by Cross, Amy
Suddenly I realize that I have slipped yet again into the role of a teacher. Looking at Jack now, as he stands in his slovenly clothes and with that thick mop of dirty, matted hair, I honestly cannot imagine a less capable or less inspiring student. Why, I would be better off trying to teach a monkey to write a sonnet, and a monkey would likely have a greater sense of personal hygiene.
“I am busy,” I say firmly, before heading over to the stone slab where Catherine's body waits for my attention. As I reach the farthest end of the slab, I stop and look down at her face, and I feel a flicker of concern as I realize that even over the past twelve hours, her cheeks have become a little hollower. Her features seem more pronounced, too, as if her skin has subtly tightened and has begun to cling a little more tightly to the bones of her skull.
There is nothing surprising about this, of course. Indeed, it is the natural progress of death. Catherine has begun to decay. I know every detail of what must be happening inside her body, down to even the smallest changes. None of that knowledge means, however, that the sight is any less sobering.
“Everything will be quite alright,” I whisper, stepping around the slab again and taking a moment to peer into the yawning chasm of her open chest. The vibrant reds of yesterday have already begun to turn pale pink, even gray in places. “Just have faith in me, my darling. I have a plan, and I feel certain that soon your body will be working again, and that then your mind will revive.”
Reaching into her chest cavity, I take hold of a piece of bone that is poking out from her ribs. I have to twist the loose fragment several times, but finally it comes away. Such small objects could still cause a great deal of damage if, for instance, they were to tear a newly-transplanted organ. If Catherine's skeleton is the frame of her body, then it might be the case that her new organs will not fit as well as the originals. While I wait for the heart to absorb a little more of the solution in the bowl, I shall have to check the cavity again and make doubly certain that it is ready.
I lean down to take a closer look, but then I hear the sound of a throat being cleared nearby.
Turning, I see that Jack has come a little closer, and that he is craning his neck to peer into my wife's dead body. The man clearly does not understand that he is not needed at this moment.
“What are you doing?” I ask. “Leave. Get out of here, so that I can work without being bothered.”
“Begging your pardon, Doctor Grazier,” he replies, “but I find all of this so fascinating. I've seen folk split open before, of course, but never in a scientific manner. Last night, when I helped you collect fresh organs, I struggled to really see what you were doing. Now I... Well, I would dearly like to watch you work, if that is possible. I promise I shall keep my mouth shut, and that I shall stay well out of your way. Out of your line of sight, even.”
“To what end?”
“End, Sir?”
“There is nothing for you to do here,” I point out.
“Can I not help you?” he asks. “Do you not need an assistant?”
“I would dearly like to have a capable assistant here,” I tell him, “but it would have to be somebody with at least a modicum of training.”
“I used to see the students going into the medical school on Harthrow Road,” he says, evidently believe that I give a damn. “They always looked so smart and so well-bred. I know it's foolish, but sometimes I tried to imagine what it would like to be among them. To go to lectures, to see demonstrations, to read books. To speak with like-minded fellow students.” He pauses for a moment, with a hint of sadness in his eyes. “I know such things are beyond me, Doctor Grazier, but I still find the whole thing fascinating. Is there any way you might be persuaded to let me watch?”
Is he serious?
Does the brute seriously believe that such a thing is possible? Why, I am surprised that the deans of Harthrow Road did not chase him away, lest his mere appearance might upset the students.
“You would only cause problems,” I tell him finally. “You assisted me in the night, when your brute strength and knowledge of the street were both valuable qualities, but now I simply need to be left alone.”
“I'm sorry, Sir,” he replies, “I didn't realize I was bothering you.”
“That window remains unfixed upstairs, does it not?”
“Yes, but -”
“Which means that any miserable little urchin could clamber into the house. I asked you to fix the window, and you told me that was within your abilities.”
“Oh, it is!” he says eagerly.
“Then get to it, man!” I snap, finally losing patience with him. “You're distracting me!”
“Of course.”
“Oh, and Jack.” I pause for a moment. “You must wash yourself better. The general stench around you is disgusting, and I believe you might even have a case of lice. If you are to be in my home, you would do well to improve your hygiene.”
“Of course, Doctor Grazier. I'm sorry, Doctor Grazier.”
“You will find an old tin bath in the garden. Take bowls of water out there and wash yourself down. There are some old clothes of mine in a hamper in one of the bedrooms, you can take what you like from there. I don't know what the conditions are like in the streets from which you come, but here one must adhere to certain basic standards.”
“I should have realized,” he replies. “I'm very sorry.”
“And then get some rest. I shall most likely have need of you tonight, so I shall need you to be ready.”
“Of course. I will be, I promise.”
He turns and hurries toward the stairs, and then finally he makes his way up and out of my sight. The man is useful in certain circumstances, but I find his constant attention to be rather irritating. It is as if he believes that he can somehow better himself while he is around me, when the whole idea is utterly laughable. From the thuggish features of his face to the coarse, grating sound of his voice, Jack is clearly an undeveloped brute. Frankly, it's a miracle that he's able to make conversation at all, but I suppose it helps that I am capable of lowering myself temporarily to his level. If ever a fellow needed further proof that man is descended from the ape, then one good look at Jack ought to do the job.
