The Poetry Machine

Chapter 5

When I arrived at my lodgings, I intended to leave the book until I had sufficient time to study it properly. However, its presence preyed on my mind. As I sat in my rooms, trying to concentrate on my papers from the asylum, my thoughts kept returning to the leather-bound volume I had acquired from Professor C_. I kept reminding myself that Miss M_ was but one of the patients I had responsibility for, but, as I stared at the numerous papers before me, I found I could not help myself.

I picked up Professor C_'s book from where I had left it and stared at the cover. The book appeared older than it certainly was; the leather was scuffed with handling and the pages were worn from turning. I opened the book carefully. There was no introduction, nor was there a table of contents. Obviously Professor C_'s Dadist philosophy extended to a rejection of the conventional niceties of anthologies. Instead, I found myself at the start of one of the automatically-written poems. I commenced to read.

At first the words on the page appeared to be nonsense syllables. Then, as I read on, I found myself reciting the words in my head in time with a strange rhythm. The tempo of the verse was hypnotically enticing; it drew me away from reality and into a world where there was only myself and the sound of Professor C_'s ur-tongue echoing in my conscious.

I do not recall turning the pages of the book, but I must have; the ever-decreasing sphere of perception that marked the boundaries of my world could not have been sustained by a single page from that work. As I read on, my awareness of the outer world shrank as my internal awareness increased. I became conscious of another presence nearby - something that was scrutinising me with an alien intent. The more that I read, the greater the presence became until it was like a thick fog enveloping me. The fog entered my body through my nose and mouth, choking me with its oily thickness and foul stench, making my head fell like it was about to burst. I struggled against it, fighting for clean air and untainted breath.

My nightmare was broken by a terrible crash. I woke with a start and looked around, trying to ascertain what had caused the noise. Then I saw that the book I had been reading was lying in a heap of broken china, having been flung across the room by my fit.

I did not touch the book again, fearful of what foul nightmare might overtake me if I began to read from it once more. Instead, I let the book lie where it had fallen. I knew that it should be returned to Professor C_, but that would only expose me to its influence once more. My fear was irrational, but I could find no excuse that would temper it.

When I returned to work, I confess that I did not think of Miss M_. While I should have been concerned about the effects that the contents of the Voice of the Machine might have had on her, my mind seized on the mundanities of the hospital routine and sought comfort in repetition. It was as I was in this state of mental rut that the registrar came to see me.

He came into my office without knocking and leaned over my desk, placing his bulk between myself and the door. I could see from the expression on his face that this was not to be a social call.

"Dr W_?" the registrar began. "I wish to have a word with you concerning one of your patients. An urgent word, if you please."

I nodded in acknowledgement and indicated to a spare chair, intending that the registrar should seat himself. "Which patient of mine do you want to talk about?"

The registrar closed the office door, then sat down in the proffered chair. "Miss M_."

I looked up at the registrar, trying to conceal the panic and the worry that suddenly rose within me. My feelings must have shown on my face, for the registrar nodded grimly at me. "You should be worried - both for her and yourself. Miss M_ has had to be placed under restraint in the surgical ward. She has done herself severe injuries; severe enough to threaten her life."

I felt light-headed as the blood drained from me. Obviously my pallor worried the registrar.

"Are you alright? Do you need a drink? Water? Something stronger?"

I recovered my composure enough to speak. "Miss M_? Is she badly hurt? What did she do to herself?"

The registrar grunted. "At least you show some concern over your patient. As I said, Miss M_ is currently restrained. She is ill, but she should recover. As to how it happened - would you believe that she slit the veins in her arm with a pen?"

I echoed him in disbelief and horror. "A pen?"

"Yes. A cheap fountain pen of the kind that one might purchase at any railway stationers."

I heard my voice answering the registrar. It sounded hollow and distant to my ears, as if someone else was confessing to my misdeeds. "Sir, I was the one who gave Miss M_ the pen."

The registrar stared at me as if I was a specimen on a slide. "You do realise, Dr W_, that your patient was forbidden such implements for a reason?"

The words gushed from me, like a wellspring of contrition. "I know ... It was part of her therapy ... To examine her soul ... Only under supervision ... Oh God!" I babbled on like this until the registrar, not unkindly, laid a hand upon my shoulder.

"I have no doubt of your good intentions, W_. However, a patient in your care has come to harm. The board will have to be convened, and questions will be asked. While your display of emotion is not without merit, the board will not be swayed in your favour by such. I suggest you gather yourself and make preparations. Meantime, you have your other patients to attend to."

As the registrar turned to leave, a thought occurred to me. "Sir? A moment? Is Miss M_ still my patient?"

I looked hopefully at the registrar, fully expecting him to say no. I felt a sense of relief at his reply: "For the moment."

I allowed an appropriate amount of time to elapse before I left my office and made my way to the asylum's surgical ward. I enquired of the ward sister where I might find Miss M_. The ward sister looked down her nose at me, then escorted me to one of the private rooms at the end of the hall. The room was dark, the only source of light being an electric lamp above the bed. Miss M_ was lying there, leather straps binding her to the mattress. I could see that her left wrist was wrapped in bandages. As I entered, Miss M_ turned her head towards me.

"Doctor. I've written something for you." Her voice was weak and unsteady, obviously affected by her medication. I looked down at her.

"What did you do to yourself?"

She pulled against her restraints, then stopped. "I needed ink."

Her matter-of-fact tone shocked me. It was as if, to her at least, her self-mutilation had been the most natural thing in the world. I reached out to stroke her bandaged arm. "But I brought you some."

She laughed. Her mirth seemed out of place in the room. "Don't be silly. You wanted to find out about me. The machine said I should show you my sincerity. I had to use my blood."

"The machine? Which machine?"

"The poetry machine."

I felt my mind reel at this revelation, so I grabbed at the bedstead for support. It took me a moment to recover. "What did you write?"

"The papers are in my room."

I left the ward, heading for the private wing and Miss M_'s room. As I left, I was sure that the ward sister glared at me, blaming me for the disruption to her domain and the misfortune that had befallen Miss M_. When I reached Miss M_'s room I started to look for her manuscript. I found it in the drawer of her nightstand: a sheaf of foolscap paper, every page covered in rust-coloured handwriting. Even without reading it, I could feel the presence that had assaulted me in my rooms; taunting me, challenging me to confront it.

At that time it seemed obvious to my clouded mind what my course of action should be. I knew that I would have to confront Professor C_ and make him show me his machine.