Mister Creecher (12 page)

But why was Frankenstein doing such work in England? Grave-robbing was a crime. And it made Frankenstein’s reaction to the hanging seem even stranger. Why would a man who thought nothing of butchering the bodies of the hanged faint at the sight of an execution?

But maybe men like Frankenstein put the realities of such things out of their mind. Maybe when confronted by a hanging he was overwhelmed by guilt at the horror of what he was doing.

Billy doubted this somehow. There was something about Frankenstein’s manner with the resurrectionists that did not suggest guilt so much as expediency. Maybe it was more the memory of his brother’s murder and of Justine’s execution.

But surely Frankenstein’s work must contain some explanation for his relationship with Creecher. Had he done something to the giant? Was Creecher the victim of some kind of surgery that had gone badly wrong?

This seemed to be confirmed by the grisly pleasure that Creecher took in hearing Billy’s report of the work going on in that warehouse. He quickly forgot his annoyance at Billy for taking such a risk.

He showed a particularly ghoulish interest in the sex of the corpse. The sight had made Billy queasy enough, but the grin on the giant’s face made him feel even worse.

‘So Frankenstein’s a surgeon, then?’ said Billy.

‘Not a surgeon,’ said Creecher. ‘He is a scientist.’

‘A scientist? What’s that?’

‘It is a person who studies natural philosophy.’

Billy looked baffled.

‘They study the world and how it works,’ said Creecher, by way of explanation. ‘They study the Earth and the heavens and the forces that act upon them. They study the oceans and the forests and the animals that live there. They study the minute and the cosmic. They study life itself.’

‘And is that what Frankenstein studies?’ said Billy. ‘Life itself?’

Creecher looked at him for a long time before replying.

‘Yes,’ he said.

And there the conversation seemed to end. Billy could think of nothing more to say and Creecher gave the distinct impression that he felt enough had been said already.

‘You must leave Frankenstein to his work,’ said Creecher after a while. ‘We cannot risk disturbing him.’

‘You don’t want me to follow him any more?’

‘Follow him to the warehouse, but there must be no more climbing to look in. I do not want Frankenstein to be scared off. Do you understand?’

Billy nodded. Frankenstein scared off? It would be no hardship to avoid looking in on those horrors.

‘Follow him to the warehouse,’ repeated Creecher. ‘And anywhere else he goes. But no more.’

‘What about Clerval?’ asked Billy.

‘I told you, Clerval is not important to me,’ growled Creecher.

‘Does he even know what Frankenstein’s up to?’ asked Billy.

‘No,’ Creecher replied. ‘Frankenstein’s work is a secret to all but him and to me, and must remain so.’

Billy nodded again.

‘His work is of vital importance to me, do you understand? Vital.’

CHAPTER XVII.

The family in Great Russell Street were not the only ones leaving London. The season was ending and the lords and ladies and well-to-do would be thinking about packing up their London houses and travelling back to their country estates.

And Billy had his suspicions that Frankenstein and Clerval were about to move on, too. They no longer made calls on anyone and, though they still toured the sights of London, he had the impression that they had seen all they wished to see. He also noticed that the two men were buying new clothes – warmer clothes and stout boots. They were clearly envisaging walking in wilder terrain than the streets of London.

Then, one morning towards the end of March, the two men stood at the door to their lodgings and shook hands with the landlord. A cart was brought to carry their bags and boxes of scientific equipment.

Billy considered rushing back to the attic to warn Creecher, but thought it best to find out where they were going first. As soon as they were out of sight he knocked at the door of their lodgings.

The owner opened the door and smiled at him.

‘Yes?’

‘My master has sent me to deliver a message to Mr Frankenstein, sir.’

‘Oh dear, I’m afraid you’ve just missed them.’

Billy put his hands to his face and pretended to sob.

‘Now then,’ said the gentleman at the door. ‘What’s this? Why the tears, lad?’

‘My master, sir,’ replied Billy. ‘He’ll beat me, sir. I dawdled when I should have run, sir. If I tell him I’ve missed them, he’s going to be fearful angry. You don’t know where they’re headed, do you, sir? Maybe I could catch them.’

‘If you’re quick, you might,’ he replied. ‘They’re going to catch the coach from the Strand.’

‘Which coach, sir?’

‘The one bound for Windsor, and from there on to Oxford,’ replied the man. ‘Delightful gentlemen. Foreign, you know – but wonderful manners. I have some forwarding addresses somewhere. They asked me to send on any mail they received. Let me write them down for you, just in case . . .’

Oxford? Billy had no clear image of Oxford, but found it hard to imagine that they would need heavy walking clothes for such a place. The man came back and handed Billy a folded piece of paper, which he put in his pocket.

He set off to the attic and within minutes was climbing in through the window. His entry had raised a small blizzard of dust and, through its swirling cloud, he saw Creecher lying asleep on the floor, tucked in to the slope of the roof.

Billy had rushed all the way there to warn the giant, but now he felt nervous about waking him. There was something so terrifying about that sleeping body. It took Billy right back to that first night. Again, there was no sign of life at all. He appeared, to all intents and purposes, a stone-cold corpse.

Billy took a nervous step forward and the floorboard creaked beneath his foot. By the dim light seeping in from the filthy window, he saw Creecher’s dull yellow eye open. The giant breathed hard and then his whole body convulsed, as if sparked into life. Billy jumped back as the giant sat up and stared at him.

‘Why are you here?’ he growled.

‘They’re leaving London,’ said Billy. ‘Frankenstein and Clerval.’

Creecher was on his feet in a flash and lurched towards Billy, his arms outstretched. Billy shielded his face and stepped back.

