Understanding now, I nod.
‘I have not seen you of late,’ he says.
I shake my head. ‘I have been busy with my duties…’ and May grins, nodding, though surely he must know the lie for what it is.
‘And Charles? How is he?’
Realising he has not heard, I hesitate. ‘He is to be married.’
‘Married?’ says May. ‘That is happy news.’ But then he falls quiet.
‘And you?’ I ask. ‘You keep well?’
He nods, but then a low door opens behind him, a young Jew framed in it. May lifts a hand as if to stay him.
‘I must go – but visit me, I have missed your company,’ he says, smiling.
For a long time I remain there, staring after him. There is no wrong May has done to me, no unkindness I could name. But I cannot bear his company, cannot bear all that it asks of me.
I know his face at once, though I have not seen him since that day in the park.
Without thinking I look down, but Chifley lifts his arm.
‘Ash,’ he calls, rising from his seat. Opposite me Caswell stares at the table in front of him, and I know at once Chifley has some game planned here.
‘You two have met, I think?’ Chifley asks, drawing a chair towards our table. Looking no better pleased to see me than the last time we met Ash nods agreement.
‘Swift,’ he says.
I rise, thinking to excuse myself, but Chifley puts his hand upon my arm, calling for another glass. And so I sit again, and wait.
It transpires Ash and Chifley have some business about a horse. As it was that day with Arabella and Amy, Ash’s manner is stiff and superior, as if he found himself burdened by our company. Once it is done he stands almost immediately, glancing at his watch.
‘I have business elsewhere,’ he says, barely looking at us as he speaks. Leaning back in his chair Chifley takes a swig from his glass and smiles.
‘I am told her name is Louisa,’ he says.
Ash looks at Chifley.
‘You talk too much, man,’ he says. I think at first he will say more but then he casts a few coins upon the table and turns away. Chifley reaches for his snuffbox.
‘What? You did not know?’
‘Know what?’
‘That silly whore you met is ruined. Ash would have nothing of it.’ I have drunk too much, and my face burns, Chifley looks at me mockingly as I rise to my feet.
‘Why, Sparrow,’ he asks, ‘you do not take our jests amiss?’
I push past them for the door, a cold fury seething in my gut.
The night is warm, the streets are thronged with the Saturday crowds, fiddlers and sailors and soldiers and whores, all jostling and shouting. Not caring where I go I walk along the Strand to Ludgate Hill, then south, towards the river. I think at first to find Ash and teach him a lesson with my fists, for I am filled with a blinding loathing for these men and their ways, yet in the streets beneath St Paul’s, where the watermen and their many brethren dwell, it begins to fade, replaced instead by a sort of shame, not just for my part in this thing but for my cowardice.
THE KITCHEN IS DARK, and so at first I do not see him in the shadows.
‘It is late for you to be about.’
Startled, I jump. He chuckles, leaning forward so I can see the outline of his face. ‘Had you thought yourself alone?’
‘How come you here?’ I hiss.
Lucan makes a noise of derision. ‘You would remove me?’ With a lazy motion he leans back against the wall.
Slowly I edge away from him. Though he comes to the house often now I am not comfortable in his presence, nor do I trust his motives for coming unannounced.
‘I am alone, you need not fear.’
‘What of Mrs Gunn?’ I look towards the door to her little room.
‘She will not wake, I think.’ As he speaks I realise that he is drunk. Then, as if anticipating me, he adds, ‘Nor Tyne either.’
I do not reply.
‘He has wronged you, has he not?’
‘He has.’ Although the room’s full width separates him from me, his presence is like a physical thing.
‘You are afraid of him?’
I do not answer, and he nods.
‘There is no shame in it. He is a man to keep always in one’s sight. I fear it is on my account you have been wronged.’
‘Perhaps,’ I say.
‘Would you have me teach Tyne a lesson on your behalf?’
I hesitate, for the idea is an attractive one, but then I shake my head. Lucan laughs.
‘Good. I admire a man who does not incur debts easily.’ He pauses thoughtfully.
