The Life of a Teenage Body-snatcher

by Doug MacLeod

  I hesitate before answering. ‘I cannot. This is my brother’s house and it would be improper. Neither should Mrs Dunwoody do it. You went to fetch her, I believe.’

  ‘That Scottish ingrate!’ Mother snaps. ‘I arrived to find that Mrs Dunwoody had fallen head first into the privy that she had dug. I left her there, of course, kicking her legs about and howling in her parody of a language. If she cannot complete the simplest task without making an exhibition of herself, I will not waste another ounce of my compassion on her. But I will see the picture removed.’

  Mother calmly produces a large knife from her wrap. I recognise it as the one that Mrs Dunwoody grinds every Sunday, before carving the roast. Mrs Tilley and Mrs Greenough scream in unison, then faint into each other’s arms, causing everyone to look in Mother’s direction. The music stops. Several gentlemen gasp. I immediately position myself between Mother and Victoria.

  ‘I see you have wisely decided to avail yourself of a weapon,’ I say to Mother. ‘At night, the streets of Wishall are no place for a defenceless lady. But now that you are safe and with friends, perhaps you could allow me to take your knife? You may frighten the guests.’

  The representatives of The East India Company have already shown their true colours and fled the room.

  ‘Please, Phyllis, give me your knife,’ says Plenitude.

  But Mother does not react. Though her outstretched hand clasps the knife, she does not look murderous. I have seen the eyes of murderers before.

  John whispers to me. ‘I still have the duelling pistols.’

  ‘John, I absolutely forbid you to shoot Mother,’ I reply quietly. ‘Have you no sense of family loyalty?’

  ‘She is more your mother than mine. Why don’t you shoot her?’

  ‘Because I have no intention of committing matricide, thank you very much.’

  ‘No one is asking you to kill her. Just incapacitate her.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then shoot the knife out of her grasp before she stabs someone important.’

  ‘I’m not that good a marksman. I might shoot her hand off. And then who will authorise your business dealings?’

  John blanches. ‘You’re right. I could be ruined.’

  Mother stands perfectly still, as if in a trance. Victoria sensibly moves away slowly and I accompany her. Mother does not turn. She has no interest in us. Her eyes are fixed on Plenitude’s portrait. She speaks to it.

  ‘Since no one has the decency to do the deed for me, I shall do it myself.’

  Mother advances, brandishing the knife that has sliced through a hundred Sundays of roast flesh.

  ‘Phyllis,’ Plenitude entreats, ‘please do not slash the portrait.’

  Mother has now made everyone invisible. All that exists is the portrait, the knife and her. She raises the blade high. Plenitude and I exchange a look. We both run to her. Before Mother can destroy the painting, Plenitude and I grip her arm. Mother is strong, singularly intent. It is a struggle for us both to stay her hand. But she eventually drops the knife. She sighs. Whatever demons possessed her have now left. We let go of her arm. Mother turns from the portrait.

  ‘Thomas,’ she whispers.

  She is addressing Plenitude.

  ‘You see me at last,’ Plenitude says, softly.

  Mother looks from the portrait to the silver-haired man alongside her.

  ‘I see you, Thomas,’ says Mother. She sounds like a child.

  ‘You are still beautiful,’ says Plenitude.

  ‘You are old. How did you become so old?’

  ‘You have not seen me for the longest time.’

  ‘How long?’

  ‘Fifteen years.’

  ‘It can’t be possible.’

  ‘It is, Phyllis. It is.’

  ‘You’re alive.’

  ‘I’m very much alive, dearest.’

  ‘But I thought –’

  ‘It doesn’t matter what you thought or believed. I am here with you now.’

  Mother speaks her next line so softly that I am not sure if I hear correctly.

  ‘Will you forgive me?’

  Plenitude touches Mother’s face. ‘I forgive you,’ he whispers.

  ‘What of Carolyn? What became of her?’

  ‘There is too much to tell. We can discuss it another time.’

  ‘I must know, Thomas. Is she alive?’

  ‘She died but recently.’

