SO THIS IS WHAT it means to know a woman. This ragged wanting. My hands mute implements, raw and clotting, my desire more like a pain that cannot be salved. Outside the summer days are long, the city quarrelsome and bright.
Perhaps it would be better were we busier, but with the heat there is little for us to do. The bodies will not keep, and we may not teach, our days lost in idleness. I am sure Robert guesses much, of the cause of my distraction and my absences, of my estrangement from Charles. On those evenings when I may not be with her, he walks with me through the dusty streets.
As the weeks slip by I go to her as often as I may. She has her life, and I have mine, but since the night of Amy’s death something has changed in me. Though I go about my work I no longer care for this, for any of it. When we are apart I wish myself in her company, when we are together I cannot concentrate. And always I wish only to leave all this behind, to be away from it. Always this desire for her being, opening unanswered inside of me: no matter how I try I cannot cross whatever gulf it is that lies between the two of us, cannot translate myself into that heat.
Beneath my pillow I can feel the flat of the bottle that I filled in the dispensary this afternoon, its shape pressing hard against me. I will not drink tonight, I tell myself, though this is a lie, and turning over in the bed I reach for it, the glass cool against my hungry hand.
AT THE DOOR Mary shakes her head. ‘No,’ she says. ‘Not now.’ From the window overhead there comes a man’s voice, low and teasing, then Arabella’s, raised in laughter, the sound spilling into the evening air. Mary does not move, her body blocking my way.
‘Later,’ she says, ‘come later.’
The house is quiet when I return, the windows open to the summer air. Mr Poll and Charles are gone for the day. But as I enter the kitchen I hear the voice of Mr Tyne.
‘Back from your whore already?’
Startled, I see him standing in the door to Mrs Gunn’s room.
‘What?’ he asks, coming closer. ‘You did not know that is what she is?’
‘Do not use that word,’ I say, but he only laughs. Behind him I see Mrs Gunn appear.
‘Whore,’ he says, ‘whore,’ and perhaps he might say it again, but before he can I hurl myself towards him, grasping his collar so we crash into the wall and door. We land heavily but if he is hurt he does not show it. Instead he laughs, his pockmarked face grinning – and so I swing him round and away, sending him stumbling through the chairs onto the floor. On the table the lamp spills sideways, falling to the ground with a crash of breaking glass. Without thinking I lunge at him again, meaning to strike him once more, but I lose my footing and in a moment I am on my back and he is up, one hand about my neck, the other thrust inside his coat. Seeing he means to draw his knife I kick out, trying to throw him off. His head is bleeding, dripping down from a cut above his eye.
‘I said once I would kill you,’ he says. ‘It is a promise I mean to keep.’
The knife is out, held close to his body and low so it might strike upwards, and hard. Desperately I grab at his arm, staying it just above my belly, yet the angle is awkward, and he has the advantage. His face is close to mine, his hard little eyes boring into me, their whites all but invisible. Then suddenly Robert is behind him, yanking him away from me.
‘What is the meaning of this?’ he demands. Mr Tyne leans back against the wall, one hand raised to his head, the knife still clasped in the other. He is panting, his breath coming in ragged gasps. Rubbing my neck I begin to lift myself to my feet, watching Mr Tyne. I cannot believe he will let it end here, but he does not move.
‘Well?’ Robert demands.
I shake my head. ‘Nothing,’ I say. ‘It was nothing.’
Behind me Mrs Gunn steps forward. ‘It was him,’ she says, pointing at me. ‘He struck first.’
Robert closes his eyes, his breath seeming to catch. Then, with an expression of resignation, he turns to me.
‘Is this true, Gabriel?’ he asks. ‘Did you start this?’
For a moment I think to shake my head, but I cannot, and so I simply say, ‘I did.’
Robert nods, his thin face seeming stricken by some awful certainty.
‘You know I must report this.’
‘I do,’ I reply.
For a long moment he stands, staring at me, then at last he turns away.
‘Clean this up,’ he says, moving away to the stairs. Mr Tyne straightens, a triumphant grin upon his face.
‘Where are your airs now, boy?’ In my chest I feel my breath move hotly – but before I can speak Robert turns on him.
