The 14th Pan Book of Horror Stories

THE CLINIC Alex White

Ellen was the only child of a broken marriage. Her parents had parted when she was five, and for the next few years she spent most of her time at her kindergarten boarding school and the rest (except for three weeks with her mother at Eastbourne) in London with her father. She was very happy.

She loved both her father and his home with passion, enjoyed her school (which was a small private school near Cheltenham, run by two cosy, middle-aged women) very much indeed, but was rather scared of her mother.

She was a cheerful, willing child, polite, bright and sociable and, except with her mother, she found it very easy to get on with everyone around her.

When she was nine her mother married a Frenchman called Dr Joubert, and went to live with him and his thirteen-year-old daughter Thérèse in a tall, grey-shuttered, grim-looking house in the suburbs of Paris. The following Easter she sent for Ellen, in order to introduce her to her second papa, as she called him. The visit was not a success.

Dr Joubert was a florid, paunchy man with spaniel eyes, sensual, rather slack red lips and a chin which was never properly shaved. He had pudgy, dirty hands, and his clothes were always slightly soiled. He bounced rather than walked, and had a high, nasal laugh. What her mother could see in him, Ellen couldn’t imagine, but there was no doubt that she was in love with him, and he with her.

Thérèse was a heavy-faced, sulky-looking girl, with a large shapeless body and thick arms and legs. She was immensely vain and inordinately fond of clothes. She had immediately taken to her new maman, as indeed the new Madame Joubert had to her, and they had found a way of life completely congenial to them both. They got up in their dressing gowns to breakfast with the doctor, remaining thus clad nearly all morning. By noon they had managed to get dressed, and the doctor joined them for lunch, after which he returned to his surgery, and his womenfolk went out for an hour’s shopping. Exhausted by this, they retired for an afternoon siesta, then at half past five they began dressing again for the evening meal.

Ellen found the routine boring in the extreme. There was no one to play with, and all the books in the house were in French, so she couldn’t even read. She tried hard to like her new relatives, but found them rather repulsive, and her lack of French meant that she was excluded from most of the conversation. She counted the days until her return to England.

The doctor was evidently doing well in his profession, and from what little Ellen could gather from the family talk, she understood that his great ambition in life was to have a clinic named after him in the countryside in Provence, where he could give rest-cures for nervous (and rich) women. He was sure this would make his fortune. Madame Joubert and Thérèse were sure that it would, too.

Thérèse made no bones about the fact that she preferred the company of grown-ups to Ellen’s, that she thought of England as a barbaric country and of Ellen’s father as a monster. Occasionally she would question Ellen about her life, but always with contempt. ‘This house of yours in London, is it as big as ours?’ she asked one day.

‘It isn’t a house, it’s a ground-floor flat,’ said Ellen. ‘It’s quite big, and there is a nice garden.’

‘A flat? What is a flat?’

‘An apartment.’

‘I prefer a house.’

‘Yes, houses are nice.’

‘You have your own room?’

‘Yes.’

‘How many cars have you?’

‘Two.’

‘Do you have a Mercèdes like Papa?’

‘No.’

‘Mercèdes are the best cars in the world. Papa says so. This school of yours, is it a big school?’

‘No, it’s small.’

‘I should not like to go to a small school.’ Thérèse sounded scornful. ‘He is rich, your father?’ she went on.

‘Yes, I think so,’ said Ellen. ‘We have a chauffeur, a cook and a daily maid.’

Thérèse frowned. The Joubert household could only boast a femme de ménage. ‘Then why did he leave your poor mother penniless?’ she demanded.

Ellen tried hard not to lose her temper at this aspersion on her beloved father. She went scarlet, but said carefully, ‘I’m sure he gave Mummy money, He gives everyone money.’

‘No, my new maman had no money when he left her for this other woman,’ said Thérèse. ‘None at all.’

‘There is no other woman!’ exclaimed Ellen. ‘What other woman? I don’t know what you mean!’

‘Because you are too young to know,’ replied Thérèse calmly. ‘Your father has had many many women. They made your maman very unhappy. He also beat your maman, this rich father of yours.’

‘Of course he didn’t!’ said Ellen, tears of rage starting in her eyes. ‘He’s the kindest, sweetest man in the whole world.’

‘Yes, he beat your maman,’ stated Thérèse aggressively. ‘Often and often. My papa says maman told him she had bruises all over her all the time.’

‘It’s a lie!’ said Ellen. ‘He didn’t. He wouldn’t hurt a fly.’

‘We do not talk of flies, but of your maman,’ said Thérèse.

