Dracula's Child

by J. S. Barnes

  ‘Of what?’ I asked, as kindly as I could.

  ‘Why, of the world he will be born into, Mina dear. Of the black and evil universe he will inherit.’

  LETTER FROM DR LEON WAKEFIELD TO DR JOHN SEWARD

  22 November

  Dear Dr Seward,

  I trust that this letter finds you satisfied and well. We hear often of your work and, perhaps undeservedly, are pleased indeed to see that your reputation has continued to flourish and grow.

  Here at the asylum we have striven since your departure to make improvements in order to ensure that the institution is a credit to the twentieth century. I dare say that you would hardly recognise the place now, so extensive have been our refurbishments. All the cobwebs of the ’90s have been entirely swept away and I am pleased to say that our asylum can now be considered to exist upon the very frontier of modern medical science.

  It is as a direct, though unexpected, consequence of these necessary changes in the fabric of the building that I write to you today. We have recently completed a thorough renovation of what was once the most secure wing of the hospital. In the course of this rebuilding something was uncovered which we had all thought long lost. It is a relic of sorts which dates back to your heyday at the head of our institute. The details of the matter are too delicate to commit to print.

  I wonder whether you might care to take a trip to Purfleet before long so that we might discuss the issue in person? It may interest you greatly – the very strangest of connecting tissue from the present to the past. Besides, it would be pleasant to see you again, the éminence grise of our asylum family. I do not think we can have spoken for several years, not since the party that was held for your departure.

  Yours sincerely,

  Leon Wakefield

  LETTER FROM LORD ARTHUR GODALMING TO DR JOHN SEWARD

  22 November

  Dear Jack,

  Please forgive the brevity of this message for it is being written in haste and with no small degree of concern.

  Carrie and I visited the Harkers yesterday.

  Van Helsing continues to fade; you really ought to see him once more while you are still able.

  I write to you now, however, concerning my wife whose behaviour, rather than being mollified by an evening spent in the company of friends and having spoken alone to the redoubtable Mina, has instead grown still more distracted and strange.

  She cries often about the future. She fears the inevitability of the birth. Many of her complaints strike me, I am afraid, as existing once again upon the cusp of that particular kind of illness which is your own specialism.

  Jack, I am bringing her to London two days from now. Will you consent to see her? There is no one but you, my dear fellow, to whom I can turn.

  I remain, your very good friend,

  Art

  DR SEWARD’S DIARY

  (kept in phonograph)

  23 November. Two letters of interest received.

  (i) From Arthur, insisting that I see Carrie tomorrow, in which duty I should be very happy to oblige. I have sent him a telegram to confirm that fact. He seems anxious and I must do my best to allay the worst of his fears.

  (ii) From Dr Wakefield at Purfleet, his manner as sly and oleaginous as ever, determined to remind me in every line of his precocious ambition. They have found, it seems, some old souvenir in the rubble of the asylum and he wishes me to see it for myself. I have no notion what this queer antique may be but I have agreed to make the visit soon. It will be a little odd to return to that place, which was once filled for me by drama of the wildest sort, yet I dare say that sufficient time has passed that I can approach it in a spirit of nothing more than mild nostalgia.

  In truth, these distractions are all most welcome, for they keep my thoughts from wandering into unwise spaces – in particular, those unhappy realms of the imagination which have to do with a certain young lady, now resident in Shore Green.

  Her blonde hair. Her sweet smile. The delicate curve of her neck.

  LETTER FROM SARAH-ANN DOWELL TO THOM CAWLEY

  24 November

  Dearest Thom,

  As it has been one week since last I wrote to you and as I have not yet got a reply I thought as I would write again. Thom, I love you but I know how you is easily led when I am not with you by your side.

  I hope you is working hard at the shop and not falling back into any of the old trouble. Please do not be cross for I know you swore to me that such bad things are all now in your past. But I know what a pull the life you used to live can have on a man. The easy money and excitement. But keep honest and keep true, Thom, and keep at the shop. Above all, stay away from the Giddis Boys and your sweet Sarah-Ann will come to you soon and soothe you and care for you and we will be so merry together.

