by Cross, Amy
“Where do you get them from, Charles?”
I feel a shudder pass through my chest. “I beg your pardon?”
“Where do you get the things you put into me?” she continues, and now she is eyeing me with a note of cold suspicion. “Sometimes I wake at night and you are not in the house.”
“Of course I'm in the -”
“No, you're not,” she adds, shaking her head. “Where do you go until two or three some mornings?”
“I -”
“Always the mornings before you try a new procedure on me.”
I shake my head, although I know she is right.
“Don't lie to me, Charles. I have always, always known when you're lying.” She pauses, watching me with a growing sense of concern. “Do I want to know, Charles? Do I want to know the truth about where you go, or about how you acquire the things you sew into my innards? You don't get them from any of the colleges, I know that. They'd never give you such items. And you don't get them from the hospitals or from your colleagues. So where do you get them from? And why when you come home do you always have that look in your eyes?”
“What look?” I ask.
She watches me carefully, as if she is searching for something in my eyes.
“There is no look in my eyes,” I stammer. “You are imagining things in your fever.”
“That look,” she replies. “A look of guilt. Do not even think to deny it, for I see it even now. Oh Charles, you are a good man and I love you. Please, end this horror and just let me die.”
She tries to reach toward me, to take my hands, but her wrists merely strain against the manacles and cause the chains to clink against the sides of the chair.
“Death is not the most awful things that can happen to a soul, you know,” she continues. “You do these things for the right reasons, but please, when I die... Let me see not guilt in your eyes, but acceptance and peace. That is all I ask. I want you to still be yourself when my end comes, not twisted by desperation into some kind of monster.”
I wait for her to continue, but I think perhaps that she in turn is waiting for me to bow down to her will. Her tears have stopped, although her cheeks still glisten, and it is abundantly clear that she thinks she has changed my mind.
Out in the street, a crude ruffian shouts at the top of his voice.
Still Catherine stares at me.
We are wasting time here.
“This one operation will solve everything,” I say finally, “and -”
“Oh no,” she sobs, lowering her gaze to her lap as if she has finally given up. “No, Charles, no...”
“This one operation will save you,” I continue, reaching down and placing a hand on the side of her sweaty, bowed face. There are tears in my eyes now.
“Charles, please...”
“Catherine...”
“Lord have mercy,” she continues, and suddenly I realize she is speaking not to me, but to some higher power. My wife – my calm, rational-minded wife, has turned in her hour of need to the one thing she always swore to disavow.
She has turned to God.
I feel rather disgusted.
“Take me into your arms, Lord,” she sobs. “Help me leave this ruined body.”
“Catherine,” I say firmly, “you are not in your right mind. Abandon these feeble ideas.”
“Please, Lord,” she whispers. “Mercy, I beg of you...”
“I promise, Catherine,” I continue, “that I have learned the lessons of past failures. I have planned tonight's procedure extensively, and this time I -”
Suddenly she starts sobbing louder than ever. Huge, convulsive sobs that cause her entire body to shake, and that leave tears dripping down onto the creased fabric of her nightshirt.
“I have learned the lessons of past failures,” I tell her again, “and I am certain, beyond all doubt, that this time I shall free you from the shackles of your illness. This time the cancer will be gone, and it shall not have a chance to come back. The operation will take a few hours, and then your recovery can begin, and then within a few weeks my darling you shall be back on your feet and this will all feel like a bad dream. Why, we can even go traveling, perhaps to -”
She lets out a sudden wailing sound, as if she has taken leave of her senses.
“Just have faith in me,” I continue. “Do that, and I shall not let you down. Not this time.”
I wait for her to respond, but she simply continues to sob. Finally I step back around the chair and start wheeling her toward the stairs, so that I might bump her down to the basement. She seems utterly bereft of hope, yet I know that this time the operation will be a success, that this time I have found a way to end Catherine's suffering and to return her to full health. At least she has accepted that the procedure must go ahead. Now it is my job to prove to her that I can save her from her illness.
“There there,” I say as I wheel her along the corridor, and as she continues to sob, “everything will be alright this time. I promise. I shall begin the procedure as soon as I get you down to the basement.”
Chapter Thirteen
Maddie
Today
This place is huge.
Standing at the foot of the wooden stairs, I aim the flashlight around and see that the basement is a vast, open space with stone walls that rise up to join in a high ceiling. There are several thick pillars that look like they've been reinforced to support the weight of the house, and each pillar seems slightly buckled, almost as if the house is too heavy and could come crashing down at any moment.
Stepping forward, I see that there's some kind of table in the center of the room. As I get closer, however, I see that my flashlight's beam is in fact falling not on a table but on a kind of large stone slab with deep lines carved into its surface. As I get to the side of the slab, I reach down and place a hand on the cold stone, feeling the rough surface and dipping my hands into one of the grooves. Looking along to the table's far end, I see that the grooves all meet at the base, almost as if they're designed to channel liquid away from the slab's surface. And as I tilt the flashlight a little, I realize that the grooves seem darker than the rest of the stone, almost as if they were stained long ago.
