The Dickens Mirror (21 page)

Pocketing the lemon, he thought,
All right, get out
. He would have, too, and maybe nothing else would’ve happened, except his gaze strayed back to Kramer’s jacket and vest. He wasn’t like Weber; he’d only ever stolen food. But his mouth throbbed from those nasty slaps, and his chest burned with the memory. A toff like Kramer probably had something nice. No watch chain he could see—no use anyway; nothing kept proper time—but maybe a nice penknife?

The jacket wasn’t soiled, but the vest was crusted with dried blood. One pocket was empty, but the other showed the conspicuous bulge of something long.
Might be a knife, or a pen, a pencil
. Whatever it was, he suddenly just
wanted
it. Payback. Reaching into the pocket, he felt something angular … 
metal
 …

He’d just drawn out a pair of brass spectacles with queer purple lenses when his ears pricked to footsteps and then Kramer’s angry, slithery hiss seeping through the open door: “… in my office.”

Shite, SHITE!
He was so startled, his heart nearly rocketed out the top of his skull. Clutching the spectacles, he darted his gaze round the room, looking for a hiding place
anywhere
. God, God, Kramer would be here any second! Then his gaze hooked on the foot of the doctor’s exam table, and that folding screen.

“You will explain,” Kramer was saying, just as Bode scurried
into a dark wedge between the screen’s edge and a standing wardrobe. The smart clap of the office door made him wince. His heart was thumping. His knuckles tented white, and he forced himself to relax his grip on the spectacles. Ruin them and he was
really
cooked. Sweat crawled down his neck. If Kramer or whoever was with him came around to this side, they’d spot him in an instant. But they shouldn’t need to. He swept a frantic look over the exam table, which seemed to have been tidied up. No soiled sheets or bandages, only bare wood. All the mess seemed to be on the other side, so that was good.

Holding his breath, he reached a hand past his waistband to the inner pocket. At the slight
tick
of brass against Graves’s iron skeleton, his lips skinned from his teeth in a tight, fearful grimace.
Damme
if that wasn’t loud.

On the other side of the screen: “I’m waiting,” Kramer said to someone. “Well?”

“I have already apologized. I know I was wrong”—and Bode thought,
Oh no
. “I do not know what else you want,” Meme said.

“An idea of what possessed you?” There was a splash of liquid against porcelain and then the louder
chik
of a spoon. “Your complete lack of self-control?” A noisy inhalation as Kramer sucked tea. “You’ve taken a liking to the constable? Strange. Here I thought you were quite fond of Bode.”

“You know I … I am fond of him,” she said. “Though that does not mean the reverse is true. After today …”

“What, you think
Elizabeth
is competition? That was misplaced chivalry.” Kramer made a blustery, horsey sound. There was the tick of porcelain as Kramer replaced his cup and saucer. “Not only is she far above his station; she’s
mad
.”

“She is also very beautiful.”

“You are just as much the beauty. Perhaps you need to make your
interest
clear to the boy.”

“I do not … I would not know where to begin.”

“Do what comes naturally.”

“Naturally?”

“Oh, for God’s sake, you’re a
girl
; he’s a
boy
. You need me to draw you a damn diagram?” Kramer’s tone was brutal. “Tell me, do you think about him? Of yourself with him? Of his
hands
, his
body
?”

God
. Bode’s ears weren’t only burning; his entire head was going to spontaneously combust. Weber had been bad enough, but listening to this made him want to rinse his brain with carbolic acid.
Leave her alone, you sod
.

“Myself with …” The words came out small. “I … I do not understand.”

“I mean
this
.” Meme let out a sharp gasp, though from where he cowered, Bode couldn’t see what Kramer was doing, and probably just as well. “Do you think of his hands on your breasts, his mouth on your neck,
your
hand on his—”

“Doctor!” Through that narrow gap between screen and wardrobe, Bode saw Meme bumble backward until she was stopped by a bookshelf and could go no further. All he could see of Kramer was the hand with which he cupped her left breast, and then Kramer himself moved in closer. “P-please, do n-not …,” Meme began.

