Stephen Curran's Blog - Posts Tagged "renfield"
Visitor in Lunacy - Extract
In my hand I hold a Death's-head Hawkmoth. I cannot say how it came to be in my room. The sound of it tapping against the ceiling woke me from my sleep.
It flutters against my palm, making my loosely clenched fist feel independently alive, like a beating heart. Forming a narrow gap between my fingers I peek inside. The creature is fat and vibrant, its skull-shaped markings vivid on its thorax. It is not a moth but a sign. The final omen. It is time to move. Putting my hand to my mouth I tip the contents onto my tongue and bite down on the abdomen, immediately invigorated by the life blood as it flows down my throat. It is hard for me to believe I ever found the taste disgusting.
Removing my nightgown I put on my trousers, shirt and waistcoat. Once my shoes are tied I position myself against the wall behind the door and begin to wail, making noises as if I am in unbearable pain. The observation hatch snaps open.
“Renfield? What is it?” It is a new watcher, inexperienced, unsure of himself. An Irishman.
I continue to wail.
“Come out where I can see you.”
“I can't. I cannot move.”
“Where are you?”
“I need assistance. Please.”
“Just hold on while I fetch my Mr Simmons.”
“I cannot wait. I am in pain.”
“All right. Give me a second.”
Once he is inside I grab him around the neck and bundle him to the floor. He is a small man and easy to overcome. Covering his mouth I prize the key ring from his hand and make a dash for the door. Before I can close it fully behind me he has inserted his arm and shoulder into the gap.
“For God's sake, Renfield, please. I need this job.”
We struggle and I manage to spread my hand over his face to push him back.
“I'm sorry,” I say. “I wouldn't do this unless it was absolutely necessary. You'll understand eventually.”
Afraid of crushing his fingers he pulls away. Even before I have turned the key in the lock he begins to bellow for help.
I will need to create a distraction if I am to succeed this time. Realising the power I hold now I am in possession of the bunch of keys I start to make my way down the corridor, opening the other doors.
“Run!” I shout. “Run! You're free!”
There are seven inmates in all. Two stir in their beds, dazed and half asleep, regarding me with confused expressions. A third pulls his blanket up to his chin in the manner of a frightened child, covering his hairless and sunken chest.
“I don't want to,” he says. “Please don't make me.”
The others leap into action and grasp the opportunity to escape, scrambling out of their rooms: the first three in their nightgowns, the fourth naked. One I recognise as the man with the constantly paint spattered hands who lights his cigarettes using the attendant's gas-jet. The room behind him is candlelit and busy with brightly coloured canvases, all depicting what appear to be pictures of cats dressed as people. The naked escapee's whole body shakes and he flashes his hands with excitement.
At the end of the corridor I use the keys to let everyone out before me. The five of us scatter in different directions. I take the stairs, running down one flight, then another, into what must be the basement. Dizzy with exhilaration I push through a set of heavy double doors and come out towards the end of what I presume is a vast service corridor, a quarter of a mile long at least, gas-lit and containing rows of laundry baskets and food trolleys. Hearing movement from the room closest to me I set off as quickly as I dare, trying to keep my footfalls as light as possible and chucking the keys into a bundle of dirty sheets. Glancing through the open doors to my sides as I go I see a succession of large empty kitchens and a silent laundry room full of industrial-scale mangles. By the time I reach the end of the corridor my old ankle injury is flaring up again. Putting it out of my mind I enter the second stairwell and pace up to the ground floor, taking three steps at a time.
Searching for a way out I come across what looks to be a long, rectangular day room with a patterned carpet runner, more cheerfully decorated than anything I have seen elsewhere in the asylum. Armchairs with embroidered antimacassars are positioned around the floor, along with tables covered by tasselled cloths and tall pot plants standing on either side of the windows. Faintly in the distance I can hear a piano being played, a melody I recognise from the distant past, from a lifetime ago: Beethoven's Piano Sonata No.14. It stops me in my tracks. The energy drains from my limbs and I am overwhelmed by a deep melancholy, a yearning for things long gone.