‘Silence!’ As he speaks he descends once more, his eyes fixed on Mr Tyne and Mrs Gunn.
‘Gabriel is the apprentice of your master, man, and whatever tomorrow brings, in the meantime you shall treat him with the respect that he deserves.’
Mr Tyne begins to reply, but Robert cuts him off. ‘Do not think I am ignorant of your part in this,’ he says, advancing on him until they stand face to face. For a long moment Mr Tyne does not move, then, quite suddenly, he turns, and with a backward glance that drips with hatred vanishes up the stairs and away.
Once he has gone Robert turns to Mrs Gunn.
‘You would do well to remember what you heard me say,’ he says firmly, but without anger. ‘Mr Tyne is not master of this house, whatever he believes.’
Mrs Gunn hesitates, then she nods. ‘Yes, sir,’ she says quietly. At this Robert softens.
‘You have been a good friend to me these last six years, Mrs Gunn,’ he says. ‘I shall miss you when I go.’
Mrs Gunn looks down, a blush colouring her scrubbed cheeks.
‘I hope you will be the same to Mr Swift once I am gone.’
Looking up she glances first at Robert, then at me, then back to Robert. She is a kind woman, if a foolish one, but she is caught, and we both see that.
‘Yes, sir,’ she says.
I do not follow Robert up the stairs at once. Instead I linger in the kitchen, intending to help Mrs Gunn repair the dam-age. Yet as I lift a chair she takes it from me and shakes her head. Understanding, I relinquish my grasp.
Upstairs Robert’s door is open, and he sits upon the sill by the window. Outside the city is alive with light.
‘Thank you,’ I say.
Robert shakes his head. ‘No,’ he says. ‘My temper will only have made things worse. Tyne is the worst sort of man.’
Robert looks out at the lights once more.
‘This was his purpose, you know. Ever since that night with the child.’
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘I do.’ Briefly, I consider. ‘I will be dismissed, will I not?’
‘Most probably.’
‘I am sorry,’ I say.
‘So am I.’
‘You are to go away?’ I ask. Turning back to his desk he takes up a folded sheet.
‘It is confirmed today,’ he says. ‘I leave in a month for St Lucia, a practice in Castries.’
Though the news is not a surprise, it strikes me hard, for it is only now that I realise how keenly I shall feel his loss.
‘Perhaps you could come with me,’ Robert says, holding his hand out. ‘Some accommodation might be made between your guardian and Mr Poll and me. You could train with me, or take some work.’
Robert’s thin face is set in a look of such affection I am ashamed he should see so much in me. But then I shake my head.
‘No,’ I say, ‘that life is not for me.’
In my room I lean back against the wall and stare up at the cracked ceiling I have gazed at so many times before. The narrow bed is hard, its familiar smell of dust and sleep rising faintly. If I close my eyes I can imagine her face, feel her touch. I feel weak. Were I to lift my hand and hold it still, it would tremble: his purpose was to wound and indeed Mr Tyne has touched something I must fight to deny – the way she gives herself to other men, and what that means. Through the wall I hear Robert in his room: with him gone there will be nothing left to keep me here. And all at once I
want it to be done, to be away from here, from all of this.
IT IS LATE the next day before Mr Poll arrives, the afternoon already done. Seated in the kitchen, I hear his carriage outside, muffled voices in the hall above. Soon enough Robert is on the kitchen stairs.
Mr Poll is in his study, Mr Tyne standing to one side. Where he has been since last night I do not know, but seeing now the swelling of his cut and blackened eye, the bruises on his cheek and neck, I realise I am no longer afraid of him, of any of this. Mr Poll stands watching as I take in those injuries, my gaze clear and cold, then with a glance he directs Robert to close the door.
‘What is the meaning of this?’
Before Mr Tyne can answer I speak, my voice coming almost proudly. ‘It was my doing.’
‘You struck him? To what purpose?’
‘Because he is a villain.’
‘What kind of an answer is that?’ snaps Mr Poll. Then, recovering himself, he turns to Robert.
‘What do you know of this? Who struck the first blow?’
‘I was not present, sir,’ Robert says.