“I’m talking
this
.” With a fierce snarl, Kramer pressed one of Meme’s hands to his trousers. “
Feel
that. That is the mark of a man. Do you think of Bode and
this
, and yourself lying with him in sweaty sheets?”

“No, no!” Though Meme wasn’t shouting, Bode heard it
that way. Tears streaked her cheeks. “I do not
understand
.”

“Yes, I
know
.” Kramer said it as he might a curse. Releasing the weeping girl, he stepped out of Bode’s line of sight. “
Missing
something, just as he
said
would happen.”

“I do not know what you want from me,” Meme said, and if he’d the balls he thought he did, this would be the moment Bode should burst out and do something. But the courage he’d felt with and for Elizabeth didn’t translate to Meme.
What’s wrong with you?
Shame surged in his chest.
You could help
. But show himself now, what was the point?
Talking yourself out of it, you coward
. Weber was right; he
was
a meater.

“I do everything you ask. I work for you. I
lie
for you,” she said.

“Nonsense. No one’s asked you to lie. We’ve simply omitted. Here.” Through the slit, Bode saw Kramer’s fingers, from which dangled a kerchief. “Blow your nose.”

“No.” Meme put up a warding hand. “I do not wish to.”

“Fine, then smear snot all over your blouse if you’ve a mind. At least that would show some
spark
.”

“Is it not that which angers you? My
spark
? What I did with Doyle?”

“There’s a time and place. But since we’re on the subject … yes, what you
did
could’ve been ruinous. What was that? Whatever possessed you to
defy
me for someone like Doyle? Don’t delude yourself: addicts are
not
to be trusted. Pity him all you want, but he’s not a baby bird fallen from his nest for you to rescue.”

“I told you.” Turning aside, Meme drew a hand over streaming eyes, a curiously childlike gesture that made Bode’s shame all the worse. “I felt
sorry
for him.” She was facing his way now.
“The way you badgered and humiliated …”

That was when Meme looked up and through the gap, and their eyes met.

BODE’S HEART SKIPPED
a beat. His guts iced. On the other side of the screen, Meme’s dark blue eyes shimmered even as her face stilled. They stared at each other for a long beat and then two, and Bode had time to think that if it had been anyone else, he’d have been out the door, on his ear, in the snow so fast your head would spin. A complex welter of emotions seemed to cross her face, though he doubted Kramer could see. His own emotions were much simpler; he was terrified.

“Humiliated him.” Straightening, Meme turned away from Bode. “The way you humiliated me just now. What I think of Bode or any boy—”

“But you don’t, do you?” Kramer’s tone was flat.

“That is my own affair. Is that not correct?”

“Perhaps.” Pause. “You felt something, though, didn’t you? Just now? When we were talking of that young buck?”

“Is that the point? For me to feel something for Bode? Or are you speaking now of Doyle? Because you also hurt
him
.”

“I already told you. That injection was for his own good.”

“Really. I thought it was all part of your experiment.”

“Do not bait me. You know that this work is necessary. That serum will strip him of artifice. Think of him as an onion, and now I shall peel back layers until what passes for his essence reveals itself.”

“It was not right to trick him.”

“Who said anything about subterfuge? He got his precious drugs—”

“And
your
serum. What’s in it?”

“What, you want a blow-by-blow chemical breakdown? The formula? And what will that tell you, eh? The specific composition is unimportant. What is more, of all people, you are the
least
equipped to understand what I’m after.”

“And what is that?”

“I told him. I told you. I am after … clarity, his essence. A clean slate. I want Doyle freed of what little memory he may possess, and illusion. A tabula rasa, if you like, upon which I might write something new … no, more than that: I want to
restore
what’s been denied us, what
we
lack.”

“Lack? Write something new? Doctor, he is a person, not paper you scrape with a knife when you have made a mistake.”

“No, you see,
that
is just it. The serum will rid him of mistakes.”

“Mistakes? What kind? And then what? You remake him? Give him a new personality?”

“No.” A pause. “Something much more specific than that … No, don’t ask me to explain. You truly wouldn’t understand. It would all seem quite foreign, words spoken in an unknown tongue. To be frank, I’m not sure I really have a grasp of it myself, but I will know it when I see it.”

