James McGee - Resurrectionist

When he heard the sobbing, Attendant Mordecai Leech’s first thought was that it was probably the wind trying to burrow its way under the eaves. On a night such as this, with rain lashing the windows like grapeshot, it was not an unusual occurrence; the vast building was old and draughty and had been condemned years ago. Only as Leech turned the corner at the foot of the broad stairway leading to the first floor, candle held aloft, did he realize that the weeping was not emanating from outside the building but from one of the galleries on the landing above him.

The galleries were long with high, arched ceilings and sound had a tendency to travel, so it was hard to tell the exact source of the distress, or even whether the sufferer was male or female.

Probably the bloody American, Norris, Leech thought, as another low moan drifted down the stairwell. It was followed by a long-drawn-out howl, like that made by a small dog. Judging from the intensity of the ululation, it sounded as if the poor bastard was in mortal torment, in the throes of another of his regular nightmares. But then, Leech reflected in a rare moment of compassion, if I were chained to the bloody wall by my neck and ankles, I’d probably be suffering bad dreams too.

The howl gave way to a keening wail and Leech cursed under his breath. The ruckus was liable to disturb the wing’s other inhabitants, and once they’d picked up the din and joined in it would sound like feeding time at the Tower menagerie, which was a guarantee that no one would get a wink of sleep. God rot the mad bastard!

Reluctantly, Leech prepared to mount the stairs, only to be startled by the harsh jangle of a bell. Suddenly he remembered that was why he’d come downstairs in the first place — in answer to a summons from someone outside, requesting admittance. Leech reached into his jacket pocket and consulted his watch. It was a little after ten o’clock. He didn’t need to look through the inspection hatch to see who it was.

As he was reaching for the bolts on the inside of the door, Leech noticed that the wailing had stopped. It was as if the sound of the bell had triggered the silence. He breathed a sigh of relief. Maybe it would be a quiet night after all.

The door swung inwards to reveal a slender figure dressed in a black, rain-sodden cloak and wide-brimmed hat, dripping with water. A woollen scarf, wrapped round the visitor’s neck and lower face as a protection against the inclement weather, hid his features.

Leech stood aside to let the man enter. “Ev’ning, Reverend,” he whispered. “I was wondering if the bloody rain would keep you away. Beggin’ your pardon,” Leech added hurriedly. His voice remained low, as if he was afraid he might be overheard. Members of the clergy were not welcome here. That was the rule, by order of the governors.

The clergyman untied his scarf, revealing his clerical collar, and lifted his head. “I was detained; a burial service for one of my parishioners and a host of other duties, I’m afraid.”

In raising his head and thus elevating the brim of his hat, the clergyman’s countenance was revealed. It was neither a young nor an old face. But there was wisdom there, in the eyes and the crow’s feet and the deep furrows etched into the cheeks and forehead. There were several scars, too, along the jawline: small and round, hinting at a brush with some variation of the pox. High along the priest’s right cheekbone what looked suspiciously like a wound from a blade had created a shallow runnel.

Leech had often wondered about the scar and the priest’s background, but he had been too wary to ask the man directly and no one he had mentioned it to knew the circumstances of the disfigurement; or, if they did know, they chose not to impart information on the subject. So Leech remained ignorant and more than a mite curious.

The priest removed his hat and cloak and shook them to expel the rain. “How is he?”

Leech shrugged. “Wouldn’t know, Reverend. I don’t have a lot to do with ’im. You probably see more of ’im than I do. I make sure ’is door’s bolted and that he gets ’is victuals, an’ that’s as much as I ’as to do with it. An’ that suits me just fine. Anything else, you’d be better askin’ the apothecary. How long’s it been since you’ve seen ’im?”

“We played our last game a week ago. I was soundly beaten, I’m afraid. His command of strategy is quite formidable and, alas, I was rather a poor adversary. However, he was exceedingly magnanimous in victory.” The priest patted Leech’s arm. “Let us hope this evening’s contest proves more rewarding.”

Another low moan drifted down from on high and the keeper tensed. “Buggeration. Er… sorry, Reverend.”

The slam of a metal door from deeper inside the building echoed through the darkened wing. It was followed by the sound of heavy footsteps and an angry warning. “God damn it, Norris! If you don’t keep it down, I’ll be in there tightening the bloody screws!”

As if at a given signal, the threat was answered by an uneven chorus of raised voices in varying degrees of excitement. This was followed, in quick succession, by a cacophony of high-pitched screams, a peal of hysterical laughter and, somewhat incongruously, what sounded like the opening chant of some religious exultation.

“Hell’s bleedin’ bells!” Leech spat. “That’s gone and done it.”

The priest shook his head. “Poor demented souls.”

Poor souls, my arse, Leech muttered under his breath. Aloud, he said, “Come on, Reverend, I’ll take you to him. Quickly now, stay close to me. And I’d be obliged if you’d put your ’at back on and keep your scarf high. Don’t want any pryin’ eyes spottin’ your collar. Wouldn’t want either of us to get into trouble.” The attendant jerked a thumb skywards. “Then I can go and help deal with that lot upstairs.”

Casting a wary eye around him, Leech turned and led the way along the dimly lit corridor. The priest hurried in his wake. Gradually, the noise from the first floor began to recede as they left the stairs behind them.

Not for the first time, the priest was struck by the speed at which decay was spreading through the building. There were wide cracks along the edges of the ceiling. Rainwater was running down the walls in streams. Many of the window frames were so far out of alignment it was clear that some sections of the roof were too heavy for the bowed walls to support. The entire edifice was crumbling into the ground.

Leech turned the corner. Ahead of them a long corridor led off into stygian darkness. A blast of rain splattered loudly against a nearby window. The sound was accompanied by a groan like that of an animal in pain.

Leech grinned at the priest’s startled expression. “Don’t worry, Reverend, it’s only the rafters. Used to be in the navy,” the attendant added, “I knows a bit about ship building. Got to give the ribs room to breathe. Same with this place. Mind you, the stupid buggers only went and built her on top of the city ditch, didn’t they? Know what we’re standing on? About six inches o’ rubble. Below that there’s naught but bleedin’ soil. We ain’t just leakin’, we’re bloody sinkin’ as well!” Leech looked up. “Anyways, we’re here.”

They were standing in front of a solid wooden door. Set into the door at eye level was a small, six-inch-square grille, similar to the screen in a confessional. At the base of the door there was a gap, just wide enough to admit a food tray. Both the grille and the gap were silhouetted by the pale yellow glow of candlelight emanating from inside the room.

Leech reached for the key ring at his waist.

“You know what to do, Reverend. Pull on the bell as usual. It’ll ring in the keepers’ room. I’ll be off at midnight, unless the buggers upstairs are still awake, but old Grubb’ll be on duty. He’ll be waitin’ to unlock the door and see you out.”