The Life of a Teenage Body-snatcher

by Doug MacLeod

‘I am undecided.’

  ‘You have a surgeon’s hands.’ She touches the tips of her dainty digits to mine.

  The girl is a delightful flirt and I am in heaven.

  ‘You too have magnificent hands,’ I say.

  ‘My mother insists I make decorative cushions with them.’

  I raise an eyebrow. ‘As a commercial enterprise?’

  ‘No, she believes that I should get married, then sit about the house making cushions all day.’

  ‘I’ve no doubt they would be magnificent cushions, but I think it would be a mistake to follow your mother’s advice.’

  ‘I have no intention of doing so. I will go to university instead.’

  ‘Of course you will. And then you could be anything you wanted, anything at all. Even a doctor like me.’

  ‘I’d quite like to be a novelist.’

  ‘I’m sure you will write a bestseller, just like Mary Shelley with her modern Prometheus tale.’

  ‘I hope I write a better book than that.’

  ‘I think Frankenstein is rather good.’

  ‘It is childish.’

  The girl is no longer flirtatious. The sparkle in her eyes has gone. I see she is annoyed and I am desperate to regain her favour.

  ‘May I offer you some celery?’ I ask.

  ‘I don’t care for celery.’

  ‘Nor should you. It’s a ridiculous vegetable. Is there anything else you would like? What is your favourite food?’

  ‘Oysters.’

  ‘But that is peasant food, surely?’

  ‘I wasn’t aware that only peasants were permitted to eat oysters.’

  I am still irritating Victoria and am determined to make amends.

  ‘I will find you oysters,’ I say.

  ‘Now?’

  ‘I will do whatever it takes. I will break into a fishmonger’s if necessary. I will dive into the sea and collect the bivalves myself. Sorry, I fear I am becoming ridiculous.’

  Victoria chuckles. ‘Thomas, you are funny.’

  ‘And you, Victoria, are most exquisite.’

  Mrs Tilley actually makes a noise when she once again attempts an act of sabotage.

  ‘They have oysters at my hotel, The Empire,’ says Victoria.

  The sparkle returns to her eyes. It makes me bolder than ever, and I am surprised to hear myself utter the next remark.

  ‘Let us go to your hotel and consume oysters.’

  Victoria gives me a playful slap with a fan that she seems to have produced from thin air. ‘Thomas, how old are you?’

  ‘Sixteen.’

  ‘I am eighteen.’

  ‘Does it matter that I am younger?’

  ‘Not in the least.’

  I swoon. ‘I feel blessed to have met you, Victoria. Who would have thought I would encounter such a perfect angel at such an eccentric gathering?’

  ‘What is eccentric about it? We are all here to enjoy Mr Wilks.’

  I am taken aback. ‘You actually like his work?’

  ‘Why else would I be here?’

  ‘Of course. Please forgive me. How long are you staying at The Empire?’

  ‘Until Sunday.’

  ‘May I walk you there? The streets of Wishall can be dangerous at night. There are sailors. Wishall is a port, you see. With ships. And sailors.’

  Victoria looks at me as if I am a babbling idiot, which I fear is the case.

  ‘I have a chaperone,’ she says.

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘It is Mr Wilks. He waits without.’

  My heart sinks.

  ‘You are staying at the hotel with Mr Wilks?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘You and Mr Wilks enjoy an … association?’

  ‘We do.’

  ‘But he is not handsome. And he is old.’

  ‘He is twenty-three.’

  ‘And you are his … faithful companion?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘He’s a terrible writer.’

  ‘He is not.’

  ‘You have broken my heart,’ I say.

  ‘That certainly was not my intention,’ says Victoria.

  She turns and I feel the pain of my thwarted love linger in the air.

  ‘Oh for heaven’s sake, Alice,’ Mrs Greenough says. ‘Do be a dear and stop farting.’

  ‘It wasn’t me,’ Mrs Tilley protests.

  ‘Of course it was. You might also like to avail yourself of a toothpick. Your teeth look like Kew Gardens.’

  Alas, I am too despairing to enjoy Mrs Greenough’s sharp wit.

