The Palace Of Curiosities Part 5

'Got a bit of luck you'd like to rub off on me?'

'Come on, Abel, how about a good rub-down!'

They roar with laughter and I decide it is best to join in. I ache for them to say more. To paint in the blank picture of my forgetting.

'You were in the papers and everything. Come on, Alf, show us.'

Alfred unb.u.t.tons the neck of his shirt to a scatter of playful whistles and draws out a much-folded sheet of newspaper. He lays it across his knee, smoothing out the folds carefully.

'There you are,' says one, leaning over Alfred's shoulder and jabbing at the page.

'Watch it, Pete. You'll tear a b.l.o.o.d.y hole in it.'

'Look, Abel. That's you, that is.'

I squint at the small engraving: a man's head; nose prominent, eyes dark and deep-set, a shadow of hair on the chin. Below, a cl.u.s.ter of uniformed men around a p.r.o.ne figure. They look very pleased with themselves. Mysterious Gentleman Rescued, reads the headline. Startling Discovery, of Particular Interest.

'You can read it?'

I realise I have been speaking out loud.

'Didn't know you were educated.'

'Neither did I,' I say.

They laugh, and are easy with me again.

'You can see why they thought you were that Italian.'

'Go on, say something wop. You know you can.'

I do not have to think: the words fly easily to my tongue. 'Piacere di conoscerla.'

'He's a living marvel!'

'Yes, but not that posh one, as went missing.'

'They found him with his throat cut.'

'And his trousers down!'

'So you're common as muck, like the rest of us.'

'Better off with us lot, eh, Abel?'

'I am,' I agree, and it pleases them greatly.

'Why did you jump?' says one, more thoughtfully.

'I do not remember,' I say. 'Maybe I fell in.'

'Lot of drunks fall in. No offence.'

'I am not offended.'

'You don't seem like a drunk.'

'Well, you weren't in the pudding club. That's why the ladies tend to take a late swim.'

They chuckle again, and after a while Alfred shoos them away.

'Don't chase them off.'

'Only trying to help out a pal.' He sulks. 'Give you a bit of peace.'

'I know. But I like to hear them talk. Truly, I don't remember.'

'Remember what?'

'Any of it. Falling in the river. Being pulled out. Anything before this cellar.'

'Now you're pulling my leg.'

'Alfred, I am not.'

'Abel, I know you're a wooden-head at the best of times ...' He stops. 'You mean it?'

'I want to remember. I can't. I look into myself and find nothing. Each morning I wake up ...'

He looks worried. I decide to stop. The look changes to thoughtful, and then he smiles.

'It'll come back,' he declares, with a certainty I do not share. 'Big shock, that's what it is. Thing like that'd scare any man out of his wits. Make him imagine all kinds of nonsense.'

'You are sure?'

'Course I am. Wouldn't lie to you, would I?'

'No. You are my friend.'

'You keep me straight, Abel, you do.' He smiles, and grasps my shoulder.

'Right, listen up!' bawls one of the cellar-men. All heads turn. 'I am chief bully for the evening, and I have a treat for us all.'

He flourishes his hand towards a woman at his elbow. There are a few whistles and rumbles of approval.

'Some of you know her, some of you don't. Not a tooth in her head. Eh, May?'

The woman grins, demonstrating the truth of his statement.

'So, steady up, lads, finish your idle chatter,' he says. 'A gobble for sixpence; a helping hand for three.'

They gather into a knot and lay out their coins. She seems unconcerned by the number of acts they are negotiating, eyes brightening only when the take is firmly stowed in her bodice. She leads the first into the corner. The rest turn their backs and share a pipe, acting as though they cannot hear his shallowing gasps.

'You've got a bit left over, haven't you, Abel?' says Alfred casually.

'I have,' I say.

He waves towards the female, who is already taking her next customer in hand. I consider her fingers working at my body in a similar fashion.

'It's there for the taking.'

'No,' I decide.

He smiles. 'Me neither.'

Although I do not wish to partic.i.p.ate, I find it difficult to take my attention from the hunched bodies in the darkness. One of the men, satisfied now and lounging on his mattress, notices the direction of my gaze.

'Come on, cold-fish,' he shouts. 'You can have one on me if you like.' He tosses a few coins in the air. 'It'll make a man of you.'

He laughs, not unpleasantly, and those men who are not distracted by the woman turn to regard me.

'You have got one, haven't you?'

'Maybe it's a tiddler,' chaffs one, waggling his little finger.

'She doesn't mind small fry, do you, May?'

The woman hoots, washing down her most recent bout with a mouthful of beer and scratching at her skirts.

'Maybe it's as lifeless as he is. That soaking in the river has made it as much good as a herring.'

'The river'll do that to a man. Turn his every part to mud.'

'Don't plague him so,' says Alfred, and their eyes turn from me to him. He is examining the laces of his boots as though they are fascinating objects worthy of deep study.

'Only our bit of fun, Alf.'

'He doesn't mind, do you, mate?'

'No,' I say truthfully.

One of them thumps me on the back.

'See? We're only jesting.'

'You're all right, Abel, even if you can't get it up. Anytime you change your mind, though, first one's on us. Right, lads?'

They murmur a.s.sent, raising their smokes and cups in a toast. Then, finished with their companionable teasing, they settle to the more stimulating activities of the evening. After some time, the woman completes her labours and departs.

It occurs to me that I have heard taunts like theirs before, and I scrabble in my head for when it might have been. Last night? Last year? The harder I search, the more elusive the answer. I close my eyes, and it comes to me: I stand encircled, hands bound. My mind stirs unpleasantly and I shake my head. Perhaps I do not want to remember, after all. But now I have called them up, they will not leave me.

Dead fish.

Dead man.

Corpse-kisser.

I have heard every name before and they do not sting. My mouth fills with bile. I blink, and am back in the cellar. Alfred is peering at me closely.

'You all right, Abel? You look like you've seen a ghost.'

'I am well,' I lie.

'They don't mean anything by it,' he says, and pats my knee.

'I know.'

'Don't pay them any mind.'

'I shall not.'

'Some men are so,' he rea.s.sures me.

'Yes.'

He is sitting so close his thigh is pressed against mine.

'Alfred,' I say quietly.

'Yes, Abel?' he breathes.

'Please let me speak to you.'

'Is it about today?' he grumbles.

'Yes.'

'I am tired, Abel. I do not wish to talk any longer.'

'Please?'

'Go to sleep, Abel.'

He turns, curving his back away from me. The cellar quietens into sleep.

I am left alone, now that there are no distractions. I roll up my sleeve, uncovering my left arm. It is the same shape and colour as it was this morning, the hair as dark, and sprouting a thick trail from elbow to wrist in the same fashion. It matches the right arm perfectly, except for the scar: now a pale silver trail.

I struggle to believe that it is a part of my body; yet when I cut into it, it was as familiar as looking into a dish of potatoes. I try to make sense of this, and tell myself it is because I spend my days and nights cutting open beasts, and am used to the sight of muscle, bone, yellow fat, grey slippery organs. I am not convinced. It is not the same. My flesh is quick; the beasts are dead.