Authors: Stephen Curran
For much of the time I gave no thought to food. I even believed I could survive without it, finding my nourishment from sunlight alone. Sometimes, however, I became so gripped by hunger my whole body shook. I saw everything in double, fluctuating colours floated before my eyes and a terrifying pain tore through my belly. I retched but was unable to vomit, convinced I was dying. These pangs, though, never failed to pass and my vigilance returned.
I did not go completely without sustenance. The small amount of money I had on my person was enough to purchase a pot of jam and two loaves of bread on my first morning, from a small grocer at the end of the road. Having no knife to use I tore pieces off the loaves and spread the jam using the fingers of my good hand. The first portions were eaten quickly but later I learnt to ration them, consuming only a bite or two at a time. Once the bread had been finished I ate the jam on its own, scooping it from the bottom of the jar and getting blackberry seeds lodged uncomfortably beneath my fingernails. My body stopped producing stools. I urinated thickly and odorously behind the pipe.
All this time I thought about the man who had answered the door to the two women. Even though I had not seen his face I fancied I could picture it, and I hated it, hated him. Doubtless he would have no appreciation of how fortunate he was to be in his position, in the company of a person as special as Elise. I wondered if, perhaps, he should be reminded of this somehow, taught a lesson.
At night, when the street was empty, I was confident enough to stand at the alley's entrance. In hours of concourse I stepped into the shadows. Blocking the pedestrians from my consciousness I focussed only on the door.
I perceived my surroundings with greater acuity than I ever believed might be possible. The small world I had created rushed in on me with luminous clarity: the fantastic and multitudinous hues of the fog and the shafts of light which glanced through it; the tiniest details of the red bricks. It was as if my eyes had never fully opened before. A veil had been lifted.
Unable to clean the dressing around my hand it inevitably caused an infection. The wound prickled and suppurated. Ants crawled about the lint. Picking them off I swallowed them for nourishment.
When it rained I sat on the ground and huddled behind the loose pipe, my frock coat pulled over my head....
… A drainage grill. The hard ground.
At the far end of the passage, a black dog with its tail docked, watching me...
Sunshine reflecting brilliantly from puddles....
...I have suffered enough. No more now.
The sound of a tongue clucking or the snapping of fingers. I am not alone. Someone takes me in their arms. I rest my weight against the old man, rubbing my cheek against his silk coat. His smell is familiar, like woodland undergrowth after a storm.
Long fingernails trace a line across my forehead and down my cheek. Gently, he parts my lips.
Black silk, wet soil, the rich odour of his breath.
PART TWO
“Place your hands on your chest,” says the German beneath the black sheet. “Cross them over.”
Emerging from behind the camera he takes my wrists and crosses them for me. He is a heavy-bodied man in a brightly coloured waistcoat, someone I recognise from the distant past, with a greying swallow-tailed beard.
“Palms down.”
Distracted, I fail to respond.
“Palms down,” he says again.
Over my shoulder is a square mirror angled to display my profile. Breaking my pose once more I turn to study my new face. It is similar to my old face but shrunken and wrinkled, its fallen cheekbones coloured by burst capillaries. My hair is spiky and uneven, having been carelessly shaved and allowed to grow back. Studying its silver flecks I move my head slowly from side to side.
“Please try to remain stationary.”
This new face reminds me of my uncle. I had never seen the resemblance before but now I am older I can detect similarities in our bone structure, in the shape of my head, as if he is growing within me, replacing me by stealth, emerging from under my skin.
In a final attempt to regain my attention the German gives a single, sharp clap of his hands. I fire him a stern look but already he has disappeared beneath the sheet. Electricity shoots through the copper conductors which touch against my cheeks and my muscles spasm, forcing me into a clownish grin. Although I am expecting the blinding flash I am startled by its brightness and react by throwing my arm across my eyes, knocking the conductors out of position. Once the photograph has been taken I relax but find I prefer to keep my arm where it is, comforted by the sensation of being removed from the world.
