The Monster Trilogy. Brian Aldiss

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       5

      The institution stood in parkland, remote from the town. It was four storeys tall, all its windows were barred, and many whitewashed in addition. With its acres of slate roof, it presented a flinty and unyielding appearance.

      If its front facade had a Piranesi-like grandeur, the rear of the building was meagre, cluttered with laundries, boiler-rooms, stores for coal and clinker, and a concrete exercise yard, like a prison. In contrast was the ruin of an old abbey standing some way behind the asylum. Only the ivy-clad tower, the greater part of a chapel, with apse and nave open to the winds, remained. The once grand structure had been destroyed by cannon-fire at the time of Cromwell. Nowadays, its crypt was occasionally used by the institution as a mortuary, particularly when – as not infrequently happened – an epidemic swept through the wards and cells.

      At this time of year, in late summer, the ivy on the ruin was in flower, to be visited by bees, wasps and flies in great profusion. Inside the institution, where the prevailing colour was not green but white and grey, there was but one visitor, a ginger man stylishly dressed, with hat and cane.

      This visitor followed Doctor Kindness down a long corridor, the chilly atmosphere and echoing flagstones of which had been expressly designed to emphasize the unyielding nature of the visible world. Dr Kindness smoked, and his visitor followed the smoke trail humbly.

      ‘It’s good of you to pay us a second visit,’ said Dr Kindness, in a way that suggested he meant the opposite of what he said. ‘Have you a special medical interest in the subject of venereal disease?’

      ‘Er – faith, no, sir. It’s just that I happen to be in the theatrical profession and am at present engaged in writing a novel, for which I need a little first-hand information. On the unhappy subject of … venereal disease …’

      ‘You’ve come to the right place.’

      ‘I hope so indeed.’ He shivered.

      The doctor wore his habitual blood-stained coat. His visitor wore hairy green tweeds with a cloak flung over them, and tugged nervously at his beard as they proceeded.

      During their progress, a lanky woman in a torn nightshirt rushed out from a door on their right hand. Her grey staring eyes were almost as wide as her open mouth, and she uttered a faint stuttering bird cry as she made what appeared to be a bid for freedom.

      Freedom was as strictly forbidden as alcohol or fornication in this institution. Two husky young attendants ran after her, seized hold of her by her arms and emaciated body, and dragged her backwards, still stuttering, into the ward from which she had escaped. The door slammed.

      By way of comment, Dr Kindness waved his meerschaum in the general direction of the ceiling, then thrust it back into his mouth and gripped it firmly between his teeth, as if minded to give a bite or two elsewhere.

      They came to the end of the corridor. Dr Kindness halted in a military way.

      ‘You’re sure you want to go through with this?’

      ‘If it’s not a trouble. “Some put their trust in chariots …” I’ll put my trust in my luck.’ He gave as pleasant a smile as could be. ‘The luck of the Irish.’

      ‘Please yourself, certainly.’

      He stood to one side, and gestured to the ginger man to approach the cell door at which they had arrived.

      A foggy glass spyhole the size of a saucer punctuated the heavy panels of the door. The ginger man applied his eye to it and stared inside. ‘For now we see through a glass darkly,’ he muttered.

      The cell was bare and of some dimension, perhaps because it occupied the corner of the building. Such light as it enjoyed came from a small window high in an outer wall. The only furnishing of the cell was a mattress rumpled in a corner like a discarded sack.

      A madman sat on the mattress, combing his hair thoughtfully with his nails. He was dressed in a calico shirt, trousers, and braces.

      ‘This fellow is Renfield by name. He has been with us a while. Murdered his baby son and was caught trying to eat its head. Quite a pleasant fellow in some moods. Some education, I suppose. Came down in the world.’

      The ginger man removed his eye from the glass to observe the doctor.

      ‘Syphilitic?’

      ‘Tertiary stage. Dangerous if roused.’

      The ginger man looked down at his shiny boots.

      ‘Forgive me if I ask you this, doctor, but I was wondering if you felt pity for your patients?’

      ‘Pity?’ asked the doctor with some surprise, turning the word over in his mind. ‘Pity? No. None. They have brought their punishment on themselves. That’s obvious enough, isn’t it?’

      ‘Well, now, you say “punishment”.’ A tug at the beard. ‘But suppose a man was genuinely fond of a woman and did not know she had any disease. And suppose he was in error just once, giving in to his passions …’

      ‘Ah, that’s the crux of the matter,’ said the doctor, removing his pipe to give a ferocious smile. ‘It’s giving in to the passions that’s at the root of the trouble, isn’t it? Let me in turn pose you a question, sir. Do you not believe in Hellfire?’

      The ginger man looked down at his boots again, and shook his head.

      ‘I don’t know. That’s the truth. I don’t know. I certainly fear Hellfire.’

      ‘Ah. СКАЧАТЬ