Visitor in Lunacy

by Stephen Curran

  He is a parasite. He is preying on Lucy to build his own strength and he hopes to use me to gain access to further victims. He wants me to let him inside the asylum.

  With Lucy's lifeblood being incrementally drained she cannot survive for much longer. It is my duty as a human being to find her and save her, whatever it takes. Perhaps, in doing so, I will be able to atone for the sins of my past and be granted deliverance.

  ٭

  Waiting for an audience with the new Superintendent is almost intolerable. Every time an attendant or a watcher passes by I reassert my request in the strongest possible terms, but still Hennessey stays away. If only he understood what is at stake. I am beside myself thinking of poor Lucy, wasting away, vulnerable and defenceless against this super-natural force. Soon it will be too late and the creature will have drained her last drop of life. However frustrated I feel, though, I must control my anger. I can only hope that my messages are being conveyed accurately; that they are being related at all.

  My frantic suffering comes to an end when I finally hear his high pitched voice approaching from the end of the corridor, delivering abrupt instructions to Mr Simmons. Rushing to make myself presentable I straighten my clothes and compose my expression. He must leave me convinced of my sanity. To improve my posture I imagine a length of string attached to the top of my head, pulling me upwards: a trick taught to me by my uncle.

  He enters and I offer my hand to shake, but he declines to take it.

  “Sir,” I say. “Thank you for making the time to see me. I appreciate you must be extremely busy. I trust you are well?”

  He stays near the door, casting his narrow eyes over the room to see it has been cleared of my home comforts as he ordered: “What do you want?”

  “I see my messages have not reached you. Very well. At least you are here now.” For a horrific moment I realise I have neglected to comb my hair. Hurriedly I lick my palm and run it over my fringe before continuing. “Had the attendants done as they were asked” - I throw an accusatory glance at Simmons - “you would know I wish to discuss the possibility of my parole. As you will be aware from Doctor Seward's notes I have experienced some problems with my temper in the past but I can assure you that, firstly, I only ever reacted in the face of the severest provocation and, secondly, I now have everything under control. I am quite back to my old self, due no doubt in part to the excellent treatment provided by this fine establishment.”

  Hennessey removes his pince-nez and methodically cleans the lenses with a cloth: “Yes, well, I'm afraid that isn't going to be possible.”

  “Are you not even going to make a proper evaluation? I can assure you, doctor, I am perfectly sane. Surely a man of your experience can see that at a glance?”

  “Mr Renfield. Your mood is by turns melancholic and maniacal. You are prone to violence. You have shown an unhealthy obsession with eating insects. I cannot risk allowing you back into society.”

  Needing a moment to think I lift my heels and place them down again: “Perhaps if I explained myself.”

  “There really is no need. Good-day to you.”

  Seeing he is about to leave I have no choice but to raise my voice: “Lives are at stake, sir!”

  He hesitates: “And why might that be?”

  “Doctor Seward. He is away with an acquaintance of his, no? On the coast?”

  “His current whereabouts are none of your concern. His is not your friend, Renfield, no matter how he presents himself to his prisoners.”

  “I don't need you to confirm it. I have seen it with my own eyes and know it to be the truth. I also know the name of his acquaintance to be Lucy and that she is in mortal danger.”

  I have succeeded in piquing his interest, at least, although his hand still rests on the door handle: “How so?”

  “Are you familiar with the practice of soul murder?”

  “I am not.”

  “There is no reason why you should be. The concept is not widely known. I have only recently stumbled across it myself, through my observation of spiders and flies. Not an 'unhealthy obsession', you see, but a scientific study.”

  “Go on.”

  “Firstly allow me to explain the true nature of the soul. The place it holds in the natural world is unique, it being neither material nor immaterial, as incorporeal as it is earthly. In humans it is located at the back of the skull, around the base of the tongue. For the most part it is undetectable to its owner: only those with an extremely vigorous soul can sense its presence. Even I, for many years, was ignorant of it, even privately doubted its existence, until it became impossible to deny. The powerful soul, you see, betrays itself with a constant pressure at the back of the head, against the skull wall, which can be the cause of sleeplessness and distorted vision. Dreams become remarkably vivid as the body enters a state of near unending excitedness.”

  I am speaking too quickly and in danger of confusing my audience. I wet my lips, steady my breathing and try to slow down.

  “As blood passes through the back of the head and the throat it acquires some of the soul's vitality, which it transports to the body's extremities. In this way the owner is kept alive. Natural death occurs when the soul escapes, rises into the air and disperses; an act which the owner of a vibrant soul can actually perceive. Without its nourishment blood becomes mere matter, lifeless. What I have now learned is that it is possible to take possession of another person's soul: poets and storytellers have known this for centuries, of course. This cannot be achieved quickly. The soul cannot be removed instantaneously from its source. Instead it must be passed gradually, through the intermediary of blood. The blood can be extracted from any part of the body and fed directly into one's own, through the mouth or by other means, but it is especially potent when taken directly from around the throat, where it has only recently flowed through the soul's centre. The extraction of the blood puts the body's vitality at risk, causing the soul to release more of itself in order to replenish the stream. This process takes roughly twenty-four hours. If blood is drawn from the body with enough frequency the soul will eventually become entirely depleted. With no source of replenishment the body dies, while the person who has taken possession of the soul finds their own is strengthened, and their life prolonged. In this way it is possible to achieve immortality.”

