The Resurrectionist (12 page)

O
UTSIDE THE RAIN HAS STOPPED
, the water on the cobbles lying dark in the dusk’s soft light, deep as mirrors. After the heat of the house, the air in the street is cool, yet it feels remote, the motion of the passing traffic unreal.

Though I wish from Charles some word, some sign that would make sense of this, perhaps it is better without. Only when we reach our door does he turn to me.

‘This should never have been,’ he says. ‘These women are no concern of mine.’

Suddenly the door opens to reveal Mr Poll, Oates at his side. Caught for once without his mask, Charles seems to stand naked before the older man, exposed in all his frailty. Yet Mr Poll does not flinch, nor reprimand him, indeed his expression is more one of regret than of anger. Again that something passes between them, then, touching his hat, Mr Poll bids us goodbye, reminding Charles of his appointment to dine at his home that evening and stepping out into the waiting door of his carriage. For a moment I think Charles will turn to follow him, say some word to hold him there,
try to erase what has just passed between the two of them. But he does not, the wheels of the carriage loud upon the cobblestones as it departs.

It is only when Mr Poll’s carriage is out of sight around the Square that I see the way he trembles, though whether with rage or shame I do not know.

I follow Charles up the stairs, watch him gather his things. I know I should leave him, let him be, but I feel the need of some word with him, some way to undo what I have just seen. In agitation he turns about the room, searching for something, and thinking it is a draught he had me mix for a patient of his this morning I take it down from the shelf. But as I offer it to him I realise he had not understood that I was there, for he starts, something flashing behind his gaze. I think at first he means to speak angrily to me, so great is his agitation, but instead he takes the medicine from my hand.

‘Oh Gabriel,’ he says, ‘she is a pretty thing, but do not be a fool.’

Something in me hardens. Charles, though, only smiles coldly.

‘I see you have no stomach for my words, but trust me, it does not pay to become too attached to these sorts of people.’

‘No doubt you speak from experience,’ I say, my words coming too fast, too easily. Charles’s expression stiffens.

‘Very well,’ he says. ‘Only remember: she can be yours for the price of a few ribbons. I can even arrange it for you if you wish.’

I am struck motionless. In his face something shifts – regret dawning perhaps – and it seems he will apologise. But then he brushes past, out the door and down. When I hear the sound of the door to the street close, I turn – and see Mr Tyne. It is clear at once he has heard all that passed between
the two of us, for he watches me with a look of delight. He takes a step, and I back away, then another. Suddenly afraid, I lunge past him and out.

In the street I walk blindly, pushing through the moving crowds. Already the windows are ablaze, the city filled with light and sound. From Compton Street I cut east, towards Covent Garden where the crowds are thicker, the sound of fiddlers and Scots pipers pressing hard upon the air, though I barely hear them. From the windows women lean, their breasts hanging free in loosened stays, and they call lewdly after me. Without thinking I call back, my words angry, and they respond in kind; by the market a pair of gentlemen, students down from Cambridge perhaps, collide with me, and I push at them and shout. They are drunk, and though there are two of them they do not raise their fists, simply back away, leaving me to call angrily after them. And then, upon the Strand, there is Chifley, Caswell beside him. For a moment I might strike at him but Chifley grabs my wrist, staying me.

‘Sparrow,’ he laughs, ‘where do you go?’

I shake my head, twisting free. Though he is almost a head shorter than me Chifley’s pouter-pigeon frame is powerful. He smiles.

‘You will come with us, I think.’

At first I resist, for Chifley’s mood is dangerous. But then I realise I do not care, and taking the bottle he holds out, I lift it to my lips and drink.

They have won at billiards, and are already full of their success. Chifley holds it well, the only sign that he is drunk the purpose in his stride, but Caswell’s face is flushed and his step uncertain. They lead me through the lanes, first to a shop
which sells eel pies, then on to a ginshop Chifley knows near Monmouth Street. From the way the serving girls make merry with Chifley it is plain they know him well enough. It is a dreadful place, low-ceilinged and close, yet the gin is cheap, and the music loud. On the counter sits a woman, no taller than a girl of five. She wears a child’s dress, a filthy thing stained all about, her face garishly painted. Although two men stand talking with her, Chifley demands that she be brought over, for he says he wants to dandle her on his lap. Her companions glower at us, but Chifley pays them no heed.

Her name is Rosa, and she moves with the swaying gait of her kind, her shrunken limbs no longer than my forearm yet she slips up onto Chifley’s lap as might a dog, writhing against his grabbing hands and laughing with a deep mannish sound.

With the sharp sweetness of the gin in my throat and my first cup gone, I call at once for another. Beneath the paint which cakes her cheeks and brows her face is grotesque, its features heavy and misshapen as an ape’s. Giving me a sly smile, she slips her hand into Chifley’s jacket. I do not like this look, its taunting challenge, but I do not speak, not even as she draws his wallet out and deftly slips it into her bodice. Quite suddenly I have the desire to be out of myself, forgetful with drink, and so with ferocity I lift my glass and pull back once more upon the gin, closing my eyes at the heat which floods my brain and belly.

