The Life of a Teenage Body-snatcher

by Doug MacLeod

  ‘It is delightful to see you again,’ says Victoria.

  ‘Is it really?’

  ‘Of course. And I took your comments on Thursday night to be in the healthy spirit of literary debate.’

  This is wondrous. I cannot believe I have agonised so deeply when it appears Victoria has barely given the matter a second thought.

  ‘All literary appreciation is subjective,’ points out Victoria.

  ‘How very true,’ I say. ‘I, for example, adore the twenty-ninth sonnet by Shakespeare but you might think it sounds like “Sally in Our Alley”.’

  ‘I love the twenty-ninth sonnet,’ Victoria replies.

  My heart skips a beat. ‘I have it wrapped around these oysters,’ I say, presenting the parcel to her.

  ‘You brought oysters?’

  ‘Two dozen. You said they were your favourite. If you’d told me you were partial to live lobsters I’d have bought you two dozen of those.’

  ‘The hotel might object to two dozen lobsters scuttling about the place.’

  I laugh as though this is a magnificent joke, even though it isn’t.

  ‘I have been thinking of you,’ I admit. ‘I try not to, but the image of your angelic countenance is lodged in my mind and will be forever.’

  ‘You are sweet, Thomas.’

  I prompt Victoria for a stronger response. ‘Has the image of my own countenance been lodged in your mind at all?’

  Victoria smiles politely. ‘This is the first time a man has brought me oysters.’

  ‘Surely Mr Wilks must shower you with shellfish?’

  ‘He does not.’

  ‘What a selfish pig. Oh dear, I didn’t mean to criticise Mr Wilks. I’m sure he is a superb companion. You’re not married to him, are you?’

  The fire goes out. It has accepted defeat in the radiance contest with Victoria.

  ‘Mr Wilks and I are not married. We merely … travel together. We are good friends. That is all.’

  I hear a chorus of angels. ‘This is wonderful news. This is the most sublime news I have ever received. How can I have been such a fool?’ I slap my forehead as though I am in a melodrama. ‘You were so upset by my remarks about Mr Wilks, and so loyal to him, I suspected you must at least be engaged.’

  ‘I defended Mr Wilks because he is a good writer, not because we are romantically united.’

  ‘And you weren’t angry with me for speaking my mind?’

  ‘Of course not. What is the point of literature if we cannot debate it freely?’

  ‘What Aubrey Wilks writes is hardly literature.’

  Victoria bristles. I have made a slip and decide I will not say another bad thing about her hero.

  ‘One must concede that Mr Wilks is immensely successful commercially,’ Victoria says.

  I nod vigorously. ‘Oh, indeed.’

  ‘He has more readers than any other English writer, which is quite an achievement.’

  ‘An unbelievable achievement.’

  Victoria repositions herself in the chair. She looks regal. I am reminded of an image of Cleopatra, though of course the purportedly irresistible Queen of Egypt looks like a burst appendix when compared with Victoria.

  ‘Furthermore Aubrey Wilks does write literature because his publisher is Rupert Higgins,’ says Victoria, ‘and literature is the only thing that Mr Higgins will publish. He has the highest standards. All his authors are immensely talented.’

  I cannot help it. In my mind I see Josiah Atkins tormenting Charlie. I recall the harsh words, the whippings, the ridicule heaped on my best friend. I am prepared to lie and be pleasant about Aubrey Wilks, but I cannot countenance any appreciation of Josiah Atkins.

  ‘I’m afraid you are mistaken about Rupert Higgins,’ I say. ‘Not all of his authors are talented.’

  The air becomes cool. ‘Oh? Mr Higgins is a very discerning judge,’ says Victoria.

  ‘He is not,’ I say. ‘If he were, he would not be publishing Josiah Atkins’ guide to the teaching of boys. It is the vilest document I have ever read.’

  ‘You doubt the judgment of Mr Higgins?’

  ‘I’m afraid I must. This book is so awful that I have vowed to prevent its publication.’

  ‘You would really try to suppress a title chosen by Mr Higgins?’

  ‘If I had the manuscript in my hand right now I would throw it on the fire.’

