The Anatomist's Dream

by Clio Gray

  ‘We ain’t really going to do it Chief, are we?’

  It was the thin man, the quiet man, the man who so far hadn’t spoken a word. Now he’d lifted his head Philbert could see his cheeks were streaked with tears, despite his previous strained laughter. Ackersmann gave no answer and instead placed his hands upon Philbert’s shoulders, forcing the boy to look upwards, despite the large brim of the overlarge hat.

  ‘I don’t know how much you know of what’s going on,’ he said, as much to the skinny man as to the boy he was addressing. ‘But all those men they pulled from the Westphal Club last night? We’ve got to shoot them, see? Every last one of them they said. They beat all sorts of names and shite out of them last night and then scarpered with the best of them. And now we’ve got to line the other poor buggers up against the wall and shoot them down like dogs. And I know most of these men, grew up with them.’ Ackersmann groaned and shook his head, but did not release Philbert from his grip, holding onto the strange boy with his huge hat as if somehow the lad could save them from what they had to do. Silence fell on them, making the skinny man’s snivelling all the more unnerving, and then they heard Böllduch’s slurred shouting out in the yard.

  ‘Kwert!’ he was yelling. ‘The man Kwert! Come ’ere! Yes, you! Get ’ere, and get ’ere right now!’

  ‘Grew up with nearly all of them,’ whispered Ackersmann, at last releasing Philbert, one hand lifting his Schupo’s cap and brushing at his hair. ‘My wife’s cousin’s out there . . .’

  Böllduch came back and with him was Kwert. He was stooped and stained, raising a sad smile as he fixed his eyes on Philbert, revealing gaps where several of his front teeth were missing.

  ‘Little Maus,’ Kwert said, before Schupo Ackersmann cut him off.

  ‘Prisoner Kwert,’ said Ackersmann, trying to sound stern, though plainly feeling otherwise. ‘This child has brought you food and drink. You can take it out to the yard with you, eat it yourself or share it, it’s up to you. But you need to say goodbye to the boy now, for you won’t see him again.’

  Kwert and Ackersmann looked at one another for a few moments, understood, tore away, and then Kwert bent down on one knee and Philbert ran to him, burying his face – as far as his hat would allow – in Kwert’s red habit, understanding there would be no form-filling, no swift return to The Anchorage, that this was the end of Kwert and Ullendorf’s road.

  ‘If you don’t mind, Herr Kwert,’ Schupo Ackersmann spoke gently, ‘we’ll leave you the vittals but we’ll take the wine. We’re not easy with any of this, I want you to know that. God knows we don’t want to do this, but if we don’t then someone else will – and we’ll try and do it quick.’

  Kwert hugged Philbert to him, hugged him hard, hugged him long, cleaving to this last human contact, knocking away Philbert’s hat. Kwert understanding: the Westphal Club routed by soldiers of unknown fiefdoms, some of its leaders killed, others taken away. Left behind were all the rest: the locals, the hangers-on, folk in the wrong place at the wrong time, just like Kwert himself. And these poor Schupos given the order to shoot the lot of them dead. Kwert’s life of Hesychastic meditation was stripped back to the bone but he would not be found wanting, nor would he be bowed.

  ‘Bless you, Philbert,’ Kwert whispered and kissed the boy’s head, all the while looking at Ackersmann, hoping he would at the very least let the boy go free. Ackersmann nodded, and closed his eyes, opened them again.

  ‘Right lads,’ he said. ‘A couple of swallows of the boy’s wine and we’ll need to get ready.’

  Kwert released Philbert and stood back a pace, his hands on Philbert’s shoulders.

  ‘Thank you for bringing me the food, Philbert,’ he said, ­putting one palm to Philbert’s cheek, trying to avoid the huge hat Philbert was ramming back on his head which, God forgive him, he couldn’t help but find comical even in these circumstances. Ackersmann saw the gesture and took his moment, took up the wine bottle from the table and passed it to Böllduch, his intention being for them each to take a swallow and then pass it round to Kwert for his last hurrah. But Böllduch was greedy, needed steeling for the awful task ahead, his skinny, snivelling companion equally in need of fortification, and when the bottle came to Ackersmann there was not much left, but what there was he drank down to the dregs, desperate to prolong the moment. Kwert, meanwhile, took the bread and ham and was heading back to the prison yard when the entirely unexpected happened. The Schupos’ legs began to kick, their throats drew tight, skin beginning to blotch beneath their itchy uniforms; they retched and coughed, salivated and spat like angry cats. Kwert turned back abruptly, staring wildly at the Schupos writhing and squirming on the floor, the skinny one already dead, warm piss seeping through his trousers, hands wet and loose, splayed out beside him.