‘It was I,’ I say, before Robert may say any more.
Mr Poll looks at me, then back at Robert.
‘Well?’
Robert looks down. ‘I have the word of Mrs Gunn that the first blow was Gabriel’s.’
Mr Poll nods. Then he turns to Mr Tyne.
‘And you? What have you to say to this?’
‘The boy speaks the truth,’ Mr Tyne replies. ‘He attacked me.’
‘And you did nothing to provoke it?’
Mr Tyne only smiles, his eyes meeting mine for a moment.
‘Fetch Charles,’ says Mr Poll. ‘This matter is his concern as well.’
It is almost an hour before Charles arrives, summoned by Robert from somewhere or other. Directed to wait in the library I hear him come in and speak with Mr Poll for a time. Then Robert appears at the door and summons me to join them. This time Mr Tyne is not present, but in truth it would not matter if he was, for the sight of Charles standing with my master revives in me my desire for this thing to be done. What Charles thinks I do not know, for he does not speak, and so it is Mr Poll who begins.
‘I will ask you again,’ he says, ‘is there some cause for this behaviour, some reason you can give for it?’
I shake my head, looking not at Mr Poll but at Charles.
‘Think carefully,’ says Mr Poll. ‘I know there has been ill feeling between you and Tyne for some time, and I do not doubt that you were provoked.’
‘Please, Gabriel,’ Robert says, but I only shake my head.
‘The first blow was mine,’ I say, ‘that is all there is to be said of it.’
‘Then you give me no choice, you understand that?’ asks Mr Poll.
‘I do,’ I say. There is quiet then, Mr Poll standing silently.
‘Then go,’ he says at last, ‘you are dismissed.’ As he speaks he shakes his head, the expression on his face is one of sadness, not of anger, and all at once I feel the blood hot in my face, and so I turn away, unable to remain.
In my room I pack my things, a process quickly done, and gladly, for my hands tremble as I work, though whether from rage or shame I do not know. As I work Robert watches me from the door, unspeaking.
‘Where will you go?’ he asks when I am done, and I shrug.
‘I will find a room,’ I say.
‘Have you money?’
‘A little,’ I reply. He nods, his eyes regarding me steadily, then extending his arms he draws me to himself.
‘God keep you, Gabriel,’ he says, ‘God keep you.’
Outside in the street the air is warm, the day not quite yet done, and to the west the sky burns red. In the air above, the swallows shoot and wheel, their small bodies describing arcs against the fading sky as they chase their prey. Before his shop, Clark’s boy sweeps the pavement, next door the maid chatters to the waterman; all about the life of the street continues as it ever does, it is only me that has changed. For these moments I hesitate, not knowing which way to turn. In the hall behind me Mrs Gunn stands with Robert, Charles beside them and so, not wanting to linger, I turn left, my feet following themselves into the city’s roil.
I WAKE TO EVENING’S fading light, the air about me close and foul. Through the thin partition of the wall beside me comes the sound of coughing, a noise both wet and horrible that continues on and on. At first I am unsure of where I am, or when, and for a brief moment I fancy I may have slept only a heartbeat or two, slipping in the shallow, skittering sleep of the opium, that the light outside might be that of the dawn, but even as I do I know that it is not, and that the day is gone, and it is dusk.
Sitting up I rub my hands against my face. My head is thick, and some sense of loss weighs down on me, a regret for which there seems no cause. With one hand I find a match upon the table by the bed, and striking it I light a candle stub, the room flickering into light as it flares and takes.
Rising I fumble with my flies, watching the stream of my urine drum into the pot. It is dark and pungent, its stink rising hotly. Then I reach for my coat upon the chair, only to remember my watch is gone, pawned yesterday. From downstairs comes my landlord Scarpi’s voice raised in anger at his wife. Outside, people will be gathering, talking and laughing as they go about the business of the last hours of the day. Lifting my eyes to the window I picture them, feeling their motion somewhere inside of me. I would be out there, I think, amongst their busy movement, and I reach again for my coat and hurry out the door and down the stairs into the street.
