Flesh Failure (5 page)

For a few blocks I walked along the cobblestones, avoiding careening carriages, loose dogs, morning chamber pot tosses, and people hurrying to or from something.

As I walked, the dirty, desperate people began to become a minority. I saw, at last, an electric lamp lighting the street. And many more along the road. I walked on with my shuffling gait, the dress tripping me as I stepped over debris. Although it was rather small on me, the petticoat had torn and created a bit of a hazard.

Before long, I stood in front of a tavern. Loud raucous sounds echoed out even though it was barely lunchtime.

I entered the tavern and sat near the bar. The place was crowded and with my shawl over my head, I blended in. There were three electric lights on the ceiling. The wires led from the lights, along the ceiling and dropped down behind the bar where a large hairy man was pouring beer into several glasses. Hurriedly, he loaded them onto a large tray, slopping the contents over their rims. He lifted the tray and pushed his way through his customers. Once the bartender was out, I took my chance to crawl behind the bar. The noise of the drinkers was loud as I wormed my way through puddles of spilled beer and spoiled food.

On a ledge under the bar, there were guns and large knifes. A smaller knife lay over by a block of cheese that must have been his lunch. The smaller knife was easy to snatch and I crawled over to one of the cords hanging down from the light. Squeezing two sides of the wire together with one hand, I cut away at the bend.

The minute the blade hit the cord, a jolt ran through me. It was sweet relief. The lights blinked out instantly. The bartender shouted as people began to panic. The smell of burnt wiring filled my nose. Although it was broad daylight on the other side of the window shutters, inside the bar was dark.

Several people pushed towards the bar, yelling in the dark, grabbing bottles of liquor, stealing whatever they could get their hands on, even the cheese. I finished cutting the cord and hung onto the part where the juices ran through me. I clung to the wire as long as I could until sparks exploded around me and the surges stopped.

I crawled along the floor towards the back where I saw the faint outline of a door. Shivering cold fluctuated with intense heat as the new electric energy flowed through me. A couple of people had found the hallway and pushed me aside as they fled towards the door. Bright light shone in. I coughed up phlegm from my throat and mud-slicked blood from my lungs as I gathered myself up to stand. The opened door drew more people towards it.

As I pushed through the people to the outside, my lungs filled with air and I took real full breaths. My lungs were no longer muddy. For the first time since I crawled from the mud, I was breathing normally. My heart beat softly and quickly in my chest. My brain didn't feel like it was touching my skull anymore. I looked down at my hands and the wounds had nicely healed. There were but faint marks where newly created skin formed over the stitches. I hoped the same was true for my face.

I wandered the streets, this time joyfully, watching people earn a living. Selling food, selling bodies, performing songs and dances, sometimes just sitting in a doorway and begging. Some were aggressive, some sat in despair. Performers were energetic and earnest. A fire-eater winked at me. As I walked and watched and studied the people, I realized my thoughts were finally forming and staying. I remembered the names for things. Even though my conversational skills had been wondrous since the old man with the flute, I didn't understand what I was saying. My mouth and tongue and voice box somehow knew what words to say and how to form them. Whatever thoughts they had come from didn't pass through my conscious mind, yet they retained in my memory. My body knew what to do, everything had worked together, except for a few spots in my brain. The connection had been made and now I knew what colours were called, that the man had played a flute, and that I needed to earn money and why.

I also knew that at some point, I would have to record my story for my creator to see. His experiment
was
a success. He had given up too soon.

An old fortune-teller draped with colourful scarves sat on a small fruit box on the cobblestone streets. She had another box with a scarf draped over it, a lit candle, and a picture of Jesus. She waved me over with her wrinkled boney hand.

“I have no money,” I said.

“No, it doesn't matter. I know who you are. You are to be careful. There is evil around here. So many have died so far.”

“You mean the Ripper.”

“Yes. Him and the others.”

“Others.”

“The stench of death is around you. There are others who want you.”

