The audience was stony faced. Realising he had made a grave error of judgment in inviting Gaia onto his tasteless show, the host tried to lighten the tone. ‘So you have him as a paperweight,’ he said. ‘Erm, doesn’t he go off? Doesn’t he, you know, smell a bit?’
‘Not at all. He smells as sweet as a daisy.’
‘That’s what he should be pushing up by rights, is it not?’ the host asked. ‘I mean, when all’s said and done, I wouldn’t like to end up as a paperweight. I’d rather have a good sleep.’
‘You think you sleep? Fool.’ Gaia snorted. ‘He kept me awake for thirty years. I sleep easy.’
‘So he’s one corpse who won’t be popping up tonight?’ the host asked. A few snickers came from the audience, like small green flames in a fire that won’t catch.
The door opened. Chas brought in a flask, a bottle of whisky and two glasses. ‘Party’s in full swing,’ he said. ‘I said bonne nuit to Stasia. You’re shivering,’ he added, glancing over at me. ‘Why don’t you run a hot bath?’ Then he looked at the set. ‘You’re not watching that asshole?’
‘It’s Eddie’s wife,’ I said. ‘We just can’t get away from it, can we?’
Chas put the tray down on an altar of books and sat next to me on the sofa. ‘That Swedish actress? That’s Mrs Kronenberg? What did that guy do for you women? She used to be the sexiest thing on two legs.’
‘She’s keeping his body as a paperweight,’ I said. ‘Or rather August is. This is just an advert for his performance.’
‘Did they say anything about Charity’s?’ Chas asked. But I shushed him.
Silver jock strap leaned over towards Gaia. ‘I believe you’ve brought a photo of the paperweight,’ he smirked. ‘Can we all have a peep? Over here camera, over here.’ The camera picked out a Polaroid of Eddie, embalmed, lying on top of a long desk.
‘That looks like that place we broke into last night,’ Chas said, glancing darkly at me. ‘That’s Stockyard’s studio.’
‘They must have taken him there after we left. Then they’ll know we were there,’ I said.
‘They won’t know it was us.’ Chas leaned forward to peer at the close-up of Eddie. ‘They’ll have to keep checking preservative levels. I wonder what process they used? Last Rites have some pretty sophisticated technology.’ He frowned. ‘Good thing they didn’t cut his head off at their cryogenics plant. There’s enough political monsters born every day as it is. Imagine unfreezing a fucking dictator. With Lenin they removed the veins, which means they have to soak him every couple of months or so in a vat of preserving fluid. Did you ever see Lenin’s corpse?’ I shook my head. I was looking at Eddie. ‘They have a whole research unit at the mausoleum in Red Square. Centre for Biological Studies or some such crap.’ Chas nudged my arm. ‘Maybe we should use that at our place.’
‘Please,’ I said, ‘I’m trying to listen.’
The camera was back on Gaia. She seemed to be remonstrating with the audience. But the host cut her off. ‘Time for a little light relief,’ he said, fingering his silver jock strap. But the audience looked restless and uncomfortable. Chas took the remote from me and switched off the set.
‘I’ve brought some hot soup over,’ he said. ‘Bloody Mary. In keeping with the party theme. Stasia goes overboard for these new-agers. Heinz tomato, Worcestershire sauce and vodka,’ he elaborated as I said nothing. ‘Are you cold, Louise? Why don’t you take your leathers off?’
I got up and started unpeeling while Chas poured soup from the flask into two fresh mugs. My jeans were sticking to my legs from the pressure of the leathers.
‘The food here’s pretty limited,’ Chas said. ‘They’re all vegetarians.’
I accepted the soup and sat back down on the sofa. ‘This is a double bed,’ Chas commented. ‘Metal action. There’s a great big bar that sticks into my back. I should sort something else out really, but I never seem to have the time when I’m down here.’
‘Yes, well you’re tall,’ I said.
He looked keenly at me, but I dodged his gaze. I didn’t want to think about condoms or consequences. I didn’t want to fart around with metal action sofa beds and fumble with foul weather clothing. I wanted the time to be right. I wanted motive to line up with opportunity, the right mens rea for a night of passion. But I couldn’t say that to Chas, not after all he had done for me.
