The Resurrectionist (13 page)

T
HE DAYS THAT FOLLOW
pass in sullen silence. Though we have work enough I am left much to myself. Twice I bear messages to Whitechapel and Kentish Town, winding my way gratefully through the city streets, and in between I bend to my books or idle in the yard. What it is that ails me I do not know: though I grieve for Amy it is more than that, my anger mingling with a shame which will neither shift nor dissolve, and with it too the remembering of my desire for Arabella.

It is Charles who tells me of Amy’s funeral, drawing me aside in the morning of the Saturday. For three days we have barely spoken, and now he is awkward with me.

‘They bury her this afternoon,’ he says. I look at him coldly.

‘If you wish to go I will tell Mr Poll you are on business on my behalf,’ he says. I nod uneasily, for I have no wish to be beholden to him. Perhaps he sees this, for he does not press the point, and so it is me who must accede.

‘Thank you,’ I say, though stiffly.

And so, an hour after noon I am at the front door. But then comes Mr Tyne’s voice from the stairs.

‘You’re wanted,’ he says.

At first I think to keep walking, to close the door behind me and leave him there. But I hesitate, Mr Tyne watching with a mocking smile.

‘What?’ he asks – ‘there is somewhere else you must be?’

In the theatre Mr Poll has a body, brought last night by Lucan, laid out for examination. Banister, owner of a counting house in the city, struck down by a spasm of the brain three nights past. As I enter, Mr Poll glances up at me, telling me to gather his instruments.

I do not protest. Removing my jacket I roll up my sleeves and tie on my apron. Barely looking at me Mr Poll motions to me to pass him the scalpel, and with a practised motion he slices from ear to ear across the dome of the skull, bisecting the scalp, then, putting aside the scalpel, he slips his fingers into the cut and pulls the face down, exposing the yellow bone of the skull. There is always something unsettling in the way the face slips so cleanly from the bone, as if it were merely a mask, worn and discarded. Repeating the process at the back of the scalp he takes the saw and begins to cut away the dome of the skull. The bone is dry, the saw’s motion bringing first fine yellow dust, then a smell of burning. It is not quick work, but to appear impatient will only earn me some reprimand, so I will myself not to look up at the clock which stands above the fireplace. The minutes tick by, the saw moving in the quiet of the room, until with a last slide the skull splits. Handing me the saw Mr Poll draws forth the brain, severing the column which holds it in its shell; then, placing it on the slab, he regards it thoughtfully.

‘I have measured the brains of halfwits and simpletons,’ he says. ‘They do not differ from ours in weight.’

Since his words seem not directed to me in particular I do
not reply, and a moment later he takes up his knife, bisecting the brain once and again until the dark and white of the haemorrhage comes into view. Pleased, he grunts, scooping up the brain and squeezing it so the jellied blood drips forth. Not for the first time I wonder at the way these lumps of meat contain us, at the wonder of the motion of our selves through this brute matter. What must he have felt, this Banister, as the blood spilled forth into his mind? A sound like water, or wind? The falling away of himself?

The hour of the funeral is already past when we are done, and I leave the house at a run, dodging through the carriages and passing traffic. The church lies not far from Percy Street, in a little close behind Charlotte Street, and at its rear the graveyard is a quiet place shaded by a beech, walled in on each side by houses to which ivy clings. As I come about the church’s side I see the funeral party in the far corner, silent while the priest intones the words of the service.

Quite suddenly I am uncomfortable, hot and awkward, as if my presence here will be unwelcome.

Arabella stands alone in the centre of the group, staring downwards at the coffin. She stands so still, so stiff it seems her very body refuses all sympathy. Mary is behind her, dressed all in black, face set.

The service is not long in finishing, the party breaking up as the gravediggers lower the coffin into the earth. Beside Arabella a ginger-whiskered man says something I cannot hear, bowing close to her as he speaks. She nods curtly, and her eyes catch mine across the yard, but she gives no sign. As she passes through the group the others touch her arm and hand, murmuring words of sympathy; only when this is done does she approach the place where I stand.

‘You came,’ she says, extending her hand. I press it tight, not wanting to let it go. Many times I have heard Robert and Charles offer consolation to the grieving, but it is not an art I have ever shared. There seems so little to be said, and yet everything, as if words cannot encompass it. But as I see she does not want my pity, nor my grief, only quiet, only for this thing to be done and her to be away.

‘I did not know…’ I falter.

‘Know what?’

‘If I would be welcome.’

‘She was your friend,’ she says softly.

‘Had she family?’ I ask, but she shakes her head.

‘None that would have seen her were she alive.’

‘Then they do not know?’

‘I wrote to her brother, and to an aunt she spoke of, yet neither have replied.’ Shaking her head she looks away, then back.

‘Then those here?’

‘Friends,’ she says. ‘And few enough of them. No mind, it will be over soon.’

