The Life of a Teenage Body-snatcher

by Doug MacLeod

‘The medical students. He was a doctor, you see, and he knew how hard it is to get the bodies.’

  ‘Then what’s he doing dressed in a suit like an old toff?’

  I am becoming angry. All this time, Plenitude does not speak. I think it unfair of him not to defend me when Lucifer speaks in such a mocking tone. Instead, Plenitude busies himself with the cart.

  ‘How old are you?’ asks Lucifer.

  ‘Sixteen.’

  ‘You talk very nicely, like a gentleman.’

  ‘I am a gentleman.’

  ‘Do you suffer any ailments at all?’

  ‘No, I’ve enjoyed good health every day of my life.’

  ‘Does your skin bear markings of any kind?’

  ‘It doesn’t, but I thank you not to ask personal questions.’

  Plenitude at last joins us. ‘Might I intervene?’

  Lucifer ignores him and continues with his strange cross-examination. ‘You’re quite muscular,’ he says, reaching to feel my bicep.

  ‘You are becoming importunate,’ I say, taking his hand from my arm. ‘My business is to present you with my grandfather’s body and that is all. He’s yours.’

  ‘I’ll have to take him inside, so that I can better determine … the handling fee.’

  Lucifer yanks hard at the sack. I don’t like to see him being so rough with my late grandfather.

  ‘Do you mind if I do that?’ I ask.

  ‘How will you carry him alone?’ asks Lucifer.

  ‘Over my shoulder, in a fireman’s lift. I am strong enough.’

  ‘I’m sure. Do your joints ever bother you?’

  ‘You are being importunate again.’

  I turn to hoist up Grandfather.

  ‘And such a symmetrical back,’ says Lucifer, running a hand down my spine.

  I expect Plenitude to be gallant and chide Lucifer for his unwanted remarks. Instead, Plenitude finds fault with me.

  ‘Thomas, I’ve told you not to carry a dead body like that. They are fragile things, not bags of coke to be heaved about.’

  I do not turn around. ‘Nevertheless I prefer to carry him myself.’

  ‘Please don’t.’

  The next thing I feel is a hard, swift blow to the back of the head. All I remember after that is darkness and the sleep of reason.

  CHAPTER 4

  The first thing I am aware of is mud. I look down to see my gloved hands caked in the stuff. My sleeves are likewise covered in filth. My clothes are wet. There is a fierce wind battering my face. I hear Sultan trot and feel the rocking of the cart.

  ‘Awake at last,’ says Plenitude in a motherly tone. ‘You might like to wear this.’

  He hands me what appears to be a lump of mud. ‘It’s your monkey cap. A little soiled, I’m afraid.’

  I feel the back of my head. There is a lump like a cumquat.

  ‘What happened?’ I ask.

  ‘That wretched Lucifer. He coshed you.’

  ‘Coshed me?’

  ‘Hit you with a cosh. Do you know what it is?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘That is because you are a gentleman. However, Lucifer is impetuous and territorial. The yard is his lair. He calls it Lucifer’s Yard – and I’m afraid he thought you were taking liberties. You will be pleased to know that after you fell unconscious, I gave Lucifer a thorough dressing down. The names I called him. He looked horrified.’

  ‘How can he be horrified when he already has the most horrible name in the world?’

  ‘I’ve never seen anyone tremble so much. Trust me, he is far more the injured party than you. Shake the mud off your monkey cap and put it on.’

  I clean the monkey cap as best I can and pull it over my head, feeling a stab of pain from where Lucifer struck me.

  ‘Who’s the King of England?’ asks Plenitude.

  ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘Answer the question.’

  ‘George the Fourth.’

  ‘Who’s the Prime Minister?’

  ‘The Duke of Wellington.’

  ‘And before him?’

  ‘Lord Goderich.’

  ‘And who’s the Prime Minister of France?’

  ‘I have absolutely no idea, nor do I care. Do they even have a Prime Minister?’

  ‘Quite correct. Your brain has not been affected by the coshing and you’re as sharp as my dagger.’

  I reach into my coat to see if Plenitude’s dagger and pistol are still there.

  ‘I thought I’d better relieve you of them,’ says Plenitude. ‘You might have come out of your sleep muddled. You might even have taken me for your enemy.’

