Visitor in Lunacy

by Stephen Curran

She asks, also, about my interest in spiders and flies, bringing the matter up none-too-subtly. The subject clearly intrigues her and I am happy to have the chance to disassociate myself from some of my former ideas.

  “I used to fancy that life was a positive and perpetual entity, and that by consuming a multitude of live things, no matter how low in the scale of creation, one might indefinitely prolong one’s own existence: relying of course, upon the Scriptural phrase, 'For the blood is the life.' Though, indeed, the vendor of a certain nostrum has vulgarized the truism to the very point of contempt. Isn't that true, doctor? I am much recovered now. The delusion is fading and I am lucid once again.”

  “It pleases me to hear it, Mr Renfield.”

  Seward is unconvinced. He thinks I have some ulterior motive and this is all a part of my greater plan. He makes a show of checking his pocket watch: “We should go. Van Helsing will be waiting for us at the station.”

  “Very well,” says Mrs Harker, then, turning her dark and lustrous eyes towards me: “Goodbye, and I hope I may see you often, under auspices pleasanter to yourself."

  Again I stand and take her hand, even though she did not offer it: "Goodbye, my dear.”

  After they have gone I am presented with a plate of food, my afternoon meal of carrots, boiled potatoes and beef. Sitting on the foot of my bed I pull my chair towards me to use as a table. The carrots are eaten first, then the potatoes, and finally the meat. Not long ago I would have pushed the meat to one side, rejecting the lifeless flesh as disgusting and lacking in sustenance. Chewing it thoroughly I allow myself to become reacquainted with the taste. Once the last piece has been swallowed – the only full meal I have eaten for as long as I can remember – I lay the cutlery neatly side by side.

  ٭

  For the first time since my incarceration I go to another room along the corridor and knock on the door. As I wait for a response the Irish attendant at his gas jet raises his hand to me in greeting and I do the same in reply.

  “Hold on a moment,” comes a voice from within. When Mr Wainwright opens the door he is wiping his paint-spattered hands with a cloth. “Oh. It's you.”

  I introduce myself as Richard: “And you are Mr Wainwright, is that correct? May I come in?”

  After checking over his shoulder he smiles beneath his carefully cultivated moustache then steps to the side: “Yes, please do.”

  If his room is the same size as my own then it doesn't appear so, crammed as it is with canvases. Every inch of hanging space is occupied and stacks of paintings, five or six deep, lean against the walls. In the centre is an easel covered by a sheet, next to which stands a small table where he has rested his cigar. Clearly Seward arranged for his things to be removed from storage. As he organises a place for me to sit we go over the details of the night of our escape. He was chased around the lawns for over an hour, he tells me, spending ten minutes amongst the branches of a tall tree before finally being apprehended.

  “So, what brings you all the way over here to see me?”

  I hesitate, having momentarily failed to understand that he is making a joke concerning the short distance between his room and my own: “I wondered if you'd be kind enough to show me your paintings? I saw them fleetingly when Hennessey was having his clear out and now they've been returned I wanted to have a proper look.”

  In truth, I have decided that it would be nice to make a friend here, and expressing an interest in his art work seems like a reasonable way to strike up a conversation.

  “I'm afraid I'm sure they're of no interest to anyone but me. But you're welcome to have a look around. All I'd say is, please, don't touch them.”

  On closer inspection the collection reveals itself to have a clear order. The paintings occupying the left hand side of the room are comical in style, like illustrations for children's books. The felines stand on their hind legs, engaging in everyday human activities. One depicts a cat in a nightgown holding a candlestick, getting ready for bed. Another has a tabby sitting on a train hiding behind a newspaper while an elderly, grey haired cat sits opposite. At the front of a stack leaning against the wall is one that particularly catches my eye: a tom in a morning suit taking a stroll in a park, tipping his hat towards what appears to be a molly pushing a pram, although she is half concealed by a rose bush.

