The Life of a Teenage Body-snatcher

by Doug MacLeod

  ‘What vow do you mean?’

  ‘You said that my mother was the most vehement of the family. I suspect that she forced him to keep silent about it all. It must have eaten him up inside.’

  Plenitude’s eyes seem paler than ever.

  ‘Your mother might well have insisted that James forget his disgraced son and daughter in Bedlam. But perhaps your grandfather wanted to protect you and John. Such a scandal would have tainted your prospects. Perhaps he was acting out of love for you. It’s never simple. Come, help me with Carolyn.’

  I lift the feet and Plenitude lifts the head. The shroud is fragrant. It’s an uplifting scent. Perhaps the Indians are onto something, after all.

  We lay Carolyn in her grave. Plenitude takes a gold laurel coin from his pocket and places it on the shroud.

  ‘What is the purpose of that?’ I ask.

  ‘To pay the boatman, of course, so that Carolyn may cross the Styx.’

  ‘That is hardly a Christian rite.’

  ‘It doesn’t hurt to keep your options open.’

  We backfill the grave. There are still so many questions to ask.

  ‘You told me that you had experienced intense love only once,’ I say.

  ‘Quite true.’

  ‘If you loved my mother so much –’

  ‘Please don’t ask me how it felt.’

  ‘But she betrayed you.’

  ‘She did what she thought God wanted her to do.’

  I pat down the earth. Plenitude plants a wooden cross on the grave.

  ‘I don’t think I like Mother very much,’ I say. ‘Not now.’

  ‘Don’t stop loving your mother. I haven’t.’

  ‘You came twice to the house on The Beaufort Estate. Yet you did not ask to come in. Weren’t you curious? Didn’t you want to see Mother?’

  ‘Oh, Thomas, I have been in that house many times, when you were absent. Of course I wanted to see your mother.’

  I am surprised. ‘You visited Mother? She never mentioned it.’

  ‘Nevertheless it is the case.’

  ‘What is it like to see her, after all these years?’

  Plenitude looks pensive.

  ‘Come. I’ll show you,’ he says at last.

  Plenitude and I stand outside the house on The Beaufort Estate. In the recent turmoil, I have mislaid my key.

  ‘This may be a disturbing experience,’ Plenitude warns.

  I knock and hear Mother scream for Mrs Dunwoody. Five minutes later, the door is answered by our faithful servant. Mrs Dunwoody is covered in unsightly blotches of black tar from head to foot. It would be rude to ask how she came to have them, so I merely bid her good morning.

  ‘Poot geeet aworrk ska beestie,’ she replies humbly, ushering us in.

  Plenitude and I stand in the parlour. Mother sits reading her morning dose of Aubrey Wilks and sips from her cup. She barely looks up.

  ‘I do apologise for the state of Mrs Dunwoody,’ Mother says. ‘I told her to waterproof the roof and she has been clumsy with the tar.’

  ‘Broo tch oontorr,’ says Mrs Dunwoody.

  ‘That’s no excuse,’ Mother chides. ‘Stay for a moment, Mrs Dunwoody. Thomas may require something. You have my permission to dust.’

  Mrs Dunwoody commences dusting. The lint sticks to the tar so that she begins to appear mouldy. Mother is yet to acknowledge that Plenitude is in the room.

  ‘Mother, I have someone I want you to meet,’ I say.

  ‘You were out yet again last night, Thomas,’ Mother interrupts. ‘No doubt you had Maltese invalids to visit, while you continue to neglect your very own mama.’

  My frustration builds. Plenitude sees it and holds my hand in an effort to calm me.

  ‘Mother, I want you to meet my new friend. He calls himself Plenitude. I think you already know him.’

  Mother looks up. ‘Where is he?’

  ‘He’s next to me. He’s holding my hand.’

  ‘Which hand is he holding?’

  ‘Surely it must be blindingly obvious. The well-dressed, handsome, silver-headed gentleman holding my left hand is called Plenitude.’

  Mother claps with delight but does not regard Plenitude at all.

  ‘Oh, Thomas. This is all too charming. You have invented an invisible friend.’

  ‘He’s not invisible. He’s standing right here in your parlour.’

  ‘How tall is he?’

  ‘You can see. About five foot three.’

  ‘Five foot four,’ says Plenitude.

