The Life of a Teenage Body-snatcher

by Doug MacLeod

  ‘Plenitude, this is my best friend,’ I say. ‘Be kind enough to treat him with respect.’

  ‘I didn’t mean to be rude,’ he says. ‘Redheaded body-snatchers are rare.’

  ‘Surely when we are wearing our monkey caps it will make no difference,’ I point out. ‘Your own hair is hardly the stuff of camouflage.’

  ‘Yes, yes, of course. I apologise, Charlie. Thank you so much for coming to help.’

  Plenitude gives Charlie a monkey cap, which he pulls on awkwardly.

  ‘There,’ says Plenitude. ‘You look exactly like a resurrectionist now. Though it seems almost a crime to hide such beautiful hair.’

  After suffering Mr Atkins’ constant insults about his ‘devil’s locks’, I can see that Charlie is flattered. Plenitude is a clever man. He knows the right things to say, and Charlie is warming to him. The three of us climb onto the cart and Sultan takes us to St Brendan’s.

  Thanks to my map we locate Mr Atkins’ grave easily enough. I reassure Plenitude and Charlie that there will be no members of Mr Atkins’ family hiding in the shadows to see that he is not snatched away. Since even his own mother disliked him, we are safe in that regard. However, the experience of the other night is still fresh. Plenitude instructs Charlie to climb atop a fancy tomb so that he has an unobstructed view. Charlie seems nervous when Plenitude hands him a pistol.

  ‘What do you expect me to do with this?’ Charlie says.

  Plenitude instructs him to whisper, and Charlie repeats his question in hushed tones.

  ‘Do what you must,’ Plenitude replies. ‘We may find ourselves with unwanted company.’

  ‘I can’t possibly kill a man. I’ve never fired a pistol in my life.’

  ‘They won’t know that.’

  ‘Plenitude,’ I say, ‘since the pistol is yours and you have the gift of night vision, you should be the lookout, while Charlie and I dig up the body.’

  ‘Logical as ever,’ says Plenitude. He places his tools next to the grave. ‘Perhaps that should be your resurrectionist name? “Logic.” Now, come and help me climb the tomb.’

  I assist Plenitude and tell him that Logic is not a name that suits me. He agrees. It is nowhere near impressive enough. But I will find a name before long. Or it will find me.

  I instruct Charlie in the use of the wooden shovel, and how important it is to dig up small pieces of earth, so as not to break the tool. Then we commence our toil. The dirt is as easy to shift as garden loam. Since Charlie is my best friend, he is more observant of my moods than most.

  ‘You seem sad, Thomas,’ he says.

  ‘It’s nothing.’

  ‘You can tell me.’

  That is kind of Charlie, but it hurts me too much to speak of my unrequited love for Victoria, and the abominable first impression I made.

  ‘When you want to talk about it,’ says Charlie, ‘you know I have a sympathetic ear.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  We dig in silence for a few moments, before Charlie speaks again.

  ‘Thomas, why do you suppose Mr Atkins tormented me so?’

  Do I tell Charlie about the repulsive manuscript in which Mr Atkins outlines his teaching methods? I decide to keep the work a secret, and once again vow to destroy it before it is made public.

  ‘Mr Atkins was a hateful man,’ I say.

  ‘But there must have been something about me in particular that he disliked. Do you think it was my hair?’

  ‘Your hair?’

  ‘Some people think ill of those with red hair.’

  ‘There is nothing wrong with your hair, Charlie.’

  ‘My father wants me to dye it black. He says that having red hair may limit my chances of success in the world.’

  ‘Forgive me, but I don’t think your father is quite right in the head.’

  ‘He thinks that red hair makes me look like a nancy-boy.’

  ‘A nancy-boy?’

  ‘You understand the term, surely.’

  ‘Of course. Though I don’t see how red hair makes one a nancy-boy. You’re not a nancy-boy, are you?’

  ‘No. But do you find it curious that I have a cat?’

  ‘Not at all.’

  Charlie stops digging. ‘Most boys prefer dogs. Do you prefer dogs?’

  ‘I do. Why have you stopped digging?’

  ‘Sorry.’

  Charlie resumes the task, but continues to talk.

  ‘My father would prefer it if I had a dog. He wants me to join the army, kill a few people, then work in a bank, keep dogs and murder foxes. He thinks these are manly pursuits.’

