by Tom Holland
I asked Lilah if she had seen George recently. She shrugged, and said that she had heard he was sick; but now that the Bill is passed she doesn’t seem greatly to care. Reminded by my own fears for George, I began to discuss the state of my research, and specifically my agreement to work with Lord Ruthven again. Lilah was intrigued by this news; Lord Ruthven appears to fascinate her, though she claims never to have met him; doubtless she has heard stories from Polidori. Pressed her on this, but she was reticent; instead returned the discussion to the state of my research. Talked for… well … I am unable to say for how long. We left the arboretum, and climbed the stairs to the dome of glass where we could watch the stars. Conversation seemed expanded by the view. One avenue of thought particularly suggestive: what if there are instructions programmed into each individual cell – instructions that might be identified, and perhaps amended or rewritten? The search then would be for nothing less than the building blocks of life. Hopeless, perhaps; at least, that is how it strikes me as I sit here now. But talking with Lilah, the prospect seemed full of hope; my ideas energetic; my brain alive.
One thing in particular I remember her arguing, and Suzette and Huree in their own ways have said it too: insight cannot belong purely to the conscious mind. Reason is insufficient in itself; there must be a surrender to what lies beyond, a point of liberation, a taking off into flight. With Lilah, I experience this; without her, I don’t. When I am with her, watching her, listening to her thoughts, I seem conscious of profound distances waiting for me.
What is the cost, though? What do I need to understand before I can decide how far I should go?
12 August. – A visit to Lord Ruthven has been arranged: requested by Huree and required by myself. It is evident, I think, from my study of the remarkable case before me now, that Virchow’s concept of cellular pathology is fundamentally correct, and that there is no morphologic element beyond the cell in which life is able to manifest itself. Clearly, then, I must focus my analysis of Lord Ruthven’s disease upon the bone marrow, to see if the production of cells has been affected – and if it has been, then to identify how. I suspect a cancer mutating the white cell lineage, though its origin, let alone its cure, is impossible as yet to divine.
13 August. – A visit to Lord Ruthven this evening, with Huree in attendance. We did not bother to disguise Huree’s identity; Lord Ruthven had read his work and did not protest when I introduced him. A warning, though, to keep the secrets revealed to us: this was not given in words; instead, a vision of ourselves with gashes to our throats and our tongues extruding from the open slits. The images in both our minds, we discovered later, appeared to have been identical, so if nothing else, a remarkable demonstration of telepathic power.
Lord Ruthven agreed at once to the operation I proposed. He waived my offer of anaesthetic; instead he laid himself upon a table, and within seconds his eyes began to glaze and he appeared to lose consciousness, though when I tried to close his eyelids I could not make them shut. Uncomfortable at first, operating on him, and when I had to cut through the muscle to the hip bone could not believe there was no expression of pain. But even once I had parted the tissue and begun to drill through the bone to the marrow, the patient remained perfectly motionless, and the operation proceeded without difficulty. Will continue work on the marrow sample over the next few days. Lord Ruthven, when he woke from what I can only describe as his self-induced hypnosis, appeared to feel no pain at all. He is eager for results, I can tell, though he did not press me, and ordered me not to rush my work. I hope his faith is justified. I do not feel confident. The problems in arriving at a cure for his condition seem at best intractable. I must hope for inspiration again.
Huree, by contrast, brimming over with self-confidence. His observation of Lord Ruthven this evening has clearly confirmed some theory of his. I asked him to tell me about it but Huree shook his head. He wants to be certain, he told me, and still has some further research to do. He then changed the topic immediately; began to ask if I ever read much poetry.
‘No,’ I replied. ‘Why?’
Huree shrugged, and smiled and bobbed his head. ‘A pity,’ he said, and would add nothing more.
Poetry. Huree’s mention of it cannot have been wholly random. But I fail, as yet, to see any link. I am afraid that my powers may be waning.
Letter, Professor Huree Jyoti Navalkar to Dr John Eliot.
British Library.
