Hyde

by Daniel Levine

  Then it happened. This was the first time, the first lapse of blankness. One moment I was holding out that banknote to little Violet and the next moment I was outside on an icy broken lane in northeast Soho scurrying after the man with the emerald waistcoat. The time in between was a blink.

  I was not overly alarmed. I felt much better, actually, as if I had fallen asleep for a totally revitalising second: the pain in my eye was gone; my brain felt recharged and alert. The body was moving confidently ahead as I rejoined it, and I slipped into the present moment with a kind of reinvigourated purpose. There was a reason I was following this man, a reason I would remember as soon as we arrived at our destination. His stout, top-hatted silhouette turned onto Crown Street, and at once the dingy alleys of Soho disappeared, as if we had passed from some backstage into the respectable world. For several blocks the man led me north, eventually arriving in Bedford Square, where he turned into the gate of a large, pleasant white-brick house with a green door and a welcoming lamp. Rather than climbing the stone front steps, the man let himself into a side entrance on the ivied ground floor. And just like that the chase was over. I stood rooted to the pavement, pulse quickening, staring at the unsuspicious house, the comfortable castle into which my man had vanished. An epiphany was unfurling in my mind. That money. That five thousand pounds Jekyll had put in my bank account. Suddenly I knew what I was meant to do with it. He wanted me to buy my independence from Big House, the cabinet, the back door off Castle Street. A house. I should get myself a house. That was what the will was about, that was the gesture, his hands opening outward to the fire. Liberation. The support for him to flourish.

  He wanted me to grow.

  Day One, Afternoon

  Time moves. It must be four o’clock: the weak sunlight’s begun to creep up the brick back of Big House, the line of shadow rising like dark water. That is the amazing thing about time. You do nothing, yet you’re propelled into the future. In spite of my optimism this morning, I hadn’t been entirely certain that I would make it this far alone, unmolested. I hadn’t been certain I would make it past Poole’s delivery of Jekyll’s breakfast. I can say it, now that the dirty tray is sitting on the steps down there again, where I put it for Poole’s removal. Part of me really believed he would detect the change the instant he stepped foot in the surgery block. How quiet I was as he clumped across the boards and began his climb up the rickety stairs. I could hardly believe it when I heard him set down the tray, descend, and then crunch back across the courtyard. Will I actually be permitted to do this, to simply remember, the mind like an empty cathedral? I do not trust the emptiness. That stifled quality of silence—of something biding its time.

  The abscess pulses. A second, sickly heart.

  The day after my visit to Auntie Gorgon’s girlie shop, I dropped by the Blackhaven Banking Company and withdrew five hundred pounds from my account. I scratched a maze of ink on the signature card and accepted a green leather booklet of cheques, and several days later an obese, flame-headed agent from a Soho leasing office led me up to the old manse on Ghyll Road. The house looked dark and rundown in its sunken recess between its neighbours, like a book pushed in deeper than others on a shelf. I followed the wheezing agent into the cobbled courtyard. From atop the empty fountain a disintegrating stone angel watched me, eyes eroded, mouth open. We climbed the sagging portico steps, pushed into the entrance hall. It was cold, the floorboards carpeted in dust. A pair of ornamented doorways opened left and right into other rooms, and a staircase climbed to the upper floors. The oddest feeling was creeping over me, as if I had been here before. Lived here in another life, one I had forgotten. The agent was explaining how the house had been built more than two hundred years ago, when rich people had fashioned Soho before moving on farther west. The rooms were dirty and smelt like mice droppings, but indeed I could make out the abandoned grandeur, the moulded ceilings and plaster medallions where chandeliers had hung. On the top floor I opened a door and the sense of recognition returned: a long garret room with scarred parquet and double verandah doors giving onto a rotting balcony. The iron parapet clung to the house forty feet above a spinal back lane and overlooked the mad tumble of rooftops and weathervanes inked in black against the platinum sky. Exhilarated, I stood clutching the rusted rail. I was home. I signed the lease on the spot, at thirty quid for the year.

