The Good Thief (16 page)

Ren tried to imagine what this thought could be. He guessed that it was scientific in nature, but the more Ren studied the portrait, the more he realized that the man didn’t look intelligent at all. He looked hungry. He was probably thinking of sausages, and Ren was nearly decided on this when a scream came from down the hall. The boy jumped out of his seat. Another scream came. And then another.

At first the screams were pleading. Ren could make out words. “Stop! Leave it on! Please!” the voice begged. It called someone a murderer, and then it gave up and simply shrieked, over and over, until Ren couldn’t take it anymore—he put his hand over one ear and pressed his stump against the other and hummed and hummed until his lips felt numb. The voice in the other room grew hoarse and then it simply moaned and then it stopped completely.

Ren lowered his arms. He considered trying to find a way out of the building. But before he could make up his mind, the doors opened and a large basket came down the corridor. Four men were carrying it, their jackets off and their sleeves rolled up. Inside was a pale man, the lower half of him covered with bandages, blood soaking through and onto the basket, staining the pattern of the reeds. Ren leaned slightly forward to get a look at the patient’s face. It was caved-in, as if all the screaming had pulled the flesh from his bones.

The nun came behind, holding the man’s leg. It was wrapped in a sheet and she was cradling it in her two arms like a baby. Blood was dripping from the cloth in a steady stream, making thin lines across her apron as she walked past.

Ren dropped back onto the bench.

“I told him you were here.” The nun said this without stopping or turning her head or losing her grip on the leg. Then she followed the basket down the stairs.

A crowd of young doctors now burst forth, carrying books and papers. They wore suits with vests and matching topcoats, cuff links and pocket watches and shiny shoes. One opened a small silver case and pinched a bit of snuff. Another removed his gold-rimmed glasses and rubbed them with a piece of chamois. A few glanced at Ren as they passed, and the boy felt suddenly awkward in his drowned-boy clothes. Some disappeared along the corridor, and others went downstairs. Then the hall was empty and it was quiet again.

“Boy!” A voice came from the room.

Ren stood. He put his hand on the banister. He wanted to rush down the stairs, but the thought of failing Benjamin stopped him. Ren took a few steps toward the voice, then followed the narrow trail of blood to the room that everyone had left.

As he turned the corner, he was surprised by the amount of light. There were windows in the ceiling—the roof above had been dismantled and replaced with thick panes of glass. It was designed for an assembly. Benches surrounded a central raised platform, and on that platform, wiping down a bone saw with an oiled cloth, was the man from the portrait in the hall.

He was a bit different from the painting. Ren could see that he was older. His eyebrows were bushy, his hair thick and gray. But Doctor Milton’s forehead was unmistakable, bulbous and oddly formed, and his expression held the same hunger for sausages as the man on the canvas, even as he spit into the cloth and scrubbed away at a spot of dried blood.

“From now on you come at ten. Once a week. A regular appointment.” The doctor’s suit was impeccably tidy. There was only one stain, in the shape of a butterfly, on one of the sleeves. Doctor Milton finished cleaning the saw, then set it carefully on the table. “Come here.”

Ren walked down the row of benches and climbed onto the stage. Doctor Milton looked the boy over, then lifted Ren onto the edge of the operating table. It gave Ren a strange sense of vertigo; as if he were balanced on the edge of a cliff. He gripped the corner. There was sawdust there and it stuck to his fingers.

The doctor bent close. His beard smelled of tobacco. “Your job is going to be doing what you’re told. Exactly. Do you think you can do that?”

Ren nodded.

“Good boy.” Doctor Milton picked up a knife. “See the way the end is hooked? That’s to make it easier to cut around the veins.” He wiped the blade with the cloth, then handed it to Ren. “Now,” he said. “Put it back.”

The knife had a smooth and solid weight. Across the table was an open wooden case, a multitude of shining silver instruments inside. Two interior tool trays had been removed and set to the left. Each apparatus had a designated spot. There were indentations in green velveteen, dozens of empty places. The boy could feel his palm start to sweat, the handle sliding against his fingers. At last he saw where it should go—in one of the trays, beneath the bone saw. The velvet had been worn away by the hook.