‘Stop it! Stop it!’ cried Ellen, shutting her eyes tightly, to avoid seeing the spiteful, triumphant face of her new stepsister. ‘I won’t listen.’

‘He is a brute, your father, and dull, maman says. Too dull to make love properly. All he can do is to be unfaithful, and to hurt people. Also he drinks.’

Ellen felt a violent hatred for Thérèse welling up inside her. ‘I won’t listen!’ she sobbed. ‘I love my father. He is not like you say. I hate you! I hate you!’ She suddenly lost control of herself. ‘I wish I could go back to him! I hate it here. I hate this house, I hate Dr Joubert. I hate you and I hate my mother. You’re horrible all of you. Horrible! Horrible!’

‘I shall tell what you say to our maman,’ said Thérèse, ‘and she will punish you.’

When Madame Joubert heard about Ellen’s outburst she became almost mad with fury. She shook the child until she was hysterical, she dispatched her to bed for two days, and sent up only bread and water to eat. She refused to talk to her when at last she allowed her downstairs, and she booked her return ticket to London immediately. Thérèse was delighted. Dr Joubert, too, seemed pleased, and Ellen herself was thankful to get home.

Two years later Ellen’s father was killed in a car accident, and to the child’s horror she was told she would be sent back to live with her mother. A second cousin whom she hardly knew broke the news to her. ‘But I can’t!’ she said. ‘I hate my mother.’

‘Now, now,’ reproved the cousin. ‘That’s no way to talk. Your mother is your only close relative. Who else would take care of you?’ So Ellen found herself in the grim, grey house near Paris again, and this time with a family that was actively hostile to her.

Her mother and Dr Joubert, though they were by now much more prosperous, still looked very much the same, and Dr Joubert had achieved his ambition of a clinic in Provence; but Thérèse, at fifteen, had changed out of all recognition. She thought of herself as grown up, wore make-up and high-heeled shoes, and had her hair permed in Paris. Unfortunately, she looked no more attractive than she had before, but she had developed physically, and with her hair piled on top of her head and a couple of the local boys taking her out on dates, she was having the time of her life.

Ellen was by now, at eleven, an exceptionally pretty little girl, but this didn’t endear her to her relatives, and in fact it made Thérèse dislike her more. None of the Jouberts had forgiven her for her behaviour two years ago, and she felt lonely and miserable nearly all the time. The death of her father had affected her a great deal, and she became pale, unsmiling and withdrawn. Her mother now made no secret of the fact that she detested her, and she and Thérèse were scarcely civil to her. Dr Joubert, however, surreptitiously pinched her bottom, overtly pinched her cheek, and showed alarming signs of physical attraction. She was sent to a local lycée, learnt French, and found that at school at any rate, life could be tolerable.

The years passed, and her prettiness became more pronounced. Thérèse and her mother became more and more jealous, and Dr Joubert more and more attracted. Finally, the inevitable happened, and one day when the other two women were out, the doctor tried to seduce her. She fought desperately, biting and kicking savagely, but in the middle of the struggle the door opened and Madame Joubert, who had returned unexpectedly, saw clearly what was happening. For days afterwards there were family quarrels. Ellen tried to justify herself, but this only enraged her mother more. Dr Joubert put the blame on Ellen, saying that although when the time came she had fought, Ellen had been leading him on, and that he was only human and a man at that, which his wife seemed to feel was excuse enough. Thérèse malevolently aided and abetted them both in their denunciations. Finally, a sort of peace settled, but an uneasy peace, which seemed to wait on events.

One evening Madame Joubert sent for Ellen to come to the drawing-room. It was a room she seldom entered these days, because she knew she was unwelcome. Besides, the room itself depressed her. It was high-ceilinged and painted in grey. The curtains were brown velvet, the furniture was dark-brown oak, and the loose covers on the sofa and armchairs were dark-brown linen. Dr Joubert sat in the brown armchair to the right of the gas fire, his wife to the left, and Thérèse sprawled on the sofa. Ellen chose a wooden chair between Thérèse and her mother. She sat down in silence, with her hands folded in her lap. For a little while no one said anything. They all simply stared. And she was worth staring at, at seventeen. She had pale red-gold hair, which hung to her shoulders, blue eyes, a beautiful pink and white complexion, and her figure was exquisite.

At last Dr Joubert cleared his throat. ‘Ellen, my child,’ he said pompously, putting his fat hands together across his paunch, ‘we have decided that as a family, we are in some danger of becoming disorientated, unless we take firm steps to prevent it. Do you agree?’

‘I don’t think I quite understand,’ said Ellen anxiously.