As he hit the mechanism of the sofa bed, I went into the bathroom and ran the hot water. The towels were fresh and fluffy. The soap was the kind you get in two star hotels. I bathed as quickly as I could, the heat of the bath putting me in a warmer frame of mind. I stared up at the ceiling where a large spider crouched in waiting. What will the spider do – suspend its operations? Will the weevil delay?
‘Chas!’ I screamed, as the spider began its descent.
But when I got to the sofa, he was fast asleep.
***
Chapter Thirteen
It took me a long time to get to sleep, what with Chas’s snoring, the sounds of the party dispersing and the hooting of an owl into the early hours. A wise old owl sat in an oak. The more it heard the less it spoke. Wise bird, not like me. Had I not spoken up to Eddie, I might have a daughter now, like Sarah Keays. Or a boy. I had shut my eyes while they took it away, but subsequent dud deliveries from the maternity wing had shown me what a twelve week old foetus looked like. Another one of Inch’s worms, Chas joked as they came in to us. But then he must have realised that was one category of specimen I would not laugh at with the rest of the boys. Not terminations, miscarriages of nature, of natural justice. I guessed as much, Chas had said last night. But how? Did it show? Was there a light in my eyes that said infanticide? Technically, a foetus was not an infant. A twelve week old foetus was not even viable, in medical terms. But that was just camouflage. That was just words. And what were words? Just fancy parcels of received meaning.
I looked at Chas. In sleep, he was red and simian, a Neanderthal in repose, a hunter-gatherer. Eddie had been pink and blond, a Viking with a busted lung. A sick Viking. So what did that make me? What, in Chas’s eyes, did that make me? I didn’t even want to think about that. Reaching for the remote, I switched on the TV, pressing the mute button so that Chas would not wake up. The breakfast show was in full swing. I was admiring the anchorwoman’s taste in Chanel when the image behind her on the news-screen made me sit up straight. It was a long-shot of litter bins on the Thames Embankment with police vans and people in crime-scene coveralls milling around in the rain.
Then the scene cut away to an exterior view of the gates of Charity’s, the famous original sign which dated from 1752. A reporter stood before them, shivering in his raincoat. I switched to full sound.
‘… questions this morning at Charity’s Hospital in North East London,’ the reporter finished. Then we were back to Coco Chanel in the studio. ‘A full report will follow later today,’ was all she had to say on the matter. Chas groaned and turned over. He was watching the set through one bloodshot eye. His chin was blue with stubble.
‘Charity’s is in the news,’ I said, shifting away from him.
‘What for?’
‘Litter bins on the Thames Embankment. I don’t know.’ I got up and made for the kitchenette. ‘Tea or coffee?’
‘Need you ask? If you don’t know me by now,’ he sang, sitting up and switching channels. ‘You will never never never …’ He broke off. The news was just starting on BBC 1.
‘The Thames Embankment has been cordoned off following reports of a gruesome find by Westminster City Council workers earlier this morning.’
I was back in front of the set like a shot, Chas waving at me to keep quiet. ‘Several hundred jars containing what appear to be tissue and organ samples were found dumped in the bins along with other refuse,’ the report went on. And there, again, was the cordoned-off scene.
‘That’s Jamira Jacques.’ Chas pointed to a hooded figure in white. ‘Home Office pathologist. I was at medical school with her.’
I put a fi
nger to my mouth. We were back at Charity’s, outside the mortuary gates.
‘A group calling themselves RIP – Relatives’ Inquest on Post-Mortems – has named Charity’s as one of several NHS hospitals holding un-quantifiable numbers of human organ and tissue samples. It is believed that some of the jars found on the Embankment earlier today were stolen from the hospital as part of the protest.’
‘Several hundred?’ Chas said. ‘Oh I don’t think so.’
‘However, a Home Office pathologist called to the scene can confirm that some of the samples will certainly prove to be animal tissue, not human. A spokesman for Charity’s has said that any patient or relative seeking further information should contact the number now appearing on your screens.’ It duly appeared in the top right hand corner.
‘Bollocks,’ Chas said. ‘Like they are going to tell them anything. Who gives a shit about the rellies?’ The patients, we knew, were beyond attempts at retribution.
