The Ballroom (33 page)

The van heaved and jerked away, and when it had gone, she was quite alone. She brought her shawl around her. It was possible to see a long way – the fields and then the close, purple rise of the moor. The fields were filled with sheep, and the stones of the walls were hazed with moss. She walked to the walls and when she put her hands out to touch the moss it was soft and stained her fingertips green. It was quiet, and the air was still, but as she listened she heard the quiet was full of small, insistent sounds: the soft cropping of the sheep at the grass in the fields; the wind, which sometimes picked up and then died down again. The sound of water running, close by, and a strange sound, a sort of soft sighing, that she could only think was the earth itself. She climbed one of the walls and began to walk, finding a thin path at the edge of a field. She did not walk quickly. She did not know where she was going, only that she needed to climb; only that she wanted to be up high.

Soon the field gave way to wilder land, but the path remained, winding a white way upwards. The tussocky grass was wet. At the side of the path were bushes where tiny berries shone in great clusters, and she picked palmfuls and ate them, and now her hands were stained with purple too. As she climbed, the path grew narrower and was sometimes difficult to follow, as it crossed rocks slippery with water, and sometimes the water was a small brook she had to find her way across. She rinsed her hands and face and cupped water in her palm to drink, and the water smelt of the earth and the earth smelt of water, and it was good to have it in her mouth and on her skin.

When she reached the moor top, the sun was low in the sky to her left and the wind whipped her hair around her face and there was fear in her and sadness and hope. She thought of John.
Send me word.
She clasped her arms around her.

She would find somewhere. A farm. Somewhere they would need workers. She did not know how it would be. She only knew that she would live. That she would survive.

She thought of Clem. She conjured her before her, not as she had last seen her, but before – the lightness that was in her. The bravery.

She spoke her name out loud and wondered if Clem might feel it, might hear the sound her name made spoken in this high, free place. Then she brought the feather from her dress and held it and raised her arms. She tipped her head back, and as she did so the wind blew across the wide moor and passed through the feather, and her body hummed with it, as though she were an instrument, for the breath of some greater creature to pass through and make sing.

H
E WAS UP
before dawn. Fifty lifts on one side, fifty on the other, humming as he poured water into his bowl and soaped his face, his armpits. A tight but not unpleasant sensation seemed to have settled in his chest, the sort of feeling he would have as a child on the morning of a day at the beach – the sort of day when the pleasure of anticipation was almost too much to bear. He would need to be calm. It was the equinox, after all, a moment of balance, of poise.

The outside air was ionized, crisp, and as he walked out over the grass each dewdrop seemed to shimmer like a tiny pearl. Early fallen leaves lay in bright clusters on the ground. He paused on the lawn, taking deep, cleansing breaths. Autumn was here: playing to sense, not sensuality; belonging to the rational mind; here was a season he could live in at last.

He made his way across the grass to the men’s infirmary. The operation was scheduled for eight o’clock, and before that he had to carry out his feeding of Miss Church, but he had plenty of time yet to check that all was prepared.

Goffin was waiting for him at the door. He had been chosen for his bulk and for his strength, and Charles had briefed him, but barely. It didn’t do to have him knowing too much.

‘Good morning, Mr Goffin. Give me ten minutes, then meet me in theatre, please.’

The young man nodded. He looked uneasy, smoking quickly, his face yellow in the morning light.

Charles marched past the sick wards to the operating theatre, and once there, he unrolled his instruments, placing them carefully on to the small, wheeled table: a blade for shaving, a small pot of oil, a pair of scissors, two scalpels, three needles and then thin black thread for the finest of stitches. He brought a scalpel up and touched it against the pad of his thumb, pressing ever so slightly, then put it down again, satisfied it was sharp as it could be. From the tall cupboards ranged along one side of the room he brought out two small bottles of chloroform and a clean rag. These he placed on the table beside the instruments. There was a knock on the door, and Charles went to open it.

‘Ah, Goffin. Come in.’

