Hyde

by Daniel Levine

  I dragged the chair from the desk, threw off Jekyll’s overcoat, set the pen on the blotter, and pulled open the top drawer. Three sheets of foolscap paper, a few unmatching envelopes. I squared a page on the blotter. My temples were thumping. I shut my eyes. I would need Jekyll closer than ever, in the body with me, the right arm, the right hand. His hand. The fingers moved, reached for the pen and picked it up. I cuffed up the hanging sleeve, and glanced at the ticking clock on the mantel: 9:15.

  The arm was glowing warm with his guidance, and the instant the nib touched the paper, it started scribbling away, seemingly of its own volition. We wrote to Poole first, to set the plan straight. Everything would have been easier if I’d had Jekyll’s keys—we could have sent them with the letter. But I didn’t have his keys. So Poole was to find a skilled locksmith and wait for Lanyon. The locksmith would pick the cabinet lock and then the lock on the glazed press. Lanyon would remove E drawer and be permitted to carry it away. That was all Poole needed to know. A short letter, but I was drenched in sweat by the end, a suffocating sensation in my chest at the strain of concentration. I examined the damp paper, impressed. It was Jekyll’s penmanship, all right. Slightly frantic, but maybe that was good. Our letter to Lanyon would have to be longer, however, to make certain he did everything right. I slumped in the chair. I needed a drink.

  In the bedroom, half a decanter of ruby liquid stood on the bedside table. It smelt sour. I took a glugging slug and gasped at the rancid burn. I carried it to the desk and sat down again.

  It was nearly eleven when we finished. I sat trembling, right arm sprawled dead on the desk, a tremour in the thumb. The decanter was drained, and some minuscule flies hovered over the lip, imbibing its fumes. The two remaining sheets of paper had been filled with flowing scrawl, dented and smudged and torn where the nib had jerked from my control. But on the whole, it was a masterpiece.

  Dear Lanyon,

  You are one of my oldest friends; and although we may have differed at times on scientific questions, I cannot remember, at least on my side, any break in our affection. There was never a day when, if you had said to me, Harry, my life, my honour, my reason, depend upon you, I would not have sacrificed my left hand to help you. Lanyon, my life, my honour, my reason, are all at your mercy; if you fail me to-night, I am lost. You might suppose, after this preface, that I am going to ask you for something dishonourable to grant. Judge for yourself.

  Bring this letter, I told him, and go to Big House, where Poole would be waiting with a locksmith. Break into the cabinet and the glazed press and remove E drawer, with all its contents as they stand. Letter E, I emphasised, on the left hand, the fourth drawer from the top or (which is the same thing) the third from the bottom. This drawer I beg of you to carry back with you to Cavendish Square exactly as it stands. There he would wait alone in his consulting room. At midnight, then, I have to ask you to be alone in your consulting room, to admit with your own hand into the house a man who will present himself in my name, and to place in his hands the drawer that you will have brought with you from my cabinet. Five minutes afterwards, if you insist upon an explanation, you will have understood that these arrangements are of capital importance; and that by the neglect of one of them, fantastic as they must appear, you might have charged your conscience with my death or the shipwreck of my reason.

  Think of me, I implored him at the end, at this hour, in a strange place, labouring under a blackness of distress that no fancy can exaggerate, and yet well aware that, if you will but punctually serve me, my troubles will roll away like a story that is told. Serve me, my dear Lanyon, and save

  Your friend, H.J.

  I read it through as the ink dried. Save me. Lanyon, our saviour. I laughed, and it broke out like a sob. I rooted in the drawer again and pulled out two envelopes, addressed the first to Big House and the second to Cavendish Square. Then I stood up—too quickly, swooning a second—and lurched to the bell rope.

  The boy stood in the corridor in his drooping maroon jacket, mooning at me with somnolent, yet observant eyes. I held the envelopes in his face. I want these posted, and I want them registered. You know what that means, registered? He gave a nodding drop of his head. I flicked a sovereign at him and he caught it. Then I showed him another, fat and gold. For the receipt. Hop along, now.

