Doctor Raglan

The Balzac is a small coffee shop, discreet, secret almost, stuck between an old bookstore and a shoe shop. There, writers, poets and other artists congregate to discuss, work and exchange in a smoky atmosphere.

The place has huge, comfortable couches, a fireplace and old wooden furniture that goes back centuries.

It’s lovely.

Benjamin has been coming here for 15 years now. It was here he wrote his first successful story and here that he celebrated the sale. His picture is on the wall, behind the counter, alongside those of other writers that found popular and monetary success over the years.

Snug in a seat by the fire, blank notebook in one hand, a pen with which he taps his lips in the other, Benjamin is working on something new. Around him, young people whisper to each other as they move around and look at him, then look at the picture on the wall, then back at him. Benjamin feels their looks like one feels the minuscule feet of bugs on naked skin.

The pen leaves the lips and scratches paper. The young people stop talking and stare at the writer by the fire.

I feel their looks like the many, minuscule feet of bugs on my skin. A silent scream rises inside and I can so clearly see their faces as I pull my gun and start shooting-

The pen stops, leaves the page, freezes in mid-air. Conversation resumes in the coffee shop.

Benjamin shivers. ‘What if I kept writing’, he thinks. ‘Would they even breathe, or would they stand there until they fell dead?’

He looks away from the page and his eyes stop on a pretty, young woman who smiles at him and blushes. Back to the page he scribbles nonsense on the pad.

Peter, peter, here’s my peter if you stroke it, I’d feel better.

The younglings hush again, and Benjamin clenches his toes in his shoes, containing the urge to throw his notebook in the flames and leave screaming.

They all look at him like they expect some miracle, and in a way, he can’t blame them: he said on tv that his next book would be amazing, a complete departure from his usual work.

The problem is that he lied. There is no new book. Only squiggles he makes by the fire and disparate sentences with no meaning, no cohesion, and no life. Also he’s almost out of money. 6 months, a year, at most and he’ll be done.

So, he comes here, sits by the fire, and scribbles nonsense in his notebook while the crowd gawks at him.

Benjamin doodles. Flames crackle. He hears a voice.

-Excuse me, sir?

The young thing. Brunette. Glasses (of course!), lovely curves under a wool sweater.

-Yes?

She smiles. Blushes again.

-Could I sit with you?

Benjamin frowns, looks at the doodles on the page, looks at the girl, with her smile and the soft promises of her body.

-Yes, yes you can.

She sits, he leans in (he knows this will make her feel important and convey intimacy) and says:

-Now tell me all about you.

***

Leanne lays naked on his bed. He lays besides her, this girl who could be his daughter. He pulls on his cigarette and gazes at the spiral of smoke that climbs to the ceiling. Leanne was soft, and happy to please, as they always are. He took her in ways new to her and felt her joyful surprise. He took her in ways she liked and reveled in. He took her in ways she liked less but allowed anyways.

They always did.

Then she talked about her book idea.

They always did that, too.

He listened, nodded and as the anger rose, pretended to doze off until she went to sleep herself.

-They always want to talk about their books, he mutters to himself.

That’s not the part that angers him, though. When you get to be his age, there is a price to pay to fuck beautiful young things.

What angers him is that the book ideas that the kids bring often suck but this one? This one did not.

He drags on his roll-up, blows smoke, and runs a lazy hand on Leanne’s firm butt.

-When did I become irrelevant?

Leanne sleeps and he’s alone so no answer comes forth.

***

-Benjamin, have you written anything?

Martha, fists on her desk, leans forward. It conveys no intimacy. Benjamin looks up at her.

-Yes, Martha, I have.

Martha leans back, one eyebrow raised. He frowns.

-You know my process. You’ve known it for years. I will show you the work when it’s done.

Martha drums on the desk with her fingers and takes a sip from a bottle of vitamin water.

‘Just 5 years ago, there would have been whisky in that bottle’, thinks Benjamin. ‘We’re getting old’.

Martha nods.

-Ok Benji. I’ll play along but by God you better have a book for me by the end of the month.

