The Resurrectionist (14 page)

I
T IS LATE
the next day before Mr Poll arrives, the afternoon already done. Seated in the kitchen, I hear his carriage outside, muffled voices in the hall above. Soon enough Robert is on the kitchen stairs.

Mr Poll is in his study, Mr Tyne standing to one side. Where he has been since last night I do not know, but seeing now the swelling of his cut and blackened eye, the bruises on his cheek and neck, I realise I am no longer afraid of him, of any of this. Mr Poll stands watching as I take in those injuries, my gaze clear and cold, then with a glance he directs Robert to close the door.

‘What is the meaning of this?’

Before Mr Tyne can answer I speak, my voice coming almost proudly. ‘It was my doing.’

‘You struck him? To what purpose?’

‘Because he is a villain.’

‘What kind of an answer is that?’ snaps Mr Poll. Then, recovering himself, he turns to Robert.

‘What do you know of this? Who struck the first blow?’

‘I was not present, sir,’ Robert says.

‘It was I,’ I say, before Robert may say any more.

Mr Poll looks at me, then back at Robert.

‘Well?’

Robert looks down. ‘I have the word of Mrs Gunn that the first blow was Gabriel’s.’

Mr Poll nods. Then he turns to Mr Tyne.

‘And you? What have you to say to this?’

‘The boy speaks the truth,’ Mr Tyne replies. ‘He attacked me.’

‘And you did nothing to provoke it?’

Mr Tyne only smiles, his eyes meeting mine for a moment.

‘Fetch Charles,’ says Mr Poll. ‘This matter is his concern as well.’

It is almost an hour before Charles arrives, summoned by Robert from somewhere or other. Directed to wait in the library I hear him come in and speak with Mr Poll for a time. Then Robert appears at the door and summons me to join them. This time Mr Tyne is not present, but in truth it would not matter if he was, for the sight of Charles standing with my master revives in me my desire for this thing to be done. What Charles thinks I do not know, for he does not speak, and so it is Mr Poll who begins.

‘I will ask you again,’ he says, ‘is there some cause for this behaviour, some reason you can give for it?’

I shake my head, looking not at Mr Poll but at Charles.

‘Think carefully,’ says Mr Poll. ‘I know there has been ill feeling between you and Tyne for some time, and I do not doubt that you were provoked.’

‘Please, Gabriel,’ Robert says, but I only shake my head.

‘The first blow was mine,’ I say, ‘that is all there is to be said of it.’

‘Then you give me no choice, you understand that?’ asks Mr Poll.

‘I do,’ I say. There is quiet then, Mr Poll standing silently.

‘Then go,’ he says at last, ‘you are dismissed.’ As he speaks he shakes his head, the expression on his face is one of sadness, not of anger, and all at once I feel the blood hot in my face, and so I turn away, unable to remain.

In my room I pack my things, a process quickly done, and gladly, for my hands tremble as I work, though whether from rage or shame I do not know. As I work Robert watches me from the door, unspeaking.

‘Where will you go?’ he asks when I am done, and I shrug.

‘I will find a room,’ I say.

‘Have you money?’

‘A little,’ I reply. He nods, his eyes regarding me steadily, then extending his arms he draws me to himself.

‘God keep you, Gabriel,’ he says, ‘God keep you.’

Outside in the street the air is warm, the day not quite yet done, and to the west the sky burns red. In the air above, the swallows shoot and wheel, their small bodies describing arcs against the fading sky as they chase their prey. Before his shop, Clark’s boy sweeps the pavement, next door the maid chatters to the waterman; all about the life of the street continues as it ever does, it is only me that has changed. For these moments I hesitate, not knowing which way to turn. In the hall behind me Mrs Gunn stands with Robert, Charles beside them and so, not wanting to linger, I turn left, my feet following themselves into the city’s roil.

I
WAKE TO EVENING’S
fading light, the air about me close and foul. Through the thin partition of the wall beside me comes the sound of coughing, a noise both wet and horrible that continues on and on. At first I am unsure of where I am, or when, and for a brief moment I fancy I may have slept only a heartbeat or two, slipping in the shallow, skittering sleep of the opium, that the light outside might be that of the dawn, but even as I do I know that it is not, and that the day is gone, and it is dusk.

Sitting up I rub my hands against my face. My head is thick, and some sense of loss weighs down on me, a regret for which there seems no cause. With one hand I find a match upon the table by the bed, and striking it I light a candle stub, the room flickering into light as it flares and takes.

