by Cross, Amy
I think maybe Simon's right. I think maybe the danger isn't over yet.
Chapter Fifteen
Doctor Charles Grazier
Monday October 1st, 1888
The brain stem slips neatly into place, in the space that I hollowed out after removing Catherine's own. In fact, the fit is so perfect, I quickly realize that I shall have to perform none of the little cuts or slices that I had expected would be necessary. If I believed in gods, I'd be thanking them right now.
“There,” I whisper, in the calm and quiet of the basement room. “Do not worry, my dear. Everything is going perfectly.”
Catherine's body rests on its front now. I had supposed that in this position, with her ravaged belly hidden, she might seem almost alive. In truth, however, I find that her skin has become extremely pale, and several patches of dark, unseemly blotches have broken out. I know that the processes of decomposition have begun, although I am a little surprised that they have taken root so quickly. If anything, my efforts to slow this degradation seem to have had little effect, although I suppose that without them the situation would be worse.
Still, I shall remove and replace whatever parts of her body I deem necessary. So long as her brain remains intact and undamaged, I know that my Catherine will come back soon. Wherever she is now, I only hope that she is aware of my efforts.
“Soon you shall see that I was right all along,” I tell her. I know it is rather foolish, perhaps even romantic, to speak to her in such a manner, yet it makes me feel happier to imagine her perhaps hearing my words. “Everything is in hand. The end result will be your return, and then we shall dance again.”
Taking a length of black wire, I start sewing the wound on the back of her neck. Even as I do so, I feel that her skin has a new texture, a little more sponge-like, as I thread the wire through and through. Honestly, at the moment I am finding that something has changed every time I touch her, and I am increasingly aware that I am engaged in a race against time, and against the ravages of death.
It is, however, a race that I shall win.
I, Doctor Charles Grazier, intend to conquer death itself.
Finally, once the process of closing her neck is complete, I set my tools aside and take hold of her shoulders, gently easing her over until she is on her back again. I suppose I should call Jack down to help with these heavier tasks, but he is a brute and I do not want him to see Catherine's naked body more often than is strictly necessary. Covering her up would get in the way of the various procedures, but I believe that as her husband I have a duty to do much of this work myself. I just need to preserve as much of her dignity as possible.
Now that she is on her back again, I hesitate for a moment before leaning down and planting a kiss on her cold cheek. I know that such a thing is wrong, and perhaps even a little grotesque, yet I cannot help myself. I miss her touch.
“Rest easy, my darling,” I say after a moment, even though I know that I am being unduly sentimental. “We shall soon be reunited. Not in death, but in life. In glorious, wonderful -”
Suddenly I freeze, as I see that something thin and black is poking out from beneath her left eyelid. I realize immediately that I am seeing the leg of some insect, and the sight fills me with a sense of horror that I have never felt before. Indeed, this development is so unexpected and unlikely, I cannot help staring for a moment, convinced that I cannot be seeing this awful thing.
Yet there it is, wriggling wildly as if it is trapped.
Barely able to retain my composure, I scramble over to the counter and take a pair of tweezers, before heading back to the slab and reaching down to pull the eyelid open. The insect makes this job a little more difficult, but I manage to slip the tweezers under the lid and take hold of the creature's body. It immediately tries to scurry deeper out of the way, over the top of the eyeball and to the back of the socket, but I am holding its body too tightly. I pull it out very slowly and find that I have discovered a small, wriggling beetle of some description.
“Foul thing,” I mutter, taking the beetle over to one of the other counters and setting it down, before using the bottom of a glass bottle to crush it entirely. “Have you no sense of honor?”
I shudder as I mash the insect's body to a pulp. It is already dead, but I wish to punish it for daring to disrespect my wife in such a manner.
“Fear not, Catherine,” I say out loud, sounding a little breathless. “I shall not let such a thing happen to you again. Forgive me for allowing that brief intrusion.”
I spend a moment cleaning up the fragments of the beetle's body, and then I head back over to Catherine. Her eyelid remains open, and when I take a closer look I see that there are small scratches all across the iris, no doubt caused by the beetle's scurrying little legs. There is considerable damage, and I suppose that Catherine's vision will be much affected once she wakes, but then a new idea occurs to me.
I can give her fresh eyes.
Eyes, after all, are merely parts of the body like any other. And although Catherine's beautiful dark eyes have always been one of my favorite things about her, I am sure I can find another pair that look similar. Her appearance will obviously be altered a little, but that is something I can come to terms with, given time. I am sure that Catherine, too, will consider a new pair of eyes to be a small price to pay for being raised from the dead.
I take a moment to examine the other eye. Although there is nothing amiss here, I quickly realize that I cannot simply replace one of the eyeballs. In order for her vision to function correctly, she will need a complete new pair.
And then, just as I am pondering how to go about finding the right eyes for her, I notice that on the side of her neck there is a cut that I had not noticed before. Indeed, as I look more closely, I find that this cut runs up almost to the bottom of her ear, and that the edges of skin have been stitched together. I am quite certain that I do not remember this particular procedure, although I suppose that I have been under a degree of pressure lately. Is it possible that I have begun to lose track of my work? It would once have been laughable to even consider such an idea, yet lately I have barely had time to sleep.