  ‘How long was I unconscious?’ I ask.

  ‘A while. You missed the storm. It’s a pity, you would have liked it.’

  ‘Was there thunder and lightning?’

  ‘Nearly an hour of it.’

  ‘You’re right, I would have liked it.’

  Dawn is breaking. In the soft light I further examine my clothes. I am caked in mud from head to foot.

  ‘We’ll have you clean in no time,’ Plenitude says. ‘We’re no more than a half hour from Bolter’s Lane.’

  ‘What was the handling fee?’ I ask.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘How much did Lucifer pay you for my grandfather?’

  Plenitude sighs. ‘Very little, I’m afraid. Just a few pennies. I should have bargained for more.’

  ‘What did he pay you exactly?’

  ‘Ten pounds.’

  ‘That’s more than a few pennies.’

  ‘It will barely cover my expenses, especially as half of the money belongs to you.’

  ‘I don’t want it.’

  ‘I would be a robber if I didn’t give it to you. Buy yourself some new clothes. I’m sure you have a very good tailor. If you don’t, I can recommend one. A young man like you should always have a good tailor. Here.’

  Plenitude hands me something wrapped in paper. It feels warm. I unwrap the paper and find a single muffin that smells of orange.

  ‘I told you I’d buy you a muffin,’ says Plenitude, ‘though you’d better wash your hands before you eat it.’

  At the tannery, Plenitude hangs a pot of water over the fireplace and lights the wood and kindling. ‘You’ll warm up soon,’ he says. ‘Sit by it.’

  He leads Sultan to the stables. Now that dim morning light penetrates the holes in the roof, I am given a proper view of my surroundings. It seems more like a charnel house than a tannery. Certainly there are animal skins soaking in vats and hanging from rails that run along the wall. But I also see a barrel full of bones. They look like the jawbones of cattle.

  ‘They’re for false teeth,’ says Plenitude, returning. ‘Cow’s teeth make surprisingly good substitutes for human ones.’

  From behind a workbench, Plenitude drags a hipbath and places it in front of the fire. He smiles. Plenitude has perfectly white teeth, like a teenage girl.

  ‘Your own teeth look very fine indeed,’ I say.

  ‘So do yours, Thomas.’

  ‘Are they cow’s teeth?’

  Plenitude laughs. ‘No. They are not cow’s teeth.’

  He takes the pot from the fire and fills the bath, then lowers in an elbow to test the temperature. He looks satisfied.

  ‘What will you tell your family about tonight?’ Plenitude asks.

  ‘Nothing, of course.’

  ‘Surely you’ll need to provide some excuse for your absence. Won’t your parents be worried?’

  ‘My father is dead.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear it.’

  ‘I barely remember him. He died when I was one.’

  ‘Awful.’

  ‘And my mother – well, that won’t be a problem. Her widowhood has made her quite detached from the world.’

  ‘The poor dear.’

  ‘My brother John has recently left home so he too will be unaware of my absence. We attend the same school but John is two years below me and we rarely see each other.’

  ‘Fourte
en seems a very young age to move away from home.’

  ‘John is precocious.’

  ‘I am confused, Thomas. Your mother did not remarry?’

  ‘No. Her marriage to my father proved unsuccessful and she did not wish to repeat the experience.’

  ‘Then how do you have a brother who is two years younger than you, if your father died when you were only one?’

  ‘John is adopted.’

  ‘Ah. I understand. But it is most unusual for an orphanage to allow a single lady to adopt a child. Even a fine lady, which I’m sure your mother must be.’

  ‘The orphanage at Wishall became so overcrowded that I wouldn’t be surprised if some of the poor children were adopted to wolves.’

  ‘Tell me something about John.’

  ‘He is greedy beyond belief and lives in his own mansion. Mother would prefer he lived at home, since he is so young. But John maintains that he is more than capable of looking after himself, with the aid of his manservant.’

  ‘Surely if your mother wants John to live at home, she could notify the authorities? There must be laws against fourteen-year-old boys –’

  ‘For mother to pursue the case, she would need to prove that she can provide a stable home environment for John. I fear there are few people who would take such a view.’

  ‘How very sad.’