“I'm not so sure about that.”

“There has been talk about experiments. There's a wing at the hospital and now and again, people escape. Do you remember being there?” she looked at me intently with milky blue eyes.

“No,” I said. “Is that where I was?”

“I see you strapped to a bed. The product of electrodes and medicines.” The fortune-teller shuddered. “I don't like what I'm seeing. I hope it's over.”

“I don't know what's over. How do you see?”

“I just do. It's a gift, my dear. One that everyone has, we just don't all use it.”

“I don't.”

“Oh but you do. The first step is opening yourself up to it. If you want it, you can have it.”

“But how?”

“God wills it.”

“How do I open up?”

“That would be a lesson and a lesson would cost money, honey. I have to earn a living too.”

“Of course,” I said.

“Come back when you have money and I will teach you how it's done.” She winked.

“I will.”

“Be careful. That's my warning to you. And remember me in your prayers tonight.”

I nodded and left the fortune-teller. How had she seen what had happened to me? Or did she? Perhaps she could tell that I had memory issues, that I'd been in some sort of accident. Yet my scars were only red maps along my body, not the fresh weeping wounds from mere hours before.

I walked with elation back to the room.

Three girls were helping each other with their hair and makeup. It was as if they were preparing for a party instead of a night walking the streets. They turned to look at me standing in the doorway. Charlotte's eyes were wide with joy.

“What happened?” she asked.

“I guess the peroxide is working,” I said.

“Well thank goodness for that.” She reached up to touch my face in disbelief. “I've never seen it work so fast. You only have faint scars now.”

“Really?”

“See for yourself.”

This time when I looked in the mirror, I wasn't quite as horrified. I still was no beauty with the scars but my flesh had been pulled taut and into a shape that fit my bones. Scars still criss-crossed my face where the skin grafts and hair grafts had occurred but under the lines, my face was reminiscent of the girl from my visions.

Feelings of longing and loss flooded through me. Feelings of joys diminished and loves abandoned. The idea of my being discarded was a hollow ache that coursed through my bones. Who was I? How many of us were woven together to create me?

“This is Penny and Lorna,” Charlotte was saying as I refocused my thoughts on the girls. Since the electrocution, my thoughts were tumbling around like mating chipmunks; caught for a moment only to scurry off once more.

“You need to be careful,” Penny said. I laughed as I remembered the fortune-teller.

“Yes, I know. There are murderers out there. Don't worry. I've seen a lot.”

“And we certainly don't want you to see more,” Charlotte said. “Now, sit. I've a surprise for you.”

I sat on her bed while Penny and Lorna sat on Lorna's bed.

“I found a pack of cards for you to use. I don't really know how it works except that hearts are love. The rest doesn't mean anything to me,” Charlotte said as she pulled a deck of cards out of her walking coat.

“Where did you find them?” I asked.

“They were in the side coat pocket of a gentleman coming out of a poker game. He was boasting so hard about his winnings that it was nothing to reach into his pocket and grab the cards.”

She handed me the deck. It was old and worn, with some of the cards torn.

I took it and for a moment, worried that my fingers wouldn't articulate properly. However, in a short time, I was able to move the cards around and then shuffle the deck in a simple manner.

“I can't get over how good you look… How well those scars have healed. And you don't smell quite so bad now either, if I can be so blunt.”

“You were quite a beauty before whatever happened, I must say, too bad,” Lorna said as Penny nudged her in the ribs.

“Hey,” Lorna complained.

“Don't be so rude. She can't help how she looks,” Penny whispered too loud. “Or smells…”

“Shhh, to you too,” Lorna said.

“The cards are shuffled,” I said as I plunked them on the bed. “Now what?” I asked Charlotte.

“I guess pull a card and see what it is.”

I pulled out a two of spades.

“What does this mean?” I asked her. Charlotte shrugged.

“Black is evil. Two is perhaps…a couple, like a wedding.” Charlotte grinned. “I bet that's it. A bad day to get married.”

