Ingenious Pain

by Andrew Miller

  same emotions? For a week he uses the lock as a bookmark, then loses it, leaving it perhaps inside a copy of De Revolutionibus, or among the pages of Mr Canning's first edition of Newton's Opticks. The girls' great day is coming. They sometimes faint at the very thought of it.

  Visitors. A dozen coaches, wheels gummed with mud. Servants at the door like bees around the entrance of a hive, Mr Canning in a coat of thick green velvet, the serene host. The gentlemen bow, clasp hands, utter their pleasantries, yet their mood seems sombre, abstracted, as though in their heads they carried delicate pyramids of thought that must, in every moment, be attended to. They grip their canes, hurry into the marble hall. The last arrives, horses spattered to the bit with mud; a fat gentleman is carried wincing over the puddles to the stone steps.

  'My dear Bentley.'

  'Greetings, Canning. Filthy weather.'

  James spies on them through the banisters above the hall. Canning glances up, sees him and nods, nothing more, yet an intelligence has passed between them: Canning will see him later, James will come to him. Everything is perfectly understood.

  The men talk below, their heads in clusters, then follow Canning towards the west wing. The house swallows them. A servant scrubs away their footprints.

  James waits in Molina's studio. The painting of the twins is finished, propped unceremoniously against the painter's bed.

  Molina says: 'I was afraid for the twins to see it. Painting is not a kind art. Art is not kind, not polite. They came and looked at it, looked a long time. They are very happy. So happy they are crying. Then I am crying also because I know that the painting is true. I have thought of you, my friend, of painting you. I think it will be very hard but I would like to try. Shall we try, eh?'

  They try. James stands with his back to a tatty brown drape. On

  a table beside him Molina places an open book, smuggled from the library while Mr Collins attended to a call of nature. It is a rare edition of Bartolomeo Eustachio - Tabulae Anatomicae Clarissimi Viri - the open page shows a male figure, feet planted into the lower corners of the page, hands pressing against the sky. The head is turned to one side and has the appearance of an angry moon. All the outer skin has been removed to show the blood vessels. In the drawing these appear like a complicated system of roots. For an anatomical illustration it is weirdly expressive. The man seems all too sensible of his condition, pained and disgusted by it as though he were the victim of some outrageous and inexplicable surgical procedure. His exposed heart is a parcel, clumsily wrapped. Even the tiny vessels of his cock have been exposed. It hangs, a small dark spike between the flayed musculature of his thighs. Above all, he has the air of one waiting, flexed in horror, for the return of his tormentor. Molina finds it fitting for the portrait. He does not say why. James assumes it is to reflect his interest in such things.

  Molina draws, first by the light of day, then with the help of the candles. The first sketches he throws aside; the later ones he nods at cautiously. James glances at the broken clock, says: 'I must go now.'

  Molina nods. 'The gentlemen wiU be expecting you.'

  A servant is waiting for him in his room. Clothes he has not seen before are laid out on the bed: a suit of red satin, silk stockings, shoes with silver buckles. He has never worn clothes of such quality. He looks in the mirror. The servant waits, careful not to impose his own reflection. When James turns to him, he leads the way to where the gentlemen are gathered, a room on the ground floor smelling of pipe smoke and chemicals. A single strong light stands on the table. Next to it, the complicated focus of the room, is a device, slender at the base, and at its top a shining glass bowl. Inside the bowl is a dove, sometimes still, sometimes

  beating its wings against the glass. The base of the glass is splashed with the bird's excreta. The gentlemen are gathered around the table. Several wear spectacles; one of them scribbles notes on a sheet of parchment. Mr Canning stands by the machine holding a handle attached to a pair of leather-cased pistons at the base of the machine. By means of these pistons the air will be removed from the glass. Mr Canning calls the glass bowl 'the receiver'. Beyond the light's frayed edge the room is very dark. There may or may not be others in the darkness. James steps forward. Faces turn to see who has entered, their glances linger a moment, then return to the experiment. They have seen it before a dozen times but Canning's machine, built with his own hands, is a peculiarly luxurious specimen.

