Elephant Man - Christine Sparks [97]
Then Merrick made no further attempt. He had submitted totally to the despair that engulfed him, for he knew that hell waited for him again, but this time twice as dreadful for the glimpse he had had of another world, and there was no hope anywhere.
There was only the darkness, and fear, and Bytes’ voice whispering, “We’re moving on again, my treasure.”
The bright morning sun gave a cold edge to the wreck of Merrick’s room. Treves, standing in the doorway, took in the smashed cathedral, the picture of Merrick’s mother lying face up on the floor, and—strangely—a penny lying beside it. He determinedly fought down the cold grip of horror in his stomach. It was too soon yet to think …
As a last hope he flung open the door to the bathroom, but it was empty as in his heart he had known it would be. To the last moment he clung to the possibility that Merrick might have damaged the room in the frenzied grip of a nightmare, but when the Elephant Man was nowhere to be found Treves knew he was dealing with something evil.
Within a few minutes he knew the worst. In the corridor he was stopped by Nettleton, who had a story to tell. Nettleton slept on the hospital premises, in an attic room overlooking Bedstead Square, and last night he had been roused from his slumbers by a commotion below.
“Why the hell didn’t you do something?” Treves raged, “call somebody—rouse the hospital—something?” Frustration choked him.
“I didn’t know what to do, Mr. Treves,” Nettleton said miserably. “You weren’t there or I’d have called you and—I didn’t know what to do—”
“You just let him be taken away and never lifted a finger to help him …”
“No, honest, Mr. Treves, I never saw him being taken away. Last thing I saw he was going back inside, through the window. I thought he’d be all right after that so I went back to bed. I never knew about anything else happening—honest.”
He was telling the truth, Treves realized. Nettleton was thick-headed and lacking in initiative. He worked within the rules and when the rules did not tell him what to do he was lost. But he was not vicious. Blaming him would help no one.
“Are you sure you recognized Bytes?” Treves demanded wearily.
“I dunno his name, but I seen ’im before. He come in one day and slipped through the Receiving Room when ’e thought no one was watching ’im. I went after ’im to stop ’im but I heard you and ’im having a shouting ma—talking, so I reckoned it was all right if you knew ’e was there.”
“And you saw him again last night? You’re sure of that? You were a long way away.”
“There was a good moon, Mr. Treves, and you can’t mistake that ’at of ’is.”
“All right. That’ll be all, Nettleton.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Treves—”
“All right, all right, I don’t blame you.”
Treves had been vaguely aware of Mothershead passing down the corridor toward Merrick’s room. Now he saw her reappear and stand as if stunned. But he had no time to explain anything to her now. He had urgent business. At this time of the morning he should find Renshaw building up the furnace in the operating room stove.
He covered the distance at a run, flinging the door open and standing stock still on the threshold as his eyes took in exactly what he had expected to see. Renshaw was applying a bellows to the old coals which were still hot, causing a vile smoke to rise from them. He looked hung over, but sleek, contented, and satisfied with life. The sight of that smug, brutal face filled Treves with a coldly murderous rage such as he had never known before. He knew now how men killed for the joy of it.
Renshaw became aware that he was being watched, and looked up. Treves’ face, black with fury, told him that he hadn’t got away with the previous night’s antics, and the doctor’s first words reduced his innards to pulp.
“Where is he?” Treves shouted.
Renshaw found that his mouth would form no reply,