The German sighs resignedly: “Take him away.”
Sensing the duty attendant is drawing near I get to my feet and allow him to take me by the elbow. A metallic odour invades the air: the magnesium from the flash. Slowly I am directed out of the studio and on to the tiled floor of the corridor. My fellow inmates shuffle by, some chattering or moaning, others silent. Past the bath-house I am led, where I can hear a shower being administered, towards the tailor's shop and cook's store and the infirmary. Keeping my eyes closed I bury my nose in the crook of my arm and breathe in the soapy smell of the material. My guide warns me when we are about to climb the echoing stairwell to the second floor. On reaching the top I open one eye and take a peek: ahead of me is a long, wide passage with a polished wooden floor, a row of closed doors fitted with observation hatches, and the back of my attendant’s peaked hat.
Only when I am alone inside my private room do I feel safe enough to take down my arm. Someone has moved my chair. Picking it up by the backrest I put it down in its proper spot: five feet from the side walls, six from the front and rear: the position I find most conducive to serious thought. I am well provided for here: I have a bedside table, a shelf full of books, a comfortable bed and a wardrobe containing three waistcoats, three pairs of drawers, three undervests, four shirts, four collars and four pocket handkerchiefs.
After slipping into a period of entrancement I am woken by the sound of the escape sirens being tested, blaring outwards from our position on the hill top and frightening the birds into silence. I uncross my legs and stand, my face still tingling slightly from the electric shocks. Browsing through my books I find nothing to engage me.
The observation hatch in the door snaps open and shut and Hardy backs his way in, carrying a tray.
“Food,” he says. A pocket watch chain dangles loosely from the waistcoat of his cheaply cut uniform. Brusquely handing me my meal he casts me his usual bug-eyed look of undisguised contempt. His face is red and his neck is too wide for his head.
“Tell me again: why do you get to eat in your room when nearly everyone else has to go to the dining room? Too good to brush shoulders with the riff raff?”
I look down at my meal: “You've spilt it.”
On the plate a few boiled potatoes and carrots sit next to a fatty cut of beef. Some of the gravy has slopped over the lip and pooled around edges. My mug of tea is monogrammed with the name of the institution: Carfax Criminal Lunatic Asylum.
“So it has,” he says, and walks away.
In the moment before he closes the door behind him I speak again: “Ape.”
He turns back and makes a show of casually resting against the frame, his thumb slotted into his belt buckle and his hips sloping in a way which makes him look unintentionally womanly: “What was that?”
Looking him in the face I repeat the word, enunciating carefully to ensure he understands: “Ape.”
A few swift paces and he smacks the tray's underside, propelling my meal into the air. Gravy splashes on my shirt and the plate clatters across the floorboards: “Sorry, I didn't quite hear you. What did you say?”
He is willing me to defend myself, to provide an excuse to dish out a hiding. Instead I offer him a broad smile.
“Fucking idiot,” he says.
Once the door has closed I kneel down and set about scooping up a few handfuls of the brown liquid, along with the beef. When I have collected a sufficient amount I leave the rest of the gravy and the potatoes – one of which has rolled under the bed - and take the tray to the window. The wooden shutter is open and the sash is raised. I stop for a moment to consider the view. Aside from a regularly spaced line of trees running along the left side of the distant horizon the landscape is featureless: no farmhouses, no hedgerows, no roads, and no buildings. Only a dun sky and drizzle. No signs of human activity at all.
Taking a dollop of sauce I slap it down and smear it across the sill, covering the dried remains of my previous offering. On top of this goes the slice of fatty meat. Gravy drips thinly down the wall.
٭
The observation hatch snaps open, closes again. I am lying fully clothed on my bed, shoes and all. A youthful, sandy haired gentleman puts his head around the door, peering over gold rimmed spectacles with intensely blue eyes: “May I?”
“What a fatuous question.”
Stepping forward he reveals himself to be tall and richly attired, dressed in the finest of broadcloth with a broad-folded tie of a design I fancy I recognise.