  Following the paintings to the right reveals a gradual change in style. Landscapes are replaced by full face, head and shoulder portraits and the subjects lose their clothes. Their eyes become unnaturally wide and the pallet expands to include greens, reds and purples. Beyond the midpoint of the room they have come to barely resemble animals at all, their fur having expanded like an explosion to fill the whole canvass, a blast of colours: part cat, part Catherine wheel.

  “Are these arranged in the order they were painted?”

  “Roughly, I suppose. Not by design. It just seems to have happened that way.”

  “Have you never thought of selling them? They are excellent.”

  I detect a crack in his amiable and relaxed exterior: “No,” he says, taking a brush to clean as something to occupy his hands. “No, I could never do that. They are too much a part of me.”

  “I understand. There's no reason why you should. May I see what you're working on currently?”

  He is somewhat reluctant, I can tell, but the compulsion to be friendly encourages him to remove the sheet. Beneath is a work-in-progress that shows another clear break in style. Gone are the vivid colours of his recent creations, replaced by muddy browns and dull reds. In some ways the picture bears more resemblance to his earlier works and features two cartoon-like cats up on their hind legs, side by side. One figure is a sketch in pencil, yet to be filled in. It wears a blank expression and stares directly out at the viewer. The other is painted in full, with spiky grey fur and large black eyes. Unique amongst all Mr Wainwright's creations it is baring its fangs, hissing angrily at something to its side, beyond the confines of the frame.

  I ask where he draws his inspiration from. Do the pictures represent scenes from stories he has read? Why is he so fascinated by cats?

  He shrugs: “I have given that a great deal of thought. I really have no idea. You don't choose your subjects, I suspect. It's more as if they choose you.”

  “And this fellow here, up on his claws: what is he hissing at?”

  He takes a moment to ponder: “A threat of some sort. A malignancy.”

  ٭

  Under the roof of the shelter, tucked between two beams, a sack of eggs rests behind a delicate but dense web. The airing court is unusually peaceful, populated by a single attendant and two men sitting together beside the outer wall, conversing with such civility it is possible to imagine we are passing the afternoon in an autumnal public park rather than in the grounds of an asylum. Resting against the bench I look around for the mother spider but she is nowhere to be seen.

  In the spider's nest I detect no symbolism, no oblique messages. Only life going blandly about the business of a reproducing itself. It suddenly occurs to me that my past preoccupations have not troubled me all morning. I no longer even need to make an effort to keep them from my mind. I take a lungful of fresh air. I am not the same man I was before: I am not Doctor Renfield the metropolitan physician, the Visitor in Lunacy with his business bag and his expensive suits. I am merely Renfield, resident of Carfax, friend of Craig Wainwright.

  The flooring behind me creeks. Turning to see who might be approaching I am shocked to see Hardy, dressed not in an attendants uniform but scruffy trousers and a shirt turned up at the sleeves.

  “I bet you thought you'd never see me again.”

  There is violence concealed in the way he holds himself: his head is thrust forward and his shoulders are tense. His face is ruddy and his eyes bulging more than ever. There is dirt on his hands, packed under his fingernails. I check my surroundings and remind him that one of his colleagues stands nearby and another is bound to come along soon.

  “You think I'm stupid, don't you? Yo
u might consider yourself cleverer than me but don't forget, you're nothing but a filthy, common criminal. A lunatic. I'm not half as dumb as you think, not even close to it. I wouldn't do anything to you here in broad daylight. I'll be patient, bide my time.”

  “I have no ill will towards you. I don't blame you for beating me. We are all a slave to our baser urges from time to time.”

  “I don't care what you think of me. I'm not so forgiving. Because of you Seward has me working in the gardens, on my hands and knees in the mud. My back aches all the time. My wages were cut.”

  “None of that was my decision.”

  “He should have let me kill you, you know? Who would care? One less drooling idiot in the world. They should put the lot of you to death, save us all the trouble.” He sniffs and runs the back of his hand under his nose. “Don't think that just because I'm not an attendant any more I can't get around the building as I please. I've still got friends here. I've still got access to keys. If you get my meaning.”

