Visitor in Lunacy (7 page)

DEAR DR RENFIELD: Will I never be free from adversity? We have suffered yet another disaster. Two weeks ago my husband made an attempt on his own life. Whether this was the result of his mental disorder or pure despair I cannot tell. He has now returned from the hospital and rests in his room with a member of staff permanently at his door.

I hope you will find it in your heart to see us, if you can. My family labours under a blackness of distress and at present there is scarcely a gleam of light to guide me. Serve me, Dr Renfield, and save.

Indigestion

MRS Utterson once more received me in the drawing room of her villa. Through the bay widow fell a cold and muted light. The atmosphere was comfort-less and dismal.

“What happened to your hand, Doctor Renfield?”

“I had an accident with the window pane in my study. It was nothing; a foolish thing.”

“Is the cut deep?”

“Hardly a graze.”

Under the table the grey cat dozed, its delicate ribcage rising and falling. The giant rubber plant, I noticed, had been moved from where it previously stood and now occupied the shadowy opposite corner of the room where it was failing to flourish, its leaves covered with a thick layer of household dust. The Chesterfield had shifted too so that it faced towards the wall. Dark shadows troubled Mrs Utterson's her eyes and her hands trembled gently, constantly.

“I am sorry you had to make the journey from Marylebone again so soon.”

“Don’t let it concern you. I'm happy to help.”

Around her neck she wore a plaid band that seemed to me to be too tight. My instinct was to slip my finger beneath the material and hook it away but I resisted. Above the fireplace the painting of the River Esk remained, its colours diminished in the gloom but still capable of making a powerful claim on my attention.

“My husband is sleeping,” she told me.

Tearing my gaze away I regarded her: “Yes?”

“We took his key away, as you recommended,” she said, “although he still insists on keeping his door closed.” Woken by our voices, the cat stirred and arched its back. “I cannot sleep for fear of what further harm he might cause himself. Sometimes I think the torment is greater than I can bear. If sorrow could kill me I ought to have died before this.” Attempting to make myself less uncomfortable I uncrossed my legs. My feet felt heavy and my thighs ached. Every move I made felt grossly exaggerated. “I suppose should tell you the nature of the horror that befell us.”

“May I see the patient?”

Startled by the sharpness of my interruption she hesitated: “Of course. I will accompany you. I must warn you I cannot be sure how he will react. His behaviour towards the servants has been unusually hostile.”

“In what way? Has he been violent?”

“No, never. The only violence committed has been on his own person. No - he has been accusing the staff of stealing from him. He says they break in while he sleeps and remove his things. When he speaks of it he becomes extremely upset. I cannot stand to see it, Doctor.”

Readjusting its position, the cat - who had been pawing lazily at my shoe - prepared to jump onto my lap. Misjudging the distance it slipped and fell to the floor. For the first time I saw its corneas were misty white and a sticky residue lined its lower lids.

“What is wrong with your pet?”

“She is going blind. She will have lost her sight completely before the summer is over.”

“A pity.”

After making a second failed attempt the poor creature gave up and trotted towards the door. Anxiety beamed from Mrs Utterson's face: “I have visions, Doctor Renfield.”

I did not speak.

“I see my husband strung up by ropes threaded through a series of hooks on the ceiling. They bind his torso and limbs so he struggles but cannot escape. Along the wall is a row of chairs, occupied by gentlemen in dark suits and black gloves. They watch him without emotion and make no attempt to help.” Leaning forward she took hold of my knee. “But I do not think they are visions, Doctor Renfield. I think they are real.”

Her lips were cracked and her skin was flaking and dry. Gripped by a sudden cold revulsion I was compelled to push her hand away and get to my feet.

“Let's go.”

On the first floor we passed the room from where I heard the mysterious clicking on my previous visit. The door was fully open and as I went by I saw it had been almost entirely emptied of furniture except for an upturned chair and gate-leg table covered by a square of black material. Although my view was obscured I felt certain someone lurked within.