  ‘My God, my God!’ Kwert was aghast, elated, terrified. ‘What did you do, Little Maus? What did you do?’

  Philbert looked around bewildered, could give no explanation.

  ‘My God, my God!’ Kwert whispered again as he picked up the bottle Ackermann had been holding in his hand only moments before. He caught the smell at once, though it was well hidden by the deep, dark wine. ‘But it’s potassium cyanide! You gave them potassium cyanide!’

  Kwert’s shock rendered him at once utterly calm on the outside, but writhing inside like a mass of worms. He shook himself once, twice, threw off his stupor, clothed himself in a quick prayer, then dashed quick as he was able to the prison yard door and undid the heavy bolts, turned the key that was still in its lock, yelling and gesturing to the inmates as he flung the door wide. Then he grabbed Philbert by the hand and ran back through the lobby, past the Schupos twitching on the floor, crossing himself briefly as he did so, then it was out the door and down the steps and out across the plaza, running like a hare with a pack of hounds on its tail.

  21

  The Grey Man and the Seamstress

  Kwert found the running hard, every bone cracking and creaking within him, his two broken ribs a torment; and to make it worse he kept tripping on his robe where the blood had dried it stiff. He had to stop. He was panting hard, leaning on the dog-­spattered lamp post. Philbert pulled at his sleeve to try to move him on, but Kwert was coughing as if his lungs were filled with tar and shook his head, unable to speak. But luck was on their side as Philbert, looking desperately around him, recognised the corner of a street twenty yards down and tightened his grip on Kwert, pulling him forward.

  The shop door opened with a jangle, the small bell vibrating on its spring, the Turkish girl looking up from the pile of sewing on her knee, standing up quickly, letting it all fall to the floor.

  ‘Allah qorusun! May God protect us!’ she exclaimed, her hand going briefly to her throat as she struggled for the right words. ‘What is this? What goes on . . . who are . . . ah, yes, I know you,’ she pointed an accusing silver-thimbled finger at Philbert as his hat parted company from his head as they tumbled through the doorway. ‘What you do back here again? Not find Doctor?’

  Kwert tried to straighten up, to focus, draw in air, but the movement sent him into another spasm of coughing.

  ‘We’ve nowhere else to go,’ Philbert said, more loudly than he’d meant to. ‘We have to find the Turk . . .’

  The girl was moving forward, pushing Kwert onto a chair, fearing he was about to fall. A few seconds after this kindness he managed to hold onto enough breath to speak: short, broken sentences, spat out like stab wounds in the air.

  ‘Apologies, Fraülein . . . there’s trouble . . . problems with . . . soldiers . . . with police. Please. If you know – how do you know? But if you know him . . . we must . . . speak with the Turk . . . we beg you.’

  His voice was a rattle, rising weakly between the wheezes so she had to stoop to hear him. She looked from the man to the boy and back again, taking her time, measuring the odds, weighing up the balance. Then she decided.

  ‘I
am Kadia Odev. Eröglu Abdal Bey is my friend’s cousin’s cousin. I will help. What can I do?’

  ‘A thousand thanks, Fraülein Odev,’ croaked Kwert. ‘A thousand thanks . . . a glass of water . . . please . . .’

  Kadia Odev disappeared through a beaded curtain and they could hear liquid glugging into a jug. Behind them the door tinkled again and, as Kadia came back through the curtain, a man appeared through the door. He was small and grey – ­whiskers, boots, felt hat, jerkin, all were grey, even his skin had the quality of smoke in shadow. They all froze as in a tableau: Kwert with his hand at his throat, Kadia grasping the jug and pewter goblet so tightly her knucklebones were visible through her skin, Philbert clutching his green hat like a grassy hummock to his chest. The newcomer took in the scene at a glance, nodded a brief bow towards Kadia, and broke the silence.