  Unburdening myself is exhilarating and exhausting. My hands are trembling.

  “This is what is happening to Seward's friend. Some time ago now, I cannot say when, I fell under the influence of a very powerful being, someone who I suspect used to be human but has since evolved into something new, something greater. It is my belief that he has been committing soul murder for centuries, keeping himself alive by drawing on the strength of others. I do not know his name or from where he comes. All I can say is that for a while I wanted nothing more than to serve and assist him, tempted by his promises of salvation, but now I have seen his true nature my conscience will not allow it. Every night he visits Lucy, entrancing her and sipping away at her soul, sucking the blood through her skin like a leech. The people around her, no doubt, believe her to be anaemic. Soon she will have no more life left to give. Only I have communicated directly with the perpetrator. Only I can find a way to stop him. Therefore I urge you, for the sake of this young woman, for the sake of Seward, you must let me go.”

  With the sweat cooling on my forehead I wait for Hennessey's response.

  He strokes his chin: “Remarkable. I can see why Seward became so fascinated by your case. However, it is abundantly clear you are lost in some elaborate fantasy and becoming progressively more so. There is no way I can sanction your parole.”

  Disregarding my calls he leaves and makes his way down the corridor, with Simmons at his heels: “You must believe me,” I shout. “This cannot be allowed to happen. Doctor!”

  But it is useless. He is gone.

  ٭

  An attendant arrives to tell me I have a visitor.

  “A visitor? Are you certain?”

&
nbsp; “Of course I'm certain. Come along now. We don't want to keep the gentleman waiting.”

  After putting on my frock coat I am led to a day room on the ground floor, which looks more like a working men's club than anything you might expect to find in Carfax, cluttered with tables for reading and chequered boards for draughts and chess. Stood alone by a large bay window and removing his Inverness tweed cape is my old friend David Toynbee.

  “Richard,” he says by way of greeting.

  He has aged: the lines around his face have deepened, his face has fallen slightly. Shaken by his unexpected arrival I flounder, standing in the doorway and unsure how to respond.

  “Won't you come in?”

  “Of course, please take a chair,” I say, as if welcoming a guest into my home rather than a visitor into a madhouse.

  “I'm sorry I haven't come before now. It is good to see you.”

  Waiting in silence while the attendant brings a tray of Dundee cake and tea, I notice my friend is wearing an expensive looking gold and bloodstone ring. My hands are shaking.

  “How have you been?” he says.

  “Fine. As well as can be expected. How did you get here?”

  “By rail.”

  I am finding it difficult to maintain my composure. My heart is thumping in my chest and I am overly conscious of the way I am sitting. We face each other across the table just as we might have during one of our evenings in Marylebone, but the balance has shifted. Once we were equals.

  “I'm not here only to see you, although I have been looking forward to it, of course. I've come on official business.” He meets my eyes for the first time since I arrived, gauging my reaction. “I'm a Visitor in Lunacy now.”

  I cross and uncross my legs.

  He continues: “Hollings retired and I was offered the post last year. It came as something of a surprise but I was happy to accept it. I had been starting to make preparations to move the family to New York but it was an opportunity I didn't feel I could let pass. As you can imagine, I have been kept busy. This is my first trip to Carfax.”

  Still unable to find the right words I look out across the autumnal lawns, where orange and red leaves shaken from the tall poplars scatter cross the gravel paths. My companion taps his foot up and down in the air. After a while he asks if I am being well treated.

  “I have had my personal effects removed.”

  “I'm sorry to hear that. Do you want me to have a word with Hennessey? He'll listen to me, I'm sure. I won't give him a choice, the old fool.”

  “That won't be necessary... When was the last time we met, do you suppose? It is difficult to keep track of time in here.”

  “I'm not sure. I assume I came for an evening visit to your home. It couldn't have been long after I came back from America.”

  There is another prolonged pause.

  “My family are doing well,” he continues. “Andrew is flourishing at university. Marie wasn't well pleased at my new appointment, of course, seeing how frequently it takes me away from home, but she became accustomed to it soon enough. I rather suspect she prefers it when I'm gone.”

  “And how are things at the Commission?”

  “That's something I wanted to discuss with you, actually. It looks very much like Henry Drinkwater is about to be selected as the Secretary. What do you make of that?”

  I am shocked he would ask me: “I am in no position to comment. Surely you know that.”

  “Please, Richard, you know I always trusted you on such matters.”

  “He may have changed completely, for all I know. I've had no contact from anybody at the Commission since I came here. None at all.”

  “I can assure you, he has not changed in the least. Still the same old stubborn mule. Still pontificating.”

  “In which case I would say the suggestion is startlingly idiotic. The man has never displayed any understanding whatsoever of life in a madhouse. Besides which he insists on expressing himself like he's speaking from pulpit rather than in the proper language of a doctor. It is infuriating. He is a buffoon.”