Benjamin nods back, mumbles a thank you, grabs his raincoat from the chair next to him and takes his leave. Somewhere inside his head he can hear the Lunatic (‘I named my anxiety’, he thinks. ‘I’m going crazy for real.’).

-We have no book, Benjamin, unless you want to write about all the young things you canoodle? Maybe we could shoot up the Balzac, that would kick start a story and I’m sure you can write from jail.

Benjamin rubs his head.

-Shut up.

The Lunatic cackles and shuts up. Benjamin walks to the Balzac in the light drizzle that’s been falling all day, orders a coffee that he spikes with rum from his flask and curls in his seat by the fire. As he drinks, he replaces the missing coffee with more rum and ends up quite drunk. He looks around but Leanne is nowhere to be seen. Benjamin rises from his seat, walks out, and notices the sun went down.

-Uh. I drank the day away.

Benjamin snickers, then sobs and starts walking, a lump in his throat and tears running down his cheek.

The streets are deserted and he zig-zags on and off the sidewalk, now giggling to himself. The Lunatic is back.

-Stroke the peter, stroke the peter, STROKE MY PETER!

Benjamin is about to punch himself in the head when he hears a voice.

-You there!

The Lunatic shuts up and Benjamin looks around.

-Yes, you there, sir!

In a small open courtyard that leads to an apartment building is a chariot, one of those favored by travelling merchants of old. On its side, painted in yellow letters, one can read:

DOCTOR RAGLAN’S POTIONS AND REMEDIES

A man in a frock coat and top hat leans through an opening in the chariot. Benjamin looks at the chariot, rubs his eyes, looks again, and laughs. The man, arms opened, smiles back.

-Come, come my good sir, and look at my wares. Whatever ails you, Dr Raglan is convinced he can help, should you care.

Benjamin walks to the chariot and Raglan leans lower. An oil lamp, set on the counter flap, illuminates a wrinkled face. Raglan’s grin deepen and the light sparkles of a gold tooth. Benjamin laughs again and Raglan, arms crossed, face soft, asks:

-Now, my good sir. What, exactly, ails you?

Benjamin sighs, shuffles from one foot to the other and, shoulders slumped, says:

-The Lunatic won’t shut up, sir and to top it off, I can’t write anymore.

Raglan nods and stretches a long arm to pat Benjamin’s shoulder.

-All men carry a lunatic, my friend, and us creative types tend to have rather strong ones, eh? But no worries, no worries. We can help with that.

Raglan turns around and disappears behind his counter. Sounds of tinkling glass and shifting crates can be heard and he pops back up after a bit, holding a small vial filled with a pale white liquid.

-There. Essence of peace. Guaranteed to shut down your personal crazy, one drop for a day.

Benjamin reaches for the vial, takes it, and shakes it. The white liquid sloshes around. He looks at Raglan.

-How much?

Raglan takes Benjamin’s hands in his and pushes them towards his chest.

-At Doctor Raglan’s potions and remedies, the first cure is always free.

Benjamin pulls the cork out of the vial. A sour-sweet smell wafts out and he shifts his head back.

-That’s pungent.

Raglan opens his hands and shrugs.

-It seems to be that most efficient medical substances are doomed to smell and taste quite wrong, but I assure you, my good sir, that this will work.

Benjamin swirls the vial around. The Lunatic in his head says:

-Drink it! DRINK IT AND DIE! DIEDIEDIE PETERPETERPETERPIE! YOU CAN’T WRITE AND YOU CAN’T HI-

Benjamin lets a drop fall on his tongue and swallows it and that’s that. The voice snaps off as brutally as if someone had sealed a singer in an airtight bomb shelter mid-song.

-That’s… That’s wonderful!

Raglan smiles. Benjamin reaches out to give back the vial and Raglan nods.

-No, no, no, my friend. Keep it. As I said, the first cure is free.

Benjamin pockets the vial. Part of him feels like all this is a dream but if it is, he’ll take it. For the first time in months, his mind is quiet. Raglan puts an elbow on the counter, sets his chin in his palm and says:

-Now for your second problem, sir?