  I think of you often here in this big gloomy house, though I am happy enough with my duties. The old man sleeps on and Mrs Harker is very kind. But it is the boy, Thom, the boy who goes on upsetting me. He still looks at me in that greedy way yet it has grown worse since last I wrote to you. He waits for me so that we might pass close together in the hallways. Twice I have caught him watching me from the corridor. I try never to be in the same room but, this is often hard as he is much with the patient.

  Then there are his eyes. Much of the time he is an ordinary child but there are moments when his eyes glitter and gleam and something old and wicked seems to me to be gazing out of him.

  Write to me soon, my love, and tell me all is well.

  Your devoted flower,

  Sarah-Ann

  LETTER FROM DR JOHN SEWARD TO LORD ARTHUR GODALMING

  25 November

  Dear Arthur,

  It was pleasant indeed, in spite of the nature of our meeting, to see you both in my surgery yesterday afternoon.

  As promised, here is my formal report upon your wife’s condition. Following a thorough physical and mental examination, I should like to make the following seven observations:

  (i) Your wife is suffering from abnormal degrees of anxiety and fear.

  (ii) I would diagnose also incipient hysteria.

  (iii) The cause is wholly mental and any physical symptoms are illusory.

  (iv) I would recommend that she spend the duration of the outstanding period at home, in the most tranquil state. Surround her with peace and calm wherever possible.

  (v) She must sleep long and deeply. Slumber can prove to be profoundly restorative.

  (vi) To assist in this process I have prescribed strong pills, the first of which I gave to you yesterday. These have considerable potency. Make sure that she takes no more than five a day. I hope that these medicaments will staunch in her that torrent of disturbing nightmares of which she has complained.

  (vii) I would for now suggest keeping her away from the house of the Harkers. It is an unquiet place at present and seems to distress her greatly.

  I trust that the above will prove to be of some comfort. Please do not hesitate to ask for help from me of any sort. This and any further consultations will, of course, be provided entirely gratis.

  My lord, these months before the birth will not be easy ones. They may be made more difficult by the odd resemblance of Lady Godalming’s symptoms to some – although by no means all – of those which once afflicted a certain dear lady who was most precious to our hearts.

  I have noted these echoes, my lord, and I have dismissed them. I would urge you now to do the same. The nature of our shared ordeal is that we see shadows where there are none and that we jump at the most quotidian of sounds.

  In contrast to her predecessor, Carrie has always been acutely sensitive and unusually vulnerable to those travails which are inevitable in even the most cosseted of lives. I recall that I said as much to you shortly after the two of you first met, not long ago after she had emerged from my care. I know that you both have suffered in the past and that this forms part of the bond between you but, Art, I say this not only as her doctor but also as your friend: she is amongst the most fr
agile individuals whom I have encountered. She will require from you much love in the days to come.

  I stand ready, as ever I have been, to assist in any way that I am able.

  Yours,

  Jack

  TELEGRAM FROM LORD ARTHUR GODALMING TO DR JOHN SEWARD

  26 November

  Thanks for letter. All assistance received with gratitude. C has taken to pills with relief. Says the dreams are fading. Hope worst behind us. I pray that all will yet be well.

  Art

  FROM THE DIARY OF ARNOLD SALTER

  27 November. To Fleet Street, to the premises of my old employer and to the office of my successor, Cecil Carnehan, where there was waiting for me a conversation of the pretty b—y difficult sort.

  Carnehan had agreed to see me, mostly out of courtesy. Even then he required a good deal of chivvying. Few things in the wide world seem to the young fellah quite so ridiculous as the pensioner, especially if the point which represented the high-water mark of the old man’s career has already been reached (and, one may reasonably expect, is soon to be exceeded) by the upstart.

  And Mr Carnehan is young indeed, being barely more than thirty: a tall, pointed person with a calculatedly firm handshake and a spurious layer of maturity.

