Authors: Stephen Curran
My relationship with Mrs Highsmith was no better. Paranoid that my uncle might have told her what I had done I sensed disapproval in everything she said or did. Worse, my dreams about her had not stopped. If anything, they had become more vivid, so that when we crossed paths during the day I experienced a confusing mixture of repulsion and attraction. It was easier to avoid her wherever possible. Sometimes I was able to distract myself with my books but most of the time I merely worried and brooded.
I wondered if Magdalene had been treated the same way by Oscar. Would she feel as ashamed as I? Given her increasingly forthright personality I found it hard to imagine: she would dismiss the accusation as easily as batting a fly from her collar. From time to time I believed I might be capable of the same disregard but my confidence soon faded.
A week had passed since my humiliation. Hearing a knock at my bedroom door I momentarily imagined it might be Mrs Highsmith come to visit me before bed, but it was Uncle Patrick in his nightgown, holding what appeared to be a weighty bundle of leather and metal. Although we had not spoken since breakfast he put aside any greetings and launched abruptly into what he wished to say.
“I feel I may have spoken to you too harshly. This is not to say I excuse what you did. I have had some time to ponder the matter and have come to the conclusion that addressing you in such a way could only be counterproductive. I would have hoped my many years as a leader in the Volunteer movement would have taught me the best way to communicate with young men, but there you have it: we are, none of us, perfect. So, seeing as I am currently your sole guardian I have decided instead to offer my support and do whatever I can to steer you back onto the right track. I have purchased this for you.”
I accepted the bundle of material and held it out in front of me. It was something like a corset with a riveted steel band around the waist, attached to a metal cup and tube.
“I got the idea from a book I was reading on boy's health. It is designed to help you focus your mind. I think it should be fairly obvious how you put it on. I will be back in a few minutes to tighten it for you.”
He closed the door behind him and I undressed. Turning the garment around a few times – it was heavier than it looked – I located the armholes and put the steel band around over my hips. The cup, I now saw, was to cover my genitals, making them inaccessible to me. My penis went inside the tube.
Uncle Patrick returned and placed his cane on my bedside table before tugging the corset strings - “Is this comfortable? Can you breathe easily?” -and locking the steel band at the back.
“There, you see?” The device was secure and impossible for me to remove without his assistance. “Now you shall be free from unnecessary distractions.”
I slipped my nightgown over my head and climbed into bed. When I was settled he touched my forehead. It was the most affectionate gesture he had ever made towards me: lightly brushing my fringe from my brow.
The sensation was still fresh in my memory four months later when I stood, head bowed, by his open grave, wondering what he could see from heaven and whether he knew about the fresh black mark on my soul, the undiscovered and unpardonable sin I had committed.
“I hope it will help. You'll be normal again in no time. Now make sure your spine is straight, place your palms down flat. I will see you in the morning for breakfast.”
٭
When the wind is up the window of my cell rattles in its frame in such a deliberate way that I must believe it is controlled by some intelligent, external force. The pattern is repetitive, percussive. I suspect my savour is attempting to communicate with me in a language I am yet to understand. My head resting against the rubber I struggle to decipher it, without success.
More signs, more omens.
Taken out to the airing court for the first time since I scaled the wall, I am kept in my straight waistcoat and accompanied by three unspeaking men. Next to the shelter a game of quoits is taking place. Traipsing around and reinvigorating my tired legs I spot a cloud in the shape of a sow's head over where the church must stand. As I watch, it gradually transforms itself into what is what nobody could deny is the image of a barking dog.
Back in my cell cracks have appeared in the ceiling where there were no cracks before.
These portents give me the strength to wait. No longer are my days passed in a furious blur, but patiently and in peace.
٭
Once a week the corset was removed to be cleaned but otherwise I wore it at all times. The end of the summer loomed, and my return to school. Would I be forced to wear it even then, in front of my peers? I could, of course, have asked my uncle whether this was to be the case but I was unprepared to make any reference to the garment, representing as it did a complete failure of character.