He set it down and Doctor Milton looked pleased. His eyes traveled over the boy, and when they rested on the scar, he gave a small grunt of surprise. Doctor Milton studied the arm, turning it this way and that. “The cut is crude, but the arteries were clamped off early. Whoever did this knew what they were doing. You’re a lucky boy. Say it.”

“I’m lucky.”

Doctor Milton pinched a bit of skin. “I got my first training doing amputations. I’m always curious to see how the skin regenerates in these situations.” He removed a small scalpel from the instrument case. “Would you mind if I take a sample?”

Before Ren could answer, the doctor was dabbing a bit of cloth in water and cleaning the tip of the boy’s arm. “You’ll only feel a pinch.” As he said this, he cut. The knife went right through the scar and sliced a thin sliver of tissue from the top. It happened so quickly that the boy didn’t realize what had happened until the skin was already lifted away.

Ren clapped his hand over the cut. It wasn’t deep, but it hurt. Doctor Milton took the skin with a pair of tweezers and set it in a small glass dish, then carried the sample over to a microscope, as if he had just peeled a piece of bark from a tree. He put his eye to the microscope and began adjusting the knobs.

“Normal skin looks like scales,” Doctor Milton said. “Precise, interlocking pieces. But scar tissue is different. There are no hair follicles or sweat glands.” He motioned for Ren to come closer, and then stepped aside so that the boy could look.

Ren leaned forward, still holding his arm. He couldn’t see anything at first. Just a bit of light. The magnification made him light-headed. Then the picture came into focus. The piece of scar was smooth on one side, but Ren could see that underneath it fanned into a pattern of thin lines, like frost on a windowpane.

“I’ve observed the same kind of markings on internal organs. Buried in hearts, and livers, and threaded through the musculature. A scar can take over, given the right conditions.” Doctor Milton took hold of Ren’s arm again and dabbed a bit of liquid from a brown bottle onto the cut he had made. “Have you ever seen inside a body?”

“No.”

“It’s beautiful.” Doctor Milton pressed two fingers above the boy’s elbow. “Particularly the muscles closest to the bone. Flexor pollicis longus ”—he pinched the right side— “flexor digitorum profundus”—he ran his fingers down the front of the arm—“and pronator quadratus, which, normally, would be somewhere around here”—he tapped the left side of Ren’s stub. “Never knew you had that much inside you, now did you, boy?” Doctor Milton took the piece of scar from the microscope and dropped it into a glass jar. He secured the lid. He asked Ren’s name and wrote it on a label glued to the back.

“What did this look like to you, under the microscope?”

Ren thought for a moment. “Old cobwebs.”

The doctor set down the jar. He considered Ren with new interest. A notebook was produced and Doctor Milton scribbled down what the boy had said. Then he folded the book neatly back into his pocket. “My friend Mister Bowers says that you and your friends can be trusted. Do you think I should believe him?”

Mister Bowers had been paid to say so. Still, Ren tried his best to be convincing. “Yes.”

Doctor Milton grunted again, and the expression in his eyes went from sausages to Christmas goose and custard pie. From a side pocket in his instrument box he took out a set of keys and pressed them into Ren’s hand. “Do you know your numbers?”

The boy nodded.

“Tell your man I need four. They must be fresh, no more than a day or two gone. He should bring them at night, to the door that leads to the basement. No one must see him. Will you remember?”

“Yes.”

“How many?”

“Four.”

“I’ll need them by next Thursday.” He pointed at the set of keys, and Ren understood they were for the gates outside. “You will keep those safe. And you will return them to me.” The doctor tapped the place where he’d cut the boy’s skin. “Now remember—you’re my patient and this is infected and I’m trying to save you from losing it up to here.” Doctor Milton opened two fingers like scissors and cut across to the top of Ren’s arm. “That’s why you’re coming to see me. Tell Sister Agnes when you leave.”

“I will,” said Ren, and he did. Sister Agnes was waiting for him on the bench outside, and he explained his situation as she led him through the hospital doors. Ren kept his arm cradled. Next visit, he decided, he would wear a sling.