Benjamin says:

-Call me Benjamin, Doctor.

Raglan raises and claps.

-Oh, how delightful. I shall, my dear Benjamin, I shall only you must call me James.

Benjamin smiles again and Raglan moves to the backdoor of his chariot.

-Come up, then. If we’re to be on a first name basis, we must discuss your problem as friends and without the obstacles of customer and salesman in the way.

Benjamin climbs aboard. The chariot looks bigger from the inside, like the ship from that old British show, but Ben knows this can’t be. ‘I guess I’m quite drunk’, he thinks. Raglan smiles.

-Oh, quite, quite but that’s ok. Nothing that a cup of strong tea won’t fix.

Benjamin sits at a small table and Raglan sets cookies, mugs, cream, and a teapot on it. Then he sits, serves the tea, and says:

-Now, Benjamin, tell me what ails you for real.

Benjamin drinks a sip of tea.

-I’ve been working on a book for a year now. Well, I’ve been trying to work on a book for a year. Can’t write. Not one bit. The book is due in one month.

Raglan pouts and nods.

-Ah, my friend. It always seems like the greater the men, the greater the challenges, eh? But we can fix this.

Benjamin muffles a sob and drinks some more tea. Part of him is still amazed at the mental silence he sits in. No stray thoughts, no infuriating inner monologue. Just… quiet.

-We… We can?

Raglan pats Benjamin’s hand, reaches in his pockets and draws out three small vials, filled with red liquid in ever deeper tint. These he sets on the table, pale to dark.

-We certainly can. With this.

Benjamin leans forward and puts his chin on the table to see the vials at eye level. Raglan mirrors him and for a moment, the grin of the doctor is deformed and colored in aggressive crimson. Benjamin’s mind stays serene and quiet. Raglan taps each vial with his middle finger, from pale to dark.

-Light, medium, and strong. One time offer. Limited supply and all that.

Benjamin repeats.

-Light, medium, and strong.

Benjamin frowns.

-Light, medium, and strong what?

Raglan raises his head, and his smile emerges from behind the vial like a gator’s eyes rise from a swamp.

-Inspiration.

Benjamin’s eyes grow wide and he backs up.

-Really?

Raglan nods and taps the vials again.

-20000$, 40000$, 80000$. There all guaranteed to work but the strongest lasts longer and gives access to more vivid images.

Benjamin shifts in his seat. His mind is quiet but his heart, oh his heart… His heart beats faster, fueled by hope. What if it’s true? He licks his lips and reach a trembling hand to the middle bottle.

-I’ll… I’ll try this one.

Raglan picks up the vial and says:

-And all the more power to you, dear Benjamin but tell me… Do you have 40000$?

Benjamin laughs. For once, he thinks, the stars align. It will deplete his reserves but at least, the money’s there.

-Yes. Yes, I do.

Raglan puts the vial back on the table and pulls out a smart phone from his pocket, fidgets with the screen for a bit and shows it to Benjamin.

-Please wire the money to this number.

Benjamin pulls out his own phone, open his banking app and wires the money. Raglan’s phone chimes. The merchant smiles.

-I do love this technology. So much faster and cleaner for businesspeople such as ourselves, hey?

Then Raglan pushes the vial towards Benjamin.

-Excellent. Glad to do business with you, Benjamin. When you need to use it, put three drops on your tongue. Now, I think you should go home. If you ever need anything else, you’ve got my digits.

Benjamin nods, pockets the vial, and leaves the chariot. As he reaches the street, he turns around, but the chariot is gone. ‘A dream’ he thinks. ‘It was all a drunken dream’. Benjamin walks home, puts his raincoat on its hook, drops his clothes and crashes in bed. He doesn’t dream and upon waking up with a terrible headache, has no memories of his new friend, Dr James Raglan.