14 August.
Dear Jack,
I must humbly request your forgiveness, but I shall not be meeting with you today as we had previously arranged. I have a trip to make, you see, a tour that is of the utmost urgency, the length and breadth of your beautiful land. It will be a delightful opportunity to view the English countryside. I must go to the Cotswolds first, to Kelmscott Manor. Have you heard of it? The painter and poet Dante Gabriel Rossetti lived there; since he has long been one of my favourite artists, the chance to visit the scene of his final years is not one lightly to be thrown aside. Then I must proceed to Nottingham. I will return to London as soon as I can, i.e. jolly quickly.
I trust that your own work will go well. One request: please, Jack; while I am away, do not pay a visit to Rotherhithe. I am afraid of who – or what – may be there. We will talk of this further when I get back.
So long, old man,
Toodlepip!
HUREE.
Dr Eliot’s Diary.
14 August. – The evidence of the marrow sample as I suspected; below the microscope’s lens, the smear revealed to be generating an uncontrolled explosion of leucocytes. Compared these cells with the leucocytes extracted from Lord Ruthven’s blood almost three months ago: they are identical. It is, to all intents and purposes, a vision of immortality.
We may then, very tentatively, begin to talk of a pathology of vampirism. The locus of any investigation must indeed be the bone marrow, and its infection by what would appear to be a cancerous process affecting the production of white blood cells. I am reminded of my discussions with Lilah, and our positing of a ‘code’ of instructions within every cell. Assuming this hypothesis to be correct, we might further explain the mortality of cells by reference to an instruction within the ‘code’ of each one – instructing it, as it were, to age; in the vampire’s case, however, this ‘code’ would presumably have been mutated or destroyed. But how would the cancerous process have been initiated? Through oral contact, perhaps? Some enzyme in the saliva which would then act on the cells of the bone marrow? But how? I need to know more about the folklore; the various legends that Huree has collected from around the world must surely contain some reference to genuine case-histories, however distorted. But where is Huree when I need him? – gone on a tour of the countryside. He tells me not to visit Lilah; but to whom else can I turn when confronted by this need for primary evidence? If needs be, I will have to ignore his advice.
Because all the time, of course, the central challenge, the problem of problems remains smeared across my slide. I prick my finger; I add blood to the marrow sample; I watch my cells being attacked and absorbed. Here is the demonstration of vampirism, a need for alien haemoglobin which, when translated from the level of microbiology, becomes a murderous hunger for blood. How am I to counter this dependency? Succeed, and Lord Ruthven’s immortality need no longer be counted a disease. Fad – and it is not only Lord Ruthven who will continue to pay. What should I do? What line of inquiry should I be following now?
I cannot wait for Huree indefinitely.
Letter, Mr Bram Stoker to Hon. Edward Westcote.
The Lyceum Theatre.
15 August.
Dear Edward,
I have asked the cabby to deliver this note to you, along with your wife, because I fear that Lucy will make light of what happened to her this evening. But it is my duty as die Manager of this theatre, as well as an admirer and, I hope, as a friend of Lucy’s, to ask you, please, to tell her to remain in her bed. She collapsed this evening in the middle of the second act, an
d was carried from the stage unconscious. She recovered some twenty minutes later and assured me that it was only a temporary dizziness; I am certain, however, that her condition is something more threatening, and so it is that I have sent her home. I am aware that you have been at your parents’ Wiltshire residence for the past few days; Lucy may therefore not have told you that she missed two performances as a result of illness earlier in the week, and that ever since her return she has seemed faint and pale. For her own good, she must accept the fact that she is sick – whatever the illness may prove to be.
Might I suggest that you consult Jack Eliot? He appears to be an excellent doctor, and Lucy would accept instructions from him she might otherwise reject. If there is any way that I could help, then I am, of course, always willing to oblige.
Yours sincerely,
BRAM STOKER.
Dr Eliot’s Diary.
