Doctor Who_ The Sleep of Reason - Martin Day [15]
‘I have some food for you.’ Fern had a beaker of water, a crust of bread on a tin plate. He let them clatter down at Haward’s feet, though Haward continued to stare sightlessly beyond the four walls that enclosed him.
‘Haward!’ said Fern sharply.
Haward twitched suddenly, then gazed around.
‘Haward! Food – at your feet.’
The poor wretch stared sadly downwards – and a look of horror crossed his face. ‘Worms! Green worms! Magenta, umber. . . I cannot eat worms.’
‘It’s food! In the name of God, it’s food!’
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Haward was babbling now – I have seen it often enough, those moments when mania and lunacy grip a man so utterly that every vestige of his true humanity is lost. ‘Breaking open, turning into maggots and flies and moths, all colours. With faces. And colours. . . Reds of blood and the blacks of coal.’
Fern burned in his rage. ‘Old Porter was right to lock you all up! Starve then, you damned wretch.’ He grabbed Haward by the hair, and twisted his face up to look at him – and of course saw naught but vacancy in Haward’s eyes.
Fern swung his arm across Haward’s pitted face, the short wooden stick thudding into the man’s temple.
‘That will do, Mr Fern,’ I said, with as much authority as I could muster.
‘One cannot force another to eat, or to be well.’
Fern stopped, his back still towards me. I wondered for a moment how he would react.
‘I apologise, Dr Christie,’ he said, though his eyes were averted from mine –
better to hide the anger that burned there, I believe. ‘The man was becoming fierce in his madness.’
I looked at Haward – slumped in the chains – and we both knew he could not harm the proverbial fly. (My good friend Summers reminded me the other day of his attendance of the Lyceum reading of Mr Stoker’s notorious vampire tale; the scurrilous story I am informed, contains a madman who eats insects.
The pity of a man like Haward is in getting him to eat anything at all.) I knew I was on the horns of a dilemma. What to say to Fern? I had tried to reprimand him before, and the impudent fellow had only threatened to have
‘words’ with the trustees, over whom, it seems, he has some sort of hold or influence. (I have observed that people like Fern delight in their knowledge of secrets and slander, as if with enough damaging ammunition they could silence any arsenal ranged against them. I shudder to imagine what secrets Fern himself might have, given how happy he is to use the failings of others for his own ends – and how little he tries to hide his own appalling wickedness.) To my shame, I decided to let the matter rest.
Mr Fern pushed past me, muttering under his breath. ‘Evil should be left to die,’ he observed.
‘Evil,’ repeated Haward, trying to push the plate away with one foot, as if warding off a poisonous snake. ‘Evil. Always. . . Evil.’
We released Haward from his chains. Immediately he rolled himself on to all fours and began gently banging his head against the cold stone floor. The rhythm increased. Blood appeared on his forehead.
I held Haward’s shoulders gently and his head stopped moving. He had once articulated the desire to hurt himself – he wished to be reminded that 26
he was still alive, he had said. When the blood came, it was like a release of pressure, and at that moment he felt safe.
I did not quite understand what he meant by this, but I could not bear to see him hurt himself so.
‘How are you?’ I asked gently.
‘It’s quiet,’ he said, his voice tinged with disbelief. ‘How wonderful to be alone!’
I was about to get to my feet when suddenly he gripped my arm with preter-natural strength.
‘I am told that there are those around me who suffer from diminished memories,’ he said. ‘What a delight that must be! To not remember, not be reminded. To be a new creation every day.’
I prised his fingers from my arm and let the hand drop limply to his side.
‘What do you mean?’ I queried.
‘My visitors. . . They make sure that I will never be able to forget – anything.’ I knew, of course, that no one