When I got home I tuned into an episode of the Cook Report and watched, stunned, as cultists in California danced and sang in a manner identical to the inmates in Ward 23. I noticed the repetition of the word “Aklo” which has become recently so familiar.
I’ve got a feeling that this strange language is in fact “glossolalia” and am well aware of the potential danger of letting this practise continue unchecked. Non-verbal, non-conceptual discourse actually aids the practitioner’s access to submerged areas of the human brain, areas from which civilisation has divorced itself through centuries of taboos and repression. My patients are in here precisely because they lack those inhibitions required for a continued existence in human society, so we provide an artificial substitute, usually in the form of chemical treatment, which at least maintains some modicum of normality and removes the necessity for physical restraint. This voodoo-type ritual they’ve been performing, although so far harmless, may result in over-excitement. Then again, it may prove therapeutic. I’ll monitor it a little longer before interfering.
My sore throat is getting worse. When I speak I sound like a bullfrog. I think it must be a virus causing it because I’ve also developed an unpleasant, scaly rash on the back of my hands.
April 28th
I’m going to list here some of the extraordinary things I’ve noticed on the news or read in today’s papers.
Massive earthquakes have hit Turkey, Iran, Japan, Mexico and California. Huge tidal waves have swamped the coasts of Pakistan, India and many of the Pacific islands.
Three dormant volcanoes, including one in Iceland, have suddenly become dramatically active. And, as if that weren’t enough, seismologists have detected major shifts in the Earth’s tectonic plates.
Following the recent meltdown of a nuclear reactor in the Ukraine, there has been an unprecedented number of UFO sightings in the area. Street gangs have taken over large areas of Chicago and Los Angeles where a moribund Charles Manson has been freed by a mixed racial group led by Lynette Fromme. On my TV screen, his wasted cancer-ridden frame seemed any-thing but menacing; a puzzled, lost look on his face.
I spent a large part of the day watching TV. I have a small portable in my office, which I’ve never really used much before now – and under the pretence of writing reports I locked myself in and continually switched channels to follow the various reports. I watched a Satanist rally on the streets of Dallas then switched to a picture of Sikh extremists on a blood-letting rampage in the Punjab, then another of Israeli troops massacring Palestinian civilians in an unprovoked attack.
At a place called Samath, in the Benares district of India, cultists were filmed dancing and cavorting with snakes and other reptiles. A linked clip showed strangely-robed worshippers celebrating on the island of Ponape which has risen an extra thirty feet above sea-level in the last two days. I find the overall effect terrifying, yet I’m strangely empathically unmoved by the victims’ suffering as though the whole thing is merely a schematic problem unfolding before my eyes on a scale beyond emotional assimilation. Or maybe TV has inured us to personal misery over the years – I don’t know. Tomorrow I’m going to have a chat with James.
April 29th
I had my conversation with James this morning and it was an unusually unsettling experience. I broke the ice by discussing his book which was published three years before his admission. Supposedly a work of “surrealism”, it comprises a catalogue of violent and scatological perversion – paedophilia, rape, necrophilia, coprophagy and murder – all written in a facile free-verse form which James probably thought experimental at the time. He has gained a minor cult following, primarily among those neurasthenic young people who grew up in the eighties and failed to mature in the nineties due to cultural and informational overload and economic depression – the victims of the “Death of Affect”.
As I sat opposite him, I appraised him physically.
Although not in peak physical condition he gave the impression of subdued strength and was particular about his appearance to the point of obsession. He sat cross-legged with his hands folded on one knee and observed me inscrutably. I decided to get to the point.
‘James ... I’ve noticed the patients have been playing a sort of role-playing game recently. Do you know anything about it?’
He grinned sardonically. ‘A role-playing game? I must admit I find it strange that you, the doctor, are asking me, the patient. I thought you had all the answers.’ Behind the mocking humour, I discerned a subtle note of menace.
‘Apart from myself, James, I think you’re the most intelligent person in here. I’m appealing to your intellectual vanity, which I suspect is immense.’
‘I’m flattered doctor.’ He laughed and stared at his nails. ‘But let me make it clear that, for my part, I think you’re at least as mad as anyone else in here.’
‘Thank you for your honesty, James.’
‘OK. Are you interested in astronomy, doctor?’
‘Peripherally ... why?’
‘Do you know where Algol is?’
‘The “Demon Star”? It was the first eclipsing binary star to be discovered. It represents the winking eye of Medusa in the constellation of Perseus.’
‘Very erudite! A new star has been sighted near Algol – very bright – which is thought to be nomadic.’
‘What has all this to do with my patients?’
‘It has been speculated that it’s headed in the direction of our solar system and the effects are already being felt. You must have been watching the news recently – or were you really writing reports in your office?’ I started inwardly at his display of perceptiveness. ‘It’s the millennium, doctor. Big changes are on the way – really big!’ He’d started to look excited so I decided to terminate the interview.
‘I’ll think about what you said, James. You’re suggesting there’s a connection between the star and the patient’s behaviour?’ I stood to leave.