‘Whoa! I know where they’re going,’ he said. ‘I ain’t stupid. They’re getting the coach to Windsor and then Oxford.’ Creecher didn’t need to know about the list of forwarding addresses yet. Billy would keep that information to himself for the time being. Never say more than you need to.

‘Windsor?’ said Creecher. ‘Where is that?’

‘I don’t know, do I?’ said Billy. ‘I’ve never been out of London in my life, unless you count Southwark. West, I think. On the Thames.’

‘Probably just as well,’ said Creecher, with a sigh, handing Billy a news-sheet and pointing to a headline.

‘
Giant spectre haunts London
,’ quoted Billy and looked up at Creecher before reading the article to himself. Billy and Creecher’s activities had not gone unnoticed, it seemed.

‘We will wait until dark and then follow,’ said Creecher, before walking back to the other side of the attic and sitting down.

‘Oh no!’ said Billy, shaking his head. ‘You might be going to Windsor, but I ain’t. Find yourself some other Billy when you get there.’

‘But I do not want to find another Billy,’ said Creecher with a frown. ‘I want this one.’

‘Well, this one is a Londoner and he stays put.’

‘I thought we were friends,’ Creecher growled.

Billy stared at the giant, looking for a sign that he was joking, but his face was as grim as ever.

‘You was about to throttle me a moment ago!’ said Billy.

Creecher shrugged.

‘Is your life so bad now?’ he replied. ‘What were you when I found you? A thief, and who knows what later – if you lived that long. What future did you have? Transportation, if you were lucky. The gallows more than likely.’

Billy could find nothing to argue with. It was true. For all that Creecher still unnerved and even terrified him, his life was better now. He didn’t want to give that up. Even so . . .

‘But I can’t leave London,’ said Billy plaintively.

‘Why not?’ asked Creecher, with another shrug.

‘I don’t know. It’s just what I am. It’s me. It’s where I live.’

‘I have no home,’ said the giant. ‘I belong nowhere . . .’

‘Yeah, well, sorry. But I can’t help that. I’m not leaving London.’

Billy took a deep breath and felt the dust coat his tongue. He walked to the window and looked across the rooftops towards the river. A fog was rolling in.

‘Sorry,’ he said, turning back to Creecher.

The giant did not reply at first.

‘Perhaps you are scared to leave,’ he said after a few moments.

‘I’m not scared.’

Creecher looked up at him and then nodded sullenly.

‘Well, I cannot make you come,’ he said.

‘No, you can’t.’

An awkward silence ensued and Billy felt compelled to break it.

‘Look, I’d better go. Good luck, eh?’

He held out his hand and after a moment the giant reached out and took it. The grip was not as firm as Billy had feared.

‘Good luck to you also, mon ami,’ said Creecher.

Billy climbed out of the window, expecting as he did so that Creecher’s hand would grab him and wrench him back inside. But before he knew it, he was down in the alleyway and heading back towards his rooms in Soho Square.

There was the usual raucous traffic at Seven Dials but he was oblivious to it. Was this how it was going to end with the giant? They would just go their separate ways and that would be it?

Billy shook his head. He needed to think. What was life really going to be like on his own again? Without Creecher he would be back to his old pickpocketing ways, having to rely on whatever Gratz chose to give him for the trinkets he managed to steal. Without Creecher he would never earn enough to pay for his rooms or his clothes or the decent food he’d become accustomed to. He couldn’t bear the idea of going back to the boy he had been.

Pickpocketing was a hard life. Some days Billy would take nothing at all. And besides, Creecher was right – it was only a matter of time before he got caught. Everyone got caught eventually.

It was also only a matter of time, too, before he ran into Skinner and the rest of Fletcher’s old cronies. Billy might be able to talk his way out of trouble for a while by pretending the giant was still in London, but it wouldn’t work for ever.

The more he thought, the slower his footsteps became. Creecher was right – he was scared to leave London. It was the unknown he dreaded most. He weighed his fear of Skinner against his fear of leaving London and found that the more he deliberated, the less it seemed to be about fear at all.

Billy realised that he actually
wanted
to go with Creecher. He did not know where it would all lead, but he knew that he needed to find out; he knew that he was not ready to let Creecher simply walk away and out of his life.

As soon as he arrived at his rooms in Soho Square, Billy packed a bag, settled his rent with his landlord and walked briskly back to the baker’s. When he climbed into the attic, the giant was exactly where he had left him, as if waiting for Billy to return.

‘All right,’ said Billy, dropping his bag. ‘Why not?’

‘Good,’ said Creecher with a grin. ‘Then we must –’

‘On one condition,’ Billy interrupted.

‘One condition?’ growled Creecher.

‘Yeah,’ said Billy. ‘I want to know who Frankenstein is and why we’re following him. Otherwise you’re on your own and I’ll take my chances here.’

Creecher’s frown deepened and Billy readied himself for an attack. But just as the giant seemed about to erupt in fury, he let out a long sigh and hung his head.

‘Very well, my friend,’ he said. ‘You should know. You deserve to know. But I warn you, what you will hear will change your life for ever. Do you still want me to tell you?’

Billy nodded silently. There was a long pause.

‘Frankenstein . . . made me,’ said Creecher at last.

‘Made you do what?’ said Billy.

Creecher took a deep breath.

‘No, my friend,’ he said. ‘Frankenstein . . .
made
me. He . . .
created
me.’

‘You’re saying he’s your father?’ said Billy, perplexed.

Creecher shook his head.

‘No,’ he replied. ‘He made me. He formed me. With his own hands. He built me.’

Billy stared at him for a moment and then laughed drily.

‘That’s it, is it?’ he said. ‘That’s the best you can come up with? Do you think I’m an idiot?’

‘You asked for the truth –’

‘Yes, the truth!’ yelled Billy. ‘Not a story. Not a joke!’