  He comes close, looking deep into my eyes. I am afraid of him but I refuse to turn away. A breeze passes through the shelter, carrying the smell of his sweat towards me.

  “I will call for help if you don't step back.”

  “See this face?” he mutters. “Remember it. Because it's going to be the last thing you see on this Earth.”

  When he has gone I sit down on the bench and wait for my legs to stop shaking.

  ٭

  Drifting into sleep I think nothing at first of the sound of barking. It is only when I remember I have never once heard or seen a dog in the vicinity of Carfax that I am shocked into wakefulness, beset by images of the drooling beast at my throat on Marylebone Road.

  It is crucial that keep irrational thoughts away. The hour is late, I tell myself. You are in a dream state, only half awake. There is nothing to fear. Still, my heart races in my chest.

  The window shutter judders in its frame. My eyes should have grown accustomed to the darkness, but instead the room appears to be growing incrementally blacker, as if a shadow is creeping across it: dirty water seeping into paper. An optical illusion bought on by tiredness, surely.

  Getting out of bed I search for something to jam into the side of the frame in the hope of silencing the rattle. Away from the protection of my blanket I feel cold and exposed. A shiver passes over me. Finding the newspaper given to me by Seward resting on my bedside table, I tear a strip from the front page and fold it into a wedge, but find I have made it too thick. Tearing off a smaller strip, I try again.

  A noise comes from the other side of the window. A series of clicks, three of them, like finger snaps. I hold my breath. Stepping slowly away I wonder whether I should call for the night watcher but remind myself I am weary, and therefore prone to hallucination. There is no rational reason to raise the alarm, and I am a rational man. All I need do to reassure myself is look outside.

  Lifting the latch I pull the shutter open, and there he is. Not a ghost or a phantom, neither a man or a beast, neither living or dead but all things mingled, a solid body, floating a storey from the ground, the palms of his hands pressed against the glass. He is younger than when we last met, the moustache which was once grey and thin is now full and black. His dark grey suit is pristine and his skin is smooth: where he once had wrinkles his flesh is plump and shining with health. Some ten feet below a heavy fog hangs, dense enough to block out the land. Losing my footing I fall backwards to the floor, dropping the newspaper at my side. My master is angry, impatient, bearing teeth as sharp as a cat's. An acrid smelling hotness spreads over my crotch and thighs.

  With the forefinger of his left hand he taps the glass. He wishes me to invite him in. I look towards the door to the corridor but he only shakes his head: do not call for help, he is telling me. You will not live to regret it.

  Again he taps the glass, triggering in the pit of my belly a deep physical yearning I recognise from many years before, a strange tumultuous excitement, pleasure mingled with a sense of fear and disgust. I am conscious of desire but also abhorrence. If I am to avoid repeating the sins of my past I must resist. I struggle to my feet, wondering how I must appear to him: a violently trembling wretch in a piss-sodden gown. Looking down I realise I am tumescent and use my hands to cover myself.

  He speaks, but without words. You have betrayed me. You have been untrusting, ungrateful and impatient. I should crush you for this. But I am merciful. If you invite me inside I will put an end to your suffering.

  In response I shake my head. He fixes me with his eyes – black like sea-polished stones – and suddenly I am somewhere else. He is showing me something, placing a vision in my head of events occurring far away.

  We are in Lambeth Marsh, in the area surrounding what I recognise as Belvedere Road, amongst the tenant shacks and warehouses. A ripe stink of hops and yeast pervades the place, leaking from the nearby brewery. Moving slowly and noiselessly through the shadows is a woman, her long white hair hanging over her shallow-cheeked and silvery face. It is Lucy, but somehow altered. If there is a purpose to her journey then I cannot fathom it.

  Soon she happens across a girl of eight or ten years old standing on a street corner. On seeing this strange woman approach the girl looks afraid, but is reassured when Lucy places a hand softly on her shoulder and proposes something that I cannot quite hear. Together they drift up the sloping, uneven pavement. There are tanning yards here, and blacking factories and lime-burners, their huge doors closed for the night. Anyone passing through at this time does so with questionable motives.

