The Resurrectionist (18 page)

O
N EVERY SIDE
the earth is broken, turned and spilled about, graves open to the air.

‘Dogs!’ Craven spits, stepping forward, but Lucan stays him with a hand.

‘Wait,’ he says, ‘let us be sure we are alone.’

Craven bends his head, then moves away along the wall.

Lucan is still. Picked out by his lantern a body sprawls, its abdomen swollen huge, face pulled back in a rictus of corruption. Beyond it another one, a woman’s corpse, the flesh turned foul, headstone overturned. He lets the light move impassively from one to the other, making no remark on what we see. Stepping back into the shadows I draw my bottle from my coat and take a sip.

‘Long gone,’ Craven says, reappearing. Lucan nods. He kneels at the body lying bloated on the ground, touching the ruined face with his hand. And then he stands, and walks back towards the gate. As he comes abreast of me he stops, his hand moving so fast I do not have time to react, gripping my wrist painfully.

‘Leave that poison,’ he hisses, and with a sharp motion he flicks my arm aside so the bottle flies from my grasp. I watch it fall, biting down the urge to grab it back.

O
UTSIDE RAIN, AND YELLOW SKIES
, the grimy light of dawn on everything. In his room Graves sleeps, his snoring a soft whistle. Beside the fire a bottle lies. Behind me there is a sound, and I turn, half thinking to see Caley. Not Caley though, but Craven, his white eye spectral in the jaundiced light.

‘No one here?’

I shake my head. ‘Who should be?’

He gives a knowing smile. ‘Perhaps you could tell me that very thing?’

‘I can tell you nothing,’ I say. Slowly he skirts the kitchen walls, pausing by each door to look up or down. By the cellar door he stops, and puts a hand upon the knob and turns it slowly. He does not shake or rattle it, just presses hard enough to know it is locked.

‘What do you want?’ I ask.

‘Nothing much,’ he says, drawing a chair out from the table and seating himself. ‘A word, is all.’

‘Then have it, for I am tired.’

‘We have a traitor in our midst,’ he says.

‘Indeed?’ I must fight to keep my voice level.

‘Indeed,’ he replies, watching.

‘Why do you tell me this?’

‘You do not know who it might be?’

I shake my head, and for a long time Craven sits.

‘You do not look well,’ he says at last. ‘Are you sick?’

‘Just tired,’ I say. Slowly he nods.

‘Think on my words,’ he says, pushing back his chair and standing to go. Once he has gone something begins to rise in me, a wildness. I would run, I think, throw myself against the world, this feeling uncontrollable. My hands are trembling, and try as I might they will not stop.

A
T FIRST
I
THINK
I have lived this moment already. Time seeming to repeat itself, to stutter.

Lucan smiles. ‘You had not thought to see me here?’ Shaking my head I take a step away.

‘Why do you back away?’ he asks. ‘What have you to fear?’

He glances round the empty kitchen.

‘Where is Graves?’

‘Out,’ I say, but he does not reply.

‘What do you want?’ I ask, willing myself to be calm, but some note in my voice catches him.

‘What?’ he asks, coming closer. ‘Such hate?’ By the heaviness in his eyes I know he is drunk. ‘Have I not been a friend to you?’

‘No,’ I say, ‘not hate,’ but he reaches out and touches my face, his rings cold against my skin, the gesture almost tender.

‘Hate is good,’ he says, ‘it makes us strong.’ As he speaks something thickens inside of me. Not hate, or not quite, nor fear either, but something more like tenderness, exquisite and painful and violent. He holds my face, swaying slowly, the smell of liquor strong on him.

It seems he means to say more, but then on the stairs someone catches their breath, and Caley is there, Walker behind him. At that same instant Graves appears at the door from the yard. None of us moves.

‘So,’ Lucan says in a quiet voice, ‘it is true.’

Caley hangs back, his body tight, like a child in the presence of something long desired but forbidden to touch. In the door to the yard Graves remains utterly still, his mouth half-open.

‘What?’ Lucan asks – ‘you did not think I would find you?’

Still Caley does not answer, stays poised as if ready to flee. Behind him Walker is trembling, his breath coming loud through his ruined mouth. Slowly Lucan lowers his hand, and as he does I back away.

‘You thought you might take this from me did you? An Irish guttersnipe like you?’

‘No,’ Caley says. ‘You wronged me, old man.’ His voice trembles with fury, but Lucan only laughs.

‘I wronged you? By giving you up to the lags?’ Lucan snorts and turns away. Caley glares at his retreating form. He seems beaten, but then he draws the knife from his belt and takes a step forward. Lucan turns back and looks for a moment at the knife, contempt written on his face.

‘You think me afraid of you?’ he asks. Caley shifts from foot to foot, the knife swaying before him.

