A Rush of Blood

by David Mark

  ‘Guilty as charged,’ smiles Lottie. ‘That’s what we’re trying to do, isn’t it? Get the conversation going again. Get people to recognize their own mortality and to embrace it.’

  ‘Sounds like a suicide club,’ says Sheamus, shoving his finger in his ear and twisting it, as if chalking a pool cue.

  Lottie feels her enthusiasm waning. She decides to leave it until Molly returns before she films herself. She always feels more vibrant in Molly’s company. She brings a sparkle to her eyes. Puts colour on her cheeks. Her last three casual boyfriends have all subtly implied that she sees Molly as more than a friend. She has not dignified the accusation with an explanation. She doubts they would understand. She does love Molly, but it is not in any way that her occasional bedroom partners could understand. She just wants to be near her. Wants to please her. Likes breathing in the same air she has breathed out. She is her best friend and something more. Something indefinable. Something that makes her a pathologist and morbidity scholar who actually believes in souls. She has dug around inside enough corpses to know that not everything can be found with a scalpel.

  ‘Not bothering?’ asks Sheamus, as Lottie puts her phone down on the barrel.

  ‘Maybe in a bit. I need inspiration. Or another drink.’

  ‘I’ll get them,’ says Sheamus, and takes her empty glass. ‘Spare you having to talk to the sweaty chap again.’

  Lottie smiles her thanks. She likes Sheamus. He’s physically on the repulsive side but she imagines she will probably allow him to have sex with her some day. He is a good friend and has helped her with lots of research projects and she fancies it would be rude not to give him something that he would so obviously enjoy. She has told Molly as such, only to be told off for valuing herself too cheaply. Lottie spent a lot of time thinking about the scolding and eventually realized what her friend had been trying to tell her. On the back of the telling-off, she has decided not to have sex with people until they really deserve it. That way, the reward has more value.

  ‘I’m sorry if I sounded like I was going on,’ says Christine, and Lottie is horrified to see tears in the young technician’s eyes. There is steam on her thick glasses.

  ‘Oh goodness, don’t be silly,’ says Lottie, feeling awkward and putting a hand on her well-upholstered arm. ‘You’re my friend. I love to hear your opinions.’

  ‘I always let myself down,’ says Christine, looking at her shoes. ‘My dad always said so. So much potential and then I spoil it with my big mouth.’

  Lottie looks around, hoping for rescue. None is forthcoming. She is stuck with this shy, sad little Goth girl and her rucksack full of assorted woes.

  ‘Hey, actually, I wanted your opinion on something,’ says Lottie, desperately trying to distract her companion.

  ‘Oh yes?’ asks Christine, looking up.

  ‘Yes … erm, yes … that creepy chap in the front bar.’

  ‘Brendan? He collects medical equipment. Specimens. Victorian paraphernalia. He’s quite interesting.’

  Lottie cocks her head, surprised. ‘Really? I didn’t know you’d spoken.’

  ‘Yes, I knew him before I started drinking here. He’s a bit of a drinker but he has a good collection. He’s the one I suggested you have on for an episode, remember?’

  Lottie keeps her face impassive. She receives a lot of messages from Christine and tends to skim most of them or delete them undigested. ‘Oh, right. Sorry, two and two didn’t make four for a second. I’m such a ditz … How did you know him, then?’

  Christine shrugs. ‘We were at the same auction. He knows his stuff, like I said.’

  Lottie has a hazy memory of Christine’s original application for the intern position at the hospital. She had listed her interests as ‘taxidermy, morbid anatomy and the study of surgical equipment’. It had accompanied a degree in histopathology and a philosophy diploma. She’d seemed absurdly overqualified on paper. Only when she interviewed the timid little thing did Lottie understand why she had struggled to find a better position.

  ‘Do you have much of a collection then?’ asks Lottie, hoping that Sheamus will hurry back with their drinks.

  ‘I wasn’t buying,’ said Christine. ‘This was for a research paper I was putting together. The history of transfusion and the symbolic role of blood. Some of Jean Denys’s papers were available to be viewed. I couldn’t resist. Neither could he. He’s a big fan.’

  Lottie screws up her face as she tries to place the name. ‘Anatomist,’ she says, wincing. ‘Transfused calf’s blood into a mad bloke in Paris to try and calm his troubled mind. Ended up charged with murder.’

