The Resurrectionist (16 page)

I
N THE CARRIAGE
Lucan leans over the girl’s body, drawing open the sheet so he may look upon her. She was pretty once, but Lucan seems not to see it.

‘Well done,’ he says, leaning back in his seat to smile at me, ‘well done.’

The carriage bears us back towards the town, through the quiet lanes and streets and thence to Blenheim Steps. There we stop before a building I know to be the School of Anatomy maintained by Joshua Brookes. Opening the door Lucan bids me alight. The street is dark, the only noise the broken sound of music through an open door.

‘Knock,’ Lucan says, and so I do, and a moment later the door opens to reveal a boy of sixteen or so dressed in a leather smock.

‘Who do you seek?’ he asks.

‘Your master,’ Lucan says from behind me then, and the boy looks up at him, and smiles.

‘Come in.’ He steps back so we may follow him. Behind me I hear the carriage door, a thumping sound, and a moment later Craven is past me through the door, Jenny Carpenter across his shoulder.

The house is plain, kept neat and clean, though in the air there is a smell like ham, somehow cloying and too sweet. With the boy leading, we make our way out to a space at the back, a room that was once a yard, but now is roofed in glass and iron, in which four tables sit all in a line. In here a dozen candelabra burn, filling the room with their flickering light. Upon the tables lie three bodies in different states of disassembly, buckets are strewn around, and by the third corpse stands a man of immense girth, his shift open at the neck and sleeves rolled up, dressed in a smock so large it must have taken an entire cow’s hide to make it. Hearing us he looks up from his work, a syringe of some sort still held in one pudgy hand, and chuckles.

‘You brought her!’ He wipes his hands upon his smock as he comes waddling towards us, motioning to the boy to clear a space upon the nearest of the table tops. His face is unshaven, specks of food have caught in the stubble of his beard and stained his collar, his skin is scrofulous and filthy, snuff caked beneath his nostrils. As he approaches, the smell grows stronger, as does the reek of his body.

Craven sets the girl’s bundled form down upon the table and, snuffling delightedly, Brookes prods and pokes at it.

‘Good, good.’ He turns to Lucan, but then notices me, and holds out a hand to touch my cheek.

‘Who’s this pretty one?’ he asks, and for a long moment Lucan looks at me.

‘Gabriel,’ he says at last. Brookes gives a nod.

‘Twelve guineas then?’ he asks, all business again, and Lucan smiles.

Then I gasp, for behind Brookes I see a line of cabinets, all filled with waxwork renderings of veins and arteries, delicate as filigree, each poised and posed with hands outstretched and heads half-turned, the flesh and bone and organ which once contained them dissolved away.

‘Ah. You have seen my beauties.’

Outside in the street Lucan bids me leave him, placing money in my hand as he does.

‘Do not let this matter mislead you,’ he says. ‘Brookes is no man’s fool.’

Above us, Bridie shakes his head and whistles soundlessly. With a sudden motion Lucan grabs my arm just below the elbow, his hand closing about it like a vice.

‘Craven thinks I am a fool to trust you,’ he says, drawing me closer. I can feel Craven looking on behind me. ‘You will not make a fool of me, will you, Swift?’ he says, his voice measured and low.

Slowly I shake my head, looking deep into his eyes, their pupils dark, whites stained and yellow. He holds me there, close in that embrace. Then with a low laugh he lets go so I stumble back.

‘Come,’ he says to Craven, turning away as he speaks, ‘there is work yet to be done tonight.’

Her house is dark when I arrive, all within long abed. Her body warm and thick with sleep, its skin against my own. Within my arms I feel her breath, its motion in her chest. We
are each of us alone in this, I think, contained inside the cages of our selves. And yet as I press my face against her neck I wish that I might lose myself in her, might find some comfort there, the wishing like a pain that keeps me long from sleep.

N
OTHING IS DIFFERENT
when I awake, yet all has changed. The money made is real enough, as is my memory of how it was earned, the knowledge of that lying on me like a stain. But here, in her bed, it seems somehow far away, the doing not of myself but of some other, a thing remembered as if dreamed long ago.

Were I to close my eyes it might be gone again, left behind, were it not that the violent pleasure of the hours passed with Lucan lingers yet.

Rain has come while we have slept. Outside the day is dark, water moving in waves against the glass behind the drapes, and as I rise to dress, Arabella does not wake. On the doorstep I turn my collar up, but the water runs cold against my skin as I step into it. I am clear, and free, and yet restless, uncertain of where to go. Inside my coat I take the coin Lucan gave me the night before in my hand, pressing it close into my flesh, feeling the way I shiver at its touch. There is some secret here, it seems, I feel it – as if I am divided somewhere, the money made by some other self, one I might hide
inside as if it were a part I played, and in its playing were made free.

