by Amy Cross
“I don't care!” he shouts. “Look!”
I know he means it. I've seen Father do worse things to people before, and I have no doubt he'd slit my eyes open as soon as look at me. Slowly, I force myself to focus on the fear of Father's retribution, and this is enough to make me open my eyes and look at the twisted, gnarled dead body that has been laid out on this bare little bed in this gloomy, stinking backroom. As soon as I see Grandmother's face, with her eyes wide open and her mouth locked in a dead scream, I feel my chest starting to shudder. At the same time, she does not look quite as frightful as I'd imagined.
“Look at the foulness before you, boy,” Father continues. “She appears, does she not, like some worm spewed up from the soil in Hell.”
I open my mouth to tell him I agree, but my lips are trembling and I don't think I can get any words out.
“That's what a life of wrongdoing does to someone,” he mutters. “Your mother's mother was not a good woman. I wouldn't say this in front of anyone else, of course, but you and I, Maurice, we know. Aye, we see it, don't we? Tell me you see the consequence of evil on her wretched face.”
“I see it,” I stammer.
“Say it again.”
“I see it.” This time, my voice sounds a little firmer.
“One more time. So I know you mean it.”
“I see it.”
Looking at Grandmother's hands, I see that they are locked in a kind of curled rictus. Each finger looks like the branch of an old and rotten tree. As I continue to stare, I feel Father letting go of me, until I am kneeling of my own accord at the side of the bed. For a moment, the room falls utterly silent, save for the faint flickering of a candle that burns on the bedside table.
I am no longer trembling.
I believe I have conquered my fear.
“The body cannot hide the evils of the soul,” Father says finally, still standing behind me. “Sins live in the flesh, Maurice. There's no escape. None at all. Watch, I shall show you something.”
He walks around the bed, before leaning over Grandmother and using a knife to tear the fabric at the shoulder of her dress. Although I do not wish to see such a thing, I force myself to keep watching as he pulls the dress away, revealing her mottled, pale old chest. A moment later, Father carves the knife's tip against the flesh at the breast's edge, but no blood runs from the wound, even as he cuts deeper. Tossing the knife onto her belly, he slips his fingertips into the wound and starts peeling the flesh back to reveal dark red meat beneath.
“Do you see the sin?” he asks.
Staring at the wound, I try to work out exactly what he means.
“Do you see the sin, boy?”
“I...”
“It's not a trick question. The sin has accumulated beneath her flesh. Do you see it or not?”
I swallow hard. “Yes,” I say finally, even though it's a lie. “I see it.”
“And what does it look like?”
I shall have to be careful here. If I give the wrong answer, I'll surely be beaten.
“Rotten,” I say cautiously. “Rotten like bad meat, but more so. Festering and ruined.”
I wait, but evidently he thinks I'm not finished yet with my description.
“Almost devilish,” I continue. “It's clear that you are right, Father. Grandmother was indeed a cruel and cursed woman, and it shows in her flesh.”
Again I wait, hoping against hope that Father won't ask me to comment any further. I have no idea what he thinks I should see, but I see only meat and bone.
“Aye,” he says finally, still holding the peeled section of flesh back. “I reckon you're onto something there, boy. Maybe you're not as hopeless as I'd come to think, although you still look puny. We're gonna have to toughen you up, but that shouldn't be too difficult, not now it's just you and me in the house. You'll be spending more time in the workshop, and you'll be learning what it really means to be a man. And then by Christmas, you should be ready to pull your own weight. God willing, at least.”
Suddenly Grandmother turns her head and looks straight at me.
Startled, I let out a gasp and fall back, slamming against the wooden floor and staring in horror as her dead, sunken eyes watch me with a hint of yellow at their edges.
“What is it, boy?” Father asks. “You look white as a sheet.”
“She...”
My heart is pounding, and all I can do is stare at Grandmother's eyes. Her mouth is still wide open, and now I think I can hear a faint hissing sound coming from her throat.