  CHAPTER 13

  On Friday morning there is a service in the Great Hall to mark the passing of Mr Josiah Atkins. The hall is a massive place with polished wooden honour rolls adorning the walls. There is not a single name on any of them. All boys and staff are in attendance.

  The body of Mr Atkins rests in a coffin at the front of the congregation. Our chaplain, Mr Stockman, takes the lectern and leads us in the singing of a hymn. The words mean nothing to me. I can’t stop thinking of Victoria Plum. But since she cannot be mine, I must drive the thought from my mind. To moon over what we cannot have is self-indulgent and wasteful.

  After the hymn, the congregation sits, and Mr Stockman offers his tribute to the short but dedicated life of Mr Atkins.

  ‘It is rare indeed that we meet a man so devoted to the craft of teaching as Mr Josiah Makepeace Atkins,’ says Mr Stockman. ‘I myself was taught by Mr Atkins and found his mathematical classes both enjoyable and stimulating.’

  Mr Stockman had clearly not been Mr Atkins’ ‘chosen one’ in his year.

  ‘We have some apologies for the non-attendance of various relatives of the late Mr Atkins. His mother, Mrs Augusta Atkins, sadly cannot be here today owing to various toilet commitments. She has written some words that she has asked me to read to you. Unfortunately, modesty prevents me from articulating these words; however, I can assure you that Mrs Atkins is not afraid to speak her mind, or indeed write it. Mr Atkins’ father is also unable to attend, as he is engaged in the task of placing a small sailing ship in a bottle. It’s exacting work and he is understandably reluctant to be distracted from it, though he too has written something to commemorate the passing of his only son. Since he has written these words in the form of a limerick and the last line is filthy, I must again desist from broadcasting it.

  ‘Although Mr Atkins never married, we must not take this to mean that he was incapable of love. He loved his school and he loved his work. How often did we hear Mr Atkins intone the virtues of his teaching methods? Many, many, many, many times. I understand that Mr Atkins even wrote a manuscript detailing his methods. Alas, he will never see it printed. A great educator, Josiah Makepeace Atkins will be sadly missed.’

  Students who wish to attend the interment of Mr Atkins are granted leave. Naturally, every boy vows to attend, and so the school is closed for the afternoon. Nevertheless, I am the only student to attend the minor ceremony at the nearby parish of St Brendan’s. There are but two other men. They seem to be there for the express purpose of establishing that Mr Atkins is definitely deceased. Unlike me, they do not wear mourning clothes. They suffer facial tics and curious twitches. One has a left hand that won’t keep still. The other regularly cries out, then looks profoundly embarrassed and struggles to keep silent. Both look relieved when the coffin is lowered into the grave. I wonder if these sad creatures had been ‘chosen’ by Mr Atkins.

  After a discreet interval, I take out a notebook and draw a map recording the precise location of Mr Atkins’ body. This is, after all, a different graveyard from the one I know. There is no cenotaph to Nelson and no peppercorn tree. There is, however, a body that is newly buried and that might go to waste unless I act swiftly.

  I enter the tannery on Bolter’s Lane. It looks a very different place, now that it is full of men working with the hides of animals. The sound of hammering and cursing fills the air. It is almost as if the men are animals themselves. It is midwinter, yet they wear little but t
he same leather aprons that Mr Mortimer and Lucifer wore.

  No one notices me as they go about their toil. I wonder if I have been foolish. The man I seek works by night and it is not yet the close of day. I am not gormless enough to approach one of the tanners and ask if he might know the whereabouts of a Mr Plenitude. Would they even know him by that name? I am about to leave, when I receive a firm tap on the shoulder. I turn and find myself face to face with Plenitude. His silver hair catches the light. He beckons me to a corner where the light is weak. There are stacks of wooden crates identical to the one that Plenitude used for the delivery to Mr Mortimer. Plenitude crouches with me behind the crates, as if our business must be conducted out of sight.

  ‘Hello, Thomas,’ says Plenitude. Again I am surprised that he has no scent; except perhaps for a hint of pennyroyal. ‘You look well. These formal clothes suit you.’

  ‘I have just come from an interment,’ I say.

  ‘If I had a hat I would remove it,’ says Plenitude. ‘I am sorry for your loss.’