  ‘In Bedlam?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘It wasn’t my intention –’

  ‘Hush.’

  ‘Did I destroy her, Thomas?’

  ‘You did not destroy anyone.’

  ‘I think I did. And for what?’

  ‘Hush.’

  I feel like an intruder and withdraw to Victoria’s side. Mrs Tilley and Mrs Greenough remain unconscious at our feet. The musicians have put away their instruments and the art gallery has become a quiet, sacred place. Tentatively, Charlie and Myra hold hands as they join us.

  ‘Is Plenitude your father?’ asks Charlie.

  I nod. ‘Yes.’

  ‘You have rather unusual parents.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I have smelling salts,’ says Myra. ‘Shall I revive the collapsed ladies?’

  ‘No,’ says John. ‘I prefer them collapsed.’

  We are startled when Mother cries out again. ‘Will you forgive me?’

  ‘I have already forgiven you,’ says Plenitude.

  But Mother is not speaking to Plenitude. She looks up. She is addressing God. ‘Will you forgive this unworthy woman, so blind and inhumane? Can I ever atone for my heartlessness? Is it even possible?’

  In the grip of her demons again, Mother sweeps up the knife from the floor. She holds the handle with both hands, the blade directed at her chest. It happens so swiftly, we are all caught unawares.

  ‘This is the only atonement there is,’ Mother cries.

  Before she can plunge the knife into her bosom, Plenitude wrests the blade from her grasp. It is not an easy task, for Mother’s demons are fierce, determined. Plenitude is ultimately successful, and tosses the knife out of harm’s way. But in seizing the weapon he has injured himself. Blood leaks from a wound in his hand. Some of it has spattered onto my mother’s dress. Openmouthed, she stares in horror at the crimson drops. I go to Plenitude to render whatever assistance I can. Unable to speak, Mother looks at Plenitude, then me. She covers her face with her hands.

  ‘It’s all right, Phyllis,’ Plenitude says. ‘Everything is all right.’

  Without another word, Mother runs from the room.

  ‘Pursue her,’ Plenitude instructs me, pressing a handkerchief to his hand. ‘This bleeding must be stopped. It will take a matter of minutes, then I will follow.’

  Victoria and Charlie stoop to assist Plenitude. John orders the orphans to clean the parquetry.

  It is now blowing a gale and the black sea churns. Mother stands at the end of Wishall Breakwater, staring at the waves. The cob wall curves from the southern shore of Wishall, its rocky boundary defying an angry sea. It is where I expected to find Mother. When I was young, she and I would sometimes walk here together. Mother would order me to breathe deeply, since she regarded ozone as a cure-all to rival her beloved laudanum. Even now, as I stumble along the rock wall, my progress impeded by my wounded leg, I am surprised to feel an inner warmth. I am reminded that my mother must have cared for me as a child, even loved me, if my health was of such concern to her. It seems strange that I should need a reminder.

  I call to her, but she does not turn. The icy brine splashes me and I wonder if we are in danger of being washed away. It is the night for such cruelty. I call again, but Mother remains steadfast, gazing at the boiling sea. When I finally reach her side, she barely registers my presence. We do not speak for a few moments.

  ‘John is not adopted,’ Mother says at last.

  ‘I had suspected as much. Does he realise?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘May I ask who is h
is father?’

  ‘The clues are there, Thomas. You will work it out.’

  The wind howls. The waves seem higher now. They’re hungry.

  ‘Mother, let’s return to Bradford Manor.’

  ‘No, Thomas, I cannot do that.’

  ‘Then come home with me.’

  ‘You’re a smart young man, Thomas. I’m sure you know what I intend to do.’

  ‘If you kill yourself, Mother, you will not go to heaven.’

  ‘Then would you be good enough to push me into the sea? That way I would be absolved.’

  ‘No, Mother.’

  ‘Is it such a huge favour to ask?’

  ‘If I push you into the sea then I would be a murderer and I wouldn’t go to heaven.’