“What's up with you?” Father continues, letting go of the flap of skin and stepping around the bed. Stopping in front of me, he obscures my view of Grandmother's face, but now I can see her curled fingers slowly starting to move, accompanied by a growing creaking sound. Father seems oblivious, but Grandmother is most certainly starting to rise from the bed.
“She's moving,” I stammer. “I thought you said... Father, you said she was dead! You said she died last night!”
“Aye, she did. She made quite a palaver of it, too. Why?”
I flinch as I hear the hissing sound getting louder.
“Then why is she moving?” I ask, feeling as if my heart is about to burst from my chest. “Father, look!”
“Have you been on the vapors?” he replies, kicking my right leg hard. “Up with you, boy. You're acting out of sorts.”
I stare in horror at Grandmother's hands, which are still slowly moving. Although I still can't see her face, since Father is standing in front of her, I can hear the sound of her bones creaking and bending, as she continues to sit up on the bed. After a moment, her face peers at me from behind Father, and I see her sunken eyes watching me.
“Father, look!” I shout, stumbling to my feet. “Father, she's alive!”
Grabbing my shoulder, he steps around me and forces me toward the bed. I let out a cry and hold my arms up to protect myself, but suddenly I realize that not only is Grandmother once again flat on her back, but her face is looking up toward the ceiling and it is as if she never moved at all, not even once. I watch her carefully, looking for any hint that she might yet be animated, but she seems truly still. Did fear drive me to momentary insanity?
“I saw...” I start to say, before realizing that I cannot possibly tell Father what I think I saw. He'd have me dragged straight to the madhouse.
“You saw what, boy?”
“Nothing,” I continue, taking a step back. I continue to stare at Grandmother for a moment, before turning to find that Father is eyeing me with suspicion. “Honest. I didn't see anything. I think I must have just been overcome for a moment.”
“You're a strange lad,” he replies cautiously. “I think I might yet have to toughen you up a little. Of course, it'll take me a little while to think of something, but when I do...”
His voice trails off for a moment, and then suddenly he grabs my collar, pulling me toward the doorway.
“We'll keep the old woman's death between the two of us,” he mutters. “If it gets out, I'll have to give her a proper burial in Christian ground. The expense isn't worth it. She'll be lucky if I can find an old coffin to put her in, and then we'll stick her in the yard.”
“But won't she...”
Again, my voice trails off.
“Won't she what, lad?”
“I heard it said once,” I continue cautiously, “that if a body isn't destroyed, and if it isn't buried in sanctified ground, then it can rise again. The ghost will... I mean...”
Father starts chuckling as he puts an arm around my shoulder and starts leading me out of the room.
“You mustn't believe in old superstitions, boy. A body is just a lump of meat and bone and hair, and nothing more. I've been an undertaker all my life. Don't you think I'd have noticed if the dead had any way of coming back?”
Once we're out of the room, he pulls the door shut and then turns to me. I stare down at my shoes, but I know that he wants me to meet his gaze, and finally I look up at him and see a stran
ge expression in his eyes. I'm used to him seeming disgusted by me, but this time he almost seems amused at the same time. I wait, and it's as if he's pondering something, and finally he starts nodding.
“Aye,” he says as his grin broadens. “I know how to toughen you up. You fear ghosts, do you? Well, I've got just the thing.”
“What's that, Father?” I ask.
He starts chuckling. “Never you mind for now, boy. I want you to go to Sutton Street and buy a bag of coal. Carry it back here, and make sure you're quick.”
“Of course,” I reply, turning to head toward the back door. Any chance to get away from the workshop is too good to turn down. “I'll get the cart and -”
“I need the cart!” he says firmly. “You'll carry that bag of coal over your shoulder, like I did every day when I was your age. You're fourteen years old now, Maurice. It's time you knew what it means to do a proper day's work. You might be too sick and feeble to go off to war, but you can sure as hell drag a bag of coal home. Otherwise, what use are you to anyone?”