  Workmen from a warehouse nearby carried in a score of random heirlooms to furnish the place, and I filled a Chinese wardrobe with new tailored clothes. I didn’t expect to enjoy that as much as I did, ridding myself of Jekyll’s dragging hand-me-downs. I posed before the huge Gothic mirror in my bedroom as the wizened tailor scuttled around marking me with chalk, making me into a real person before my very eyes. That first experimental jacket that he slipped up my arms and snugged around my shoulders—the yellow stitching was still exposed and the pockets flapped, but it did not matter. In fact, it suited me, half-formed creature that I am, fish pale, compressed, as if grown in a jar in the dark. Jekyll’s fine, big body somehow contorted itself to my runtish nature, my fetal curl, but his clothes of course could not change. Now I had a costume of my own. I stared into my bright, haunted blue eyes and grinned, baring two rows of tarnished, ground-down teeth. I ordered suits and waistcoats and two heavy wool greatcoats, and except for the linen, I kept the fabric black. None of Jekyll’s touches of plumage for me. I wanted to slip into the world, into its slimy seams.

  Next Mrs. Deaker. I still don’t understand why I went to that agency to ask for a charwoman in the first place. Yet one day she appeared on my porch, in her black frock ringed with feathers at the neck, like a vulture. She looked about seventy, with silver hair and ice-grey eyes and a tiny stained smile. Her upper spine was stooped, so she had to crane her neck to peer up at me, but she tipped a dignified nod and said, Master, in her precise, whispery voice. Years ago, in her prime, she must’ve been a fashionable lady. She fit the house perfectly, I had to admit. I gave her the spare room off the kitchen and she moved in the next day.

  Just like that, I was a legitimate human being. I was Mr. Edward Hyde of Ghyll Road, an untethered entity. In fact, I hadn’t been back to the cabinet for well over a week, I realised with a jolt. It was time for Jekyll to show his face at Big House again. After midnight I returned to the Castle Street door with one of my new suits bundled under my arm and proudly hung it in the cabinet wardrobe alongside Jekyll’s. In the Milward box the second syringe lay loaded with the transparent, ever-reliable serum. As I took it up by its steel loops, I deliberately did not look at Father, on the far end, those eyes looking at me askance, always watching.

  The next morning, Jekyll was in his blue silk dressing gown shaving away the heavy crust of beard accumulated in his absence when Poole knocked on his bedroom door. Every so often Poole would do this, always when Jekyll was shaving, never when he was still abed or in the bath. Poole had been managing the business of Big House since Jekyll had bought the place, twenty years ago, and from the beginning of my reemergence into Jekyll’s world, I had been wary of him, warier even than I was of Utterson. For in his subdued, sphinxlike manner, the man seemed to know everything.

  Poole stationed himself in the dressing-room doorway, as usual. He had some questions concerning Christmas and Jekyll’s fiftieth birthday party, both approaching. Jekyll listened and made his replies without breaking from his scrupulous work. When a pause fell, he said, You seem to have everything thoroughly handled without me, Poole. I’m sure you’ve noticed I’ve been away these past few days. Jekyll pared a few hairs from his upper lip. I’ve been working again. A comprehensive psychological study of London. For the present I’m drawing up profiles of various characters, case studies that catch my attention. To study them properly I’m required to remain in their company for several days at a time. Anyhow, if I happen to be absent when any decisions need to be made, you know I have utter confidence in your discretion.

  Jekyll rinsed the razor blade in the basin and flicked his eyes sideward i
n the glass to Poole, standing in the reflected doorway. It was a casual glance, but Jekyll held it until Poole dipped his head. Thank you, sir, I shall do my best. Congratulations on your work, sir.

  Ah, Jekyll said, indeed. I daresay it will be quite something, when I’m finished. He lifted his chin and dusted the shaving brush over his throat. I am a fortunate man, am I not, Poole? I should say so, sir. And would you consider yourself a fortunate man as well? Poole hesitated. I would indeed, sir. Jekyll drew the skin of his throat taut with his thumb. Fortunate men like us must remember the unfortunates. In the course of my work, you see, I’ve made a new acquaintance. He’s come from unfortunate beginnings. I suppose I’ve taken him under my wing. He has a promising mind, but he wants—refinement.

