentle voice, so soothing and so calm, could only belong to one who understood. The patient did not open her eyes. She did not dare. She lay there on the bed, waiting.
‘It’s been too much for you,’ said the voice. ‘They should have kept you quiet, the first day. Did you have visitors?’
‘No.’
‘Nevertheless, you should have rested.You look really pale. We can’t have Mr West seeing you like this. I’ve half a mind to telephone him to stay away.’
‘No . . . please, I want to see him. I must see him.’
Fear made her open her eyes, but directly she did so the sickness gripped her again, for the snake’s head, longer than before, was twisting out of its nurse’s collar, and for the first time she saw the hooded eye, a pin’s head, hidden. She put her hand over her mouth to stifle her cry.
A sound came from Nurse Ansel, expressing disquiet.
‘Something has turned you very sick,’ she said. ‘It can’t be the sedative. You’ve often had it before. What was the dinner this evening?’
‘Steamed fish. I wasn’t hungry.’
‘I wonder if it was fresh. I’ll see if anyone has complained. Meanwhile, lie still, dear, and don’t upset yourself.’
The door quietly opened and closed again, and Marda West, disobeying instructions, slipped from her bed and seized the first weapon that came to hand, her nail-scissors. Then she returned to her bed again, her heart beating fast, the scissors concealed beneath the sheet. Revulsion had been too great. She must defend herself, should the snake approach her. Now she was certain that what was happening was real, was true. Some evil force encompassed the nursing-home and its inhabitants, the Matron, the nurses, the visiting doctors, her surgeon - they were all caught up in it, they were all partners in some gigantic crime, the purpose of which could not be understood. Here, in Upper Watling Street, the malevolent plot was in process of being hatched, and she, Marda West, was one of the pawns; in some way they were to use her as an instrument.
One thing was very certain. She must not let them know that she suspected them. She must try and behave with Nurse Ansel as she had done hitherto. One slip, and she was lost. She must pretend to be better. If she let sickness overcome her, Nurse Ansel might bend over her with that snake’s head, that darting tongue.
The door opened and she was back. Marda West clenched her hands under the sheet. Then she forced a smile.
‘What a nuisance I am,’ she said. ‘I felt giddy, but I’m better now.’
The gliding snake held a bottle in her hand. She came over to the wash-basin and, taking the medicine-glass, poured out three drops.
‘This should settle it, Mrs West,’ she said, and fear gripped the patient once again, for surely the words themselves constituted a threat. ‘This should settle it’ - settle what? Settle her finish? The liquid had no colour, but that meant nothing. She took the medicine-glass handed to her, and invented a subterfuge.
‘Could you find me a clean handkerchief, in the drawer there?’
‘Of course.’
The snake turned its head, and as it did so Marda West poured the contents of the glass on to the floor.Then fascinated, repelled, she watched the twisting head peer into the contents of the dressing-table drawer, search for a handkerchief, and bring it back again. Marda West held her breath as it drew near the bed, and this time she noticed that the neck was not the smooth glow-worm neck that it had seemed on first encounter, but had
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