I could go upstairs and look through my notebooks, but that would take a long time, so instead I collect a wire-cutter from the bench and start opening the stitches. I can put them back in place easily enough, and right now I am very curious to see what particular procedure I might have forgotten. Did I take something out of her or, as seems more likely, did I put something inside? It takes quite some time to cut through all the stitches, which seem rather rougher and less uniform than my usual handiwork, but finally I am done. I set the tool aside before carefully parting the edges of skin and peering into the graying meat of Catherine's neck, close to the spot where only a few minutes ago I inserted the new brain stem.
I see nothing missing, nor anything added, yet this only deepens the mystery.
Supposing that I must perhaps fetch another tool, I let go of Catherine's neck and turn to walk away. As I do so, however, I hear a sickening twisting sound, and I look back just in time to see that Catherine's entire head has fallen to one side, and that it has almost come away from the stump of her neck.
Trying not to panic, I immediately rush over to her and take hold of her head, and then I turn it back until it is in position. When I let go, however, I find that it once more tilts to the side. Evidently the various procedures have conspired to weaken what is left of her muscles, and the brain stem transplant most likely disturbed the fundamental structure of the entire area. The head is now held in place only by a section of skin, and this section already appears stretched and distorted. At this rate, the skin could tear completely, so I turn and hurry to the counter.
I shall need fresh stitches, and perhaps -
Suddenly I freeze as I hear a dull thudding sound.
I tell myself that I must be wrong, but slowly I turn and look over my shoulder, and I see to my utter horror that not only has Catherine's head fallen clean away from
her neck, but it has in fact rolled off the end of the slab and has hit the floor.
“No!” I stammer, hurrying back over and picking her head up. For a moment, the weight of my wife's precious head in my hands is enough to make me feel utterly helpless, as if this whole endeavor has come to a terrible halt, but then I realize that this is simply one additional task to add to the many on my list.
“You'll be okay,” I tell her. “Do not fear, Catherine. Everything is under control. This was a mere bump in the road, so to speak.”
Turning the head around, I find that the new brain stem is still in place, so I tell myself that everything is proceeding more or less according to plan.
I can fix this.
Other men could not, but other men aren't Doctor Charles Grazier.
“Never fear, my dear,” I mutter under my breath. “Have a little faith, and you shall be back to your old self presently.”
I set the head down carefully on the side of the slab, before making my way back to the bench and collecting the various tools that I shall need. Once I am back at the body, I place the head in its proper place and pass some wire through the torn skin, intending to roughly and rather crudely hold it in its proper position while I gather the necessary materials that are required for a more permanent reattachment. My hands are trembling and I cannot deny that I feel somewhat panicked now, but I force myself to focus on the fact that I can do this.
Once the head is in position, I freeze, too scared to move my hands away. After all, the loss of support might cause her head to fall down once more. Still, I eventually realize that I have little option but to take the risk, so I very carefully pull my hands back while keeping them close and poised in case they are needed again.
Holding my breath, I watch the head for a moment, but as the seconds pass I start to realize that – at least for now – all is good.
I turn to go back to the other counter, but then I stop as I see that there is a split on the side of Catherine's hip, and that some kind of dark red liquid is slowly oozing out from her body and pooling on the slab's surface.
I walk over and take a closer look, and then I lean down and see that some hitherto undetected pocket of old blood seems to have finally found a way out of the body. I had thought that I understood every aspect of the decomposition that was taking place inside Catherine at this point, yet evidently there must be something that I had overlooked. Some pocket of congealed blood, perhaps. It is almost as if, after several days, I am losing control of the processes.
No.
No, I am not losing control.
I am Doctor Charles Grazier, and I never lose control.
Perhaps I have allowed myself to become distracted, but this is easily remedied.
After taking a deep breath, I start threading some wire through the wound, cutting off the escape route via which the old blood is seeping out. Just as I finish, however, I spot another trickle coming from further up on her body, and I see another split near her belly. It is as if, by increasing the pressure in one area, I have caused caused a second pocket of blood to burst out. I take another length of wire and close that split as well, and then I stand back and wait in case a third appears.
Hearing a faint tearing sound, I turn just in time to see that Catherine's head is once more coming loose. I hurry over and catch it, just in time to keep it from falling to the ground. I had hoped that the temporary stitching would keep her head in place for a while, but evidently I miscalculated. The torn stitches have ripped a gaping wound in the side of her neck, and I am worried that the brain stem is at risk of becoming dislodged.
I am extremely careful, therefore, as I set Catherine's head back into place. I hold the sides very gently, before letting go and waiting to see whether the head is perhaps steady enough for me to leave it for a few seconds. After just a moment, however, the head starts rolling to one side, and then I hear a gurgling sound.
