‘There is but one carcase needs finishing off,’ I say, lightening my voice to make it careless.
Alfred dawdles.
‘I shall stay also. We shall follow presently.’
He grins at me as they depart.
‘Just the two of us, eh? Best company a man could have.’
I set myself back to work, striking the carcase before me; but my hand trembles and I only split it halfway. I try again and strike untrue, jarring the bone so hard my shoulder numbs, and I drop the axe. The steel rings against stone, and Alfred calls out.
‘Abel?’
‘Yes,’ I reply.
‘What is it?’
‘I have dropped my blade.’
‘Dropped it?’ His voice sounds with shock, and he pushes through the curtain of cadavers to my side. ‘What ails you, Abel?’
His eyes search mine.
I shrug. ‘It is nothing.’
‘Well, then,’ he says. ‘Very well.’
He coughs, busying himself in picking up my blade and placing it into my hand.
‘See,’ I say. ‘I am steady again.’
I make another stroke to prove my words, but it is a poor effort, shearing away and striking my forearm, and I am sliced to the bone. For an instant, all is peaceful as we stare at my arm, the dark crimson of muscle within. He speaks first.
‘Christ, your arm.’
‘Yes,’ I say.
It is true. It is my arm. He, like me, can see the sick whiteness showing at the heart of the slit. I should be afraid, but I am not; I feel no panic as I watch the wound fill with sluggish blood. I wait for it to commence pumping, in the way that kine do when I cut their throats, but it does not. The liquid rises partway to the brim and then pauses, small bubbles winking on the surface. As I watch, I am aware of another sensation: my soul begins to beat sluggish wings, unfolding them after a long sleep. My body tingles, stirs.
‘Christ,’ says Alfred. ‘Dear, sweet Christ.’
He sits upon the floor, not caring about the stickiness and filth.
‘Sit down, man,’ he croaks.
‘Yes,’ I say, lowering myself to sit next to him.
He is trembling.
‘You are dying. You will die. What am I to do?’ he stutters. ‘You will bleed to death. You are slain. What can we do?’ His hands patter all over his apron, wringing the corners. ‘I must get help,’ he says, but does not move.
‘Yes,’ I agree, and do not move either, for my eyes will not leave the sight of my inner workings revealed in this impossible fashion.
I am surprised, but not in that way of a new thing, a never-before-seen thing. It is the stillness of curiosity. I ache to dip my thumb into the dish of the wound to see if I am warm or cool; indeed, I lift my hand to do so, and only hesitate because Alfred is shaking violently, small sobs coming from deep within his chest.
‘I must go. I must go and find a doctor,’ he says, over and over, not stirring. ‘I should not have spoken to you. I distracted you. This is my fault.’
I want to say, It is not, but I am lost in contemplation of this phenomenon.
‘I am not bleeding,’ I muse, and find I have spoken aloud.
Alfred is sitting quite still. ‘Dear Christ,’ he breathes. ‘You are not.’
It is the truth. The injury is full of blood, but is not spilling over.
‘I wonder why,’ I say, for it holds me in a fascination.
I am a slaughter-man: I know well the fountaining of heart’s-blood when an artery is severed.
‘Sweet Jesus,’ repeats Alfred. ‘Look.’
I look. The blood is sinking, and as it subsides the edges of the wound begin to close together very slowly, but fast enough that it is possible to observe the motion. I am held in the grip of a terrific stillness, so entrancing is the sight of my body re-sealing itself. After minutes I forget to count all that can be seen is a red seam along my forearm. I flex my fingers, and they move: I can bend easily at the elbow. Nothing is damaged. Alfred gets to his feet, staggering backwards.
‘You …’ he says, his eyes wild. ‘When a man is cut, he should stay open. You close up. It is not right. You should be dead.’
His gaze darts up and down and from side to side; everywhere but at me.
‘I am not,’ I say simply.
His breathing is rough. ‘I do not—’ he begins, and stops. ‘I do not know you.’
