Visitor in Lunacy (5 page)

He was already halfway back to the Gothic madhouse by the time my Brougham pulled away.

A Conversation with Doctor David Toynbee

DAVID was sitting in my drawing room, talking with his usual fervour but somehow ill at ease. Shifting his shoulders, he tapped at his pipe: “I don't suppose you witnessed the accident on Marylebone Road?”

“There was an accident?”

“It was in yesterday's paper. I wondered whether you might have passed it on your way to work on Monday morning.”

“I saw nothing of it. What happened?”

“The horses of a travelling carriage took fright somehow and broke into a gallop. They mounted the pavement and turned the whole thing on its side. The passengers were largely unharmed, apparently, but a little girl was crushed under the wheels. Terribly sad. I'm surprised you didn't read about it.”

I nodded and looked down at the surface of the table between us. Terribly sad news it was indeed, and it shocked me far more profoundly than I might have expected, so much so that when David continued to speak I barely listened.

Seeing I was distracted he broke off: “Feeling hippish again?”

“Sorry, David.”

“Still having trouble with your sleep? You look dog-tired.”

“It must be the hay fever. It goes to my chest and makes me drowsy. I had hoped moving away from the country would put an end to it.”

“Perhaps the city itself is finally taking its toll. The dirt, the noise, the sheer vastness of it. The whole place is collapsing in on itself. There will be an exodus before too long, mark my words. It can wear a man down.”

“No, no. I'm sure it's not that. Leaving Devon was absolutely the correct choice.”

A combination of controversy and fortune had led me to make my move. I had for some months experienced a growing sense of dissatisfaction with the limitations of my office. Like many of my peers I found the remuneration I received in no way correlated with the strains of the work: the threat of abuse from the patients, the increasing influx of chronic cases, the morbid atmosphere. The metropolitan physician can expect to see his income increase as his reputation extends. The provincial asylum physician, regardless of experience or maturity, can enjoy scarcely more than a modest income, almost equivalent to even his youngest colleagues. It was necessary to speak out about this injustice and campaign for its rectification.

In addition to all this I felt compelled to express my fierce distaste concerning recent appointments to the Lunacy Commission. Having been encouraged by the promotions of Samuel Greene and Henry Wilkes - eminent physicians deserving of such a tribute - my peers were forced to suffer the insult of finding ourselves governed by men utterly ignorant of life in an asylum. In a short space of time the likes of Winchester, Pugh and Drinkwater were nominated, regardless of their inexperience: Drinkwater in particular seeming to have only his Evangelism to thank for his appointment.

These ideas formed the basis of many of my contributions to both
The Mind
and that other esteemed publication
The Journal of Medical Science
, articles I considered to be rational and restrained which still managed to cause considerable outrage. The Earl of Shaftesbury - an Evangelist himself and clearly in sympathy with Drinkwater, Lutwidge and the likes - sent me an aggressively challenging letter. In the midst of such conflict I was unlikely to ever find myself promoted onto the Commission: an organisation in which I was, in any case, losing faith.

It was fortunate then, when faced with such dismal prospects and experiencing such an overwhelming disaffection for my profession - the exertion, the isolation, the salary - that the Lord Chancellor wrote me a letter offering me the prized appointment of Visitor in Lunacy. Two positions had recently been vacated by Arthur Southey and Walter Bucknill, both men too old to continue carrying out their duties. Being a doctor of considerable ability and experience it was felt I would be an ideal replacement. I accepted the position with relief and gratitude. My income no less than tripled and London was my home within three months.

With the fire dying in the hearth David began to talk of his family, a sign the effects of the alcohol were beginning to take hold. When sober his conversation more-or-less stayed around subjects concerning our professions. Rocking his leg up and down he told me about his son's ambitions to become a lawyer and his daughter's burgeoning artistic flare: his whole house was becoming overrun with newly stitched crochets and patchwork quilts. Picking up his empty glass he turned it in his hand: “You never married, Richard.”

Although I knew he meant well the words still sounded like an accusation.

“No.”

