The Resurrectionist

The night in London is less dark than it once was, with gas lamps rising on street corners like phosphorescent mushrooms.

Not even the dark nooks that remain are fully safe, for constables patrol until morning, their lanterns bobbing like curious fireflies.

And so many of the graveyards now have tall fences - hard iron, ornate and sharp, like rows of cavaliers’ pikes.

Even some of the graves are fenced, enclosed in iron cages.

London is no longer a safe place for resurrectionists to practice their trade. So we must travel further afield to harvest our crops.

Sniffy Jemmy drives the carriage from the box seat, flicking the horse’s reins, his nose dribbling, sipping from his flask. His courage comes from this bottle, and will steel him for the work, and numb the night’s chill. On the trip back, I will take the reins, while he snores away his horrors from inside the carriage.

Jemmy’s courage comes from gin. Mine comes from the miniature portrait I keep in my waistcoat pocket. When my fears begin to bite at me, I look at it, and remember why I must do this.

I do not know where our employer’s courage comes from. He never speaks during these carriage rides, or diverts himself with pipe or newspaper. He sits rigid as a statue, staring ahead, his blue eyes looking beyond this world. He might be a dissenting clergyman, stern and attired in plain black, if not for his unruly grey beard, and jangle of silver rings and pendants with unpleasant sigils.

We ride together for some hours, as dusk turns blue-black, each rattle of the coach and snort from the horse loud and clear in the emptying countryside.

Finally we reach our target. I do not know how our employer finds these places, but the bodies are always the freshest, newly interred. These fetch higher fees from the doctors, and the new soil is easier to dig up. Our employer provides the coach and tools, and does not even ask for a share of our fee, only some innocent time with the body, to say a few words, and make some gestures. A fair enough trade, for the revulsion his workers must endure, even if his profit from the endeavour is obscure.

I step down from the carriage, see the cross on top of the church, and shiver. The rants of brimstone preachers crowd my senses. I fumble inside my waistcoat for the portrait, and stare at it until I am calm again.

This graveyard doesn’t even have a fence, just a smattering of tombstones strewn across the field next to the church. Our employer floats between the graves, and stops at the one he has mysteriously selected for this operation. We follow more cautiously, guided past errant shards and bramble by a dark lantern.

Jemmy and I untie the bundle of rugs that encloses our tools from the top of the carriage, and heft it over to the grave. We unfurl the bundle on the resting place of one George Lambert, his stone’s worn inscription comparing flesh to withering hay - a biblical homily you recognise as fairly typical, when you become more accustomed to graveyards.

I try not to look at the name on our grave. It’s easier not to know.

I take the pick, and swing it into the soil, aiming to break up the earth. But this soil is fresh, and doesn’t need much loosening. The body could have been put in the earth earlier today.

Our employer wanders away while we work. For his strangeness, he’s not the worst boss I’ve had. Old Symes dithered on the terms of contracts, and we clerks stained our hands scribing frantic copies. And when he died, his creditors scarcely had a lump of coal to split between themselves. Never mind his clerks, thrown onto their own resources with wages owing, and young families to feed.

After a few months of pawning away watches and books, becoming less myself with each loss, I was desperate enough to try my hand as a ticket porter or dustman. They were dark months, I can’t lie, and I’m not proud of who I became. There are some things a man should never do. I don’t like to think of where it would have led, if Jemmy hadn’t come to visit.

I knew Jemmy from Sunday school, at a time in our lives when we did evil with more innocence. While I managed to attach myself to the legal profession, he became a chancer of dubious subsistence, but still good for a pint and a laugh. Between sniffs of his perpetually red nose, he told me of a queer old gentleman he had fallen in with, who offers a fast money opportunity for men of discretion.

We all wonder what our price is. I know mine - 4 guineas, half the doctor’s fee for a fresh body for dissection.

It takes an hour or two for a pair of workers to reach the coffin. Once you get over the horrors, you can lose yourself in the work. There’s a rhythm to pressing the spade into the ground, and tossing clods to the side. And the exercise keeps the cold off.

Sometimes, I spy our employer in the distance, gesturing at the moon, or stooping to examine a strange stone or trinket.

Finally we reach the coffin. This is a cheap job, just pine, no polish or decoration. Some of the fancy ones cost more than the body, and are so hard to open, they would probably trap the inhabitant inside on Judgement Day. 

Jemmy slips down into the grave, and breaks holes in the lid with a hammer, careful not to harm the body, or make too much noise. When the lid is pried off, I slip a rope down into the hole, and Jemmy ties it around the body’s waist. With Jemmy pushing the body and my pulling the rope, we deliver the body out of the grave. It’s limp - most of them are after a few days.

I lie it out on its own blanket, and then lean into the grave to help Jemmy out. Then I return to the body, to untie the rope, and inspect the merchandise.

My heart skips. Outside of my wife, it’s the most beautiful lady I’ve ever seen. Fair hair silver in the moonlight, the ends twirled into buoyant ringlets. Lips of plum, a modest nose, and milky skin. She might be sleeping, with that serene face and those dainty closed eyes.

The exhumation of the body has summoned our employer, and it is now our job to get out of his way. Jemmy rests his back on a crooked tombstone, sips his gin, and his eyes start to droop.

I prefer to watch. Our employer doesn’t seem to mind. It’s fascinating, even if I don’t quite understand what he gets out of it.

First, he pours out salt in a circle around the body. Then he dabs some paste on her face, like she’s a savage in a penny dreadful. Next, he puts a cup at her feet, and fills it from a flask. Jemmy tasted it once - he says it’s just water, nothing more exciting.

Finally, he kneels at her feet, and chants some words, over and over. I think it’s Latin. That was one of the gaps in my Sunday school education, so I don’t know what he’s saying, but at least he’s got a nice voice. Sometimes, he gets up, dips his fingers in the water, and flicks it somewhere - onto the body, up in the sky, away to the ground.

Like every time before, eventually he stops. Without a word to us, he walks away, and enters the carriage. That’s the sign that the body is ours now.

Jemmy has passed out. But before I rouse him, I creep closer to the body.

She really is an angel, and so young. Barely sixteen, from the look of her. Sad for the family, to have her go so soon. I don’t know what I’d do if it happened to me.

I lean in, and stroke her cheek.

Then her eyes jerk open. 

The rest of her body is frozen in place, but her eyes swirl in her head. 

She looks at me.

She sees me.

She’s terrified.

I reach for the shovel.

Three sharp blows to the head, and the eyes look, but they no longer see.

The noise stirs Jemmy. Hastily, I roll the body in the blanket, and tell Jemmy to help me get it onto the carriage.

We lift the wrap with the body onto the carriage, and tie it in place. After that, we work together to fill the hole, a much faster job. Then the tools are wrapped up and tied to the top of the carriage.

Jemmy enters the carriage, his foot a little unsteady on the step. He always sleeps on the way back.

The doctor might dock our fee for the damage to the face. Even if it’s one guinea less, the rest of my share will keep my family healthy for months. The body’s otherwise in excellent shape, so perhaps we can squeeze a little extra out of him.

I sit on the carriage seat, pull out the miniature portrait, and look at my daughter’s face one more time.

My innocent baby lamb. She’s had her eye on a rag doll, a silly little thing. Maybe I’ll treat her. Daddy can afford it, with the money he’s bringing home.

I slap the reins to start the horses on the journey back to London.

The night is dark, but my heart is warm.

For I’m proof the dead can live again.