He walks away. I inspect my miraculous arm, twisting it about and watching the line where I cut myself grow smooth and pink. After a while I pick up my axe and continue with my labours. I am determined to concentrate, for I do not wish to slip into another bout of this dangerous half-sleep. The others come back in; Alfred also, but he says nothing, and will not look at me.
I set my teeth and apply myself to my labour. I am a slaughter-man, I say to myself. I cut open the bodies of beasts. They stay open. I was cut, and I closed up. I did not bleed. I shake the troubling thoughts away. I must have been mistaken: I cannot have cut myself so deeply. These things are not possible.
The remainder of the day is simpler. Each beast waits patiently in line, and the greatest noise we hear is the sigh of each giving up its spirit gladly. At the end of the day, I walk out of the gate to find Alfred waiting.
‘Let’s be walking home, then,’ he says grudgingly.
He keeps half a pace ahead of me, and looks back every now and then, as though expecting something, eyes sliding to my forearm. I wince with the knowledge of my body and how it healed; and how he witnessed it happening.
‘Alfred?’
‘What?’ he growls.
‘You are my friend,’ I mumble.
‘Yes, yes,’ he mutters. ‘So you keep saying. Give it a rest.’
He thrusts his eyes ahead, walking faster so that I have to quicken my step to keep up with him. I chew the inside of my mouth until I taste iron. I hold out the package I have been given as my day’s perk: I bear the prize of an entire head, brains and all, for the way I turned things round, the gaffer said.
‘I like brains,’ I say. ‘Brains are tasty.’
He breathes out, slowing down so that I do not have to rush so.
‘They are,’ he agrees, and we fall back into step.
The evening is chilly: he is wrapped up in his coat like a boatman, breath standing before him, humming some tune I do not recognise. I try not to interrupt him. It is difficult. At last I speak.
‘About today—’ I start.
‘It is of no consequence,’ he snaps, picking up the pace again.
‘But it was—’
‘It was nothing!’ he cries. ‘It was a difficult day. That bullock! God, how it wouldn’t die! Enough to make any man see things.’
‘But, Alfred, at the slaughter-house—’
‘I do not want to talk about it. In fact, I remember nothing.’
‘Alfred—’
‘I said, I do not want to talk about it. Get a move on,’ he grunts. ‘It is time to get some food inside us.’
‘Oh.’
My mouth fills with water.
‘That’s the job. Think of that. Nothing else.’
‘Yes. You are right.’
He breathes out heavily, clouding the air around his head.
‘Of course I am. No more rambling. I’m freezing. Let’s get back and get this lot cooked. Of a sudden I have a powerful hunger upon me. Think how good it’ll taste. Any meat you’ve had a hand in is a clean and cheerful dish.’
He slaps my shoulder. I know that the events of today have brought me close to grasping something, but it is already beginning to slip away. If he would talk to me, maybe I could fix my understanding. But he will not.
We walk in silence to our lodging house, a narrow squeeze of a building caught between the muscular shoulders of the tenements to each side. Ours is little different, except the bricks are perhaps grimier, the steps to our cellar a little more slippery with spilt beer and bacon fat, the straw in our palliasses a little older. But there are just as
many folk squeezed into the upper floors – three families to a room as I hear it. Their babies squall as lustily; their men and women argue just as cantankerously. It is our crowded ark, one of an armada of vessels crammed thick with humanity. I have no desire to move from my cellar, where everything is cosy and peaceful by comparison.
A woman from one of the upstairs rooms cooks the meat, and there is plenty to share. All the cellar-men fill up the kitchen, joining in the feast of my good fortune. One man brings beer, another, bread; for this is our way of a night. We eat until Alfred’s bad humour is quite taken away, and we are friendly once again. When we have finished, we return to the cellar and Alfred finds our pallets as sure as a seagull finds its nest from the hundreds on a cliff. I stretch out, cradled in the comfort of my companions patting their stomachs, smacking their lips and wiping gravy off their chins.
Alfred lolls on his elbow, picking at his buckled teeth with a straw. His rough sandy hair stands up in surprised tufts. He shifts his thin hips, cracks out a fart and laughs at the sound. His mouth is soft, for all his endeavours to hide it beneath a broad moustache.
