Corpse & Crown

by Alisa Kwitney

  Her heart began to pound. “Local,” she said, even though she yearned to escape into darkness. That’s not who I am, though. She could just imagine herself as a spectator in the bleachers, craning her neck to catch a glimpse of this pioneering new procedure. It was for the sake of that other self—her true self, the one she hoped to be again—that she chose to remain awake and aware during the operation.

  “All right, then. You’ll feel a bit of cold now...this solution will numb your eye.”

  Aggie smiled up at him. “You’re much better than Grimbald at this part,” she said. “I doubt he’d explain anything to the patient.”

  “Um... Aggie...” Victor sounded uncomfortable.

  “Point taken,” said Grimbald. He must have been standing right behind Victor.

  “Sorry,” she said.

  “With any luck, you’ll be able to see whom you’re insulting by the end of the day,” said Grimbald.

  As the cold numbing agent trickled into her left eye, Aggie thought that Victor must be pleased to be at his mentor’s side again.

  “You must be so pleased to be back in the operating theater,” she said.

  “I am—though I think Grimbald was motivated more by necessity than by choice,” admitted Victor.

  “Is the procedure so complicated?” When Shiercliffe had described how they would replace her cornea, she had assured Aggie that the process was both straightforward and simple.

  “No,” said Victor. “There’s another procedure going on at the same time, in the other operating theater.”

  Before Aggie could ask anything more, Grimbald cut in. “Is the eye numb yet?” He leaned over her, and Aggie nearly sneezed as the strong scent of Bay Rum moustache wax filled her nose.

  “It should be,” said Victor.

  “All right, then. Time to address the students, and then we begin.”

  A new blur appeared beside Aggie. “How’re you doing, Ags?”

  “Lizzie?” For a moment, Aggie was so overcome with relief at the sound of her friend’s flat American accent that she couldn’t speak. “Aren’t you going to get in trouble for being here?”

  “I’m only here for a moment. I’m actually supposed to be over in the other operating theater, but I wanted to take a moment to see you before your surgery.”

  “Oh, that’s nice of you.”

  “Hello, Miss Lavenza.” Shiercliffe’s voice carried a slight undertone of censure. “I do believe you are wanted in the other room?” She gestured at something, but to Aggie, anything farther than two feet away might as well be invisible.

  “Of course, Miss Shiercliffe. Ags, don’t worry about a thing.”

  “Oh, these new nurses!” Shiercliffe was fussing with something at the periphery of Aggie’s vision. “They’ve left a knot on the length of the IV tubing. Must I do everything myself?”

  She’s nervous, thought Aggie, surprised by the realization. “Matron?”

  Shiercliffe continued to fiddle with the IV stand. “It will just be a few more minutes, and then we’ll begin.”

  “Tell me something about the donor. Who is he?”

  “Just an ordinary East End boy.” There was an edge to Shiercliffe’s voice.

  There were thousands upon thousands of East End boys, and a myriad of ways for them to die—of cold, of hunger, of the many diseases that cold and malnutrition caused. There were countless ways for a poor boy to come to harm. Yet Aggie felt a chill race down her arms. “What happened to him?”

  “Exsanguination,” said Shiercliffe. “He died of blood loss.”

  Heart racing, Aggie forced the next question out. “Do you know anything else about him?”

  A beat of hesitation. “He was a thief and a pickpocket—not a life conducive to longevity, I’m afraid. One of his lowlife companions did him in just as he was leaving this hospital, as a matter of fact. Some kind of retribution, I imagine, but on the bright side, because he was attacked on hospital premises, he was able to receive the very best care.” Shiercliffe gave her an awkward pat on the arm. Presumably, it was meant to be comforting. “It might not have been sufficient to save his life, but it’s enough to save yours.”

  Aggie understood. She was going to see again—with Dodger’s eyes. In an ironic twist of fate, something had happened to him on his way out of the hospital, and now he was gone. But she had another chance at the life and career she had planned.