Mrs Utterson led me on to the third floor, where the scent of the flowers had been all but overpowered by the repugnant smell of stale tobacco. The bouquets had wilted and fallen petals lay on the carpet. Reaching the final step she turned suddenly, blocking my ascent and forcing me to lean back, holding on to the banister with one hand for support. I wondered if I should mention I was feeling unwell.

“It was I who discovered him,” she said.

“I do not want to know.”

“But you must hear it.”

“Please, no.”

“He was lying on the floor beside his writing desk, his head between the legs of his chair. There were deep bite marks running up both of his arms and his left wrist was missing a piece of flesh. Of course, he had lost a good deal of blood. All the books had been thrown from the shelves and scattered around the floor. I did my best to bind the wounds while the housemaid sent for the private attendant. It was he who extracted the missing piece of flesh from the back of my husband's throat.”

She was breathing heavily. With nothing more to say we stood mutely at the top of the stairs. My vision became indistinct. For a moment I believed there was nothing behind me: no steps, no walls. Only blackness and an abyssal drop.

Clawing at my shoulders she pressed her lips forcefully against my own. I stumbled backwards but managed to save myself. Breath hissed from her nose in short bursts. Her eyes fluttered wildly beneath their lids while mine remained open. Blood rushed in my ears and the walls seemed to shake and roar, as if the bricks might crumble and collapse. Unbuckling my belt with my uninjured hand I tugged my trousers down and pushed her to the floor as she lifted her dress. I was overwhelmed by noise. Mr Utterson's door loomed behind me, so strongly I believed I could feel the solid wood pressing down against my back. There on the carpet we wrestled with each other, lost in a bewildered state of carnality and violence. Everything was shrouded in white.

In an instant, like a finger snap, my full cognisance returned and with extreme clarity I could see Mrs Utterson's shoulder moving beneath me. Her body was twisted, her hands clasping my head and her white-grey thighs tight around my waist, jerking and twitching, while she emitted a series of strangled gasps. My hips thrust against hers, knocking her lower back against the hard lip of the stair. I ejaculated inside her despite my deep revulsion.

Depleted, we lay together, my full heft rested on her body and her arms spread across the floor. Silence grew around the two of us. Finally pushing myself away a sharp pain shot from my wound. Fumbling, I struggled to pull my trousers up, mortified to be exposing myself. She was spent and staring blankly at the ceiling, apparently oblivious to me. I turned and made my way carefully down to the ground floor, sliding my hand along the banister for support.

After collecting my bag from the hallway I walked to the station and took the train to Marylebone. From here, rather than return home, I began to walk east, towards Bloomsbury and Clerkenwell, entering parts of London which, although I may have recognised them in the daytime, seemed foreign to me now.

Much later I came across a part of the nocturnal city where there was nothing to be seen but lamps. Every step was lighted as if for a procession but all was empty. A thick dark fog slept above the buildings. At street level there seemed to be an excess of air.

Far ahead I caught sight of two women strolling arm in arm along the pavement. Because of their relaxed pace I was able to catch up without any effort, eventually drawing level on the opposite side of the road. As they crossed between the flickering pools of light, they seemed unaware they were being watched. At this proximity I had no difficulty in recognising one of them as the young woman from Regent's Park.

The Familiar

I slowed down and waited for the distance between us to increase, fixing my gaze on the back of the nanny's head: her smooth neckline and her unblemished white skin. After crossing to her side of the roadway, treading as lightly as I could, I concealed myself in a butcher shop's doorway. Resting my hand on the blistered architrave I discovered a crude carving, a blasphemous word. The shifting fog dropped, weighty in the night sky.

Only once the women had turned the corner did I emerge from my hiding place and make after them. Finding my business bag cumbersome I dropped it behind a garden fence with the intention of collecting it later, then stopped to peer around the side of the wall just in time to see them disappearing down another street. Somewhere in the distance a dog dispatched a single bark like a pistol shot. Through this new and sparsely lit thoroughfare I followed, sidestepping into doorways and alcoves whenever I feared I might be detected.