“But how will manipulating Constable Doyle help us? Why make the constable steal those—”

“Enough.” Kramer made an impatient sound. “You are my assistant, yes, but I do not owe you an explanation for every single move I make. I know what I’m doing, and you are not to
question me and most certainly
not
indulge in ridiculous, ruinous outbursts. Do you think it’s wise to call me to task for
lying
in front of a bloody
constable
?”

“Then why have you?” If Bode had been in her shoes, he’d be pissing his drawers. How could she be weeping one moment and so calm the next? Why hadn’t she turned him in?
Because she cares for me?
“You lied to Battle’s face,” she said. “You know where McDermott is.”

“A man like Battle will never understand what’s at stake, that I do what I
must
to try and save us. I am doing this to save
you
, Meme, though you do not seem to see this at all. My God, girl … you are unique amongst us, my pearl without price.”

“Unique? A pearl? I do not understand what you mean.”

“Yes.” Kramer sounded suddenly tired. “I know you don’t. But I think we are very close to the moment when you
will
. That constable will be our control subject.”

“Say that you can do what you want: erase what he is and then … make him again, or whatever you’ve in mind. Can you reverse the process?”

“Perhaps. But he might not wish that. In fact, if this works, he might consider that I’ve done him a great service. I will repair this world, Meme, no matter the cost or sacrifice. Now, are we quite finished with your interrogation?”

“Not to be contrary, but you called me, sir,” Meme said, and Bode thought she
did
have balls. “But I do have one more question. Earlier … why did you call Elizabeth by a different name?”

“What?” Kramer’s imperious note seemed to waver. “What the devil are you going on about?”

“You called her
Emma
.” She said it in a straightforward way,
without a hint of accusation or guile. “Please do not deny it. I heard you.”

Wait
, Emma?
From the dream?
Bode’s pulse gave a little kick.

“You misheard,” Kramer said.

“No, I did not.” A beat of silence, and then Bode heard what he thought was a new, shrewder note: “No one else did, if that worries you, sir. Bode was well behind me. I know he did not catch it.”

“I am
not
concerned,” Kramer said. “
If
I said that, it was a slip of the tongue.”

“I do not believe that is true either, sir.”

“You call me a liar? You are my creature. Mind your place!”

“And I do, sir. I would have discounted it as well, if that boy down below, the one arrived today, had not called me by the same name.”

“What?” Kramer’s tone was sharp. “He did?”

“Yes, sir. He was quite emphatic.”

“What about the other? Did he?”

“No. But they both talk about a … a
dream
.” She said the word as if uncertain how to move her mouth around the letters. “They compare notes and common threads about some … about a very bad dream, what they call a … a
nightmare
?”

What?
Bode’s focus sharpened.
Others have had the same dream?
He wondered who these other two boys could be, and where they were. In an asylum as large as this, Bode didn’t keep track of every admission and certainly had no idea who every single patient was. What was
down below
? Did Meme mean the padded cells?

“I was not sure what those boys were going on about,” Meme said.

“What about
them
? Have
they
spoken of this same phenomenon, this night—” Like Meme, Kramer’s mouth seemed to
examine the word before letting it go. “This nightmare?”

Them?
The way Kramer said the word, Bode thought these other patients must be very different. Special? Patients whose care he entrusted only to a chosen few, like Meme?
Probably held beneath the asylum somewhere, and if they’re dreaming, had the same nightmare, are we all connected somehow to Elizabeth? To each other?

“No,
they
have not. Although I believe
he
understands what the boys are talking about. I can see it in his face, and that he is very keen on hearing more. His wife only seems …” Meme stopped short at a knock.

“Blast,” Kramer muttered. To Meme: “Not a damned word about any of
them
, all right?” Then, more loudly, “Yes?” When the door opened: “Yes, Mrs. Graves, what is it?”

“I apologize for the intrusion.” Graves said it with all the mealymouthed sincerity of a parliamentarian. Bode could imagine her curiously peering down the parish pickax of that nose, first at Meme, who now stood with her back to Bode, and then Kramer. “But I’ve word from the gatehouse that the rats are here, and I can’t locate Bode, sir, and I’m short-staffed and—”