‘Why should it be yours?’

Lucan laughs. ‘Because I made it mine,’ he says, his voice low. Still Caley is caught between his hatred and his fear. Looking past him, Lucan seeks out Walker’s eyes.

‘Come, John Walker,’ he says. ‘Leave here now with me and I will forget your part in this.’

Walker’s face is bloodless and drawn, but Lucan has divined something in him. Still, though, he does not move to
follow. At last Lucan looks once more at Caley and laughs, and as he does Caley’s arm wavers and falls.

‘Remember this,’ Lucan says, turning once more for the door. Behind him Caley stands staring at the knife in his hand. I am shaking, I realise, my legs weak and loose beneath me. It is over.

And then, quite suddenly, Caley lifts his eyes, his hand tightening about the knife. In a slow shuffling run he begins to move again, Lucan turning too late to see him there, as with one thrust Caley drives the knife up into Lucan’s chest, his eyes bright with tears.

T
HERE IS A MOMENT
as the blade enters him when all is still. As if time slowed, and in that moment everything is possible. On Lucan’s face a look not of fear, but of disbelief. Pressed close against his chest Caley does not move, as if he himself cannot quite believe this thing he has done. Then from Lucan’s mouth a gulp of blood, thick and almost black. Beneath him his knees seem to quake, a convulsive movement. Letting go of the knife Caley takes one step back, and then Lucan’s legs begin to buckle, his weight bearing him down onto his knees. Lifting a hand he makes to touch the knife where it protrudes from his chest, his face still set in a look of shock, but the hand cannot seem to close about it, groping instead at the air once, then twice, before at last he slumps face-first onto the ground.

For a long time none of us moves, just stand staring at his body on the ground. He lies twisted on the floor, his chest pressed high on Caley’s jutting knife. From beneath him a pool of blood is spreading, spilling slowly out across the stones, thick and dark as oil as it leaks into the cracks.

‘What have you done?’ I ask at last. The words seem too loud somehow, unnatural.

Caley’s face is ashen, uncomprehending. Against the wall Walker too is still. Only Graves is moving, his hands clenching and unclenching as he trembles by the fireplace.

‘What have you done?’ I ask again, and Caley swings his head. Perhaps he would deny this thing, make some claim of innocence but then something hardens in his face.

‘Killed him,’ he says, and though his words are certain his tone is not. ‘Would that I had done it long ago.’

Something begins to knot inside of me, some anger. Somehow it pleases me, this thing that he has done. He feels it too, it is in his face, the pale look of him, the queasy thrill of possibility. Beside me, Graves has stopped, and stands, staring down, his face flushed with excitement, as if he cannot bear to look away.

W
E PLACE HIS BODY
, still warm with passing life, in the dark beneath the floor. There is something irresistible in this thing, all of us can feel it. As we bear him down the stairs, Graves flaps around us, reaching in with eager hands as if to help, but each time I push him away.

And later, in the kitchen, he sits upon his chair, rocking back and forth, eyes darting to the stain upon the stones excitedly, his foolish voice running on and on with jokes and plays upon the fact of which we cannot speak. Whatever madness infected Caley earlier is altered now, and he drinks and stares about himself, as if he teeters on the edge of grief, and must drink so to erase this thing. Looking at him I too want to be away from here, away from this, but I cannot go, cannot tear myself away. Only Walker seems not to share in it, his ruined face haggard and drawn. I cannot look at him, for something in his manner, in the pity of his face and nature, seems awful to me tonight.

F
OR A DAY OR TWO
we linger here, waiting for Craven to come seeking him. He must know something is amiss, and so will come, I am sure. At first I think this frightens me, but as the days leak by I realise I am not frightened so much as numbed, as if Craven has no power to harm me any more.

All the while the presence of his body in the scuttle beneath the house is like a weight that grows with each passing day, heavy as a tide. The knowledge of it seems to swell in Graves, something he cannot forget or put away. He follows me about, and presses himself upon me in his need to speak of it. Caley too is changed, though where Graves has grown needier Caley grows more silent and withdrawn.

Outside the fog is heavy, the days slipping by in a twilight that seems without shape or form. Once or twice I venture out, sometimes to buy opium, sometimes to drink or just to walk, but mostly I simply stay closed in my room. I do not sleep, or not much, the hours flickering by, as if I skate across the surface of my dreams. I know well enough I take too
much of it but it seems easier to give into the need for it than to fight.

We work barely at all, though the nights are secret ones, shrouded close by fog and cold. Once we go to Bethnal Green, once to St Giles, but each time we take but a single corpse, a dozen guineas worth, no more.

And one evening his body is gone, spirited away as if never there, the space in the scuttle where he lay made empty.

