Elephant Man (10 page)

“What’s all this then?” he snapped, indicating his boots.

Nettleton lacked the nerve to point out that splashed or not splashed Renshaw’s boots were pretty much the same.

“Mr. Treves is scrubbing his Elephant Man,” he said placatingly.

“Elephant Man?”

“Yeah—I hear it’s a real horror. Even made Mothershead scream.”

Renshaw’s brows contracted. He hated Mothershead, who had frequently threatened him with the loss of a job that was the cushiest number he’d ever had.

“Fiend of the night, eh?” he grinned. “I think I’ll ’ave me a look at that.” He turned as if to go, but wheeled at the last moment and shot out his foot. His brass-heeled boot caught the other bucket, which Nettleton had stood on the ground, sending its contents soaking over the young porter.

“Now
you
need scrubbing, ducks,” Renshaw told him genially.

He waited to see if there would be any back talk. When he was satisfied that there wouldn’t he turned on his heel and wandered back down the alley at a leisurely pace. He turned at the corner, to see Nettleton frantically shaking his wet trousers. He was grinning as he walked on.

The tidbit of news had stayed with him all day, not as a matter of importance but as a morsel that might provide a little innocent diversion for a bored man in the long watches of the night. It rose again in his mind now, as he came within sight of the hospital.

He could see that the process of settling down for the night was well under way. Windows that he knew belonged to wards were already black. Other windows that led onto corridors showed a faint glimmer of light, indicating that half the gas lamps had been left burning, as they would be throughout the night. Renshaw turned longing eyes to a large building at the side which he knew was the Nurses Quarters. Pale gleams came from it, but soon it too would be all in darkness.

As soon as he slipped into the front hall Renshaw saw that the place was deserted except for Nettleton, who still occupied the porter’s cubbyhole.

“Anyone been down?” Renshaw demanded.

“Not recently—” Nettleton said uneasily.

“So no one knows I’m late?”

“No—”

“Good. And you’re not going to tell them, are you?” The young man shook his head, dumb with nerves. “All right, cut along.”

Nettleton didn’t stop to argue. He’d given up arguing long ago about the times he had to cover up for Renshaw, who never paid the favor back.

It was two in the morning before Renshaw moved. That was the safest time. The emergencies that always followed the closing of the pubs were over by then. The hospital would have settled down again, and with luck many of the night nurses would be asleep at their desks. Now was the safest time for a little prowl.

He took another swig at his gin bottle, and settled it comfortably in the pocket of his coat. His brass-heeled boots echoed as he crossed the hall to the stairs. He often regretted wearing them on these expeditions, and constantly resolved to get something quieter. But he never did. He could not have borne to part with the feeling of power and manliness that the sensation of metal beneath his feet gave him. The brutal sound it made in these echoing corridors pleased him even while it made him glance over his shoulder.

On the second floor he stopped, and paused outside the door to one of the women’s wards. He knew Nurse Waters was on tonight, and Waters had an unfortunate weakness that made it hard for her to stay awake after midnight. A little visit would be perfectly safe. Tentatively Renshaw pushed at the door.

Every lamp in the ward was in darkness, but the moonlight slanting through the tall window showed Renshaw all he needed to know. Nurse Waters was at the far end, bent heavily over her desk, representing no danger. Renshaw began his slow, curious progress down the center aisle. About him he could hear the nighttime noises of many sick women, trapped together. Some were coughing fitfully; others moaning
in their sleep. Many were very old, some had obviously been sent here to die. These Renshaw ignored. His eyes were flickering down the aisle in search of something, something that should have been there and didn’t seem to be …

At last he found what he was looking for and a quick sigh of relief escaped him. A young and very beautiful woman, engulfed in a fearsome-looking piece of traction apparatus, had never taken her eyes off him from the moment he appeared. Fear lay on her face like a suffocating blanket, fear that deepened as he caught sight of her and approached.

She looked wildly from side to side, but her nearest companions were elderly women, both snoring heavily. When Renshaw was standing at the end of her bed she began to struggle, but her arms were tied firmly into the traction machine. It rattled but did not give way. She was as trapped as an animal in a snare. A few feet away Nurse Waters snored.

Renshaw moved toward the bed and laid a hand on the rattling traction machine, stilling its noise. One finger was over his lips as he spoke softly, smiling at her.