  ‘Don’t be sorry,’ I say. ‘I disliked the man intensely.’

  ‘Then we must rejoice in your good fortune.’

  ‘I want to dig him up,’ I say.

  Plenitude is dumbfounded. ‘But you told me that you would have no part of resurrectionism.’

  ‘I’ve changed my mind. I think we owe it to the poor anatomists who face the prospect of an empty slab if we do not act.’

  ‘My heart does go out to them,’ nods Plenitude. ‘It was different last century. There were hangings all over the place and no shortage of bodies to advance the cause of Herophilus. Then capital punishment went out of fashion.’

  Yet again, Plenitude has managed to inveigle me into his bizarre world. ‘Why did it?’ I ask.

  ‘I blame the French. They had their revolution and people were being executed up and down the country. And since the French thought it was such a good idea, we English had to pretend that it wasn’t. So, we stopped the hangings, more or less. Still, it created a livelihood for socially-minded people like me.’

  ‘And me.’

  ‘Are you sure, Thomas?’

  ‘I have never been more certain.’

  ‘Why is it so important to dig up this particular body? You mentioned you disliked the man. You aren’t doing this to punish him, are you?’

  ‘Perish the thought.’

  ‘You are doing this purely to advance the frontiers of science?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘Where is the body?’

  I take the map from my pocket and hand it to Plenitude. It should be difficult to read in the dim light, but Plenitude has the eyes of an owl.

  ‘I’ve never taken one from here before,’ says Plenitude.

  ‘What? It’s only two miles away. That seems almost lazy.’

  ‘I attended a funeral there recently, but I found the whole thing too depressing and decided against a resurrection.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘For personal reasons. St Martin’s has been adequate for my purposes. Wishall has a pleasingly high mortality rate and I’m well settled.’

  ‘But you’re not, are you?’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘There is your former partner, Clemency. It seems you now have competition.’

  Plenitude sighs. ‘It was bound to happen sooner or later. The wages are simply too tempting.’

  ‘Ten pounds a body?’

  ‘Usually more. The thing is, now that Clemency is about, St Brendan’s might not be a safe proposition either. We will have to find a third man to act as lookout while we dig. Do you know anyone who might be adept?’

  ‘I don’t.’

  ‘But you are young. You have youthful acquaintances. You’re bound to know someone.’

  ‘This is all new to me. I don’t even have a resurrectionist name yet. How does that work, exactly?’

  ‘You choose it yourself. Or it chooses you. It has to be a noun, one with positive connotations. Give it some thought. You mustn’t rush these things. It took me months to think of Plenitude.’

  ‘What is your true name?’

  ‘Ah, I can’t tell you that.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Ask me more intelligent questions.’

  I can see he won’t budge on the topic.

  ‘What sort of person should I choose to be a lookout?’

  Plenitude gestures to the workers heaving the bolts of hide and slicing through sheets of leather. ‘Any one of these men would be your lookout for a shilling,’ he says.

  ‘We need a man with brute strength?’

  Plenitude shakes his head. ‘None of them would be good. They all drink. It’s a terrible vice, consuming strong drink. Look what it did to Tolerance.’

  I shudder at the memory. ‘Poor man.’

  ‘I do like you, Thomas. You can even feel pity for a man who tried to slash you to death.’

  ‘There is good and bad in everyone.’

  ‘Indeed. I think your resurrectionist name should be Forgiveness.’

  ‘No, I don’t think that will be my name.’

  I can hardly call myself Forgiveness when the main reason I want to resurrect Mr Atkins is that I know it is precisely what he would not want. I realise I may also be doing this to keep myself occupied and thus think no further of Victoria Plum, the lady who will never be mine.

  ‘We’ll meet here at eleven tonight,’ says Plenitude. ‘By then you will have found our third man.’

  CHAPTER 14

  Like me, Charlie Callow lives on The Beaufort Estate. As I approach, I see him in his front garden. He is smiling and reaching into a box, oblivious to all else. I’ve never seen Charlie look so happy. It is as if a great weight has been lifted from his shoulders. Whatever is in the box seems to cheer him greatly. It is a delightful scene.