  ‘There. You must have heard him speak.’

  ‘And what did he say?’

  ‘You cannot tell me you didn’t hear!’ I raise my voice. ‘Plenitude, please say something to my mother. Please go up to her and speak it loudly into her face.’

  ‘That would be impolite,’ says Plenitude.

  ‘Did you hear him say that?’ I ask Mother.

  ‘What, dear? Oh, how comical.’ Mother chuckles. ‘Mrs Dunwoody, would you kindly get up from the floor and witness this pantomime. Even you may be entertained.’

  Mrs Dunwoody rises to her feet.

  ‘Oookh hrsst wooo yut?’ says Mrs Dunwoody to Mother.

  ‘Thomas has invented an invisible friend. You see how he stands alone, yet maintains there is someone at his side? They chat to each other. It is rather sweet.’

  ‘Mother, will you please put down your cup and look very closely at the person who holds my left hand.’

  Mother gets out of her chair and stands directly in front of Plenitude.

  He speaks to her tenderly. ‘I love you, my poor idiot.’

  ‘There, now do you see?’ I am breathless.

  Mother’s face remains resolutely blank. ‘See what, dear?’

  ‘Didn’t you hear him say he loves you?’

  ‘Well, that is very sweet. Tell him I love him too.’

  ‘Tell him yourself.’

  ‘Come now, Thomas. He’s your pretend friend, not mine. I think you should tell him. Don’t you agree, Mrs Dunwoody?’

  Mrs Dunwoody is pointing directly at Plenitude. Her voice sounds urgent.

  ‘Gools. Puf tak ooorr.’

  ‘Do not point, Mrs Dunwoody, it is extremely rude,’ snaps Mother. ‘Although since you are pointing at nothing I shan’t punish you too severely.’

  ‘Mother, this is Thomas Timewell Senior. He’s your husband.’

  ‘That’s in extremely bad taste, Thomas. I’m surprised you can be so callous.’

  Plenitude lets go of my hand and gives me a knowing look. It is obvious that this is not the first time he has tried to reach my mother. She genuinely cannot see him. Plenitude could sing the twenty-third psalm at the top of his voice and Mother would not hear.

  ‘Well, I think that’s enough fun for one day, Thomas.’

  Mother seats herself and dismisses Mrs Dunwoody. Plenitude goes over to Mother and kisses her lightly on the cheek. Mother does not feel it, but reaches for her laudanum. Plenitude turns to me.

  ‘Don’t hate your mother, Thomas. This is what her conscience has made her endure for fifteen years. There isn’t enough laudanum in the world.’

  CHAPTER 28

  ‘No!’

  Mr Higgins strikes his fist so hard on the desk that it rattles the stacks of shiny brass weights, and sets the scale see-sawing. His is an unusual publisher’s office. There are no volumes lining the walls, or framed covers of books that have done well for the company. Certainly, there is no hint that Aubrey Wilks is the company’s most popular author. Other than a curious painting of triangles and squares that adorns the wall behind the enraged publisher, the pretty balance-scale on the desk is the office’s only decoration.

  ‘No, we shall not renegotiate. The contract stands.’

  Mr Higgins is short, shaped like a ball, and completely hairless. Thus he is capable of more animated displays of anger, as short hairless men often are. I remain calm as I face him, holding Victoria’s hand in support.

  ‘Mr Higgins,’ I say.
‘The contract is not binding.’

  Mr Higgins, his face red as a field poppy, glares at me from his desk.

  ‘And who the devil are you? Kindly let go of that novelist’s hand.’

  ‘Thomas Timewell is my companion and advisor,’ says Victoria, ‘and you will please treat him with greater respect.’

  A fetid odour permeates the room. Mr Higgins’ office is located on the Regent’s Canal in Camden Town.

  ‘Perhaps we should close the window?’ I suggest.

  ‘No. I always keep it open,’ says Mr Higgins. ‘I have thrown many books through that window. The bed of the Regent’s Canal at this point is six inches deep in literature. None of it is good, so don’t plan to make money by salvaging it.’

  ‘I am a gentleman, sir,’ I retort, ‘and your suggestion that I might salvage books from canals is insulting to say the least.’

  ‘I’ll throw you out of the window in a minute.’ Mr Higgins slams his fist on the desk another time, and again the brass weights rattle.