  An hour later he returned, and by that time I was in a near hysteria, convinced that he had gone for the police. I opened the door a crack, then forced myself to draw it wider like a normal person with nothing to hide. He was holding the postal receipt. I flicked him the other quid and shut the door and immediately regretted not having asked for something more to drink. I was cold. Jekyll’s shirt clung to my skin. I knelt before the fireplace and soon had the coals sparking, then I dragged a wingback over and huddled before the warmth.

  I could see I had the whole looming day with nothing to do but wait. The clock on the mantel was ticking its mechanical heart out, and I had to tamp down the urge to hurl it out the window. What was happening to us? We had just been sitting there on that bench, gloating because the world did not care about what Jekyll or I had done, and right then we’d been struck as if by a bolt of lightning. It almost seemed like a kind of retribution for our presumption in imagining there was no plot against us. As if someone had heard our thoughts. As if someone had been listening inside our head. Biding his time, waiting for the perfect opportunity to strike, to begin again his tormenting games. Hide and Seek, Hide and Seek, you be hide and I play seek.

  I felt like a red-eyed rat in a maze, furtive, persecuted, my right paw twitching. I held up the hand, staring at the tapping nerve beneath the skin. Those letters I had just written. That Jekyll had written. How had we done that, exactly? Jekyll had written those letters through my hand. As if he had reached through the membrane between us and into the right arm. That membrane was evidently more permeable than we had thought. This was the second time I had pitched through it and into the body without the aid of the needle. And what about those lapses, those unaccountable spells of blankness? Hadn’t that been Jekyll, reaching through me into the body? In which case, was the needle absolutely necessary to switch back and forth? Could we do it on our own, like Emile Verlaine?

  Jekyll was hardly listening. As I expanded in the mind toward him, imploring, I found myself tumbling into an open tunnel of memory, over a decade in the past. I was looking into this room, or its nearly identical double: the windows suffused with muslin-filtered sunlight, Georgiana moving slowly toward them. She wore a summery yellow dress and a wide-brimmed white sunhat, which she was unfastening from her hair. Then, bareheaded, she turned and gave a small, nervous smile. This liaison had not been planned. They had been strolling down the street from the park and seen the crimson hotel awning and, as if obeying a grave, compulsory pact, they had pushed into the lobby together. Now Jekyll watched her, his innards constricting. To the right stood the open, darkened doorway of the bedroom. Henry, Georgiana said, you are pale. She stepped toward him. He felt pale. Drained. He made himself move forward, a numbed somnambulant, until he had almost reached her, and could smell her sweet, somehow antiseptic scent. Her face tilted up, nostrils flared, the sharp blue eyes alive with fright and that same reckless excitement I had seen in Jeannie’s eyes on our first night together. Jekyll raised his hand, intending to take her chin with the crook of his finger as he’d seen a man do in a French painting. Yet his finger stopped, as if held back by some form of inverse magnetism. Her thin lips were pressed together and looked dry. It seemed suddenly impossible that he could ever kiss them, those finely shaped, sterile lips. He could not even touch her, let alone lead her into that darkened bedroom. He had known the moment he entered the lobby that it was a mistake, impossible. Between his legs, the flesh was inert. He could feel its absolute lack of response. He had willed himself this way, desireless and thus invulnerable, triumphant over failure, over Father and his lessons. But he was starting to feel suffocated by her proximity. Her lips moved, inviting. He lowered
his hand and stepped past her, toward the windows, freedom. Pushing the muslin aside, he peered down onto the street, wishing he could evaporate into the air. His face was cold and hot, and frustration choked in his throat. I can’t, he said to the window. I’m sorry, I can’t.

  He turned and found her standing a few steps closer, by the wingback chair. Why can’t you? she asked, soft, yet insistent. You can tell me, Henry, it’s all right. He shook his head. I’m not, he struggled, I’m not like other men. I’m not—whole. My father . . . That spark of recklessness still shone in her eyes, yet her brow was creased with concern, as if he had only minutes to live. Henry, she said gently, very close now. What did he do to you? Her hand was rising, and with a spasm, Jekyll jerked from her touch—

  I blinked as the memory popped. I was alone in the sitting room, in the wingback. My ears were on fire with Jekyll’s rage. I hadn’t been meant to see that.

  You simpleton, he hissed. You fool. Is the needle necessary? Do you really think I could emerge out of you, like a mushroom from shit? Are you so revoltingly stupid?