‘The point is,’ broke in Madame Joubert impetuously, ‘you’re not happy here, and you’re breaking the family apart, so we want you to go.’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Ellen.

‘It’s no good just being sorry!’ snapped her mother. ‘Something has got be done.’

‘Yes, Mother.’

‘So we thought perhaps you might like to get a job away from here,’ said Dr Joubert smoothly. ‘Does that appeal?’

As this was exactly what Ellen had asked for, over and over again, only to be rebuffed, she said nothing.

‘Would you like it?’ persisted Dr Joubert.

‘What sort of job were you thinking of?’ asked Ellen cautiously.

‘I thought you might like to go to Provence and work in my clinic,’ said Dr Joubert. ‘That way we can keep our eye on you, although you wouldn’t be living here.’

Ellen thought rapidly. She had no wish to be anywhere where the predatory doctor could get her under his thumb, but her position at her mother’s house was becoming so intolerable that almost anywhere away from home would seem to be an advantage. ‘Thank you,’ she said quietly. ‘That sounds very nice.’

The doctor’s eyes gleamed, and her mother and Thérèse exchanged quick glances.

Three days later she was on her way. She was sent by herself, and carried with her a letter from the doctor to the head of the clinic.

The clinic was magnificent to look at. It was a large, castellated stone building, superbly set in rolling parklands. No one seemed to be about in the grounds, which struck her as odd, since it was a beautiful sunny day; there were no cars outside the front door, either. She paid off the taxi, which had been sent to meet her at the station, and rang the door-bell.

The door was opened by a man in a white waistcoat, who looked at her unemotionally. He was quite young, with slanting eyes, and black hair en brosse.

‘I am Ellen Marley,’ said Ellen.

The man went on looking at her, but said nothing. She stepped into the hall and he shut the door behind her, took her suitcase and beckoned to her to follow him. Rather surprised, Ellen did as she was told. She tried to engage him in conversation, but he paid no attention at all. He led her along the hall, up two flights of stairs, along a very long corridor to one of the towers which stood at the four corners of the building, and then climbed more stairs, until at last they came to a white door, marked ‘Matron. Private.’ He then pantomimed to her to knock, and left her. Once again Ellen obeyed him, and knocked on the door.

A woman’s voice called, ‘Come in,’ and she went in.

There were two people in the small, square room—the Matron, and a man in a white coat. The Matron was a beautiful, dark-haired woman in her early forties, with hard eyes and a cruel mouth. The man, who was introduced as Dr Jamel, was in his fifties. He wore heavy-rimmed dark glasses, and had a long, pointed nose.

‘Ah, mademoiselle,’ he purred. ‘We were expecting you earlier.’

‘The train was late. I’m so sorry,’ apologized Ellen.

‘You had a good journey?’

‘Yes, thank you.’

‘You have a letter for me, I believe?’

‘Yes, Monsieur.’ Ellen handed the letter to Dr Jamel, who read it, then handed it to the Matron. She too read it, and returned it to the doctor. Ellen could now feel a strange undercurrent of excitement in the atmosphere.

‘You read the letter, mademoiselle?’

‘No,’ said Ellen. The two of them glanced at one another.

‘You know why you have come to us?’

‘To work in the clinic’

Again they looked at one another.

‘Did Dr Joubert tell you what work you would be doing?’

‘No. He just felt that I should like to go away from home for a little.’

‘Of course. Will you go next door with Matron, please? I want you undressed for the examination.’

‘What examination?’

‘Everyone who comes here has an examination,’ said the Doctor patiently. ‘It is what the clinic is for.’

‘But I haven’t come as a patient.’

‘Of course not,’ said the Matron soothingly, and her hard eyes showed no sympathy.

‘You have had nervous strain in your family, have you not, mademoiselle?’ asked the doctor. ‘This letter says so.’

‘I became upset, yes,’ said Ellen, ‘but for a very good reason.’

‘Of course. Of course.’ Again the Matron sounded soothing, but again her expression was hard.

‘Be off with you, then,’ said the Doctor playfully. ‘I am a very busy man.’

‘But I don’t want an examination!’ exclaimed Ellen.

‘You’ll have to learn to do what you’re told,’ said the Matron. ‘If the Doctor says you are to have an examination, you must have one.’ She opened the door behind her desk, and almost pushed Ellen into the room beyond, slamming the door behind her again. ‘Take off your things,’ she said.

‘I refuse,’ said Ellen obstinately.

‘I should advise you to obey,’ said the Matron. ‘I am very strong, and these walls are thick.’

Ellen looked wildly round the room, hoping for escape, but there was none. ‘There must be some mistake,’ she said desperately. ‘I have come here to work.’