“Thank you,” says the stranger to the attendant in the corridor. “There is no reason for you to accompany me farther.” He extends his hand to me: “Doctor Seward.”
It has been so long since anyone has introduced themselves in this way I am unsure how to respond and remain where I am.
He continues: “I am the new Superintendent. I will be overseeing your treatment from now on.”
“What happened to Carey?”
“Doctor Carey has taken a post elsewhere.” He gestures to my chair. “Do you mind if I sit?”
Placing himself in the centre of the room he straightens his trousers, a gesture both energetic and precise.
“I have been looking through your records. Your case intrigues me.”
“Is that so?”
I swing my legs over the edge of the mattress and face my visitor. His skin is smooth and his countenance boyish, making it difficult to guess his age, although a Superintendent must at the very least be in his third decade.
“My predecessor was under the impression you are harbouring a great secret. It was his opinion that you have fixed on some mysterious plan that you are determinedly following, although he could only speculate on what it might be. He left me reams of notes on the topic, folders full of them.”
I am beginning to think I may have underestimated this young man at first sight. The point he makes strikes me as worth pondering. Am I busy working towards some goal, the nature of which is a mystery even to me? It is a riveting concept and one which stimulates my scientific mind.
“Is there something in this claim, do you think?” the doctor continues.
I deliberate over my reply: “Perhaps.”
“Tell me, do you know why you are here?”
“I have my suspicions.”
“What have you been told? Did Doctor Carey address the issue?”
“I'm here for my own safety; for the safety of others. It all depends on to whom I am speaking when I ask the question.”
“What do can remember of the events which brought you to this place?”
“I remember being shackled in a landau with a shivering young man who reeked of mothballs. I remember winding country roads, tall hedges and livestock. I remember a steep hill, and being taken through two gates, one green and one black. I remember guards and heavily barred windows.”
“Very good, but you misunderstand me. What do you recall of the circumstances which led to your incarceration?”
I shake my head.
“You attacked someone in the street, yes? Did you know that?”
“That is what I have been told.”
“The gentleman in question was passing through his garden gate when you ran across the road and struck him over the head with a length of pipe. You had been missing from your home for a number of days and had, it appears, been hiding in an alleyway. Once he fell to the ground you continued to beat him until three bystanders intervened and wrestled you away. They are convinced you would have killed him otherwise. Does any of this make sense to you?”
“Of course it makes sense to me. Whether I accept it as the truth is another matter.”
“Your victim is yet to recover and is completely unable to speak. What do you think about that? It appears your actions were unprovoked. Had the jury not considered you to be of unsound mind you would have undoubtedly been found guilty of attempted murder. As it is, you are detained in Carfax until Her Majesty's pleasure be known. How does that make you feel?”
“That the truth must be uncovered.”
Sitting back in the chair Seward notices my open window: “There are flies on your sill.”
Three bluebottles skitter on the rotting meat, great big fat ones with steel and sapphire on their wings. I raise my hand, gesturing for the doctor to remain perfectly still. Taking care to keep from making any sudden movements I reach over to my bedside table and collect the monogrammed tea cup that came with my meal. Gradually I stand and creep towards my prize before bringing to container down in one fluid movement. Two of the flies escape but one remains.
Seward has been quietly observing: “This is a victory for you?”
I tip the cup and take the tiny creature in my fist: “Clearly you underestimate the skill required to catch a fly.”
“Not in the least. It is an impressive feat. Are you going to let it go now?”
I am about to reply when I am once again distracted by my visitor's broad-folded tie. It is white, speckled with lilac, and seems entirely familiar. Suddenly I am struck by the queasy notion that it used to belong to me. The thought arrives with a tightening in my chest and frightening pain, like a hot needle thrust into my right temple. A vision comes, of my younger self checking my appearance in the mirror which hung in the entrance hall of my Marylebone lodgings, the speckled tie hanging around my neck.