Visitor in Lunacy (18 page)

His expression betrays no reaction, no judgement. He merely completes the exchange by releasing my hand.

Endeavouring to regain the appearance of composure I address myself to the group: “You, gentlemen, who by nationality, by heredity, or by the possession of natural gifts, are fitted to hold your respective places in the moving world, I take to witness that I am as sane as at least the majority of men who are in full possession of their liberties. And I am sure that you, Doctor Seward, humanitarian and medico-jurist as well as scientist, will deem it a moral duty to deal with me as one to be considered as under exceptional circumstances."

Seward folds his arms: “That you are improving rapidly is in no doubt, and it may well be the case that your sanity has been restored, but I cannot make such a decision without giving it serious thought and consideration first. As you can tell, I have a lot to attend to at the moment, so I suggest I will come for a longer discussion with you in the morning, after which time I will see what I can do in the direction of meeting his wishes.”

"But I fear, Doctor Seward, that you hardly apprehend my wish. I desire to go at once, here, now, this very hour, this very moment." Scrutinizing the faces of these distinguished men I find them unmoved, impatient. I look to Seward: “It is possible I have erred in my supposition?”

Seward's reply is curt: “You have.”

"Then I suppose I must only shift my ground of request. Let me ask for this concession. I am content to implore in such a case, not on personal grounds, but for the sake of others. I am not at liberty to give you the whole of my reasons, but you may, I assure you, take it from me that they are good ones, sound and unselfish, and spring from the highest sense of duty. Could you look, sir, into my heart, you would approve to the full the sentiments which animate me."

In contrast with his disinterested companions, Van Helsing continues to regard me with a gaze of concentrated intensity: "Can you not tell frankly your real reason for wishing to be free tonight? I will undertake that if you will satisfy even me, a stranger, without prejudice, and with the habit of keeping an open mind, Doctor Seward will give you, at his own risk and on his own responsibility, the privilege you seek."

Seward purses his lips at this enormous presumption but holds his tongue: a pupil submitting to the will of his teacher. There is no way I can reveal my true motives if I am to have any chances of being set free. What would I say? That a plague is coming, spread by an ancient creature who steals the blood of others to extend his life, turning his victims into beings just like himself? That I am the only person with the power to put a stop to it? They would banish me to a padded cell in an instant. I look at my feet and shake my head.

"Come, sir,” continues the Dutchman, “bethink yourself. You claim the privilege of reason in the highest degree, since you seek to impress us with your complete reasonableness. You do this, whose sanity we have reason to doubt, since you are not yet released from medical treatment for this very defect. If you will not help us in our effort to choose the wisest course, how can we perform the duty which you yourself put upon us?"

Hot tears well in my eyes as I feel my opportunity slipping away: “If were free to speak I should not hesitate a moment, but I am not my own master in the matter. I can only ask you to trust me. If I am refused, the responsibility does not rest with me."

Acting on his empathy, Seward tries to bring the grave scene to an end. He gestures to his guests: “Come now, my friends, we have work to do.”

“No!” I yell in a burst of furious desperation, racing forward and seeking to obstruct him from the door.

After exchanging glances with Van Helsing he stops and sighs: “Renfield, I can certainly write to the Home Office on your behalf but at present that is all I can promise.”

My face is wet now, my tears flowing in heavy drops. The lives of countless others depend on my success. There are those who have already died as a result of my inaction, my cowardliness. I must redeem myself, I must find Lucy, I must put anyone who has been infected out of their misery: this is all true. But mostly I must also bring my own suffering to an end. I must get out of here. I cannot stand to face my master again. If I stay in Carfax, he will come for me: "Let me entreat you, Doctor Seward, let me implore you, to let me out of this place at once. Send me away how you will and where you will, take me in a strait waistcoat, manacled and leg-ironed, even to gaol, but let me go out of this. You don't know what you do by keeping me here. I am speaking from the depths of my heart, of my very soul. You don't know whom you wrong, or how, and I may not tell. I may not tell. By all you hold sacred, by all you hold dear, by your love that is lost, for the sake of the Almighty, take me out of this and save my soul from guilt. Can't you hear me, man? Can't you understand? Will you never learn? Don't you know that I am sane and earnest now, that I am no lunatic in a mad fit, but a sane man fighting for his soul? You must hear me.”

