Free Visitor in Lunacy by Stephen Curran Page A

cook's store and the infirmary. Keeping my eyes closed I bury my nose in the crook of my arm and breathe in the soapy smell of the material. My guide warns me when we are about to climb the echoing stairwell to the second floor. On reaching the top I open one eye and take a peek: ahead of me is a long, wide passage with a polished wooden floor, a row of closed doors fitted with observation hatches, and the back of my attendant’s peaked hat.
    Only when I am alone inside my private room do I feel safe enough to take down my arm. Someone has moved my chair. Picking it up by the backrest I put it down in its proper spot: five feet from the side walls, six from the front and rear: the position I find most conducive to serious thought. I am well provided for here: I have a bedside table, a shelf full of books, a comfortable bed and a wardrobe containing three waistcoats, three pairs of drawers, three undervests, four shirts, four collars and four pocket handkerchiefs.
    After slipping into a period of entrancement I am woken by the sound of the escape sirens being tested, blaring outwards from our position on the hill top and frightening the birds into silence. I uncross my legs and stand, my face still tingling slightly from the electric shocks. Browsing through my books I find nothing to engage me.
    The observation hatch in the door snaps open and shut and Hardy backs his way in, carrying a tray.
    “Food,” he says. A pocket watch chain dangles loosely from the waistcoat of his cheaply cut uniform. Brusquely handing me my meal he casts me his usual bug-eyed look of undisguised contempt. His face is red and his neck is too wide for his head.
    “Tell me again: why do you get to eat in your room when nearly everyone else has to go to the dining room? Too good to brush shoulders with the riff raff?”
    I look down at my meal: “You've spilt it.”
    On the plate a few boiled potatoes and carrots sit next to a fatty cut of beef. Some of the gravy has slopped over the lip and pooled around edges. My mug of tea is monogrammed with the name of the institution: Carfax Criminal Lunatic Asylum.
    “So it has,” he says, and walks away.
    In the moment before he closes the door behind him I speak again: “Ape.”
    He turns back and makes a show of casually resting against the frame, his thumb slotted into his belt buckle and his hips sloping in a way which makes him look unintentionally womanly: “What was that?”
    Looking him in the face I repeat the word, enunciating carefully to ensure he understands: “Ape.”
    A few swift paces and he smacks the tray's underside, propelling my meal into the air. Gravy splashes on my shirt and the plate clatters across the floorboards: “Sorry, I didn't quite hear you. What did you say?”
    He is willing me to defend myself, to provide an excuse to dish out a hiding. Instead I offer him a broad smile.
    “Fucking idiot,” he says.
    Once the door has closed I kneel down and set about scooping up a few handfuls of the brown liquid, along with the beef. When I have collected a sufficient amount I leave the rest of the gravy and the potatoes – one of which has rolled under the bed - and take the tray to the window. The wooden shutter is open and the sash is raised. I stop for a moment to consider the view. Aside from a regularly spaced line of trees running along the left side of the distant horizon the landscape is featureless: no farmhouses, no hedgerows, no roads, and no buildings. Only a dun sky and drizzle. No signs of human activity at all.
    Taking a dollop of sauce I slap it down and smear it across the sill, covering the dried remains of my previous offering. On top of this goes the slice of fatty meat. Gravy drips thinly down the wall.
     
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    The observation hatch snaps open, closes again. I am lying fully clothed on my bed, shoes and all. A youthful, sandy haired gentleman puts his head around the door, peering over gold rimmed spectacles with intensely blue eyes: “May