As a boy, whenever my mother was felled with a headache, I had raced more than once to Doctor Uriah Slinque’s home and office in Bayswater. He had taken a liking to me, for reasons I cannot explain, and I remember him extending an invitation to me to visit his laboratory after my mother’s funeral. And so it was that, on the afternoon of the saddest day of my young life, I had arrived on his doorstep. He ushered me up three flights of stairs to his surgery, where I marveled at his display of jarred specimens as he explained to me the invaluable contribution of the vivisectionist to science.
He then led me to a table situated under an enormous skylight and near a staircase leading to the roof. There he showed me a frog lying on its back and pinned to a surface of thick black wax. The creature was anesthetized and would feel no pain, he told me as he carefully sliced open the poor thing throat to belly and splayed wide its skin, revealing among brightly colored organs a tiny beating heart. I was sickened and fascinated at the same time. Slinque rested his hand on the back of my neck, and gently massaged as he pointed out stomach, lungs, liver. I couldn’t help but imagine myself pinned and splayed as he happily poked and prodded the amphibian’s insides. He afterward gave me one of his lemony sweets to suck as I wandered home.
I had never seen Slinque’s office from above, of course, but I quickly spotted the enormous skylight and swooped down, Daisy in arm, to land on the gently sloping roof beside it. Peering through the skylight in the early dawn, I could see the surgery much as I remembered it, so I knew at once that Slinque was still in residence. I found the trapdoor on the roof leading to the surgery staircase below. Daisy was too large now for me to pocket, so I laid her carefully on the angled surface, where she scrambled with her sharp claws to keep from falling. I tugged and kicked with all my might at the wooden door. The lock soon gave way, and I descended, awkwardly carrying an extremely heavy reptile under one arm and my father’s valise under the other, to the abattoir.
I lit the gas lamps around the room and paused to catch my breath. The jarred specimens remained, but no longer fascinated me. The organs and fetal anomalies that they held (all, I supposed wrongly, belonging to the lower forms of animal life) now only disgusted me.
I made no attempt at stealth. Sure enough, I soon heard footsteps arriving from the floor below. As he climbed the stairs and came into view, wearing nightshirt and cap, he raised a pistol and aimed it at my breast.
Slinque remained remarkably unchanged despite the passage of Time; in fact the anesthesia and formaldehyde that he used in his practice had given a sheen of preservation to his face, so that he resembled, in the gaslit dawn, something that might be found suspended in one of his specimen jars. I remembered him as being a tall man, but my height now matched his. He cocked the gun and said to me, “You’re a dead man.”
“Doctor Slinque,” I said as I raised my arms, “you remember me. My mother was Daisy Cook. I’m her son, James. We vivisected a frog together many years ago.”
This, of course, gave him pause. He peered at me for a moment, then with his free hand reached into a breast pocket and removed a pair of glasses, which he proceeded to don. He peered at me again. “James Cook?” he said, reaching back into the past.
“Yes. My grandfather hired you to minister to my mother. He sends you his regards. Forgive my unusual entrance, but I did not wish to be seen on the streets of London with my friend.” I nodded to the bottom of the trapdoor stairs, and Slinque’s gaze followed. He started and nearly dropped the gun.
“My God,” he whispered. Daisy opened her mouth and hissed at him. He backed up a step and almost tumbled down the stairs behind him.
She continued, rather loudly, to tick.
“I mean you no harm,” I continued, “I simply have a few questions I’d like answered.”
“James Cook?” he repeated, as if he had thought me long dead and yet here I was, returned from the grave.
“Please, if you wouldn’t mind,” I said, nodding to the pistol. He looked at it as if he had forgotten that he carried it. He now lowered it so that it pointed at the floor.
“Do you have any tea or coffee?” I asked. “I’d love something to take off the morning chill.”
