скачать книгу бесплатно
I see myself slip a flat-bladed knife beneath the musculus coracobrachialis and biceps brachii – for these notations are suddenly known to me – and raise them slightly from their accustomed bed against the bone of my upper arm. I do not want to fix my gaze anywhere but on this work, which terrifies me yet is familiar, and comforting in its familiarity.
I am opened up, and am possessed of a knowledge that sparkles through me. My heart soars: I know this. For what are men but hills, swamps, sinkholes, deep abysses, flat plains? I understand now. This is no gazetteer of any country; it is the terrain of man’s interior geography, and I am a geographer of that body for I know the mountains and rivers, the highways and cities. I gaze at my flesh, opened up so beautifully. It prickles, quickens. I behold the mappa mundi. All I need to know is here.
I feel wetness on my cheeks, hear a cough and the softness flies away, as though I have been roughly shaken from sleep. My heart beats fast, and I am filled with a fear that I shall find everyone looking at me, somehow knowing my strange imaginings, but the sound is one of the sweepers. I examine my arm: it is untouched. My body is quiet again.
I shake my head and empty it of what I have just witnessed. I do not know whence it came. I have been affected by the terrified beast earlier, that is all. I am a plain man and do not know such long words, nor such an overwhelming philosophy. It is nothing. I press my knowledge into a deep well.
At mid-morning my companions lay down their tools and go out for a mug of tea and piece of bread.
‘I shall stay,’ I say, for I desire a peaceful spot in which to gather up my ragged thoughts.
‘Come now, Abel. You’ve earned a breather.’ Alfred grins.
‘You more than any of us bastards,’ adds William, and they laugh.
‘One-Blow Abel, that’s you!’
I make my mouth smile also.
‘There is but one carcase needs finishing off,’ I say, lightening my voice to make it careless.
Alfred dawdles.
‘I shall stay also. We shall follow presently.’
He grins at me as they depart.
‘Just the two of us, eh? Best company a man could have.’
I set myself back to work, striking the carcase before me; but my hand trembles and I only split it halfway. I try again and strike untrue, jarring the bone so hard my shoulder numbs, and I drop the axe. The steel rings against stone, and Alfred calls out.
‘Abel?’
‘Yes,’ I reply.
‘What is it?’
‘I have dropped my blade.’
‘Dropped it?’ His voice sounds with shock, and he pushes through the curtain of cadavers to my side. ‘What ails you, Abel?’
His eyes search mine.
I shrug. ‘It is nothing.’
‘Well, then,’ he says. ‘Very well.’
He coughs, busying himself in picking up my blade and placing it into my hand.
‘See,’ I say. ‘I am steady again.’
I make another stroke to prove my words, but it is a poor effort, shearing away and striking my forearm, and I am sliced to the bone. For an instant, all is peaceful as we stare at my arm, the dark crimson of muscle within. He speaks first.
‘Christ, your arm.’
‘Yes,’ I say.
It is true. It is my arm. He, like me, can see the sick whiteness showing at the heart of the slit. I should be afraid, but I am not; I feel no panic as I watch the wound fill with sluggish blood. I wait for it to commence pumping, in the way that kine do when I cut their throats, but it does not. The liquid rises partway to the brim and then pauses, small bubbles winking on the surface. As I watch, I am aware of another sensation: my soul begins to beat sluggish wings, unfolding them after a long sleep. My body tingles, stirs.
‘Christ,’ says Alfred. ‘Dear, sweet Christ.’
He sits upon the floor, not caring about the stickiness and filth.
‘Sit down, man,’ he croaks.
‘Yes,’ I say, lowering myself to sit next to him.
He is trembling.
‘You are dying. You will die. What am I to do?’ he stutters. ‘You will bleed to death. You are slain. What can we do?’ His hands patter all over his apron, wringing the corners. ‘I must get help,’ he says, but does not move.
‘Yes,’ I agree, and do not move either, for my eyes will not leave the sight of my inner workings revealed in this impossible fashion.
I am surprised, but not in that way of a new thing, a never-before-seen thing. It is the stillness of curiosity. I ache to dip my thumb into the dish of the wound to see if I am warm or cool; indeed, I lift my hand to do so, and only hesitate because Alfred is shaking violently, small sobs coming from deep within his chest.
‘I must go. I must go and find a doctor,’ he says, over and over, not stirring. ‘I should not have spoken to you. I distracted you. This is my fault.’
I want to say, It is not, but I am lost in contemplation of this phenomenon.
‘I am not bleeding,’ I muse, and find I have spoken aloud.
Alfred is sitting quite still. ‘Dear Christ,’ he breathes. ‘You are not.’
It is the truth. The injury is full of blood, but is not spilling over.
‘I wonder why,’ I say, for it holds me in a fascination.
I am a slaughter-man: I know well the fountaining of heart’s-blood when an artery is severed.
‘Sweet Jesus,’ repeats Alfred. ‘Look.’
I look. The blood is sinking, and as it subsides the edges of the wound begin to close together very slowly, but fast enough that it is possible to observe the motion. I am held in the grip of a terrific stillness, so entrancing is the sight of my body re-sealing itself. After minutes I forget to count all that can be seen is a red seam along my forearm. I flex my fingers, and they move: I can bend easily at the elbow. Nothing is damaged. Alfred gets to his feet, staggering backwards.
‘You …’ he says, his eyes wild. ‘When a man is cut, he should stay open. You close up. It is not right. You should be dead.’
His gaze darts up and down and from side to side; everywhere but at me.