‘You think about it doctor! And you really ought to see somebody about your throat. You sound barely human!’
Later (same day)
While the patients were engaged in one of their little ceremonies, I took the opportunity of searching through James’ personal effects, books and papers. Aside from a large collection of True Crime and other magazines devoted to murder and mayhem (especially Manson), there was a modest selection of classic surrealist texts. Next to several books by Sade and Bataille, which looked hardly touched, was a collection of texts by Artaud. As I picked it up it fell open at a well-thumbed page; the stage scenario There Is No More Firmament. Next to Lautréamont’s Maldoror was a large paperback edition of H P Lovecraft’s stories, published by the infamous Creation Press, plus an assortment of home-printed pamphlets published by a group called “The Esoteric Order of Dagon”. The general aim of these booklets was to establish connections between Lovecraft’s themes and occult groups, particularly those associated with Aleister Crowley. I chanced upon a reference to the word “Aklo” and decided to quiz James again. I’d already suspected he was behind these events, and this seemed to confirm it.
Later still
The patients are still chanting annoyingly in their strange made-up language and that word – “Aklo” – keeps cropping up. The whole thing is disconcerting to listen to, like attending one of those extreme evangelical prayer meetings where even outsiders to the group are profoundly moved. I once actually attended one of these at the behest of my ex-wife shortly before we broke up. I can’t help recalling Nietzsche’s maxim. I can feel the abyss staring deeply into me.
James doesn’t even bother to hide his involvement any more, often pacing around like a deranged film director or choreographer. The patients glance at him while executing their complex perambulations around the supine body of Daphne, as though looking for his approval and guidance. He says nothing, marching around or sitting cross-legged, smoking and occasionally nodding his head.
He reminds me of Peter Weiss’ portrayal of Sade at Charenton.
When they’d finished today, James cornered me before I’d even approached him. The other patients ambled off – except Daphne who lay, trembling slightly – no! rippling! as though her outline were becoming unstable – like oil. ‘Doctor, I assume from the fact you’ve been through my room that you read The Starry Wisdom?’
‘That was the pamphlet, yes?’
‘You probably think it’s nonsense?’
‘It means nothing to me. What about you, James?’
‘I was in contact with the E.O.D. for a while, assuming that they knew what they were doing, where they were going. But it turned out they were just dilettantes, dabbling their toes in the water. When something big swam too close they ran screaming. They stopped answering my letters – even put out a declaration to the effect that they wouldn’t correspond with anyone incarcerated for whatever reasons. I have adapted some of their basic rituals, though.’
‘Is that what the patients are performing – E.O.D. rituals?’
‘Only the bare bones are E.O.D. – the rest is mine!’
He seemed to be getting more vehement. ‘You look down on us in here, don’t you! Well, these people in here whom you treat like animals are fucking gods! You – and the rest of society – are scared of what they represent, what possibilities they suggest...’
‘What possibilities?’
‘Freedom! Total fucking freedom! To live, to dance, to sing, to kill!’
‘I could never endorse that. That whole concept is contrary to the work I’m doing here.’
‘Oh ... contrary to what you’re doing? How very nice! Well, you may not have any choice before long.’
‘And why is that, James?’
He smiled. ‘Because He is coming back. The Tentacled Dragon from the oceans of our inherited memories, whose name is tattooed along our neural paths and around the totems of our spinal cords. Did you ever wonder, when you were a little boy, where the great reptiles went? They’re still inside us, Doctor. We all have monsters inside us. There were other civilisations before humanity appeared and some of them are still around waiting for the rest of us to catch up. You’ll be seeing them before long!’
Although he was dangerously excited, I let him carry on. What he said interested me in a morbid way, although it wasn’t vastly different from your run-of-the-mill paranoid fantasy. One of the larger staff nurses peered around the door, probably to see what was making the noise, and this reassured me somewhat. He continued his harangue. ‘The Hindus speak of Kundalini; the Serpent Power of evolutionary force dormant in all of us, waiting to be wakened. Carl Sagan talks of “The Dragon Brain”. The whole driving force of creativity in mankind is centred in the reptilian level of the collective unconscious. Civilisation has corrupted and repressed it to the point where it’s begun to emerge as destructive and anti-social behaviour – pretty much like the result of overwinding a watch. The destruction we’re witnessing is unavoidable. People have been taking too much without giving back for too long a period, but eventually the dust will settle and a new species will arise and take over. We’ll become obsolete unless we can adapt and mutate to suit the changes. All of this of course will happen over a period of hundreds of years, but it’s starting right now!’
‘It’s time to calm down, James!’ I stood up.
‘It doesn’t matter whether you believe me or not.
The signs are there. What about those people who disappeared from Denborough last month? Or those events at Nan Madol? A young man in Yorkshire has received The Book Of 23 Nails in a dream but I don’t think he knows what to do with it. Even you Doctor. You could have a part in what’s happening. Look at your hands!’