* * *
We sat in two armchairs in the consulting area of his surgery. I sipped a delectable cup of Black Dragon while Daisy lay curled at my feet like a contented puppy. He too held a cup of tea in his lap, but whenever he raised the cup to his lips, his hand shook so that more tea was spilled than was drunk. His nightshirt was quite wet with Oolong, but he took no notice of it. The Bunsen burner on which he had heated the water still burned behind him, its blue flame adding an eerie shade to the proceedings.
“My mother,” I said, initiating the discussion.
“Daisy, yes. Lovely woman. I remember her fondly.”
“Grandfather said you were a friend of my father’s.”
“We were at Eton together, and later shared brotherhood in a Masonic lodge. Jim told me he had written to your grandfather, asking him to care for you and your mother if for any reason he didn’t return.” He smiled wistfully. “It’s almost as if he knew he wouldn’t.”
I thought of the treasure map, and of my father’s intention to sail to its coordinates. “I think he knew there was a greater than normal possibility that he wouldn’t.”
Slinque said nothing for a moment, absorbing this bit of intrigue. I could tell he wanted to ask questions of me, but restrained himself.
“When things started going . . . wrong,” he continued, “I contacted the old fellow to remind him of his obligation.”
“My mother—”
“—was a beautiful woman.”
“Was she a drug fiend? That’s what Grandfather called her.”
“Fiend is a very harsh word. She was”—here he hesitated, searching for a better word—“drug dependent.”
“Was she a prostitute?”
He smiled sadly. “She was forced to make certain compromises to support her dependency. You mustn’t judge these women harshly. I myself have always been fascinated by them. I’m curious to find what it is inside them that makes them tick.”
His words reminded me of Daisy, whose ticking was—to me, at least—quite audible. I couldn’t believe he didn’t hear it too, though he said nothing.
“Your birth was not an easy one,” he continued. “Your father’s ship had vanished at sea. She was alone in this world. She needed comfort. I provided it.”
“You gave her drugs?”
“I gave her better drugs. She was fond of opium when your father first met her. He wanted my advice, I advised, and together we ransomed her from the devil-drug. After he was gone, and I saw she was drifting back, I supplied her with cocaine instead. Your grandfather footed the bill.”
I took several deep breaths, readying myself for the Whole Truth.
“How did she die?” I asked.
He said nothing.
“I was told she had a fit and drowned in her bathtub,” I said.
“She slit her throat with your father’s razor.”
I felt myself becoming ill. I took another sip of tea. I changed the subject.
“My father—I was told my father—was a gambler—and a drunkard—and a philanderer.”
“All true. But he was a very poor gambler, and a cheerful drunkard, and nearly all the women he made love to he fell in love with. Your mother especially.”
I hoped this wasn’t a lie, but if it was, it was a very kind one.
“Did he ever mention a woman named Angela Darling?”
The doctor blinked. “Yes. I believe so.”
“He had a child with her?”
“Yes.”
“She too killed herself.”
“Yes.”
I swallowed. “He had quite an effect on women,” I lamely joked.
“He had quite an effect on everyone who knew him,” Slinque answered. Slinque, I realized, must have loved my father too.
* * *
I was be
coming quite tired, and needed to rest. Leaving Daisy in the surgery, after feeding her several rabbits he had vivisected the day before, Slinque led me down one floor, where he offered me his own bed, into which I collapsed. By the time I awoke the clock on his bedroom mantel was striking two. Midday! I had slept much longer than I intended. He must have heard me stirring, for in a short time he entered, carrying my valise, and asked me if I was hungry. Indeed I was, I told him, but more than anything I wanted a bath. He showed me to his private bathroom, where he proceeded to fill a tub with hot water from his own tap. (Indoor plumbing, in these last fourteen and a half years, had found its way to Bayswater! Oh wonder!) Once I was alone, I carefully transferred the pouch filled with Flying Sand from the inside pocket of Mr. Harvey’s suit to a secure compartment of the valise, then peeled off my new clothes (which now scarcely fit at all), gazed for a moment into a full-length mirror at my strange new self, and stepped into Slinque’s white-porcelained tub.
