Authors: Stephen Curran
The front door opens and we are looking out over a coastal town, built around a river running through a deep valley that opens into a harbour. Out of the small front garden Lucy goes, then down a hill, passing rows of pastel coloured cottages. The full moon appears from behind a cloud and lights up the sea.
The streets of the old town are silent as she moves through them and works her way towards the bay. Passing a wattle and daub public house with a painting of a black swan on its sign, she reaches the waterside. Moored boats creak against their hawsers, waves slap against the harbour side. From here she crosses a wooden swing bridge and heads away from the piers, finally joining a coastal path that will take her up to the hill overlooking the town. Has nobody noticed she is missing from her home? Where is Seward?
As she climbs, the hem of her nightdress drags along the dirt. The unsheltered track is winding and steep in places but she follows it without hesitation, as confidently as she tackled the stairs, as if her eyes are open and it is middle of the day. Still, she has come perilously close to where the land falls away. One slip would send her tumbling to the rocks below. Another young life ended in its prime.
Not again. Not again.
At the edge of the cliff she hesitates, her head bowed and her hair caught in the light breeze, then turns and joins a sandy path leading to the ruins of an abbey. From here there is a view all the way up to the headland where a granite wall stretches out into the water, running parallel to a sturdy black sea wall. A buoy with a bell rings out slowly, mournfully.
Beyond the abbey is a parish church rounded by a graveyard, where Lucy's journey ends. Taking a bench next to the point at which the land drops – so dramatically that some of the bank has collapsed, leaving dozens of tombstones projecting over the cliff – she sits down and places her hands over her lap. As she rests I realise I have been given a rare opportunity. Without fear of being discovered I can study her delicate features, her milky skin, and the pale hairs on her arms. A shadow falls across the graveyard as the moon slips behind clouds.
Lucy's position is changing, so gradually that at first it is almost undetectable. Her muscles are relaxing, her posture becoming less rigid. Eventually her hands part and fall to her sides. Her head drops back. It is as if the life is being drained from her body.
Something dark is shifting in the shadows behind the bench, a palpable presence that refuses to hold its shape. Now it resembles a great bird, now a bear, now a sooty-black animal like a monstrous cat. Lucy slumps and slips forward in the seat, her legs pushed wide apart. The cat swells into a great palpitating mass.
“Get away!”
It turns in my direction. It senses me: it heard my shout. Sending me a warning it bristles and hisses, arching its back. Its eyes are cold and depth-less black. I have seen them before.
Then, all at once, it is gone.
٭
When the young Irish attendant arrives with my porridge I ask him to pass a message to Doctor Hennessey. I must speak with him again as a matter of urgency. It is my intention to demand my immediate release.
Since the vision I have been unable to rest. I am constantly anxious, my stomach is unsettled. If what I witnessed is to be believed – and I see no reason why it should not – then it is clear I have been deceived and betrayed. No doubt my master selected me because I was at my lowest ebb and vulnerable to manipulation. Using promises of protection and rebirth he sought to utilize me as a pawn in his game, the end purpose of which he intended to conceal until the last moment. This is why he sent such obscure clues and ambiguous signs: to baffle me and distract me from the truth.
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?”
“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.