The Resurrectionist by James Bradley Read Free Book Online Page B

bear him to the bed, where we lay him in its centre, his breathing shallow, and slow.
    Kitty and Arabella are seated on the divan, Kitty’s head laid across Arabella’s lap. As we enter, Kitty rises, her face searching Charles’s for some sign. Charles goes to her, and to my surprise Kitty grasps him about the neck and presses him toherself, her body expelling a long, wrenching sound. Arabella places a hand on Kitty’s shoulder.
    ‘We have done what we can,’ Charles says to Arabella.
    Arabella stays quiet, and for a long time the three of them stand like this, until at last Charles unknots Kitty’s arms from his neck and passes her back to Arabella.
    ‘May we see him now?’ Arabella asks.
    Charles nods. ‘Send word if he grows worse.’
    With Kitty, Arabella goes to the bedroom door. The maid starts to follow, but does not cross the threshold, lingering instead in the doorway, her back to us.
    From within there is a murmuring, and then the maid turns away, looking at the floor. The gesture is so eloquent. Anyone would know without being told that it was she who had charge of the boy when he was mauled.
    ‘Come,’ says Charles. ‘There is nothing more we can do here.’
    Outside the dawn has come and gone. Picking our way through the mud which sucks at our boots we walk slowly westwards. Here and there the business of the day has begun – a driver brushing the gleaming coat of his horses, a maid emptying a bucket into the roadway, the first sweepers of the day patrolling their corners – but for the most part the streets are still empty of life. Charles does not speak, his silence forbidding my questions.
    By Drummond’s Bank, where we must part, one of the barrows bound for the market has overturned, spilling its load of turnips across the cobbles and attracting the attention of a pig, which roots and snuffles after them. Desperate to save his stock, the barrow’s owner, a shabby man with a twisted walk, is trying to drive the pig away with a stick. He is a small man though, and not strong, while the pig is a monster of a thing, all swinging belly and yellow tusks, and is little deterred, each blow merely evincing a squeal andsending it tottering sideways on its absurdly dainty feet, without slowing its gobbling. Who the pig belongs to is not clear, but the scene has attracted the attention of a trio of urchins, who now dart about the barrow, eagerly filling their shirts and pockets with the turnips, while the frantic owner puffs and grabs at them, even as he battles with the pig.
    ‘What can be done for people who live like this?’ Charles asks at last. His words are spoken as much to himself as to me.
    ‘The child will die, will he not?’ I reply.
    Charles nods, not looking round. ‘Most likely.’
    Now the barrow’s owner strikes the pig across the snout. The blow is quick and hard, and it clearly stings, for the pig raises its head and bellows with rage, its hot breath clouding the freezing air as it turns to focus on its attacker. Apprehensive, the barrow’s owner takes a step back, but then he is struck in the head by a turnip thrown by one of the children. The pig forgotten, he wheels about, waving the stick and grabbing at his assailant.
    ‘Is Kitty an actress as Arabella is?’ I ask. Charles turns as if noticing me for the first time.
    ‘Once,’ he says. ‘Not now.’ The barrow-owner has grabbed one of the children by the collar, sending her spinning away, only to lose his footing and fall hard upon the stones.
    ‘I see no reason for Mr Poll or Robert to know of what happened tonight,’ Charles says suddenly, his words careful but deliberate.
    ‘Of course,’ I say. For a long moment we stand, then without a word he turns and walks away, across the almost empty space of Charing Cross, his body fading into the mist that lies upon the ground, until at last his shape is lost within it.

M R POLL SHAKES the letter open, scanning it quickly. ‘What is it?’ Charles asks. As if it were