Free Visitor in Lunacy by Stephen Curran

I fancied I could picture it, and I hated it, hated him. Doubtless he would have no appreciation of how fortunate he was to be in his position, in the company of a person as special as Elise. I wondered if, perhaps, he should be reminded of this somehow, taught a lesson.
    At night, when the street was empty, I was confident enough to stand at the alley's entrance. In hours of concourse I stepped into the shadows. Blocking the pedestrians from my consciousness I focussed only on the door.
    I perceived my surroundings with greater acuity than I ever believed might be possible. The small world I had created rushed in on me with luminous clarity: the fantastic and multitudinous hues of the fog and the shafts of light which glanced through it; the tiniest details of the red bricks. It was as if my eyes had never fully opened before. A veil had been lifted.
    Unable to clean the dressing around my hand it inevitably caused an infection. The wound prickled and suppurated. Ants crawled about the lint. Picking them off I swallowed them for nourishment.
    When it rained I sat on the ground and huddled behind the loose pipe, my frock coat pulled over my head....
     
    … A drainage grill. The hard ground.
     
    At the far end of the passage, a black dog with its tail docked, watching me...
     
    Sunshine reflecting brilliantly from puddles....
     
    ...I have suffered enough. No more now.
     
    The sound of a tongue clucking or the snapping of fingers. I am not alone. Someone takes me in their arms. I rest my weight against the old man, rubbing my cheek against his silk coat. His smell is familiar, like woodland undergrowth after a storm.
    Long fingernails trace a line across my forehead and down my cheek. Gently, he parts my lips.
    Black silk, wet soil, the rich odour of his breath.
     

PART TWO
     

 
     
    “Place your hands on your chest,” says the German beneath the black sheet. “Cross them over.”
    Emerging from behind the camera he takes my wrists and crosses them for me. He is a heavy-bodied man in a brightly coloured waistcoat, someone I recognise from the distant past, with a greying swallow-tailed beard.
    “Palms down.”
    Distracted, I fail to respond.
    “Palms down,” he says again.
    Over my shoulder is a square mirror angled to display my profile. Breaking my pose once more I turn to study my new face. It is similar to my old face but shrunken and wrinkled, its fallen cheekbones coloured by burst capillaries. My hair is spiky and uneven, having been carelessly shaved and allowed to grow back. Studying its silver flecks I move my head slowly from side to side.
    “Please try to remain stationary.”
    This new face reminds me of my uncle. I had never seen the resemblance before but now I am older I can detect similarities in our bone structure, in the shape of my head, as if he is growing within me, replacing me by stealth, emerging from under my skin.
    In a final attempt to regain my attention the German gives a single, sharp clap of his hands. I fire him a stern look but already he has disappeared beneath the sheet. Electricity shoots through the copper conductors which touch against my cheeks and my muscles spasm, forcing me into a clownish grin. Although I am expecting the blinding flash I am startled by its brightness and react by throwing my arm across my eyes, knocking the conductors out of position. Once the photograph has been taken I relax but find I prefer to keep my arm where it is, comforted by the sensation of being removed from the world.
    The German sighs resignedly: “Take him away.”
    Sensing the duty attendant is drawing near I get to my feet and allow him to take me by the elbow. A metallic odour invades the air: the magnesium from the flash. Slowly I am directed out of the studio and on to the tiled floor of the corridor. My fellow inmates shuffle by, some chattering or moaning, others silent. Past the bath-house I am led, where I can hear a shower being administered, towards the tailor's shop and