Hyde Read online

  Despite these changes, I remained imprisoned inside Jekyll. And so, I could only watch as Jekyll devoted himself to finding a cure. He remained in his laboratory for hours, analysing chemicals, taking notes, reading literature, and mixing concoctions.

  At some point, I lost consciousness, because I suddenly found myself awakened in his laboratory. I sat in an armchair in the laboratory by the roaring fire, a religious book in my hand. The clock read nine hours later than I had last seen it. Yet the body responded to my movements. I was in control once more, not Jekyll.

  I rose to my feet, transported with glee. My heart still burned for revenge, and I had in mind my first target; Poole. He it was that had left the body of my beloved at the morgue like rubbish dumped into the sewer. I sprang to the door, but found it locked. The key was nowhere to be found.

  I noted some papers on a table. Reading them, I discovered them to be the start of a confession written by Jekyll. They gave an account of his life and experiences with me, but I found them to be greatly wanting. He described none of his own interactions, and described my trampling of the girl and murder of Carew as if they were motivated purely by malice, portraying me as a senseless monster rampaging through London. The account closed by saying that he was changing at random now, becoming trapped in the body of Hyde and only able to stop it with larger doses of the drug. The pages ended with Jekyll writing that he had locked himself in the laboratory and hidden the key to keep me from escaping.

  I searched the room from end to end, desperately trying to find the key. But it was for naught.

  I expressed my anger on the room itself, smashing glass and hurling bottles. I found a pen and scrawled profanities and blasphemies into the pages of the religious text. I went to the table where Jekyll worked on his cure. I changed some of the calculations in his formulas and mixed some chemicals together to change their properties, while dumping others into a sink to remove them from his collection. I would not be dispatched.

  My final act was to smash the mirror. I ran to it with a poker in hand, then froze.

  I had expected to see my hideous face in the glass. Instead, I gazed into the kindly visage of Henry Jekyll. The poker fell from my hand in shock. I ran my fingers over the face, touched the smooth pink cheeks, ran my firm, soft hands over each other, tugged at my well-fitting clothes. Though my mind was in control, it was Jekyll's face that I wore. Our forms had apparently become inverted so as Jekyll had inhabited my body, so I now inhabited his.

  As I peered into my eyes, my face contorted as I began to weep uncontrolled. For the first time in my brief and contemptable life, I had a human face. I could walk freely among men without scorn yet I was trapped, unable to enjoy the freedom I had gained.

  Somehow, I knew this to be a sign. I would never escape that room. Death alone waited in my future.

  I ceased my rampage then, realising how a childish tantrum would not bring me escape or happiness. I went to the barred windows and gazed out at the London streets visible to me. A trio of children laughed as they hurled balls of snow at each other. Another child walked hand-in-hand with her mother. An elderly woman bowed to a man who tipped his hat to her. A couple laughed and kissed as they walked the square. Humanity walked the Earth, enjoying the simple pleasures that I would never enjoy. I mourned until I felt the change, and my mind and body hurtled back to that of Jekyll.

  I awakened once more, finding it dark outside. I knew not even what day it was then. Some of the damage to the room had been repaired, and Jekyll's equipment had been uprighted. His calculations had been scratched out and re-done, and chemicals I had ruined had been replaced. His work to eliminate me continued.

  I also found a new version of Jekyll's manuscript. It described words that spelled my doom. Jekyll had discovered that his supply of a certain salt necessary for giving his drug potency was running out. When he attempted to acquire a new supply, he discovered the replacement had no effect. Jekyll at first thought the new salt was impure, but eventually came to the conclusion that it was the original salt that had the impurity, an impurity that gave it strength. When his old supply of salt ran out, Jekyll would no longer be able to return to his true form. If Jekyll did not find a cure by then, Jekyll planned to imbibe a bottle of cyanide and end his life.

  I left his work untouched this time. His experiments would inevitably lead to success or failure. With success, I would be eradicated forever. With failure, Jekyll's suicide would take me as well. Both options would end my existence.

  As for his manuscript, it did not matter. If Jekyll would be remembered as the saint, and I the sinner, nothing I could do would change that. Who would believe me?

  Yet a thought did strike me. Only two people had treated me with kindness during my brief life. One had been my beloved, Rebecca. The other had been my landlady, Mrs. Grey, who saved me from death in the gallows. Rebecca no longer walked the Earth. I craved to tell the truth, to let my life be known and understood, rather than leave this world hated by all. If anyone could understand me, it would be Mrs. Grey. Jekyll planned to leave behind his confession for Utterson. I could do the same for Mrs. Grey.

  I put pen to paper and began to write. When the change began to sweep over me, I managed to hide the papers before Jekyll seized control. I awakened hours later, and immediately recovered my notes and began to write again.

  Thus, Mrs. Grey, I managed to create the document you hold in your hands. I have noted that Jekyll has been composing notes for his servants to deliver him certain drugs and leave them on the steps outside his laboratory. I plan to put this document in an envelope and slip it under the door in hopes that Jekyll's servants shall deliver it to you. It is my hope that you will read it and come to an understanding of who lived beneath your roof and why.

