Authors: Stephen Curran
The fall lasts for an age. I hit the mattress heavily, turning my ankle and landing on my right side. Winded and gasping for breath I struggle to my feet. I cannot afford to hesitate. Down the space between the two high walls I limp, every step sending a pain shooting up my right leg. At the corner of the building I am forced to rest for a moment before pushing onwards.
Seen at night the airing court seems unfamiliar to me, far larger now without the shuffling and nonsense of the lunatics. Unlit windows look down over the wooden benches. From a distance I scan the patch of wall that appeared to be distorted in my vision, but see nothing unusual. I move closer, passing through the thatched shelter. Still nothing. The brief moment of black despair this brings about is quickly swept away when I realise the apparition must have been meant as a marker, a waypoint, like the North Star. My saviour wishes for me to not only break the confines of my room, but of Carfax itself. This is the spot at which I will make my escape.
Taking the nearest bench by the armrest I begin to drag it behind me, pleased to discover that my time in the asylum has yet to sap all my former physical strength. I must work quickly: the sound of the feet scraping along the floor is sure to draw attention. Pushing the backrest against the wall I climb onto the seat but find the top is still far out of my reach, as I worried it might be. I look around for something else to use as a boost but find nothing suitable. In an act of desperation I stretch my arms up and discover, to my amazement, that I am able to place my hands comfortably over the creasing tiles. It is nothing less than a miracle. My saviour has shortened the distance, extended the bones in my arms, manipulating the laws of the universe to assist me on my journey. I have no time to reflect on the enormity of this. Placing the soles of my feet against the bricks I haul myself over and drop down the other side, grazing my palms on the way.
How long has it been since I was last outside the walls of the asylum? Long enough for me to sincerely doubt whether the world beyond even exists. And yet here it is, undeniably before me: a narrow mud track leading to my left and to my right, lined by thick brambles heavy with fruit. Farther down the path a fox stands frozen with one paw raised as it assesses the level of threat I present. We stare at each other, my ankle throbbing exquisitely. Once the glossy-coated creature is satisfied that I mean no harm it turns and trots nonchalantly away. In equal measure terrified and exhilarated by my new found freedom I obey my instincts and follow the trail to the left.
I am led down the slope, across some train tracks, and eventually to a place where the path opens up, taking me to a medieval church with a small, walled graveyard. Looking back I see the moonlit Gothic madhouse perched on the top of the hill and become convinced –
convinced –
that I should be able to see the church tower from my room. But the construction is entirely new to me. Where could it have materialised from, this moss covered and crumbling structure? Has it been conjured into existence for my benefit? My saviour is more powerful than I could ever have imagined, and my mission one of unparalleled importance. Pushing through the iron gate I hobble along the grass-grown stone path.
The doors are padlocked and chained. There must be another way inside. As I circumnavigate the building I am shocked by a sudden and ear-splitting noise: the escape sirens are sounding, a long wail descending downwind. My absence has been detected. I must work quickly. The rear door of the church, I discover, is also bolted, and every one of the stained glass windows protected with thick wire mesh. I am at a loss. In the distance people are calling to each other, organising an approach.
“I am here to do your bidding,” I whisper. If I cannot break into the church I must try to communicate with my saviour by other means. “I am your slave, and you will reward me, for I will be faithful. I have worshipped you long and afar off.”
I wait for a reply but nothing comes.
Four watchers are visible now, the silver buttons of their uniforms flashing in the moonlight. Having spread themselves strategically they approach from different directions, one through the gate, one by way of the tower, and two stepping carefully around the tombstones.
In desperation I continue my plea: “Now that you are near, I await your commands. And you will not pass me by, will you, dear Master, in your distribution of good things?”
From ten yards away one of the watchers breaks into a run towards me. Swinging my weight around I meet his jaw with my fist and send him collapsing to the ground. My task is incomplete and I must not be obstructed. Taking me by surprise a second watcher grabs me around the neck from behind and works to pin back my arms. In response I stamp on his feet and elbow him in the gut. He doubles over and lets me go but I am rammed violently from the side and sent sprawling.
