George Mann - The Executioner's heart

Once before, Newbury had seen the man work miracles, stitching Newbury’s torn shoulder back together and transfusing esoteric compounds into his bloodstream to hasten his recovery. That was some time ago, but Newbury hoped that the Fixer might be able to perform a miracle again.

The house was a three-storey end terrace in an exclusive area of Bloomsbury. Newbury saw Bainbridge running up the steps to the front entrance, where he might alert Rothford, the Fixer’s manservant, to Veronica’s dire circumstances. Newbury, however, would take the side entrance to the cellar, which held the Fixer’s workshop, laboratory, and surgery.

He struggled down the narrow cast-iron steps towards the basement door, careful not to knock Veronica’s head on the iron railings. Once there, he hammered on the wood-panelled door with his foot.

For a moment he heard nothing, no sign of movement from inside the house. He was struck by thoughts that panicked him. The house was dark and silent. What if the Fixer was not at home? What then for Veronica? He moaned in frustration and kicked the door again.

This time he heard a muffled voice from the other side. “I’m coming!”

It was too early yet to feel any sense of relief, but the familiar voice was reassuring.

Bolts slid out of their sockets and the door creaked open, revealing the Fixer, standing in the shadows of his workshop. He was a balding man in his mid-forties, with a neatly trimmed black beard and wire spectacles. He was thinner than Newbury remembered, and free of the bizarre accoutrements with which he’d been adorned during Newbury’s previous visit.

He looked ruffled, as if he’d just pulled on his trousers and shirt. He was rolling up his sleeves as he appraised the situation, and his expression was harried. “Come in, come in!” he said, beckoning Newbury through the door. He rushed over to the wall and flicked a switch. The room, tiled in gleaming white porcelain, was suddenly flooded with harsh illumination that stung Newbury’s eyes.

“She’s in a bad way,” said Newbury, brandishing Veronica’s limp form.

“I can see that, Newbury,” said the Fixer. “Bring her over here; put her on this table.”

Newbury staggered over to a large trestle table topped with a white marble slab. It reminded him of the operating tables in the morgue so much that he almost hesitated to lay Veronica down upon it. He didn’t want to let her go. What if it was the last time he would hold her? He felt short of breath, his heart hammering in his chest. He realised he was being irrational, so he placed her gently down upon the table, brushing her hair from her face.

“Hurry, man!” said the Fixer. He was scrabbling about amongst his surgical tools. He turned to Newbury, brandishing a small pair of scissors, then crossed to where Veronica lay on the slab and set about cutting away the remains of her clothes. His face told a thousand tales as he exposed the extent of the wound between her breasts. He glanced over his shoulder at Newbury. “I’ll do what I can,” he said. “Now go.”

“I won’t leave her,” countered Newbury.

The Fixer glared at him. “Let me work. I can’t have you harrying me. Go.”

Newbury sensed movement behind him and turned to see Rothford standing on the other side of the room. He smiled warmly. He looked immaculate in his black suit, with grey, receding hair and a hooked, equine nose. “This way, sir,” he said, extending his arm to indicate the way. “We have a waiting room upstairs. You may sit with Sir Charles while the master does his work.”

Newbury glanced at Veronica. The Fixer was standing over her now, donning his worn leather smock and gloves. Her milky-white torso was exposed, and the gaping wound where the Executioner had cracked her chest yawned open like a sickly, smiling mouth. Inside, he could see her labouring heart, straining to maintain its rhythm. He felt as if he was going to swoon. “Yes,” he said, faintly. “Yes, I’ll come with you.”

He felt Rothford take his arm, and realised the man had crossed the room to steady him. He allowed himself to be led away.

* * *

The waiting room was sterile and immaculate. The floor was the same gleaming white marble as the operating table in the basement, and the walls were hung with gilt-framed paintings by many of the old masters of Europe. Strangely, the room smelled of freshly cut flowers, even at this time of night.

Bainbridge perched on the edge of a Chesterfield by the crackling open fire, hunched over a large glass of brandy, his expression fixed and unreadable. Newbury paced back and forth before the bay window, jittery with nervous energy.

An hour had passed with no word. Newbury had lost track of time, but knew it must be the early hours of the morning. Rothford had appeared once to offer them tea, but both men had shaken their heads dully, preferring to take comfort from the decanter of brandy he had provided them with earlier.

Neither of them had spoken a word. Newbury kept replaying the events at the abandoned hotel, thinking that if only he’d done something differently he might have gotten to her in time.

If only she hadn’t gone to that place alone. If only he’d been able to stop her, to make her listen. He knew the attack was coming. He’d seen it in his opium-fuelled dreams. Why hadn’t she listened? Why hadn’t he made her ? Surely he could have prevented this if he’d been stronger.

He realised he was shaking in anguish. He moved to stare out of the window, but then turned at the sound of footsteps approaching in the hall.

The Fixer appeared in the open doorway. He was wiping blood from his forearms with a damp towel, and Newbury saw that it was spattered over his clothes and soaked into his white shirt, despite the smock he had worn. His jaw was set firm, his eyes dull and unrevealing.

Newbury didn’t want to hear what the man had to say. He couldn’t bear it if she were dead. He’d almost prefer to be trapped in this perpetual twilight of uncertainty, to stretch this moment out indefinitely. At least here, now, there was hope.

“How is she?” asked Bainbridge, quietly.

“She’ll live,” said the Fixer. “For now.”

The tension, which until that point had been nearly unbearable, seemed to snap. Newbury exhaled for what felt like the first time since he’d found Veronica at the hotel. His shoulders dropped, and relief washed over him.

“Her heart, however, was damaged beyond repair,” continued the Fixer, his expression unaltered. “I was forced to remove it.”

“ Remove it!” said Newbury, realising his relief had come too soon.

“She would have died,” said the Fixer. “The organ was lacerated during her attacker’s attempt to extract it.”

“But … with no heart? Surely…?” stammered Bainbridge.

“There’s a machine,” said the Fixer. “A machine that will circulate her blood for her, developed many years ago by Dr. Fabian as a prototype for the one that now supports the Queen. It is temperamental and will not serve our purpose indefinitely. We have a few weeks at most to find a more permanent solution, otherwise she will be lost.”

Newbury felt his heart sinking once again. “But you healed me! You brought me back from the brink of death. Can you not find a means?”

“I stitched up your shoulder, Newbury. I cannot repair an organ as complex and fragile as a heart,” said the Fixer, with resignation.

“Show me,” said Newbury. “Let me see her.”

The Fixer nodded. “Very well. Follow me.” He led them through the house to a small door beneath the grand staircase in the main entrance hall. Behind the door, another flight of steps led down to the basement. “Down there,” said the Fixer. “But I’ll warn you, it’s not a sight for those of a weak disposition.”