‘They say de Mandeville is to marry your master’s daughter.’
‘He is,’ I say.
For a long moment he lets the statement hang between us.
‘You know more of him, I think, than when last we spoke.’
‘Perhaps,’ I say.
‘Her father but a miller’s son. And he so great a gentleman.’ He comes closer.
‘I do not understand.’
‘No?’ he asks, his voice amused. ‘They say she brings a fortune a better man than he might still desire.’
‘I do not take your meaning,’ I reply, but I feel a chill, for in truth I think I understand.
‘You met an actress once, a child which died.’
I shake my head. ‘I gave my word I would not speak of it.’
‘Nor have you broken it.’
‘He has debts? I ask. Then, with a startling suddenness, Lucan lifts his hand and grasps my face. His grip is almost tender, yet I feel the strength of him, the power which tenses in his hand.
‘Surely you have seen enough of death by now to know something of life?’ he asks, his face so close I feel the heat of his breath. My own comes raggedly, the blood hot in my throat, our bodies caught in this strange embrace.
‘Do not be a fool for them,’ he says at last, then all at once releases me.
DRIPPING MAY. Rain everywhere, a week of it. Inside the house everything feels damp, and in the cellar there is water. Then one morning a knock – a boy on our doorstep with an unmarked letter he says is for me, though he will say no more. I open it, afraid. Inside, a note bearing news Amy is taken ill and begging me to bring Charles at once. The ink is spilled upon the paper by the rain. Looking down I see the boy’s frightened face.
‘Wait here,’ I say.
In the dissection room Charles is bent over a body with Mr Poll. Robinson, a seller of hats, dead two days of a strangulation of the bowel. Charles is drawing forth the spilling mess of his guts, a slippery mass which bulges evilly here and there as he scoops it into a pail. The stink clotting the air so I must lift a hand to my face.
‘What is it?’ he asks, and coming closer I hold the note out so he might read it. Barely pausing in his work he scans it quickly, then glances down into the opened cavity of Robinson’s belly. Across the table Mr Poll is waiting. Charles twists his hand, chivvying the liver free. Then at last he sets his scalpel down and looks at Mr Poll.
‘I am needed,’ he says. Mr Poll regards Charles for a second, perhaps expecting some further explanation. But Charles offers none. Something silent passes between the two of them, then Charles takes a rag and begins to wipe the fat from his hands.
‘Is the messenger still here?’ he asks, and I nod.
‘Say I will be there presently.’
The day is wet, rain falling steadily from heavy skies, and though we walk quickly we are wet before we have gone a hundred feet. Charles’s handsome face is closed.
As soon as we arrive Mary opens the door. She looks less fierce today, I think, her face pale, and scared.
The house is hot, as close and over-warm as the first day I visited. Along a little corridor Mary stops before a door and half-turns to Charles. Her sallow face is tight and grey with worry, yet there is still that mixture of defiance and need I saw in her the first time we met. It seems she means to speak, but cannot find the words. Char
les reaches out a hand and places it on her arm, his touch seeming to dissolve whatever it was that burned inside her.
‘Do not fear,’ he says, and Mary nods, letting her hand press upon the door so it swings open.
The room is dark, the curtains drawn against the day. Upon the floor mounds of bedding are tumbled here and there, crumpled and stained with blood. On the bed in the room’s centre Amy lies, her face ashen, her head cradled in Arabella’s lap. Arabella looks up as we enter.
‘Please,’ she says, one hand stroking the tangled mess of Amy’s hair, ‘help her.’ I am not sure what is worse, the sight of Amy’s blood or the way Arabella’s voice breaks with fear.
‘How long has she been like this?’ Charles asks, setting down his bag and seating himself behind her. Arabella shakes her head.
‘I had a performance last night, and she was in bed by the time I came in. When she did not rise this morning, I came in, and found her.’ Her voice trails off.
Charles nods, placing a hand upon Amy’s brow.
‘It was a woman in Ludgate Hill,’ Arabella says. As she speaks Amy opens her eyes.
‘Charles,’ she says, smiling, and Charles takes her hand.