  ‘You will note that the fire has gone out, Thomas.’

  ‘I would relight it with my contempt.’

  ‘And I suppose you’d do the same with an Aubrey Wilks book?’

  ‘No. You are putting words in my mouth.’

  ‘You are the one who accuses Mr Higgins of having poor taste.’

  I take the scented handkerchief from my pocket and wipe perspiration from my brow.

  ‘Oh, Victoria. I did hope that our meeting would be more cordial. Please, let us not argue over a second-rate writer.’

  ‘Mr Wilks is not second-rate!’

  ‘I was referring to Mr Atkins.’

  ‘No, you weren’t.’

  ‘I was. Mr Atkins was a thoroughly repulsive individual. Mr Wilks at least dresses and articulates well.’

  ‘But cannot write?’

  ‘I didn’t say that.’

  ‘The man you saw on Thursday night is an actor. He merely recites the lines. I am the writer. I am Aubrey Wilks.’

  I am startled beyond belief. ‘I beg your pardon?’

  Victoria closes her eyes for a moment. ‘Thomas, the author of those best-selling and highly regarded books is I. But like my sister Jane Austen before me, I found it difficult to gain a publisher because I am a mere woman. So I wrote under the male pseudonym of Aubrey Wilks. Only three other people in the world know this: you, the actor, and my publisher, Mr Rupert Higgins. When the books became a phenomenon, the public cried out for a tour by the author. I could hardly give the recitations myself and so I hired an actor, one Mr Fife, to be the great Aubrey Wilks. The reason I travel with him is to make sure he does not drink too much shandy before the recital, and also to pen the occasional Aubrey Wilks essay commissioned by the local newspapers. Mr Fife, I’m afraid, can barely write his name. But he has a wonderfully resonant voice.’

  Victoria’s revelation has shocked me.

  ‘Thomas, you strike me as an almost unnecessarily handsome man. I daresay there are hundreds of young ladies who would happily accept your oysters. But I cannot.’

  Victoria tosses the parcel at me and stands.

  ‘Please do not leave yet,’ I say, also standing. ‘I have something I must tell you. I too have a secret.’

  In desperation I seize on the ploy that Plenitude suggested. I hope and pray that Victoria is a romantic.

  ‘I’m a body-snatcher,’ I say.

  Victoria blinks. ‘I beg your pardon?’

  I lower my voice. ‘I am a body-snatcher. Really, I am. I do it for good reasons. I’m a gentleman body-snatcher, you see. Some people want their bodies left to science, but their families won’t allow it. It happens almost daily. There is a new interest in anatomy and people want to advance it by leaving their bodies to be dissected. It’s in their wills.’

  ‘You’re lying.’

  ‘It’s true. They believe in God, of course, as do you and I and all good English people. But they don’t see how being eaten by worms will secure their entry to heaven, and being used for science won’t. Surely if they’ve been devout all their lives, they’ll end up in paradise no matter what happens to the cadaver. I can tell you incredible stories, all true. I have seen extraordinary things, met remarkable people.’

  Victoria wears a contemptuous expression. ‘Why on earth would I want to listen to your grotesque inventions?’

  All seems lost. I might as well say it. ‘For inspiration.’ Victoria does not say another word. She turns and takes her leave. I am left with twenty-four oysters and fourteen lines of poetry.

  I find Charlie in the front garden of his home, sitting in a canvas chair. He seems to be
moping. I’m aggrieved to note that he is also reading a book by Aubrey Wilks. I had come in the hope that Charlie might cheer me up after my woeful encounter with Victoria. At the moment he looks as distraught as I feel.

  ‘Hello, Charlie. Is everything all right?’

  ‘Not really, Thomas.’

  ‘May I sit with you?’

  ‘Of course.’

  I sit on the second canvas chair and rest the packet of oysters in my lap.

  ‘What is the matter, Charlie?’ I refuse to indulge in self-pity and will not even think about Victoria.

  ‘Mother used her influence, and the soliciting charge against us was dropped,’ says Charlie.

  I’m relieved. ‘That is wonderful news. Why do you look so glum?’

  ‘Father used his influence and had the charge reinstated.’