“I'm not so sure,” I said as I stared at the cards.

“I know a bit,” Penny offered. “My grandmother used to read the cards. She had the real ones, the witch cards, but I saw her use playing decks too. She kept trying to teach me.”

“Why didn't you learn?” I asked, still looking at the two of spades.

“I don't know if it's right to see into the future. Maybe some things should be left alone.”

“Perhaps, but share with us what you do know,” Charlotte laughed.

“All right.” Penny pulled out the cards with Lorna offering her crumbs of knowledge as well. As the girls babbled on, sometimes all at once, I managed to feel a sense of how it all worked. I began to understand the patterns of numbers and symbols. When I looked at the patterns, they formed pictures in my mind. I didn't know if the pictures were true and I didn't think I would until I worked with strangers.

I was eager to try out my new knowledge on the streets that night.

I sat in a doorway, wearing many scarves to cover the ill-fitting dress of Charlotte's that I still wore. I was in a rather wealthy part of town. I had the cards out and was puzzling over them. A well-dressed woman stopped to stare at me.

“Well, what do you see?” she asked with the impatience of someone who has been kept waiting for an hour. Her haughty manner disturbed me.

“I see a beautiful woman who is trapped by circumstance. Your impatience is a mask for your pain,” I blurted.

The woman stared at me with hurt on her face. I was braced for a nasty comment but instead, her face softened.

“Oh my goodness, you're so right. All this money, all because Father died.” She opened her bag and put several pounds into my can.

“Thank you,” she said as she walked crisply away.

The night flowed on. Somehow the grieving ones found me. The ones with pain, with secrets, with unrequited love. Somehow they sniffed me out on the various doorstops where I set up shop and paid me for my insights. Sometimes, paid me very well.

It was astonishing to me how many people were superstitious, who wanted to talk to the dead, who craved to have their future laid out for them in clear order. Somehow, for a while, I could tap into people's secret fears and I didn't know why or how except for the sheer desperation of needing money.

A few days passed and the air turned more crisp and windy. The dull, dreary streets of London were even thicker with steam and smog and fog. The cobblestones were slippery from the perpetual damp. My bones ached constantly.

“Ripper murder,” screamed the newsboys on the street corners. “Another murder.”

I heard the rumours of another young lady, killed on her nightly rounds. It saddened me and worried me. The streets were abuzz with whispers, each flickering shadow a potential threat.

More people were murdered, mostly in the main areas that were written about. However, there were other murders too that weren't so well known. The endless daily entanglements of the poor, the spousal attacks of the rich, secret experiments in darkened labs; class didn't matter when it came to humankind's dark heart.

It occurred to me that the library might contain information. It was only that morning that I remembered such an institution existed. It wasn't easy to gain access but at last I did. I was able to immerse myself into the archived clippings of murders in London from Regent's Park to Whitechapel.

After I went shopping and with my money, I bought myself a new petticoat, new overclothes, a hat with large feathers to cover my face, and peroxide. I even had some left over to buy some food for me and the ladies. Cheese and bread and some apples.

When I entered the room, there was no one there.

They had disappeared. Perhaps they had gone for a walk, but they were always home at this time. Or at least one of them was.

My intuition told me they were gone for good.

They never returned to the little room. In time, I washed some of their clothes to wear for myself and threw the rest out the front door. I watched as other destitute girls scooped them up quickly.

The landlord never bothered me. I paid the weekly rent when he appeared and he didn't ask any questions. He never even acknowledged that the room had gone from four tenants to one.

I searched newspaper headlines to see what might have happened to my three ladies. The days blended into each other as I read the cards. The wounds had healed nicely. On most days, my body behaved adequately and my emotions were rather even keeled. Then there would be those days where I felt tired and irritated. I couldn't think clearly and all I wanted to do was lie in my bed and stare at the shadows the lantern flame created on the walls.