  He waved me into his little sanctuary (which once, of course, was mine) and asked me to sit on a new chair opposite his desk. The fact that he made me clear away a sheaf of copy which had been laid on top of it was not lost on me.

  ‘So,’ he began, once we were settled and after much ostentatious checking of his no doubt d—d expensive pocket watch. ‘To what do I owe this pleasure? Or had you merely a yearning to see the old place again?’

  Everything in that young cub’s manner, from his knowing deference to the impatience which flickered in his eyes, made me want to do nothing so much as ball up my right hand into a fist and plant it firmly into his face.

  Oddly, this sensation roused in me not frustration or fury but surprise that I could again be capable of such emotion after years of numbness. I felt again the welcome sense that blood is thundering once more through my veins.

  ‘In part, Mr Carnehan,’ I said, ‘you are correct.’

  ‘It is always a pleasure to see you here again, sir. You are, after all, something of a legend in these halls. Fleet Street, Mr Salter, salutes you.’

  I humoured him in his flattery. As though his opinion matters a tinker’s cuss!

  ‘You’re kind,’ I said. ‘You’re very kind.’

  I managed a grizzled grin. I dare say the sight was a ghoulish one. ‘But, you see, the truth of it is this: I don’t believe that I am altogether done with the inky-fingered newspaper business. Nor it with me. At least – not yet.’

  At this, young Carnehan played dumb. ‘Now whatever do you mean by that, Mr Salter?’

  ‘I mean I want to write for my paper again. Regularly and often. That is what I have come here today to ask.’

  He smiled impudently. ‘Oh, but I am afraid our books are quite full at present. As you are no doubt aware, the desks of this newspaper are all manned by a staff of eager new voices.’

  ‘That, of course, I appreciate. But isn’t there still space for a veteran? Can’t the voice of experience be allowed to speak from time to time?’

  The smile on Carnehan’s face did not falter as he tugged free his pocket watch and glanced down at it. ‘Pray tell, Mr Salter.’ He stowed away the timepiece. ‘What kind of writing did you have in mind? You are now a little too advanced in years – don’t you think? – to be walking the beat or scouring the streets like a new-born pencil-pusher?’

  ‘I had thought rather: a view from the hill. My own thoughts and opinions. We could call it… I don’t know… how about “Salter Says”?’

  Carnehan looked politely sceptical. ‘Upon what topics, sir, do you intend to discourse?’

  ‘The state of the nation. The follies of the current century. The dire and urgent need to learn the lessons of the past.’

  My successor favoured me with a look of indulgence. ‘I see.’

  A long pause came which neither of us cared to fill.

  At last, I said: ‘I take it the notion does not enthuse you?’

  ‘Not at all. It’s only a question of…’ He leaned back and steepled his fingers. ‘The demands of business. I’m sure that you understand perfectly such commercial necessities. We have to give our readers what they want.’

  ‘I always thought we ought rather to give them what they need.’

  The smile began to fade. ‘Everything changes, Mr Salter, and the world moves on.’

  ‘You think there’d be no appetite for my opinions?’

  ‘I think there is at present no appetite for sermonising. Nor for lectures from the elderly.’

  ‘Perhaps that’s where the problem lies. Perhaps that’s why society has taken the wrong d—d path.’

  ‘Perhaps, Mr Salter, perhaps.’ His tone suggested that he thought my supposition an unlikely one. ‘Yet the fact is that the public taste is for scandal, rumour and innuendo. Not, you understand, for morality.’

  ‘Oh, I understand. Believe me.’

  ‘I’m most glad to hear that.’

  I looked him in the eye till he looked away. ‘That’s your last word?’

  ‘I am afraid it must be. We have to run the tightest of ships here, Arnold. You know that there can be no place in a press room for sentiment or for old loyalties, no matter how individually worthy they may be.’

  After he had said this, the d—d pocket watch came out again and he cast an appreciative eye at its face. I stood up and extended my hand.

  ‘I’ll take up no more of your time, sir. I know there must be many demands upon it.’