‘You know what, Abel?’ he muses. ‘When we strike it rich, we’ll be out of here. Get a nicer room.’
‘Why would we want that? There are so many friends here.’
He scowls. ‘So I’m just one of many, am I?’
‘Not at all, Alfred. You are my dearest friend.’
‘Ah, get away with you.’
He is pleased, and I do not know why he demurs. It is true: I would not find my way through each day without his guidance. The thought is alarming, so I push it away. He clears his throat.
‘Time to reckon up, Abel.’ He rubs his palms together in pleasure. ‘Our little ritual.’
And I remember: every night before we turn in, I count out our wages.
‘This is for lodging,’ I say. ‘This for breakfast. And midday food. This for drink. And this left over.’
‘More drink?’ says Alfred.
‘Hmm. No. I need better boots.’
‘That will not buy you boots.’
‘Then I shall save each day until I have enough.’ I hand the money to him. ‘Will you keep it safe for me? I lose things, you know. I will forget where I have put it.’
Alfred laughs. ‘You’d forget your head!’
‘Yes, you’re a wooden-head, and no mistake!’ calls a man further down the row of sacks.
‘Old dozy!’ another man takes up the cry.
‘It is true,’ I say, for so it is.
‘Come on, lads,’ mutters Alfred.
‘Oh, we like him, Alfred; even if he is tuppence missing.’
‘You know there’s no harm in it.’
One of them punches my upper arm. ‘You’re our lucky charm.’
‘Not one of us has got hurt since you joined us.’
‘So we’re not going to chase you off, eh?’
‘Not our Abel.’
‘You’re a bit of a miracle, as I hear it.’
‘Fished you out of the mud, they did.’
‘You were mostly mud yourself.’
‘You should of been a goner. By all accounts.’
‘No-one as goes in the river comes out. Save you.’
‘Got a bit of luck you’d like to rub off on me?’
‘Come on, Abel, how about a good rub-down!’
They roar with laughter and I decide it is best to join in. I ache for them to say more. To paint in the blank picture of my forgetting.
‘You were in the papers and everything. Come on, Alf, show us.’
Alfred unbuttons the neck of his shirt to a scatter of playful whistles and draws out a much-folded sheet of newspaper. He lays it across his knee, smoothing out the folds carefully.
‘There you are,’ says one, leaning over Alfred’s shoulder and jabbing at the page.
‘Watch it, Pete. You’ll tear a bloody hole in it.’
‘Look, Abel. That’s you, that is.’
I squint at the small engraving: a man’s head; nose prominent, eyes dark and deep-set, a shadow of hair on the chin. Below, a cluster of uniformed men around a prone figure. They look very pleased with themselves. Mysterious Gentleman Rescued, reads the headline. Startling Discovery, of Particular Interest.
‘You can read it?’
I realise I have been speaking out loud.
‘Didn’t know you were educated.’
‘Neither did I,’ I say.
They laugh, and are easy with me again.
‘You can see why they thought you were that Italian.’
‘Go on, say something wop. You know you can.’
I do not have to think: the words fly easily to my tongue. ‘Piacere di conoscerla.’
‘He’s a living marvel!’
‘Yes, but not that posh one, as went missing.’
‘They found him with his throat cut.’
‘And his trousers down!’
‘So you’re common as muck, like the rest of us.’
‘Better off with us lot, eh, Abel?’
‘I am,’ I agree, and it pleases them greatly.
‘Why did you jump?’ says one, more thoughtfully.
‘I do not remember,’ I say. ‘Maybe I fell in.’
‘Lot of drunks fall in. No offence.’
‘I am not offended.’
‘You don’t seem like a drunk.’
‘Well, you weren’t in the pudding club. That’s why the ladies tend to take a late swim.’
They chuckle again, and after a while Alfred shoos them away.
‘Don’t chase them off.’
‘Only trying to help out a pal.’ He sulks. ‘Give you a bit of peace.’
‘I know. But I like to hear them talk. Truly, I don’t remember.’
‘Remember what?’
