Monster

by Shane Peacock

  Edgar can’t believe it. He turns the final page and notices a sentence scribbled on the other side. I wish I could tell him that I love him, the way I tell Annabel.

  With shaking hands, Edgar flips through some of the papers in the other folders, the ones about Thorne’s weapons, his work and his life. Alfred speaks of a difficult childhood as a draper’s assistant in Southwark, of his dissatisfaction with religion and his growing belief in science and the way it made him into “a man” and a “success.” He speaks glowingly of Annabel, her beauty, her intelligence and free and open ways, and wishes he was more like her.

  His notes about his weapons are much less interesting, filled with diagrams and equations. And the papers about his work in general are similarly dry until he deals with the last few years, where he begins to write of his doubts about science, his emerging interest in art and literature. Thorne wonders if there is more truth in art than science. I don’t really believe in the necessity of proof. It is invisible things that matter. The heart trumps the brain. He frets that the weapons he has made have done so much harm, killed so many people, that he is growing into a sort of monster, that science has ultimately perverted him. He mentions that having a son has made him think twice about all of it. Why am I so infernally incapable of speaking my heart to him? Why do I lead him, always, in the wrong direction? He asks himself another question that gives Edgar pause. Where is the soul? Might I locate some evidence of it in the body? Edgar wonders if that comment has something to do with the plaster of paris model Thorne was working on in this lab.

  Finally, Thorne repeats something twice, the second time in a bolder hand: I must tell Edgar how I really feel. I must tell Edgar how I really feel.

  —

  Annabel seems well enough in the morning to converse. Edgar knows that drawing anything out of her will be difficult, so he decides not to ask her again about what happened when Alfred was killed, at least at first. He wonders if she might be more forthcoming if they start out by simply speaking about her late husband.

  “Tell me about my father, about Alfred,” he says.

  He is sitting on the side of the bed looking at her. She is snuggled under two down quilts, her head propped up on feather pillows. She actually smiles.

  “He had a disease.”

  “You never told me.”

  “It’s called being a man. He felt the need to be a man at all times. Go out on the streets of this city and you will see about half the population similarly afflicted. He couldn’t show his affections to anyone or anything…except me.” Tears well in her eyes. “He was often himself, his true self, while we were alone, but the rest of the time he pretended, about everything. To others, he acted as though he were constantly strong, always brilliant, forever without fear. But I think he was terrified of many things. He was afraid of losing me, of showing his love for you, of setting aside that world of science up there in that laboratory. Dogs bark when they are afraid and men puff out their chests. Me, I’m afraid of many things, Edgar, I’m not afraid to admit it, but now…my greatest fear has come to pass.”

  She sobs, the tears rolling down her cheeks. Edgar wishes he could hug her, but he thinks it improper at this moment, so he takes her hand. She squeezes his, lifts herself and hugs him tightly.

  “I went upstairs and read some of the things he had written in his private books, mother. I know him better now. And I know, too, that he would be contented if I didn’t become a doctor. He wrote of his doubts about science toward the end. I believe that, deep down, he wanted me to become something else. So, you see, I am free to do what I want now, with his blessing.”

  “No you aren’t,” says Annabel, a little sternly. She pushes him back and looks at him. “We will have no more income now, Edgar. It will be just you and me. Our savings will be gone in a half dozen years. He has set you up well at the London Hospital.”

  “But—”

  “Shush. Listen to me. We have no choice. You have a position now, and as long as you do well this year, you will be admitted to the University of Edinburgh and proceed from there. Two of the most noble and esteemed men in the medical profession will recommend you and guide you, give you characters to any hospital in the kingdom when you are done at school. You cannot have a start like this in any other occupation. Oh, Edgar, you will be a doctor! An admired one, I am sure. You will use science the way it should be used. You will heal people! And you will provide for us. I know Alfred would believe in all of that.”

  She lies back in the bed. Edgar is stunned and gets up and walks toward the door, but she speaks again.

  “You must work hard and do whatever Godwin asks of you.”

  He had intended to ask her much more. He had wanted her to try again to recall the face of the thing that killed Alfred, and he wanted to tell her about the monster, the revenant some call a vampire, that had been brought to life in Bram Stoker’s Dracula, that he and Lucy had beheaded at the Royal Lyceum Theatre, and of the beast that had killed Hamish Lear, that was after him and his friends now, and that had, indeed, murdered her husband. He wanted to tell her that he believed that some of the creatures in famous books were real. And most of all, he wanted to warn her that the monster that had recently been here, might very well come back.

  But both of them have had enough. He has an important day with Dr. Godwin and his fresh corpse and the very thought of it is making his heart pound. He walks out the door in silence.