  Christine nods, appreciatively. The tears in her eyes are sparkling now as she warms to her theme.

  ‘Did you know that in ancient Rome, people would pay to drink the blood of dying gladiators so that the strength of the fallen could pass on to the living? The blood contained the essence of a person, you see. Fifteen hundred years later, people still believed that. When Denys transferred the blood of the calf to the mental patient, it was in the certain belief that the calf’s “mild soul” would quieten the heated, troubled blood in the recipient’s body. Of course, that’s the tip of the iceberg. You wouldn’t believe the lengths that he and his rivals went to practise their techniques. There were anatomists transfusing milk and wine and vinegar into their pets to see what effect it would have on their disposition. I’ll send you the link if you think there could be a webcast in it. For you, I mean. Not with me, or anything …’

  Lottie nods. She has never seen her friend so energized. She has a sudden mental picture of Christine’s home. Can imagine a lot of dead birds and stuffed rats in wedding dresses. She would put good money on candles in empty wine bottles, pictures of cemeteries taken through cobwebbed railings, and at least one top hat crowned with feathers. She feels a sudden surge of fondness for Christine and her ilk. She likes the idea that there are thousands of people out there, all fascinated by her work and her webcasts and the work she is doing to make death as sexy as it used to be.

  ‘She can talk,’ says Sheamus, returning from the bar.

  ‘Molly? She’s back?’

  ‘No, old girl. Looks like something from a fairy tale.’

  ‘Connie?’

  ‘Apparently I’m a right skinnymalink, whatever that might be. Need a good sheep dip. Smarten myself up a bit and get the mice out of my beard and I might be a looker.’

  Lottie laughs. ‘She’s got character. Molly says her nan gave evidence at the Mary Kelly inquest. Spotted Mary with a gent in a tall hat the day before she died.’

  Christine looks startled. ‘Is that true? Her own grandmother?’

  ‘Well, if Connie was born about 1930 then of course it would be possible, but no doubt half the East End can lay claim to the Ripper story.’

  ‘Doesn’t she talk about it? That would be fascinating.’ Christine looks as though she has just learned that she is in the presence of a megastar. ‘Would she talk to you?’

  ‘Don’t even go there,’ says Lottie, affecting an American accent. ‘She hates all the Ripper stuff. Reckons we should all get over it.’

  ‘But she drinks in a Ripper bar!’

  ‘She likes the atmosphere, so she says. Likes the way Molly handles problems. Thinks I’m a right mess of a human being. Doesn’t like the hair, although I bet you half her neighbours in sheltered housing have a blue rinse.’

  They drink their drinks and Lottie feels herself becoming more enthusiastic about a broadcast. She checks her reflection and the phone’s connection and a moment later is talking into her phone.

  ‘Evening, Coffin Club. Bloody horrible night, isn’t it? I’m not sure the rockabilly curl will last all the way home. I’ll be looking like a drowned Fraggle by morning. Just wanted to drop you all a quick hello from yes, you guessed it, London’s finest gin bar. It’s been a fine night in the company of these fabulous people.’ She spins the camera and Sheamus waves. Christine covers her face, as if the light of the phone will burn he
r. ‘We’ve got a shy one! You’ll have to excuse us. We’ve had a shock. A fellow enthusiast of all things curious has just proudly displayed his collection of optical prosthetics. That’s glass eyes to you and me. All different shades, from iris to the whites. I’m not sure which shade I’ll need come the morning. Old piano keys, I reckon. Smoker teeth. Anyways, if you’re interested I’ll ask him to have a root through his collection and unearth a few oddities for your pleasure. Any requests? Anyhow, go and play with your pickled livers. Dr Lottie, out.’

  Lottie gives a sigh of relief. Got it first time. She can expect at least 50,000 views. Her agent will be happy.

  ‘Don’t do that to me please,’ says Christine, quietly, in her ear. ‘I don’t want to be seen. I’ve told you that before. I’m not like you.’

  There is an icy tone in Christine’s voice. She has gone pale. Lottie feels instantly terrible. ‘Oh, darling, I’m so sorry! I forget. It just comes naturally to me, I suppose. But I promise, I won’t ever point the camera at you again.’