Rising I fumble with my flies, watching the stream of my urine drum into the pot. It is dark and pungent, its stink rising hotly. Then I reach for my coat upon the chair, only to remember my watch is gone, pawned yesterday. From downstairs comes my landlord Scarpi’s voice raised in anger at his
wife. Outside, people will be gathering, talking and laughing as they go about the business of the last hours of the day. Lifting my eyes to the window I picture them, feeling their motion somewhere inside of me. I would be out there, I think, amongst their busy movement, and I reach again for my coat and hurry out the door and down the stairs into the street.

Six weeks have passed since I left my master’s house. That night I walked without direction, feeling a lightness at being free again. On every side the streets teemed with life and noise, the ceaseless press of the city’s motion, and yet I barely noticed. Only when I came to Ludgate Hill, the great bulk of St Paul’s afire against the fading sky, did I falter, realising I did not know where it was I went, the implications of what I had done suddenly pressing down on me.

Not knowing what else to do I turned aside, seeking out a tavern or eating place where I might sit awhile; finding one, I took a place before the window, staring out through the smoky glass into the street. I ordered wine, and at the owner’s insistence bread and soup, though I had little appetite.

The food was quickly brought. In my mouth the bread was dry and stale, though in truth I barely tasted it. Once and then again I drew out my purse and counted the coins within. It was not much, enough for a week or two, no more. Perhaps I might find work, I thought, though I recoiled, so horrible was the idea of losing my days as some schoolteacher or counting clerk. And so I sat, staring at the street, my mind lost in the implications of what had been, what was, and what would be, each becoming tangled in the others.

At last I tried to eat the soup, but it was long cold, the greying meat repulsive in my mouth. Pushing it aside, I sought out the owner. For a few shillings he led me to a room, and casting off my boots and jacket I stretched myself upon the bed. The mattress was hard, rank with the smell of mildew and the other bodies that had lain upon it; through the window from the street below the sound of the passing revellers rose, seeming to fill the space as if they cried and shouted in the room itself.

In time I heard the clocks ring out two o’clock, then three. Somewhere not far away musicians played, men’s voices raised in song. Yet within me was only space, huge and unfillable. Finally I rose, and opening my bag brought out the flask of opium I had hidden there. Even then I felt it, that awful mingling of desire and revulsion, as if my hand were guided not by my will but by something stronger. I like to think I hesitated, seated there, that I might have set it aside – but I did not, and so instead I raised the bottle to my lips and drank, feeling myself sink back into its embrace.

I
N THE STREET
the lamps are lit, setting light upon the faces of the passing crowd. Though the night is cool the air is clear, and in the windows and doorways the people of the district can be seen. Here a bookbinder bent at his work, there a shopkeeper in conference, in other houses families and children. My pace quickens as I pass them by, grateful to be moving free. Amongst the crowd I am anonymous, another face to be glanced at and easily forgot, and though there is something exhilarating in this, so too it frightens me, the restlessness it provokes. All about me so many people, passing close and past and past again, and me untethered in their midst.

On the Strand I hurry past the doorways one by one, watching for somewhere that I might stop. Reaching into my coat I count my coins between my fingers. Not much perhaps, but enough. I have discovered that the city offers many pleasures for those who would sample them, easy companionships of dice and drink.

Finally I stop outside a place I am familiar with. Inside the fire is lit, the room already thick with tobacco smoke. Taking
a seat I look about, seeing faces that I know and others I do not. At a lift of my hand, the serving girl brings brandy. She smiles as she places it in front of me, and I smile back: she is a pretty thing, and popular, and she has a weakness for me which is flattering. Lifting the brandy to my lips I take a sip, feeling its warmth down my throat and neck. Another sip and then another one, and finally my restlessness begins to ease. I scratch my neck; I have a rash there these last two weeks, an angry thing which comes and goes, and against the collar of my shirt it bothers me.

In Covent Garden, Arabella will be on the stage. Shakespeare perhaps, or Sheridan, the words somehow irrelevant. In the stalls and boxes they will be listening, their eyes transfixed, lost to whatever illusion is woven on the stage. Every night she is thus, her body bound into its costumes by the dressing girls, her face painted for the stage.