  But alas, I do not wish your life to be put in jeopardy for harboring me, a known murderer. I also fear that you shall come at a time when Jekyll is awake, and he shall destroy both you and this document. I do not put Jekyll past harming you to protect his secret. After all, were not my murderous impulses gained from him? For this reason, I shall write instructions that this account not be read until the death or disappearance of Henry Jekyll.

  Should you disobey these instructions and arrive at a time when I am awake, I should very much like to know the answer to a singular question; how did you know my secret? How did you know my alternate identity as Henry Jekyll? Indeed, who are you? Would that I could speak to you in person one last time! But such, it seems, is not to be. And so, by pen and paper I must thank you for assisting this poor wretch whom you knew not. I wish you all graces, and urge you to savor the life you have, no matter what it should bring. Surely it cannot be as cursed as that of your former tenant and devoted servant, EDWARD HYDE.

  AFTERWORD

  UTTERSON FINISHED the manuscript in the late hours of the night, and sat in silence for some time. Then he rose, dressed, and went out into the night.

  Utterson rode a cab to the address in Soho where Hyde had lived. He went to the door and knocked sharply.

  Roma Grey answered the door. She was indeed the woman he had seen the day he went with Inspector Newcomen to see Hyde, and also the woman who had brought him Hyde's manuscript. The only reason he had not recognised her had been that, as a servant, he paid her little attention.

  Grey allowed him in. As she closed the door, she said, "You have read Hyde's manuscript."

  Utterson unwound his scarf with trembling hands. "Yes. I must admit to feeling a dreadful shock. For so long, I hunted Edward Hyde and despised him, not knowing who or what he was. I thought I knew the truth when I read Jekyll's account, but this casts things in a very different light. I hardly know which to believe."

  Grey shrugged. "It does not matter. The only two people who know the whole truth are Jekyll and Hyde, and they have said their peace. I have no doubt that Hyde sought to cast himself in a better light, just as Jekyll did. Perhaps the combination of the two accounts is required, and any discrepancies allowed to rest." />
  Utterson sat down in the drawing room and regarded Grey. "But you told me when I received the manuscript that I would know who you are. I do not. What is the answer to Hyde's question? How did you know who he was? Who are you?"

  Grey settled in an armchair across from Utterson and gave him an even gaze. "The answer to both is the same. I am his mother."

  Utterson shook his head. "His mother? I do not understand. Hyde had no mother."

  "No, he did not. But Jekyll did."

  "Jekyll's mother died in childbirth."

  Grey looked into the fire burning nearby. "No. That is simply what his father told him. In truth, I was unfaithful during our marriage, and Jekyll was the result. When his father discovered the truth, he banished me from the home and had me declared dead to the world. In my shame, I thought it best to comply with his wishes. I chose a new name and settled here. But a mother always knows her children. The moment I saw Hyde, I saw my son in him. I began following him and witnessed Hyde entering another home. I waited for him to come out, but it was Jekyll who left the next morning. Once I saw Jekyll, I recognised him as my son as well. I did not know of Jekyll's experiments, of course, but since I only had one child, it seemed inescapable that they were one and the same."

  "So that is why you aided Hyde."

  "I was not entirely motivated by maternal instincts. Hyde and I were both outcasts, unwanted and unloved. I believe I would have assisted Hyde even had he not been my son."

  "But why did you not tell Hyde who you were?"

  She released a slow sigh before speaking again. "To be honest, I was ashamed. Should I be the one to tell him he was born in disgrace? No, best to let him think me dead."

  Utterson stood and regarded the papers in his hands. "Well, I confess I know not what to do with this."

  Grey stood and took the pages. "I do."

  She strode over to cast them into the fireplace.

  Utterson watched the pages convert slowly to ash. "Why did you do that? I had thought of publishing the account to the world. It seems they should know the truth about the man they despise."

  "It would change nothing." Grey folded her hands over each other. "Hyde was a murderer and a fornicator, even by his admission. Perhaps in a different time and place, he would be judged less harshly, but in the times we live, Hyde would still be damned. As for Jekyll, you were right to burn his account as well. Better to let them both rest, remembered as they are."

  Utterson pulled out a handkerchief and mopped sweat from his brow. "Well, I hardly know what to do with myself now."

  "Follow Hyde's advise, Mister Utterson. Savor the life you have, no matter what it should bring. And I would make one final request that I am certain Hyde would have wished; find the body of Charlotte Glass and have her properly entombed. She and Rebecca Webb deserve a decent burial."

  Utterson nodded. "I agree and shall do so in the morning. Good night, Mrs. Grey."

  "Good night, Mister Utterson."

  Utterson left the warmth of the home and stepped out into the cold winds of London. A flurry blew over him and he hugged his coat closer to himself. He walked to his cab, then paused and looked back at Hyde's former home. Utterson thought he saw the shadow of Grey just before the lights in the windows died out.

  Utterson climbed into the cab and called to be driven home. As he rode off, Utterson considered words from Jekyll's account. Jekyll had said of himself that "no one has ever suffered such torments" such as he had experienced. Having read the manuscript from Grey, Utterson was forced to disagree.

  No one had ever suffered such torments as Edward Hyde.

  AFTERWORD

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