On Poland Street I come to a stop outside the apothecary’s. The burnished light within is warm, a yellow glow against the darkness of the day. In my hand the money seems to itch; inside, the bald head of the apothecary’s assistant dips up and down as he works, the bottles racked upon the wall behind him. I must not, I know, but even as I tell myself I will not enter, will not spend the money, I know I will, the door already opening, the bell ringing out above my head.

Later, in my room, I watch the grains of the opium turn in the glass, the light of the lamp breaking and shimmering on its curve. Outside the rain still falls, yet the room might be a bubble, and I suspended in its centre. Downstairs the Scarpis’ voices are raised in argument but I barely hear them. There is sadness, or close to it, as if something is sundered here, divided where it should not be. But then there is only this, the whispering of the rain and the flare of the lamp dancing in the windowpane.

And when I go to Lucan again he is waiting. I do not need to speak and nor does he. Instead he looks at me as though I have answered some question for him, and then he turns away as if I am not there at all.

W
E GO TO
C
ORNHILL
, riding fast and hard. The streets outside unfamiliar in the dark, made strange by the fog. At last Lucan strikes at the carriage roof to bid Bridie stop. Climbing out he nods up to Craven, and they set off into the gloom. I follow after them, down a covered passageway and out into an alley. In the fog all is quiet, just the dripping of the water from the trees above, the distant rattle of the traffic. Somewhere nearby a bird cries out, and then a baby coughs and begins to sob. Lucan and Craven turn aside, off into a lane bordered on one side by a high wall, overgrown with ivy. Here Lucan takes my collar in his hand and draws me close.

‘Make sure we are alone,’ he says, glancing upwards. I consider the wall, then carefully thrust my hand into the ivy’s massing leaves, seeking to find some purchase there. It is wet, and slippery, its dusty smell thick, but I manage to claw my fingers into its grabbing stems, and scrabbling upwards begin to climb. Almost at once though my boots slip, my knee and anklebone striking and scraping against the wall as I crash back onto the ground, jarring my leg and spine
and falling hard enough to knock the wind out of myself.

Before I can recover Lucan grabs me by the coat.

‘Would you have us spend our evening in a cell?’ he demands, hauling me to my feet, and pushing me back at the wall.

Wincing at the pain in my ankle I grip the ivy to steady myself, and begin again. This time I do not slip, and soon enough I reach the summit of the wall. Peering through the foliage I see a narrow space, welled in on all sides, and at the end a building, its window dark, the church tower rising like a shadow in the fog behind it.

Beneath me Craven laughs, and I feel anger flare inside me. Turning back I hiss that the coast is clear; with a quick movement Lucan throws the bag he holds to me, and then reaching out he drags himself up to where I perch. He does not look at me, just scans the ground below, then swinging his leg over drops into the yard. Clutching to the ivy to slow my fall I follow him, landing heavily in a boggy puddle, the water soaking into my shoes immediately. A moment later Craven lands, then takes the bag from me and heads through the ragged line of the tumbled stones.

We take two, a man dead not two days and a slack-jawed crone already on the turn. The work is hard, and brutal, and before we are done my body shakes with it, my legs trembling beneath my weight. And yet I get no quarter, Craven taunting me with threats the sexton here is a jealous man, and handy with the shotgun that he keeps.

We sell them to the porter at St Bart’s, a leering rogue called Atkinson, who gives us ten guineas each for them. My hands raw and blistered, my suit torn, and muddied beyond repair. Watching Lucan bargain with Atkinson I feel something dull inside of me, as if I grew heavy within, and yet I follow him back to the carriage.

Then by Holborn Hill he bids Bridie stop again. Reaching into his coat he draws forth a five pound note and holds it out. At first I do not move, thinking to shake my head and turn away – but instead I lift my hand and take the proffered note, feeling the paper fold as I close my hand about it.

B
UT THAT IS NOT QUITE
the end of it. As Craven takes his leave of us I rise to go, but Lucan stays me with his hand.

‘No,’ he says, ‘we are not finished yet.’

Striking his stick upon the roof he sets us travelling once more, through Grevil Street to Leather Lane and Clerkenwell, and thence to Windmill Hill. By Liquorpond we turn into a little close, and winding down go to its end. It is silent here, and though the houses once were fine now they are dilapidated and abandoned, their windows boarded up, and blank. Bridie slows the horses, turning the carriage through an arch, and up a drive into a yard.

It is so still here, so dark, that all at once I am afraid, certain they mean to do me harm. But instead Lucan steps down and makes his way across the yard, to knock upon a door at its side. Again I follow. Within, the sound of voices is stilled, and then a man calls out, demanding our business there, for it is late, and all are asleep. Lucan gives his name, and almost at once a bolt slips in the door, light spilling out, the shape of a man half hidden by the glow of the lamp he holds.

‘What?’ he asks. ‘You coming here?’