  'Now, gentlemen,' says Canning. He begins to turn the handle. Immediately the bird reacts to the change in its atmosphere. A last wild attempt at flight, to burst the glass. A furious knotted energy. Then an invisible hand settles on its back, pressing it to the bottom of the receiver. Some of the gentlemen nod their heads. The one who was writing looks up through spectacles, mutters: 'Ah, yes, yes.' Another gazes away into the darkness. Mr Canning turns the handle; the bird is convulsed, its wings half spread, flattened against the glass. The body distorts. Spasms are increasingly marked. Then they weaken to a kind of feeble trembling. The only sound is the steady clicking of the ratchets at the top of the pistons. The bird is still. Mr Canning lets go of the handle. There is silence, then the noise of sobbing. Someone outside the light. Mr Canning smiles. He has the face of a wise angel. He reaches up and adjusts a mechanism at the top of the receiver. There is a hiss of air, the bird is instantly revived, though its movements are drunken. Mr Canning reaches in, carefully removes the bird from the glass, cups it tenderly in his hands. The twins, dabbing at their tears but reassured now, drift from the shadows. Mr Canning hands the bird to Ann. It appears quite docile, as if it has already forgotten

  its suffering. The gentlemen applaud, more lights are brought, and behind the lights, servants bearing crystal decanters of port and claret and brandy. The visitors drink toasts:

  'The future!'

  'Knowledge!'

  'Newton!'

  Mr Canning walks around the table to James. 'You look very well in your new clothes, dear boy.' He straightens the edge of James's coat; a maternal touch.

  'Gentlemen! If I may command your attention for a moment ... I should like to make known to you this young man - Master James Dyer - who has been living in my house for some while now. I hope in the spring to bring him to London with me that I might introduce him more formally at one of our regular meetings.'

  The men inspect the boy; some make a shallow, good-humoured bow. The twins come and stand beside him. Canning is behind them, one hand on James's shoulder, one on Ann's.

  He says: 'They are my family. Dear to me as children of my own. Come, I think they are of an age when they might take a glass of claret.'

  The twins are much admired. The claret colours their cheeks, their eyes catch all the candle points, their noses quiver. The gentlemen, drinking freely, are increasingly gallant. They seem to savour the twins' particular appeal. The girls smile their favour on James. His manner makes him seem much older, self-contained. But for the richness of his coat he might have been a Quaker child. Some of the gentlemen take an interest in him, discreetly quiz him, but soon grow tired of the closeness of his answers. They turn away to the decanters or the twins or to each other. The fat man, Bentley, remains, his head toad-like upon the wattles of his neck. He makes desultory enquiries about the boy's diet, sleeping habits, general health. All the while his nails are fixed in the flesh of the boy's wrist, digging until the

  skin is broken and drops of blood discolour the lace of James's new shirt.

  Bentley says: 'How very clever of Canning to discover you. We shall have some times together, you and I.'

  He pulls a large handkerchief from his pocket and dabs the boy's blood from his fingers.

  There is no warning.

  He is woken early one morning, told to dress warmly, given chocolate to drink, a plate of eggs for breakfast. Mr Canning is waiting in the hall, a servant smoothing the shoulders of his travelling coat.

  Canning says: 'You have not been in London before, I believe. Some say it is the greatest
city since imperial Rome. Others that it is the devil's drawing room. Both descriptions are true. Have you been to see the twins?'

  'No, sir.'

  Since the night of the air pump the twins have been laid up in bed with fevers: dreams of smoke, dreams of fire.

  'Never mind,' says Canning. 'We shall bring them something back from London. A fan, a comb. Something a la mode. I do so like to surprise them.'

  They step out, cross a corridor of late March sunlight and mount into the cool leathery interior of the coach. There is a cry of 'Hey! Get up there!' and the wheels crackle over gravel, draw them through the tender shadows of the trees, along the drive, out through iron gates. Canning pulls a copy oi Philosophical Treatise from his pocket and begins to read, now and then nodding

  or shaking his head at some choice or controversial item. James leans up against the window. It is the same from which he last saw Gummer, sprawled on the cobbles at Salisbury while the men beat him. He would like to see Gummer again, see what has become of him. They were a good match in their way, and it was amusing to fool so many people. Perhaps Canning's men murdered him, or else he is swinging at some junction, body in chains, pulled at by crows. Who exactly would mourn such a useless, cunning man?