  David nods: “Yes, that was my assessment too. Thank you. It's always good to have your own opinions reinforced.”

  We speak for a while about further changes at the Home Office, the progress of my old acquaintances. The Evangelical clique, I am glad to hear, have begun to lose their influence. Then, just as I am beginning to relax and enjoy the company of my friend, it is time for him to go, leaving me with promises of another visit as soon as his schedule allows. Returning to my room I am elated. He cannot know how transforming it is to have my opinion sought and valued, to feel useful in some small way. Even the four walls around me seem altered, as if I am perceiving them through new eyes. For a while it is possible to think of myself as Doctor Renfield, ex-Superintendent of Devon County Asylum and an admired Visitor in Lunacy, rather than an outcast, an imprisoned lunatic.

  The rest of the day I spend in rumination. In this new attitude I find myself questioning for the first time whether I am as rational as I believed. Had someone challenged my view of the world only a few hours earlier I would have directed them to the evidence: the miraculous gift of the sparrow, the church conjured from air, the Death's-head Hawkmoth. But now I find myself re-evaluating.

  I stare through my window, out over the empty landscape. Something moves in slowly from the left of the scene. A farmer working with a horse-driven plough. There is no great plague. Beyond these walls life continues as it always has.

  Could I, in the grip of a delusion, have misinterpreted everything? Is a bat nothing more than a bat?

  ٭

  When Seward returns I am reluctant to ask where he has been. My thinking has been so clear recently I am worried his answer might upset me and disturb the balance. I have been sleeping regularly for the past few weeks, free from visions or hallucinations. Although it takes a feat of concentration I am mostly able to keep my more troubling thoughts pushed to the back of my mind. If I have been sick then I am recovering.

  The Superintendent looks in good health. When he arrives in my room it is clear he has just come from the grounds: his hair is tousled from the wind and his cheeks are flushed. On saying hello he passes me a newspaper, presumably aware Hennessey put a stop to my daily delivery. No mention is made of our last encounter, when I behaved so unforgivably. It is as if it never happened.

  “How are you, Renfield? You look well. You've gained a little weight around the face.”

  “I have been feeling a great deal more settled.”

  “I'm very glad to hear it. Look, I hope you don't mind but I have brought someone who would like to meet you.”

  I am startled: “Another visitor? Waiting outside?”

  “A good friend of mine, come to see where I spend my days.”

  My last meeting with someone from the outside world did so much to improve my spirits I am barely able to conceal my enthusiasm: “Very well. Let them come in, by all means, but just wait a minute while I tidy the place.”

  Seward stands by patiently as I tuck my bed sheets and straighten what few possessions I have left. When I am ready I sit myself down on the edge of the bed, crossing my legs and leaving the chair free for my guest.

  “Please, show them in.”

  The doctor steps into the corridor and returns followed by a black haired woman in a white dress. My breath catches.

  It is Magdalene.

  She offers her hand. I stand and accept it while she performs a shallow bow. She is a grown woman now but it as if she has barely aged at all: her complexion is rich and brilliant, her features small and beautifully formed: “Good evening, Mr Renfield. You see, I know you, for Doctor Seward has told me of you.”

  The Superintendent introduces my guest as Mrs Harker.

  I release her hand, realising I have been holding it for too long: “Delighted to meet you.”

  “I am sorry not to have given more warning of my visit. We seem to have given you a shock.”

  “Not at all. You
are very welcome. Please, sit. Mrs Harker, yes?”

  “That's right.”

  I cannot tear my eyes from her face. If she is not Magdalene after all then her resemblance to my childhood friend is uncanny. Momentarily I entertain the notion that she might have changed her name and forgotten who I am.

  “So how long have you been here for, Mr Renfield?”

  I am still trying to work out who she might be: “You're not the girl the doctor wanted to marry, are you? You can't be, you know, for she must be dead by now.”

  A hesitant sideways glance at Seward is followed by a smile: “Oh no, I have a husband of my own, to whom I was married before I ever saw Doctor Seward, or he me. Mr Harker has come to help your Superintendent with some work and I have accompanied him.”

  “How did you know I wanted to marry anyone?” Seward, I see, has been regarding me quizzically.

  I splutter: “What an asinine question.”

  Mrs Harker jumps to her friend's defence: “I don't see that at all, Mr Renfield.”

  Wishing to ingratiate myself with this sweet lady I quickly change my tone: “You will, of course, understand, Mrs. Harker, that when a man is so loved and honoured as our host is, everything regarding him becomes of interest in our little community. Doctor Seward is loved not only by his household and his friends, but even by his patients, who, being some of them hardly in mental equilibrium, are apt to distort causes and effects.”

  My little speech pleases me. Something of my old voice is returning.

  Mrs Harker turns to the doctor: “Your Mr Renfield is not at all as I imagined, John.”

  We continue to talk for some time. She tells me of her experiences as a schoolmistress and how she has been practising shorthand in the hope of assisting her husband in his work as a solicitor. I, in turn, allude to my past lives as a Superintendent and a member of the Lunacy Commission. None of this appears to surprise her. It seems Seward has already done a thorough job of detailing my fall from grace.