Six weeks have passed since I left my master’s house. That night I walked without direction, feeling a lightness at being free again. On every side the streets teemed with life and noise, the ceaseless press of the city’s motion, and yet I barely noticed. Only when I came to Ludgate Hill, the great bulk of St Paul’s afire against the fading sky, did I falter, realising I did not know where it was I went, the implications of what I had done suddenly pressing down on me.
Not knowing what else to do I turned aside, seeking out a tavern or eating place where I might sit awhile; finding one, I took a place before the window, staring out through the smoky glass into the street. I ordered wine, and at the owner’s insistence bread and soup, though I had little appetite.
The food was quickly brought. In my mouth the bread was dry and stale, though in truth I barely tasted it. Once and then again I drew out my purse and counted the coins within. It was not much, enough for a week or two, no more. Perhaps I might find work, I thought, though I recoiled, so horrible was the idea of losing my days as some schoolteacher or counting clerk. And so I sat, staring at the street, my mind lost in the implications of what had been, what was, and what would be, each becoming tangled in the others.
At last I tried to eat the soup, but it was long cold, the greying meat repulsive in my mouth. Pushing it aside, I sought out the owner. For a few shillings he led me to a room, and casting off my boots and jacket I stretched myself upon the bed. The mattress was hard, rank with the smell of mildew and the other bodies that had lain upon it; through the window from the street below the sound of the passing revellers rose, seeming to fill the space as if they cried and shouted in the room itself.
In time I heard the clocks ring out two o’clock, then three. Somewhere not far away musicians played, men’s voices raised in song. Yet within me was only space, huge and unfillable. Finally I rose, and opening my bag brought out the flask of opium I had hidden there. Even then I felt it, that awful mingling of desire and revulsion, as if my hand were guided not by my will but by something stronger. I like to think I hesitated, seated there, that I might have set it aside – but I did not, and so instead I raised the bottle to my lips and drank, feeling myself sink back into its embrace.
IN THE STREET the lamps are lit, setting light upon the faces of the passing crowd. Though the night is cool the air is clear, and in the windows and doorways the people of the district can be seen. Here a bookbinder bent
at his work, there a shopkeeper in conference, in other houses families and children. My pace quickens as I pass them by, grateful to be moving free. Amongst the crowd I am anonymous, another face to be glanced at and easily forgot, and though there is something exhilarating in this, so too it frightens me, the restlessness it provokes. All about me so many people, passing close and past and past again, and me untethered in their midst.
On the Strand I hurry past the doorways one by one, watching for somewhere that I might stop. Reaching into my coat I count my coins between my fingers. Not much perhaps, but enough. I have discovered that the city offers many pleasures for those who would sample them, easy companionships of dice and drink.
Finally I stop outside a place I am familiar with. Inside the fire is lit, the room already thick with tobacco smoke. Taking a seat I look about, seeing faces that I know and others I do not. At a lift of my hand, the serving girl brings brandy. She smiles as she places it in front of me, and I smile back: she is a pretty thing, and popular, and she has a weakness for me which is flattering. Lifting the brandy to my lips I take a sip, feeling its warmth down my throat and neck. Another sip and then another one, and finally my restlessness begins to ease. I scratch my neck; I have a rash there these last two weeks, an angry thing which comes and goes, and against the collar of my shirt it bothers me.
In Covent Garden, Arabella will be on the stage. Shakespeare perhaps, or Sheridan, the words somehow irrelevant. In the stalls and boxes they will be listening, their eyes transfixed, lost to whatever illusion is woven on the stage. Every night she is thus, her body bound into its costumes by the dressing girls, her face painted for the stage.
There was a time when it seemed marvellous, when I would go and watch her there and find happiness, but in these last weeks I can hardly bear to see the way she surrenders herself to the part. Last night I waited for her, seated in her dressing room. My watch just pawned, I had money in my pocket, money I was determined would be kept. She came from the stage, hard with it, and somehow not herself. All I wanted was to touch her face, to feel her close against me once again. But as she entered I saw she was still half in her part, her gestures somehow false, and so I contrived an argument, wanting to see her weep, to know the power over her that this would give. But that power when it came was hollow, and cheap.
The Resurrectionist Page 12