The next hours pass in a blur. Somewhere we lose Rosa although before that I remember stumbling into a room to see Chifley standing against the wall, fly buttons undone and her before him, her head moving quickly back and forth. Afterwards we eat again, and then Chifley discovers his wallet is gone, which blackens his mood. And after that, or later perhaps, I say that I must go, but Chifley and Caswell
demand that I stay, and when I insist, they declare their intention to come with me as an escort, so I might be protected from brigands. And so the three of us stumble back together, arms hung about each other and very drunk, through the lanes to Greek Street. On the doorstep I take my leave, turning the key in the lock as quietly as I can. But then Chifley leans in and grabs my arm.

‘Hey, Sparrow,’ he says in a slurred whisper, ‘what of those ladies you promised us?’

‘I promised you no ladies,’ I reply, but he only laughs.

‘I think we’ll look for ourselves.’ He glances at Caswell, who wears a drunken smile, half-eager for this new delight, half-frightened at what might come.

‘No,’ I say, moving to keep him out, but I am too slow, for he is already past me and inside.

‘They are asleep.’ I gesture upwards, but Chifley is not to be dissuaded. Grasping the handle of the door to the front room, he swings it open, lurching inwards to see what is there. In the hall Caswell collides heavily with the table, and Chifley turns, looking about.

‘The cellar, I think,’ he says, fumbling in his pocket for a match.

In vain I try to slow him down, grabbing at his coat, but Chifley is not to be deterred. Caswell follows us, tittering delightedly at this new scene of chaos. As chance would have it the cellar door is unlocked, and Chifley slips through. Trying to stop him is futile. I follow him down into the darkness. The light from the match dances wildly on the walls, but then the match burns down to his fingers, and with a curse he casts it to the floor, where it gutters and dies.

‘Find me a candle,’ he hisses, taking the last few steps with a thud, and a second later the light flares again at his fingertips. From somewhere Caswell passes him a candle, and Chifley lights it, before swinging out into the room’s centre.

On the tables lie three corpses, two women and a man, and here and there the other remnants of our trade: a pair of arms, a leg still bound in muslin, three torsos hollowed out and a head, this last laid upon its face by Robert earlier today, for it would not sit still in any other way, persisting instead in rolling here and there. The smell is foul, and Chifley makes a face.

‘It’s a rare stink you have in here,’ he says, raising a finger to his nose. Caswell snorts.

‘Winter work,’ Chifley says inscrutably, and slowly moves his hips back and forth. Beside me Caswell giggles again, but already Chifley has forgotten. Creeping towards the man, he leans close beside his ear and says hello, lingering upon the word so it is made ridiculous. When no answer comes, he tries it again and, unable to bear this latest hilarity, Caswell’s nervous giggles explode into laughter. Wildly I try to silence him, but this only provokes him further. He clasps his hand over his mouth, unsuccessfully attempting to stifle himself. Glancing round at us Chifley lifts a finger and with a sudden motion jabs at the man’s arm. This done he rises and moves to one of the women, making a show of tiptoeing towards her, only to lean down at the last moment and cry ‘Boo!’. Despite myself I grin at this, while Caswell laughs so much that he must lean against the stairs. With a finger Chifley presses down upon her nose, squishing it first this way and then the other. Then, bored with this, he turns to the second woman. She is younger than the first, and although her expression is gaunt and blotchy and her stubbled scalp bare, there is a quality to her face which suggests she might once have been fair enough.

‘Good day,’ Chifley says, with another glance at us to see that we are watching. He pauses then, as if waiting for an answer.

‘What’s that?’ he asks. ‘You have something you wish to tell me?’ Leaning closer he places his ear at her lips.

‘You want me to do what?’ Once more he pauses, as if he were listening, then he giggles prissily, as might a girl, batting his eyelids and covering his mouth.

‘Oh no,’ he titters, ‘I could not.’ But then, as if answering, he wriggles his shoulders. ‘Oh, alright,’ he says, ‘but only once,’ and with a mincing motion he lifts his hands and cups the sunken remnants of her breasts. Lovingly he massages them, then slowly he puts his lips to hers, mumbling and murmuring,
mm-
mm-
mm
, a sound as if he were eating. Then all at once he slips an arm beneath her, pulling her towards him in an embrace. It is monstrous yet I am laughing. Perhaps it is the gin, perhaps it is the lunacy of the moment, but I cannot help myself. Wildly Chifley looks about, and for an instant our eyes meet, then he pulls her from the table, one arm about her waist, the other pressed beneath her arm so he may hold her upright, and marking out a wild tune he begins to dance, swinging past Caswell and me. Caswell is laughing his idiot laugh, and Chifley is making the sound of a trumpet,
ta-
ran-
ta-
ran-
ta-
ran-
ta-
ra
, as Caswell chases after him, clapping his hands. Around and around he goes, Caswell swirling after him, myself too, for I am laughing and laughing, and then suddenly I am crying, although I do not know it at once. I fall still, letting them swirl on, shaking my head. Away they go, then back again, Caswell now dancing with his hands upon the girl’s shoulder. They pass close by, Chifley’s eyes meeting mine, filled with a sort of exaltation. I step after him, but I do not have to, for he trips upon a bag and stumbles, sent sprawling to the ground with the girl’s body on top of him. Caswell lands heavily upon his backside. Still laughing Chifley begins to clamber to his feet, but I am upon him, and grabbing him by the coat I haul him upright, pushing him towards the door.