  By dusk they are passing Kensington Gardens. Despite the chill. Canning pulls down the window so that the boy can see better, see and hear, for the city with its elegant lamp-lit squares, its soldiers on horseback, its barrows and carts and hawkers, makes a most satisfying racket.

  At several points there is a crush of coaches and sedan chairs. Then the coachmen and the chairmen roar at each other, vicious and comic, their chained obscenities oddly formal. Children, huge eyes and fragile limbs, weave between the traffic. Beggars hold up their hands to the window, flinch at the coachman's whip. A whiff of burning, a whiff of drains, even a thread of scent as the coach of a fashionable woman passes close beside their own.

  Up Piccadilly, past St James's, then Horse Guards Parade, the Strand, Fleet Street . . . The coach halts, the footman opens the door, James and Canning dismount. They turn into a narrow court on the left. At the end of the court is a house with a lamp outside. As they approach, an elderly man with a gown and staff comes out to meet them.

  Welcome, Mr Canning, sir. Most of the other gentlemen are gathered.'

  'Very well. Lute.' Canning presses a coin into the man's hand. 'Lead on.'

  They enter the building, ascending the stairs past portraits of the society's presidents and alumni.

  'Do you know who this is, James?' Canning has stopped in front of the most imposing of the portraits. A thin-faced, humourless man, apparently much irritated.

  'Sir Isaac Newton, James. I had the honour of knowing him when I was young.'

  Lute brings them to a door at the back of the house. Above the door, in a gold scroll: 'Nullius in Verba'. When Lute opens the door there is a sea-sound of voices, hushed as they notice the arrival of Canning. Several of the faces - including Bentley -James recognises from their visit to the house. Lute bangs the heel of his staff on the floor, announces them. Canning takes James's arm and steps with him on to a raised platform. There is a table there with a glass and a bottle.

  Canning says: 'Did you find those things for me. Lute?'

  'I have 'em here, sir.'

  He passes Canning a small leather bag. It looks very new. Canning quickly opens it, looks inside, nods. The clock strikes eight. Outside the hour rings across the city. James stands next to Canning, looking over the men's heads to the gardens. It has started to rain.

  'Gentlemen! Fellow members ... I am here tonight - as I promised I should be - to discover to you the latest of my prodigies. It is a boy I found performing - quite innocently - in the booth of an itinerant quack. The rascal used the boy to demonstrate the powers of an analgetic. The demonstration was remarkably convincing, but when I investigated the nostrum I found it to be entirely bogus. Yet I had seen with my own eyes this boy here apparently unaffected by the application of pain. If this was not -as it plainly was not - an action of the drug, then how might it be explained? I attended a number of these 'demonstrations' and had my agents at others. Naturally I suspected some imposture, a sleight of hand such as card-sharps and conjurers are adept in. Only when I had satisfied myself that this was not the case did I rescue the child

  from his unhappy situation and bring him to the protection of my own home. I should Hke now, with the indulgence of the company, to perform a small experiment which will I am sure convince the most sceptical that here is an extraordinary subject worthy of the society's attention.'

  From the bag Canning takes a seven-inch needle. It has a more medical look to it than the one Gummer favoured, but is in all important respects the same. Canning pricks his own thumb to demonstrate the needle's sharpness. He turns to James. James holds out his hand, palm up. Canning takes hold of the fingers, poises the tip of the needle and drives it through the boys hand. James screams. Canning stares at him. The room is silent; someone chuckles.

  In a low voice Canning says, 'This is not the booth, child. We are not selling anything.' His eyes are not friendly now, nothing parental. He addresses the company. Behind his back James stares at the fat man, who grins fatly back.

  'I should explain, gentlemen, that the boy was required to mimic pain in the first instance in order to convince the crowd that he was a normally sentient being, was indeed one of them. If I might crave your further indulgence I shall repeat the experiment.'

  He repeats it. This time the boy does not flinch. A growl of astonishment from the company. A sound the boy knows well.