  ‘Not really. I think that Mother and John are both relatively happy in their peculiar ways. Mother has her two lady-friends who visit more often now. It was awkward when John was there, for he despised them so and would try to poison them. John resides in the mansion because he wishes to impress. It is his empty ambition to be a millionaire before he is eighteen, and I fully expect it will happen.’

  ‘What is the mansion called?’

  ‘Bradford Manor.’

  ‘A grand name. Will you go to school today?’

  ‘In the afternoon. By then I will have made up some excuse for my failure to attend the morning classes.’

  ‘Then all is well. Give me your clothes, Thomas, and I will take care of them. At the moment they are more mud than fabric, but I can work wonders with carbolic soap.’

  I hand my filthy coat to Plenitude.

  ‘Your trousers too, please. You can’t go home caked in filth. I will supply you with fresh clothes to wear while your original ones are cleaned and hung out to dry. Now, take your bath.’

  I undress in the warmth of the fire. Plenitude places a loofah and soap into the bath.

  ‘The loofah is a wondrous thing,’ he says. ‘Just like a sponge from the sea, and yet we find it at the heart of a marrow. Nature is truly remarkable.’

  I agree that nature is remarkable, then hand my clothes to Plenitude. As he walks away with them, his limp seems more pronounced.

  I lower myself into the hipbath and realise for the first time how my body aches. It has been a long and eventful night. How can Plenitude, at the age of fifty, go about his resurrectionist tasks if they are so taxing?

  The water in the hipbath turns brown as I wash my face. Even in the stinking tannery, I can smell my own foul scent. With soap and loofah I wash under my arms, enjoying the sensation of warm water on my skin.

  I hear Plenitude return, whistling. It’s a low sombre whistle, like the tune to a hymn. Then the whistling turns to words and I realise that it is not Plenitude.

  ‘Hark! the judgment trumpet calls;

  Soul, rebuild thy house of clay,

  Immortality thy walls,

  And Eternity thy day.’

  The hymn singer appears from behind hanging pelts. He pushes them aside like stage curtains, then approaches. He is of middle age, dressed entirely in black and holding a bottle. I can smell the fumes from where I sit. The man is extremely drunk. He staggers, waving the bottle in my direction.

  ‘I know that my Redeemer liveth.’ He sings the famous line from The Book of Job set to music by Handel.

  The intruder stands unsteadily, a few feet away from the hipbath.

  ‘And who are you,’ he asks, ‘sitting there as naked as Adam?’

  I’m not sure how to answer. I doubt anything I say will please him.

  ‘Are you a resurrectionist?’ He slurs the last word.

  ‘Not exactly,’ I say.

  ‘You look as though you would make a very good res … res …’ This time he gives up and uses the word ‘body-snatcher’.

  ‘Mr Plenitude and I –’

  But he won’t let me finish. ‘How old are you, Adam?’

  ‘Sixteen.’

  ‘Do you know how old I am?’

  ‘I prefer not to answer such questions. One risks causing offence.’

  ‘Guess.’

  ‘At a guess, I would say nearly fifty.’

  ‘Thirty-one,’ the man spits. ‘Thirty-one last Tuesday. You see on me the ravages of –’

  He looks lost and does not complete his sentence. He moves closer to the bath.

  ‘And though after my skin worms destroy this body, yet in my flesh shall I see God,’ he says. Holding the bottle by the neck, he dashes it against a workbench. The base of the bottle shatters, leaving jagged teeth of glass. The man now carries a most effective weapon.

  ‘Shall I turn your bathwater red?’ he says, slashing the air with the broken bottle. ‘Will I turn water into wine, like The Son of God himself?’

  I leap from the bath and look around wildly for something with which to arm myself. But there is no poker by the fire, no makeshift weapon nearby.

  ‘Should I fall to my knees?’ the man leers, keeping the bottle raised. ‘Should I pray to this naked angel before me?’

  ‘I am no angel,’ I say, backing away.

  The drunkard looks up and yells heavenward. ‘And ye shall chase your enemies, and they shall fall before you by the sword.’