  His rebuke stung my cheeks. So he had been listening after all. But it was not my fault I had seen this particular memory; he had been the one reminiscing, the one to bring us to this nearly defunct hotel out of his precious, protected past! The coals seethed and snapped, and a red-hot chunk dislodged itself with a rattle and tumbled out of the grate. It lay smoking on the hearth rug, dying from orange to an ashen black, and without thinking I bent down and with my right hand picked it up. It felt cold at first, then a second later white-hot. I held the amplifying pain, counting one, two, three, before tossing the coal back on the pile. My thumb and first two fingers were blistering already. Inside I could sense Jekyll’s shock as we stared at the raw shiny finger pads. With a grimace of satisfaction I stood up and stalked to the windows.

  Daylight was draining from the sky. The lamps along the far side of the street were already lit. In an hour, it would be fully dark, and I could quit this miserable room. I yanked the bell rope, and when Madame Toad knocked, I told her I wanted dinner and drink. She carried it up not long after, whipped a spotted tablecloth over the writing desk, and set down the tray, perspiration on her fluffy moustache. I had a banknote ready, to get rid of her, and she gave me a pale-gummed smile. My sir, she announced, it is to our very great honour we have you stay, a gentleman as such as you. I shooed her out and fell on the food. Meat stew with cream, a leg of chicken, a pastry dumpling, and even a slice of apple cake for dessert. I bolted it down, guzzling from the bottle of acerbic hock.

  It was by now full dark. I threw on Jekyll’s overcoat and scanned the sitting room, then crept down the corridor and the stairs to the empty lobby, my stomach sloshing. I pushed through the front door into the delectably fresh night air. The lamps sparkled out lunar haloes against the velvety blueness. People strolled in pairs along the pavement, their arms linked. I kept my face buried in the overcoat collar, clutching my blistered fist in my pocket like an amulet. I peeled off the main road into the emptier side streets, where I shuffled back and forth, up and down, killing time.

  I kept waiting for a church bell somewhere to toll the hour. At last I found a giant iron street clock on Regent with hands like the nibs on Father’s fountain pen, and with a jolt I saw it was after eleven thirty. Cavendish Square was only two blocks west, a square of barren trees and earth bounded on four sides by graceful buildings, scattered with yellow-lit windows. Lanyon’s was on the northwest side. I cut through the park to the far end, where I crouched in the shadows, looking at the slim six-storey brown-brick house with the gateposts and twin blazing lamps. Jekyll had not been here in some time. At the sight of Lanyon’s home, we felt a burn of guilty nostalgia biting into our heart. I slunk across the street. A brass plaque was embedded in the gatepost: Hasting Lanyon, MD, DCL. Consulting Room Directly Ahead. A flagstone path led to the white-pillared portico and the red door with brass fittings and a rose-glowing lamp, grown all around with deadened ivy vines.

  There was something sweet and pathetically innocent in this little professional setup, this little life of Lanyon’s that we were about to tip over the edge. I approached the door, raised my fist to knock. Just then, a distant bell began to dong, dong, dong. I remained motionless, fist lifted. I could feel Lanyon on the other side, lips quivering, counting the knells until midnight. When the twelfth one echoed away, I stood another moment, poised on the brink. Then I rapped on the door.

  Lanyon wrenched it open at once. His face was purplish and his eyes swimming. When he saw me, his brow crumpled and his mouth flew open as if he were about to cry out something, but it died in his throat. He stank of whisky. Lanyon, I said sharply, have you got it? Did you get the drawer? He couldn’t seem to answer. He could only inspect my face, my clothes. I leant in and grasped him by the upper arm. Lanyon, tell me you have the drawer!