‘Amy,’ he says, ‘what have you done?’
She shrugs, then seeing me, ‘Mr Swift,’ she says, ‘you did not come to visit.’
I shake my head. ‘No,’ I say, and she smiles.
‘You will not want to, now, I think.’
‘Yes,’ I say, ‘I will come again.’
She laughs raggedly. ‘And your carriage, you will bring your carriage?’
I swallow hard. And then she winces, her body doubling up in pain, and turning aside she closes her eyes and seems to slip away.
‘Tell me you will help her,’ Arabella pleads, but Charles only shakes his head.
‘I will do what I can,’ he says. ‘After that it is in God’s hands.’
From his bag Charles takes a draught to thicken her blood, mixing it with opium and spooning it carefully into her mouth. With the opium her breathing grows slower, more regular. Mary glances at Arabella; this change calms them a bit. But the bleeding does not stop. It is not the first time I have seen a patient haemorrhage, but it is still hard to credit the sheer volume of the blood. Again and again Mary sops it up with sheets and towels, carrying them away, yet always there seems to be more of it, leaking forth like a tide. At last Arabella bids her stop, her face hopeless. She extends a hand and takes the girl’s in it, the gesture so tender I feel my throat tighten. By the window Charles stands, his face half-turned away; as if he wished only for the end to come.
All afternoon we wait, barely speaking. At some point I seat myself beside Amy, and take her hand. It is cold, and limp, the pulse in it shallow. Then Arabella slips Amy’s head free of her lap and stands, crossing to the door, as if she cannot bear any more to be close to her.
The life in Amy ebbs slowly, her breathing growing softer, less regular, until with a little start it gives out altogether. For a time we remain still, then at last Arabella’s voice breaks the silence.
‘It is over, then?’
Charles kneels, pressing one finger into Amy’s throat, then nods and steps away. Slowly Arabella approaches, and still holding one arm to herself extends the other to touch Amy’s face, arranging the hair upon her brow carefully, as if she were a child. By the door Mary has begun to weep.
Quietly Charles takes up his bag, and head bowed begins to move to the door. I cannot move though. Silently Arabella turns to look at me.
‘Arabella –’ I begin, reaching out for her hand, but she shakes her head, pulling her hand away.
‘No,’ she says, ‘do not say it. I could not bear it.’
OUTSIDE THE RAIN HAS STOPPED, the water on the cobbles lying dark in the dusk’s soft light, deep as mirrors. After the heat of the house, the air in the street is cool, yet it feels remote, the motion of the passing traffic unreal.
Though I wish from Charles some word, some sign that would make sense of this, perhaps it is better without. Only when we reach our door does he turn to me.
‘This should never have been,’ he says. ‘These women are no concern of mine.’
Suddenly the door opens to reveal Mr Poll, Oates at his side. Caught for once without his mask, Charles seems to stand naked before the older man, exposed in all his frailty. Yet Mr Poll does not flinch, nor reprimand him, indeed his expression is more one of regret than of anger. Again that something passes between them, then, touching his hat, Mr Poll bids us goodbye, reminding Charles of his appointment to dine at his home that evening and stepping out into the waiting door of his carriage. For a moment I think Charles will turn to follow him, say some word to hold him there, try to erase what has just passed between the two of them. But he does not, the wheels of the carriage loud upon the cobblestones as it departs.
It is only when Mr Poll’s carriage is out of sight around the Square that I see the way he trembles, though whether with rage or shame I do not know.
I follow Charles up the stairs, watch him gather his things. I know I should leave him, let him be, but I feel the need of some word with him, some way to undo what I have just seen. In agitation he turns about the room, searching for something, and thinking it is a draught he had me mix for a patient of his this morning I take it down from the shelf. But as I offer it to him I realise he had not understood that I was there, for he starts, something flashing behind his gaze. I think at first he means to speak angrily to me, so great is his agitation, but instead he takes the medicine from my hand.
‘Oh Gabriel,’ he says, ‘she is a pretty thing, but do not be a fool.’
