Alex Grecian - The Yard

Hammersmith swallowed hard. “Thank you, no.”

“It will be crooked, I think. Noses aren’t my specialty. But it should set well and you’ll be able to breathe through it in the near future. Just be careful about your face for the next few days. Sleep on your back. The nose will most likely be tender for some time to come. Use a steak on it to reduce the swelling.”

Hammersmith couldn’t afford steak, but he smiled as well as he was able. “I will. Thank you.”

“Well, I don’t think you came here to have your nose fixed. And I’m sure you didn’t come to discuss popular literature,” Kingsley said.

“Right,” Hammersmith said. “I’m here about the boy, of course.”

“Yes, I thought you might be anxious for results. I got to him first thing. Unfortunately, there’s not a lot to tell. The boy basically baked to death in the chimney.”

“But the fire wasn’t lit.”

“No, but the intense heat that built up inside the structure was enough. His lungs weren’t able to process the air around him and he slowly suffocated. There is evidence that his organs began to break down before his death, so I imagine it was a long and painful process.”

Hammersmith’s jaw clenched.

“Was there any … Did you find anything on the body that might provide a clue?”

“The boy’s elbows and knees were bloodied and scarred from repeatedly rubbing against bricks over a period of time. At some point, I would say within the past week or so, salt water was rubbed in his wounds to clean them. The soles of his feet had been burnt repeatedly. His master might have given him incentive to climb faster by lighting fires beneath him. He also had a small burn on his left wrist. It was up high and covered by the sleeve of his jacket. Possibly inflicted by a cigarette or a fireplace ember, but of an unusual shape.”

“I drew a picture of it for you,” Fiona said.

“You did?”

“Yes, so you wouldn’t have to look at the body again. You were so upset yesterday, I didn’t think…”

“That’s awfully considerate of you.”

The girl was holding her tablet of paper and had already turned to the proper page as the two men were talking. She tore the page out and handed it to Hammersmith. The picture she’d drawn was of a child’s arm with a dark mottled half-moon centered halfway between the wrist and elbow.

“Thank you very much.”

Fiona smiled. “You look horribly sore and tired, but you smell like chocolate,” she said.

“I do?”

Kingsley leaned in and sniffed Hammersmith’s jacket.

“You do,” he said.

“It must be … I live above a confectioner’s shop.”

“It’s not unpleasant,” Kingsley said.

“It’s nice,” Fiona said.

“Dr Kingsley?” A young woman wearing a starched white hat stood in the door of the big room. “There are two more gentlemen from the police here to speak to you.”

“Well, show them in, of course. No, wait. I’ll accompany you.”

He turned to Hammersmith and lowered his voice so that the nurse wouldn’t hear.

“Clean yourself up. I’ll keep them in the vestibule for a few moments. Fiona, please fetch a clean shirt from my closet in the back. Mr Hammersmith can’t wear this thing.” He waved his hand at Hammersmith’s bloody shirt.

“I wouldn’t want to put you to any trouble,” Hammersmith said.

“It’s no trouble at all.”

Kingsley followed the nurse from the room. Fiona gave Hammersmith a shy smile and disappeared through a second door at the other end of the room.

Hammersmith stood up from the table and had to grab the edge of it to keep from falling down. He felt light-headed and the room tried to swim away from him, slowly receding and being brought back by the tide and leaving again. He moved carefully to the counter against the side of the room, holding the table until he was close enough to put his hand on the countertop. He worked his way to a mirror on a high stand in the corner. It was angled toward the floor, and he swiveled it so he could see his face.

His nose was a huge misshapen beet, and the skin around his eyes was deeply purple with flecks of yellow fading into the flesh of his cheeks. His face had puffed up to double its ordinary size and resembled a bad cheese.

There was a basin of clear water beside the mirror and a stack of small white towels. Hammersmith dipped a towel in the water and dabbed it carefully over his face. He dipped it into the water again and repeated the process. Looking at his face, he couldn’t see a difference, but the water turned pink the second time he dipped the towel, so he supposed he was making some kind of progress.

The towel was rough and it caught on Hammersmith’s whiskers. He cast about the counter for something he might use to shave. There was a drawer under the basin and he pulled it out. There, amid a selection of alien tools, was a razor. Hammersmith didn’t think Kingsley would mind if he borrowed it for a few quick swipes at his chin. He used his hands to pat some of the pink basin water onto his cheeks and jaw and then drew the razor over them as gently as he could, scraping away hair and crusted blood, swishing the razor in the water again and again until it had turned a dark muddy brown.

He was finishing as Fiona reentered the room with a shirt in her hands. He saw her in the mirror and turned to greet her. He moved too fast and almost fell, and she rushed forward to steady him. He noticed that it was the first time he had seen her without her sketchbook.

She drew away from him quickly, as if he had burned her, and gasped when she saw the open razor on the counter behind him.

“You didn’t,” she said.

“I’m sorry. I thought your father wouldn’t mind.”

“Oh, no. It’s not … I mean, I think he’s used that blade on a corpse this morning.”

“Of course. I didn’t think.”

Hammersmith suddenly needed to sit down.

“I shouldn’t have taken so long,” Fiona said. “I wanted to finish my drawing.”

“It’s entirely my fault.”

“Here, put this on.”

She held out the shirt and turned her back to him. He peeled off his old shirt. It was stiff with sweat and dirt and blood, and it was torn under the right armpit. Fiona held out her hand without turning around and he gave her the old shirt. She put it in the bucket with the bloody rags from his face. He put on Kingsley’s clean shirt while Fiona rinsed the razor and put it back in the drawer where Hammersmith had found it. She dumped his brown shaving water from the basin into her bucket.

Kingsley’s shirt was snug through the chest and shoulders, and the sleeves were too short, but when Hammersmith put his jacket on over it he didn’t think anyone would notice.

He didn’t hear Kingsley enter the room, but when he turned around, the doctor was there, showing Inspectors Day and Blacker into the laboratory.

“Good God,” Day said.

“Is that Constable Hammersmith?” Blacker said.

“Sir. Yes, it is.”

“You look a fright.”

“I apologize for my face.”

Day stood quietly, looking at Blacker.

“What?” Blacker said.

“I thought you might make a comment about someone taking a hammer to Mr Hammersmith’s face.”

“Why would I do that?”

“I imagine you haven’t many opportunities to make puns about his name.”

“It would be insensitive for me to begin now, wouldn’t it?”

“Well, of course it would be.”

“Then why would I do it?”

“My apologies, then,” Day said. “And to you, Constable.”

“No need,” Hammersmith said. “My appearance is inexcusable.”

“Well, what happened, man?”

“Nothing I couldn’t deal with.”

“I’d like to see what the other fellow looks like now you’re through with him.”