  ‘Charlie, you shouldn’t be so concerned about your father, if indeed he’s mad enough to want you to dye your hair.’

  ‘I have a secret, Thomas.’

  ‘You seem to have stopped digging again.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  Charlie shovels the earth but continues to speak.

  ‘I haven’t told anyone this. But one day … I wish to dance on the stage.’

  ‘You mean for a living?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, then, that’s what you must do.’

  ‘Father would disown me.’

  ‘We should probably save this conversation for another time.’

  But Charlie cannot stop himself, now that his secret is out. ‘I’ve been taking confidential dance lessons. My teacher says I’m quite good.’

  ‘I’m sure you are.’

  ‘There is a certain move in the tarantella that is regarded as almost impossible, yet I managed it at the first attempt. Let me show you.’

  ‘Perhaps this is not the best time, Charlie.’

  Charlie won’t be dissuaded. He does a quick little dance step and I have to admit that it is somewhat impressive.

  ‘Charlie, you have just danced on Mr Atkins’ grave,’ I admonish.

  ‘Yes,’ says Charlie, resuming the spadework. ‘It felt rather pleasant.’

  Our wooden shovels touch the lid of the coffin.

  ‘What happens next?’ Charlie asks, excited.

  ‘I’m going to demonstrate some rather ingenious mechanical tools to you,’ I say. ‘I think you may enjoy this part.’

  After we have exhumed the corpse of Mr Atkins, Plenitude insists that I help him remove the shroud and clothes. Charlie is excused this part, and gratefully walks away to act as lookout. I am revolted as I undress the corpse. But Plenitude is firm. We are playing by his rules tonight. We return the suit and shroud to the coffin and rebury it, to Plenitude’s satisfaction. It is the resurrectionists’ code of ethics, he tells me, and one that I must learn to honour.

  It is past midnight when we return to the tannery, with Mr Atkins’ corpse tucked in a double canvas bag. It has been a remarkably smooth resurrection.

  ‘Will you boys fetch some hay from the stable?’ Plenitude asks.

  ‘How much do you need?’

  ‘One bail. They’re heavy. It will take the pair of you to move it.’

  I am strong enough to lift a bail of hay on my own, but Charlie and I do as we are asked. When we return with the hay, Plenitude has loaded the cart and thrown canvas over it. He feeds Sultan.

  ‘I’ll take it from here,’ says Plenitude. ‘You two head off home.’

  ‘I enjoyed meeting you, Mr Plenitude,’ says Charlie.

  ‘I enjoyed meeting you too. And I really do think your hair would make Lord Byron jealous in his grave. Keep the monkey cap. You may need to use it again.’

  Charlie looks startled. ‘Do you think I have the makings of a resurrectionist? My father wants me to be a bank manager.’

  ‘I wouldn’t have the nerve for that,’ says Plenitude. He gees up Sultan and heads off to London, with our late mathematics teacher.

  When I go to close the large swinging doors, I hear a noise behind me. I turn and see a figure in the darkness. It is Tolerance, Plenitude’s former colleague. He holds a gun. Charlie is lying unconscious on the floor.

  ‘Fancy us meeting again.’ Tolerance smiles.<
br />
  I gulp. ‘At least this time I am better dressed.’

  CHAPTER 15

  ‘Unhappy to see me?’ Tolerance says.

  ‘Naturally. You have a gun,’ I say.

  ‘Wrong. I have four.’

  ‘What have you done to Charlie?’

  ‘Is that his name? He wouldn’t tell me.’

  I go over to where Charlie lies. He is breathing but seems to be in a deep faint.

  ‘Leave him be or I’ll shoot your head off.’

  I ignore Tolerance and try to make Charlie comfortable by placing some straw under his head and giving him a blanket of chamois leather.

  ‘You’re quite the proper gentleman, aren’t you?’

  The smell of whisky fills the air. But there is another smell. It is ether, the chemical that induces deep sleep. Tolerance takes a bottle of the stuff from his pocket.

  ‘I decided to put your friend to sleep. I prefer not to be outnumbered.’

  ‘If you have harmed him in any way –’

  ‘I’ve merely sent him to the Land of Nod.’

  ‘What are you doing here?’ I ask.

  ‘Where else am I to go?’

  ‘I should think that a knave with four guns has many options.’