I take a step back, and in the process my right foot bumps against a ridge on the ground. Aiming the flashlight down, I find that just as there's a pattern of ridges on the slab, there are more ridges in a similar pattern on the ground, leading to a series of what look like drains set into the corners of the room. It's almost as if the whole room was designed to funnel blood down from the table and then over to the drains. With the flashlight still raised, I start slowly turning to look all around, and I'm starting to think that some crazy stuff went down in this place. Then again, I'm probably letting my imagination run a little wild.
And then I spot the tables nearby.
Making my way over, I shine the flashlight at the tabletops and see what looks like a set of tools. When I examine them more closely, I realize that there are old knives and scalpels, and various other items that seem to be the rusty remains of a surgeon's kit. I pick up one of the scalpels and find that the handle is old and slightly loose, although the blade shines clean in the flashlight's beam. I can't even begin to imagine what all this stuff would once have been used for, but it's pretty clear from the layer of dust that none of the items have been used for years. I guess maybe a doctor used to live here, and...
A cold shiver runs through my chest as I turn and look back over at the stone table.
Blood.
Maybe I was right first time. The dark stains in the grooves must be blood, as if some long-gone psycho used this place as an operating theater. In fact, as I shine the flashlight all around, I realize that I'm probably bang on the money. Whatever happened here in the past, it must have been some kind of at-home surgical set-up. I have no idea whether stuff like that was illegal in the old days, or even uncommon, but the thought is enough to make me feel seriously uncomfortable. Even if this was a legitimate old-
time operating theater, I really don't like the idea of being down here. I bet the standards weren't too high back then. I bet people were in real agony.
Turning, I start heading back toward the door. I know I'll be colder up in the main part of the house, but at least I won't be freaked out. I can -
Tap!
Tap!
Tap!
I freeze as soon as I hear them. For a moment I tell myself that the three tapping sounds were all in my head, but I quickly realize that this isn't true. I turn and shine my flashlight back across the basement, but now everything is silent again. For a moment, staying completely still, I can't help worrying that maybe somebody is hiding behind one of those stone pillars. There's room for a person to stand out of sight, although the entire basement is deathly quiet and I can't help thinking that I'd be able to hear someone breathing.
I step to one side, turning the flashlight slightly, but I still don't see anyone.
I feel my blood start to run a little cold, before I take a deep breath and force myself to keep my senses straight. I definitely heard three very clear, very abrupt tapping sounds, but in a house this old – and with a heavy thunderstorm still raging outside – it's not difficult to believe that the house itself is simply settling a little. Either that, or maybe a stray rat bumped against one of the stone pillars. In fact, it'd be a miracle if a place like this didn't have rats. Everywhere in London has rats.
“Keep it together,” I whisper to myself, determined to hold onto what little sanity I have left. “This'd be a really bad time to go loopy.”
I wait, but now all I hear is the sound of the storm raging outside the house.
After a moment, I turn and head back over toward the steps. This time, I -
Tap!
Tap!
Tap!
I turn quickly, aiming the flashlight toward the wall, and now I know without a shadow of a doubt that I heard something.
The sound was exactly the same as before: three quick taps, as if something is trying to get my attention, and this time I feel as if the sound came from over near the stone slab. Or if not the slab, then the tools on the nearby tables. I shine the beam toward the medical instruments, waiting – and hoping – to see a rat scurry past.
I wait, but no rat appears.
My hand is trembling, causing the flashlight's beam to shake wildly.
As the seconds tick past, however, I start to realize that I'm letting myself get carried away, and that I really need to get a grip before I spiral into some kind of paranoia.
This is how people lose their minds.
“There's nothing here,” I whisper, and somehow those words seem to calm me a little.
There's nothing here.
If the sound wasn't caused by a rat, then maybe it was caused by water. Yeah, that makes sense. There's rain outside, and a dribble of water is somehow getting down into the basement and hitting the floor. I mean, I think that makes sense. Right now, it'll do as an explanation.
I pause, listening to the sound of the storm, and then I turn to walk back to the stairs. With each step, I expect to hear a sudden tapping sound coming once again from over my shoulder, but as I get to the door I feel a flicker of relief as I realize that this time there seems to be nothing. In fact, as I start making my way up the stairs, I actually start wondering whether -
Tap!
It's in my head.
Tap!
Tap!
I flinch as I feel the sound echoing through my skull. I feel the pressure, too, and I quickly drop down to my knees. The sound has already ended, but as I slowly turn and look back across the basement, I feel a flash of fear.
The tapping wasn't at the tables this time.
It was in my head.
I felt something tapping three times on the inside of my skull, scraping against the bone.