  Canning delves in the sack, pulls out a pair of pliers, holds them up amiably before the company, then uses them to tear off the boy's left thumbnail. It requires considerable force and sets up a sweat on Canning's lip. He holds up the pliers, the nail between their steel teeth. There is applause. Some of the gentlemen are standing. Canning binds the thumb, pats James's head.

  'I wish, gentlemen, I could say I have discovered how it is that a boy, otherwise quite like any boy of his years, should feel no pain. Alas, I have not. It is - as you have witnessed - as if the faculty of suffering were frozen, and indeed we know that the

  application of cold to a hurt will often give relief. It may be in this instance the expression "cold-blooded" is more than merely figurative. And should this prove to be the case - that the senses are in some way frozen - it is a nice question to consider how this ice may be thawed, and what the effect would be should the child experience pain for the first time . . .'

  The next speaker is the Reverend Joseph Seeper. He has a curious vole from his garden in Stroud. Neither seem at ease. The company drifts out.

  It is past midnight when the carriage rolls up Charles Street into Grosvenor Square where Mr Canning rents a small but luxurious dwelling. They have been kept up by their admirers, the gentlemen of the society, who have wined and dined them in the upstairs room of the Mitre in Fleet Street. Several were anxious for Mr Canning to repeat his experiments but he would not, claiming that it would compromise the dignity of the society to do so. James meanwhile worked his way through a bottle of wine, largely unobserved. He was curious to see what effect it would have, if it would make him as loud as the others, but there was nothing beyond a distant sensation of warmth, a slight quickening in his thoughts. Poor stuff to place such value on.

  As they mount the stairs into the house. Canning is in good spirits. He sings softly in Italian, greets all the servants by name, allowing them to kiss his hand as though he were the bishop. In a room full of crystal globes he binds the boy's thumb. The needle wound already shows signs of healing.

  James is taken by a servant to a room on the first floor. When the servant leaves, the boy sits by the window looking out over the gardens in the square. Despite the hour there are still people about, still a to-ing and fro-ing of carriages. The watch comes - 'Past one of the clock. All well!' A fellow in a ragged coat scuttles across the

  square
like a cockroach. James uses the chamber pot, then cUmbs into bed.

  It is still dark out when he wakes, no sign of morning. His mouth and throat are dry as cloth. He does not know how long he has been asleep. He climbs out of the bed. There is a candle by his bed but nothing to light it with. He feels his way out of the room. The corridor is black except for a single arc of light from a half-open door. He pads towards it, hears from within a muttered singing. He peeps in; he has an excellent view. Mr Canning is sitting naked by the fire in his bedroom reading the St James Chronicle. The paper rustles, Canning turns the page and then, as if suddenly tiring of it, folds it briskly in two and drops it on the floor beside him. At first it seems a trick of the light. Canning, in spite of the cock curled between his thighs, has breasts. Not large or full, not beautiful, but undeniably breasts. Some movement of the boy betrays his presence, Canning looks out, eyes darting in a face of stone, then seeing who it is he smiles, as if to say, 'Had you not guessed? Surely you had guessed.'

  In the middle of July there is a storm of hailstones, stones big as pigeon eggs, large enough to stun sheep, to kiU them. For a week it is spoken of as an omen, then forgotten in the work of harvests. Mr Collins in his summer coat throws open the windows of the library; blue-bottles stumble in, zag the bookish air. James reads or dozes. He has made two more trips to London with Mr Canning and lost two more nails. Nothing is required of him now. The twins continue sickly: vomits in May, spotted fever in June. When, in August, they take the air

  for the first time in weeks, leaning on Molina's arm, they appear from the library windows like two ancients out for a turn with their favourite nephew.

  The season recovers them; they achieve a fragile vivacity. Soon, James's company is required on expeditions to collect wild flowers. When Molina comes he sketches them together and some of these he works up with oils: two girls and a boy, sat beneath trees, hazy in the smashed sunshine. Of all the pictures of James Dyer - the freak boy, the fashionable physician - these of Molina, little more than sketches in paint, the paint handled very freely, little by way of detail, these are to be preferred. The girls are shown with their tragedy intact; the boy sits up straight against a tree, his expression as unflinching as one of Mr Canning's statues. It is the face of a child assassin, an idiot king. Even a casual viewer is unsettled. They are in the presence of an enigma.