"Got halfway there and the coughing started. Barely made it back, to be honest. Thought I'd better rest up."
"Well, you've naught but privacy today." Since Donald died the house had emptied of its few previous guests. It wasn't fair on William and Maggie of course, but death carried a stigma in the overcrowded district of West Port. Where illness took one, others often followed.
"Aye, and I'm feeling better for it. Was going to go for a stroll, see if some air would help. You're welcome to join me?"
Bill nodded to the sack. "Not while business is picking up. It will take the best part of the day to mend this lot. Is Maggie about?"
"Only Mr Hare, upstairs." Struggling to his feet, giving the lie to his improved health with his fragile steps, Joseph gave a wan smile and left. Bill couldn't blame him. Even the finest lodging house must be a misery when all you wanted to do was curl up and shake off a cold.
He was barely in his room, pulling the first pair of the shoes out to inspect the work that needed to be done, when William was at his door. He put the shoe down, his deliberation making clear that the interruption was not welcome. "What's the matter William?" His friend's eyes were lowered, his hands clasped tightly.
"Old Donald. Whoreson owes me four pounds rent."
Bill whistled. Quite a loss. "How so?"
"We let it lie every month, until his money came through. He was always good for it."
"Not anymore, lad." The corpse was still upstairs, waiting to be boxed and shipped. Maggie had asked around the area, hoping somebody could name a relative or friend who might come to claim the old man. Nobody stepped forward. Donald had a military pension, so had certainly served his country, perhaps even against Napoleon. Bill's own military service had been uneventful, but he had respect for any man who put on a uniform for his nation and it saddened him that the man had died alone and unmissed. "Just be thankful the parish is arranging the funeral and saving your purse."
"I'm owed what I'm owed."
Standing, letting a sliver of sunlight from the high windows caress his neck, Bill stretched. "I suppose we could see if anybody knows the way to the Pearly Gates. St Peter hates a debtor, so I hear. No doubt he'd let us in so we could find Donald and discuss the matter further."
"Remember Merry Andrew?"
Bill laughed in surprise, then his voice trailed away as he realised what William might be suggesting. "Come on, now. You're not serious."
"Sweating coins, you said."
"Sure, but that was the bar and the beer talking."
"What harm? Donald's got no friends. He's rotting in my rooms. He owes me."
The idea left Bill cold, but it wasn't as though they would be desecrating the man's grave. Old Donald didn't even have that to his name yet. Shaking his head as William watched him, not quite believing that he couldn't think of an argument against the idea, he finally landed on something. "No, you're too late for it. The funeral. Jesus William, the carpenter's coming to box him up. You want to tell him you were wrong, and the old man made a remarkable recovery and toddled off? If there isn't a body for the box there are going to be some questions asked."
William slumped against the rough-plastered wall, kicking the floorboards with a heel in sullen resentment. "He takes up a whole room, dies on us, and drives our lodgers out for fear of plague. It's going to be a hard month if we don't do something."
For William that was an epic monologue, and Bill understood how serious the situation might be. Would his own reduced rent survive if things got tough, or could he end up paying premium for his enclosed little room so his friend could make ends meet?
"Maybe there's a way," he conceded.
William put a strong hand on Bill's arm. "I'm not saying it will be for nothing, Bill. If there's profit made, I'll see you right."
Bill nodded, thinking about the old man and his military service, the honours he should receive. Yet Donald was dead, free of his poverty, and the living had to struggle on. William was owed his money, and if his gratitude manifested in a few pennies landing in Bill's lap too then what harm?
"Who organises the porter to take him to the church?"
"Me. More money I don't need to spend."
"That's fine. That works. Let the carpenter do his business and leave. Then before we call the porter we take the corpse out, and nail the coffin back up. They can bury it as deep as they like and none will be the wiser."
William smiled, seeing the simplicity of it. "I knew you'd think of something. I'll never be a thinker."
Bill smiled back, though the unease in his guts refused to vanish.
#
Chisel in one hand, hammer in the other, William stood in the doorway and looked at the coffin dominating the upstairs box room. The bed it had replaced was pushed up against the wall, straw piled at the floor where it had slipped free from the mattress. The musky smell of old hay worked against the faint aroma of two-day old death, but ultimately lost the battle. The room smelled of death, and he wondered how long it would be before they could use it again. They rarely put lodgers there, preferring a clear distinction between the business downstairs and the home upstairs, but it was useful to have it there, just in case.
The casket could barely be called an actual coffin. A neatly hammered-together box, constructed in haste, it had a cheap and flimsy feel to it. He anticipated no difficulties in accessing the contents. Bill's objections came back to him as he stepped towards it. Was this an offence against God and Nature, as he knew his friend still believed? William didn't care. In anticipation of what he was about to do, he felt a twist of excitement. This was how it should always be. Those who could take would do so. Those who could not would fall by the wayside, and more fool them.
Something thudded, and he stilled, tilting his head to listen.