  ‘Mr Higgins,’ pleads Victoria, ‘you must understand that I cannot write another book by Aubrey Wilks.’

  ‘I have a contract that demands you write me three.’

  ‘I won’t do it.’

  Vexed, Mr Higgins attempts to run his fingers through his hair, then remembers he doesn’t have any.

  ‘Victoria, Victoria, Victoria,’ he sighs. ‘Why do I have so much trouble with you? My other authors give me none. Many of them simply write. And I’m proud to say that they have all produced books that weigh at least twelve ounces. I published two novels by Mr Earls last year and each weighed one pound and three ounces. The most recent offering from Mr Griffiths weighs a little over one pound and nine ounces, which I think is a tad heavy for a book. I did ask Mr Griffiths to remove the last chapter to decrease the weight, though since it is the chapter in which the murderer is revealed, Mr Griffiths said he preferred not to. But you, Victoria, burst in here with your gentleman friend who is so ornamental he cannot possibly have read a book in his life, and tell me you wish to tear up our contract.’

  There is a pause. The stench from the canal is truly abhorent and I am glad that I have my lavender-scented handkerchief, which I use as a nosegay.

  ‘You will be pleased to know that I do have for you one complete manuscript by Aubrey Wilks,’ Victoria announces.

  Mr Higgins calms a little. I offer him my lavender-scented handkerchief so that he may mop the perspiration from the top of his head, but he declines.

  ‘That is excellent news,’ says Mr Higgins.

  ‘It will make you at least ten thousand pounds, which I think gives me the edge over the other novelists in your stable.’

  ‘Your books, Victoria, are found in ladies’ chambers all over the country. I swear that not one of them lies on the bottom of the Regent’s Canal. Do you have the manuscript with you?’

  ‘I will give it to you when Thomas unclasps my hand.’

  ‘Yes, I do wish you’d stop doing that,’ says Mr Higgins. ‘It is irksome. The poets are always doing it.’

  I free Victoria’s hand. From her handbag she produces the manuscript and puts it on the desk. Mr Higgins looks at it greedily and reads its title aloud. ‘The Sensational Story of A Society Lady Who Falls from Grace Most Horribly but Redeems Herself by Committing Various Good Acts.’

  ‘I am considering changing the title,’ says Victoria.

  ‘Do not. It is superb.’

  Mr Higgins rolls the manuscript into a cylinder and ties it with string. Lovingly, he places it on one pan of the scale. Then, slowly, he places his brass weights in the other pan until the scale balances perfectly. Mr Higgins is overcome.

  ‘Oh, Victoria! Oh my lady genius! The manuscript weighs exactly fourteen ounces. This is perfection. I’ve always thought fourteen ounces the optimum weight for a manuscript.’

  ‘Then you will publish?’

  ‘Of course, my dear Victoria. What publisher wouldn’t?’

  ‘But it will be the last book by Mr Wilks.’

  ‘You owe me two more books. You signed a contract.’

  ‘Mr Aubrey Wilks signed the contract.’

  ‘That was all part of the deception. The contract has been on display in museums and public libraries.’

  ‘I’m afraid it is worthless if I have not signed my correct name,’ Victoria points out. ‘You must issue a new contract for this last work. I shall sign it with my true name and all will be well.’

  Mr Higgins seems to be having a nervous attack. He calms himself by picking up two little brass weights and turning them over in his hand. He knows he is beaten, and casts an angry look in my direction.

  ‘I suppose you put her up to this?’

  ‘Victoria is a remarkable lady. The plan was hers from the outset,’ I say.

  ‘Very well, I will issue a new contract. Will it be the same terms as before?’

  ‘Yes,’ says Victoria. ‘Except that there will be no mention of further works by Aubrey Wilks.’

  ‘Will I retain twenty-five percent of the dramatic rights?’

  ‘You will.’

  ‘Will I be able to sue you if anyone claims you have defamed them?’

  ‘You will.’

  ‘And will you yet again please stop holding hands in my office?’

  ‘Sorry.’

  We relax our hands.

  ‘However, there is a condition that must be met before I sign the new contract,’ says Victoria.

  Mr Higgins drops one of his weights. ‘What condition, exactly?’

  ‘My colleague Thomas Timewell is more qualified to articulate it.’