He handed a bottle of the chloroform and the rag to the young man. ‘Now, you know to hold it hard against the nose and the mouth. The trick is to let no oxygen in. The patient will undoubtedly struggle, but the harder you hold it the quicker he will lose consciousness. And then
stay with him.
I want him watched at all times. Should it seem as though he is coming round, add more of the liquid to the rag and hold it against his mouth once more. But remember – too much and there may be cardiac arrest. Only apply more if he appears to be waking. Do you understand?’

Goffin nodded. ‘Yes, sir.’ He seemed agitated. ‘May I ask—’

‘No.’ Charles spoke swiftly. ‘You may not.’

Charles cast his eyes once more over the room, then made his way over to the women’s side of the infirmary.

As soon as he entered, he sensed something was amiss. An absence. A distracted, jagged sense to the air. The matron was not there. Instead, a young, harried-looking nurse was in her place.

‘Where is Matron Holmes?’

The girl shook her head. Her eyes were red and inflamed.

‘I … there’s been an …’ And then the girl began to cry in great hiccoughing sobs.

‘What? Speak up, girl. What?’

But the girl was useless, and Charles pushed past her through the doors to the female ward. When he arrived, he saw Miss Church’s bed was empty. An indentation was present where her body had lain, but the sheets had been pulled away and the mattress was bare.

‘Dr Fuller?’ It was the young nurse, back again, hovering by his side.

‘Where is Miss Church?’ He swung round towards her.

She shook her head.

‘
Where is Miss Church?!
’ He was shouting now. ‘She is
my
patient. She should
never
have been moved without my permission.’

‘Please, Dr Fuller,’ said the girl. ‘Come with me.’

As they walked, every so often the young woman gave a small, muffled sob, but otherwise they were silent. The nurse took the lead, unlocking door after door, and after a few minutes the crying stopped and she appeared to have recovered her composure somewhat. Two, three corridors, and then down some stairs, and Charles seemed to sense everything as though for the first time: the cracks in the wall, the strange green colour of the paint, the mingled smell of ammonia and food, the distant taint of blood.

At the entrance to the mortuary, the young nurse stepped back, nodding him forward. Charles pushed open the door and stepped inside. The room was filled with a strange aqueous light, almost as though he was standing in a cavern at the bottom of the sea. Miss Church lay on the slab in the middle of the room, and from where he stood she might have been asleep. He made his way over to where she lay. Some careful person had brushed her hair so it coursed over her pillow, and a strange brightness seemed to emanate from her skin. Her position, with her hands folded over her chest, and the sheet pulled up to her chin, her hair like that and the sub-marine light, all added to the impression that she might have been drowned, but the bandages around her wrists gave the lie to that. He touched his finger to her cheek. Its coldness was a shock. He turned to the nurse. ‘How?’

‘A razor blade, Dr Fuller.’

‘And how in God’s name did she get one of those?’

‘We don’t know.’ The young woman looked stricken. ‘We think she might have had it on her all the time.’

Charles stared back at Miss Church’s face, aware only of a profound lack of surprise. ‘When was she pronounced dead?’

‘I found her this morning. About five o clock. Here.’ She handed Charles a notebook.

From the viscosity of the blood we estimate that she cut herself around three in the morning.

The words were in Soames’s spider hand. Anger flashed within him. ‘Why was I not called?’

‘I’m sorry, Doctor, but I called the matron, and she said Medical Superintendent Soames should be called instead.’

‘I see.’ He handed the notes back to her. Drummed his fingers against Miss Church’s sheet. ‘Quite so.’ Damn.
Damn.

He pulled out his pocket watch. Half past seven. If Goffin had done his work, then Mulligan would be ready. Everything was ready. The future was waiting to be born. ‘Well then, I presume the girl’s family have been informed?’

The nurse nodded.

‘Very good. In that case, I can see no further use for my presence here. I’ll leave you to watch over Miss Church.’

The nurse shrank a little from this last, but nodded. ‘Yes, Doctor.’

Out in the corridor, he paused. Propriety suggested that he should speak to the superintendent immediately. There would be questions asked, forms to fill in. Miss Church had been in his care. But propriety could wait. Hang propriety. Propriety would not birth the future. Only boldness would. Only genius. There was no question of what should happen next.