The Superintendent stands over me - my fresh-faced counterpart - holding out his hand and waiting patiently for my entreaty to come to a close. Only now do I realise that his guests have left the room and we are alone.

“Come,” he says quietly. “No more of this. We have had quite enough already.”

With these well-meant words he abandons me to my fate.

٭

The sun dips below the horizon, as it must. This time I leave the shutter open.

A low mist rolls across the fields, reflecting the moonlight in a way that makes it seem more substantial than a vapour, closer to a rising sea. I sit on my chair, I pace the room. Judging by the sounds echoing around the corridors of Carfax my fellow inmates are more agitated than ever. The very walls groan and creak. The building is shifting.

I am not afraid. With my failure comes an unexpected sense of relief. My fate was decided long, long ago and there was nothing to be gained from struggling. If free will exists, if man can chose his own course through life – something I now doubt – then the luxury was never granted to me. Whatever lies ahead, I will accept it.

For the briefest of moments I close my eyes...

When I open them again he is there, his palms pressed against the glass. Wet, bright blood covers his chin and neck, soaking his collar and the lapels of his jacket. His eyes bulge grotesquely. It is a wonder that heaven should tolerate so monstrous an indulgence of the lusts and malignity of hell. He has been feasting tonight.

“Do what you will,” I tell him.

Although he looks in my direction he does not see me. He has consumed too much and become too wild, closer to an untamed animal than ever. His head twitches and jerks like a sparrow's, his skin is swollen. He is much younger now, only just an adult. As if acting independently from the rest of his fidgeting body his left forefinger raises and taps against the glass.

“I will let you in,” I say, “provided you promise to take only me. Do no harm to anyone else in here.”

These words seem to give him some kind of calm and focus. As I approach I see a dark mass spreading across the land towards us, coming on like the shape of a flame of fire, transforming the mist into something rolling, squirming and gleaming. Looking closer I see it has become an orgy of rats and hares, reaching out to the horizon, ten feet deep at least and stinking of life and death. It is intended as a kind of symbol, I think, but I cannot tell what it is meant to represent. Engorged and bloated on power my master has lost himself. Taking one hand from the glass he uses the back of his hand to wipe blood from his chin and licks it hungrily clean. His teeth are sharp as the blades of a trephine.

Beneath him the land is changing shape again. Pushing up through the writhing sea are millions of cats and dogs, some tearing the rats and hares limb from limb and gorging on their guts while others rut and copulate. Attracted by the scent, swarms of flies fill the sky above them, at first gathering into giant humming spheres then dispersing, blacking out the stars. Bats inevitably follow, then barn owls, bewildered by this glut, striking each other mid flight and spinning to their deaths. When the pray on the ground has all been consumed the dogs turn on the cats, shaking them by their necks and flinging them into the air for sport. It is blood and semen and chaos. A red cloud takes over my eyes and before I know what I am doing I find myself lifting the sash.

The sky is clear and the animals are gone, vanished in an instant and replaced by the cool, thick blanket of fog. Though the gap between the window and the frame is only an inch wide my master slips through, just as the moon herself has often come in through the tiniest crack and stood before me in all her size and splendour.

We are close together, almost touching. His odour is dizzyingly rich and foetid, like rotting undergrowth after a storm. If only he would touch me, take me in his arms, he could grant me peace.

I offer him my throat, but he has already forgotten I am here. Tiptoeing, convulsing, searching, he creeps across the floorboards and out of the room.

٭

The water pipes clank in the walls. The Irish attendant brings my breakfast.

“You're quiet today.”

“I could not sleep.”

Outside it is drizzling and the landscape is grey. At mid-morning the sirens are tested. Everything is ordinary, nothing has changed.

I must admit to myself that my motives for inviting my master inside were less noble than I would like to believe. A small part of me hoped submitting to his will would earn me some reward. All day I wait but nothing comes, not even a spider or a blowfly.