‘I am not,’ I say simply.
His breathing is rough. ‘I do not—’ he begins, and stops. ‘I do not know you.’
He walks away. I inspect my miraculous arm, twisting it about and watching the line where I cut myself grow smooth and pink. After a while I pick up my axe and continue with my labours. I am determined to concentrate, for I do not wish to slip into another bout of this dangerous half-sleep. The others come back in; Alfred also, but he says nothing, and will not look at me.
I set my teeth and apply myself to my labour. I am a slaughter-man, I say to myself. I cut open the bodies of beasts. They stay open. I was cut, and I closed up. I did not bleed. I shake the troubling thoughts away. I must have been mistaken: I cannot have cut myself so deeply. These things are not possible.
The remainder of the day is simpler. Each beast waits patiently in line, and the greatest noise we hear is the sigh of each giving up its spirit gladly. At the end of the day, I walk out of the gate to find Alfred waiting.
‘Let’s be walking home, then,’ he says grudgingly.
He keeps half a pace ahead of me, and looks back every now and then, as though expecting something, eyes sliding to my forearm. I wince with the knowledge of my body and how it healed; and how he witnessed it happening.
‘Alfred?’
‘What?’ he growls.
‘You are my friend,’ I mumble.
‘Yes, yes,’ he mutters. ‘So you keep saying. Give it a rest.’
He thrusts his eyes ahead, walking faster so that I have to quicken my step to keep up with him. I chew the inside of my mouth until I taste iron. I hold out the package I have been given as my day’s perk: I bear the prize of an entire head, brains and all, for the way I turned things round, the gaffer said.
‘I like brains,’ I say. ‘Brains are tasty.’
He breathes out, slowing down so that I do not have to rush so.
‘They are,’ he agrees, and we fall back into step.
The evening is chilly: he is wrapped up in his coat like a boatman, breath standing before him, humming some tune I do not recognise. I try not to interrupt him. It is difficult. At last I speak.
‘About today—’ I start.
‘It is of no consequence,’ he snaps, picking up the pace again.
‘But it was—’
‘It was nothing!’ he cries. ‘It was a difficult day. That bullock! God, how it wouldn’t die! Enough to make any man see things.’
‘But, Alfred, at the slaughter-house—’
‘I do not want to talk about it. In fact, I remember nothing.’
‘Alfred—’
‘I said, I do not want to talk about it. Get a move on,’ he grunts. ‘It is time to get some food inside us.’
‘Oh.’
My mouth fills with water.
‘That’s the job. Think of that. Nothing else.’
‘Yes. You are right.’
He breathes out heavily, clouding the air around his head.
‘Of course I am. No more rambling. I’m freezing. Let’s get back and get this lot cooked. Of a sudden I have a powerful hunger upon me. Think how good it’ll taste. Any meat you’ve had a hand in is a clean and cheerful dish.’
He slaps my shoulder. I know that the events of today have brought me close to grasping something, but it is already beginning to slip away. If he would talk to me, maybe I could fix my understanding. But he will not.
We walk in silence to our lodging house, a narrow squeeze of a building caught between the muscular shoulders of the tenements to each side. Ours is little different, except the bricks are perhaps grimier, the steps to our cellar a little more slippery with spilt beer and bacon fat, the straw in our palliasses a little older. But there are just as many folk squeezed into the upper floors – three families to a room as I hear it. Their babies squall as lustily; their men and women argue just as cantankerously. It is our crowded ark, one of an armada of vessels crammed thick with humanity. I have no desire to move from my cellar, where everything is cosy and peaceful by comparison.
A woman from one of the upstairs rooms cooks the meat, and there is plenty to share. All the cellar-men fill up the kitchen, joining in the feast of my good fortune. One man brings beer, another, bread; for this is our way of a night. We eat until Alfred’s bad humour is quite taken away, and we are friendly once again. When we have finished, we return to the cellar and Alfred finds our pallets as sure as a seagull finds its nest from the hundreds on a cliff. I stretch out, cradled in the comfort of my companions patting their stomachs, smacking their lips and wiping gravy off their chins.
Alfred lolls on his elbow, picking at his buckled teeth with a straw. His rough sandy hair stands up in surprised tufts. He shifts his thin hips, cracks out a fart and laughs at the sound. His mouth is soft, for all his endeavours to hide it beneath a broad moustache.
‘You know what, Abel?’ he muses. ‘When we strike it rich, we’ll be out of here. Get a nicer room.’
‘Why would we want that? There are so many friends here.’
He scowls. ‘So I’m just one of many, am I?’
‘Not at all, Alfred. You are my dearest friend.’
‘Ah, get away with you.’
He is pleased, and I do not know why he demurs. It is true: I would not find my way through each day without his guidance. The thought is alarming, so I push it away. He clears his throat.
‘Time to reckon up, Abel.’ He rubs his palms together in pleasure. ‘Our little ritual.’
And I remember: every night before we turn in, I count out our wages.
‘This is for lodging,’ I say. ‘This for breakfast. And midday food. This for drink. And this left over.’
‘More drink?’ says Alfred.
‘Hmm. No. I need better boots.’
‘That will not buy you boots.’
‘Then I shall save each day until I have enough.’ I hand the money to him. ‘Will you keep it safe for me? I lose things, you know. I will forget where I have put it.’
Alfred laughs. ‘You’d forget your head!’
‘Yes, you’re a wooden-head, and no mistake!’ calls a man further down the row of sacks.
‘Old dozy!’ another man takes up the cry.
‘It is true,’ I say, for so it is.