  Jekyll’s pulse was thumping under his thumb as he lifted the blade and carefully trimmed his Adam’s apple, and just beneath the surface, I cringed as the hairs crunched and popped. His name is Hyde, Jekyll said, swishing the blade clean. Edward Hyde. I’ve invited him to call on me here at the house. It would do him some good to see how a gentleman lives. The problem is my schedule has lately been so erratic, I can’t be certain I’ll be here to receive him. So if he should call while I’m away, I’d like you to let him in regardless. Let him have the run of the place, in fact. Could you do that for me?

  Of course, sir.

  I should warn you, his manners are a trifle rough. He’s come from hard beginnings, as I said, and he has what you might call an artistic disposition. Don’t pay it any mind. Just let him have the run of the place. Feel at home.

  Poole remained motionless at the mirror’s edge. As you wish, sir. Will there be anything else?

  Anything else? Why would I show my face here at Big House? Wasn’t this why he’d given me all that money to lease a house of my own—to keep our lives separate and distinct?

  Jekyll remained at Big House through Christmas, the yearly dinner for his whole staff, all eating as equals in the dining room. The next morning I was allowed to return to my house on Ghyll Road—to Ghyll, as I’d taken to thinking of it. Yet I couldn’t stop gnawing over the invitation he’d issued me. Did it relate to that will Jekyll had drawn up—to that peculiar clause about my replacing him if he should disappear? What could he foresee? It was a frustrating, blinded feeling, my ignorance. I wanted to know what my purpose was, what Jekyll needed me for. If it was to live a new, ulterior life, why introduce me into his own?

  I tried to divert us both over the next few days. I dropped into the Great Cornelius Luce’s hypnotism demonstration on Poland Street and stood in the beery hall while onstage the tailcoated maestro cast mental spells over his volunteers. I visited a dolly shop and let a blonde reeking of ambergris slap her rump up and down on my thighs on a pink circular bed. Afterward I lurked outside until a tall gentleman emerged and took a satisfied pinch of snuff, and I followed him into a side street with some vague notion of mischief, of teaching the geezer a lesson of some kind. But my heart wasn’t in it. I knew I could put it off for only so long.

  The morning of 1 January 1885, Mrs. Deaker knocked on my bedroom door at around noon, as usual, and bustled in with the breakfast tray. Her breakfasts ran the gamut. Some days there was fresh bread, jam and butter, coffee. Other days she’d serve me a broken, runny egg and oversteeped tea. I ate whatever she brought me. I found it rather refreshing, after Poole’s predictability. This morning, breakfast was warm earthy tea and a stale currant scone that crumbled into the sheets when I bit in. My mouth was dry with hangover, and the pastry turned to paste, impossible to swallow. Mrs. Deaker went to the verandah doors and wrenched the curtains aside, and I flinched in the winter glare. She turned to behold me in my tangle of satin bedclothes. I couldn’t see her expression, but I knew her cosy smile by now, servile and yet craftily insubordinate. Happy New Year, Master, she said. Big plans for the day, I take it? I forced down the lump of scone and tried to grin, the stuff sticking to my teeth. Always, Mrs. Deaker. Tick-tock, tick-tock.

  I dressed in my black suit and examined my face, with its disguising growth of rusty scruff. Then I swiveled my top hat down on my head and set off south for Leicester Square. I had never actually been on the square before in the body. I had seen it only through Jekyll. The sky was low with pewter light over the irregular line of houses. A rime of dirty snow crusted the ground in the central park. A dog was yapping. Hotels spelled their names in large vertical letters; houses looked shut up for the season. The air had a damp chill, and I clenched my teeth to keep them from chattering as I approached Big House, standing grandly distinct from its shabbier neighbours. The brick façade soared from the front steps; black shutters and ivory trim adorned the many windows, and symmetrical chimney stacks stood erect against the shifting sky. The huge black door had a brass knocker and a bell button. I grasped the brass ring, shockingly cold, and rapped on the plaque.

