The Flesh Market
Page 32
"I was somebody. I was the Revenant Man."
"Walking the land, bringing death and resurrection where you went. Cardiff. Birmingham. Nobody knew if it was you, or course. They knew only that the revenants were spreading, and clung to Mr Burke's tale for explanation. If you must blame somebody for ending your pleasures, look within. Those small risings were enough to force through the Revenant Act, and legitimise the race for answers. I was ahead of the times in my own small investigations. Had I but waited a decade, I would have been lauded for my efforts. Instead I was demonised. I am a bogeyman myself. In Edinburgh mothers still warn their children to be good, lest they be sold as a shot to the doctor. Ng!" His fingers slapped his own chest in reflex as a powerful contraction spiked him.
"Going to stop now. No reason to go on." Knox's vision was greying, but still he saw Hare use his right hand to slice across his left wrist. It was inefficient, but would be effective. Hare's black blood did not spurt. It oozed. The man grinned, his white eyes looking over Knox's head. "One more shot for the doctor."
A cannon blew through his heart. He arched his back from the seat, whining but unable to form words. Hare's brow furrowed, for he could not see what grieved the doctor so. Perhaps he believed it was fear, for it was inevitable that Hare's own body would rise. They would be found dead together first. The longer the virus had burned in the flesh, the longer it took for the body to animate afterwards. Hare had carried it for decades. The villain's eyes closed as he bled, and his features smoothed out as he let his consciousness go.
Knox remained awake for several more minutes, twitching alone with a corpse as his own body failed him. The Court of Cacus rested on the arm of the chair, a story of monsters and murder. Knox wondered whether there would be a revised edition, in which the Revenant Man and the Butcher who bought the beef were found dead together many years later. What conspiracies might arise, when they were discovered?
His shallow breaths became a desperate pant, and he felt the cannon being brought to beat upon his heart a final time. His fingers scrabbled at his ribs, panic making him seek some means to fight it, though he knew there was none, and then it released its load and his mind went white.
Afterword
I'd like to begin by thanking Williams Burke and Hare. If they had not murdered quite so many people then this book could not have been written.
No. Hang on. That's tacky isn't it?
I'll start again.
With the exception of the bits I made up, The Flesh Market is a true story. I've stayed close to the chronology of the real murders, and done my best to get inside the heads of the people involved. I added the revenants to keep myself amused. The media circus that was the trial of William Burke and Nelly M'Dougall has ensured that the true story is already ridiculously well chronicled. While I wanted to tell it--particularly after I read a snippet or two of Burke's own confessions that suggested that alcoholism might have been a driving force in the events that would make him famous--I didn't want to be entirely caged by the facts. The Flesh Market, a true crime yarn with made up stuff, is my compromise
Among famous serial killers, Burke & Hare never quite get their due. Their body count is staggeringly high, far greater than a certain Jack from London managed, so the number of people outside of Scotland who know nothing about them always feels a bit strange. Perhaps it is the lack of ongoing mystery around them that stifles their legend. That trial laid bare everything the public could want to know, and in doing so left little to the imagination. Legends only happen when the imagination gets involved.
I made various visits to Edinburgh while writing this novel, and read numerous books about the crimes and personages involved. By far the most interesting and useful was The Anatomy Murders by Lisa Rosner. As I write this it's the most up-to-date, best argued, and most meticulously researched. Too many of the accounts I read repeat urban legend as fact, and confuse speculation with research. It is Rosner who shoots down the popular (and entirely speculative) explanation for how William Fergusson might recognise the body of a prostitute called Mary and declare that she had been fit and well not too long before (hint--she was a prostitute ...), and who provides sound argument and solid documentation to underwrite the alternative explanation I've used here. In addition, The Anatomy of Robert Knox by A.W. Bates is a solid biography which covers the year of the murders in a single chapter, then gives equal weight to the rest of Knox's eccentric life and career. Bates is perhaps a little more forgiving of his subject's failings than I feel is merited, but it's the most interesting and comprehensive of the books dedicated solely to the good doctor.
Finally, if you're visiting Edinburgh and have an interest in the history of anatomy and medicine, and have a reasonably strong stomach, do seek out the Anatomical Museum at the University. Among countless jarred specimens of everything that could possibly be pulled from the human body you'll find a small notebook made from William Burke's actual skin, and the death mask cast from his corpse after he was hanged. I was halfway through writing The Flesh Market when I went to meet him. It was a very odd and eerie experience. Not many authors get to meet their characters face to face.
This is the bit where I say thank you to people. My ladies Kirsty and Eva are at the back of everything I write, and I couldn't do any of this without them. I also have to thank Danny Evarts for editing this book and designing the interiors of the paperback, and Emma Barnes for another beautiful cover. Jim McCleod and Jackie Donnelly took time out to pre-read the book and offer thoughts and suggestions. I've used some, and ignored others (I probably should have accepted them all ... too late now). Jackie Blewett, Katrina Kinsley, Heather Twidle, and Donald Blackburn all deserve a shout-out for their ongoing and unconditional support. There are many more like them, but this isn't the Oscars. I'll name drop some more in the next book.
But before I go, thank you for taking a chance on The Flesh Market. Stories don't properly exist until somebody hears them, and you've made this one a little more real. If you have friends who you think would enjoy it, please let them know that it exists.
--Richard Wright, New Delhi, January 2014
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About the Author
Richard Wright is an author of strange, dark fictions, currently living in Scotland with his wife and daughter. Over a decade and a half his short stories have appeared widely in the US and UK press, most recently in anthologies such as Storyteller - A Found Book and More Tales From The City. He is the author of the novels Cuckoo, Thy Fearful Symmetry, Craven Place, and The Flesh Market, and the novellas Hiram Grange and the Nymphs of Krakow and The Flesh Remembers.
You can find out more about his books and sign up for his email newsletter at http://www.richardwright.org
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"Imagine a world where fire rains from the sky at the same time as pure white snow. A world where the dead walk the Earth. Faced with that, logic goes out the window. The people in this story are raw and real. Broken and sullied. Terrified." - Jessica Nottingham, Hopelessly Devoted Bibliophile
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"A plot as wild as this could have easily spun out of control, but Wright holds the reins tight. His dexterity is dazzling." - Hellnotes
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