  The pair turns a corner into a narrow alley between distained wooden fences. The little girl seems quite taken by her new companion, with her unblemished skin and her flowing gown. Farther away from the road they go, into the darkness. Finally Lucy takes the girl by the shoulders and turns her body to face her then, with one hand, unfastens her grubby collar and pulls the material loose. Seeing her neck is dirty she licks her fingers and wipes it clean. The girl submits and smiles uncertainly. When Lucy bends down and puts her mouth to her throat she flinches but does not pull away.

  A whistle blows. Down the alley lumbers a policeman, curious at what manner of transaction is taking place. Catching sight of him Lucy turns and flees, disappearing down an adjacent track and leaving her victim to fall first to her knees then heavily onto her front. The policeman is about to make chase when he spots blood pooling onto the pathway, gushing forcefully from the little girl's neck. Blowing his whistle again he calls out for help, fumbling to stem the flow with his fingers, but it does no good. She will not survive.

  In an instant I am back in my room. Rushing angrily forward I slam the shutter and fasten the latch. There are no more taps or clicks, no sounds at all. Gradually the powerful smell of rotting vegetation that had overtaken the room fades, as does my physical shame.

  So this is what has become of Seward's beloved and perhaps is coming to us all. Lucy has died but lived on, condemned to an existence obeying a thirst that can never be quenched, replenishing the lifeblood stolen from her by her own murderer. She is no longer a human but an animal, condemning her prey to the same fate. Talk of an imminent plague has not been unfounded after all.

  ٭

  At one time in my life this would have been a jury of peers. Four men of science stand in my room, two of whom I have encountered before.

  “I demand to be discharged,” I say, “with immediate effect.”

  Seward had been conducting a group tour of his facility when I asked for him to be fetched as a matter of urgency. I imagine it is only because he happened to be passing directly through my ward that he consented so quickly. In his company – introduced one by one by the Superintendent - are Doctor Godalming from Sutton Asylum, Professor Van Helsing, Mr Quincey Morris, and Mr Jonathan Harker.

  Seward pushes his spectacles up the bridge of his nose: “I see. You have already discussed this matter with Doctor Hennessey, have you not?”

  “Yes, but my situation has alte
red. It has become more important than ever that my request is granted. And you - with respect to the man who acted as your replacement - are not Doctor Hennessey.” Feeling confident of my capability to make a convincing case I address the whole room. “I also appeal to your friends. They will, perhaps, not mind sitting in judgement on me?”

  “I am very busy at the moment. Let's save this for another time, shall we?”

  Brushing this aside I reach out my arm and greet Doctor Godalming: “Sir, we have met before, although I would understand if you do not recognise me at once. It was many years ago and my circumstances have altered somewhat in the meantime. I am Doctor Richard Renfield.”

  His clear embarrassment at the assertion that we might already be acquainted is quickly followed by a glint of recognition which opens the way to a burst of ill-concealed astonishment. The blood rushes to his jug-handle ears.

  “Yes,” he says, reluctantly shaking my hand and forcing his flat lips into a hesitant smile: “Of course. I believe I do remember you. Forgive me, I had no idea you were here.”

  “I am pleased to see you again after all this time. And Mr Morris,” - the American has been smiling to himself but now his luxuriant moustache turns sharply down at the ends - “from hearing your accent as you came down the corridor I assume you are a Texan. You should be proud of your great State. Its reception into the Union was a precedent which may have far reaching effects hereafter, when the Pole and the Tropic may hold allegiance to the Stars and Stripes.”

  With little choice but to follow Godalming's lead in these peculiar circumstances, Mr Morris also accepts my outstretched hand and tips his hat: “You two know each other?”

  “From a very, very long time ago,” says Godalming, before I have a chance to reply. “He used to work for the Lunacy Commission.”

  Morris raises a bushy eyebrow: “The Lunacy Commission? Well. I believe that's what you might call irony.”