Through a mist of tears I see something moving beyond the open door at the other side of the room, a figure with shorn hair, wearing a loose white robe. Blinking, I see it is a woman, her skin so pale her lips have, by contrast, taken on the colour of cherries. With her head bowed and her eyes cast down she stops beneath the frame and turns in my direction. I must have inadvertently found my way into the female wards.
Afraid she might be startled by the sight of me and raise the alarm I remain perfectly still. Apparently oblivious to my presence she steps forward, her movements so languid I wonder if she might be sleepwalking. Each table she passes, each chair, she touches lightly with the tips of her fingers, as if counting them off, accompanied all the while by the sonata-allegro drifting in from another room. It is only when we are within reach of each other, roughly a yard apart, that she realises I am here with her. Stepping away she widens her eyes with fear. In a ploy to placate her I place my hand on my stomach and perform a deep, regal bow. A faltering smile spreads across her face. She is reassured. Crossing her ankles like a ballerina she responds with an elaborate curtsy and continues contentedly on her way. She is the first woman I have seen since my life in Carfax began.
Beyond this room the corridors become maze-like and complicated by mezzanines. The dividing doors, of which there are many, are made of dark varnished wood and the floors are covered with intricately patterned black, white and grey tiles. Brass plaques on the walls confirm my suspicion that I have stumbled into the administration block: ASSISTANT MEDICAL OFFICER, ENGINEER, SUPERINTENDENT. When the escape siren bursts into action, as I knew it must, I cover my ears with my hands. Hurriedly, I double back on myself, taking the first flight of stairs I can find.
Finally: a window on the ground floor that opens when I give it a push. Swinging my legs out I lower my feet onto the grass. In the moonlight I am just able to make out the lawns ahead of me, the 'Union Jack' pathways, the trimmed hedges and the giant-like poplars which line the drive. From the direction of the main doors people are shouting. A figure in a white nightgown flashes across the space: the painter, being pursued. I must make it around to the other side of the building if I am to reach the church.
Setting off at a run I follow the grass border towards the far end of the building. After turning the corner I pass by more horticulture: Pleasure Gardens tended by the non-violent inmates, in boxes separated by gravel pathways, each with zinc plate bearing the gardener's name. Farther along, the moon is out of sight and it is considerably darker, shaded by tall firs. This time it is not necessary for me to climb the wall: there is a wooden door which takes me out onto a path across the railway line. Guessing at the direction in which I must go I start down the slope, running through trees.
When I find the low wall of the graveyard it appears so suddenly before me I almost trip over. Ahead, the church is glowing in the moonlight, its stones humming with an energy so intense I know my master and saviour must be waiting within. I skip over the perimeter, avoiding a tall nettle patch, and head to the front door.
Again I am confronted by a padlock, but having more presence of mind than during my last visit I look around for a way to break it. Remembering the rusty iron gate I make my way down the stone path to test its horizontal bars and find one loose enough to remove. This I use for leverage, slipping it under the chain between the handles so I can pull against the wood. It takes all my strength but soon the brass plates are giving way, their screws coming free. Through the nearby trees the escape sirens echo back and forth. One last heave and the padlock drops.
As the door scrapes open I am greeted by the smell of mould and mildew. Nothing is visible beyond the nearest row of pews. Staring into the deep darkness I sense a powerful presence where the altar must stand. My master, at last. Putting aside my fears I plunge into the unknown, regardless of whatever obstacles might stand in my way. Twenty paces down the aisle my toes knock against a raised step. Putting my arms out I rest my hands on a slab of cold marble.
“Renfield.”
The voice is soft and comforting. I hold my breath to hear it better.
“Renfield.”
Realising the speaker must be somewhere behind me I look over my shoulder. At the threshold of the open door stands a figure, silhouetted by the moonlight.
“I am here,” I say.
“It is Seward, Doctor Renfield. Please don't be alarmed.”