  9

  Edgar Brim moves forthrightly along the hallway to the back of the London Hospital, determined not to be afraid. A voice in his head is repeating that there is nothing wrong with experimenting on an animal or even on a human body. It is for good. It will heal people. It will contribute to human knowledge. He must continue on at the hospital, regardless of what is asked of him—he must do it for Annabel. And the creature won’t return to Thorne House when he isn’t there, he tells himself, and won’t pursue him here in this public building, and his friends are together and well-armed. But when he gets to the top of the stairs that lead into the basement, he begins to lose his nerve. Godwin and his fresh corpse are nearing. And once he is alone in the clammy basement hallway, he falters even more. Suddenly, a tough-looking man emerges out of the darkness and Edgar thinks he recognizes him. The man is big and scruffy. His thick head, onto which he is now pulling a soiled woolen cap, is shaved on either side of his temples, his nose looks like it has been broken many times, and a black mustache, narrow like a paint brush and only slightly thicker than the stubble that sprouts about his face, sits above a mouth that is slightly open in a grin. His teeth look like pieces of yellow marbles. He stuffs a fistful of pound notes into a pocket of his greasy pea coat, much too warm an item for this summer day, and looks up. His expression sends a cold sensation through Edgar, not just because of the evil intent that seems to be in it, but because Edgar has seen that look before. For a moment he can’t recall where. Then he remembers—at Highgate Cemetery. This is the gravedigger. Something else disturbs Edgar: the man has come out of Godwin’s laboratory.

  “Good day, sir,” says the fellow in a guttural voice.

  Edgar doesn’t respond.

  Godwin is standing next to the operating table in the center of the lab, leaning over it with his back to the entrance. The lights above the table are on and create a startling brightness as if that area of the room were spotlighted, even though the rest of the lab is not particularly dark. Godwin turns when he hears Edgar close the door, and smiles. It is a dazzling expression. That handsome face, with its perfect skin and pearl-white teeth, almost glows. For an instant, in that light, Edgar feels like he can almost look through him, as if he can see his bones, his skull, beneath the skin.

  “Ah, Edgar, come here.” The great surgeon pats a spot next to him on the metal surface of the operating table. “We have a lovely specimen.”

  Edgar halts. He feels faint.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Yes, I’m fine.”

  “There
is nothing to be afraid of, this is an elderly gentleman and as dead as a doornail.”

  “Wh-where,” sputters Edgar, “where did you get him?”

  Godwin hesitates. “Well, Edgar, you know, sometimes we have to contravene the law in order to do what is right for humanity. I have to procure the services, at times, of somewhat unsavory people.”

  “Like that man who was just here?”

  “You saw him, did you?”

  “Yes, and I have seen him before.”

  “Oh?” Godwin doesn’t look pleased. He picks up a huge scalpel. He fumbles it and it clatters on the metal tray before he retrieves it. It makes Edgar jump. “Excuse me.”

  The corpse is still hidden behind the surgeon. At the slight angle from which Edgar has approached, all he can see are naked calves and feet, and the very top of the head. It is indeed an older man, a large one, with graying body hair.

  “I wish I had a younger specimen, but this will do, for now. Beggars can’t be choosers.” Godwin offers another one of his strange hollow laughs. “Where did you first see the gentleman who brought us this find?”

  “In Highgate Cemetery. I was there for a funeral. He was the gravedigger.”

  “Well, yes, I believe he does that as well. Graft is his name.”

  “Where did he get…this?” Edgar repeats.

  “I believe it was Highgate too, now that you mention it, though he doesn’t tell me much and I don’t ask many questions.”

  Edgar remembers the gravedigger’s way of examining Lear’s grave, the whole area around the plot, as if remembering it for future reference.

  “Come closer.”

  The boy doesn’t move.

  “Come on, it won’t bite, though it is still fresh. The fresher the corpse, the more I pay and Graft certainly loves money. This one was buried within the last few days.”

  Edgar edges forward and as he does, more of the naked body is revealed. He sees a large head like a lion’s, a big black and gray-streaked beard…and an arm missing at the shoulder socket!

  “Oh God!” cries Edgar and staggers. Godwin reaches out and seizes him.

  “Now, now, my boy, calm yourself. This is for science, for good. Look at the body. There is nothing evil about it. This is one of God’s creatures.”

  Edgar looks again and sees that the corpse actually has both arms: the body was just twisted slightly sideways and Godwin had been in front of one appendage. The corpse isn’t his dear, deceased professor. Edgar steadies himself, holding on to the table. He notices for the first time that there are gutters running along either side of the surface, like troughs. He wonders what they are for.

  “Good for you, my boy! Ready?”

  Edgar nods.

  “There is a lab coat on a hook by the Elephant Man’s door and a sink near it. Wash your hands and return.”

  Edgar takes his time. Godwin smiles indulgently when he comes back.

  “Stand right next to me,” he says.

  Edgar moves up close to the corpse but can barely bring himself to look down at it. The skin appears gray.