Bill chatted to the carpenter downstairs, trying to clear him from the building without raising any suspicion. William thought he was wasting his time. What suspicions could possibly arise? What they were about to do was unconscionable, and it would occur to no right thinking man that a corpse was about to be desecrated.
William had known since boyhood that, compared to those around him, he was not right thinking. While some might be shamed by such an understanding, William embraced it. Something inside him, shadowy and unpleasant but undeniably his, had always yearned to break free. He wondered whether he had found in Bill another with dark depths to unleash. Why else would he have agreed to help in this, even devising how they might go about it?
He ran a finger along the cheap wood of the casket, letting the splinters tickle at the whorls in his skin. Death and life, separated by the most insubstantial barrier, and he with the power to punch between them. Though he should perhaps wait until the carpenter was long gone, he did not have that patience. Not while the thrill was in him.
This was illicit.
This was wrong.
This was his.
Another thud, and this time he placed it. The noise was in the room with him. Perhaps it was his own heart, pounding with strange desires.
The floorboards creaked as he shifted his weight, trying to decided where to start, and he hoped that Bill would hear and know to clear the carpenter out. Kneeling, he noted the thick covering of dust through the room and wondered when last Maggie had bothered to sweep up. Not since before Donald had moved in, he judged. He would speak to her. Standards had to be met.
As he placed the chisel into the line between the side of the box and the lid, he heard the door slam downstairs. That was all the prompt he required, and he gave the chisel a solid whack. It slid home, pulling nails loose on either side of the blade as the edge of the lid popped up by a half-inch. He had to be careful not to destroy the box. They needed something to give to the parish, after all.
As he worked along the edge, repeating the tap and lift every few inches, the stink of death puffed out like invisible smoke.
On hearing Bill's footsteps crossing the room downstairs, he rested the chisel's end at the c
orner and gave it a final tap. Once he had done the same to the other side, they would between them be able to lift if off by hand. Resting back on his haunches, he turned towards the door to wait.
There was another misplaced thud, and he finally realised that it came from the crate itself. Turning, he was in time to see the lid thrust fully off from within, catching briefly on the more secure nails on the far side of the box and so spinning away to the side instead of towards him. There was no time to cry out, though Bill must surely have heard the crash and rattle of the lid slamming to the floor.
In life, Donald had been a slow shadow of a man.
In death, he was anything but.
Hauling itself upright, its beard lank against greying skin, and still dressed in the pauper's shirt and trousers it had died in, the corpse took a moment to place William in the room before rolling itself over the edge of the box with a lizard's speed and ease. Death had taken its aches and pains and made it nimble. William saw the hunger in the revenant's eyes.
All he could do was scoot backwards, his normally lightning reflexes abandoning him. It felt like the room had been filled to the brim with molasses, and the only thing capable of moving through it was the creature coming for him.
The revenant dropped to the floor on its torso, the impact forcing a cold blast of dead air from its lips. William gagged, feet scrabbling as his back hit the wall. The revenant got its hands to the floor, looked up, and with a heave Donald could never have found strength for in life, launched itself forward.
He raised his arms, feeling his pulse race and the thrill double. He had pierced the barrier, but death was fighting back.
Bill was at the door, shouting. William had no idea how long he had been there.
The revenant crashed against his hands, pushing them back and knocking the wind from him, its arms reaching around his neck in a cadaverous embrace. Before he could find purchase against its chest, the creature's mouth scissored through his shirt and into the meat of his shoulder. Spasming in pain, he crashed the back of his skull against the wall, seeing stars as his throat bulged with the effort not to scream. Its jaw worried from side to side, tearing up nerves and sinew, and the dry, dead tongue worked the wound like a worm trying to wriggle inside. Its lank grey beard rasped against his neck.
Sliding his good right arm between them, he seized its shoulder, trying to lever it off. The thing's grasp around his neck was too strong, and the fiery, obliterating pain in his shoulder was stealing his own strength too fast. It fed on him, sucking him down as it shook him like a rag doll. His head lolled uselessly.
With a wrench, it was tugged back and way from him. For a moment it would not release its arms, and William was dragged forward with it. Then it was gone, and he collapsed face down in the dust, a bleeding puppet with its strings cut. Knowing his life depended on fighting, he flopped onto his back, ready for it to crawl over him and resume the feast.
"Jesus, William, give me some bloody help here!" Bill's face was white with fear as he crushed the creature to him in a bear hug, pinning its arms to its sides. Donald had been withered by age before death took him, and stood barely four and a half foot tall. While Bill could contain it, he was unable to let the thing go without giving it the freedom to attack them again.
With an animal cry, William forced himself upright and scanned the room. The revenant thrashed and twisted its neck, seeking something soft to bite. Bill's arms bulged with the strain of holding it, and he gritted his teeth as he fought for balance and staggered back towards the door. There wasn't much time.