  Then, with horror, I reassess the situation. Charlie has made a home for his pet cat, Ginger. I dare not approach, in case Ginger sees me and goes wild, as all cats do. They don’t actually attack me. They merely go on a feline rampage. (I have no idea why this is, since all other animals like me.)

  I decide I will return later to talk with Charlie. But it is too late. He has seen me. I am also spied by Ginger, whose head pops out of the box. The creature leaps out, hissing and spitting.

  ‘Bad Ginger,’ says Charlie. ‘Behave nicely for Thomas.’

  But the orange cat starts tearing around the garden, ripping it up.

  ‘No! Wicked Ginger.’

  Charlie manages to catch the furious cat and lock it indoors.

  ‘Sorry about that,’ says Charlie. ‘I can’t think what he has against you.’

  ‘Perhaps it would be best to talk out here,’ I say. ‘We can discuss some secret business without fear of eavesdroppers.’

  Charlie looks delighted that there is intrigue attached to my visit. ‘What is it you wish to discuss?’

  ‘I’m about to ask you to do me a tremendous favour.’

  ‘I would do anything for you, Thomas, you know that.’

  ‘And I you. But first I need to make you aware of certain recent developments. The stories I’ve been telling about digging up the bodies –’

  ‘I quite enjoy them. I’m not sure why you’ve started telling them but I hope to hear more episodes of your imaginative fantasy.’

  ‘It isn’t fantasy, Charlie. I really have been digging up bodies. Well, strictly speaking I’ve only dug up one body, since my second attempt was thwarted. But I am what you might refer to as a body-snatcher.’

  ‘Well, we all have our hobbies. I collect foreign stamps.’

  ‘I’m serious, Charlie.’

  ‘Do you swear on your mother’s eyesight?’

  ‘I do, for what it’s worth.’

  ‘You continue to amaze me. What prompted you to become a body-snatcher?’

  I tell Charlie the story about my grandfather’s dying wish. I mention Plenitude. I stress that I am a body-snatcher for noble reasons, that I want to assist the a
natomy students in their quest for knowledge so that future lives may be saved.

  ‘I have heard that there is a shortage of bodies.’ Charlie nods. ‘Is it true that some students pay their tuition fees by presenting corpses to their teachers?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Charlie is gripped by the romance of it all. ‘And after the dissection, what happens to the scraps? Are they sent to the zoo?’

  ‘I really couldn’t say. I am new to the business. I don’t even have a name yet.’

  Charlie looks lost. ‘You don’t?’

  ‘I trust you more than anyone in the world. And here is the favour. Tonight, Plenitude and I will be digging up a body. There is an element of danger. We need a third person to act as lookout while we go about our task.’

  ‘And you want that person to be me?’

  ‘I do, Charlie, if you would be so kind.’

  Charlie considers the request and scratches the back of his head, where his shiny red hair is thickest. Finally he makes his decision.

  ‘I don’t think I can do it.’

  I am disappointed, but do not hold it against Charlie.

  ‘It all seems too ghastly,’ he says. ‘I am not brave or strong.’

  ‘Nonsense.’

  ‘And I must say that I am frightened for you. This seems a very peculiar world in which you’ve found yourself. If anything were to happen to you I don’t think I could bear it.’

  ‘Charlie, you will greatly reduce the possibility of my getting into strife if you assist tonight.’

  ‘It seems sinful,’ says Charlie. ‘I fear I may be damned.’

  I put a consoling hand on his upper arm. ‘So be it. I respect your decision and you are still my best friend. I will find someone else to help me exhume the body of Mr Atkins.’

  Charlie’s thin red eyebrows shoot up. ‘You’re digging up Mr Atkins’ corpse?’

  ‘Does it make a difference?’

  ‘Of course it does. Count me in.’

  As planned, Charlie and I arrive at the tannery on Bolter’s Lane at eleven o’clock. Plenitude is there, whispering to Sultan, who has been hitched to the cart. Plenitude isn’t wearing a monkey cap yet and his silver hair shines in the darkness. I introduce Plenitude to Charlie.

  ‘Good grief, the boy looks like a lighthouse,’ says Plenitude, as he inspects Charlie’s hair. Charlie looks uncomfortable.