***

A week passes and the weather is beautiful. Every day, Benjamin sits at his computer and writes but nothing comes out of it. He avoids the Balzac so he can’t know that Leanne has now gone missing officially and that signs have popped-up asking for information on her whereabouts. On the 7th day, Benjamin gets up, drinks coffee, looks outside to see it’s raining and thinks that a walk in the deserted streets might trigger inspiration. The Lunatic giggles at the back of his head but Benjamin tunes him out. As he puts the raincoat on, he hears a clink from his pocket and pulls out two small vials, one red, one white. He stands there, puzzled for a moment then the memories come rushing back.

-It was not a dream!

The Lunatic is now screaming at the top of his imaginary lungs and Benjamin pops the white vial open and swallows a drop. Blessed silence falls once again.

-Thank you, James.

Then, his walk forgotten, Benjamin goes to his desk, sits, and looks at the red vial.

-Well, here goes nothing.

Benjamin pops the cork, smells the content -sweet perfume, cloying, even. With a shrug, he shakes 3 drops on his tongue and swallows.

***

When the writer comes to, its dark outside. His hands are on the keyboard, like if he stopped typing mid-sentence. One look at the screen confirms that this is the case. One other look at the word counter on his app informs him that he produced 30000 words in his fugue state. Benjamin frowns and scrolls back up to the first page and starts reading. At first, he feels a strange warmth bathe him: the opening is good. Very good, even. Then he starts feeling cold.

This is the best writing he’s ever done yet he can’t remember doing any of it.

-Still, I’m 30000 words in and it’s rock solid.

He looks at the little red vial by the keyboard and smiles.

-You and me, baby. You and me.

Benjamin goes to the bathroom and empties his bladder, drinks a glass of water, and comes back to the desk. Vial in hand, he grins then taps 3 more drops on his tongue.

-Ladies and gentlemen, we have lift off.

***

A week goes by. Benjamin doesn’t sleep, drink, or eat very much. Washing has become optional and he opts out. After the first few rounds, he now remembers his writing sessions. Or, closer to the point, his visions sessions. He sees his stories, the settings, the characters and feels all of them, their actions, emotions, and personalities inside his own mind. If the Lunatic wasn’t quieted by the white draught, Benjamin believes he would simply be drowned under the weight of all the others.

Benjamin finished his book. Benjamin wrote three books. He smiles and presses send on the email to his publisher.

-There you go. Told you I’d do it.

Satisfied, his mind at peace, Benjamin takes a long shower, eats a hearty breakfast, fills a coffee mug, and looks at the empty vial by his computer. Mug raised; Benjamin says:

-To James Raglan, finest doctor, finer friend.

Across town, Martha opens the email, double-clicks on the novel Benjamin sent her and starts what will be the most intense, orgasmic reading session of her career.

Benjamin, exhausted, goes to bed.

***

The rest is a resurrection-like success story. The novel comes out and the critics write glowing reviews. Readers enjoy it too. The book storms across the literary landscape like a hurricane. Benjamin is on top of the bestseller lists again and he’s rich. Planes and mansions rich. All smiles and grins, he tours, he drinks, he eats, fucks, sleeps, and smiles some more until the turn of the year. Then, when his success is properly milked, the media change the tone of their questions. What’s next, they ask. In the dark of night, alone in his hotel room despite the pretty young man sleeping besides him, Benjamin stares at the ceiling. In his head, the Lunatic prances around.

-Yes, Benny-boy! What’s next? What’s next?

Benjamin, still staring, says:

-I have no idea.

***

-Benji, they want you to write their next horror series. They want a multi-season project. This could set you up for life, honey!

Benjamin squeezes the phone. Hard.

-I’ll see what I can do, Martha.

Through the phone, Benjamin can hear Martha slap her thigh.

-That’s my boy. Now get that brain of yours in gear and go write me some stories!

Benjamin turns off his phone. His other hand, in his pocket, fiddles with the empty vial that he kept as a good luck charm.

-Multiple seasons?

After a short deliberation, Benjamin taps the phone alive and writes a quick text.

We need to meet.

The answer comes fast. It’s an address. It’s in another state but who cares? Benjamin grabs his coat and steps into the night then catches a cab and goes to the airport. A few hours later, sitting in the plane, he can feel his heart beat fast and, in his head, the Lunatic giggles.