While it was cumbersome and uncomfortable and I worried it could be seen beneath my day clothes, I understood why it was necessary. If I was too weak willed to control my body's uglier functions then it must be done my other means. It was my sincere hope that eventually my urges would be suppressed and I would no longer need to rely on it. That longed-for victory featured heavily in my daydreams: the moment when I could shed the garment for the final time, my soul cleansed and my instincts purified.
It all seemed a very long way off. At night my thoughts were invaded by Magdalene, who taunted me with her insistent advances. I kept remembering our kiss and extending the scenario, taking it to places where in reality it did not go. I pictured her sat at the foot of my bed, her black hair hanging loose, laughing as she stroked her hand up and down my calves, mocking my resistance. At these times the tube at the front of the metal cup could be more of a hindrance than a help, becoming the cause of arousal as much as pain. The fantasy was so powerful it was a surprise to open my eyes and discover I was alone. I was thankful that the jacket prevented me from acting on my sordid impulses.
٭
Seward comes in, accompanied by the Principal Attendant.
“I'm told your behaviour has been exemplary of late.”
Mr Simmons nods: “He's a changed man, sir. His mania has completely subsided.”
I get to my feet: “It's true, I have been feeling much better, Doctor Seward. I believe I am finally on the road to recovery.”
“I must say I'm glad to hear it. I've had a discussion with the staff and we all agree you are ready to return to your room. I hope you realise this is an expression of trust on our part and that you will treat it accordingly.”
“Of course.”
“There is one condition, though. I'm concerned that you haven't been eating your meals. You occasionally eat the vegetables but reject the meat. We found the wooden box in your wardrobe, full of discarded beef and chicken. Protein is important, Renfield. You of all people should know that. Will you promise me that you'll start eating properly again?”
“I will eat whatever my body requires.”
Freed from my shackles and straight waistcoat I am led through a series of broad corridors, empty but for the attendants at their gas-jets. When I am alone in my room, which had once seemed like a prison but now felt like home, I stretch my arms and roll my shoulders, slowly and methodically getting the blood flowing again. Once the sensation has returned to my fingers I use them to explore the altered contours of my face. Up until now I have had only the pressure around my eyes and cheekbones to use as a guide to how quickly I was healing after my beating. Although I am still bruised and tender the damage is, mercifully, not as bad as I had begun to imagine. Relieved, I open the window and look out over the landscape. The church tower is nowhere to be seen.
٭
Uncle Patrick was a systematic eater, finishing each individual item of food on his plate before moving on to the next: first the fried mushrooms, then the grilled tomatoes, then the egg, never mixing mouthfuls. It was a method meant to aid digestion that he encouraged me to emulate. That morning at breakfast, while he concentrated on the movements of his knife and fork, I stole a glance at his face. He had lost weight again. The skin over his cheekbones was stretched tight and thin and had developed a silvery glint. His teeth seemed too large for his mouth. The past three weeks must have left him worn-out with worry and that I was to blame seemed obvious. Sensing my gaze he looked up and I quickly lowered my head.
When I had been excused I climbed the stairs to the first floor. At the top Mrs Highsmith appeared from behind the banister and obstructed my path. “John,” she whispered. She was standing too closely and I felt compelled to lean back. “John,” she said again, thrusting something into my hand. “Take this.” She refused to let go of my wrist until I had taken what she had given me: “Why don't you keep this in your pocket for the time being? No need for your uncle to see it, eh?”
“My name is Richard, not John.”
“Of course. I'm sorry, young master Richard. Run along now.”
Understanding this was to be a secret between us I went to my room and closed the door, resentful of being forced into such a position.
In my hand was a registered envelope, badly crumpled and addressed directly to me. Tearing it open I sat down and read the contents.
DEAR RICHARD: I will be at the old bridge at 9 o'clock in the evening on Friday. I hope you find it in your heart to see me, if you can. I will be waiting.
Yours, Magdalene.
I read it over three times before shoving it in my pocket and taking it down to the bottom of the garden, to a spot behind an oak tree out of sight of the house. Here, I tore it into tiny pieces and buried it in the soil.