  ‘What about if I accidentally slipped? That way my drowning wouldn’t be suicide.’

  ‘You can’t accidentally slip on purpose. God would know.’

  ‘Yes, He probably would. What am I to do, Thomas?’

  ‘Hold my hand, I’ll walk you home.’

  Mother will not permit me to take her hand.

  I am distracted when I hear Plenitude’s voice calling in the distance. I turn to see him pacing along the rock wall towards us. He calls again but I cannot discern what he says. He is flanked by Victoria and Charlie, their dark outlines blurred in the mist from the breaking waves. Then Plenitude calls out my mother’s name. But Mother is gone. She no longer stands at my side. In a split second she has forfeited her entry into heaven. I see nothing in the waves, and hear no cries. I must stand and watch, because if I attempt to rescue Mother from drowning, I will be committing suicide myself. I cannot swim. My mother forbade me to learn.

  It is madness for Plenitude even to attempt it. His arm is shot, his hand is cut, his leg is malformed. And yet, he dives in without a word or a second thought, to save the woman who has betrayed him. He too vanishes. There is nothing but infinite black, a grave beyond the measure of even the most skilled of body-snatchers.

  I cannot swim. But neither can I witness the demise of the most important person in my life. I take a deep breath and prepare to jump.

  Then all is dark.

  EPILOGUE

  It is regrettable when the narrator of a tale finds himself rendered unconscious during a particularly dramatic climax. I will be workmanlike in my description of these events, since Victoria Plum intends to document the experience in one of her new novels. I do hope she avoids using too many adjectives. Truth does not require decoration.

  In brief, here is what happened after I passed out.

  Charlie saved my life. My body never entered the sea. When he saw what my intentions were, he had the presence of mind to whack me on the back of the head and render me unconscious. (Lately, Charlie has been exhibiting a curious aptitude for such acts. I’m proud of him. So is Myra.)

  It was Victoria who saved Mother’s life. She and Charlie, both strong swimmers, leaped into the waves. Victoria found my mother in the swell, held her in a collar-grip, then swam with her to the wall. While Victoria went about resuscitating Mother, Charlie searched for Plenitude. After a full half hour, Victoria insisted that Charlie, unsuccessful in his quest, return. Charlie was close to drowning. Victoria had to haul him from the sea herself.

  Mother returned to her addled ways, entertaining her disgraceful friends and torturing her Caledonian slave, Mrs Dunwoody. She did not speak of Plenitude, or Thomas, or whatever the man was called during his brief intrusion into her temporarily lucid life.

  It breaks my heart to say that Plenitude’s body was not found. The sea is an expert when it comes to concealing what it does not rightfully own. Victoria, Charlie and I made daily investigations of the coast, our hearts sinking when we thought we’d spotted Plenitude’s corpse among a bank of flotsam, then rejoicing when we realised it was merely a collection of rubbish that our imaginations had momentarily made humanlike.

  In honour of Plenitude, we proceeded with the formation of The Society of Gentlemen Body-snatchers. Our operation was modest. We located ourselves in an old coopery on Bolter’s Lane. Charlie, with newfound boldness, made friends with the notaries, so that we knew which bodies rightfully belonged to science and which didn’t. Victoria kindly donated the services of her horse, and applied her business model with great success. I undertook a course of physical improvement so that I would be even better suited to strenuous nocturnal labour. I also learned to swim.

  Victoria, Charlie and I made it our business to ensure that the name of our Society appeared on the books of London’s finest hospitals. It was usually Victoria who proved the most persuasive in this regard.

  Our Society had resurrected a total of twelve bodies when we heard a knocking one night at the coopery. Wary of guests who called at such inhospitable hours, the three of us armed ourselves and went to the door. There was no one there. But on the step was an inverted top hat. When I picked it up, I found that it contained three laurel coins.

  I do not have a resurrectionist’s name yet. I haven’t thought of it and it hasn’t come to me. But when I do know my name, I will be sure to tell you.

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  First published by Penguin Group (Australia), 2010

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  ISBN: 978-1-74-253091-8