  But wait—hadn’t Shiercliffe just contradicted herself, changing her version of what had killed Dodger? Perhaps I’m just confused, thought Aggie. The operating theater, the impending surgery, even her impaired vision might all be muddling her memory.

  In the end, though, what did the details matter? He was dead, with all his vitality and mischief and unexpected sweetness snuffed out. She felt a hollow ache at the thought that he was no longer out in the world somewhere. Yet now he would always be a part of her. There was a biblical proverb that said that eyes were the windows to the soul—or the mirrors, Aggie couldn’t recall which. It seemed an important distinction, though. After this procedure was complete, would she see the world differently through the lens of Dodger’s eyes—or would she look into a mirror and see a stranger reflected there?

  18

  Will fought the urge to retrace his steps when he saw the sign for the morgue. It was a shameful thing for a medical student to admit, but dead bodies made him deeply, viscerally uncomfortable. Admittedly, the fact that he was badly hungover from the night before wasn’t helping matters.

  Maybe, said the little voice in his head, I ought to be pursuing some other career.

  Of course, that would mean leaving Byram as well as his brother. Not that he saw that much of Victor. They weren’t in any of the same classes, and on the rare occasions they met up for dinner, it seemed easier to talk to Lizzie about her inventions than to try to bridge the gap between Victor and himself.

  But now Victor had sent him a note. Come down to the overflow morgue. Tell no one. And then, as an afterthought: Bring something to eat.

  So here he was, carrying a scone and a thermos of lukewarm tea he had scavenged from the student lounge down into the bowels of the hospital, trying not to jump at every rumble of the boiler and hiss of the gas sconces along the wall. He hesitated outside the morgue, wondering if the overflow morgue had a sign that said Overflow Morgue, and realizing how ridiculous that was.

  You’re going to have to go inside.

  There was a painful knot just below Will’s breastbone—fear always gave him heartburn—and he wished he had thought to bring a bit of brandy to bolster his courage. Hair of the dog—wasn’t that supposed to be the cure for drink-induced ills?

  Of course, these days, he’d been having enough hair of the dog to create a whole other dog, which was why he had decided to drink tea instead.

  You’re procrastinating, said the little voice of his conscience, which sounded a lot like Byram’s voice—darkly amused. He tried not to think about the fact that Byram was hardly speaking to him these days.

  He’s gone off me. Any day now, Will knew, Byram would be requesting another roommate.

  But what was the point of worrying about that now? He forced himself to push open the door. Inside, the morgue was cold and dark, so he held the door propped open.

  “Victor?” He could just make out a wall lined with drawers, and a body on a slab—a middle-aged man, his skin fishy white and wrinkled as if he had been submerged in water, his toes and fingers missing. Behind him, there was another body on display. This one was in even worse shape—it was missing its limbs and head as well as part of the outer layer of skin, and Will had the unwilling association of a cut of beef. He shuddered violently, and not just from the chill. A large slab of ice had been placed in the corner of the morgue, but there was still a sickly sweet, meaty smell mingled with the acrid, chemical tang of formalin.

 
His gorge rising, Will backed out of the room. Why did Victor have to send him that note? Surely Lizzie could have brought him whatever he needed.

  I’ll give it one last look around the corner, he decided. If he didn’t find Victor, he was going back up to his own room to wash his hands and face until he stopped wanting to vomit.

  Will rounded the corner and saw a smaller, hand-written sign that read Waiting Mortuary. Will wasn’t sure whether that meant the same thing as morgue or not, but he knocked twice, just for form’s sake, and was turning to leave when the door opened, making his heart slam into his chest.

  “Will? That you?” Victor peeked out, looking unshaven and a little red-eyed. “Thank God, I’m beginning to fade. Come on in.”