  ‘What? Is he mad?’

  ‘He wants me to appear in public to answer the charge of soliciting a lady of the night. He believes it will prove to his family and colleagues that I am manly and not a nancy-boy.’

  ‘And your father would risk having you locked up for this?’

  ‘It seems so.’

  ‘How sad.’

  ‘You look a little downhearted yourself.’

  ‘Not at all.’

  ‘What’s in that package?’

  ‘Oysters.’

  ‘Why did you bring them?’

  I improvise. ‘I thought that Ginger might like them. Perhaps I could make friends with your pet by offering a little treat.’

  ‘Thomas, you are ingenious.’

  Charlie stands and calls Ginger. The orange feline pokes its head around a corner. I open the package of oysters, surely a delicacy no cat could resist.

  ‘These are for you, Ginger,’ I say sweetly, holding out my present.

  Ginger’s fur stands up. The cat screams like a Catholic who has seen the devil. It charges, the claws outstretched. Fortunately, I am not the target of the attack. A furious ball of orange, Ginger tears a huge slit in one of the canvas chairs, then spits at me and runs off.

  ‘Bad Ginger,’ Charlie calls after it.’

  ‘I don’t think it liked the oysters,’ I say.

  ‘Ginger loves oysters. I’m afraid it’s you he doesn’t like. How very depressing.’

  ‘No cat likes me, Charlie. I don’t know why it is.’

  ‘And now my father will punish me for destroying the chair.’

  ‘How can he, when it was the cat that did it?’

  ‘My father blames me for everything, even his asthma. He says my red hair brings it on. Are you sure you’re not sad?’

  ‘I promise you I am not sad, Charlie.’

  I am so determined not to think of Victoria that I decide to propose an adventure. I hand Charlie ten pounds, his share of Mr Atkins’ sale.

  ‘You need something to take your mind off things,’ I tell him. ‘Shall we go resurrecting tonight?’

  Charlie nods. ‘It would certainly be jollier than spending an evening with my father.’

  CHAPTER 21

  Plenitude keeps watch while Charlie and I dig up the grave of the poor soul unlucky enough to have laid next to Mr Atkins, albeit for a short time. Plenitude is excited about this resurrection. He feels sure that we will enjoy it too. Charlie and I, dressed in black and wearing monkey caps, toil with our wooden shovels. The sky is darker than ever in the aftermath of the Wishall fire.

  ‘I am learning a new dance,’ Charlie says. ‘It is called a gavotte. Unfortunately, my father caught me practising it in my bedroom.’

  ‘How did he react?’

  ‘He was furious. My dancing was bad enough in his view, but to dance in the French style was unforgivable. Did you know that partners are expected to kiss at the end of this dance, Thomas?’

  ‘I didn’t, but it seems a wonderful dance.’

  ‘Father doesn’t think so. He says I am deliberately trying to embarrass him. Perhaps I should run away from home, since I am forbidden to dance there –’

  ‘You may dance at my house if you like.’

  ‘That’s kind of you, Thomas. But won’t it alarm your mother?’

  ‘It probably would. Most things do. But please don’t leave home, Charlie. I think you are too young.’

  ‘Your brother is fourteen, and yet he has vacated.’

  ‘You are nothing like John and I am thankful for the fact. Let’s keep digging and we’ll attend to the matter of your forbidden dancing at a more leisurely moment.’

  The earth is harder to shift because it has settled in the two weeks since the burial. The work is taxing and progress slow.

  ‘Most of the continental dances I’m learning require me to have a female partner,’ says Charlie.

  ‘Then you must find one.’

  ‘No simple matter. It’s easier for you. All girls adore you.’

  I rest on my shovel for a moment. ‘Charlie, I wish it were the case.’

  ‘Your beloved –?’

  ‘She detests me.’

  ‘What a sad pair we are.’

  When we return to our digging I hear a sound that you are not supposed to hear when you dig up a coffin. It is the sound of wood striking metal. Yet both our shovels are made of oak. At the sound, Plenitude deserts his post and jumps into the hole with us.

  ‘Isn’t it extraordinary?’ he says. ‘The whole coffin is made of iron.’ He taps it with his foot.