Looking back down toward her abdomen, I see that the first set of stitches around her hip have come loose, allowing black blood to dribble out once more.
I need help.
“Jack!” I call out, hoping against hope that he will be able to hear me from wherever he is in the house. “Jack, come down here at once! Jack, I require your assistance!”
I wait, but I hear nobody calling back to me, nor do I hear feet on the stairs. Even if he is in the garden, he should be able to hear me by now.
“Jack! Where the blazes are you, man? Jack, get down here immediately!”
Chapter Sixteen
Maddie
Today
As a light rain starts to fall from the dull gray sky, I'm out in the street, helping Simon and the others as they set the stalls back straight and gather up all the merchandise that was spilled. To be honest, though, most of the spilled items are pretty much trash now. Food has been smeared all over the ground, and pots and jewellery have been smashed. The vandals might be long gone, but they've left a trail of destruction that stretches all the way along the street.
“We need bin bags,” the woman from the jewellery store mutters, sounding completely despondent.
Sighing, she sits on a low wall and puts her head in her hands. She looks totally destroyed, as if he might never find the strength to get her stall back up and running.
“I'll get some,” I tell her.
“There's no point,” she sighs.
“Of course there's a point.”
“Look around, kid,” she replies, lowering her hands and staring despondently at the destruction. “I had all my money tied up in stock, and now most of it's ruined. I'll never make it to the end of the month. Not like this.”
“You will,” I say firmly. “I don't know how, but you'll be okay. And I'm going to go fetch some bin bags, so that we can finish tidying up.”
“I can't pay you.”
“I just want to help.”
She sighs again, before starting to reach into her pocket. “I'll give you some money.”
“No, it's okay,” I reply, figuring that I should try to contribute somehow. “I saw a corner shop back there. I'll just be a few minutes.”
With that, I head off before she has a chance to argue with me. As I pick my way through the wrecked merchandise, I can't help feeling so sorry for these people. They've had their stalls ruined, for no reason except that Nick and his friends wanted to smash up everything they found. The situation seems hopeless right now, but I'm sure they'll find a way to carry on. Maybe when Alex shows up, she'll have some ideas. She's always good in a crisis.
***
“Maddie. Hey Maddie, wait up.”
Startled as I step out of the corner shop with a bunch of bin bag rolls in my hands, I turn and see Natalie coming this way. There's no way we could have bumped into each other twice in one day, so I immediately tense as I realize that something's wrong.
“Okay, I admit it,” she says as she stops next to me, offering a faint but cautious smile, “I kinda followed you.”
“From where?” I ask nervously.
“From the station.” She sighs. “I know it's bad, but I was worried about you. I was supposed to go shopping, but I figured I wanted to check you were okay. So I kinda followed you until you went into that house. Then those thugs came through and smashed stuff up, so I hid. I lost track of you for a while, so I kinda loitered in the hope that I'd bump into you again soon. And now I'm supposed to go home, and I just wanted to see if you've changed your mind.”
“About what?”
“About coming back to my place.”
I hesitate for a moment, filled with a growing suspicion that this whole situation seems far too contrived.
“You followed me?” I say finally.
She nods.
“And you hung around for hours, watching the house?”
“Well, kind of.”
“And now you're asking if I want to go to your place?”
“Mum'd love to see you again. I can text her right now and ask, if you like. You know sh
e'll be so pleased to see you.”
“This whole situation is really weird, Natalie,” I point out as she takes her phone from her pocket. “A normal person wouldn't follow someone like this, or hang around trying to bump into them again.”
“And since when have I been a normal person?” she asks, unlocking her phone's screen. Her smile briefly becomes more genuine, and then she fist-bumps my shoulder. “I know I can be kinda creepy sometimes, but I was just worried about you. And I wanted to get an idea of how you're living before I came and spoke to you again. We used to be really good friends, remember? Like, really close. Best friends, even.”
“Yeah, we did,” I reply, as I feel my forehead getting really hot again. “That was a few years ago, though.”
“So what? Real friendship never dies, and I want to help you.”
“I don't need help.”
“I've been watching you, and it's clear that you do. Mum really likes you, Maddie. She'd totally take you in, and you could stay with us for a while and hang out, and she wouldn't even call your parents. We all know you had a really hard time with them, Maddie. Mum wouldn't send you back there or let them know where you are, I promise. I can talk to her, I can tell her not to stress, and then we can figure something out.”
“Sounds too good to be true,” I mutter, before realizing that I'm right.
It is too good to be true.
In fact, the more I stare at Natalie, the more I realize that she can't actually be here. I hallucinated that shadowy figure during the night by the river, and I hallucinated the dead woman in the alley, and then I hallucinated the shadowy figure again on the tube train. Not to mention the woman whose face I briefly saw outside the tube train, looking up at me from the tracks in the tunnel. Clearly I've been on quite a run of seeing things lately, so it's really not much of a stretch to figure that as my fever continues, I'm now hallucinating an old school-friend who I haven't seen for a few years. This is just my subconscious mind throwing up some wish fulfillment.