“Yes, Father,” I stammer, hesitating for a moment before turning and heading toward the front door. I honestly don't know if I can carry a bag of coal all the way home from Sutton Street, but I suppose I can manage it if I really try hard. Besides, I have no choice. Father's already laughing at me, and I know he's planning to pull some kind of trick that'll most likely leave me humiliated. All I can do right now is fetch that coal and carry it all the way home, and make him see that I'm not as weak as believes.
Already, the sky is darkening and smog from the nearby factory has begun to settle in the cooler air. Coughing, I see off for the coal merchant's shop.
Chapter Seven
“Are you alright?” a man asks, hurrying over to help me up. “Boy, did you hurt your back?”
“No!” I gasp, struggling to push the bag of coal aside so that I can start getting up. I feel a sudden twinge of pain at the base of my spine, but other than that I'm uninjured. Wincing slightly, I accept the man's hand and allow him to help me up, and then I look down and see the bag waiting to be carried again. It's getting dark now, and I'm sure Father will be waiting for me. The coal is a test.
As the man steps back, I see that he's wiping his hand on a handkerchief. Evidently my coarse, dirty hand left some marks on his smooth flesh.
“I'm sorry,” I tell him. “I didn't mean to...”
“You can't possibly bear all that weight,” the man continues. “Don't you have a horse, or at least a cart of some kind?”
“I'm fine,” I stammer, although I feel as if the pain in my spine is getting tighter and tighter. I'm embarrassed by the rags I'm wearing, and I just want to slip away.
“You certainly don't look fine,” he replies. “How far are you taking that bag? Surely there's somebody who could help you.”
Although the street is dark, I can just about make out that he's a well-to-do gentleman wearing a proper suit, and I realize that he must be upper class. I don't even know why he bothered to stop and help me, but I suppose he must have simply felt sorry for me as I collapsed under the weight of the coal bag. I'm used to proper people ignoring me.
“I'll be okay,” I tell him, standing up straight and feeling the pain in my spine starting to fade. “I'm not far from the yard. Thank you for your help, though.”
“I'm afraid I haven't been much help at all,” he says, rather unnecessarily, as he finishes wiping his hands. “I can only wish you good luck on the rest of your journey. And try to have a cart with you next time, I'm sure it'll make all the difference.”
“I'm sure it would,” I reply as he turns and walks away. “Thank you. Thank you again. Thank you.”
Taking a deep breath, I tell myself that I just need to haul the sack back up and get going. At the same time, I'm worried that I might collapse again, so I decide to spend just a couple of minutes recovering from the pain. Turning, I look along the darkened street, and I realize that this shortcut has brought me into an unfamiliar part of town. I usually avoid this area, since the people around here tend to have money and I know my place. I should just get out of here, so finally I turn to grab the bag of coal.
And then I see the lights.
Just past the next corner, there's one particular building that's splendidly lit up. In fact, it's like nothing I've ever seen before. I should turn away and continue my journey, but I can't help stepping over to the corner and taking a closer look at what turns out to be a large hotel. I've seen such places before, of course, although this is the first time I've ever been quite so amazed. The lights are sparkling in the night air, and I can see a vast, beautiful chandelier on the other side of one of the windows.
“Moorchester Hotel,” I whisper, dazzled by the huge, bright sign above the entrance.
Unable to help myself, I check both ways to make sure that nobody is coming, and then I hurry across the cobbled street until I'm right outside the hotel. I can honestly say that the sight of this place is beguiling, and I head over to the nearest window in something of a trance. I swear, I can feel the warmth of the hotel's lights as they shine out and fill the street. Setting my dirty fingertips on the edge of the window, I have to stand on tiptoes in order to see inside.
There are people in a dining room, dressed in the finest clothes and eating food that looks as if it was made by the gods themselves. Waiters are moving from table to table, delivering pots of tea and glasses of wine, and I can hear the most beautiful music drifting from some other part of the room. A man at one of the tables is sipping from a glass of whiskey. Craning my neck, I finally spot some musicians over at the far end of the dining room, and I can't help but think that this is the most sumptuous, luxurious sight I've ever witnessed.