  ‘Alas, no,’ he says. ‘I have been cast into the wilderness. I have been turned away from the inn like Joseph.’

  ‘Judging from the smell, you managed to consume a fair amount before you were turned away.’

  ‘A mere bottle of whisky, barely enough to slake my thirst. Do you remember when we last met?’

  ‘I have a wound on my arm as a souvenir.’

  Tolerance nods. ‘I was as drunk as Noah in the tent.’

  ‘You were.’

  ‘I’d have slashed your arms right off if I hadn’t been drunk.’

  I try to keep my voice steady. ‘I ask you again, why are you here?’

  ‘My first intention was to kill you.’

  ‘I’m glad you’ve changed your mind.’

  Tolerance’s shiny face breaks into a grin. ‘Now I’ve decided to kill the pair of you instead. I wasn’t aware there’d be two.’

  ‘What harm have I done you?’

  ‘What harm? You’ve taken my livelihood. You’ve turned Plenitude against me. You’ve made me a lost wreck of a human.’

  ‘You did that yourself.’

  Tolerance shakes his head. ‘There will be a reckoning, pretty boy. “Breach for breach, eye for eye, tooth for tooth.” ’

  ‘Leviticus again. Why are so many people obsessed with that book?’

  ‘It’s quite short.’

  ‘Yes, that must be it.’

  ‘Before you die, Timewell, there are a few things you need to know about Plenitude. He is the most malevolent being in Christendom.’

  ‘In that case, why did you not take the opportunity to shoot him while you were doubtless watching from the shadows?’

  ‘You cannot kill Satan.’ Tolerance’s eyes glaze over. ‘He has an army of demons. He is the power of the darkness. The dragon. The serpent. Eternal.’

  ‘There’s a lady on Piper’s Heath who’d be perfect for you.’

  ‘You find me amusing?’

  I shake my head. ‘Sorry, but I do not believe that Plenitude is Satan.’

  ‘Let me tell you how Plenitude performs his craft, then you can judge him better.’ Tolerance raps on a nearby crate. ‘What do you think the crates are for?’

  ‘I presume they are for leather. On my first night with Plenitude we delivered a crate to a customer.’

  ‘Was he a baker?’

  ‘Yes. He was.’

  ‘And you believe it was leather in the crate?’

  ‘Well, Mr Mortimer did seem to have the need for leather. For the aprons.’

  Tolerance chuckles. ‘Mr Mortimer requires meat more than he requires leather.’

  ‘What are you saying?’

  ‘From time to time the anatomists don’t accept the corpses. It can be for any number of reasons. Sometimes they won’t take them because they remind them of their mothers. Funny, really. As if that would put you off. Anyway, if we can’t sell a body to the anatomists, it’s a wasted trip. So, occasionally, we sell them to pie-makers.’

  ‘Ridiculous. There was no corpse in the crate that Plenitude sold to Mr Mortimer.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  I feel as though I am on shaky ground.

  ‘We weren’t travelling away from London, we were travelling towards it. Surely if the box contained a body rejected by the anatomists, Plenitude would have sold it on the return journey.’

  ‘Depends on the time of night. You can’t go leaving crates outside people’s shops when there’s no one about. Sometimes you have to bring the crate back home and deliver it when you next get the chance.’

  ‘You really expect me to credit that Plenitude chops up human corpses like a common butcher?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then how do they fit in the crate?’

  ‘He merely chops off the head.’

  ‘The corpse still wouldn’t fit.’

  ‘Of course it does. You bend it in half.’

  I’m aghast at the casual way Tolerance tosses off such grisly details.

  ‘This body-snatching racket is catching on. The lawmen are keeping a watch-out for it. If you are transporting a long wooden box that looks as though it might contain a body, you could find yourself in serious trouble. But the little square crates attract less attention. And most of the anatomists don’t require the head. How much is Plenitude paying you?’

  I am wavering. ‘Well, he’s paid me nothing. I mean, he stuffed five pounds in my pocket when I wasn’t looking, but I’m going to give that to the orphanage.’

  Tolerance laughs as if it is the funniest thing he has heard.

  ‘Is that all he gave you?’

  ‘I didn’t want payment. I wanted to do a good deed.’

  ‘A nice fresh body can fetch twenty pounds, sometimes more. Plenitude would have got twenty at least for your grandfather.’