“Through choice or circumstance?”

It was a topic we had never touched upon before. David happily spoke of his own domestic circumstances but never asked about my own. In raising the subject I felt he was breaking an unwritten rule. My answer was non-committal.

He asked if I had ever hoped to have a family of my own.

“I never gave the matter any consideration. Would you like me to pour you some more wine?”

“Come now,” he persisted. “Surely it must have crossed your mind. It's natural for a man to want to extend his bloodline.”

“I never expected to be married. Never strove for it.”

“Did you not even want children?”

“I have had my work,” I replied. “Besides, I was never much of an amorist. Wine?”

David frowned and accepted another refill.

Later in the entrance hall he paused under the frame of the open front door to straighten his coat. He intended to walk home rather than hail a cab, fancying himself a practised explorer of London's mazes and byways: “I am sorry if I made you uneasy earlier,” he said with a slight slur which could only be detectable by someone who knew him well. “I was merely curious.”

“Not at all. I wasn't uneasy in the least. It's been an extremely pleasant evening.” The lock clicked as I shut the door.

Some hours later I woke into blackness. Recently my bad dreams had lost their shapelessness and taken on a powerful clarity. That night's had been the most vivid and frightening yet. I imagined myself strung up over the stairwell in my home, with my arms, legs and neck caught in loops of black hair the thickness of limbs. My hips were twisted and my head pulled painfully to the side. Hearing my housekeeper moving around on the ground floor I tried to call for help but found myself unable. With horror I realised my lips had been stitched together using a needle and thread. In a panic I struggled but to no avail, all the time knowing that even if I were to work my way free the resulting fall would break my spine. Trying again to shout I became aware of strange objects clustered around my teeth and gums which, using my tongue, I identified as insect larvae. Soon they would hatch and whatever creatures emerged would no doubt choke me. Farther down my throat, disturbed by my frantic movements, something awoke. It was small and rounded and encased in a hard shell. I froze, terrified of further aggravating this bodily invader. Only when it began to vibrate and produce a series of loud clicks did I realise it was an outsize Death Watch Beetle. It was at this point that the dream came to an end.

Lying awake I attempted to calm myself by imagining my uncle moving my twelve year old body into the correct posture for sleeping - pressing my palms flat on the mattress and sliding his hand under my back to check it was perfectly straight - but the awfulness of the dream refused to fade. It was no passing fright but one that deepened with time and communicated itself to the room, infecting its very walls.

As the first muted traces of morning light came through my window I became aware of minute movements on the ceiling above me. Dawn advanced and I saw it was a spider. Ensnared in its web was a tiny moth, around which the predator was weaving its silk threads. The process was enthralling. There was patience in the manner this work was completed, a fluid rhythm – limbs rotating and pulling – which I found hypnotic.

The day began, accompanied by the city's perpetual drone and clatter.

The Black Dog

I should have understood I was in danger when I noticed the man signalling me on the otherwise empty pavement ahead. Short, broad-shouldered and toothless he wore a shabby greatcoat over his slop and corduroy trousers tied at the ankles with string. I was walking home on Marylebone Road, where the accident David told me about had occurred a few days before. Since turning the corner I had been somewhat preoccupied, unable to stop myself picturing the little girl's broken body being pulled from beneath the carriage, a poor, fragile child lost in the spring of her hopes and beauty: a tragedy beyond comprehension. I searched my pocket for my handkerchief, suffering as usual with my hay fever.

Distracted by the sight of the shabby man waving his arms up and down in a way which struck me as ridiculous, I became aware of a tapping noise coming from somewhere behind me, increasing quickly in rapidity and volume. Before I could turn and investigate I was struck by a great weight that knocked me to the ground. Only by some force of instinct was I able to turn to my side to defend myself from the jaws of a ferocious black hound. Resisting all attempts to push it away the animal lurched insistently forward, its powerful jaws snapping mere inches from my face while I gripped its neck. Beneath its brittle pelt its taut muscles pulsed and strained. The beast was far stronger than I, and I knew that whatever force I could muster could never be enough. Hot foul breath mingled with my own, drool spattered my skin.