This is what life should be like. This is how real, proper people live. If I could step into a place like this, just for one moment, and walk in such graceful light, I think I'd be transformed. I don't belong in Father's yard, helping him stuff common corpses into poorly-built coffins. I belong here, among the rich, but I know it's too late for me. I was born into poverty, and at fourteen I'm already too old to find a way out. I shall simply -
Suddenly a woman screams at one of the tables, and I'm shocked when I see that she's looking straight at me.
“I'm sorry,” I stammer, taking a step back from the window, “I -”
“Get out of here!” a man yells, rushing from the hotel's brightly-lit front door and swinging a broom at me. “Go on, clear off! You're upsetting people!”
He hits me on the shoulder as I turn and run, but fortunately I'm able to get away quickly enough. When I reach the other side of the cobbled street, I stop and look over my shoulder. The man is still outside the hotel, watching to make sure I don't go back, but at least the woman has stopped screaming. Her horrified voice is still echoing in my mind, however, and I feel utterly ashamed that I caused her such a great deal of distress. After all, she was simply trying to enjoy her dinner, and I intruded by putting my dirty, lower class face at the window. It was probably the most horrific thing she'd ever seen in her life, and I don't blame her for screaming. Not at all.
Turning, I head back over to the sack of coal and haul it onto my shoulder. I feel another tightening pain in my spine, but I suppose there's no point delaying things. I just have to walk the final half mile until I get home, and then hopefully Father will leave me alone for the rest of the evening.
***
“What's the matter?” he asks, his voice sounding a little slurred and drunken as he holds the bottle of whiskey toward me. “Too good for you, boy? Get it down your throat!”
“But -”
“That's expensive stuff,” he continues. “I don't offer it to just any old Tom, Dick or Harry. Drink, Maurice. It'll put some hair on your chest and make a man of you! I'm sick of having a weakling for a son.”
I raise the bottle to my lips, although the foul smell gives me pause. I don't want to become a ferocious drinker, I don't even want to touch the stuff, but he's watchi
ng me intently and I'm worried about what he'll say if I refuse. Knowing his temper, he'll most likely hold me against the floor and pour the stuff down my throat. After taking a deep breath, I swallow a sip of whiskey, while taking care not to look too disgusted.
“Aye, and more,” he mutters, clearly not satisfied. “Drink more, boy. Go on.”
“I thought whiskey was to be savored,” I reply, “not -”
“Only the good stuff,” he replies, as he starts chuckling. “What you've got in your hands there is good old-fashioned home-brew. It's for rinsing, not for sipping. Now get a quarter-bottle down and stop faffing around like an old maid. Believe me, after a hard day at work, there's nothing wrong with taking a drink. Not that you'd know much about hard work, but you will soon enough.”
“Is this the whiskey that Grandmother brewed?” I ask. “I think I saw it in a bathtub.”
“At least she was good for something.”
I hesitate, before swallowing some more of the foul stuff. I swear, I can feel a burning sensation at the back of my throat, and a moment later I realize my gut seems to be shuddering slightly. I honestly don't think that this whiskey agrees with me.
“How many times did you fall over,” Father mutters, “while you were carrying that coal home?”
“None.”
He laughs. “Be honest, boy.”
“None. I didn't fall once.”
“Aye, if you say so. Be warned, though. You're not a good liar.”
Realizing that there's no point even trying, I take another sip of whiskey. The taste is still foul, as is the burning sensation, but I'm starting to notice that the whiskey at least takes a slight edge off my fear. With each fresh sip, I feel as if Father somehow becomes less threatening. I'm fourteen years old, soon to be fifteen, and it's high time that I started thinking about getting out of here. Taking another sip of whiskey, a longer sip this time, I watch as Father picks the dirt from beneath his fingernails, and I feel more certain than ever that I'll find some way to leave this old bastard behind. I might not ever become rich, but at least I don't have to be an undertaker.
