James McGee - Resurrectionist

Sawney had become inured to death and corpses and the wounded. Or so he had thought. He’d certainly grown used to the scenes outside the surgeons’ tents, where it wasn’t unknown for men to wait in line for days to receive treatment. That view never altered: blood-spattered uniforms, listless faces, sunken eyes and bloated limbs, all marinated in the sweet, sickly smell of gangrene that hung as heavy as a blanket in the fetid air around them. He remembered the surgeons, stripped down to shirt and breeches, arms and clothing caked with gore as they worked on the laid-out bodies, on tables that were no more than wooden doors supported by wine casks.

He remembered sounds too; the continuous creaking of the wagon wheels, the whimpering of the men as they were transported over terrain that would have tested the agility of a goat, and the constant drone of the flies feasting upon the open sores in swarms as black as coal.

This time it had been different. In that underground room, it hadn’t been the sight of the beds’ occupants, the blood or the nature of their wounds that had unnerved him, or even the low moans of discomfort. At least, not at first. It had been the scream.

It had not been uttered by a man. No human throat could have produced that sound or anything like it. It had been more like the screech of an animal, a fox caught in a snare or some kind of ape. Sawney had seen apes and monkeys in his travels. He’d heard the animals shrieking and clamouring, usually in tussles over food, and the noise in the cellar had been remarkably similar in tone and volume. But even as his mind tried to grapple with that unlikely possibility, he had known deep down that he was fooling himself and that even the most vociferous ape could not have made the ghastly cry.

He had never seen the face of the person holding the knife. All he had seen had been the shape of him, the curve of his shoulder, but the image and that piercing scream, allied to the things he had seen, or thought he had seen, in the other pallets further down the cellar had been enough to make him turn tail and run from the cellar as if the hounds of Hell had been snapping at his heels. Sawney had never referred to the incident, not even to Butler. He’d never returned to that hospital. He’d been assigned other duties, transporting equipment on the long journey to Badajoz. It was only after Hyde had revealed his true identity the previous evening that Sawney realized who the man in the cellar must have been and why he’d had that flashback when Hyde had introduced himself as Dodd. Only in the dream had the figure’s face been revealed. Now he’d seen it for real. Sawney’s life had come full circle.

Sawney raised the mug to his lips and took a sip. It tasted like gunpowder on his tongue. He looked about him. Maggett and the Raggs were around somewhere. Sal, too, plying her trade, he supposed. Thinking about the Raggs made Sawney tighten his grip on his mug.

He’d given them a simple job. All they’d had to do was retrieve the woman’s corpse from Hyde’s underground stable and dispose of it. After the last balls-up, there had been no thought in Sawney’s mind to sell it on to any of his usual customers, so he’d given strict instructions to the brothers to make sure the thing disappeared, permanently, and not too close to home. The Raggs had assured him that had been done and, like a fool, Sawney had believed them. Then news came that a woman’s naked corpse had been found high and relatively dry on a beam over the Fleet not much more than a hop and a skip away, which meant they’d transported the thing halfway across London to drop it virtually on their own doorstep. Sawney had let rip; told them they were useless bastards and as much use as a pair of one-armed fiddlers, which had left Sawney drinking on his own, his crew subdued and scattered around the pub. Sawney knew the bad feeling wouldn’t last for long. It never did. Not when there was a lucrative living to be made by sticking together. They made a good team, the five of them; but that wasn’t to say there weren’t times when he would have swung for them, cheerfully.

Sawney’s gaze moved to the couple over at the next table. The man had his hand on the woman’s knee. Sawney watched as the hand disappeared under the dress. There was no squeal of protest, just a giggle as the woman repaid the favour by stuffing her hand down the front of the man’s breeches. Sawney felt himself stiffen. He looked for Sal, spotted her over in the far corner, talking to one of the Hanratty boys. Bastard’s probably thinking about getting his hand down her blouse, Sawney thought. Well, bugger that. If anyone was going to get his hand down Sal’s blouse tonight, it was going to be him. He drained his mug and stood up. As he did so, he caught Sal’s eye. When he jerked his head towards the door at the back of the room, Sal winked and stuck her tongue into the inside of her cheek to make it bulge. Sawney knew that meant she was in the mood too. He felt himself grow harder. Nothing like an inventive whore to get the blood flowing.

They met at the door.

“You want me to bring one of the other girls?” Sal asked. “Make it a threesome? Rosie’s feelin’ a bit frisky.”

Sawney shook his head. “Not tonight. One’ll be enough.”

Sal looked at him and grinned. “More than enough,” she said, and taking his hand she led him through the doorway and up the stairs.

“God’s teeth,” Lomax muttered. “When you said we’d be on foot, this wasn’t at all what I had in mind.”

“Silence at the back. No talkin’ in the ranks.” The instruction was followed by a rasping chuckle. The sound carried eerily in the semidarkness.

“You’re enjoying this, Sergeant. I can tell.” As the light from Jago’s lantern played across Lomax’s ravaged face, his left eye gleamed demonically.

“Away with you, Major. A drop o’ water never hurt anyone.”

“Water, my arse,” Lomax said.

Jago grinned.

They were at least twenty feet below street level and they were wading through shit. Literally.

Odd how natural the short exchange had sounded, Hawkwood thought, as he listened to Jago and Lomax address each other by rank. It had been interesting, and not a little amusing, seeing the two meet for the first time, watching the way they had sized one another up. From their immediate rapport, it was clear that each of them had recognized in the other a man you’d want on your side, no questions asked. He was reminded of Hyde’s comment back in the alleyway: Once a soldier…

“You think young Hopkins’ll be all right?” Lomax asked.

“Micah’s watching his back,” Jago said. “He’ll be fine.”

“Doesn’t talk much, does he?” Lomax said.

“Who?”

“Micah.”

“Doesn’t have to,” Jago said.

And that was the end of that conversation.

Another lantern wavered twenty paces ahead of them, casting an eerie molten glow across the walls and roof of the tunnel.

“How are we doing, Billy?” Jago called softly.

The reply came towards them in a broad Ulster brogue. “Not far now.’ Bout quarter of a mile.”

“Christ,” Lomax said. He gazed down with disgust at the slow-moving tide of filth running alongside them and cursed again as his boot squelched into the soft and yielding morass.

They had gained access to the tunnel through the cellar beneath Newton’s Gin Shop. It had been at Jago’s suggestion, prompted by Hawkwood asking if there was any way of approaching the Dog without being seen.

There was, the sergeant had told him, but it wouldn’t be what you might call fragrant.

Jago had certainly got that right, Hawkwood reflected. The smell coming off the river had been bad enough topside. Down below, it went way past grim. It was unspeakable, almost beyond description.