  He swayed a step back and shrugged off my hand. Excuse me, he said blearily, I—I don’t believe I know you. I held up the offending hand. I come for Dr. Jekyll. May I enter? The request came out loaded with sarcastically elaborate politeness. Poor Lanyon stared at me through his boozy haze. It would have started with a rationalisation, just a small whisky, to steady his nerves, and then . . . Lanyon drew back, and I stepped into the consulting room. Spacious, comfortable, with a cosily low ceiling. The walls were striped emerald silk, the desk and cabinets and bookshelves dark walnut, the floorboards worn and varnished. A white fur rug lay before the flickering fire near a curvaceous leather sofa. I did not see the drawer anywhere. Lanyon was leaning against the door, one hand thrust into his black smoking jacket pocket, and I wondered if he too could possibly have a gun. Without taking his eyes off me, he sidled to his desk and felt for the chair. He waved vaguely at the two emerald chairs across the desk. I clenched my jaw and forced myself to sit. In the shaded lamplight I could see the broken veins in his cheeks and nostrils, a white crust along his jawline. The tips of his ears were translucent crimson. I tried to grin. Dr. Lanyon, let’s not be coy. As you know, I’ve been sent here by Dr. Jekyll. There was a drawer you were to retrieve, I understand. A drawer, from the press in his cabinet—did you get the bloody thing or not? My voice quavered. Lanyon’s eyes fell to his fingertips, which he had arranged on the edge of his desk. He lifted his left hand. It’s there, he said.

  I spun to examine the bookshelves, the cabinets, the small laboratory table—and then I saw the white drop cloth on the floor under the table. I sprang to it, giddy with the sick thud of my pulse. I hunkered down and drew the sheet away. The drawer, with the stoppered powder bottle and the flask of red liquor and the Milward box and the black rubber tourniquet. It was all here. We were all right. Carefully I lifted the drawer and set it on the laboratory table. Lanyon was watching me with hooded curiosity, like a beaten dog looking on from its corner. A glass, I heard myself say, I need a graduated glass. He nodded at the cabinets behind me, and I took down the one we needed. My hands felt very deft all the sudden; Jekyll was in them now. I poured the red liquor into the glass to the third bold line, popped open the stoppered bottle, and scooped out the last dose of the powder with the silver spoon. This I tipped into the liquor, which frothed and bubbled to royal violet and then fizzled out to the pale transparent green. Yet as the reaction settled to its proper colour, I felt an unexpected pang of loss. I was going back inside, and I did not know when I’d be coming out again. No time to savour the moment, however; the hands were already removing a syringe from the Milward box. I tilted the graduated glass and dipped the needle in and drew the plunger out with my thumb, sucking up the serum to the three-quarter line.

  Lanyon was still watching, transfixed, mouth open. I held up the syringe by its steel loops. This is what I came for. You’ve done your bit, Lanyon. Now the choice is yours. Do I take my things and leave, or do I stay and show you the end of it? My voice sounded distant now, as if my ears were plugged with blood. Lanyon was nodding, helplessly. His lips moved; he swallowed. Go on. I will see it to the
end.

  I threw off Jekyll’s overcoat. Rolled up the left sleeve and wrapped the rubber tubing around the biceps, yanked it tight with my teeth. Lanyon was staring at my arm. Hastie, I said, and his watery eyes jerked to mine. You deny everything you cannot see. And your sight is so very narrow. But no more blinders now, old friend.

  Down on the floor, sprawled against the cabinets. The needle was still inserted into the arm. Groggily, Jekyll drew it out, opened and closed the left hand. He groped for the table and hauled himself to his feet.

  Lanyon was pressed to the wall, covering his mouth with one hand. His glossy eyes trembled; he shook his head back and forth. Oh God, he sputtered, oh God, Harry, it is you—it is you! That was you?

  Jekyll tossed the tourniquet back in the drawer, where it coiled up like an obedient snake. His head was crashing; I squinted out through his wince. Yes, Hastie, it’s me. I thought it was you! Lanyon cried in a kind of wretched triumph. I thought it the moment I opened the door! But what—what have you done to yourself? Harry, what’ve you been doing to yourself?

  Jekyll edged toward the chair where I’d been sitting. Sit down, Hastie. Let us sit. Lanyon reached for his leather chair and shuffled into it like an invalid, and Jekyll sank down as well. You should have a drink, he said, almost tenderly. Lanyon’s expression hardened into a beady, defiant glare. He glanced down, breathing through his nose. Then he yanked open a desk drawer and pulled out a whisky bottle and a glass and thumped them on the blotter. Have a drink, he muttered, splashing into his glass. Six months, I’ll have you know, Harry. Six bloody months until today I’d been without a drop. A new leaf, remember? He scowled at the brimming glass, then slugged half of it down and showed his neat white teeth. So that was Mr. Hyde, was it? That was Mr. Hyde knocked on my door?