There was a time when it seemed marvellous, when I would go and watch her there and find happiness, but in these last weeks I can hardly bear to see the way she surrenders herself to the part. Last night I waited for her, seated in her dressing room. My watch just pawned, I had money in my pocket, money I was determined would be kept. She came from the stage, hard with it, and somehow not herself. All I wanted was to touch her face, to feel her close against me once again. But as she entered I saw she was still half in her part, her gestures somehow false, and so I contrived an argument, wanting to see her weep, to know the power over her that this would give. But that power when it came was hollow, and cheap.

Much later, and I am unsteady on my feet. My purse is light, my money gone, and myself no better for its loss. Arabella
plays late tonight, and I would go to her, though I am in no state for it. Tonight I heard my voice as I spoke to the other men, too loud and artificial in its tones, as if it were I who played a part, and one which did not fit.

I
GET TWO CROWNS
for my books, a shilling each for my spare boots and shirts. Only when he reaches my Bible does the pawnbroker pause.

‘I have too many of these already,’ he says, sliding it across the table towards me. I push it back.

‘Surely you can take another?’ I ask. He looks at me impassively, then slides a ha’penny across the counter.

I take the money quickly, slipping out the door again. Not much, perhaps, but enough to buy food for a week, and opium. Out in the streets I feel my spirits rise, free of the captivity of that little room with its rows of parcelled goods. I know this feeling, know the way it pulls. I move too fast, too carelessly, afraid somehow to be still, or at rest.

Two nights past she pressed a guinea in my hand, bidding me take it. Opening my hand I looked at it sitting heavy in my palm.

‘What is this?’

‘A gift,’ she said, but I shook my head.

‘I have money.’ Standing there I felt a fool in front of her, a sullen child.

‘Your watch,’ she said, ‘your books.’

Angry, I pushed the coin back at her so it slipped and fell onto the floor.

‘And how was this money made?’ I demanded.

Behind her Mary watching me, her sallow face expressionless.

B
Y
S
T
M
ARTIN’S
he lunges out to catch my arm.

‘Which ones have the pox?’ he demands. A gentleman, at least in name. I shake my head and pull away. Letting go he takes a step back.

‘What, you mean you cannot vouch for them?’ His arms are held wide to indicate the women who line the streets hereabouts. Behind him his friends hoot with laughter.

Shaking my head again I make to push past these five revellers.

‘I think he is a Methodist, gentlemen!’ he shouts, but I do not turn around.

Cheeks flushed I take the corner at a rush – and then come face to face with a pair of women. They stand close, locked in argument, the fist of one raised threateningly. Perhaps I startle them, for they turn, faces already taut with rage.

‘Molly?’ I ask.

At first I am not sure she knows me, but then she laughs.

‘A fine place for you to be,’ she says.

With a last burst she shoves the other woman back down the street.

‘What are you doing here?’ I ask. ‘Where is May?’

‘Who knows?’ Though she is still beautiful she looks older, and thinner too, the skin about her eyes and mouth bruised and drawn.

‘You have left him?’

She laughs, the calculation visible in her face. ‘You think I did not come here anyway?’

‘You do him an injustice,’ I say. ‘He loved you, no doubt he loves you still.’

‘Here men give me sovereigns for that same love,’ she says, coming closer. I back away, and she curls her lip. ‘What? You do not care to know these things? Come, perhaps you would try what he found in me.’ Though she does not touch me, her closeness is unsettling. Her breath is foul, sweet with the scent of gin and opium.

‘No,’ she says then, stepping back and away from me. ‘You are no more a man than he.’ Some of the other girls have gathered to watch, and now they laugh and jeer amongst themselves. Shaking my head I take two steps back, then turn, and walk away into the night.

That Molly should have deserted May should come as no surprise, yet it unsettles me. I linger on a corner, feeling powerless, repulsive to myself. Then, determined to find him, be the friend I know he would be to me, I set off for Marshall Street. Yet it is not May who answers my knocks but an older man. He stares at me as if I have offended him somehow.

‘The room is let,’ he says gruffly.

Confused, I look past him. ‘Let?’ I ask. ‘To whom?’

‘Try Pizzey’s,’ he says, gesturing across the street, then starting to close the door.

‘No,’ I say, stepping forward, ‘wait. What of the former tenant?’

‘The painter?’ he asks, incredulous. ‘Gone, gone these last six weeks.’

‘Gone where?’ I persist.

His face softens, but then he shakes his head.

‘You find him, you tell him he owes me two pounds six,’ he says, shoving the door closed.