-Going to see a man about a drug!

For once, Benjamin agrees with his runaway brain…

***

‘This house could be the set of my new horror series’, thinks Benjamin.

All leaky gutters, busted pavement, peeling door, and vine covered walls of poorly held together stones, the place screams serial murderer on crack. Visible on the side of the house is the chariot from a year ago. Benjamin, satisfied he’s in the right place, walks up the stairs to the porch, dodging a hole and knocks on the door. Raglan opens the door and beams.

-Benjamin, it’s been so long!

Benjamin reddens. He never did call the man to thank him.

-I’m sorry, James I’ve… I’ve been so busy. The book tour, you know and.

Raglan pats the air.

-Now, now no need to worry, my friend. Success requires that we sacrifice to its callings, eh? But come in, come in.

Benjamin nods, walks in and Raglan peels off his coat to hang it near the door.

-Now, I trust my remedy was to your satisfaction?

-Yes, it was.

Benjamin follows Raglan in a study made warm by a crackling fire and sits in a comfortable leather chair. Raglan walks to a nearby bar and raises a bottle.

-Whiskey?

Benjamin nods once more, takes the glass, takes a sip then, eyebrows raised, sips once more.

-That is excellent, James!

Raglan, both hands open, says:

-I confess to liking fine alcohols. Now, my dear Benjamin, what brings you to me, hmm?

Benjamin, warmed by the fire and the whiskey, sinks in the chair. His mind calms down and his inner-lunatic quiets once more. Despite the house looking dour from the outside, the inside, all toasty and clean, speaks volume about the income of its owner. ‘Well, thinks Benjamin, if all his wares are as good as what I bought, no wonder the man is rich, and rightly so.’

-I need more.

Raglan, chin in hand, says:

-More inspiration or more quiet?

Benjamin leans forward.

-Both.

Raglan’s eyes shine and he raises his glass. Benjamin clinks his own against it in an impromptu toast and both men drink. That’s when Benjamin hears the voice.

-Who’s that?

Raglan finishes his glass and puts it down on a side table. Waving with his hand for Benjamin’s empty glass, he puts it aside his own then rises.

-Come, come and I’ll show you. We need to go to my laboratory anyways.

Benjamin follows the man and from the study, walks into a large dining room, complete with oak table and tapestries (the voice is louder now but Benjamin can’t make out any words) then through a kitchen, all shining chrome and stainless steel that leads to a stairway going down. Benjamin freezes on the first step. The voice. The voice is that of a child and it screams ‘Help me!’. Raglan stops and looks at Benjamin.

-Don’t worry, Benjamin. Come with me, I’ve got what you need.

Benjamin follows Raglan down the stairs and ends up in a laboratory, complete with beakers, burners and all the paraphernalia one associates with science, with one glaring addition: there is a boy, 7-8 years old, in his underwear, strapped to a board in the middle of the room. Benjamin stops. The boy looks up and sees him.

-Help! Help me!

Raglan looks at Benjamin.

-Ah, yes, I suppose this was to be expected. He’s here for you, Benjamin.

Benjamin looks at the boy then at Raglan.

-What kind of pervert do you think I am?

Raglan raises an eyebrow, looks at the boy, startles then looks at Benjamin again.

-Benjamin! What kind of monster do you think I am? I’ll have you know that I would never treat a child thus!

Raglan walks to the board and coos to the kid, who recoils as far as his bindings will let him.

-No, no he isn’t here for any such base reason. This boy here is my raw material, Benjamin.

Benjamin, as in a daze, says:

-Why does he have no clothes?

Raglan, busy putting on a lab coat and rubber gloves, says:

-I find that naked people tend to runaway less. They’re also much less likely to fight.

Benjamin feels dizzy and leans on a table nearby. Raglan looks at him.

-You might want to sit, Benjamin. I believe I might have been too heavy handed with my draught.