‘I have a gentleman who would have a room of you,’ Lucan replies. In the light of the doorway the fellow seems to hold himself poised, as if at any moment he might spring away. Yet he approaches me, half-sideways like a crab, rubbing his hands together, as if I am some pleasure long-anticipated. This close I see he is not as old as I had thought, thirty perhaps, or thirty-five, nor ill-looking either, save for the way he holds himself, and his eyes, which are crossed in a squint so severe it makes him look a simpleton. Holding his lamp up to my face he snuffles delightedly.

‘This is Graves,’ says Lucan.

The house is poor and dark and seldom cleaned. In the kitchen behind the door a woman sits, half-stupid with drink. Seeing us she lifts her head with sudden interest.

‘Who’s this?’ she asks, looking first at Lucan and then at me.

‘A gentleman,’ Graves says, ‘to have a room.’ She looks at me appraisingly, then snorts.

‘Gentleman indeed,’ she says.

How Lucan is known to Graves I could not say, but known he is, for Graves fawns on him and flatters him, pressing him to stay awhile and talk. But Lucan will not linger, and soon is gone, leaving me alone with them.

Graves shows me to a room on the second floor. It is small, and dusty, large enough for a bed and washstand and little more. As I enter he follows close behind, pushing things and twittering as if he means to help me settle there. Only when I turn does he shuffle back, raising his hands to mollify me and giggling foolishly. At first I think to swear at him, but something in his manner unsettles me.

‘Please,’ I say. ‘I would be alone, if I may.’ As if he does not quite believe me he lingers even then, but when I turn to him again he backs away into the hall outside.

Once he has gone I seat myself upon the bed, touching it with an open hand. The sheets are thick with dust and the windows dark with soot and grime. Under the bed there is a chamber pot; with my foot I draw it forth, grating on the floorboards as it slides into view. Inside there lies a human turd, coiled and long and dried to a sickly yellow brown, surrounded by a scurfy tide. For a long time I sit and stare at it, and then I place my boot upon its rim and push it back beneath the bed and out of sight.

Later I will learn that Graves is ever thus, his time spent seated in the kitchen of the house, seeking to corner those of his tenants who would speak to him. There is something needful in him, placatory and insistent, as if he is afraid of his own company. Always he would have more of one, and more than once he follows me out into the close, cajoling me to stay with him, to talk with him.

At first this might seem innocent, the neediness of a foolish man, yet three days after I arrive I wake to the sound of voices raised in anger down below, and descending to the kitchen find one of the tenants there, an Irishman called Murphy, drunk and in a rage. In his hand he holds a belt, and he strikes his wife with it about the head and back, bringing it down again and again until her face is cut and her skin is livid. It is not this scene though which brings me to a stop, but the sight of Graves, who sits watching, hands pressed together in delight, his body on the chair seeming to quiver with some scarce contained excitement.

A
ND SO
I
BEGIN
to learn the work. The digging and the drawing forth. With rope and hook and shovel, piece by piece I gain the craft. How to dig the shaft to the coffin’s head, how to use the earth’s own weight to snap the lid, how to break a body for the sack.

It is well that I am tall, and strong, for the work is backbreaking hard. To dig a hole in as little time as possible, to draw a body forth, to bear it across walls – never have I known labour such as this. Where once my hands were soft, they grow hard and rough, my nails broken and blackened with the dirt.

And though the work is hateful to me, in time I give myself to it. To be Lucan’s creature as he would have me be, to lend my will always to his cause. There is no love in this, nor any lost between those of us who work for him, but there is money to be made, and money to be spent.

I learn that the house on Prince’s Street is not the only one that Lucan keeps. There is one on Water Lane, near Bridewell Prison and its cemetery. He keeps it always locked,
its windows and door all boarded up, but at the rear, in a little lane, there is another door by which he enters. Inside, this house is mostly bare, save for two rooms in which are a bed and a table, and another by the street in which lie jumbled a great many pieces of furniture, all broken and chipped and ruined. In Southwark too another, overlooking the cemetery of Guy’s. And there are more, I am sure, places I have not seen but only heard the rumour of. The bodies we take from the graves stay briefly in these places, stored in their cellars and empty rooms, our tools wrapped and hidden beside them.

Nor am I alone in being bound to him. There seem few he does not know, few places he has not ears and eyes. Women who watch the cemeteries, sextons, and pall-bearers. Beadles from the parish houses, nurses in the hospitals and porters on the riverbanks, bailiffs and crossing-sweepers; from everywhere he gathers close the rumours of the dead and where they lie so we may fetch them back. And though there are those who would keep us from what we seek, those who guard the dead with gun and trap and even sword, more often our search corrupts their will, and we may buy complicity if not love.

And perhaps this is all he ever sought from me as well, that I give myself to him. To know I am made subject to his will, that my nature is obedient to his own. To know that I am his, even though I wish only to be free.