  He runs towards me, slashing with his bottle. I have the disadvantage of being naked, but the advantage of being sober. I leap aside while the man screams abuse. He may be drunk but he’s quick. I receive a cut from the bottle. It is to my upper left arm and not deep. The drunk swings around to make another attack. I see a shovel resting against the wall. I snatch it up and brandish it at my attacker. He merely bursts out laughing. It is a wooden shovel, a resurrectionist’s tool with a soft scoop. I might as well be holding a stick.

  ‘And I will scatter you among the heathen, and will draw out a sword after you.’

  The words he speaks seem to give my attacker new strength. He is no longer a staggering drunk; rather a madman with a bottle that has cut me. I am naked and carrying a useless shovel. And I’ve been stupid enough to find myself in a corner formed by a high workbench and the wall of the tannery – all so that I could get my hands on a useless weapon. The man charges, bottle in his hand. I hold the shovel aloft, hoping for a miracle.

  I receive my miracle. The broken bottle explodes in the man’s hand. He drops the shards to the floor, his hand wounded. He staggers backward, examining his hand with a sense of wonder. He sits and weeps. I don’t know if it’s because of his wound, or because his Redeemer seems to have turned against him.

  ‘Thomas, are you hurt?’ It is Plenitude. He is holding the pistol, the one that is apparently not loaded, yet has magically fired a bullet.

  The mad drunk continues to nurse his injured hand. I tell Plenitude that I’m not hurt, but that I’d appreciate some clothes and perhaps a length of bandage. Plenitude picks up a bundle from the floor.

  ‘I’m sorry, Thomas.’ He holds the clothes out to me. ‘I’m afraid I dropped your apparel when I saw that Tolerance was about. There is some dust.’

  ‘Please, don’t apologise.’

  I pull on the undergarments and trousers. Meanwhile, the creature called Tolerance moans and looks as though he might be about to expire. It can’t be from blood loss. His wound is no greater than mine. Plenitude ties a white cloth around my arm to staunch the bleeding, then addresses the half-human on the floor.

  ‘Where were you tonight?’ he demands.


  Tolerance says nothing. I put on the shirt and coat. While they are not as well tailored as my own clothes, they fit quite well.

  ‘Where were you?’ Plenitude asks a second time.

  Tolerance shies away and snivels. ‘I was there at eleven o’clock, just as we arranged,’ he says, sounding like a child.

  ‘You were not there,’ says Plenitude.

  ‘I won’t fail you next time, Plenitude. You have my word.’

  ‘I am dissolving this partnership,’ says Plenitude.

  Tolerance looks horrified. ‘But this is my life. You are all that I have. You give me the reason to leave my bed. You and God.’

  ‘Well, God alone can take care of you from now on. How dare you threaten my new friend. I never want to see you again.’

  ‘But –’

  ‘Go.’

  Tolerance makes a weepy exit. Plenitude asks me to turn around so that he may brush the dust from my clothes. Once satisfied, he takes a broom and sweeps up some of the glass shards on the floor.

  ‘And what will become of you, dear Thomas?’ asks Plenitude.

  ‘Why should you care? I’m not a part of this,’ I say.

  ‘But you have so many gifts. You’re strong, fit, calm in the face of the worst calamities. What will you make of your life?’

  ‘I’d like to be a doctor at war, treating the soldiers.’

  ‘Which war do you have your eye on?’

  ‘I think another Russo-Turkish war is likely to break out soon, if I am lucky.’

  There is a trapdoor in the floor, with a rope attached. Plenitude pulls the rope, opens the trapdoor, then sweeps the glass into the dankness below. The smell that wafts out is worse than all the night’s olfactory horrors. Solemnly, Plenitude closes the trapdoor.

  ‘I like to keep the place tidy,’ he says.

  ‘If you’ll excuse me, I should take my leave,’ I say.

  Plenitude holds out his hand and I shake it.

  ‘Till next we meet,’ says Plenitude.

  ‘Thank you for an extraordinary evening,’ I say, ‘however, I doubt that our paths will cross again.’

  ‘But I must return your cleaned clothes.’

  ‘Please, you may keep them.’

  It is now broad daylight, and Bolter’s Lane buzzes with people, making deliveries, collecting packages and generally milling about. I wonder if any of the other warehouses holds a secret like Plenitude’s. I am nearly halfway home when I realise that Plenitude has stuffed a five-pound note into the pocket of my borrowed coat.