19 August. – Again, the sensation of transcending pure reason; and again, as though it were a necessary corollary of this experience, the curious distortion of time. I was certain I had been in Rotherhithe for no more than twenty-four hours; but according to my calendar, and the intemperate note left by Llewellyn on my desk, I have been absent from Hanbury Street for almost three days now. I must go and make my apologies; but first, let me talk into this phonogram and see if I cannot make some sense of my memories before they start to dim and grow uncertain. Such urgency would not usually be required; my powers of recall are generally more than capable; but on my memories of Rotherhithe, I have found, my mind has a tendency to play strange tricks. What I consider my greatest gift as both detective and doctor — my unloading of the burden of trying to remember unnecessary facts – in Rotherhithe seems exactly reversed. I recall the ephemera; but the most important details and insights fade away.
I wanted to speak to Polidori. In the continuing absence of Huree, I needed corroboration on details of my research; to whom else could I turn but Polidori, who had been a doctor himself before the sickness claimed him? His shop, when I arrived in Coldlair Lane, was still dark and boarded up, but the door was open, and climbing the stairs I smelt the familiar poison of the opium fumes. No one attempted to seize me as I walked through the addicts’ den; it was as though they recognised me now as one of their own, and I was relieved when I had left them behind and crossed the bridge into the warehouse beyond. I passed through the hallway, and as I did so realised – as I had not before – that the statues of the women in the far alcoves all wore Lilah’s face. It must have been a trick in the expressions, for the variety of periods and races on display was immense; and yet, studying them now, there could be no doubt – I recognised Lilah in every one.
There was a sudden cry. I turned from the alcoves, regretting the lack of time to peruse the statues further, and began to hurry down the corridor that led from the hall. As I ran, I heard a second scream. It was a girl’s; very high-pitched but short, as though someone had cut it off, and it had come from the door I was heading towards. I lengthened my stride; I paused by the door; I could hear music coming from inside, a quartet for strings. I opened the door and stared around me in sudden surprise. I was in the nursery again: pink walls, dolls stacked in the comer, a rocking-horse with ribbons in its mane. The musicians, dressed as before in their frock-coats and wigs, continued to play their piece, quite oblivious to my sudden entrance. Suzette, however, did glance round. She was sitting on a sofa in a neat party frock, swinging her legs to and fro and playing with the ringlets in her hair. She smiled at me, but I did not reply in kind. For standing in front of me with a cane in Ids hand was Polidori, and kneeling in front of him with her bare back exposed was Suzette’s nanny, Sarmistha. She was shuddering; across her shoulders stretched a single red weal. A line of blood began to trick down her back.
Polidori glanced round at me. He grinned.
‘What are you doing?’ I asked.
Polidori grinned again. He bent down and dabbed at the girl’s blood with a fingertip. He held it to the light, then licked it with his tongue. ‘Research,’ he said. He hissed with laughter, kicking the girl’s legs apart, then kneeling down between them. He reached up with his hand beneath the bunched folds of the ayah’s skirt.
‘Let her go,’ I said.
Polidori ignored me; I saw him move his arm to and fro. He glanced up at Suzette. ‘Yes,’ he leered, ‘female. No doubt at all. How does she do it?’
I took him by the neck, pulled him away and flung him to the floor. Polidori looked up at me, surprised; then slowly he began to grin again. ‘Sir fucking Galahad,’ he whispered. He picked himself up and stared into my eyes; he raised his cane, then turned back to the girl. ‘She’s just some slut, some dirty foreign bitch.’
‘She pulled my hair,’ said Suzette, ‘when she was dressing it.’
Polidori turned back to me. ‘Did you hear that?’ he asked. ‘The girl can’t even attend properly to her young mistress here. You would think that even the most stupid girl might manage that. But not this little whore. I think she deserves’ – he swung round and raised the cane again – ‘punishment.’