If I fight him I am powerless. If I obey him he disregards me. This thought sends me to bed, fully dressed, to fall into a long, deep and dreamless sleep.

When I wake it is raining and Mrs Harker is in the room, sat waiting on my chair and dressed in a grey woollen walking suit with a length of black ribbon around her neck. A strange muted light comes from outside, giving her whole body a yellowish tinge.

“Mr Renfield. I do hope you don't object to me dropping by to see you unannounced.”

She is speaking slowly, quietly. I sit up and straighten my clothes: “Not at all. How are you, madam?”

“I'm afraid I my husband has rather abandoned me for the past few days. He is very busy with Doctor Seward.”

“I'm sorry to hear that.”

“I don't fare well without companionship. Being alone all the time is bad for one's state of mind, don't you agree?”

“You are wise to say so.”

The strange light dims, revealing her complexion to be pale and drawn, like tea after the teapot has been watered. The liveliness I detected in her eyes when we first met has all but gone. I ask her if she has been having trouble with her sleep.

“How did you know? Do I look that awful? I have been waking up during the night and having curious dreams. Not frightening, you understand, only somewhat disorienting. Mr Harker assures me they will pass in time. Are you feeling all right, Mr Renfield?”

Ashamed at my burgeoning tears I stand, turn away from the lady and look out of the window. The rain persists and the sky is growing darker.

“I wish I had made more of an effort to speak to you,” I say. “I was nervous of saying the wrong things, or of offending you. It seems foolish now.”

“When do you mean? The last time I came here?”

“No. When the wind took your parasol, remember? In Regent's Park. It blew into the fountain. I must have looked utterly comical to you, bumbling around trying to retrieve it. What must you have thought of me?”

“You have me mixed up with someone else. I have only been to London once and I have never been to Regent's Park.”

“It was a long time ago. You have probably forgotten it. I so wanted to strike up a friendship with you afterwards but I suppose it simply wasn't to be.” Try as I might to sustain an illusion of composure my emotion betrays itself in my cracked voice. “I am sorry for what I did to your gentleman friend. Truly.”

“I'm afraid I don't know what you mean.”

“I wasn't in my right mind. I had been under intolerable pressure, you see. Intolerable. I don't remember the incident. I only know what I have been told: that I attacked him and beat him with a pipe. Whoever did those things, it was not me. It is not in my nature. I was elsewhere, for a while.”

“Please don't be upset.”

“As for the terrible thing I did to you when we were children, in the woods by the river... For years I have wanted to tell you how sorry I am, Magdalene. I have carried the secret with me for so long. Shame has infected my mind, twisted it into something grotesque. When I die and they cut open my head I am sure they will find a contorted, ugly, hairy lump, mutated by guilt and unrecognisable as a brain. I wish I could blame my actions on being a confused young boy but my conscience will not allow it. I accept the blame in full. I wish I had been born a different man.”

No longer ashamed of my tears I turn to face her. Outside, the rain has turned to hail, playing the devil's tattoo against the window.

“And now, as if this were not enough, I have exposed you to danger, left you vulnerable to attack yet again, even as I tried to protect you. It is hopeless. It have let him inside.”

She is on her feet: “I must go now. It has been good to talk to you.”

When reach out to touch the ribbon around her neck she flinches and ducks away. Something falls to the floor: her pearl earring.

“I am sorry for everything, Magdalene. Truly I am.”

“My husband will be expecting me.”

“If I could just know you forgive me I could find salvation.”

“Goodbye, Mr Renfield.”

“If I could only hear the words.”

“Goodbye.”

A flash of lightning, a peal of thunder, and I know that if I am to find absolution I must confront my master for the final time, whatever the cost. I pick up the pearl earring and put it in my pocket.

٭

Later, when night has fallen and my door has been locked, I hear movement in the corridor: the night watcher’s chair scraping along the tiles. I have not changed into my nightclothes or gone back to bed. Instead I have been filling the time I have left by flicking through a book leant to me by Mr Wainwright: a critical study of poems by Coleridge.