The Resurrectionist (8 page)

T
HOUGH
F
LEET
S
TREET
lies but a hundred yards away, here silence ticks, the rags hung on the lines overhead moving like wraiths upon the occluded air. Not for the first time in these last few minutes I glance back, thinking I hear a sound, straining to make out something through the fog. For a moment I think I see a shape revealed, but almost at once it is gone. With thoughts of thieves I draw my coat closer and turn aside, slipping down a covered passageway. And then all at once he is there, leaning in a doorway.

‘These are unfriendly streets,’ he says, straightening to block my path.

‘Do you follow me?’ I demand.

‘Why should I follow you?’ he asks with his silky laugh.

‘That is something I would not know,’ I say.

‘How goes the business of your master’s house?’

‘The worse for your attentions,’ I reply.

‘I am sorry to hear that.’ He smiles, and I feel a twitch of complicity. Shaking my head, I make a noise of disbelief.

‘Yet it is said you refused a child.’

I hesitate, realising as I do my reaction has given him whatever answer it was he sought. For a moment he is silent.

‘It ended up on van Hooch’s table,’ he says. When I do not reply he takes a cigar from his case and, striking a match upon his boot, lights it carefully.

‘Tyne is not a man to anger lightly. Why take such a risk?’ The smell of the cigar mingles with the sulphur from the match as he draws back on the smoke and lets it coil from his lips. Then with a lazy movement of his wrist he flicks the match away.

‘Your master did me a disservice, you know. I came to him as a friend and he insulted me.’

‘You threatened him.’

He shakes his head. ‘No,’ he says. ‘It was he who took what was mine and sought to do me harm.’ I am uncomfortably aware of the passage walls close against us, the low roof overhead stained with soot.

‘These troubles of his, they are in his power to prevent. Remind him of that.’

I nod, and he comes closer, the sweet, throat-searing smoke surrounding us.

‘It is said de Mandeville has made a project of you, that he takes you drinking, and to see his women.’

I do not answer, and slowly he moves past me, until he stands at my back.

‘I could help you.’ His voice is lower now, more intimate.

‘I cannot imagine how,’ I reply, and he chuckles.

‘Come, think upon it. You are an orphan, without property or a name, and already it is said you owe money to the Jews.’

‘I am a gentleman,’ I say, the words coming stiff and broken from my mouth.

‘You are proud. That is good. But do not let that pride make you blind.’

I stand, unspeaking.

‘We all of us have need of friends in this world, Gabriel.’

‘I have friends enough already,’ I reply.

For a long moment there is silence, then at last he steps away. ‘Tell your master that we met.’

Once he has gone, I stand looking into the space he has left. My hand, I find, is clutched tight around the package my master has entrusted to me. Under the fog the city seems to breathe. Upon my neck a weight, as if I were watched somewhere.

Nervous, I turn and walk, faster than I should.

I understand full well the import of Lucan’s words. Just last night Caley and Walker arrived late, dawn only half an hour away, Caley beating upon the door over and over like a man possessed. Robert went down.

‘Silence, man,’ Robert hissed as he opened it, but Caley only pushed past him, Walker following with a bundle across his shoulder.

In the cellar Caley gestured to Walker to lay the bundle on the floor. I stood back, uncomfortably aware of his temperament. As Robert drew his knife to cut the ropes, Mr Tyne appeared on the stairs, watching the scene from above.

Even before Robert drew back the bindings the smell told us what we would find. But the truth was worse – the body blistered and bruised and foul. Letting the bindings fall, Robert rose, turned to Caley.

‘You will take it?’ Caley asked.

Robert looked at me, and then up at Mr Tyne.

‘We cannot, you know that.’

Caley hesitated. Behind him I could see Walker watching, his ruined face pale.

‘No,’ he said, ‘you will give us eight guineas for it.’

Robert did not speak, just shook his head, his expression firm. Less certain now, Caley glanced at Mr Tyne and then back at Robert.

‘Six,’ he said, too quickly.

‘No,’ Robert replied. ‘The body is spoiled, we will not take it.’

‘Then what of us?’ Caley demanded. ‘Would you have us starve?’ But before Robert could answer, Walker’s voice broke in.

‘It is L-l-lucan,’ he stammered, ‘he incites the keepers of the yards against us.’ Caley shot him a look of fury.