  ‘Curious. I’ve never seen an iron coffin before,’ I say.

  ‘They are rare,’ says Plenitude.

  ‘Why be buried in iron? Is it what the deceased wanted?’

  ‘Absolutely not.’ Plenitude gazes to the sky, even though there is nothing to see. ‘The deceased wanted his body left to science. Just like your grandfather James. This saintly man is a grandfather too. He left a substantial amount of money to a local hospital, but his family challenged and won, as they often do. They took the money for the hospital and spent it on an iron coffin. This was to make doubly sure that we would not come to grant his wish. I confess, when I first saw the iron coffin go into the ground, I decided that the family had bested me.’

  ‘Never give up,’ I say.

  ‘That seems startlingly bland advice.’

  ‘You said the same to me.’

  ‘Then they are wise words indeed. And here we are; all three of us, standing on an iron coffin. The good thing about such a coffin is that the body inside does not decay so quickly. The grandfather within will still be a fine specimen for our anatomists in London. The bad thing is that they are very difficult to open.’

  ‘Especially if they have been riveted closed,’ I say.

  ‘Nevertheless, I think I can do it.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘We’ll have to move the coffin somewhere else.’

  ‘This will be a remarkably heavy coffin,’ I say.

  ‘And you are both remarkably strong young men. Use the labour-saving devices, Thomas. I have fitted them with a reinforced eight-ply rope. It will take you a little longer and it will most likely require more exertion, but I have full confidence in your abilities. I will resume my position as lookout.’

  ‘You haven’t been doing a very good job for the last ten minutes.’

  ‘I placed one or two pieces of thread here and there. If you hear a bell ring you will know we have undesirable guests. Plenitude returns to his lookout position. Moments later Charlie and I hear a bell ring and regard each other with alarm.

  ‘That was me,’ says Plenitude.

  The coffin seems to weigh a ton. Plenitude, Charlie and I are gasping and drenched in sweat when we finally manage to load it onto the cart. Even a horse as powerful as Sultan cannot move at his usual pace. The journey to Wishall is uneventful but takes nearly an hour. We eventually arrive at Plenitude’s makeshift centre of operations. He has chosen an abandoned ship works. I am developing night vision, like Plenitude. I can see the eerie skeletons of abandoned, half-made ships. The air smells of rust and brine. These ships will never be
completed. They will stand here and decay, like everything else.

  Plenitude softly issues directions as we manoeuvre the metal coffin from the back of the cart to a convenient bench. The place has been prepared. Next to the bench is a machine that looks new. It is a steel frame that supports two sets of manually operated bellows on one side. On its other side, the one facing the bench, is a sealed, cylindrical tank, into which the air from the bellows is fed.

  Plenitude eyes the machine with pride.

  ‘Charlie and I are waiting for you to tell us what it is,’ I remind Plenitude.

  ‘It’s called a Wankel blowpipe.’

  ‘Disgusting.’

  ‘It’s a German name.’

  ‘I’ve no doubt.’

  ‘It is our key.’ Plenitude smiles. ‘Start pumping those bellows. You may find it taxing.’

  Operating the bellows of a Wankel blowpipe is rather like rowing a Viking ship as a coxless pair. Plenitude urges Charlie and me to pump harder and harder, until he is satisfied that the machine is ready. I smell fuel, which I presume to be Jagar’s spirit, contained in the blowpipe’s tank. It is now being released into the air via a length of narrow, flexible tube. At the point where the tube is attached to the tank, there is a small spigot. At the tube’s other end is an attachment like one of the latest gas jets.

  At last Plenitude is content with our efforts. He holds up the tube with his right hand. With his left, he takes a wax match from his pocket and strikes it. He instructs Charlie and me to turn away, but to continue operating the bellows. Suddenly the ship works is filled with light. Rusting hulks, brightly illuminated, throw bizarre shadows. It is as if we are in a scene from Dante’s Inferno. The shadows move as Plenitude directs his torch at the side of the coffin. My arms ache. I wonder how the corpse within can survive the ordeal, but have confidence in Plenitude. If he has not done this before then he has certainly received thorough tuition from someone who has.