With relief I felt the monster's body being pulled away, its yellowish claws skittering backwards across the pavement. Three men had taken hold and were heaving it off, just at the moment the last of my strength was draining from my arms. If they had failed I am sure it would have torn a hole in my throat.

Slowly my surroundings came back into focus: black and white tiles around the doorway of a chemist, flowering weeds growing at the point where the building met the ground, a bright billboard advertising Allsop's Indian Pale Ale. My rescuers were holding the dog down and stamping at its ribs with their mud-encrusted boots, cursing in a European language I did not recognise. One of them, I now saw, was the shabby man in the greatcoat who had done his best to alert me. A cut-and-dry couple who had stopped to take in the spectacle moved on without offering me any assistance, along with a cab which had evidently slowed down for a better view. Struggling to my feet and retrieving my dropped handkerchief I saw that my right hand was bleeding. A heavy blow to the beast's exposed belly caused it to wail in a manner that sounded oddly human. With a wave of nausea I noticed it was sustaining a large, obscenely pink erection. That it might have been in such a state of arousal as it stood over me filled me with a raging disgust. I looked down at my trouser leg. The material was torn at the knee and marked by a shining web of semen. I fled the scene as quickly as I could, neglecting to thank my saviours, not because I was ungrateful but because I was worried I might vomit or faint. Crossing directly over to the park I hid amongst some bushes and wiped away as much of the stain as I could using a handful of leaves.

Ten minutes later I was entering my lodgings. I called for Miss Morley but received no reply. In the bathroom upstairs I ran my hand under some water then proceeded to the bedroom dresser, in which I kept a supply of lint and iodine. The puncture wound lay in the soft flesh between my thumb and forefinger. To stem the flow of blood while I prepared the dressing I held the wound to my mouth and sucked.

With a rap on the bedroom door Miss Morley finally announced herself. An unusually slender woman with striking silver hair, my housekeeper was in the habit of wringing her hands when she was in my company: “Have you been calling for me?”

“I have been calling for you since I entered the house.”

She noted my dishevelled condition: my scuffed suit, my bleeding hand: “What happened?”

“I was attacked.”

“Oh, Lord! By whom? One of your madmen?” Her Birmingham accent became more pronounced whenever she grew agitated.

“No. By a dog.”

“Let me help you.” Taking the bandages from me she set about dressing the wound.

“I was out on Marylebone Road. It was some kind of mongrel, I think. I swear it was intent on killing me. It was vicious. Vicious. I was lucky to escape with such minor injuries.”

“You’ve ruined your trousers too, Doctor Renfield. What is that mark?”

Looking down I saw that the semen had left a pale stain. Appalled, I drew her attention back to my injury. “Miss Morley, please. You’re binding that too tightly.”

“Did it have an owner?”

“Pardon?”

“The dog. Did it belong to someone?”

“I don’t know. I didn't see. I think it was a stray. It attacked me from behind, quite unprovoked. Three strong men were needed to drag the revolting thing from me. Vicious.”

“Do you need to sit down? You've gone white as a sheet.”

“I'm perfectly well. I suffered a shock, that's all.”

Again she glanced at my trousers: “I could repair those for you if you wanted.”

“Yes. Thank you. I will leave them downstairs tomorrow.”

She continued her work in silent concentration. When she tied the final knot she looked as if she might be about to ask me something.

“What is it?”

“Nothing, really. Nothing important. I meant to ask if everything had been well with you last night.”

“In what sense?”

“Last night, after you retired.”

“I was perfectly fine. Why do you ask?”

“I fancied I could hear your voice. I thought you had taken in another visitor after Doctor Toynbee left. Perhaps the elderly gentleman who was waiting on the street outside.”

“What gentleman?”

“Very tall, thin, expensively dressed. I saw him outside the kitchen window. I presumed you knew him.”

“I'm sorry. I don't know who you mean.”

“I was sure I heard you talking to someone. You sounded upset.”