“I am sorry that I allowed that oaf to see you like this,” I tell Catherine, as I look back down at her face. “He has his uses, I assure you. I would not fraternize with him otherwise. Fear not, though, for when I am done with my work, and once you have been revived, he will no longer be around. I'll make sure that when you open your eyes, he is long gone, and you will never have to see him or smell his foul stench.”
I pause for a moment as I realize the truth.
Jack is useful for now, but there will come a point after Catherine's resurrection when I shall have no need of him. And it is not as if I can simply send him on his way, not with the things he knows.
Upstairs, he is making a noise as he sets to work fixing the window.
Once I have revived my wife, there will be one final task left to complete. I shall have to end Jack's life and ensure that his body is never discovered.
Chapter Six
Maddie
Today
“You're not crazy,” I mutter to myself as I make my way two-steps-at-a-time up toward the ticket hall. “You're not crazy. You're just a little feverish, but you're not crazy.”
As I slip my ticket into the machine and step through the gate, I realize that muttering “You're not crazy” over and over again is probably not a particularly sane thing to do. Even if I know that I've got a good reason, other people might think I'm losing my mind.
Or is that how crazy people always think?
I glance around and see that a few people are watching me, so I resolve to repeat the words in my head instead of out loud, and I adjust my backpack as I walk across the hall and head toward the exit.
At least it's cooler up here, although I've still got a fever.
You're not crazy.
You're not crazy.
&nbs
p; You're not -
“Maddie?”
I ignore the voice. There must be another Maddie here.
You're not crazy.
You're not crazy.
You're -
“Hey Maddie Hayes, is that you?”
Startled, I turn and look back at the crowd, but at first I don't see anyone looking at me. I hesitate for a moment, telling myself that I must have imagined the voice, but then suddenly I sense someone approaching to my left. I turn and see a girl coming over with a faint, nervous smile and a hint of concern in her eyes, and deep down I immediately realize that I recognize her from somewhere.
“Oh my God,” she continues, sounding a little cautious, “it is you, isn't it?”
My first instinct is to run. I know there's no way this can be Natalie Baker. After all, Natalie Baker's an old school friend I haven't seen in a couple of years, not since her parents moved her to London. There were teary goodbyes and promises to keep in touch and all the usual things that best friends do when they're separated by parents. We exchanged letters and little gifts for a while, right up until things got difficult and I realized I had to leave home. I probably should have confided in her, but I felt too embarrassed so I just stopped writing. It's good to see her, of course, but my mind is already racing as I try to figure out the odds of bumping into her right here in the city. The whole thing seems almost too convenient.
You're not crazy.
“Are you okay?” she asks, taking a step toward me. “Maddie, what's going on? Why did you stop replying to my...”
Her voice trails off. She's looking me up and down, and I can see the growing realization in her expression.
“Nothing's going on,” I mumble, figuring that she must be able to tell that I'm sick. “I'm fine.”
“Are you... cosplaying as something?” she continues, reaching out to touch my arm. “Maddie -”
I pull back.
“I'm fine,” I tell her.
She reaches out again.
I pull back again.
She starts to reach out for a third time, but then she hesitates.
“Maddie,” she says cautiously, “that smell...”
“I'm fine!” I say firmly. “There's nothing wrong.”
“You didn't come to my birthday,” she continues.
“What?”
“My birthday. I sent you an invitation, but you didn't reply. You haven't replied to any of my messages lately, and then I heard... I don't know if it's true, but Beth Edwards said she heard that you'd run away from home and gone to live somewhere else. Is that right?”
“It's complicated.”
“Where are you living? Are you living in London?”
“Sort of.”
“You're sweating a lot.”
“It's nothing.” Reaching up, I wipe my face with my sleeve, but I know that won't help much. I'm burning up, and I'm starting to think that I should just get out of here. “Um, I should probably be going now,” I mumble. “It was good to see you.”
I turn to walk away, but suddenly I flinch as I feel a hand grabbing my arm. Looking over my shoulder, I find that Natalie has come after me.
“This is, like, one of my first times out alone,” she explains cautiously, and I can see that she's studying me, as if she's trying to figure out what's going on. “My parents are still, like, super protective, but they said I could go out if I promised to be back by six. I mean, I'll be eighteen soon, and they still treat me like a kid. God knows what they'll be like when I go off to uni. But I can skip the shops and hang with you for a bit, if you want. We can go get a smoothie, something like that. It'd... It'd be on me.”
She hesitates, as if she's waiting for me to agree.
“I'd like to do that,” she continues. “My parents'd be cool with it, too. At least, I think so. They always liked you. Remember how Mum would always insist on giving you something to eat, 'cause she always thought you looked like you didn't get enough at home?”
“She was nice,” I reply.
“She still talks about you sometimes.”
“Does she?”
I feel a flicker of hope as I think back to Natalie's mother Elizabeth, who always used to just assume that I wanted to eat dinner with them whenever I was over. She never asked, she just set out an extra place at the table. Sometimes she used to ask a few questions about how things were going at home, but she never really pushed me for answers. I could tell, even back then, that she was concerned. I remember thinking that Natalie was so lucky to have a mother like her. Sometimes I even used to cry when I realized it was time to go home, although I always managed to hide the tears.