  Will reluctantly stepped into the waiting mortuary. This was a much smaller room than the first, and there was no ice bringing the temperature down and reducing the sour smell of the bodies. There were three cadavers, all laid out on slabs. Two of them were naked, with stocky, once-muscular bodies gone slack with death. One had the sickly greenish-gray pallor of decomposition; the other had gone the mottled bluish-purple of a bruise. The metal plates that covered their left pectoral muscles looked like scrap metal, and the heavy black stitching that crisscrossed their bodies suggested they had been cobbled together from multiple sources.

  Will recognized the third body, off to one side on a gurney, from the Bio-Mechanical procedure he had observed earlier in the day. This corpse appeared far less offensive than its companions. In fact, the slender young man might almost have been sleeping—except for the metal armor plating his chest and the electrodes at his neck.

  “Have you been down here before?” asked Victor. “My first time, I thought I was going to decorate the walls with the remains of my last meal. Now I’m so used to it, I’m perishing with hunger.”

  “Oh, sorry. Here—Sorry, this was all I could find between meals.” He handed the scone over, still staring at the body of the young man, who looked like he was—had been—Will’s age. There were dark bruises under his eyes and over his ribs.

  “Thanks,” said Victor, unwrapping the scone and taking an enormous bite. “And that’s tea, I presume?” Victor eyed the thermos as if it were a long lost love.

  “What? Yes.”

  Victor smiled as he poured himself a cup and then took a sip as if it were sacramental wine. Instantly, his expression fell. “It’s cold.”

  “Terribly sorry about that, I was rushing and just took what was left in the pot...”

  “It’s fine, really.” Victor took another swallow to prove it. “Have a seat.”

  The only other stool was occupied by a black bulbed trocar, its metal tip stained a dark brown. Don’t be squeamish, he told himself, lifting the instrument used for syphoning off bodily fluids and placing it gingerly on the slab next to the greenish body.

  Victor took a last bite of the scone. “That’s better. Say, do you happen to know what time it is?”

  “Around teatime.”

  “Two hours since the operation, and that took the better part of six hours. Christ, no wonder I’m dead on my feet.”

  “I can imagine,” said Will. “It was hard enough to watch from the bleachers.”

  “Did you catch Aggie’s op first?”

  “I just observed the other procedure,” he admitted. “Watching Aggie felt a bit too personal, and truth be told, I had to look away from most of the Bio-Mechanical surgery.”

  Of course Victor, the star student, hadn’t just observed both operations—he had assisted in them.

  I’m not cut out for this.

  “I don’t know, Will,” Victor said, shaking his head. “Are you sure you’re in the right school? Or did you get lost on your way to Oxford and were just too polite to tell anyone?”

  No, thought Will with a burst of anger, I’m here because our father thought you were dead and so I was supposed to take your place. It made no sense, he knew. Why should he be stung that Victor had voiced the very thoughts he had about himself? Yet still, it rankled to have his perfect older brother questioning his fitness to be here.

  Except he’s not so perfect anymore. Now, when they went home, it was Victor who made their parents uncomfortable, who seemed subtly but unmistakably other.

  “Assuming you’re right and I don’t belong here,” Will said, unable to keep a hint of defensiveness from his voice, “where do you suggest I go? Our father would happily foot a transfer into finance, but I dislike numbers even more than I do blood.”

  “How about the law? I can see you as a barrister, eloquently stating your case.”

  “I’d have to wear a white wig, though. Not sure how I feel about that.” It was not an altogether terrible idea, though. The law was respectable enough for their father to consider, but it also involved stories, and Will could imagine himself doing quite well in a discipline of stories and ethics.

  On the other hand, it would also mean leaving Byram behind for the first time since they had become friends, at the age of seven.

  “You know, Will,” Victor began, but whatever he began to say was cut off by a low groan from one of the beds.

  “Oh, Jesus, is it waking up?” Will jumped to his feel, icy fear coursing down his spine.

  “Possibly.” The greenish-tinged body shuddered and gave a long-drawn-out sigh.

  “I think that’s a definite yes.”

  “It could just be built-up gas escaping from the body.”