‘Get out,’ I say.

I push him up the stairs, into the hall. Behind me I hear
Caswell coming up too, and with a shove I send Chifley sprawling into the street outside. His collar crooked and jacket torn he stares up at me, neither angry nor ashamed but rather pleased, and though I know that I should strike at him, drive him away, suddenly I do not care, and, shaking my head I step back and away.

‘Go,’ I hiss, ‘go!’ And going out the door Caswell is laughing still, but I cannot look at him, and so I close them out and stumble down the stairs to try to right the wrong there.

I
WAKE ILL
and miserable. The room is hot, the air close: somewhere in the night I remember waking, my stomach heaving its contents into my chamber pot, and the smell lingers foully. My eyes ache and my throat and nose are sour with bile, and for a time I just lie, face pressed against the sheet, wishing only to slip back into the cool refuge of sleep. Somewhere just out of reach something nags at me, some sense that there is something I have forgotten, and dully I struggle to remember, until all at once the recollection returns, descending like a weight.

By the time I muster the strength, the day outside is bright, the air in the yard fresh with the smell of leaves. Crouching low before the butt I close my eyes, let the water course across my head and back. Though it is cold I do not pull away, glad for its icy trickle on my swollen face, the sound of the falling water flat upon the stones. When I am done I rise, blinking, to find Robert there, a towel held out to me.

‘Your shirt is soiled,’ he says.

‘It will do,’ I retort, more sharply than I intended. Lifting my hand I think at first to apologise, but then do not.

‘Gabriel …’ Robert begins.

‘What?’

‘I do not pretend to understand all of what occurred last night, but you harm only yourself this way.’

I nod. Although my memory is confused I recall now being found by Robert, hopelessly trying to tidy the mess left by Chifley and Caswell.

‘Was there any damage?’

‘Nothing that was not easily repaired, although I need not tell you it could have been worse.’

‘And Mr Poll?’

Robert pauses, watching me.

‘I see no reason for him to be informed,’ he says.

‘Thank you,’ I say stiffly.

‘Give me the shirt,’ he says. ‘I will have Mrs Gunn clean it for you.’

The day creeps past interminably, a long sullen march towards evening. By midday the nausea has passed, replaced by a headache which presses hard against my eyeballs. I am clumsy with it, and twice Mr Poll reprimands me for dropping instruments. Our first task is to open the girl, and as I help bear her up the stairs with Robert I am consumed with shame for the events of the evening before. Unfeeling I watch as her body is unpicked, piece by piece. Although I have seen this done many times, today I stare almost unblinking as her throat is opened, the gristled column of the windpipe removed, thick as a child’s arm. Atop it the swollen mass of her tongue still attached, ridged and coated like that of some beast in the market place.

When we are done I gather the pieces and the pails and bear her back to the cellar, depositing what is left upon the table with a twinge of uncustomary disgust.

During the afternoon I slip away and conceal myself in a corner of the dispensary. Resting my head upon the bench I fall into a shallow doze, a fitful half-waking thing, disturbed by phantoms which flit just out of reach. How long I sleep I do not know; a few minutes perhaps, but all of a sudden I wake with a start. Charles stands in the door, one hand upon the knob. That he had not thought to find me here is clear, for he stands poised to turn, as if about to slip away once more. We look uncomfortably at one another: all day Charles has been out of sorts, his mood brittle, and now we are alone together I see he wishes we were not.

‘I am sorry,’ I say, rising. ‘I thought only to rest awhile.’ Although my words are apologetic my manner is not.

‘No matter,’ he says stiffly, and we are so close we might touch. Even now, when I know so much more of him than I did, Charles possesses a sort of grace, a beauty few can resist, and I find myself wishing to forgive him, and so, I think, does he. But it is not to be.

‘I have work to do,’ I say, stepping past him and away.

That night I cannot sleep, floating in the darkness of my room. From the street below come the cries of the night – drunkards singing and the clatter of the wheels upon the stones. At three I hear the bells of St Giles, and slipping from my bed I make my way downstairs. Through the window moonlight falls, soft rectangles of light upon the stairs, the wood cool against my naked soles. In the dispensary I draw opium, and drink. It brings sleep, a drifting restless thing of sound and fire, a restless motion in which I move, as a
swimmer might, just beneath waking’s surface. That I dream I know, yet still I dream and cannot break away, even as I feel myself pursued. What follows me I do not know and yet can only fear, something both horrible and familiar, and whose touch upon my shoulder stills me so I turn to face it, my body sick with terror, turning once and then again and then again and then again until suddenly I see it and in that instant wake.