Hearing this preface triggers a flood of memories. Doctor Renfield. The words sound foreign to me now, distant, like the name of a character from a half-forgotten novel I read long ago. It belongs to someone else. Yet it is also my own. It is morning suits and writing bureaus. It is my leather business bag. It is my front door, my books, my excellent mind. It is pacing through the orchard at Devon County Asylum. It is the respect of others.
“Come back with me,” says Seward.
Letting go of the alter I make my way down the central passageway. As I approach him the doctor's features come into focus: his boyish face, his sandy hair, the glass in his wire rimmed spectacles reflecting the moon. The youthful Medical Superintendent.
All at once I am consumed by hatred. Who is this man who seeks to prevent me from fulfilling my destiny? Who has taken my career, my position in society, my life? Here stands my replacement in all things, belittling me with his sympathy while I waste away under lock and key. But even in my diminished state I am still stronger than him. I will tear his throat out.
Charging at my enemy I leap forward take either side of his head in my hands, pushing him backwards and straddling his torso. Before I can sink my teeth into him he manages to get one hand under my chin, thrusting my head away and jarring my neck. He is wide eyed, terrified. I lunge and push.
In my frenzy something catches my eye in the sky above the trees. A bat cutting a line across the moon.
As rapidly as it arrived my anger has vanished, leaving me exhausted but lucid. I step away from Seward, freeing him to search the ground for his smashed spectacles. His hair is messy, his clothes are disarranged, his cheeks are burning red. To the watchers running towards us down the stone path I raise my palms in submission then, unsteady on my feet, bend down to scoop up Seward's glasses and hand them back to him.
“You needn't tie me,” I say. “I will go quietly.”
It flutters against my palm, making my loosely clenched fist feel independently alive, like a beating heart. Forming a narrow gap between my fingers I peek inside. The creature is fat and vibrant, its skull-shaped markings vivid on its thorax. It is not a moth but a sign. The final omen. It is time to move. Putting my hand to my mouth I tip the contents onto my tongue and bite down on the abdomen, immediately invigorated by the life blood as it flows down my throat. It is hard for me to believe I ever found the taste disgusting.
Removing my nightgown I put on my trousers, shirt and waistcoat. Once my shoes are tied I position myself against the wall behind the door and begin to wail, making noises as if I am in unbearable pain. The observation hatch snaps open.
“Renfield? What is it?” It is a new watcher, inexperienced, unsure of himself. An Irishman.
I continue to wail.
“Come out where I can see you.”
“I can't. I cannot move.”
“Where are you?”
“I need assistance. Please.”
“Just hold on while I fetch my Mr Simmons.”
“I cannot wait. I am in pain.”
“All right. Give me a second.”
Once he is inside I grab him around the neck and bundle him to the floor. He is a small man and easy to overcome. Covering his mouth I prize the key ring from his hand and make a dash for the door. Before I can close it fully behind me he has inserted his arm and shoulder into the gap.
“For God's sake, Renfield, please. I need this job.”
We struggle and I manage to spread my hand over his face to push him back.
“I'm sorry,” I say. “I wouldn't do this unless it was absolutely necessary. You'll understand eventually.”
Afraid of crushing his fingers he pulls away. Even before I have turned the key in the lock he begins to bellow for help.
I will need to create a distraction if I am to succeed this time. Realising the power I hold now I am in possession of the bunch of keys I start to make my way down the corridor, opening the other doors.
“Run!” I shout. “Run! You're free!”
There are seven inmates in all. Two stir in their beds, dazed and half asleep, regarding me with confused expressions. A third pulls his blanket up to his chin in the manner of a frightened child, covering his hairless and sunken chest.
“I don't want to,” he says. “Please don't make me.”
The others leap into action and grasp the opportunity to escape, scrambling out of their rooms: the first three in their nightgowns, the fourth naked. One I recognise as the man with the constantly paint spattered hands who lights his cigarettes using the attendant's gas-jet. The room behind him is candlelit and busy with brightly coloured canvases, all depicting what appear to be pictures of cats dressed as people. The naked escapee's whole body shakes and he flashes his hands with excitement.