Knees on my spine. A palm pushing my head down. Lichen on a burial slab scratching my cheek. Hardy is on top of me, his face contorted with pleasure and rage.
“Got you now,” he spits.
A ferocious bite to him thumb causes him to rear away. I fight to get upright but barely make it to my feet before I am caught again, this time around the waist. Dealing a blow to my assailant's nose I feel the bone crack beneath my fist but ultimately I am overpowered and bundled into the long grass. All four men are needed to hold me down.
It is an opportunity too sweet for Hardy to resist. Pulling back his fist he drives it into my face: once, twice, three times. He will kill me if he is not stopped.
“Enough!”
Seward's voice, somewhere nearby.
“That's enough!”
Too keyed-up to hear, Hardy continues his attack while his colleagues keep me pinned. The escape sirens howl.
“He is a
patient
!”
The Superintendent pulls him off me and Hardy steps away, his fist covered with blood that may or may not be my own: “He was asking for it. He struck the first blow.”
After a brief spell in the Infirmary I am taken to a padded cell, buckled into a straight waistcoat and shackled to the wall.
٭
My uncle's housekeeper in Whitby was of a different species. No taller than a child but as broad and round as a barrel, she had a prominent black mole protruding from her chin and hair so thin the grey skin of her scalp was visible. Rather than walk she waddled, her tiny steps punctuated by high pitched wheezes. From my perspective Mrs Highsmith seemed ancient, unimaginable as a younger woman, although in retrospect I suppose she was somewhere between fifty and sixty years of age.
Standing next to her it was difficult not to think myself superior, both physically and mentally. Her forgetfulness was a source of frustration to my uncle as much as me, especially when his reliance on her suddenly increased following the sharp downturn in his health. She was forever spoiling food by leaving it too long in the oven or neglecting to prepare my bath. Worse, she seemed unable to stop herself from addressing me as John, no matter how angry it made me. Oscar explained she once had a son of that name who had perished in the Opium War, so I should try my best to be patient with her. Evidently I looked a lot like him.
I was studying the etymology text I had stolen from the library in Manepy when she came into the dining room to tell me I was to see my uncle in his private study straight away. It embarrassed me to be in her company. Just before I woke that morning she had featured in one of the lascivious dreams that had plagued me all summer. It was a habit of mind which I seemed unable to prevent. That she had come to be the subject of one these unwelcome fantasies was, I suppose, something to do with her being the only grown woman who I encountered on a regular basis, but this made is no less shameful.
“Hurry along now, John” she said. “You know very well he wouldn't want to be kept waiting.”
This could only be bad news. Uncle Patrick seldom spoke to me after our evening meal, and never invited me into his study unless he intended to dole out some punishment. What could I have done? My heart sank when I remembered the glass beaker I had accidentally broken the previous week. It had cracked when I dropped it and rather than admit my fault I had washed it and placed it in the kitchen cupboard with the crack turned the other way. Preparing myself for a rebuke I passed Mrs Highsmith in the doorway and made my way upstairs.
Although it had been three years since I moved to Yorkshire my uncle's study was still an unfamiliar place, only ever entered in his presence and by invitation. Inside, any wall space not taken up by books and trophies was packed by double-hung landscapes, many of which had been painted by Patrick's father, my grandfather. Dominating an entire corner was a piano. As well as being a keen sportsman my uncle was a talented amateur musician, a gift mercifully unaffected by his malady. He took great pleasure in playing at night and I often went to sleep accompanied by the sound. About Beethoven he was evangelical, reciting his pieces without the aid of sheet music. Although he claimed to have no favourite compositions he played Piano Sonata No.14 more than any other.
I knocked on the door and waited to be admitted.
“Come in.”
I found my uncle positioned in his red leather armchair, dressed in his
robe de chambre
and with his familiar old cane resting against the shelves to his side. In the firelight his eyes appeared even more sunken than usual.
“Richard. Sit down.”