‘I am sorry,’ Robert said, ‘but these matters are not my master’s concern.’

‘It is your master and his schemes which brought this retribution upon us!’ Caley said, his voice trembling. ‘And now he abandons us.’ As he spoke he rose high on the balls of his feet, his body tensed as if to strike.

‘A scheme you were party to,’ Robert said carefully. Caley hesitated again, the moment seeming to stretch on endlessly. Then, with a sudden movement, he dragged the bundle up.

‘Come,’ he spat at Walker, ‘we’ll not tarry here.’

Back at the house Mr Tyne follows me as I climb the stairs towards my master’s room. He is close behind, unspeaking, but I do not turn. A month has passed since my refusal of the child, and still he keeps the fact of it close to himself, as if he thinks in time to divine its cause.

As I enter, Mr Poll looks up.

‘What is it?’ he asks.

‘I have a message,’ I say, shifting uneasily. Behind me there
is a foot upon the boards; glancing back I see Robert, Charles beside him.

‘From whom?’ asks Mr Poll.

‘Lucan,’ I say.

‘You spoke to him?’

I nod. ‘He wished me to remind you this thing is in your power to end.’

‘How so?’ he asks.

‘He says you have insulted him.’

‘And now he would have me beg forgiveness of him? Never.’

‘Surely there is no harm in it,’ Robert says. ‘Why not end this matter if we can?’

Mr Poll looks at him with undisguised annoyance.

‘Be careful, sir,’ he snaps.

Robert hesitates, but does not relent. ‘And what if he keeps Caley and Walker from us as well? What then?’

‘Silence!’ Mr Poll snaps. ‘I will not be lectured by my own apprentice.’ In his fury his voice grows coarse, a tradesman’s voice, and I fancy Charles flinches.

Robert waits then, while Mr Poll considers.

‘Damn him,’ he says finally. ‘He will not have the pleasure of seeing me beg.’

I
HAVE WANDERED AWAY
from Charles and the others at the theatre when I come upon her without warning. At first I think she means to turn away, but she hesitates, and I have time to speak her name.

‘I had not thought to see you here,’ she says. Her face is painted and rouged, and though up close it gives her a hardness which I had not seen before it also makes her seem younger, more fragile.

‘A friend of Charles’s has taken a box,’ I say. ‘I am his guest.’

She nods, but does not reply, her silence making me afraid I have angered her, or that she fears I mean her harm.

‘I came to your plays,’ I say awkwardly. ‘I saw you upon the stage.’

‘In company?’

‘Alone,’ I say. Then, ‘I am sorry for the way we met,’ and she looks at me, her eyes softening. For a moment it is as if there is something she means to say – then she lowers her head.

‘I must go,’ she says, ‘I am expected.’ But suddenly another woman appears beside her. She is a pretty thing, and glancing first at Arabella and then at me she grins cheekily, with the air of one who has stumbled upon a tryst.

‘Who’s this?’ she asks, looking me up and down, her gaze unabashed and amused beneath her blonde curls.

‘This is Mr Swift,’ says Arabella, a sort of panic in her eyes. Her companion nods, still with that expression of lively amusement.

‘Isn’t he the handsome one?’

‘I am sorry,’ I say, ‘but…’

‘This is Miss Amy Stanton,’ Arabella says. ‘Mr Swift is an associate of Mr de Mandeville’s.’

‘You are a surgeon?’ she asks, quivering with an irresistibly mercenary glee.

‘No,’ I laugh. ‘I am but an apprentice.’

Lifting her fan to her face she looks away. ‘That’s a pity,’ she says, although she shows no sign of any regret.

‘Perhaps you might join us?’ I gesture towards the staircase and the box, but Arabella shakes her head.

‘No,’ she says, ‘that is not possible. We must go.’

Amy sighs in mock exasperation.

‘Perhaps you might call upon us, then?’ Now she is all teasing wickedness.

Arabella begins to speak, no doubt meaning to contradict her friend, but Amy cuts her off with a hand upon her sleeve.

‘Mr Swift?’

I look to Arabella, who is caught.

‘I would be honoured,’ I say.

‘Good!’ Amy’s eyes flash with delight. ‘We have too few handsome men about the place.’ Her eyes hold mine, then, as if we have reached some kind of understanding, she lets Arabella draw her away into the crowd.

