chief bully for the evening, and I have a treat for us all.’
He flourishes his hand towards a woman at his elbow. There are a few whistles and rumbles of approval.
‘Some of you know her, some of you don’t. Not a tooth in her head. Eh, May?’
The woman grins, demonstrating the truth of his statement.
‘So, steady up, lads, finish your idle chatter,’ he says. ‘A gobble for sixpence; a helping hand for three.’
They gather into a knot and lay out their coins. She seems unconcerned by the number of acts they are negotiating, eyes brightening only when the take is firmly stowed in her bodice. She leads the first into the corner. The rest turn their backs and share a pipe, acting as though they cannot hear his shallowing gasps.
‘You’ve got a bit left over, haven’t you, Abel?’ says Alfred casually.
‘I have,’ I say.
He waves towards the female, who is already taking her next customer in hand. I consider her fingers working at my body in a similar fashion.
‘It’s there for the taking.’
‘No,’ I decide.
He smiles. ‘Me neither.’
Although I do not wish to participate, I find it difficult to take my attention from the hunched bodies in the darkness. One of the men, satisfied now and lounging on his mattress, notices the direction of my gaze.
‘Come on, cold-fish,’ he shouts. ‘You can have one on me if you like.’ He tosses a few coins in the air. ‘It’ll make a man of you.’
He laughs, not unpleasantly, and those men who are not distracted by the woman turn to regard me.
‘You have got one, haven’t you?’
‘Maybe it’s a tiddler,’ chaffs one, waggling his little finger.
‘She doesn’t mind small fry, do you, May?’
The woman hoots, washing down her most recent bout with a mouthful of beer and scratching at her skirts.
‘Maybe it’s as lifeless as he is. That soaking in the river has made it as much good as a herring.’
‘The river’ll do that to a man. Turn his every part to mud.’
‘Don’t plague him so,’ says Alfred, and their eyes turn from me to him. He is examining the laces of his boots as though they are fascinating objects worthy of deep study.
‘Only our bit of fun, Alf.’
‘He doesn’t mind, do you, mate?’
‘No,’ I say truthfully.
One of them thumps me on the back.
‘See? We’re only jesting.’
‘You’re all right, Abel, even if you can’t get it up. Anytime you change your mind, though, first one’s on us. Right, lads?’
They murmur assent, raising their smokes and cups in a toast. Then, finished with their companionable teasing, they settle to the more stimulating activities of the evening. After some time, the woman completes her labours and departs.
It occurs to me that I have heard taunts like theirs before, and I scrabble in my head for when it might have been. Last night? Last year? The harder I search, the more elusive the answer. I close my eyes, and it comes to me: I stand encircled, hands bound. My mind stirs unpleasantly and I shake my head. Perhaps I do not want to remember, after all. But now I have called them up, they will not leave me.
Dead fish.
Dead man.
Corpse-kisser.
I have heard every name before and they do not sting. My mouth fills with bile. I blink, and am back in the cellar. Alfred is peering at me closely.
‘You all right, Abel? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’
‘I am well,’ I lie.
‘They don’t mean anything by it,’ he says, and pats my knee.
‘I know.’
‘Don’t pay them any mind.’
‘I shall not.’
‘Some men are so,’ he reassures me.
‘Yes.’
He is sitting so close his thigh is pressed against mine.
‘Alfred,’ I say quietly.
‘Yes, Abel?’ he breathes.
‘Please let me speak to you.’
‘Is it about today?’ he grumbles.
‘Yes.’
‘I am tired, Abel. I do not wish to talk any longer.’
‘Please?’
‘Go to sleep, Abel.’
He turns, curving his back away from me. The cellar quietens into sleep.
I am left alone, now that there are no distractions. I roll up my sleeve, uncovering my left arm. It is the same shape and colour as it was this morning, the hair as dark, and sprouting a thick trail from elbow to wrist in the same fashion. It matches the right arm perfectly, except for the scar: now a pale silver trail.
I struggle to believe that it is a part of my body; yet when I cut into it, it was as familiar as looking into a dish of potatoes. I try to make sense of this, and tell myself it is because I spend my days and nights cutting open beasts, and am used to the sight of muscle, bone, yellow fat, grey slippery organs. I am not convinced. It is not the same. My flesh is quick; the beasts are dead.
How could my body accomplish such a feat of healing? I puzzle over this riddle but find no answer. Only a creeping fear: no true, honest man heals like this. Therefore, I am a monster.
My mind strains to escape from this terrible conclusion, for how can I live with such knowledge, with myself? I desire an answer, and for that answer to be that I am mistaken. My most sincere wish is to be man and not miracle. There is of course only one way to prove that I am a simple fellow who bleeds and heals in the slow, painful way of ordinary folk. I must cut myself again, and prove it wrong.
With a stolen candle stub in my pocket, I take myself to the yard privy. Alfred does not wake to ask me what I am about. I get out my pocket-knife. My fist closes about the handle, the blade hovers; I press the point into my forearm, where the last trace of the scar remains. I will cut myself in the same spot, and it will bleed, and I will have to bind it up. Yes. I will prove it was nothing more than a freakish mistake.
I draw the blade along my arm in a straight line, and