Before he had brought it down, I caught him on the jaw. Polidori staggered and fell into the lap of one of the musicians, who still continued to play – conscious of nothing, it seemed, but the instrument in his hands. Slowly, Polidori picked himself up. He rubbed disbelievingly at his jaw, then stared at me. ‘What have you done?’ he whispered. ‘What have you done?’ He seemed to tense; and then before I had even seen him move I could feel him at my throat, his nails ripping at my neck, and I fell with a crash into the sofa and heard Suzette scream as my head knocked her knees. Then Polidori was on top of me; he was shaking, I realised, his eyes rolling wildly, and the stench of his breath was moist with spit. ‘I’ll kill you,’ he whispered, ‘I’ll slice open your flicking heart,’ I struggled desperately as I felt his fingers on my chest, pinching into the flesh, and then I heard Suzette as she screamed again.
‘Polidori!’ She stamped her foot. ‘No!’
Polidori glanced up at her.
‘She won’t allow it. You know she won’t. Stop it at once!’
‘I don’t care what she wants.’
Suzette did not reply; but she continued to stare at him, and slowly Polldori lowered his head, and I felt his grip on my chest start to weaken. I sat up; and Polldori slipped off me and rose to his feet. He shuddered and clasped himself, and then he stood utterly still. ‘Don’t tell her,’ he whispered.
Suzette tossed back her curls. For a few seconds more she continued to stare down her nose at Polidori; then she turned to me. ‘Well, come on,’ she said, turning towards the far door.
‘No,’ I replied. I glanced at Polldori. ‘I need to ask him some questions. That’s what I came here for.’
‘Oh, don’t be so silly!’ exclaimed Suzette impatiently, stamping her foot again. ‘He won’t answer any questions from you. Will you, Polly?’
Polldori licked his lips; then he grinned and slowly shook his head.
‘I told you,’ said Suzette. ‘You see how he is. It won’t do. You must come with me instead.’ She reached out and opened the far door. As she prepared to walk through, she paused and glanced down at Sarmistha who was still prostrate on the floor. The girl looked up; Suzette widened her eyes and nodded; then she passed on through the door. Sarmistha rose uncertainly to her feet, clutching the torn shreds of her sari to her naked body, and I saw to my shock how thin she had become. As she readjusted die folds of her garment about her I caught a glimpse of her breasts, and saw how they were tattooed with tiny red dots like puncture marks; but I did not have a chance to inspect them further, for the girl covered both her body and her head, and scurried past me. I followed her out through the door. Ahead of us were the double staircases I remembered from before, spiralling away to impossible heights, rising up through empty space. Suzette was running, her tiny feet echoing through the silent distances that stretched in every direction from the stairs; looking behind me, I saw that even th
e door had gone and I was standing on one of the steps – suspended, it seemed, in naked air, with nothing else to see, and only darkness all around.
I began to climb the spiral, following Suzette and Sarmistha. They were both running, and I began to run as well. But no matter how fast I went, I could never catch them up; they were always ahead of me, their footsteps fading into the darkness. I stopped. I traced the configuration of the two stairways, and realised – what at first had been impossible to tell – that I was on a different stairway from Suzette and Sarmistha. I looked up for them. They were gone. Instead there was a balcony, and at its end a door. It had a fresco painted on it, in a primitive style that I didn’t recognise, depicting a goddess with her head amongst the stars, and mortals licking at the toes of her feet. I passed through the door. I entered a beautiful room. The air was perfumed; radiance glittered from jewels and soft flames; the bed wore hangings of the deepest red.
As in my dream, Lilah was naked. Her face was painted, her nipples and labia touched with gold. She extended her arms; I crossed the room and joined her on the bed. The touch of her skin enhanced a curious sensation I had experienced since entering the room: the apparent fusion of an erotic response with an urgent intellectual curiosity, so that the two extremes of emotion and reason appeared blended into one. I had no cause now to restrain my mood of sexual arousal, for far from threatening my capacity to think with due clarity, it seemed on the contrary to stimulate it. Again, I remembered my dream: the promise of some revelation, some point of ultimate comprehension; this was waiting for me again now, not on the margin between sleep and consciousness but on the crest of sexual climax, and so I pursued it, and passed through it, and continued to pursue the climaxes beyond. What did I see in them? Everything. Simply… everything. So expanded had my cognitive faculties become that I comprehended intellectual problems in the same way as I felt the sexual bliss – infinitely – without limits at all.