T
HEN IT COMES
, as it always would. The sound of laughter, a woman’s voice. Coming downstairs I find Caley there, and Graves, the two of them standing outside Graves’s door in some secret conference. In the corner Walker stands alone, his body knotted in upon itself. Graves looks around, his manner telling me at once something is afoot.

‘What’s this?’ I ask. Graves darts a look at Caley, who smiles as if he has some secret that he means to taunt me with.

‘Nothing much,’ he says, smiling callowly. His face is pale, with that same look as the other night, that wildness. Inside me something queasy stirs. As if Caley has made a joke, Graves begins to laugh his foolish laugh. My legs tremble as I take a step towards the door; Caley does not move to cut me off, just stands aside so I may pass.

On Graves’s bed an old woman sits half-slumped against the wall. She wears a ragged dress, much soiled and wrapped about with a dirty shawl, and in her hand she holds a pint of rum. Hearing me there she lifts her head, seeming to sniff at the air and blinking myopically.

‘Tom?’ she asks. Confused I look around, and as I do Caley and Graves come closer, past me into the room.

‘No,’ says Graves, barely able to contain himself, ‘just a friend, another friend.’ His face shines with some unhealthy glee, his squinting eyes seeming to look everywhere except at me. Advancing on her, he holds one hand out to remind her of the bottle in her hand.

‘He’ll be here soon though?’ the woman asks, and Graves giggles.

‘Very soon,’ he says, pressing the bottle on her, ‘drink up now.’ Chuckling, she lifts the bottle greedily, smacking her lips and slurping on its neck. Her toothless mouth is slack with drink, her shrivelled lips wet and horrible. Turning back to us Graves capers a bit, his hands held high to his chest. I can hear Caley’s breath moving in and out beside me, hot and quick.

‘Who is she?’ I ask.

‘Did you not hear?’ he replies. ‘She’s mum to Tom.’ Then I understand. It is wrong this thing, I know that well enough. But it has a power of its own. And there is a sort of freedom in it too, to give oneself to it. Moving slowly Caley comes close to where the woman sits.

‘Tom?’ she asks, and Caley gives a laugh. He looks very young, I think, and terrible.

‘No,’ he says, ‘not Tom,’ and he puts a hand upon her head to touch her hair. She gurgles drunkenly, in some ghastly parody of girlishness, bending her head to him. Graves is standing, his hands clenching and unclenching, his excitement palpable. Lifting a hand Caley strokes her hair, my skin jumping each time it descends onto her head. Against his body the old woman murmurs something, and Caley chuckles, solicitous. And then just as suddenly he grabs her hair and twists it tight around his hand, forcing her back and down onto the floor in front of me. The movement quick as a
snake, shocking in its ferocity. Frightened now the woman gives a cry.

‘What are you doing?’ she moans. But Caley only laughs, one hand holding her, the other already around her neck.

‘Please,’ she sobs, ‘I have money, a shilling you can have–’ but Caley seems not to hear, his grip tightening about her neck. The old woman starts to kick and fight, twisting herself and punching at him.

‘Take her,’ he cries, ‘hold her still,’ but I do not move, and nor does Graves. It is awful, the way he holds her there, his pale face and kissing lips. With her fingernails the old woman rakes at his neck, drawing blood, but Caley seems not to feel it, instead crying again to me to take her arms, hold her down. And this time I do, stepping in to help pin her there.

He is whispering I realise now, words that might be endearments, words of love made words of hate.

‘No,’ the woman moans, ‘let me go,’ and ‘I want my Tom.’ Caley takes the corner of her shawl and with two fingers crams it into her mouth. I think she will close her teeth about his hand, but she gags and spits, frantic and terrified, and as she does he stuffs in more and more, cramming it tight until she can take no more. Her eyes are wide, bulging from her face – blue once, I think, now stained yellow as nicotine and veined with red. Caley has stopped speaking, focused in on this task of his with an awful clarity. With his other hand he grabs her nose, clamping it off and twisting it, and though she fights and makes a muffled noise she cannot shake him off. He is very still, it seems, even as she fights and squirms, her struggles dragging on and on, until all at once it is done, and she is still.

For a long time then I do not move. Against my hands she does not strain, or push. At last, unknotting my grip, I release her and rise. All is as it was yet nothing seems the same: nearby Graves still stands trembling with excitement, one
hand half extended as if he would touch her but fears to do so. Caley has already straightened, the blood where she scratched his neck beading bright against his skin. From her mouth the shawl protrudes, her face red and eyes bulging. I do not know how I should feel, only that it should not be like this: I am calm, and somehow numb, as if I have done something that was always waiting here, something no more and no less than the act itself. Caley lifts his eyes to mine, and there again is the wildness of the night that Lucan died. But this time I see something else as well, something more like pain, or need, as if he felt something that he sought already slipping away.