At the end of the corridor I use the keys to let everyone out before me. The five of us scatter in different directions. I take the stairs, running down one flight, then another, into what must be the basement. Dizzy with exhilaration I push through a set of heavy double doors and come out towards the end of what I presume is a vast service corridor, a quarter of a mile long at least, gas-lit and containing rows of laundry baskets and food trolleys. Hearing movement from the room closest to me I set off as quickly as I dare, trying to keep my footfalls as light as possible and chucking the keys into a bundle of dirty sheets. Glancing through the open doors to my sides as I go I see a succession of large empty kitchens and a silent laundry room full of industrial-scale mangles. By the time I reach the end of the corridor my old ankle injury is flaring up again. Putting it out of my mind I enter the second stairwell and pace up to the ground floor, taking three steps at a time.
Searching for a way out I come across what looks to be a long, rectangular day room with a patterned carpet runner, more cheerfully decorated than anything I have seen elsewhere in the asylum. Armchairs with embroidered antimacassars are positioned around the floor, along with tables covered by tasselled cloths and tall pot plants standing on either side of the windows. Faintly in the distance I can hear a piano being played, a melody I recognise from the distant past, from a lifetime ago: Beethoven's Piano Sonata No.14. It stops me in my tracks. The energy drains from my limbs and I am overwhelmed by a deep melancholy, a yearning for things long gone.
Through a mist of tears I see something moving beyond the open door at the other side of the room, a figure with shorn hair, wearing a loose white robe. Blinking, I see it is a woman, her skin so pale her lips have, by contrast, taken on the colour of cherries. With her head bowed and her eyes cast down she stops beneath the frame and turns in my direction. I must have inadvertently found my way into the female wards.
Afraid she might be startled by the sight of me and raise the alarm I remain perfectly still. Apparently oblivious to my presence she steps forward, her movements so languid I wonder if she might be sleepwalking. Each table she passes, each chair, she touches lightly with the tips of her fingers, as if counting them off, accompanied all the while by the sonata-allegro drifting in from another room. It is only when we are within reach of each other, roughly a yard apart, that she realises I am here with her. Stepping away she widens her eyes with fear. In a ploy to placate her I place my hand on my stomach and perform a deep, regal bow. A faltering smile spreads across her face. She is reassured. Crossing her ankles like a ballerina she responds with an elaborate curtsy and continues contentedly on her way. She is the first woman I have seen since my life in Carfax began.
Beyond this room the corridors become maze-like and complicated by mezzanines. The dividing doors, of which there are many, are made of dark varnished wood and the floors are covered with intricately patterned black, white and grey tiles. Brass plaques on the walls confirm my suspicion that I have stumbled into the administration block: ASSISTANT MEDICAL OFFICER, ENGINEER, SUPERINTENDENT. When the escape siren bursts into action, as I knew it must, I cover my ears with my hands. Hurriedly, I double back on myself, taking the first flight of stairs I can find.
Finally: a window on the ground floor that opens when I give it a push. Swinging my legs out I lower my feet onto the grass. In the moonlight I am just able to make out the lawns ahead of me, the 'Union Jack' pathways, the trimmed hedges and the giant-like poplars which line the drive. From the direction of the main doors people are shouting. A figure in a white nightgown flashes across the space: the painter, being pursued. I must make it around to the other side of the building if I am to reach the church.
Setting off at a run I follow the grass border towards the far end of the building. After turning the corner I pass by more horticulture: Pleasure Gardens tended by the non-violent inmates, in boxes separated by gravel pathways, each with zinc plate bearing the gardener's name. Farther along, the moon is out of sight and it is considerably darker, shaded by tall firs. This time it is not necessary for me to climb the wall: there is a wooden door which takes me out onto a path across the railway line. Guessing at the direction in which I must go I start down the slope, running through trees.
When I find the low wall of the graveyard it appears so suddenly before me I almost trip over. Ahead, the church is glowing in the moonlight, its stones humming with an energy so intense I know my master and saviour must be waiting within. I skip over the perimeter, avoiding a tall nettle patch, and head to the front door.