  ‘I am Fatzke,’ he said, his voice loud in the confines of the small shop, ‘a friend of Ullendorf’s.’

  Kwert let go his air and whispered, ‘Ullendorf is dead.’ A small tear wound down the darkening bruises of his face.

  Fatzke sighed. ‘So it’s true then.’ He looked hard at his boots.

  ‘It’s true,’ Kwert said, his head hanging. No one spoke for a moment. Kadia came forward, gave Kwert the goblet of water. He sucked at it slowly, wincing as the cold air hit the empty spaces in his gums, choking as the liquid squeezed its way down his tight throat.

  ‘I don’t really understand what happened . . .’ Kwert said, looking up at Fatzke, who stood with his head to one side like a chicken in a dirt-yard.

  ‘No,’ he said, ‘I don’t suppose you do. And you’re not alone.’ He moved his head to the other side. ‘It’s that club. The Westphal. The soldiers have been keeping an eye on it. Political dissidents, crowd stirrers, traitors, that kind of thing.’

  Kwert looked at the floor, his brow a furrowed field, puzzlement lessening.

  ‘Like that Zwinger . . . whoever,’ he mumbled, ‘like him.’

  Fatzke nodded. ‘Exactly like him.’ Kadia poured more water, Fatzke pushing a cat away from him with the toe of his boot. ‘But last night the big fish were there. Von Ebner, to be more specific. Away from his home ground. Away from the support he’s grown used to. Perfect time to nab him, I would suppose, if I’d been a soldier and on his trail for months.’

  Nobody responded. Fatzke crossed in front of Kwert and leant against the shop counter. Kadia collected up her sewing, having understood very little of the conversation, more ­interested in saving the pins that had spilled from her little velvet pincushion.

  ‘Shame to get you all mixed up in it,’ Fatzke added.

  Kwert held out his hand a moment, a hand caked with dried blood. ‘Please sir, if you’re a friend of Ullendorf, then help us. We must get out,’ he spoke slowly, watery lines waving down his dirty chin, ‘especially the boy. They’ll think he did it ­deliberately, with the wine I mean.’

  Unexpectedly Fatzke laughed, the short sharp sound of a ­terrier coming at a rat.

  ‘Aha!’ he said, looking delighted. ‘Well I can tell you that Schupo Ackersmann was alive a few minutes ago, though not the other two. Dead as last years doings they are, and no doubt about that.’

  He looked intently at Kwert then before going on.

  ‘Schupo Ackersmann is a bit hazy on the details, but he remembers you. “The Man in Red” is what he said and I can see what he meant. He’s been babbling away like a fountain about the Last Supper, and there was talk of angels. They took him away after that.’

  Kwert nodded his head sadly. ‘They didn’t deserve to die. What he was told to do to us? To the prisoners? He didn’t like it. Oh God,’ Kwert closed his eyes, shook his head. ‘What are they going to do now?’

  Fatzke cleared his throat. ‘First things first. It won’t take them long to trail a man in a red robe wandering through the streets, not once they get their act together. There’s talk of calling the soldiers back into the town, and nobody is keen on that, not even Ackersmann, and certainly not me.’ Fatzke shook himself and rubbed his hands. ‘Time to get you away,’ he said. ‘Kadia here is a seamstress. She can give you something to cover yourself up or you’ll be spotted quicker than a cat can steal your milk.’

  ‘And you?’ Kwert’s words were muffled as Kadia caught the drift and began to pull his dirty red robe over his head, looking around for something she could use to replace it. ‘How did you know we were here?’