Something in me hardens. Charles, though, only smiles coldly.
‘I see you have no stomach for my words, but trust me, it does not pay to become too attached to these sorts of people.’
‘No doubt you speak from experience,’ I say, my words coming too fast, too easily. Charles’s expression stiffens.
‘Very well,’ he says. ‘Only remember: she can be yours for the price of a few ribbons. I can even arrange it for you if you wish.’
I am struck motionless. In his face something shifts – regret dawning perhaps – and it seems he will apologise. But then he brushes past, out the door and down. When I hear the sound of the door to the street close, I turn – and see Mr Tyne. It is clear at once he has heard all that passed between the two of us, for he watches me with a look of delight. He takes a step, and I back away, then another. Suddenly afraid, I lunge past him and out.
In the street I walk blindly, pushing through the moving crowds. Already the windows are ablaze, the city filled with light and sound. From Compton Street I cut east, towards Covent Garden where the crowds are thicker, the sound of fiddlers and Scots pipers pressing hard upon the air, though I barely hear them. From the windows women lean, their breasts hanging free in loosened stays, and they call lewdly after me. Without thinking I call back, my words angry, and they respond in kind; by the market a pair of gentlemen, students down from Cambridge perhaps, collide with me, and I push at them and shout. They are drunk, and though there are two of them they do not raise their fists, simply back away, leaving me to call angrily after them. And then, upon the Strand, there is Chifley, Caswell beside him. For a moment I might strike at him but Chifley grabs my wrist, staying me.
‘Sparrow,’ he laughs, ‘where do you go?’
I shake my head, twisting free. Though he is almost a head shorter than me Chifley’s pouter-pigeon frame is powerful. He smiles.
‘You will come with us, I think.’
At first I resist, for Chifley’s mood is dangerous. But then I realise I do not care, and taking the bottle he holds out, I lift it to my lips and drink.
They have won at billiards, and are already full of their success. Chifley holds it well, the only sign that he is drunk the purpose in his stride, but Caswell’s face is flushed and his step uncertain. They lead me through the lanes, first to a shop which sells eel pies, th
en on to a ginshop Chifley knows near Monmouth Street. From the way the serving girls make merry with Chifley it is plain they know him well enough. It is a dreadful place, low-ceilinged and close, yet the gin is cheap, and the music loud. On the counter sits a woman, no taller than a girl of five. She wears a child’s dress, a filthy thing stained all about, her face garishly painted. Although two men stand talking with her, Chifley demands that she be brought over, for he says he wants to dandle her on his lap. Her companions glower at us, but Chifley pays them no heed.
Her name is Rosa, and she moves with the swaying gait of her kind, her shrunken limbs no longer than my forearm yet she slips up onto Chifley’s lap as might a dog, writhing against his grabbing hands and laughing with a deep mannish sound.
With the sharp sweetness of the gin in my throat and my first cup gone, I call at once for another. Beneath the paint which cakes her cheeks and brows her face is grotesque, its features heavy and misshapen as an ape’s. Giving me a sly smile, she slips her hand into Chifley’s jacket. I do not like this look, its taunting challenge, but I do not speak, not even as she draws his wallet out and deftly slips it into her bodice. Quite suddenly I have the desire to be out of myself, forgetful with drink, and so with ferocity I lift my glass and pull back once more upon the gin, closing my eyes at the heat which floods my brain and belly.
The next hours pass in a blur. Somewhere we lose Rosa although before that I remember stumbling into a room to see Chifley standing against the wall, fly buttons undone and her before him, her head moving quickly back and forth. Afterwards we eat again, and then Chifley discovers his wallet is gone, which blackens his mood. And after that, or later perhaps, I say that I must go, but Chifley and Caswell demand that I stay, and when I insist, they declare their intention to come with me as an escort, so I might be protected from brigands. And so the three of us stumble back together, arms hung about each other and very drunk, through the lanes to Greek Street. On the doorstep I take my leave, turning the key in the lock as quietly as I can. But then Chifley leans in and grabs my arm.
The Resurrectionist Page 10