  “I don’t know which is worse.” Keeping his eye on the green body, Will stepped back as Victor moved around it, fastening the leather restraints to its arms and legs.

  “What are those for?”

  “Just a precaution. They tend to wake up disorientated. We restrain them so they don’t accidentally injure themselves—or anyone else.”

  “Then why were they not restrained to begin with?” He glanced at the other two bodies and had a nightmarish image of the big, bruised one sneaking up on him from behind.

  “It impedes circulation. Besides, it’s often not necessary. Over 75 percent of attempted Bio-Mechanical procedures end in failure.”

  “Oh,” said Will, his voice coming out small and thin.

  “Not convinced? Here.” Victor placed his stethoscope onto the cadaver’s chest. “Nothing. Must have just been natural gases escaping during decomposition.” He picked up the chart, checked his fob watch and jotted down the time.

  Will approached the young man’s pale body. “What about this one?”

  Victor picked up the chart by the bruised body’s slab and added a note. “Our showcase project? We’re hoping this one does a lot more than just open his eyes and grunt. Otherwise we’re not going to have anything to impress the kaiser. But we got him immediately after death, so his prospects are good.”

  Will shivered in the cold air. “Can’t we cover him with a blanket or something?” Will tried to think of the right word to describe the pale body lying exposed on the gurney. Despite the electrodes visible at his neck and the brass chest plate, he looked all too human.

  “Just don’t look at him, if it bothers you that much.”

  “It’s not that. He looks cold, Victor.”

  “Hang on. You worried he’s going to wake up and attack you, or concerned he might catch a chill?”

  Will considered the bruises visible on the dead man’s ribs. “Um...a little of both?”

  Victor chuckled. “Don’t ever change, little brother.” Walking over to the body, he secured the leather restraints around its arms. “You know, you’re not the only one who gets a bit spooked by them. When we were operating, I had this sudden pang—What if he’s not really dead? What if he’s just paralyzed, like I was?”

  “Did you say anything?”

  Victor moved around to fasten the ankle straps. “I thought about it. But then I realized that Grimbald and Shiercliffe wou
ldn’t make the same mistake twice.”

  Will noticed his brother did not include Moulsdale. “I know it might sound absurd, but can we give him a blanket?”

  “Not absurd at all. They’re on the shelf there.”

  Will pulled a gray wool blanket down from a shelf and unfolded it over the body.

  Victor watched him, looking amused. “Why not add a hot water bottle, while you’re at it?”

  “That’s not a bad idea.”

  “Foot massage? Fox-fur stole? Perhaps some hot tea with rum? I wouldn’t mind a nip of that, myself.”

  Will shot his brother an annoyed glance. “Oh, do shut up.” He picked up Victor’s medical book and began reading about the importance of calculating the rate of anesthesia during an operation. I am never going to understand these equations, he thought.

  Suddenly, Victor got to his feet. “Egads, Will, I think your blanket idea’s working—our patient’s waking up!”

  Will did not put down the textbook. “Have I mentioned how unfunny you are?”

  “No, really. Turn around.”

  Will shook his head. “You must think I’m still eight years old.”

  “Hang on to that thought.” Victor moved with athletic swiftness, shouldering Will aside.

  “Hey, do you mind?” said Will, turning as he added, “This isn’t rugby—oh my God!” The young man who had been as still as a corpse a moment earlier, was now gasping, his muscles tense as he strained against his straps. “You weren’t funning me!”

  The Bio-Mechanical’s eyes were open and flicking wildly around. There was something strange about them—a glint of silver in the green of the iris—and something stranger about the way they moved, the pupils expanding and contracting at extraordinary speed, the eyes flicking much faster than was typical and then—dear Lord—oscillating inside their sockets.

  “What’s wrong with it?”

  “Not a thing. That’s Lizzie’s newest invention—telescopulars. They can magnify up to one hundred times more than your eyes or mine, and they can see in low light the way a cat can. They can even record things they see.”