I did as I was told, placing myself on the mahogany-framed sofa that backed onto the opposite wall, still unsure whether I would admit to my deception or deny all knowledge. Tense
“Richard.” He seemed restive, less sure of himself than usual. “I had a disturbing conversation with Oscar this morning.” The blood drained from my face. “I am sure you know what it concerned. Your antics with Magdalene. To say I am disappointed would be understate myself. I am...” He took a moment to find the appropriate expression. “Disgusted. How old are you, boy?”
“I am thirteen, sir.”
“Thirteen. And are you a child of God?”
“Yes, sir.”
This was the worst thing imaginable. To have my true condition exposed. He rubbed his thumb and forefinger together, a small gesture that betrayed a barely repressed fury: “I wonder if you are. I wonder.”
For a time we sat in silence, the fire crackling in the hearth. The urge to defend myself was strong. I wished to deny the kiss ever happened, to insist Oscar was either mistaken or lying, but I was afraid to disappoint him even further.
“I'm sorry.”
He leans forward in is chair and roars, the spit gathering in the corners of his lips. His cane topples to the floor with a dull clump: “Don't you dare speak!”
I stare at the carpet, seeing ghoulish faces in the pattern. My uncle settles back and composes himself.
“It made me sick to hear it. Have I taught you nothing about physical purity? I am quite at a loss how to deal with this. Maybe you are beyond help. Maybe your soul is already blackened. You are fallen. Filthy.” He sighs. “Anyway. You will not be seeing Magdalene again and there will be no more trips to the river. You are too old for such things as it is. Now, go to bed.”
٭
My cell is tall and narrow, with yellowish Indian rubber covering the floor and reaching three-quarters of the way up to the ceiling. There is a small window in the top corner, with a latch which is far out of my reach. I am now a resident of the Strong Block: locked up, dangerous, violent.
During the daytime, when the sun is up, I have nothing in my heart but anger. Only the jacket and the chains around my ankles prevent me from murdering the men who mean to keep me from my destiny. Something at the centre of me gets lost in the rage and I enter a non-human state, closer to a beast than to a man, where there is no future or past, no capacity or need to form memories. All that matters is the present moment and the fight against my bonds. When I emerge and become myself again awake my legs are invariably cut and bruised where I have struggled against my shackles. Often I have soiled my clothes. Only when the moon is shining through the tiny window am I able to believe my saviour will soon be at hand.
It is night-time when Seward comes to see me. He keeps his distance, out of my reach. I am sat on the floor, my chin down against my chest.
“Why did you try to escape?” he asks. He looks tired, overworked, depleted, as if he hasn't been sleeping. “I wish you hadn't. And I wish you hadn't fought back. None of this would have been necessary.”
Taking my time before answering I run my bruised tongue delicately over the swelling inside my cheek, tensing at the sudden pain: “I did not merely
try
to escape. I succeeded.”
“True enough, but it wasn't for long.”
“Not long enough.”
He squats near the door so he can speak at my level: “The men have been suitably disciplined. And you won't be seeing Hardy any more. He has been moved onto other duties.”
“A pity. I should have relished some time alone with him.”
“At the graveyard,” he says. “You were talking to someone. Who was it?”
“So the graveyard was real? You could see it too?”
“Yes. Why do you think I might not have been able to?”
“It doesn't matter. In response to your first question: it is no business of yours who I was speaking to.”
“You are aware you were alone, yes? There was nobody with you.”
“Nobody outside the church. Nobody who could be seen.”
“There was someone inside?”
“Enough questions, Seward. I have neither the energy nor the inclination.”
He runs his hand through his sandy hair then stands, straightening the line of his trousers as he does so: “Very well. I can see we shall get nowhere tonight.”
Once he has gone I slip into a shallow sleep.
٭
Confronted with my mental weaknesses I was forced to withdraw. Being in the company of my uncle proved intolerable. My hands shook, my face flushed. He had glimpsed a dark shameful part of me and I could hardly stand it. Over our meals we barely spoke. On hearing the click of his cane as he approached on one of his regular strolls around the house I would quietly shut the door, or make myself scarce.