  Christine seems mollified. She gives a little nod and starts to put on her coat which has been hanging on the back of the chair. Lottie waves a hand in front of her own face, wafting at her eyes. There had nearly been tears. She feels chastened and the sensation is an uncomfortable one. She finds herself feeling both guilty and ill-used at once. She hadn’t meant any harm. And sure, shyness is a horrible thing, but you can overcome it. She’s proof – you can become somebody new. The girl needs to go drink some gladiator blood.

  ‘I could use you in early in the morning,’ says Lottie, breezily. ‘The syphilis specimens need to be moved to a new jar. Is that cool?’

  Christine gives a nod. Her eyes are hard to read behind her glasses. Lottie realizes she is being a cow and tries to make amends. ‘Thanks for all that info on the blood chap. I’ll look into that, yeah. Could you send me the piece you wrote?’

  A little grin splits Christine’s face and Lottie feels relieved. She is not great at dealing with emotional people. Her expertise is the dead.

  Lottie sits in silence with Sheamus for a time. She can think of little to say. She would like to be on camera all the time. She seems better able to communicate when she has an audience instead of a companion.

  ‘Shall we go sit with Connie?’ she asks, at length. ‘We can hear what she thinks of my career choices and shoes.’

  ‘If she calls me a lanky fucker one more time I may cry,’ says Sheamus.

  ‘Prepare yourself for tears,’ says Lottie, and lifts herself from the chair. As she glances at her phone, she sees that Christine has already sent her half a dozen links to different articles on Jean Denys. She rolls her eyes and sends a smiley face of thanks. She’ll read them later.

  ‘Anything?’ asks Sheamus.

  ‘A sea of blood,’ says Lottie, shrugging. ‘Honestly, Christine needs another hobby. You can’t live on taxidermy and specimen-labelling alone.’

  ‘That’s what my old Mum used to say,’ mutters Sheamus, as they emerge into the front bar. Connie is sitting in her usual position and she covers her eyes with her gnarled hands as she looks at the duo in the doorway.

  ‘Facking hell, it’s the Munsters.’

  ‘I love her,’ says Sheamus, sitting down at the bar. ‘Connie, I love you.’

  ‘Fack off, Beanpole.’

  ‘Now now, Connie, no need for that …’

  ‘And you look like a … what are those things? Funny shoes? Out on the common. Pick things up …’

  ‘A Womble?’ asks Lottie, hopefully.

  ‘No, a hooker, that’s it.’

  Lottie shakes her head, face all smiles. She loves this place. Loves it here. Loves London, with its rain and its noise and the feeling that every breath has been through a million other lungs before it reaches your own. No wonder it attracts people like Christine, she thinks. No wonder it’s a Mecca for those with a hunger for bones and blood. The city is built upon so much of it that it’s amazing the East End doesn’t sink.

  ‘Your health, Connie,’ says Lottie, raising a glass.

  ‘Fack off.’

  HILDA

  Late for everything, Mum and me. Never turned up anywhere without the need to spit out an apology while sucking in oxygen and looking around for a water fountain. We were the scatterbrains. The dizzy duo that the sensible parents would scowl at as we ran across the playground, eating a sausage roll from a plastic wrapper and gamely licking yesterday’s graffiti off the back of my hand. Sometimes Mum got upset at the disapproving looks she received from the other parents who sat double-parked in their Land Rovers and Porsche Cayennes and spoke with their stylists and trainers and poodle orthodontists on hands-free mobile phones. I’d heard other people call them ‘yummy-mummies’.

  We were late on the night we learned about Meda. It was 6.14 p.m. by the time we made it through the blue door and up the stairs that led to Sylvie’s studio. Wet hair and soaking shoulders and one leg of my jogging pants soaked to a darker blue than the other. We stood outside the door for a moment, catching our breath.

  ‘Got your snack?’ asked Mum, looking me up and down.

  ‘Two mini cheeses and a Kit-Kat,’ I said, patting the pockets of the soaked denim jacket.

  ‘Eight, yeah? I was going to head back to the pub but by the time I get there I’ll have to come back. You could go with Meda’s mum but I’ve lost her number … Oh, yes, there’s that chicken place up on the busy road. Or that nice old bar in Limehouse. Do you think I could get there in time? Why am I asking? Go on, get in, love you … be brilliant!’