Later that afternoon I sneaked into the kitchen and stole a paring knife, which I smuggled into my bedroom and hid beneath the mattress.
٭
In my hand I hold a Death's-head Hawkmoth. I cannot say how it came to be in my room. The sound of it tapping against the ceiling woke me from my sleep.
It flutters against my palm, making my loosely clenched fist feel independently alive, like a beating heart. Forming a narrow gap between my fingers I peak inside. The creature is fat and vibrant, its skull-shaped markings vivid on its thorax. It is not a moth but a sign. The final omen. It is time to move. Putting my hand to my mouth I tip the contents onto my tongue and bite down on the abdomen, immediately invigorated by the life blood as it flows down my throat. It is hard for me to believe I ever found the taste disgusting.
Removing my nightgown I put on my trousers, shirt and waistcoat. Once my shoes are tied I position myself against the wall behind the door and begin to wail, making noises as if I am in unbearable pain. The observation hatch snaps open.
“Renfield? What is it?” It is a new watcher, inexperienced, unsure of himself. An Irishman.
I continue to wail.
“Come out where I can see you.”
“I can't. I cannot move.”
“Where are you?”
“I need assistance. Please.”
“Just... hold on while I fetch my Mr Simmons.”
“I cannot wait. I am in pain.”
“All right. Give me a second.”
Once he is inside I grab him around the neck and bundle him to the floor. He is a small man and easy to overcome. Covering his mouth I prize the key ring from his hand and make a dash for the door. Before I can close it fully behind me he has inserted his arm and shoulder into the gap.
“For God's sake, Renfield, please. I need this job.”
We struggle and I manage to spread my hand over his face to push him back.
“I'm sorry,” I say. “I wouldn't do this unless it was absolutely necessary. You'll understand eventually.”
Afraid of crushing his fingers he pulls away. Even before I have turned the key in the lock he begins to bellow for help.
I will need to create a distraction if I am to succeed this time. Realising the power I hold now I am in possession of the bunch of keys I start to make my way down the corridor, opening the other doors.
“Run!” I shout. “Run! You're free!”
There are seven inmates in all. Two stir in their beds, dazed and half asleep, regarding me with confused expressions. A third pulls his blanket up to his chin in the manner of a frightened child, covering his hairless and sunken chest.
“I don't want to,” he says. “Please don't make me.”
The others leap into action and grasp the opportunity to escape, scrambling out of their rooms: the first three in their nightgowns, the forth naked. One I recognise as the man with the constantly paint spattered hands who lights his cigarettes using the attendant's gas-jet. The room behind him is candlelit and busy with brightly coloured canvases, all depicting what appear to be pictures of cats dressed as people. The naked escapee's whole body shakes and he flashes his hands with excitement.
At the end of the corridor I use the keys to let everyone out before me. The five of us scatter in different directions. I take the stairs, running down one flight, then another, into what must be the basement. Dizzy with exhilaration I push through a set of heavy double doors and come out towards the end of what I presume is a vast service corridor, a quarter of a mile long at least, gas-lit and containing rows of laundry baskets and food trolleys. Hearing movement from the room closest to me I set off as quickly as I dare, trying to keep my footfalls as light as possible and chucking the keys into a bundle of dirty sheets. Glancing through the open doors to my sides as I go I see a succession of large empty kitchens and a silent laundry room full of industrial-scale mangles. By the time I reach the end of the corridor my old ankle injury is flaring up again. Putting it out of my mind I enter the second stairwell and pace up to the ground floor, taking three steps at a time.
Searching for a way out I come across what looks to be a long, rectangular day room with a patterned carpet runner, more cheerfully decorated than anything I have seen elsewhere in the asylum. Armchairs with embroidered antimacassars are positioned around the floor, along with tables covered by tasselled cloths and tall pot plants standing on either side of the windows. Faintly in the distance I can hear a piano being played, a melody I recognise from the distant past, from a lifetime ago: Beethoven's Piano Sonata No.14. It stops me in my tracks. The energy drains from my limbs and I am overwhelmed by a deep melancholy, a yearning for things long gone.