The kettle was boiling. ‘So he went and did it,’ I said, meaning August. The jars could have come from anywhere. The meat, most likely, had been sourced at Spitalfields. And the rest?
‘It will be Jamira’s job to sort out pig from patient.’ Chas accepted his tea. ‘I’ll never live this one down. But it’s all in a day’s work for her. Better than some putrefied remains in a plastic bag dredged up from the river.’
‘Did you never fancy forensics?’
‘No.’ He looked at me hard. We had had this out before, but he reiterated. ‘Pathology is a life science. I study disease, not death. I’m not a policeman.’
‘You detect things. You dissect,’ I corrected myself.
‘I look at systems,’ he said. ‘I look at things that break down. I look at changes. The cell is the basis of human life, not death. That’s Jacques’s job, death.’
‘So where did it all go wrong, Chas?’ The news had morphed into weather pictures. I took the remote and pressed Off. ‘With Inch and those other colleagues of yours, I mean. Would you really say they’re interested in life?’
‘They’re physicians. They’re supposed to be interested in diagnosis.’
‘But?’
‘But how can you reach a diagnosis from a twelve week old foetus? That’s what you’re going to ask me, right?’
I nodded.
‘Bad apples, Louise.’ He took my hand. ‘Ill-intentioned amateur anatomists. OK, freaks. I’m sorry.’
‘So was I.’
‘I’m not making a big case for the defence of my colleagues at Charity’s here, but try to see the bigger picture. If Harvey hadn’t cut up animals and people, he would never have discovered how blood circulates. You agree that was progress. Learning how the heart works, learning from a dud heart how to deal with heart disease? When Virchow established the relationship between disease and living conditions, that was progress too. Virchow and Harvey were serious scientists. They weren’t some post-modern Frankensteins poking dead babies about in the name of some public thrill. I don’t like performing autopsies, Louise, they don’t enhance my enjoyment of life, if you know what I mean.’
‘I know what you mean.’
‘But dissection is what I do. It isn’t me, it’s what I do.’
‘Killing the baby, that was me.’
‘Oh get over it.’ He dropped my hand. ‘Get over it. Get over fucking Kronenberg’s fucking embryo.’
He strode over to the bathroom. As water ran and I was trying to think of a way of putting the day to rights, I heard a knock on the door.
‘Charles?’ came a woman’s voice.
‘Chas,’ I called.
‘Get that, can’t you?’ he shouted through the shower.
I opened the door to the woman I assumed was his sister. At least she looked like Chas, although her hair was longer than his and unplaited. She was older than Chas, too, and where he was deconstructed biker, she was unreconstructed hippy, all Indian prints and whirling skirts and beads a-plenty. But her manner was far from laid-back. She was nervous. She sounded out of breath. She looked me up and down, clutching at her throat.
‘I’m Louise,’ I said, holding out my hand. She shook it, limply.
‘Anastasia,’ she said. ‘Charles didn’t tell me he had brought a guest.’
‘I’m a colleague of his,’ I said. ‘Well, I work for him actually. I hope this doesn’t put you to any trouble.’
‘No, no, no, no trouble at all,’ she exclaimed, looking anxiously at the bathroom door. Chas came through it, as though on cue, a towel wrapped around his waist, his eyes narrowing to meet his sister’s.
‘Perhaps you’d like to take your friend to see the puppet workshop, Charles,’ she said.
‘And why would I want to do that?’
Anastasia stepped back. ‘Well, there’s such a lot of clearing up to do here, after last night. The house is in such a state. I wasn’t expecting …’
‘We won’t be in your way.’
‘Maybe we could help clear up?’ I suggested. I felt sorely in need of some displacement activity.
‘I’m sure my sister has it covered,’ Chas snapped. She took a step back into the hallway.
‘I’ll be over at the house then if you need me,’ she called, and clattered back downstairs.
‘You were rude,’ I told Chas as he closed the door.
‘Puppet workshop,’ he sneered. ‘She’s a bigger muppet than all of them put together.’
‘Now that was really rude.’
