The Asylum Chapter 1

Chapter 1 Annabelle Faversham wasn’t the only vulnerable young girl who was forced to climb those secret stairs. And Augustus Wolvercote became increasingly fascinated by the science of treating the insane. He invested in the latest electrical apparatus – and tested it at length, regardless of the effect on the subject. His successes with “recalcitrant, difficult or violent” subjects began to be better known, and a steady trickle of patients, and a steady stream of money headed towards Wolvercote House. It was quite remarkable how a few sessions with Augustus and his “Cerebral Cortex Realignment Machine” would transform a person. And Augustus grew even richer. The women in his family never seemed to prosper – but Augustus pooh-poohed their fanciful notions about the place being unhappy, or haunted – and certainly he and his son never felt any sense of unease there. And he continued his secret experiments, feeding the results from them back into his fairly successful treatment of his legitimate patients. More than one unhappy young girl had to agree to a high price for her freedom. But downstairs, the asylum was a model of up-to-date treatment and methods, and much respected in the medical community. Augustus had a theory – that if he could work out how to drive someone to the brink of insanity, then he could also work out how to bring them back from it. And, being a Victorian, he was convinced that this could be done scientifically, using as many different scientific disciplines as possible. There was no denying that the experiments he performed in the attic, in secret, did advance his knowledge – much to the benefit of his more legitimate patients. But this knowledge would have been of no comfort to those whom he used for the furthering of his expertise. And his son proved an apt pupil too – like his father, a shrewd business man, but also fascinated by the experiments they performed together.
Time moved on, and Augustus’s son passed on what he’d learnt to his son. The daughters were never happy at Wolvercote House, and left as soon as they could, and visited seldom, but the sons were never troubled by the atmosphere of the place. The early apparatus was tested, refined, altered – and kept! They couldn’t bear to throw away the Cerebral Cortex Realignment Machine, nor one or two of the other early pieces of treatment equipment. Finally, though, the other large attic space was home to a gleaming array of high-tech equipment, and the latest Dr Wolvercote was running a very successful clinic, with a remarkable success rate. Total confidentiality was guaranteed – and most of clients were word of mouth references. They had to sign a disclaimer when they entered the clinic, but his success rates more than outweighed any discomforts the treatment might entail. The very rich were now putting their money in Wolvercote House. However, the secret experiments were still continuing. From one Wolvercote to the next, a dark fascination ran in their veins. Getting test subjects for experiments was proving harder. But, every so often, someone promising turned up – young, with no family or close friends to miss them, and keen for a chance to learn about the by-now-famous Wolvercote methods. “We’ve kept this room as it was in Augustus Wolvercote’s day – but as you see, the rest of the clinic is more up-to-date. You’ve arrived at a quiet moment – we’ve no new clients for the next three weeks, but that gives you time to settle in, read up on our methods and also help me with some research, if you want to. One thing I do have to emphasise is the importance of confidentiality – many of our clients are extremely wealthy, or famous, or the offspring of the wealthy and famous. You cannot tell anyone where you are working – we had a very distressing incident three years back with a paparazzi spy who wormed himself into the confidence of one of our new employees. You might recall it?”
“I do remember that. And I quite understand. But it’s all right – I have no family, and I’ve rather lost touch with my university friends while I’ve been abroad…”
And with those words, Elise’s fate was sealed. “Come and inspect our facilities. And I’ll also give you some staff wear.” Bemused, Elise found herself in a windowless room, with a locked door. Later, worse was to come as she became the latest Wolvercote test subject, her personality changed as though Francis Wolvercote was moulding a lump of plasticene. All the way through the experiments, Francis Wolvercote made careful notes, and typed them up on his computer. By the end, she was a grey and quivering wreck of her former self – and yet he had subjected her to no physical pain whatsoever. So much more sophisticated that the methods his ancestor had had to use at the beginning! Amelie Watson was a shy young music therapist, with a similar lack of close friends or family. With her, Dr Wolvercote tried a new tack. Amelie was in much the same mould as Elise. He set out to transform this gentle girl into something quite dangerous instead. The interface he grafted to the back of her skull enabled him to manipulate her moods as he chose. He was hoping to create a useful tool for the military, but there were some teething problems with it. Jonas was a gift. Delivered to Wolvercote House by a family member who wanted Jonas to vanish. Francis thought that this sort of thing had died out long ago but, no, he was wrong. The brief was simple: certify Jonas insane, and then keep him there for ever. Money would be forthcoming every month, and the family would pretend a decent grief and upset. They couldn’t have Jonas inheriting his share of the family business – he was too embarrassingly honest. He would ask questions. They would ask none of Francis.
Making Jonas confused enough to be certified not only by Dr Wolvercote, but also another, independent, practitioner wasn’t difficult, especially as the other doctor saw no reason to question Francis’s carefully faked notes.
Now he had a suitably robust subject on which to test the metal alloy the family had also been working on for many years. If he could create a metal that could be grafted to skin and breathe like skin, then the possibilities were endless. And the profit. Olaf was another student, and a brilliant one. Francis had never come across a mind so sharp. He grasped Dr Wolvercote’s ideas and developed them in new and interesting ways – but he seemed to have no grasp at all of the commercial potential involved. When Olaf talked about making the latest invention free for all, Francis had to act.
It was a brilliant idea – a visor that could be programmed to respond to the user’s brain. In normal use, the wearer would be able to see perfectly well. It could even be adjusted for long or short sight. But, linked in to the interface, the visor could be programmed to throw up certain images in response to certain stimuli. The therapeutic potential was endless. It might even be possible to warn epileptics of oncoming seizures.
The prototype however needed refining. Ideally, it needed to look like a pair of normal glasses – and the interface needed to be a lot smaller than the current helmet. And it needed to be removeable – at the moment, it had to be permanently attached, and could only be removed by someone else. Almost reluctantly, Francis decided Olaf had to be stopped. But he didn’t want to reshape such a brilliant mind – not permanently. It seemed a good excuse to test a new piece of equipment until Olaf was malleable enough to agree to what Francis wanted. And when Olaf was still insisting that the visor should be made available to all, Francis had to resort to stronger measures. He fitted Olaf with the visor, and programmed it to run a loop of erratic and often unpleasant images. The rest of the time, Olaf could see nothing at all. That would soon bring him to heel – or so Francis hoped. Unfortunately, he underestimated Olaf’s resilience.
Three weeks later, Pete Wainwright arrived.