  I had a grin on my face as I opened the door. Mum always said that. Said it every morning when she dropped me off at school. It was as much a part of our life together as ‘love you, daisy-brain’ before she switched the light off and ‘wake up, numpty-face’ each morning.

  Sylvie was demonstrating the new routine, all sinewy and stretchy like she was made of knotted tights. The girls in the front row were focussing. Mimicking her moves, bright eyes and lineless faces. Nobody even looked as I scampered to my place in the back row, pulling off my jacket and shaking my hair. I chucked my stuff into the pile and did a quick couple of stretches then slotted myself in at my usual position. Greza, the Turkish girl with the huge brown eyes was smiling at me from my right. I gave her a grin back and looked past her for the familiar bulk of Meda. I couldn’t see her. Next to Greza stood Priya, with her perfect black hair sleek and dark and silky, like fancy pyjamas. I looked around to see if Meda had been moved to a different line or whether she was sitting on one of the benches by the window nursing a sprain of some kind. She wasn’t there. I glanced at the pile of coats and bags and could see nothing of hers. I scanned the room, hoping to see her big, daft shape. I can picture it perfectly. There were a few posters on the wall from performances that the class had taken part in and a big framed print of some pop star from Belgium and a woman who looked like a younger version of Sylvie. Kids in front and behind me and everything reflected back from the big mirror that covered the whole wall by the door. A black and silver stereo system hooked up to a triangular speaker, reverberating each time the bass line thumped. But no Meda.

  ‘She’s not here,’ said Paulette, leaning in. She was a big girl herself, with a deep voice and breath of cheese and onion. ‘She wasn’t at school either. Maybe she’s got that bug. My auntie had it and she was in bed for three days. Makes you sick so much that your eyes pop.’

  I was disappointed. Dance class had been fun at first but I’d been bored for the few weeks before Meda and I became friends. I wasn’t as good as I wanted to be but the amount of practice required to make me better seemed like an awful lot of effort. Wednesday nights had become more about catching up with my friend and the thought of waiting a week to show off my new language skills seemed unfair. There was a distinct listlessness to my dancing that night. I was the little black cloud at the rear of the studio, scowling every time I spun. The dance music seemed too powerful and enthusiastic. I wanted to pull the plu
g and listen to the sound of the rain on the glass and the swish of tyres on wet road.

  Sylvie had no answers when I managed to grab a moment with her at break time.

  ‘Did Meda’s mum call? Did she say if she was coming? She might turn up after break …’

  Sylvie gave me one of her shrugs. She was good at shrugs. She had the cheekbones and shoulder blades for it. ‘I have heard nothing,’ she said, sticking out her lower lip and opening her hands wide to emphasize her point. ‘You are her friend. Call her. Do you have Facebook? Is she on that? Tell her mother we pay in twelve-week blocks so she must bring her money next week, yes?’

  I sought out the other girls who attended the same school as Meda. Sian was one of the better dancers and normally looked at us back-rowers like something a tramp had just coughed up. But I must have caught her on a good day because she stopped dipping her banana into toffee yoghurt and gave me her attention.

  ‘She normally walks past my bus stop but she didn’t yesterday or today,’ she said, tugging at the tail of one plait and cocking her head at the strip lights on the ceiling. ‘And my friend Sofia sometimes walks with her to the chicken place on the way home and she told me on WhatsApp that she’d been on her own when that lad with the tram-lines in his eyebrow said those things about her sister being a slag and if Meda had have been with her she would have said I’m sure so maybe she’s just off sick or something.’

  I replayed what she had told me a few times and put in the things she had missed, like pauses and sense. I asked questions but she didn’t have any answers and she got bored quite quickly. She started playing with her phone and I felt myself getting hot across my back as my temper prickled. I’d received a mobile phone for my birthday but had lost it within three weeks and would not be getting another one until I could prove I could look after something expensive. Mum said I certainly wasn’t going to be allowed to set up any accounts on social media. She’d read about some girl of my age who had thought she was talking to a distant cousin on Facebook and was actually talking to a dirty teacher from her school who persuaded her to send him photos of herself without her knickers on. I promised I would never send anybody any pictures of anything but it would be a while before I changed her mind.