He hurried back to the operating theatre. Once there, he hesitated before entering, his breath rough and hard.
Calm. Calm.
He swung open the door and saw immediately that Goffin had performed his role: Mulligan was lying prone on a gurney in the middle of the room, his naked form covered with a sheet. The attendant was folding the last of the Irishman’s clothes in a pile on a chair. He looked up as Charles came in. The sickly-sweet smell of chloroform pervaded the room.

‘All ready?’

‘Yes, sir.’ The young man looked sweaty and distressed. ‘He’s been out for ten minutes now. Although … I think I might have used too much. He struggled. He struggled an awful lot.’

‘Show me the bottle.’ Charles snatched it from the table. ‘For God’s sake, man. You’ve used far too much.’

‘Will he die?’ Goffin was shaking now, his face on the verge of collapse.

‘I sincerely hope not,’ said Charles. ‘Leave me.’

But Goffin only took a couple of steps before turning back. ‘Please … Dr Fuller. Will you please let me know he’s all right?’

Charles waved him away with a furious hand. ‘
Leave me
.’

Goffin was on the verge of tears. ‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry. It was just … he struggled much more than I thought.’

The door closed behind him, and Charles was alone with the Irishman. Only the rattle of his heart. Only Mulligan’s harsh breathing from the table before him. The smell of the chloroform was making him feel sick.

He lifted the man’s wrist. The pulse was steady and regular. Thank God.

Next.
What came next?

He had forgotten the steps of the operation. How many times had he gone through them so that this would not occur, and yet now a thick, spongy feeling appeared to have invaded his brain. What was he to do first? He closed his eyes and it came to him: shave.

Of course.
Shave.
His eyes snapped open.

Sweat pasted his brow, and he was breathing hard again now. Hot. It was hot in here. The heat and Mulligan’s ripe smell and the chloroform and Charles’s own sweat made for a heady brew. He went to the window and opened it wide, taking several large gulps of air, and as a blessedly fresh breeze touched his neck his sickness lifted a little.

Now, he made his way over to the gurney and slowly began to peel down the man’s sheet. First the torso and then the lower half of Mulligan’s body were revealed. Charles’s breath caught; the man’s penis was curled over itself in its nest of hair, utterly soft and utterly defenceless. It seemed a different creature from the organ that had been wielded on the cricket field on Midsummer’s Day. The testicles lay beneath it, slightly squashed, slightly hidden. He reached forward and lifted the man’s member, moving it gently to the right.

Shave.

He picked up the razor and the pot of oil, and took the testicles into his palm. First, he rubbed a little of the oil on to the thin, almost transparent skin, then, pulling it taut, brought the razor across it. The hairs came away easily, leaving only extraordinary smoothness behind. When the testicles were clean, he moved to the pubis, and then the skin between the legs. There was fine, light hair on the shaft of the penis, and so he shaved there too.

He pressed a damp cloth to the area and then a dry one. He did everything with utmost care, astonished at the tenderness he felt. He looked at Mulligan’s face. He was ready. Everything was ready now.

And now the very air around him felt viscous, changed. He was overwhelmed with an emotion he couldn’t quite name: a sense that he was partaking of a great mystery, that he was close to the source of life. It felt appropriate to say something. Gently, very gently, with one hand, he cupped the man’s testicles, and with the other touched his cheek. He brought his thumb over the electric scratch of bristles, tracing the line of his mouth, and with the other hand he slowly stroked the soft, soft skin, as he began to speak, began to murmur that this act, though it might not seem so at first, was truly an act of creation, the creation of a better race. That Mulligan need have no fear. That Charles would be here beside him throughout.

A small choked sound came from the corner of the room. Charles turned slowly to see Goffin standing in the doorway. For a moment, Charles remained, in that viscous light, utterly calm, not thinking to move, one hand on Mulligan’s cheek, the other cupping his member. Until the air seemed to change again, seemed to grow quite cold and sharp, and though he could not name the look upon Goffin’s face, he knew he had never seen it on a human face before.

‘What are you doing?’ Goffin pointed at him.