Lying in the steaming bath, I examined my new self more closely. My feet were quite large, long, and unattractively bony. The aches I had felt in my arms and legs but a day before had been, I realized, growing pains. These limbs were now (begging your pardon, dear reader, for any discomfort you may feel regarding anatomical matters) furred with soft black hair, as were certain other unmentionable areas of my person. In short, everything was longer and stronger and leaner and a bit rougher than I was used to and, apart from my feet, curiously interesting. I had become, almost literally, a new man.
On a low table beside the tub rested a stack of newspapers. Slinque, I imagine, perused them when having his morning bath, and I picked one up in order to familiarize myself with the current news. The front page was entirely devoted to a sordid murder that had taken place a few days before in Whitechapel—a prostitute had been slaughtered, the fifth of several in the last few months—and the outcry against the killer and the incompetent constabulary was tremendous. Of course this put me in mind of my mother and her sad death, so I cast the paper aside and could not bring myself to look at it again.
After I had been soaking in the tub for about twenty minutes, Slinque entered without knocking and presented for my inspection a complete set of clothes, which he said he hoped would fit me. They were his own, he added, and since we appeared to be of approximately the same size now, I was certain that they would at least fit me better than Mr. Harvey’s suit. I thanked him, and sat back in the water, waiting for him to leave. He pulled up a wooden stool instead, and sat down on it. It seemed it was time for him to ask questions of me.
“Where have you been?” he began.
Since I now looked closer to twenty-four than to fourteen, I didn’t need to explain any aging anomalies. I told him much of the truth—that I had been pressed into a life at sea and that after living for some time on a distant archipelago I had finally found my way back home.
“And how did you get onto my roof?”
This was a bit trickier to answer. “I did a lot of climbing on the islands—coconut trees and volcanoes and such. The facade of your building is easier to scale than one might think. There are marvelous handholds. No trouble at all.”
“Even with a crocodile?”
“She’s not as heavy as you imagine. She held on to my back—with her claws, you know. She’s very intelligent.”
I could see he didn’t believe a word of it.
“And why does she tick?”
So he had heard her incessant timekeeping.
“She swallowed a watch.”
“I see.” Which he obviously didn’t. He was mulling something over now, then stood and headed for the bathroom door. “While you’re getting dressed let me bring you some tea and scones.” He stepped out of the room.
I rose from the now-tepid water and grabbed a towel hanging on a nearby rack. No sooner was I dried and in my new underclothes than he was back, bearing a tray with teapot, cup, and plate of currant scones fresh from the oven. Apparently he had anticipated this meal, and now the aroma of yeasty buttery fruity bread filled the room. Half-naked as I was (I no longer had any body shame since swimming with Josephine), I stepped to his side and popped an entire scone into my mouth. Heaven! I chewed, gulping tea at the same time to wash it down.
“I have a favor to ask of you,” he said.
I continued to chew and drink as I dressed.
“Anything,” I answered, my mouth still full.
“I want your crocodile.”
I stopped dressing midsock. “Daisy? Why?”
“I’ve never opened one before.” He sounded as if he were speaking of a package or a drawer.
“You mean . . . vivisect her?”
“She won’t feel a thing.”
“No. No. Absolutely not. That’s impossible.” I continued with the first sock, then moved on to the other.
“It’s the ticking, to be honest. It fascinates me. How can the watch be impervious to the digestive juices? Not that it would dissolve, of course, but the mechanical workings would surely be affected. And it’s so loud ! I mean, this is a scientific mystery—a miracle perhaps!”
“But cutting her open won’t solve anything. Clearly the watch hasn’t been affected by digestion, and opening her stomach will not get you any satisfying answer, let alone a commendation from the Journal of Science and Medicine!”
“Yes, but it will give me a great deal of pleasure. Solving the puzzle, I mean, not the vivisection itself. My intentions are noble and pure.”
I was beginning to doubt his pure, noble intentions.
“Besides, dear boy, what are you going to do with a crocodile in London? You can’t possibly live with it, there isn’t a landlord in all of England who would allow such a thing. Nor does the London Zoo have any need of another one. They have enough.”