‘What mistake could there be?’ asked the Matron. ‘I have read the letter myself.’

‘What did it say?’

‘It said we were to keep you until you had learnt to control yourself, and to obey orders,’ said the Matron. ‘It said that we could treat you in any way we thought best. That’s what it said, so hurry up and get those clothes off.’

Ellen started to cry, which made the older woman impatient. ‘The quicker you get undressed, the quicker it will be over,’ she said.

At last Ellen undressed, and lay miserably down on the bed as she was told.

After the Doctor had looked her over, and prodded her like a prize pig, he raped her, while the Matron looked on impassively.

Ellen was kept a prisoner in the room for several months. The Doctor had his way with her whenever he wanted and Ellen, sick with disgust and despair, lost weight, cried her eyes out, screamed, fought, bit, hammered at the walls, and refused to eat, until she began to lose her looks, and the doctor to lose interest. The Matron wrote long letters to Dr Joubert, describing her ‘progress’, which the doctor read out to the rest of the family, once a week, before dinner.

Ellen, however, did not become subservient, and when another equally pretty young girl was sent to the clinic for ‘treatment’, she was moved away from Dr Jamel in the tower to a foetid, windowless cell in the basement, where she was put at the disposal of Roger, the deaf-mute who had admitted her on arrival at the castle. Roger was a sadist, but even this couldn’t bring her to heel. Here she not only fought and kicked and tried to give as good as she got, but on the rare occasions that she saw either the Matron or Dr Jamel, she threatened that if ever she escaped, she would see that the whole world knew of the infamy of the clinic, and of all who ran it. So, once again, the Matron wrote to the family.

When the time came, the whole Joubert family went down to Provence to fetch Ellen, first giving themselves two weeks’ holiday in Antibes. They drove up to the castle in high spirits, looking brown and well, and Dr Joubert left the women in the car outside the front door.

‘I shan’t be long,’ he said. ‘I have one or two things to see to. Don’t be too bored. Stretch your legs if you feel like it, and have a walk in the grounds.’

‘We’re quite happy here,’ said his wife. ‘I don’t feel like walking, do you, Thérèse?’

‘No, Maman.’

It was nearly three-quarters of an hour before Dr Joubert reappeared, carrying a little suitcase in one hand, and propelling Ellen with the other. She had a thick black veil wound round her face, and she was tottering like a paralytic.

‘My God! Whatever is the matter with her?’ exclaimed Madame Joubert, when her husband and daughter reached the car.

‘A little extra precaution we had to take when she had her “correction” operation,’ replied the doctor, shaking his head sadly. ‘She’s a quite exceptionally obstinate girl.’

‘But both her hands and her feet have been severed. And look at those awful tin things she is walking in,’ went on his wife, horrified. ‘It’s terrible!’

‘Yes, terrible,’ agreed the doctor, ‘but we had to safeguard ourselves and the good name of the clinic, and she threatened to expose us. It was therefore necessary to see that she had no means of communication. With no hands or feet, she cannot send in a report to the authorities.’

‘She can always talk!’ exclaimed Madame Joubert. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘What is a correction operation, Papa?’ broke in Thérèse eagerly. ‘What have you done to her?’

‘Whatever faults that a patient who is sent to us suffers from, we have to take away the cause,’ said Dr Joubert sententiously.

‘And what faults did Ellen suffer from?’ asked Thérèse, her eyes shining with anticipation.

‘The clinic decided she suffered from pride and vanity,’ replied the doctor.

‘So?’ asked Madame Joubert moistening her lips anxiously.

‘I’ll take off her veil,’ said Dr Joubert. ‘Then you will understand. You must brace yourselves, I’m afraid. It is not pleasant but, as I said, before, it was necessary.’

He uncovered Ellen’s face, and both the women gasped. One of her eyes had been removed, and the socket sewn up. Her nose had been broken across her face, so that it now nearly touched her right cheek, and her left ear had been cut off. She looked hideous beyond belief.

‘But Henri!’ expostulated Madame Joubert, when she was able to speak again. ‘Surely this was injudicious? She can tell the world what you have done.’

‘On the contrary, my dear!’ replied Dr Joubert waggishly. ‘To coin a phrase, the poor girl has lost her tongue.’

‘You mean?’ gasped his wife.

‘Precisely. It has been—how shall we put it?—dispensed with.’

‘You cut it out?’

‘They cut it out, yes.’

Madame Joubert was sick on the floor of the car. Thérèse laughed so heartily that her father presently joined in; one tear welled up in Ellen’s remaining eye, and fell with a splash on to her blouse.