‘Any of it. Falling in the river. Being pulled out. Anything before this cellar.’
‘Now you’re pulling my leg.’
‘Alfred, I am not.’
‘Abel, I know you’re a wooden-head at the best of times …’ He stops. ‘You mean it?’
‘I want to remember. I can’t. I look into myself and find nothing. Each morning I wake up …’
He looks worried. I decide to stop. The look changes to thoughtful, and then he smiles.
‘It’ll come back,’ he declares, with a certainty I do not share. ‘Big shock, that’s what it is. Thing like that’d scare any man out of his wits. Make him imagine all kinds of nonsense.’
‘You are sure?’
‘Course I am. Wouldn’t lie to you, would I?’
‘No. You are my friend.’
‘You keep me straight, Abel, you do.’ He smiles, and grasps my shoulder.
‘Right, listen up!’ bawls one of the cellar-men. All heads turn. ‘I am chief bully for the evening, and I have a treat for us all.’
He flourishes his hand towards a woman at his elbow. There are a few whistles and rumbles of approval.
‘Some of you know her, some of you don’t. Not a tooth in her head. Eh, May?’
The woman grins, demonstrating the truth of his statement.
‘So, steady up, lads, finish your idle chatter,’ he says. ‘A gobble for sixpence; a helping hand for three.’
They gather into a knot and lay out their coins. She seems unconcerned by the number of acts they are negotiating, eyes brightening only when the take is firmly stowed in her bodice. She leads the first into the corner. The rest turn their backs and share a pipe, acting as though they cannot hear his shallowing gasps.
‘You’ve got a bit left over, haven’t you, Abel?’ says Alfred casually.
‘I have,’ I say.
He waves towards the female, who is already taking her next customer in hand. I consider her fingers working at my body in a similar fashion.
‘It’s there for the taking.’
‘No,’ I decide.
He smiles. ‘Me neither.’
Although I do not wish to participate, I find it difficult to take
my attention from the hunched bodies in the darkness. One of the men, satisfied now and lounging on his mattress, notices the direction of my gaze.
‘Come on, cold-fish,’ he shouts. ‘You can have one on me if you like.’ He tosses a few coins in the air. ‘It’ll make a man of you.’
He laughs, not unpleasantly, and those men who are not distracted by the woman turn to regard me.
‘You have got one, haven’t you?’
‘Maybe it’s a tiddler,’ chaffs one, waggling his little finger.
‘She doesn’t mind small fry, do you, May?’
The woman hoots, washing down her most recent bout with a mouthful of beer and scratching at her skirts.
‘Maybe it’s as lifeless as he is. That soaking in the river has made it as much good as a herring.’
‘The river’ll do that to a man. Turn his every part to mud.’
‘Don’t plague him so,’ says Alfred, and their eyes turn from me to him. He is examining the laces of his boots as though they are fascinating objects worthy of deep study.
‘Only our bit of fun, Alf.’
‘He doesn’t mind, do you, mate?’
‘No,’ I say truthfully.
One of them thumps me on the back.
‘See? We’re only jesting.’
‘You’re all right, Abel, even if you can’t get it up. Anytime you change your mind, though, first one’s on us. Right, lads?’
They murmur assent, raising their smokes and cups in a toast. Then, finished with their companionable teasing, they settle to the more stimulating activities of the evening. After some time, the woman completes her labours and departs.
It occurs to me that I have heard taunts like theirs before, and I scrabble in my head for when it might have been. Last night? Last year? The harder I search, the more elusive the answer. I close my eyes, and it comes to me: I stand encircled, hands bound. My mind stirs unpleasantly and I shake my head. Perhaps I do not want to remember, after all. But now I have called them up, they will not leave me.
Dead fish.
Dead man.
Corpse-kisser.
I have heard every name before and they do not sting. My mouth fills with bile. I blink, and am back in the cellar. Alfred is peering at me closely.
‘You all right, Abel? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’
‘I am well,’ I lie.
‘They don’t mean anything by it,’ he says, and pats my knee.
The Palace of Curiosities Page 4