I shake my head. ‘It should not be like this.’

‘No,’ she says angrily, ‘it should not.’ Then catches herself, as if she will not show this thing, nor give it voice.

The man with the muttonchops appears at her elbow.

‘Gabriel, this is Mr Gardiner. It is his theatre in which you have seen me play.’

Gardiner looks at me. Though his face is ruddy and his shining features coarse there is a shrewdness to his gaze I cannot help but like.

Begging my pardon, in a booming Scots accent, he turns to Arabella. ‘The carriage,’ he says, and she nods.

Back at the house the few who came to the funeral stand in the drawing room and speak quietly. The occasion is not an easy one; those who have gathered seeming uncomfortable and anxious to be away. Only Mr Gardiner seems in his element, speaking casually and cheerfully. Sitting sullenly in their midst I feel awkward, out of place, yet it is not them I watch, but Arabella. As she moves and speaks I see the way she hides herself, the way she laughs and smiles, and anger rises in me at her pretence. Finally I stand and absent myself, descending to the kitchen. From upstairs comes the sound of voices, the opening door, but still I do not move, willing her to come to me, to find me here. An hour passes, then another, and only then is there a foot upon the stair.

Her hair is awry somehow, her face composed.

‘You are here,’ she says. ‘I thought that you had gone.’

I rise so I may face her.

‘I am glad that you have not,’ she says. All at once I know why I have stayed, that I am angry with her now, angry for the way she will not let this thing affect her, and suddenly I want to strike at her, to make her weep, to jar her somehow into some sign of grief. Perhaps she sees this in my face, for she shakes her head, and comes close.

‘Why did you come today?’ she asks.

I pull back. ‘How could I not?’

She hesitates. ‘You are angry at me.’

‘No,’ I say, but she takes my hand, holding it firm as I try to twist myself away.

‘I am glad of it,’ she says. The two of us stand so close I can smell the scent she wears upon her throat, see the way her powder is clotted here and there upon her face. I feel it all within me then, the anger and the grief, and I do not know whether I should strike at her or take her in my arms. And then she lifts her face to mine, and with a hungry,
urgent mouth kisses me, once and then again, her body pressing close against my own, as if she sought to lose herself in this, to be unmade in the dissolving need that rises in our chests and mouths and hands.

S
O THIS IS WHAT
it means to know a woman. This ragged wanting. My hands mute implements, raw and clotting, my desire more like a pain that cannot be salved. Outside the summer days are long, the city quarrelsome and bright.

Perhaps it would be better were we busier, but with the heat there is little for us to do. The bodies will not keep, and we may not teach, our days lost in idleness. I am sure Robert guesses much, of the cause of my distraction and my absences, of my estrangement from Charles. On those evenings when I may not be with her, he walks with me through the dusty streets.

As the weeks slip by I go to her as often as I may. She has her life, and I have mine, but since the night of Amy’s death something has changed in me. Though I go about my work I no longer care for this, for any of it. When we are apart I wish myself in her company, when we are together I cannot
concentrate. And always I wish only to leave all this behind, to be away from it. Always this desire for her being, opening unanswered inside of me: no matter how I try I cannot cross whatever gulf it is that lies between the two of us, cannot translate myself into that heat.

Beneath my pillow I can feel the flat of the bottle that I filled in the dispensary this afternoon, its shape pressing hard against me. I will not drink tonight, I tell myself, though this is a lie, and turning over in the bed I reach for it, the glass cool against my hungry hand.

A
T THE DOOR
Mary shakes her head. ‘No,’ she says. ‘Not now.’ From the window overhead there comes a man’s voice, low and teasing, then Arabella’s, raised in laughter, the sound spilling into the evening air. Mary does not move, her body blocking my way.

‘Later,’ she says, ‘come later.’

The house is quiet when I return, the windows open to the summer air. Mr Poll and Charles are gone for the day. But as I enter the kitchen I hear the voice of Mr Tyne.

‘Back from your whore already?’

Startled, I see him standing in the door to Mrs Gunn’s room.

‘What?’ he asks, coming closer. ‘You did not know that is what she is?’

‘Do not use that word,’ I say, but he only laughs. Behind him I see Mrs Gunn appear.

‘Whore,’ he says, ‘whore,’ and perhaps he might say it again, but before he can I hurl myself towards him, grasping his collar so we crash into the wall and door. We land heavily but if he is hurt he does not show it. Instead he laughs, his pockmarked face grinning – and so I swing him round and away, sending him stumbling through the chairs onto the floor. On the table the lamp spills sideways, falling to the ground with a crash of breaking glass. Without thinking I lunge at him again, meaning to strike him once more, but I lose my footing and in a moment I am on my back and he is up, one hand about my neck, the other thrust inside his coat. Seeing he means to draw his knife I kick out, trying to throw him off. His head is bleeding, dripping down from a cut above his eye.