  Carnehan agreed that these were indeed plentiful. ‘Thank you so much for visiting,’ he said, ‘and more than that, Arnold, thank you for understanding.’ Insincerity flowed through every vowel and consonant.

  ‘Not at all.’ I turned to go, eager by then to be back in the open air and away from this palladium of memories.

  ‘Of course…’ said Carnehan.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘If you were to have something of quite another order for me… If you were to bring me some scandal, say, some grand, exciting story… something which would enthral our readers… then things would most certainly be quite different.’

  ‘You’d put me back in print?’

  ‘And be glad to do so.’ His smile did not falter. ‘But of course you don’t happen to have anything for me of that nature at the present moment. Now do you?’

  MINA HARKER’S JOURNAL

  28 November. It would seem that matters have come to a head with Miss Sarah-Ann Dowell and, I regret to say, with our son. The poor girl visited me this morning shortly after breakfast to confess her deep discomfort.

  ‘It’s not that I is ever one for speaking out of turn, ma’am,’ she said, flushed in her face but determined in her manner. ‘It’s not that I ever want to make a fuss where there isn’t no fuss to be making. Ask Dr Seward, ma’am. I’m sure he will vouch for me.’

  I assured her that there would be no need for such a course of action. ‘Go on, Sarah-Ann.’

  ‘It’s your boy, ma’am. I am sorry but it really is getting impossible. The way he looks at me. The way he follows me round the house and… lingers about the grounds. The way he watches me, hiding in the shadows.’

  I shook my head in sorrow, a gesture that the nursemaid at once misunderstood.

  ‘Please, ma’am, I’m telling you the truth.’

  ‘Of course.’ I did my best to soothe her. ‘And I believe you.’

  ‘His age is difficult. I know that. And it cannot be easy for him living out here just with you and with the old man dying so slowly.’

  ‘Quite.’

  ‘But he fair gives me the shivers, ma’am, the way he looks at me. He gives me the horrors.’

  I nodded sadly. ‘You’re very pretty, Miss Dowell, and I am sure that you are well accustom
ed to the unwelcome gazes of men. So you must be discomfited indeed to come to me now. I shall ask my husband to speak with him. Better, I think, that such a discussion is had with his father. You have my word that we will in this matter be most stern. This is not how young gentlemen behave and we shall make that fact quite plain to him.’

  ‘Thank you, ma’am. I do appreciate you trusting me.’

  ‘Sarah-Ann, you have made this most difficult time more bearable for us all. I would not have you be unhappy here.’

  The girl smiled bravely and bowed her head. When she looked at me again there was anxiety in her eyes.

  ‘What is it?’ I asked. ‘You know that you can speak to me of anything.’

  ‘You do know, ma’am, don’t you?’

  At her tone, I dare say my own smile grew a little tighter and more forced. ‘Know what, my dear?’

  ‘What’s happening here. Under your own roof.’

  There was, of course, great discomfort in her voice as she spoke, but also – unpleasant to relate – an odd note of amusement too.

  ‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘There is little that happens in this house of which I am not very well aware.’

  ‘Is that right, ma’am?’ she asked, and, almost grinning now, turned to go.

  And so, in this fashion, it was left between us. I shall speak with Jonathan when he returns from his office. There lies already about this place a pall of death and sadness. I will not have it darken further.

  DR SEWARD’S DIARY

  (kept in phonograph)

  29 November. What a curious day it has been, full of strange echoes and resurgences.

  Intrigued by the letter of Dr Wakefield and, more than anything, I suppose, eager to be free for a while from this consulting room, I made a journey to Purfleet and to the old asylum there.

  As I travelled away from the city, first by train and then in a fly from the railway station (driven by a coachman of the gnarled and taciturn variety), it felt almost as though I were travelling back into the past, deep into my personal history. Memories stood at every crossroads. They sauntered along each lane and haunted every field. These memories I had long considered faded things but, revisited now, they seemed rather to be infused horribly with life.