Only when I turn do I see Charles above me, paused at the
entrance to the corridor which leads to our box, one of the women who has accompanied us beside him. Five minutes past, when I left them, she had been shrieking with laughter at something or other. Though Charles seems unaffected, she is drunk, her cheeks flushed, and as I watch she turns to him, her face pressing against his neck, nuzzling. We stand like this, staring one at the other. Then, letting one arm encircle her, he draws her close, his eyes not leaving mine.

That night Charles’s mood seems to burn too bright, the air around him dangerous, fickle as as quicksilver. What part in it is mine I do not know, only that tonight I am afraid of him, afraid of what he might do. That there is some change in him these last weeks all of us now see. When he is alone with me he is still friendly, and even, when he forgets himself, careless. To be asked to accompany him on a visit or to assist in an operation remains a pleasure I never fail to enjoy. But in company, particularly Chifley’s, his manner is different, harder and less predictable, the two of them urging each other ever further as they do tonight.

Only May seems still able to resist when this madness is upon them. He comes with us again these days, and whether chivvied and coaxed by Charles, or ridiculed by Chifley, who seems to regard May with something close to scorn, he stays always removed, laughing with them but never quite part of whatever revel we are engaged in. Even Charles is different when he is there, something peculiar in his manner towards him, an exaggerated politeness, almost as if he does not wish to come too close to him. And though I could not say why, for her name is never mentioned, I see that the cause for this is Molly, and the hold May has allowed her over himself.

What it is that binds those two I cannot see, for their
natures have little in common. Where May is kind, in Molly there is something jealous and spiteful that cannot be won. With May her moods change without warning: one moment they are tender as lambs with each other, the next she taunts him cruelly. The hurt this causes him is clear enough, but worse still are those moments when he answers her in kind.

Nevertheless as the weeks pass I have found myself more and more in May’s company. In those hours when I am free I climb the stairs to his room, sometimes to talk, other times to sit and watch him work. He has an openness about him, a quality of kindness, which makes it near impossible not to like him, for all his peculiarity. More than once I have come upon him engaged in conversation with a shopkeeper or crossing-boy or gentlewoman, their faces frozen in an expression of bewilderment as he talks at them uncontrollably, hands moving all the while, gesticulating right or left. He has no quality of discretion either, once a thought is in his head it is upon his tongue, regardless of its nature or tone. And every time, he moans and tries to catch himself, sinking into a state of despondency for having so betrayed whichever friend or acquaintance it is he has mentioned, before beginning in ardent terms to try to extricate himself with explanation and excuses, a process so predictable in its course that it is all one can do not to laugh as he proceeds.

Only in his work does he find some measure of stillness. When he takes up brush or pen he seems able to work for hours at a stretch without a word, pausing now and then to stare into space or move about the room in thought, his movements as steady and deliberate as, at other times, they are awkward and rushed. Little is able to disturb this mood once it is upon him, and I have seen him work on as the light fades from the room, until he draws almost in darkness, as if he need not see elsewhere but in his mind. There is great peace to be found in watching him work thus, not just for
me but for Molly, and it is not uncommon for the two of us to sit together and watch him as he works, close then as we never are at other times. What thoughts she harbours in these hours I could not say, but she appears gentler, less angry.

This peace persists too, into the hours that come after his work. With the wind pressing upon the roof, we gather fondly close around the stove and talk. And May takes forth the opium and with wine we drink it. A few grains are enough at first to slip into its embrace, the black-eyed dreams it provides. Time then has no meaning, all that matters is the sound of our voices, the small space of light in which the three of us sit, May, and Molly, and me, adrift upon the night.

By the door I pause. Robert is within, intent upon his work. On the bench before Robert a woman’s foot, already blackened with the taint of its own corruption. Divided from its body it is anonymous, the gracile toes twisted and burred by years of shoes worn too tight. Yet as Robert works it reveals itself, his steady knife pressing into the flesh’s soft resistance, the slipping meat slowly exposing the sinewed bone and cartilage. From the window pale light falls on Robert’s face, smoothing the lines of care away. He pauses now and then to make a mark upon the page beside him. As a draughtsman he has an awkward hand, yet in this sketch, its very clumsiness, there is something I have not glimpsed before. A quality of grace, as if these simple lines of light and shade marked out a plainsong for this strange temple, its small cathedral of bone and flesh an obscured divinity.