  ‘Aha! There you have it!’ said the grey man. ‘I’ve a nose for things going on. I’ve been following the boy since early doors. Heard about the trouble at the Westphal – who hasn’t? – and went up to see Heinrich. He’s always been good to me, as has Helge. But no one was there, except for that infernal widow from next door snooping around. Can’t stand the woman. Always trying to entice me in. Would slap a leg iron on me soon as I’d hung up my hat! She’s an evil woman and no mistake. So I slips round the back of the house into the bushes to see what I can see. Thought Heinrich might have got away or Helge might need some help,’ he hoisted his thin grey behind onto the counter, ignoring Kadia’s tuts as he drummed his little felt heels against the boards. ‘That’s my stock in trade, see. I help. Help people when they’re sick, help ’em if they’ve got too many rats, or too many cats come to that; help in all sorts of ways, I do. And here I am helping you.’ He took off his hat and swung it through the air. ‘Saw the boy arrive and recognised him as one of Ullendorf’s little . . . subjects. Saw him feed Helge’s cats, picking up this and that, followed him down to the gaol. Saw him go in, and what do you know? A short while later I hears noises – people rustling in the yard, talking, jostling – it’s unusual, I can tell you. Prisoners are usually such a quiet bunch. And then you all came running out the front. Well! I sees you heading out first and I sees the boy, so here I am.’

  He chuckled, the noise of an un-greased treddle, two pink spots appearing on his grey cheeks as he enjoyed the telling of his tale. He spat on his hand and brushed it over his trousers, might’ve been any man in the morning.

  ‘Anywise, news is spreading slowly, no one wanting out. But when I sees you come here? Well. I knows the Turk and I likes a few drinks with old Zacharias, and Kadia here’s an honest girl, despite being unhealthy fond of cats.’

  Kadia snapped her cotton briskly, clicking her thimbled ­fingers. All the while Fatzke had been talking her needle had been shuttling in and out of a length of material, adapting some garment to the needs of Kwert’s disguise. Fatzke talked easily, sitting on the counter, winding his grey-felt ankles the one around the other, dottling his pipe but not lighting it.

  ‘And I thinks to meself as I follows you,’ he went on, ‘now then, a pretty pickle these two are in – a stranger in a red robe and a boy with a head like a boot – no offence, lad, and the hat’s a nice touch – but how far are you going to get? The Polizei Reserves have already been sent for, and once they’ve figured out one end of a musket from the other, they’ll be on your heels. You don’t exactly blend into the background. Be easy as pulling a thread and unravelling a knitted jerkin. They’ll get here and soon, so here’s what you’ve to do.’

  Ten minutes later they were creeping out the back of the shop, Kwert with a new habit of muted brown, a cowl about his head to hide the bruises, and a stick to make his walking easier. Philbert was still in Ullendorf’s hat, though Kadia had snipped a good length off the brim and blacked it with dye. He’d added to his knapsack the food and canteen Kadia had prepared for them, and in his head was the map of directions from Fatzke.

  ‘When they come here looking for you, which they will,’ he said, just before they left, ‘they’ll find me and Kadia passing the time of day, and we’ll both swear you came in on the off chance and we sent you packing off some other way. They’ll believe old Fatzke – I’ve nothing to hide. They all knows me. I’ve sold them all sorts in the past and they’ll need me to sell them all sorts in the futu
re. And Kadia – well, she’s just a seamstress and a shop minder, what would she know? She’ll be busy sewing me a patch on my jerkin and I’ll be advising her on how to poison cats. Ouch!’

  Kadia withdrew her needle and waved her visitors goodbye. Philbert looked back and saw them: the small grey man – a revolutionary in his own way – and the girl who had been helped and so helped others when they needed it. A bold ­philosophy, one Philbert was grateful for and tried to adhere to. Like engenders like: be kind and others will reciprocate. Not infallible, of course, for nothing is. But if you’ve ever been caught in a trap not of your own making and someone goes out of their way to let you out of it, then the onus is on you to lift the trap from someone else, if and when you’re able.

  22

  The Crypts of Leiberkuhn

  The rain came down again, which was good, meaning they could draw their collars tight, hats down, scuttle along like everyone else trying to get where they’re going without getting too wet. They threaded their way through the narrow streets of Lengerrborn, Kwert going a little easier since Kadia had strapped his chest with a tight band of cloth to keep his ribs from moving too much. Still, they grated every now and then and they had to stop so that Kwert could catch his breath, overhearing the gossip going the rounds.

  ‘Did you hear about what happened at the gaol? They say a band of men in red came breaking in, slaughtering the Schupos and cutting their throats from ear to ear . . .’