“She’s . . . my pet.” I was becoming emotional, and could not wrap my brain around any logical answer. I pulled on the shirt. It fit me perfectly.
“She has no affection for you. She’s a reptile! Their brains are quite primitive.”
“But I . . . I have affection for her.”
“Yes, of course, but— Look, dear boy, I’ve given you clothes and a bed and a bath. Do you have money? Certainly not English pounds, I imagine. I’ll give you as much as you need. You’re welcome to stay with me for as long as you like. I’ll buy you a new wardrobe. I’ll introduce you to prospective employers. You have nothing but a crocodile to your name and I have everything to offer.”
“But I named her for my mother.” Good Lord, I thought, logic has fled me entirely. “My mother’s dead and Daisy, I’m her mother.” I was becoming quite silly from lack of food. “I fed her. She was raised on my blood.” Tears sprang to my eyes. What was happening to me? I pulled on my shoes. “No, no, I can’t give her up, it’s simply not possible. Simply—not. No, no, no no no.” Fully dressed, with shoes unfastened, I grabbed the valise and headed for the bathroom door.
“Do think it over.”
“I have, I have, thank you, Doctor Slinque, for your kindness and generosity, and for answering my questions, but it’s time Daisy and I, Daisy and I, Daisy and I were . . .” The bathroom was spinning around me. “. . . going.”
And then the room stopped spinning as its walls collapsed, burying me in darkness.
* * *
By the time I opened my eyes again the sky above was pinking with twilight.
I lay on a cast-iron bench in Slinque’s backyard. I sat up and my head exploded. My shoes remained undone. My valise was no longer beside me. Slinque had drugged me, as surely as he had drugged my mother, and for all I knew he was at this very moment slicing open my baby to study the contents of her ticking stomach.
I staggered to his rear door and pounded. There was no answer. I walked around the side of the house and climbed the stoop to the front entrance. I pounded again. Again, no answer. I looked up, examining the exterior wall, hoping to find the ready handholds that I had told Slinque made the facade so easy to climb. It was
smooth stucco.
“SLINQUE!” I shouted. “YOU BA——RD! GIVE ME BACK MY DAISY!”
The only response this elicited was from a London bobby who happened to be patrolling the street.
“Here, here, that’s enough of that.”
“This man has kidnapped my child!”
He looked at me as if I were on leave from Bedlam.
“Don’t be absurd,” he said, taking me firmly by the arm. “I know Doctor Slinque. He’s a good fellow. Gives me lemon sweets for my little boy. He would no sooner harm a child than—than the Queen herself. Now get along with you, or I’ll call some friends of mine to help you home.”
I had no choice. Hours had passed since Slinque had drugged me. Daisy, no doubt, was already jarred and specimened.
* * *
I wandered the streets, trying to decide to whom I might turn. Reaching into my jacket pocket at some point, I found it stuffed with ten-pound notes and a dozen or so lemon sweets.
I entered a pub and gorged myself on chips and ale. (I could not bear to touch the kidney pie, or even the fish—they reminded me too much of Daisy’s fate. Since that hour I have remained, dear reader, a strict vegetarian.) I then ordered a glass of rum, which went straight to my head, and when the idea struck me—and I made my request to the barman for a London Directory—it was with blurred vision that I strained to find a certain name. But find it I did. His residence was quite close: Number 14, Kensington Park Gardens in Notting Hill.
It was late, far too late to go visiting a stranger, and so I remained at the pub until closing, then wandered the streets waiting for my third day in England to begin.
At some point during the night I studied myself in a men’s washroom mirror. I did not appear to have aged beyond thirty. The clothes that Slinque gave me fit me well, and since he was something of a dapper man, I too seemed respectable enough so that no one would run in the opposite direction if I approached them. As dawn broke I made my way to Number 14 and waited patiently nearby until the man I was looking for left the house and headed off to the nearest bus stop. I knew him at once to be the person I sought: he looked very much like me.
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