The sheets from the bed were on the floor, piled up at its base where they had slid. Grabbing one, William staggered to his feet, his wound pulsing with sick heat. Now that he was free, he found more strength in his left arm than he had expected. The thing that had been Old Donald tilted its head down and snapped, almost catching Bill's clasped hands where they held its chest. While it stretched for a mouthful of fingers, William wrapped the twisted sheet around its head, blinding it and covering its mouth. "Let go!" It dropped to its feet and he looped the sheet around its head again, making a tight shroud. "Get something to tie it, Bill. Be quick."
Wrapping its head one more time with a final twist of the sheet, he forced it face down on the floor and sat astride it. Bill returned with some thin cuttings of rope, and wasted no time in gathering its wrists together and binding them tightly at its back. The knot cut into its skin, but William didn't suppose this caused it more discomfort than being dead in the first place. With the hands done, Bill trussed the feet then, as William slipped off, he grabbed its ankles, bent them back, and bound feet and hands together, hogtying the thing.
The two men slumped to the dusty floor panting, sweat staining their clothes. Lightheaded, William clasped a hand to his shoulder and felt hot blood ooze between his fingers. They stared at each other, eyes wide with shock, until finally Bill's lips turned up and he laughed.
William joined him, revelling in what they had done, the thrill burning hotter by far than his wound. For a long minute they sat there, laughing helplessly, while a dead man writhed between them.
"Mary mother of Jesus," Bill gasped when he could control himself again. "What won't you do to make sure the rent's paid on time?"
William laughed harder, so hard that it became a consuming hurt itself. Having challenged death and made himself its master, there seemed little else to do.
Chapter 9
Burke & Hare
Saturday, November 24th, 1827
Bill returned to Tanner's Close an hour later, having earlier left William to conceal the hog-tied revenant somewhere discreet. He felt cold, and was unable to scratch away the phantom sensations of the creature pressed against his flesh. He imagined that some sort of residue had soaked into him, staining and marking him. He felt tainted.
It was no more than he deserved. From the beginning he had felt strong misgivings about selling Old Donald's corpse. Now punishment had been meted out. William had suffered the greater part, which was appropriate since it was his idea in the first place, but Bill knew the horror of what he had seen would live in his nightmares for a long time to come.
Behind him, the wooden wheels of the handcart jolted down the uneven slope, and John M'Culloch swore. "Poxy thing. I'll get a horse and cart one day, and never look back." Bill had walked all the way over to Alison Close, just off the Cowgate, to fetch John back. While there were other porters within easier reach, he had no real idea what he was going to find when he got back to the lodging house. If the worst transpired and the revenant had somehow broken free or was running amok, then he at least knew from late nights spent at several bars that M'Culloch understood when a little discretion was required.
"Just leave it here. Old Donald's on the first floor. We'll have to carry him down."
All was quiet as they stepped inside, and Bill shivered as they left the small sliver of sunlight that sometimes found a way down between the buildings to the front doorstep. The fire was out, and the house was chilly. No fiends running amok, but Bill still stopped John from entering while he scanned the room for anything amiss.
"Are we standing here for a bit, then?" M'Culloch said, and the sarcasm was not well concealed. He had been about to head out for a jar when Bill got to his house, and though grateful for the pennies the job would fetch, he begrudged the timing.
"Looking for William. Thought he'd be down here." Staying ahead of the porter, Bill trotted to the stairs and ran up, two at a time. As he turned into the box room at the top he found William sitting on the sealed crate, a fresh shirt on. His friend gave a quick nod, and Bill let himself relax. "Come on with you then," he said, as M'Culloch caught up. "I'm not paying you to dawdle."
The big man rolled his eyes, and gestured to William to take the far end of the box. William stood, looking to Bill. With his arm mauled barely an hour ago, he was in no condition. "I'll do it," Bill said.
"If you're sure," William said, moving aside. The young man was enjoy
ing this far more than was necessary, and Bill shot him a warning glance. It wasn't the time for unusual levity. If they were to stay safe then M'Culloch needed to forget all about this brief employment as soon as possible. Anything out of place might thwart that. William's dour reputation was legend, and this strange good mood would be memorable.
He shunted his end of the crate off the floor, forcing M'Culloch to follow. It was a little heavier than anybody who had recently seen the withered deceased would expect, but M'Culloch could not be counted among that small number. His face showed no signs of suspicion as he backed his end through the narrow door, leading them to the stairs and down. As they began the descent, swearing and sweating as they scraped the wall, the coffin tilted and the weight within shifted, sliding down towards M'Culloch with a woody rustle. It had been Bill who realised they would need to put something inside to weigh it down and create the illusion that it held a body. As he had rushed out the door, he had suggested tanner's bark from behind the house, and William had obviously taken his advice.
M'Culloch stopped with a grunt, the extra weight now piled into his end of the coffin. Bill froze as the porter looked up at him with a curious expression. They locked gazes, and he fought the urge to drop the crate and run. Why hadn't they moved it downstairs earlier? M'Culloch's expression went blank, and he turned his head to look behind him, continuing the descent. Satisfying though it was to have his assessment of M'Culloch's discretion validated, he wished his heart would stop pounding so hard at the fright.
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