  ‘I didn’t see any money change hands,’ I say.

  ‘Neither did I, the first time. Did you happen to fall unconscious, by any chance?’

  The blood drains from my face. ‘I was coshed, in Lucifer’s Yard.’

  ‘That would have been Plenitude. He didn’t want you to see how much he was getting.’

  ‘He said Lucifer did it.’

  ‘Trust me, it wasn’t Lucy.’

  I don’t want to believe Tolerance. In a strange way I have come to like Plenitude. I try to defend him.

  ‘Plenitude didn’t remove my grandfather’s head,’ I say.

  ‘That would have been out of consideration for you. He took a risk leaving the head on and having the body stretched out like that, but he wanted you so badly that he broke one of his own rules. Normally he bundles the body in the crate, and chucks it on the back of the cart. What do you think he was doing when you and your rusty-haired friend were fetching the hay?’

  I contemplate the question. ‘Well, if you are to be believed, he was packaging Mr Atkins.’

  Tolerance freezes. ‘What name did you just say?’

  ‘Atkins. He was a schoolteacher. That’s his body on the way to London.’

  ‘I don’t believe you.’

  ‘Have a close look at the head. Presumably you saw Plenitude remove it when you were skulking in the shadows, if your story is true.’

  ‘My vision was a little blurred, but I know that he chucks the heads down the trapdoor. He calls it his “tidy-hole”. The head is gone for good.’

  ‘I assure you it was Atkins’ body.’

  ‘Just a minute.’ Tolerance scratches his chin. ‘Plenitude was in a great hurry because he knew he didn’t have much time. You and your friend could return from the stables and catch him at the act. Maybe …’

  Tolerance walks slowly over to some barrels and inspects them. They have no lids. He reaches into one of the barrels and pulls out
a severed head. Tolerance was speaking the truth about Plenitude, and I feel a complete fool. He lifts the head high and walks over to me.

  ‘He was my teacher,’ says Tolerance.

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘He was very tough,’ says Tolerance. ‘My oath he was tough.’ He baulks at the memory. ‘Was he your teacher too?’

  ‘He was,’ I say.

  Tolerance silently studies the head of Mr Atkins. Something becomes abruptly clear to me. Tolerance, with his broken mind and brutal ways, is yet another of Mr Atkins’ ‘chosen ones’. He was the whipping boy, the scapegoat. I feel I may be able to make a connection with Tolerance and perhaps prevent Charlie and myself from being killed.

  ‘Mr Atkins is your true enemy,’ I say. ‘He has made you what you are. You may be pleased to know that I helped him to his death. And now he has gone to hell. Let go of what he did to you. Become a new and better person.’

  Tolerance slouches back to the barrel and drops the head into it. Then he turns and snarls.

  ‘He was my favourite teacher, you bastard!’

  ‘How very awkward,’ I say.

  CHAPTER 16

  Delirious with rage, Tolerance charges towards me. The man has four guns. I am unarmed. What am I to do?

  ‘There is a judgment!’ he screams.

  Just as I am deciding which way to duck, Tolerance slips. He lands on his back with a mighty thump that knocks the wind out of him. The bottle of ether rolls from his coat pocket, towards Charlie. I notice that Charlie is no longer unconscious. He snatches up the bottle. Taking a handkerchief from his pocket, Charlie dowses it with ether.

  I understand his plan, but Tolerance may yet defeat us. He is not down for long. He lifts his head and props himself on one arm, reaching for a gun with the other. I pounce on the man so that he is pinned to the floor. He struggles under my weight, which won’t be enough to subdue him for long.

  ‘I know your transgressions are many and your sins are great,’ he snarls, writhing under me. ‘The Book of Leviticus.’

  ‘The Book of Amos, I think,’ I reply.

  At last Charlie comes to the rescue. He pushes the ether-soaked handkerchief into Tolerance’s face. Tolerance twists like a caught tiger, but the chemical is strong. I am almost overwhelmed by the fumes myself. Charlie presses harder and the brute is finally subdued. I relieve Tolerance of his four guns. As it turns out, only the one he was reaching for is any good. The other three would explode in your hand if you tried to fire them. There is so much ether in the air, I advise Charlie that we should step back. When I observe that he is too dizzy to answer, I drag him towards one of the workbenches. He falls asleep again. I hold him in my arms and slap him gently until he comes around.