Before I could stop myself, I’d glanced down and experienced a small thrill of alarm. The knuckles of my right hand were bleeding. I quickly thrust it in my pocket. The male nurse began to wander over and I stooped to help Daphne to her feet. With amazing speed James had gripped my wrist, in a display of shocking strength. ‘Careful, Doctor. She’s expecting, you know.’ He collapsed in a fit of laughter.
I’m going to separate him from the others.
May 10th
All hell has broken loose this last week and this may well be my last entry. I don’t know if anyone will even survive to read this but the discipline of setting it all down is helping me to regain some modicum of composure and objectivity.
It’s not easy when everything you’ve believed to be sane and normal changes to madness in front of your eyes.
I did separate James from the others but the rituals continued, regular as clockwork, while he sat quietly in his room, smiling. By the end of the week the dancing and singing had escalated to a sort of climax. And when it reached its peak, the whole world erupted into insanity while I cowered here in my asylum, protected by the inmates whom I’d patronised for so long. I suppose there’s some weird poetry to be seen in this inversion, but I’ve never really been that poetically inclined.
I had noticed earlier in the week that the sunrises were becoming bizarre, strange-hued, and the vegetation in the meagre flower bed outside my office window had started to glow slightly in the dark. I’d put it down to overwork on my part, or as a result of the annoyingly lingering virus.
While watching the news reports that week, however, I realised that the outside world really was starting to act in an unprecedented way. Social disturbances had increased alarmingly – widespread rioting in council estates, prisons, the inner cities and on university campuses. In Manchester, the army had been called in to relieve a beleaguered police force and things sped out of control in a welter of carnage and vandalism. Eventually, on May 5th, while James celebrated his birthday in solitary confinement, the implacably crawling chaos hit our town and for the last few days the air outside has been thick with smoke from burning buildings and cars. For some reason none of the violence has been directed at the hospital, so common sense has dictated delaying any evacuation of the building. We’re as safe here as anywhere, I suppose.
Early this morning I found myself walking through the main hall on the way to the coffee machine on the rear landing, secure in the belief that the violence was locked outside and the patients confined to their rooms. The hall was dark, faintly illuminated by the filtered light from an adjacent wing. I was stopped abruptly in my tracks by violent stomach cramps. My jaws began to ache and my head throbbed. I almost cried out in panic, fearing a heart attack, but as abruptly as the seizure began, it passed. When my vision cleared I realised I was no longer alone. Four patients from Ward 23 stood in a semi-circle around me. I turned to see James behind me, leaning against a doorway, a mocking smile playing around his cherubic lips.
‘It’s time, Doctor. If you come with us we’ll show you something special – something we’ve all been waiting for. And don’t bother calling the nurses.’
A naked girl of about twelve stepped forward, holding something out to me. It was the severed head of the staff nurse, the tongue protruding blackly between bruised lips. A pool of blood gathered darkly on the neat parquet floor. Smiling, the girl kissed the mouth and tossed the object away. Performing a perfect cartwheel, she disappeared.
‘We’re not going to hurt you, Doctor. As I told you before, I think you’re as mad as we are. And you too have a place in this.’
‘What do you mean?’ I croaked. He reached over and gripped my wrists, pulled my hands up before my eyes.
They were barely human now – more claws than hands.
‘You’re coming on nicely, Doctor. Come with me.’
As I followed him, I glanced through a window. The building opposite was ablaze.
‘Ideas are contagious, aren’t they? Just like a virus. The sterile ideologies of Rousseau gave birth to the terrors of Robbespierre. The annihilating influence in our insane society is that of Mercury – not Mars as you might suppose. We think ourselves to death!’
As we entered his room, I gasped. On a table placed altar-like in the centre of the room, was a huge leathery object I rec
ognised to be a chrysalis. As I stared, it moved from within. I groaned, disgustedly. ‘What is this thing?’
James smiled delightedly, like a little child showing a secret to a grown up. ‘This is Daphne, Doctor. She’s getting ready to give birth to the new messiah. This is the Second Coming.’
His laughter rang in my ears for several hours.
Same night
Outside, I’ve heard sirens, screams, breaking glass and explosions. I vaguely wonder about my ex-wife and children but I feel too numb to care. James hasn’t spoken to me since the last entry, but casts me knowing glances every now and then. All our society’s laws of science and reason have gone to the wall and I realise how vain we were to think the universe should conform to our perceptions of it forever.
What ridiculous anthropocentrism!
The patients – no, it’s wrong to call them that now! – my companions, continue to perform their ceremonies, most of them naked as children. Occasionally two or more will separate from the others and copulate frenziedly, regardless of age, sex or physical condition. James watches it all approvingly as though this were an integral part of the proceedings. He’s constructed robes for himself from bedding, curtains and an old straight-jacket. He’s dragged a lectern in from the chapel and stands there, arms outstretched as though in supplication. The inmates of the other wards in the building sit around and lounge in the corridors but never enter this room. They seem oddly expectant.
The backs of my hands are no longer human, the skin encrusted with a scaly, spiny growth. I write with difficulty. My jaws feel as though they’re stretching out of shape, as if they wanted to open in more directions than simply up and down.
The Starry Wisdom Page 14