I wait, watching the basement with a growing sense of dread. If something over there wanted to get my attention, it certainly succeeded. All I want right now is to turn around and run up the wooden stairs, and then seal the door shut and run far away. At the same time, I feel as if I have to confront my fear, and finally – almost without realizing what I'm doing – I start shuffling back across the basement, heading past the stone slab and over toward the tables.
If I run, I'll always wonder what just happened.
I'll always have doubts.
Instead, I'm going to figure this out.
Suddenly I feel something wet on my left foot. I stop and shine the flashlight down, and to my horror I see that blood has washed down from the wound on my waist, covering my leg and foot. I reach down and touch the wound, and at that moment I feel a sudden rush of weakness. I take a step back, but my head is spinning slightly and I startle myself by bumping against one of the stone pillars. Glad of the support, I lean against the stone and try to find the strength to start walking again, but now my knees feel weak and I'm worried I might be about to collapse.
I touch the wound again.
Am I imagining things, or are the edges slightly swollen now?
Finally I let myself slide down onto my knees, and I feel a sense of panic starting to grip my chest. Turning, I look back across the basement and see that I've left a trail of bloodied footprints criss-crossing the basement.
And then I close my eyes, and the last thing I feel is my body slamming down against the cold stone floor.
Chapter Fourteen
Doctor Charles Grazier
Saturday September 29th, 1888
My hands are shaking.
Why are my hands shaking?
Again, my body betrays me. Again, when I need steadiness, my hands shake as if they are the hands of a common beggar. I operated on so many people during my career and I never experienced so much as a tremor. Why, then, do my hands betray me now?
“Control yourself, man,” I whisper under my breath. “Get a grip.”
Outside, a thunder storm has begun to rumble in the sky, and rain is beating down.
Frustrated, I turn and look back across the room. Catherine is still on the table, still unconscious after the injection I gave her, and I should already have begun the procedure. Even now, the kidney waits in its metal pan, most likely degrading with each passing second that I waste. It is of the utmost importance that I begin the operation immediately, yet I know that I cannot do any work until my hands are under control.
If I were a praying man, I suppose I would be on my knees.
Fortunately, I am a man of science, so I need not rely on such ephemeral things. I have other ways to steady myself.
Looking down at my hands again, I stare at the weak, pathetic, trembling things and I tell myself that through sheer willpower alone I can bring my body under control. I am Doctor Charles Grazier, one of the most esteemed surgeons in all of London, and my mind is stronger than my body. The flesh shall not run ramshackle over this moment, and I shall impose my mind's will upon my meat and bones. Other men may lack this ability, but I refuse to be beaten. My body is going to obey my mind.
Catherine needs me to be strong. And it is for her sake that I shall be strong.
***
With steady hands, I lower the still-warm kidney into Catherine's open abdomen and settle it gently into its new home. As I slip my fingers away, the kidney remains firmly in place, and I can already see that it fits rather well.
“Do not fear,” I whisper, glancing at my dear wife's face and seeing that her eyes are still closed. “Everything is going according to plan. I shall not let you down.”
Still, I cannot help but glance down at the stone floor. Catherine has lost a little more blood than I had anticipated, and now the blood has run from the table and is trickling along toward one of the drains in the far wall. I should like to collect my darling wife's blood, but I have no time for that now.
I cannot be sentimental.
Instead, I turn back to the task at hand. Taking hold of the kidney's upper end, I start searching for the material that I shall sew dir
ectly into Catherine's body. I have undertaken extensive study of the human kidney, to the extent that I dare say I know the organ better than any man alive. I understand every aspect of its structure, and it takes me only a moment to find the thick, fibrous tube that I must stitch tight to the opening in Catherine's own body.
I reach for a bottle of alcohol and pour half its contents over the kidney. This is the part of the procedure that I omitted last time, the part that will surely cleanse the organ and guarantee that it takes root on this occasion. After all, once the alien bacteria from the whore's body have been destroyed, bacteria from Catherine's body will be able to populate the kidney and bind it more securely to its new home. This, I am certain, is the final part of the puzzle, the part that will make the operation a success.
Soon, her pain will be ended.
Suddenly hearing a faint murmur, I look over at Catherine's face. Her lips are twitching, but her eyes are still shut and I quickly tell myself that there is no cause for concern. She is not about to cry out in pain, nor shall she leap from the table and try to run. She is unconscious and she will remain unconscious for as long as I need her to stay on this table. And later, when she wakes and feels that her health has returned, she will thank me. Not that I require her thanks, of course. All I require is her survival, and her presence by my side.
I reach over and take a threaded needle from the bench.
And then I wait.
I should be sewing the kidney into Catherine's body now, yet for some reason I find myself hesitating. Deep down, I feel a flicker of doubt, as if some part of me worries that the operation will not succeed. This is nonsense, of course, yet I can almost feel tiny threads on the insides of my arms, trying to pull me back. Catherine is at peace now, and it would be the work of a moment to give her one final injection that would end her suffering forever. For a brief moment, I actually catch myself contemplating the impossible.
I could set her free.