“I'm really busy today,” I mumble finally. “I've got a lot on.”
“Like what?”
“Just stuff.”
Natalie's still holding my arm, and I don't know that I have enough energy to pull away. A moment later a businessman walks past and gives us a very weird look. I guess he's wondering why a normal-looking girl like Natalie is talking to someone like me. Maybe he thinks I tried to rob her.
“Are you living on the streets?” Natalie asks. “Please don't be offended, Maddie, but you kinda look like maybe you're sleeping rough. It's totally cool, but... Are you? It's okay, you can tell me.”
“It's complicated,” I say again, although I know that's pretty much a non-answer. “I've got places to go.”
I wait for her to reply, but she seems shocked.
“You should probably let go of me,” I continue, briefly glancing down at her hand as it rests on the side of my arm. “I'm not very clean.”
I was about to tell her that she might catch something from me, but then I guess that'd sound a little too pathetic and self-deprecating. I'm dirty, but I'm not diseased. Not yet.
“I'm kinda worried about you,” she says, this time with a faint, nervous smile. It's almost as if she's hoping this will turn out to be a joke, and that I'm pranking her. “Maddie, I know things at home were pretty tough for you. I know what your parents got like. Your mother was...” She pauses, before taking a deep breath. “Well, I was always pretty good at reading between the lines, right? I didn't always say much about it, but I could tell things were difficult.”
“I'm totally fine,” I tell her, although at the same time my vision starts blurring slightly, and I feel a brief wave of dizziness. Both sensations pass within seconds, but I feel warmer than ever. “I'm just getting back on my feet, that's all. It takes a while.”
“Sure, but -”
“You've caught me at a bad time,” I add, and now I manage to slip my arm free. Taking a step back, I can't help but notice the shocked look in her eyes. She's not convinced by my claims to be fine, and I don't blame her, but I can't stand here trying to make her feel better. I just want to go hide away where she can't see me. “Listen, I really have to be somewhere, okay?” I continue. “I have to go meet someone, and I'm running late. It was good to see you, though. Have fun at the shops.”
As soon as I turn and start walking away, I realize something weird. I have tears in my eyes, and my bottom lip is starting to tremble. It's as if, all of a sudden, I'm in danger of bursting into tears. I don't feel sad, exactly, but my body seems to have somehow triggered the crying mechanism and I can't even begin to understand why. I can hear Natalie calling after me, but I slip through the crowd and then I hurry up another flight of steps that leads to the street. Picking up my pace, I finally stumble out into bright daylight, and I stop for a moment to get my bearings before setting off to the right. Finally I dare to glance over my shoulder, and I'm relieved to see that there's no sign of Natalie.
And then, as I cross the road and start making my way through the throngs of shoppers, I realize that maybe there was never any sign of Natalie to begin with. Thinking back to the businessman who gave me such a dirty look, I start to wonder whether I was actually standing there in the tube station and arguing with myself. After all, there are seven or eight million people in London, and the odds of me running into
Natalie like that are pretty crazy, especially just an hour or so after I had a dream about her. On top of that, she said her parents let her go out shopping alone, but I'm not sure they'd do that, not in London. Something about the whole encounter doesn't add up.
I probably just hallucinated.
At least, I hope that's what happened.
Better that, than having Natalie see me like this.
You're not crazy.
I glance back again, just to make sure that there's no sign of her, or of the silhouetted figure from the train. Satisfied that I'm not being followed, I hurry on along the street, pushing through the crowd of people. Right now, I have to focus on staying on my feet, and I have to somehow find Alex.
You're not crazy.
You're not crazy.
You're not crazy.
Chapter Seven
Doctor Charles Grazier
Monday October 1st, 1888
Slicing the scalpel down the back of Catherine's neck, I cut all the way to the top of her shoulderblades. There's precious little blood left in her body, and I can't help but notice a faint, peculiar smell as I use my fingertips to ease back the flaps of skin. Everything inside looks so dark now, devoid of the rich redness that I encountered whenever I cut into her while she was alive.
I remember the sight of her bare back when she was alive. When she was young. She'd tease me with this view when I walked into the bedroom. Such beautiful, unblemished skin.
The scalpel's tip catches against a section of bone. I pull the blade out and reach under the skin, peeling it away and exposing one side of her spinal column. I have to cut a little more, mainly at the top edge, but finally I am able to pull all the skin away, which allows me to see the top of her spine. I gently take hold of the back of her head and tilt it slightly, so that I have an even better view. I work for the next few minutes, cutting and carving through to the base of her skull, trying to ignore the terrible smell.
As soon as I find the brain stem, I start to have doubts. After all, if the brain is the seat of a person's unique character, then one must be extremely careful when one starts cutting in the vicinity. I do not believe that the stem is of any great importance, yet now I am beginning to wonder. I move the scalpel into place, ready to cut, but finally I decide to hold back. I should conduct a little more research first. The greatest danger would be to take out a part of Catherine that can never be replaced.