Again I am confronted by a padlock, but having more presence of mind than during my last visit I look around for a way to break it. Remembering the rusty iron gate I make my way down the stone path to test its horizontal bars and find one loose enough to remove. This I use for leverage, slipping it under the chain between the handles so I can pull against the wood. It takes all my strength but soon the brass plates are giving way, their screws coming free. Through the nearby trees the escape sirens echo back and forth. One last heave and the padlock drops.
As the door scrapes open I am greeted by the smell of mould and mildew. Nothing is visible beyond the nearest row of pews. Staring into the deep darkness I sense a powerful presence where the altar must stand. My master, at last. Putting aside my fears I plunge into the unknown, regardless of whatever obstacles might stand in my way. Twenty paces down the aisle my toes knock against a raised step. Putting my arms out I rest my hands on a slab of cold marble.
“Renfield.”
The voice is soft and comforting. I hold my breath to hear it better.
“Renfield.”
Realising the speaker must be somewhere behind me I look over my shoulder. At the threshold of the open door stands a figure, silhouetted by the moonlight.
“I am here,” I say.
“It is Seward, Doctor Renfield. Please don't be alarmed.”
Hearing this preface triggers a flood of memories. Doctor Renfield. The words sound foreign to me now, distant, like the name of a character from a half-forgotten novel I read long ago. It belongs to someone else. Yet it is also my own. It is morning suits and writing bureaus. It is my leather business bag. It is my front door, my books, my excellent mind. It is pacing through the orchard at Devon County Asylum. It is the respect of others.
“Come back with me,” says Seward.
Letting go of the alter I make my way down the central passageway. As I approach him the doctor's features come into focus: his boyish face, his sandy hair, the glass in his wire rimmed spectacles reflecting the moon. The youthful Medical Superintendent.
All at once I am consumed by hatred. Who is this man who seeks to prevent me from fulfilling my destiny? Who has taken my career, my position in society, my life? Here stands my replacement in all things, belittling me with his sympathy while I waste away under lock and key. But even in my diminished state I am still stronger than him. I will tear his throat out.
Charging at my enemy I leap forward take either side of his head in my hands, pushing him backwards and straddling his torso. Before I can sink my teeth into him he manages to get one hand under my chin, thrusting my head away and jarring my neck. He is wide eyed, terrified. I lunge and push.
In my frenzy something catches my eye in the sky above the trees. A bat cutting a line across the moon.
As rapidly as it arrived my anger has vanished, leaving me exhausted but lucid. I step away from Seward, freeing him to search the ground for his smashed spectacles. His hair is messy, his clothes are disarranged, his cheeks are burning red. To the watchers running towards us down the stone path I raise my palms in submission then, unsteady on my feet, bend down to scoop up Seward's glasses and hand them back to him.
“You needn't tie me,” I say. “I will go quietly.”
At Last I Am Free
From now until the 9th March you can download a free copy of my novel 'Visitor in Lunacy' from Smashwords. Just use the code RW100 at the checkout. It's free. Free!
I don't know if I mentioned this, but it's free.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8MNkvO...
I don't know if I mentioned this, but it's free.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8MNkvO...
Visitor in Lunacy - Free Copy
For the next five days Visitor in Lunacy is free to download from Amazon. Treat yourself, why don't you?
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Free Copy of Visitor in Lunacy
From now and for the next 24 hours, Visitor in Lunacy is free to download from Amazon. Fill yer boots!
http://www.amazon.co.uk/Visitor-in-Lu...
http://www.amazon.com/Visitor-Lunacy-...
http://www.amazon.co.uk/Visitor-in-Lu...
http://www.amazon.com/Visitor-Lunacy-...
Free Book from Smashwords
From now until Sunday you can download my novel Visitor in Lunacy from Smashwords for free. It's available in pretty much any format you can imagine. Just enter the code BJ66B.
Feel free to pass it on!
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https://www.smashwords.com/books/view...
Feel free to pass it on!
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https://www.smashwords.com/books/view...