  ‘Then articulate away, Mr Timewell.’

  I take a dramatic pause before I speak.

  ‘I understand that you are publishing a volume by a man named Josiah Atkins.’

  ‘The Correct and Proper Education of Young Men,’ Mr Higgins announces proudly. ‘I think it a fine work. Two thousand copies of it have already been made and are in storage below.’

  ‘Then I inform you, with some regret, that every single copy must be thrown into the Regent’s Canal.’

  Mr Higgins snorts. ‘The lavender on your handkerchief is making you say mad things.’

  ‘I have never before spoken with such sanity and determination,’ I say.

  Mr Higgins is developing a twitch in the corner of his right eye. ‘You don’t seem to understand the business of publishing, Mr Timewell. I receive manuscripts. Sometimes I read them but more often I just weigh them. If the work pleases me, I pay to have the manuscript made into a book. The printed and bound copies are distributed at the best price I can manage to booksellers throughout the land, who add their own premium to the cost of the book, then customers buy them and read them. That is publishing. I do not make two thousand books and throw them in the bloody canal. I do apologise for speaking so crudely in your presence, Victoria.’

  ‘If the effort is too much for you personally,’ I say, ‘then please fetch the books and I will throw them through the window myself.’

  ‘And I will help you,’ says Victoria.

  ‘But why would you do this? Have you even read the book?’

  ‘I have read one chapter,’ I say, ‘and it is the most disgraceful piece of work to come out of an English publishing house.’

  Mr Higgins is now doing tiny jumps. ‘Mr Timewell, there is no force in the world that would make me throw two thousand brand new books into the Regent’s Canal.’

  Victoria waits for Mr Higgins to stop jumping before she makes her ingenious proposal.

  ‘Mr Higgins, I will not only sign the contract for the novel I have just completed for you, but I will also sign a contract for a brand new book; a wonderful, romantic book, full of sensational adventure.’

  Mr Higgins looks in the mood to bargain.

  ‘Would it have a glue factory?’ he asks.

  ‘No,’ says Victoria. ‘It will not be an Aubrey Wilks book. It will be something altogether more thrilling and inge
nious.’

  ‘What will the book be about?’

  ‘Gentleman body-snatchers.’

  Mr Higgins is intrigued. ‘Do such people exist?’

  ‘They do. I have met them. Theirs is a world where the notions of right and wrong cross in the most remarkable ways.’

  ‘Are you sure you can’t put in a glue factory?’

  ‘Glue factories are the stuff of yesterday. Gentleman body-snatchers are as modern as tomorrow. I will write you a huge bestseller, Mr Higgins.’

  ‘How much do you think it will weigh?’

  ‘Probably a little over a pound.’

  ‘I would prefer it weighed less.’

  Victoria shakes her head. ‘There is simply too much to tell.’

  ‘And what pseudonym would you choose, since you seem keen to divorce yourself from Aubrey Wilks?’

  ‘I think Victoria Plum is a perfect name to have on the cover.’

  Mr Higgins thinks about the proposal. I can almost see all those thousands of pound notes spinning about in his bald head.

  ‘You’ll have both contracts tomorrow,’ says Mr Higgins. ‘And I will get two of the boys to bring up every last copy of The Correct and Proper Education of Young Men by Josiah Atkins. We three shall pitch them through the window, into the canal. Actually, it can be quite exhilarating. What are you staring at, you cream-faced loon?’

  I have become distracted. ‘That picture behind your desk,’ I say. ‘All those shapes and arrows. What do they mean?’

  ‘It is something called a business model and quite beyond your comprehension,’ says Mr Higgins. ‘This picture, as you call it, represents the way my business is run. The arrows represent incomings and outgoings, the triangles are profits, the circles are losses and the squares are projected income for the next financial year. Though if I am going to throw two thousand of my brand new books into the canal then I might as well throw out the business model as well.’

  Mr Higgins grabs it off the wall and tosses it expertly out of the window.

  ‘You have made a wise choice, Mr Higgins,’ I say.

  ‘There is something familiar about you.’ Mr Higgins slaps his forehead. ‘You’re Thomas Timewell, aren’t you? You’re in the Atkins book. You’re the nancy-boy.’

  ‘I am indeed,’ I say, sweeping Victoria into my arms. We kiss each other.