I cannot say for how long I pursued them, or how far. I only wished to reassure myself that all was well with Elise and no personal misfortune had prevented her from taking her morning walks. I was also intrigued by the presence of the second woman. Who could she be? The two of them were clearly at ease with each other, strolling arm in arm and quietly chatting. Was she Elise's friend? Her sister?

Eventually we came upon a procession of houses overlooking a stretch of undeveloped land. The night air was crisp and tasted something like metal. I was unusually conscious of my breathing, needing to concentrate to keep it regular. Small sounds carried far. Preceded by her footfalls a bony-faced girl of eight or nine years emerged from the darkness, sprinting headlong and as fast as she was able. A few moments later she was followed by a big-bellied man with a thick beard. Elise's companion – a slender woman with pearl-white skin and yellow hair - looked inquisitively over her shoulder towards them, adjusting her gloves. The little girl bolted past me and away down an alleyway, her expression a mixture of determination and terror. Red faced and panting, her pursuer paused in the middle of the road and rested his hands on his knees before hopelessly lumbering off again. With them both out of sight, the yellow haired woman glanced suspiciously in my direction. I had been spotted.

There being nowhere to hide I had little choice but to keep walking as if nothing had happened. Following in the steps of the bearded man down the alley would have meant turning on my heels, an act that could only make me appear even more sinister, something I dearly wished to avoid if Elise had already recognised me from the park. How could I explain myself? I reduced my speed but seemed unable to extend the gap. Stopping briefly I made a show of consulting my pocket watch, lowering my head and hoping the night would obscure my features.

When I looked up again the women had vanished. Caught in a sudden panic I ran forward, struck by the realisation I might never cross paths with the young nanny again and my opportunity to spark a relationship with her would be missed forever. To my relief I saw they had turned another corner and were now opening a wrought iron gate towards the end of a row of Georgian terraces.

“Elise!” I yelled. “Elise!”

Either oblivious or indifferent to me they climbed the steps to an opening red door, their faces caught in the light from the hallway within. A gentleman reached out and took Elise's hand.

Once they were inside I strode down the street and hid myself in a narrow space between two adjacent buildings, from where I could see the plain black door. Faint light was visible behind the curtained windows across the thoroughfare. The iron gate had been closed.

It was in this alleyway that I lived for the coming days.

A Vigil

WHEN I woke it appeared to be morning. The fog had thinned and one or two factory workers were moving about. I had been sleeping on my feet - something to which I had quickly grown accustomed - my shoulder propped against the alley wall and brick dust on my disarranged coat. Attempting to straighten myself I was forced to sit on the ground, having lost strength in my legs. With my uninjured hand I wiped the dust away and rested my head on the loose water pipe running down the side of the building. It was early enough for most people to still be in bed.

I was angry I had allowed myself to drift into unconsciousness for what must have been at least an hour. It had been my wish to dispense with sleep altogether but my body betrayed me and made it impossible. The best I could do was nap as sparingly and as lightly as possible. Because of my night terrors I had been living on precious little rest for months now, so I felt confident I could survive on four hours a day. I divided my sleep into segments, as best I could. Twenty minutes every two hours. This duration seemed ideal, long enough to provide quietus but too short for anything but the shallowest slumber. It was my hope that any significant noises – the red door opening, the sound of Elise's voice – would pull me back into wakefulness. Was it possible the young nanny had left the house while I was insensible? An undisciplined moment may have caused me to squander my last chance to see her. My stomach turning at this notion I pulled myself to my feet, striking a pose that suggested alertness in the hope of encouraging it. I could not allow myself to be so reckless.

It is impossible to give an accurate account of my extended stay in the alleyway. Whether I was there for a week, or two weeks, or simply a matter of days, I cannot say. No memory of this period is certain and my recollection has no sequence, as if it all happened at once. Despite the inhospitable conditions it was not an entirely unhappy time. I found some pleasure in the protracted nature of the task, the feat of endurance. I was unburdened by society, my only concern being the continuation of the watch. I existed in a strange place, beyond ordinary human concerns, where the only markers were the occasional need to eat, sleep and excrete.