‘Draught?’ thinks Benjamin. ‘Is that why the world is so slow’? Raglan grabs a metal circlet with rubber ended screws and attempts to put it on the boy’s head. The boy wiggles out. Raglan slaps him hard, once. The boy stops moving and the circlet goes on. Raglan tightens the screws, humming all the time then, once done, claps and smiles before stuffing a rag in the boy’s mouth.

-There we go. Ready for a silent extraction.

Benjamin mumbles something. Raglan looks at him.

-Yes, I was heavy-handed with the peace drug but that’s ok. You’re all relaxed now, Benjamin and doesn’t that feel better?

Benjamin smiles and nods.

-Yes. I’m so tense all the time.

Raglan pats him on the shoulder, rummages through a pile of devices and pulls out a long-needled syringe filled with grey-white stuff.

-Now, when I saw your success, Benjamin, I was so proud, but I also knew you would need the best I could offer for your next masterpiece and that’s why I selected little Graham here.

Raglan fiddles with the syringe, examines it closely and nods.

-The boy won poetry contests at the state level and is reputed to have an amazing creative mind.

As Benjamin looks on, Raglan leans in, inserts the needle in an aperture on the metal circlet and, putting his weight into it, shoves the needle in Graham’s skull and pushes the plunger. The boy twitches and moans through his gag but quickly stills. Raglan waits a moment and pulls on the plunger, filling the syringe with pinkish fluid.

-The boy is quite dead now. The fluid I inject dissolved most of his brain matter in the alchemical reaction that’s at the heart of the process. It’s unavoidable, you see but sacrifices must be made for the advancement of mankind.

Raglan empties the syringe in a beaker and turns on the burner under it. The liquid boils and at the end of a long glass coil, drops of deep red liquid fall in a small vial. Benjamin looks on, transfixed. Raglan looks at the vial and nods.

-It’s even darker than my last batch. This’ll do wonders, I believe.

Benjamin feels the numbness leave him, feels like he’s emerging from a dream and he sits straight and almost fall off his chair.

-You killed a child!

Raglan turns around.

-Hmmm… Adrenaline seems to reverse the effect of my calming draught if it pumps for long enough. I will need to adjust the formula.

Raglan then pats the corpse on the table.

-I’ve killed many people, Benjamin but always with a purpose.

Behind him, the burner still runs, and the vial still fills. Raglan walks around his laboratory.

-I used to harvest young writers, like that brunette girl you spent a night with.

Benjamin shudders and Raglan smiles.

-Yes, poetic, isn’t it? She fueled your latest novels.

Raglan puts a finger to his lips and taps it a few times.

-She also fueled a tv series and a new gadget that’s selling all over the world now.

Benjamin gets up on shaky legs.

-You killed Leanne?

‘I bet she did not expect me to take her in this manner’, thinks Benjamin.

Raglan twirls a hand in the air.

-Yes, yes, I killed Leanne. Good lord, Benjamin, was she that important to you? She was beautiful, I agree but many are beautiful. Few are creative. I harvested her and the world benefited from her potential in more ways than she could have enacted on her own but after a while I realized I could do better.

Raglan leans on the body now and looks over at Benjamin.

-Children have the most vivid imaginations, the purest creative skills, unburdened that they are with all our taboos and limitations but for that same reason, they can’t use this potential.

Raglan raises and claps his hands together then dances to the alchemical apparatus and switches the now-full vial for an empty, waits for it to be full, fill a third bottle and then sigh as the last drop of fluid falls in. Then he walks to Benjamin, vials in hand, smile on his lips and gold tooth shining.

-But you, Benjamin. You can!

Benjamin looks at the vial, at its content, so dark red it’s almost black. He looks at the corpse of the boy who was called Graham, who won poetry contests but who would have produced nothing of any real scope for another decade, at the least.

-I can?

Raglan nods.

Benjamin licks his lips. He can still taste the whiskey. The fine, expensive whisky. He thinks about Martha, about writing a tv series. With a trembling hand, Benjamin takes out his phone from his pockets.

-I can wire money to the same number as before?

Raglan nods.

Benjamin nods back.

-I’ll take all three.

The end