James McGee - Resurrectionist

Abel Maggett grunted. “Too right. Mind you, gettin’ ’er over that bleedin’ wall was a bitch. Damned near done my back in.” The big man pressed a meaty hand against the base of his spine and winced.

Sawney studied his companion with a jaundiced eye. He was by no means a small man himself, but Maggett towered over him by at least a foot and he was big with it. A slaughter-man by trade, Maggett was capable of hefting pig carcasses three at a time. The thought that the big man had put his back out lifting a woman’s cadaver over a five-foot wall was laughable. That was Maggett for you: a real caution.

The knot in the sheet secured, Sawney stood back and admired his handiwork. All told, there were five bodies awaiting delivery: two grown males, a male child and two females. Definitely a good haul.

Sawney knew they’d have to move them soon, however. The wintry weather was a boon, the cellar was ice-cold. Even so, it wouldn’t be long before the bodies would start to turn. Sawney was already having doubts about the child’s corpse. He thought he’d detected some leakage when he’d wrapped the thing. The quicker they passed the bodies on, the better. Once decomposition started, prices would drop significantly. True, they could always chop the bodies into bits and sell the parts separately, but it was a messy business and he didn’t want to go down that road except as a last resort.

He turned to Maggett. “Where is he?”

“Upstairs.” The big man nodded towards the five sheet-entwined bodies. They reminded Maggett of caterpillar cocoons. “When do you want to move ’em?”

“It’ll have to be before sun-up. Maybe later tonight. Can’t risk carrying them through the streets in broad daylight. We’ll use the cart.”

Maggett grunted in acknowledgement. His massive chest strained against the material of his shirt and the buttons of his dark moleskin waistcoat.

Sawney lifted the lantern from its hook. “Right, let’s see what the bugger wants.” Taking a last look around the cellar, Sawney led the way up the stairs and entered the room with Maggett at his back. He frowned at the sole occupant, who was pacing the floor like a cat in a cage. “I thought we ’ad an agreement. You weren’t to come callin’, ’less you was invited. I don’t recall sendin’ word that I wanted to see you.”

Verger Lucius Symes stopped pacing and blinked nervously. Lit by the candlelight, his face bore an unhealthy waxen sheen.

“Well?” Sawney rasped. “I ain’t got all bleedin’ night. What is it? You after your cut, is that it? I told you it was on the usual terms. You’ll get yours when we get ours, and that won’t be until later. I’ll get one of the Ragg boys to drop your share round in the morning.”

Sawney turned to Maggett, shook his head and blew out his cheeks. “Christ, all that lifting’s done my head in. An’ I could murder a wet. I’ve got a throat as dry as a witch’s cunny. Verger looks like he could do with a tot of somethin’ as well. Maggsie, you’re forgettin’ your manners. Get some mugs and open a bottle.”

Maggett frowned. “We ain’t got no mugs, Rufus. Ain’t got no booze neither.”

“Bloody hell.” Sawney raised his eye to the ceiling. “We’re in a bleedin’ pub, for Chris’sakes. Use your noggin.”

Maggett’s wide brow furrowed at the change of tone.

As if to illustrate Sawney’s point, a burst of gin-soaked laughter sounded from the other side of the wall, reminding them that the busy, smoke-filled taproom was only a few feet away.

Sawney sighed. “Go and get some, and tell Hanratty to put it on the slate.”

For someone of his stature, Maggett could move remarkably quietly. Sawney watched him steal out of the room and shook his head again, half in amusement, half in weary exasperation. Maggett was a staunch companion with many excellent qualities, brawn, loyalty and obedience being chief among them. But there were times when he could make a fence post look intelligent.

As Maggett disappeared, there came the sound of a second person’s footsteps and the swish of skirts from the passage outside. There followed a brief murmured exchange and then another, smaller figure appeared in the open doorway. The verger’s eyes widened momentarily.

Moving into the room, the girl slipped an arm round Sawney’s waist.

“’Ello, darlin’,” Sawney said. He turned and nodded towards the verger. “Look who’s come to visit.”

The girl stared at the verger. There was no welcome in her expression.

The verger stared back then his eyes moved to Sawney. “You didn’t have to do it.”

“Sorry, Verger — do what?” Sawney looked at the girl and raised his eyebrows as if to ask her if she knew what the verger was talking about. The girl shrugged.

“Kill him like that,” Symes said.

“Ah,” Sawney nodded sagely, running a tongue over yellowing teeth. “You mean young Doyle.”

“Why?” The verger repeated, his voice dropping to a whisper.

Sawney put his head on one side. He looked like a stoat studying a rabbit. “Because I could.”

The verger blinked.

“Well, what the ’ell did you think was going to happen to ’im?” Sawney rasped. “You think I was just going to give ’im a tap, tell ’im he’d been a naughty boy and send ’im on his way?” Sawney shook his head. “Couldn’t have him ’arbourin’ ideas above ’is station, could I? Should’ve remembered he was playin’ with the big boys. He knew the rules and he broke ’em. In my book, that meant he ’ad to pay. Had to set an example for the rest of them, else there’d just be bleedin’ chaos. Can’t have that, might disrupt business. And right now business is good.” Sawney paused. “And you should know,” he added pointedly. “So don’t come whining to me ’cause you don’t like my methods.”

Releasing himself from the girl and taking a step forward, Sawney wagged his finger. “You knew what you were getting into, just as much as Doyle. You’re a paid-up member, Verger, and it’s us who pays you — handsomely, as I recall.”

The verger paled.

“Not to mention the perks,” Sawney continued. “Like young Sal here, tootin’ your flute whenever you drops by.”

The verger’s gaze flickered to the girl. Her expression was just as dark as Sawney’s and the verger’s throat constricted. There was an unblinking intensity in those midnight-tinted eyes that seemed both feline and wild. As he stared at her, he knew, despite the threat in Sawney’s tone, that it was the girl who was undoubtedly the more dangerous.

“What?” Sawney said mockingly. “Don’t tell me you want out. Jesus, that’s it, ain’t it? You’re here to tell us you’ve had your fill. Well, sorry to disappoint you, but it don’t work like that. You ain’t out till I tell you you’re out. This ain’t a bleedin’ — what do they call it? — Democracy. Besides, the season’s only been up and running for a month. We’ve still got another five to go. The schools are open, terms have started and they’ll be wantin’ bodies. It’s our job to supply them, as fresh as possible. That’s what they pay us for.”

Sawney gazed at the verger, who was looking like a man who’d lost a guinea and found threepence. “No, wait, you weren’t actually thinkin’ of leavin ’ of your own accord? You ain’t that naive, surely? When will you learn? We own you, Symes. We pay you, so we own you. You ever wondered what might happen if the vicar and the parishioners got to know about your little hobbies? I know you’re not strictly what they call a man of the cloth, but you’re close enough. What do you think they’d say if, durin’ next Sunday’s service, young Sal here interrupts the sermon to tell everyone that she sucks your cock of an evening in a back room of the Black Dog pub? You really want to go down that road? No, I didn’t think so. And I’ll tell you this, so there’s no misunderstandin’: dropping the word to the vicar and ’is parishioners will be the best thing we do to you.” Sawney leaned in close so that his face was inches away from the verger’s. His voice dripped quiet menace. “You get my drift?”