‘I said once I would kill you,’ he says. ‘It is a promise I mean to keep.’

The knife is out, held close to his body and low so it might strike upwards, and hard. Desperately I grab at his arm, staying it just above my belly, yet the angle is awkward, and he has the advantage. His face is close to mine, his hard little eyes boring into me, their whites all but invisible. Then suddenly Robert is behind him, yanking him away from me.

‘What is the meaning of this?’ he demands. Mr Tyne leans back against the wall, one hand raised to his head, the knife still clasped in the other. He is panting, his breath coming in ragged gasps. Rubbing my neck I begin to lift myself to my feet, watching Mr Tyne. I cannot believe he will let it end here, but he does not move.

‘Well?’ Robert demands.

I shake my head. ‘Nothing,’ I say. ‘It was nothing.’

Behind me Mrs Gunn steps forward. ‘It was him,’ she says, pointing at me. ‘He struck first.’

Robert closes his eyes, his breath seeming to catch. Then, with an expression of resignation, he turns to me.

‘Is this true, Gabriel?’ he asks. ‘Did you start this?’

For a moment I think to shake my head, but I cannot, and so I simply say, ‘I did.’

Robert nods, his thin face seeming stricken by some awful certainty.

‘You know I must report this.’

‘I do,’ I reply.

For a long moment he stands, staring at me, then at last he turns away.

‘Clean this up,’ he says, moving away to the stairs. Mr Tyne straightens, a triumphant grin upon his face.

‘Where are your airs now, boy?’ In my chest I feel my breath move hotly – but before I can speak Robert turns on him.

‘Silence!’ As he speaks he descends once more, his eyes fixed on Mr Tyne and Mrs Gunn.

‘Gabriel is the apprentice of your master, man, and whatever tomorrow brings, in the meantime you shall treat him with the respect that he deserves.’

Mr Tyne begins to reply, but Robert cuts him off. ‘Do not think I am ignorant of your part in this,’ he says, advancing on him until they stand face to face. For a long moment Mr Tyne does not move, then, quite suddenly, he turns, and with a backward glance that drips with hatred vanishes up the stairs and away.

Once he has gone Robert turns to Mrs Gunn.

‘You would do well to remember what you heard me say,’ he says firmly, but without anger. ‘Mr Tyne is not master of this house, whatever he believes.’

Mrs Gunn hesitates, then she nods. ‘Yes, sir,’ she says quietly. At this Robert softens.

‘You have been a good friend to me these last six years, Mrs Gunn,’ he says. ‘I shall miss you when I go.’

Mrs Gunn looks down, a blush colouring her scrubbed cheeks.

‘I hope you will be the same to Mr Swift once I am gone.’

Looking up she glances first at Robert, then at me, then back to Robert. She is a kind woman, if a foolish one, but she is caught, and we both see that.

‘Yes, sir,’ she says.

I do not follow Robert up the stairs at once. Instead I linger in the kitchen, intending to help Mrs Gunn repair the dam-age. Yet as I lift a chair she takes it from me and shakes her head. Understanding, I relinquish my grasp.

Upstairs Robert’s door is open, and he sits upon the sill by the window. Outside the city is alive with light.

‘Thank you,’ I say.

Robert shakes his head. ‘No,’ he says. ‘My temper will only have made things worse. Tyne is the worst sort of man.’

Robert looks out at the lights once more.

‘This was his purpose, you know. Ever since that night with the child.’

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘I do.’ Briefly, I consider. ‘I will be dismissed, will I not?’

‘Most probably.’

‘I am sorry,’ I say.

‘So am I.’

‘You are to go away?’ I ask. Turning back to his desk he takes up a folded sheet.

‘It is confirmed today,’ he says. ‘I leave in a month for St Lucia, a practice in Castries.’

Though the news is not a surprise, it strikes me hard, for it is only now that I realise how keenly I shall feel his loss.

‘Perhaps you could come with me,’ Robert says, holding his hand out. ‘Some accommodation might be made
between your guardian and Mr Poll and me. You could train with me, or take some work.’

Robert’s thin face is set in a look of such affection I am ashamed he should see so much in me. But then I shake my head.

‘No,’ I say, ‘that life is not for me.’

In my room I lean back against the wall and stare up at the cracked ceiling I have gazed at so many times before. The narrow bed is hard, its familiar smell of dust and sleep rising faintly. If I close my eyes I can imagine her face, feel her touch. I feel weak. Were I to lift my hand and hold it still, it would tremble: his purpose was to wound and indeed Mr Tyne has touched something I must fight to deny – the way she gives herself to other men, and what that means. Through the wall I hear Robert in his room: with him gone there will be nothing left to keep me here. And all at once I want it to be done, to be away from here, from all of this.