Anatomy: A Love Story(62)
“But this man, this ghost or whatever he is, he just smiles something awful, and I see a row of yellow teeth in the shadows. And it’s about then that I get the sense that I’ve seen him before, that he was one of the men that met me and Davey that night—you remember, Jack—and so I think, ‘Oh, he’s just a copper, then.’ I make like I’m about to run, but before I can even tell my legs to get, the gent gets ahold of me and sticks a handkerchief in my face, wet with this sort of sweet-smelling—I don’t know. Smelled like flowers, and like death. I tried to hold my breath, tried to struggle against him, but then everything got heavy and dizzy, and next thing I knew, it was sunrise, and he was wheeling me in a chair with a veil over my head.
“We were somewhere in the Old Town, I could tell from the smells and the way the cobblestones moved, and I’m pretty sure we crossed a bridge, but I couldn’t tell where. I told ye, I had this heavy, black lace—veil or something—over my head and over me, like I was a widow in mourning or some’un’s gran. I tried to run, but it was like my legs were gone and I couldn’t move my arms. I could barely see out from beneath the fabric, so alls I could do was wait and hope he would leave me for long enough that I could somehow find a way to get free.
“We made it to a building with a golden plaque on the door, and the man in the hat knocked a few times, and they wheeled me in, through a big room and into another room like a theater. That’s like what it was, I remember, a theater with rows of benches and everything, and sawdust on the floor—I could smell that, couldn’t mistake it for the world.
“They pulled off my veil then. There was no one in the audience, just two tables on the stage, and a doctor in a coat. There was an old man sleeping on one of the tables. Maybe not old, it was hard to see, but ’e looked old enough to me. And must have been old to be sleeping. The man in the top hat took payment from the doc and left me staring out, hoping they wouldn’t notice I was still alive when they had tried to kill me.
“The doctor sharpened a knife, and that was when I couldn’t help myself—I called out, I suppose, or maybe just yelped like a dog. And then he got out his own handkerchief and poured some blue potion on it. I tried to move, I tried to run, I swear, but it was like I was strapped in even though my limbs were free. My brain had gone bad. He pushed the handkerchief up to my face and it was that same smell again—a body gone rotten, and some sweet flower like a lady’s perfume. And then the room went dizzy and black and I couldn’t cry out anymore. It was voodoo or something. It didn’t hurt, thought it would, but it didn’t. Felt like going to sleep and made the rest of my memories hazy. If I hadn’t woken up without ol’ lefty here”—he gestured with his head to the space where his left arm had formerly been—“then I might have thought that maybe I had dreamed it or maybe I had had too much at the pub the night before.
“Woke up at Saint Anthony hospital feeling like my whole body was on fire. Stuck in a cot with two poor souls, both stonemasons who had their legs crushed beneath a brick the size of Skye. Three of us made a sorry sight, I can tell you that.”
“You don’t remember anything else?” Jack said, leaning forward on his knees.
Munro shook his head. “They kept me in hospital awhile, trying to figure out how I lost me arm. I told ’em, about the man and the theater and the damp handkerchief and all that, but no one seemed to pay me any mind. Thought I was a common drunk who found himself in trouble, and I suppose I can’t say I wasn’t. Tried to get out of hospital quick as I could, mind you. Smelled like shit and death in there, and one of the blokes in my bed snored like an elephant who caught cold. Food wasn’t too bad, if you were sure you managed to get the bugs out. Maggots are just like the rest of us, trying to get warm, trying to get a bite in their belly, can’t fault them for that. Ay, think I can maybe get a swig o’ something stronger than tea in here? Seein’ as what I’ve gone through is more or less an ordeal, as they say.”
Hazel nodded, and Iona went to get the whisky from the cupboard. “Did the doctors in the hospital say anything about your wound? Anything about why the arm might have been taken?”
“S’matter of fact, they did note that the stitches was particularly neat. Like it was all done by someone who knew what he was doing.”
“May I?”
Munro shrugged and pulled his shirt off his left shoulder to reveal all that was left of his arm. It was cut at the joint; nothing below the shoulder remained. And, just as Munro had mentioned, the black stitches were small, and straight, and even. The wound sweated with a small amount of pus, and the skin around it was red and swollen, but the stitches were perfectly in place.
“But why would someone take your arm?” Jack said, dumbfounded. “I just don’t understand it.”
Munro’s whisky arrived, and he thanked Iona with a wink and then took a deep swig. “Beats me,” he said, wiping his lips with the sleeve of his remaining arm. “Not gonna be able to dig anymore, that’s the shame of it. And how am I supposed to get honest work now? Couldn’t get honest work when I had two arms.”
“We’ll find something for you,” Jack said. “You can come work with me at the theater.”
“Ay, there’s a laugh!” Munro said, croaking. “Haven’t been gone long enough not to know what’s going on there. Closed from the plague, innit? How’s your work at the theater going, Jack?”