Ignoring me, he pulled a pair of clean boxer shorts from his travel bag and started pulling them on, not bothering to hide himself. But I did. Turning around in a flush of hot confusion, I picked up my outer wear and disappeared into the bathroom. Under the shower, I focused on this mean streak that ran in Chas, this coldness towards his sister, towards my termination. Did this come from working with the dead, or had he always been like that? He called himself a life scientist, but all he really cared about was tissue. He couldn’t put faces to his material. He couldn’t see things holistically. He couldn’t splice the figure from the ground. But I could. I could remember every cadaver that passed through my hands, like those pictures you see on gravestones on the continent: aides-memoires for morts. I turned off the shower and listened to the sound of silence. Water was collecting in the bath tub. I kicked it towards the plug-hole where it sat in a stubborn puddle of foam. There must be something wrong with Chas’s drain. I had a horrifying vision of other showers, of other naked people, thousands of people, frightened and cold. Get a grip of yourself, Louise, I told myself. Get a grip, get a grip. Chas’s damp towel was draped over the rail. I buried my face in it, smelled pheromones, or sweat. Get a grip, I said aloud. Get over it. Move on.
I put on a clean T-shirt and underwear and woke up my face some more with a bit of eyeliner and a touch of gloss on my lips which I hoped would not be recognised as artifice. I never wore make up at work, but this was supposed to be a holiday. I considered putting on a redder shade, but decided against it. I didn’t want to look like Mrs Jury.
‘So where did you bury this old princess then?’ I called. Chas was sitting back on the sofa bed, his eyes half closed.
‘Just off the drive as you come in. Ask Stasia to show you.’
‘She’s busy, isn’t she?’
‘She’s always busy. It’s her raison d’être. Busy busy busy.’
‘So what’s this puppet thing?’
‘It’s some cottage industry she’s got set up with Muppet Number 2. Her partner, Gus,’ he elaborated. ‘Stasia does all the cooking, cleaning and accounts, while Gus the Wuss makes these life-size puppets and basically cons the guests into thinking he’s some kind of guru.’
‘Why don’t you stick up for her?’ I asked.
‘Why should I? She has chosen to live like that. Go on, go and ask her,’ he said, looking hard at me. ‘Then we’ll go out somewhere. Meanwhile, I’ve got to call the hospital.’
‘Fine,’ I said. ‘Don’t let me cramp your style.’
T
he morning chill still hung about the shaded courtyard. The sodden moss between the cobblestones nearly caused me to lose my footing. I made for the back of the mansion and found the kitchen door. It was much warmer inside the house, which smelt of ancient fabrics overlaid with a faint scent of incense, or pot pourri. The kitchen floor was flagged with yellow slabs, worn and zealously scrubbed. An Aga stove glowed on one side of the room; on the other was an elderly electric cooker, covered with grease stains. Pot-washing sounds came from a scullery next door. As I moved towards this centre of activity, my eye caught a framed poster on the wall depicting bunnies and chicks. These are my friends, said the underlying text. I don’t eat my friends. You may not eat them, August, I thought. But that doesn’t stop you using their bits for your other nefarious ends.
Anastasia looked up from the sink as I went through into the scullery. She cried out, startled, as though I had given her a nasty surprise.
‘Chas is phoning the hospital,’ I said. ‘Can I help you dry?’
She nodded frantically towards the Aga stove, where a row of dishcloths was airing.
‘It was on the news this morning,’ I said. ‘Charity’s is in a lot of trouble. Someone broke into the organs store and stole a batch of specimens.’
Anastasia left off washing the pots and wiped her hands. ‘Charles should have stayed in America,’ she ventured at length. ‘He did his post grad research at Harvard Medical School. He could have worked at any hospital he wanted. I’ll never fathom why he went back there – to London, I mean. I think the place is cursed.’
‘He trained there, didn’t he?’
‘At first. And he hated it, or said he hated it. You can never tell with my brother. He can be a real dark horse.’
‘That’s doctors for you.’
‘Let me make you some coffee, Louise. Have you had your breakfast?’ She was rushing about the kitchen, pulling lids off saucepans. ‘There’s some porridge left, or muffins. Or I could make you some toast. Did Charles explain we are vegetarian here? Actually, Gus is vegan. We have a microbiotic diet, we …’
Remains of the Dead Page 10
