111 West End

Chapter Eleven: The Doctor

Georgie slept soundly until eleven-thirty. Her dreamless sleep was interrupted when a male voice whispered into her ear, "Let me in."
Still asleep, she pulled back the duvet and slipped out of bed. Georgie walked whilst dreaming of the man whose portrait hung at the top of the stairs.

*

1824,

The table was set for two. The crystal glasses, silver cutlery, and bone china glinted in the candlelight. A last meal of roast beef, new potatoes, baby carrots, and green beans filled the table.

Arthur poured the wine and sat at the head of the table. Bowing his head and closing his eyes he mumbled a few words of gratitude for the food before serving two slices of meat, four potatoes, and a large helping of vegetables onto both plates.

The food was edible. The meat was a little tough, the potatoes a tad under-cooked, but the carrots and green beans were nice and the wine was excellent.

Arthur ate and drank slowly, and when he had finished, he rose from the table. Carefully he folded his napkin and placed it on top of his plate. For a moment he surveyed the untouched food on the plate to his right, the still full glass of wine, and the empty chair, and turning he walked towards the door.

Arthur picked up the oil lamp from the sideboard before stepping into the dark hall. At the other end stood the grandfather clock. Ticking. It was always ticking.

His hand groped for the wall and steadying himself he continued along the hall, turning into the parlour. A grand room, redesigned by his wife. Lately, it stayed empty, dark, and cold. From the parlour, he walked into a narrower hall with a door to his left.

The stairs twisted downwards in a spiral. The darkness below was replaced by the light from his lamp. Round and down he went, each step growing heavier. Once his feet touched the flagstone floor, he took the keys from his pocket and unlocked the heavy metal door. Lifting the lamp he squinted in the faint light. His hand swept along the highest shelf, searching for what he knew was there. When his fingers brushed over the roughness of the rope he pulled it down and slung it over his shoulder.

He did not bother to lock the door when he left.

One step after another he climbed the main staircase. Twelve steps and then a turn, a landing, another ten steps and a turn, a half-landing, another twelve steps and a turn onto the gallery.

Arthur pulled the banisters, hard. Like he had done yesterday and the day before. Checking it was sturdy, making sure it would not buckle. Convinced it would hold his weight, he looped the rope around two spindles and tied a knot, once, twice, three times, to be sure.

He had learnt how to tie a noose correctly and he knew where to place the knot so his death would be instant. His neck would break and he would feel nothing. His nightmare would be over.

Arthur draped the rope around his neck. The house was silent except for the ticking. He tried to swallow, but his throat was dry as panic consumed him. He rubbed the sweat from his palms onto his jacket. His head swam as the floor below him heaved.

It was so far to fall, but was it far enough? He had considered the drop and measured it. He took a step back and slowed his breathing.

One, the clock chimed.

Two, soon.

Three, he would never have to explain to another grief-stricken mother how he had failed to save their child.

Four, breathe.

Five, he would never sign another death certificate.

Six.

Seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven. He counted each chime until the last.

Twelve.

A wisp of a breeze rustled his hair as he climbed over the banister and his hands trembled as he gripped the wood.

"God forgive me. I did my best." He closed his eyes and let go.

"Arthur, no!."

Arthur heard his wife as he fell.

There was no quick death. No broken neck. His wife stood in the doorway and watched as he dropped from the gallery, and it was her piercing screams that woke the neighbours.

Along the dark hall, the grandfather clock that always ticked stopped—At exactly five minutes past midnight.

*

Georgie snapped awake, standing in the lounge by the window, and looking out at the garden. By the pond, in the moonlight, Doctor Arthur Bennet pointed to the grass by his feet.

In a daze, Georgie left the lounge and climbed the stairs, past the portrait, and into her bedroom. As she slid into bed the duvet tuck in around her and Doctor Arthur Bennet whispered, "Goodnight, Georgie."