Soulmaker

  Chapter 17

  The wrought iron gates of the Feathersden Sanatorium may have been open but were no more welcoming because of it. Oaks with gnarled trunks stood as sentinels along the fence line. Ashden recalled the old fig’s deadly molten flow of wood and hurried past them, eyes down, up the gravel driveway to the equally unwelcoming front doors.

  The sign on the wall indicated visiting hours were underway. The closed doors suggested otherwise. Ashden knocked but the sound disappeared into the dense timber. He jiggled the handle and bent down to peer through the arched keyhole, turning his face side on to the grain. The handle dropped heavily down onto his forehead, preventing him from straightening up before the door opened. A short uniformed woman confronted him. In one hand she gripped a ring of keys that splayed out like metallic claws ready to strike. The other was poised on the door handle ready to slam it shut in his face. Her hair was pulled back in a French roll and a stripe of gray down her part made her look older than the stripe of pink lipstick on her mouth tried to pretend.

  “Yes?” her voice was as severe as her appearance.

  “Hello Ma’am,” said Ashden, rubbing his head. “I’ve come to visit my grandfather, Bill Johnson. I was told it was okay.” Ashden offered a tentative smile.

  “Mr Johnson does not have a grandchild.”

  Ashden couldn’t believe his plan was shredded already. “Well, he’s not my actual grandfather, he’s my godfather, but we were really close and I always called him my grandpa ‘cause I never had any ‘cause mine died before I was born.”

  She looked down her nose at his chocolate box and card. She tilted her head and scanned his appearance up and down. His long shorts and collared shirt, his knobbly knees and ruddy cheeks. Ashden willed a chain of thought into her eyes; See how he would cry if you turned him away. How sad, he’d just drag his feet down the entire driveway and scuff his leather shoes all the way home. Who could do that to a young boy looking for his Grandpa?

  “Young boys cannot enter without the strict supervision of their parents,” she snapped and swung shut the door. Ashden wedged his foot in the frame, wincing.

  “I’ve brought him some money from my mother because she wasn’t able to get here herself. She said he needs it. She’s not well herself and, well, I don’t have a dad who could have brought me.”

  The matron had stopped listening early on in his plea. “He could use the money, I suppose.” Her lashes quivered. “I’ll have to check your name on our register. You said you telephoned?”

  Ashden nodded and followed her to the office window inside the foyer.

  “I see. Well and good.” She returned the pen to her pocket. “Wait there.” She started down the corridor and pushed through a swing door with her bottom and disappeared.

  He drummed his fingers nervously on the lid of the chocolate box. It echoed in the emptiness of the sterile foyer. The air had the sharpness of bleach to it and he had to rub his eyes. Echoing down corridors were the atonal moanings of the insane.

  Heels snapped on tiles and the matron reappeared from the doorway waving imperiously for him to join her.

  “Your mother would have told you about your grandfather.”

  He nodded, butterflies in boots kicked against his stomach.

  “If he starts talking about his fantasy world I want you to agree with him pleasantly then come straight out and tell me. It gets him all worked up and I won’t put up with any nonsense. I’ve told him I’ll ban his privileges if he bothers anyone with that rubbish.”

  Privileges? Ashden wondered, raising his eyebrows.

  By now they were outside Room 14. The matron clicked her tongue and gave him one last stony stare. She about faced, double checked Mr Johnson through the peep window then unlocked his door with one of her claws.

  “Mr Johnson, your godson is here.” She spun on her heel and snapped out.

  Ashden poked his head around the door noticing firstly how the walls were scabbed over with faded printouts of toys, old newspaper articles, maps and scribbled lists that curled at the corners like flakes of skin. There were books like overstuffed sandwiches wedged side by side on shelves and in the centre of the room, angled strangely on his pillow much like a poorly placed toy himself, was Mr Johnson; ghostly pale and clasping his sheets with white knuckled hands.

  “It’s you!” the old man wheezed.