It was a relief to be outside again. Ren took a deep breath, trying to rid his lungs of the hospital smell. The weight of the keys felt important in his pocket. He’d done the job. And he’d done it right.

Sister Agnes opened the gates and let him out. “Where do you live?” she asked.

“North Umbrage.”

“It’s a long way to walk.”

“Someone’s coming for me.”

The nun glanced down the road. It was shaded by trees, the leaves connecting overhead. Benjamin and Tom passed underneath this canopy, driving the horse before them, their faces expectant but wary. Sister Agnes frowned, as if the men were approaching with a mountain of bedpans.

“Are you a Christian?” she asked quickly.

“Yes.”

“God be praised.” She said this as if a disaster had been averted, then crossed herself, twice. “Would you like me to pray for you?”

Ren’s fingers instinctively went to his forehead. He could still feel where Brother Joseph had drawn the cross with his thumb before he gave over The Lives of the Saints . The boy dropped his hand and wrapped it over his scar. He told Sister Agnes that he would.

The nun rested her palm on the top of his head. Her hand was warm and soft but also strong, and Ren could imagine all the good work it had done. Benjamin brought the cart up next to them on the road. He pulled the brake and rapped his fingers against the side of the wagon, as if he was knocking at a door. Ren could hear the horse grating its teeth, and Tom cough to get his attention, but he waited until the prayer was finished. Sister Agnes was standing over him, and he did not want to move until she took her hand away.

T
he fence surrounding the graveyard was at least thirteen feet high, with a tight curling black pattern of iron too close to pass through. The corners were set with granite pillars. The top was lined with spikes that curled over, like the heads of flowers, dipping toward the ground. Details of ivy and leaves were wrought into the main gate, along with a cross, hinged at the center with an enormous padlock.

As they pulled in front, Benjamin and Tom were silent. Then they stepped from the wagon and walked the perimeter, testing the bars here and there, checking a shed nearby to make sure that it was empty. Ren kept his eyes on the church, waiting for a light to go on, but the stained-glass windows remained quiet and dark.

When Benjamin had dragged Ren from his bed earlier that evening and told him to get dressed, the boy had pulled on his clothes straight from the floor, not awake enough yet to be afraid. Now his body was full of nausea and dread. In the distance he could hear music playing from one of the brothels. The graveyard was on the outskirts of town, near a public common, but there was still the chance that they could be caught.

“Anything?” Benjamin asked when he returned.

“No,” said Ren. “No one’s here.”

Benjamin clapped the boy on the shoulder, as if he’d accomplished some great task. Then he removed a needle from his boot. He bent over the cemetery gate and picked the lock, his face set in concentration, listening for the turn. Tom stood close behind, biting his lip as the door swung open.

Together the men carried the shovels through the gate. Ren stayed behind with the horse, holding on to the reins, watching the entrance and worrying. There was too much moon. It was nearly full and seemed to fill the sky. He held his hand up to the light and left a shadow across the road. Beyond the iron fence he could hear shovels in dirt, the huff of a boot kicking in. Every sound seemed louder in the dark. The boy crouched in the driver’s seat, his heart beating against his chest, his breath sending small clouds into the cold night air.

He’d never seen a churchyard surrounded by its own fence. At Saint Anthony’s there was only a small field next to the chapel where some of the monks were buried and a few of the children. It was a simple place, the graves set with wooden markers. There was often talk among the boys of ghosts weaving around this field at night, and Ichy swore that he’d seen the spirit of little Michael, who’d died of a fever the summer before, hovering outside the privy. Ren looked at the black ironwork surrounding the cemetery now, and hoped that it was high enough to keep the ghosts from getting out.

It seemed like forever before Tom and Benjamin emerged from the gate. They were dragging a burlap sack between them, so large that they had to pull at one end, then go around and pull from the other to make any progress. Tom stopped to rest. Benjamin sneezed and wiped his nose. Then they started up again, rolling the bag across the grass. Together they were barely able to heave the body into the wagon. It hit with a low thud and sent a small cloud of dust from the wooden boards.