  “I am rather low on organs. That is why I ordered this specimen. We are going to remove all of his and place them in jars of formaldehyde to preserve them. Later, I shall slice up these innards and examine them with my microscope, something I will treat you to as well. The human body is a marvelous thing. You shall see. There is no use being squeamish about it. That does no good at all. I will crack the breastbone with that large instrument you see closest to you on the tray. Might you hand it to me?”

  Edgar sees that several instruments have been added to the tray today. They have been polished so they are gleaming, as if someone took a long time at the job. Most prominent are a couple of saws. He imagines them cutting off a limb, perhaps a big leg bone, but prays he won’t have to endure that. At this moment, however, Godwin is referring to a huge pair of pliers with business ends that look as sharp as razors. Edgar picks it up and hands it to the eager surgeon.

  “That will be my tool to start with. I shall stick it in near the stomach just below the thorax, penetrate the skin there and cut upward with my clever big scissors in the middle of the rib cage, severing the breastbone from stem to gudgeon, as it were. Your tool shall be this large scalpel.” He offers the instrument he had been holding in his other hand to Edgar. “Take it up, please.”

  Edgar reaches out and grips the largest scalpel he has ever seen.

  “Note the mark I have drawn upon his skin.” There is a thick black line, straight as an arrow, running from the corpse’s throat down toward his nether regions. “You shall cut downward as I make my merry way upward. When we are done we shall have this lovely chap split wide open. We shall then peel back the skin and observe the smorgasbord of delights before us. I shall teach you what each item is and why it is placed where it is, its function as part of the human mechanism. But we need to do this quickly, for I want the organs relatively fresh and into the jars lickety-split. Edgar, you look a little green. Are you sure you are up to our task?”

  “Yes, sir.” Edgar knows he must do this. He is thinking of Annabel and Alfred, of her descent into poverty if he fails. A doctor cannot turn away.

  “Good for you. There will be time afterward to observe the spinal cord and its extraordinary design, and we will take off the head too, crack the skull and remove the brain, God’s eternally fascinating gift to humanity. There will be another important removal too, though it would be indelicate to name it.” Godwin coughs and looks down. “But that lovely endeavor is still a few hours away. We must concentrate on our first chores. Make sure you stab the scalpel into this gentleman far enough to cut through his epidermis and subcutaneous fat, then slice downward forcefully enough to cut him all the way to the pubis bone, but not violently enough to damage any precious interior gems.”

  “All right.”

  “I beg your pardon, I didn’t quite hear that.”

  “I said, all right.”

  “Splendid. Let us begin.”

  Godwin has his sharp pliers into the corpse in an instant and is cutting upward through the bone with a cracking sound before Edgar can even begin. But then Edgar thrusts the scalpel in, keeping his eyes open just a little. He begins tearing downward, making sure he is following the black line, before entirely closing his eyes. His fingers are wet now. Next to him, he hears the breastbone cracking and snapping as Godwin works his way upward, breathing heavily with the effort. It is obviously hard work. Edgar has the easy part.

  “Wonderfully done!” exclaims the surgeon. His assistant opens his eyes. There is embalming fluid oozing out of the corpse here and there, a little running down the side of the rubbery flesh and gathering in the gutters on each side of the table. The thick liquid is pink with flecks of red. But there is very little smell. Edgar wonders about those gutters. Why are they there when so little fluid gathers in them? Then he imagines this human being opened and carved up just after it had been killed, before it was infused with fluid. There would be blood everywhere, pools of it, and this unusual table and its gutters would be perfectly designed. But Godwin would never have reason to do anything like that. Edgar looks down at the eviscerated man on the table and tries not to throw up. He tells himself to think of the corpse as merely a suit of skin that this human being inside wore in life, like the skin a snake would shed.

  “If you are feeling faint, my boy, then just remember that the human body is more like a machine than anything else, and this machine has merely stopped working. It is like a complicated clock that recently struck its midnight.”

  Edgar wonders how anyone can think that.

  “Its soul,” says Godwin and hesitates, “its soul…is gone!” He stares off into the distance for a moment and then shakes his head, as if to clear it. “Now get those jars down from the shelf above us and let us commence to harvesting these beautiful organs!”

  —

  A few hours later, the deed is done. All the innards are in the jars, the head has been removed,
the spongy brain taken out and preserved, and Godwin has even peeled off several large squares of skin for further investigation. He works energetically and robotically, without much sign of either repulsion or glee. He is merely getting an important job done. Edgar, on the other hand, has been keeping himself from retching with a great effort of will. As they near the end, he cannot bring himself to even glance at the sordid remains on the table.

  “Now, you shall clean up this mess!” exclaims Godwin. He looks down at the fluid and carcass and then at Edgar. “That was just a jest, my boy. Do not worry, I shan’t ask you to do more. Graft, of course, will come in and take away what is left here. I pay him another few shillings to do such things. I am not sure what he does with all of this.”

  Edgar is aware of the rumors that body snatchers sometimes sell human detritus to the London Zoo for the animals to consume. He tries very hard not to imagine it.