  As the clicking footsteps approached and then the door swung inward, I was seized by a fierce impulse to avert my face. I crouched on the stoop, leering up from under my brim at Poole in the doorway. His black uniform was immaculate, with a perfect V of crisp white shirt front. His head was sleek and small but the eyes large and zinc-white against the black rims, as if he had outlined them, like an Arab. His velvety irises rested on me. The muscles of his face did not move. You must be Mr. Hyde. I nodded. Poole stepped back from the doorway. I’m afraid Dr. Jekyll is not at home at the moment. But won’t you come in?

  The entrance hall was long and low, paved in slate flagstone. Walnut panelling trapped the heat from the giant hearth. Firelight flickered off the glass in the cabinetry opposite, the polished gloss of the blackwood bench. Sir, Poole said from behind me, and I guardedly let my overcoat slide from my shoulders. I’ll keep the topper, I said quickly, holding the brim, when he extended his hand to accept it.

  I followed Poole into the main hall, with the burgundy staircase spilling down and the marble pillars ascending to the frescoed ceiling and dazzling chandelier. He led me to the right, into the cool green parlour. Please make yourself comfortable, Poole said. Might I offer you some refreshment? Protected by the shade of my topper, I surveyed the handsome room, scalloped in creamy trim, bright pictures on the walls. Wine, I said, and Poole left me alone.

  My breastbone was humming like a tuning fork. Poole had bought it. He really thought I was a distinct person. I was a distinct person. I was Mr. Edward Hyde of Ghyll. Was this what Jekyll was trying to show me? I sank into a velvet chair as Poole reentered with decanter and glass on a tray. This he set on the low Japanese tea table nearby, and he filled the glass with ruby claret. I sat watching the deft precision of his hands. It’s Poole, isn’t it? Yes, sir, he replied, letting his eyes travel up to my face, shaded by my hat brim. Well, thank you for the refreshment, Poole.

  It came out laced with sarcasm. The briefest flicker of pique crossed Poole’s placid expression. He slipped the silver tray behind his back and bent minutely at the waist. You are welcome, sir. Do alert me should you require anything further.

  When he was gone I leapt to my feet, swooped up the glass, and drained the wine. Everything seemed so vivid, as if a transparent layer had been peeled away, like skin, from the parlour. I wandered down the archway that led into the dining room, trailing my hand along the silken wall, which sizzled under my fingertips. In the dining room I stood behind Jekyll’s chair at the head of the long table and then leant over until my reflection hung beneath me in the shadowy polish. From my lips I let a thread of spittle glisten down toward the surface, then sucked it up swiftly before it snapped. I strolled down the narrow connecting corridor back into the main hall and jogged up the winding staircase. The house was disconcertingly silent; I paused on the landing, listening. A slim naked statue stood in an alcove, missing arms and a head, and I caressed its cold curving hip as I passed. On the second floor I paused again outside the white double doors to Jekyll’s study, then I pushed one open and peeked in. I was almost expecting to find Poole pretending to clean to guard the ro
om against my trespass. But it was empty. Books lined the white shelves in the crimson walls. Two leather wingbacks were angled invitingly toward the fire. Above the mantel hung a large picture in a knotted frame; I hadn’t noticed it before. It wasn’t like the pictures downstairs in the parlour, pastoral landscapes and portraits. This one was just a black and brown mass of paint dizzyingly aswirl around the canvas. I eyed it uneasily as I crossed the Persian carpet to Jekyll’s desk. Letters were aligned on the green leather blotter, arranged by Poole in order of arrival. I studied them upside down and then reached out and turned the closest one around.

  Across the envelope was scrawled in a tight, sinuous hand Dr. Henry Jekyll. The corner was printed in letterpress: Danvers X. Carew, MP. The name was familiar. I tore the envelope open and let Jekyll read the first few lines of the letter, and it came back to us: Jekyll had met him outside the Grampian Club with Utterson. He was asking for permission to call upon Jekyll. I dropped the letter back on the blotter and sidled around the desk to Jekyll’s swivelling chair. I lowered myself into its embrace, stacked my feet on the desk, and watched the half-open door.

  Let him have the run of the place.

  I left the study and continued down the second-floor corridor toward Jekyll’s bedroom, at the far end. I had been in his bedroom before, on the first night. My throat was dry and my palms moist as I reached for the doorknob. I turned it and tipped the door inward.