her files, and I knew she had finished with me.
I worked as quickly as I could and, before long, was knocking on the locked door of the secure wing. Sommers, the aged attendant, opened it. I told him whom I was there to see.
“Follow me, Miss Mary. He’s in Renfield’s room.” Sommers lumbered down the corridor toward the room where John was imprisoned. Ever the storyteller—Sommers had regaled me in my youth with the most unsettling of tales from the ward. Though my mother disapproved, each one thrilled and surprised me.
Despite the fact that I was now grown, I knew he was eager for another chance. I felt grateful for his comforting presence in this dreary place and so indulged him.
“Renfield?” I asked. “Who is that?”
“Man of that name occupied the cell—many years ago now, afore you was even born,” Sommers explained. “A strange case, he was. Killed hisself in the end. Broke his neck. Your father never used the cell again—right up to the day he retired. Me and the rest of the men used to wonder if Renfield’s spirit was still there—haunting the thing for the rest of eternity.”
I gazed up into his face. He gave me a wink and a smile.
We finally reached a small door at the end of the hall. I peered through the iron bars and found John sitting on a small iron bedstead, the only furniture within the padded cell.
He was sitting up now, I noted. Gaining strength. His body was healing. I could only hope the same was true of his mind.
I watched for as long as I dared. Clearly something was troubling him, for his gentle features held a look of confusion. He stared intently into nothingness, occasionally gesturing, as if he saw something there.
Suddenly he spoke. “It is most odd, Jenkins. The trench walls have become soft and clean. Can you see? I keep looking for the mud, but can find none.”
Then his expression darkened. His eyes grew wild. “I can still smell the rats, though. Can you smell them, Jenkins? The rats … and the blood … and
death!”
He grasped his head in his hands. Then lay back on his pillow. “I hear cries out in no-man’s-land. But I cannot find aladder. Help me get to them! Jenkins, help me!” he screamed.
I turned away, unable to bear seeing him like this.
Sommers placed a rough hand on my shoulder. “Been repeating those things since they brought him,” he said gently. “Poor chap.”
It seemed natural to give in to despair. Yet I knew I must not.
John was improving and if he was to improve further, he must be removed from this horrible place.
And so I have made a vow to do everything within my power to see Lieutenant Shaw well again. No matter what I must do to help him.
Report of Dr. McLeod,
Purfleet Sanatorium
Patient John Shaw, Lieutenant, no. 467842
Volunteer Mary Seward has shown a special interest in this patient, and since she is a calm and sensible girl, I have assigned her to his care. She will report back to me on the patient’s behaviour.
DM, 2 September 1916
Journal of
Mary Seward
8TH
S EPTEMBER 1916
I have been visiting John Shaw in the secure wing for nearly a week now. When I look into John’s face, I know that he is in great need of me. I feel that I am the only one who can reach him.
In the time we have spent together, I have grown to understand his delirium. I have attempted to bring him back into reality gradually, so as not to overtax his mind. I feel strongly that we are making progress.
L
ATER
Sommers was in a rare, ill-tempered mood when I arrived at the door to the wing this morning. “A rat got in through the window of ’is cell,” he told me sourly.
I wondered if he blamed me for the rat’s intrusion. It was I who had left the barred window open, in the hope that the sweet scents of an English summer might help restore Lieutenant Shaw to his senses.
I heard a high-pitched squealing from his cell as Sommers led me down the corridor.
“Caught it with his bare hands,” he muttered, barely disguising the disgust
I worked as quickly as I could and, before long, was knocking on the locked door of the secure wing. Sommers, the aged attendant, opened it. I told him whom I was there to see.
“Follow me, Miss Mary. He’s in Renfield’s room.” Sommers lumbered down the corridor toward the room where John was imprisoned. Ever the storyteller—Sommers had regaled me in my youth with the most unsettling of tales from the ward. Though my mother disapproved, each one thrilled and surprised me.
Despite the fact that I was now grown, I knew he was eager for another chance. I felt grateful for his comforting presence in this dreary place and so indulged him.
“Renfield?” I asked. “Who is that?”
“Man of that name occupied the cell—many years ago now, afore you was even born,” Sommers explained. “A strange case, he was. Killed hisself in the end. Broke his neck. Your father never used the cell again—right up to the day he retired. Me and the rest of the men used to wonder if Renfield’s spirit was still there—haunting the thing for the rest of eternity.”
I gazed up into his face. He gave me a wink and a smile.
We finally reached a small door at the end of the hall. I peered through the iron bars and found John sitting on a small iron bedstead, the only furniture within the padded cell.
He was sitting up now, I noted. Gaining strength. His body was healing. I could only hope the same was true of his mind.
I watched for as long as I dared. Clearly something was troubling him, for his gentle features held a look of confusion. He stared intently into nothingness, occasionally gesturing, as if he saw something there.
Suddenly he spoke. “It is most odd, Jenkins. The trench walls have become soft and clean. Can you see? I keep looking for the mud, but can find none.”
Then his expression darkened. His eyes grew wild. “I can still smell the rats, though. Can you smell them, Jenkins? The rats … and the blood … and
death!”
He grasped his head in his hands. Then lay back on his pillow. “I hear cries out in no-man’s-land. But I cannot find aladder. Help me get to them! Jenkins, help me!” he screamed.
I turned away, unable to bear seeing him like this.
Sommers placed a rough hand on my shoulder. “Been repeating those things since they brought him,” he said gently. “Poor chap.”
It seemed natural to give in to despair. Yet I knew I must not.
John was improving and if he was to improve further, he must be removed from this horrible place.
And so I have made a vow to do everything within my power to see Lieutenant Shaw well again. No matter what I must do to help him.
Report of Dr. McLeod,
Purfleet Sanatorium
Patient John Shaw, Lieutenant, no. 467842
Volunteer Mary Seward has shown a special interest in this patient, and since she is a calm and sensible girl, I have assigned her to his care. She will report back to me on the patient’s behaviour.
DM, 2 September 1916
Journal of
Mary Seward
8TH
S EPTEMBER 1916
I have been visiting John Shaw in the secure wing for nearly a week now. When I look into John’s face, I know that he is in great need of me. I feel that I am the only one who can reach him.
In the time we have spent together, I have grown to understand his delirium. I have attempted to bring him back into reality gradually, so as not to overtax his mind. I feel strongly that we are making progress.
L
ATER
Sommers was in a rare, ill-tempered mood when I arrived at the door to the wing this morning. “A rat got in through the window of ’is cell,” he told me sourly.
I wondered if he blamed me for the rat’s intrusion. It was I who had left the barred window open, in the hope that the sweet scents of an English summer might help restore Lieutenant Shaw to his senses.
I heard a high-pitched squealing from his cell as Sommers led me down the corridor.
“Caught it with his bare hands,” he muttered, barely disguising the disgust
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