“Hush, love, I told you before—one word from me, they’ll toss you back on the street, and then those pretty little arms of yours will never grow straight.” He ran his hand down from the machine, stroking her arm all the way down to the shoulders, his eyes gleaming as he felt the shudder she was unable to repress. His hand delved lower, slithering beneath her hospital bedgown, groping about to find the small perfect breasts. Her eyes grew wild, but she made no further noise.

“Now close your eyes,” he whispered. “Close your eyes …”

She did so, turning her head away as if she would shut him out from her consciousness, but instantly he wrenched her back.

“I only said to close your eyes,” he reproved her. “I haven’t finished with you yet.”

He rammed his mouth savagely on hers, hearing and enjoying her gasp of fear and pain as the machine yanked at her. This was how he enjoyed it best. It occurred to him that something had been missing during the months with Mattie. She had been too willing. He thrust one hand down into the bed and began to draw up her bedgown, using the other hand to pull down the bed clothes. The girl began to writhe frantically, making the machine above jangle. He knew it was no longer safe but he was beyond turning back now. He pulled away and glared at her.

“Shut up!”
he said in a savage whisper. “If anyone hears I’ll break every bone in your body.”

With almost one movement he ripped open his trousers and dropped onto her. She lay like a stone, motionless beneath him, and when he drew back he saw why. She had fainted in terror. He gave a grunt of satisfaction and did himself up. It took just a moment to pull up the bedclothes and make everything look ordinary again. Nurse Waters was still snoring as he slipped out of the door.

He made his way up to the top of the building without further delay. He’d used up a lot of time. On the last little landing before the Isolation Ward he hauled out the gin bottle and took a mighty swig. If the object up there really was fearsome enough to make even Mothershead scream, then a man needed a little fortification.

He stopped again outside the door to the Isolation Ward and knocked back another gulp. From inside he could hear a strange, rasping breathing. He took a deep breath and flung himself into the room.

At first he could make out nothing beyond the bed in the far corner and the shapeless thing sitting on the edge of it. He peered closer but the thing didn’t move.

“Here he is,” Renshaw announced tipsily. “The old fiend of the night, the terror of the London. Let’s ’ave a look at you. Let’s see what makes ’em scream …”

As he spoke he swiveled round to the gas lamp and turned it up. The light fell directly onto the Elephant Man’s head, illuminating every monstrous lump, deepening every hollow. Renshaw took an involuntary step backward.

“Cor Blimey!” he uttered in deep awe.

For a moment he was shaken by a genuine horror at a sight that should have been human yet was so far removed from anything human. Then he noticed that the thing on the bed was trembling and he had the sensation that something had clicked in his brain. Whatever that creature was it was capable of understanding that Jim Renshaw was to be feared, and that was a situation Renshaw was used to.

He moved cautiously toward the bed, noting how the Elephant Man drew back from him, and flinched from his hand. Renshaw’s nervousness was gone now. He was in control, the only way he liked to be.

“So this is the Elephant Man,” he said with a grin. “I ain’t never seen nothing like you before. What the bleedin’ ’ell ’appened to you?”

The creature’s silent cowering into the farthest corner increased Renshaw’s confidence yet more.

“Oh—dumb eh?” He took a long swig of the gin and smiled. “Good, I like people what can keep quiet.”

He moved quickly, offering the bottle to the Elephant Man in a movement that was almost a jab, grinning in a satisfied way as the thing tried to press himself into the far wall. “Like a drink? Go on—go
on
have some. No? You should try being more sociable, mate. You’ll get yourself disliked.”

His eyes fixed onto the hanging growths on the Elephant Man’s chest. Tentatively he pressed the cold bottle up against one of them. When nothing happened he began to feel the misshapen body with his fingers. The man made small, whimpering sounds and put up a protesting hand, but did not dare to try to push Renshaw away.

“You and I are going to be good friends, we are,”
Renshaw told him softly. “I’ve got lots of friends who I know would like to meet you. And they will, mate—they will.”

He pulled back abruptly and went to the door. He paused and looked back at his victim, raising the gin bottle to him in salute.

“Welcome to the London.”

He closed the door softly behind him and made his way down the stairs. He could hear his brass-heeled boots clicking triumphantly as he went. The sound cheered him. Life was fun again.

“Good morning, Mr. Treves. If you don’t mind my saying so, sir, with your early habits, you’d ’a made a fine milkman.”

“Good morning, Charley. I’ll keep that in mind.”

Treves dodged the milkman’s horse, who would also have greeted him in its own fashion, and went into the front entrance of the hospital. Already he had forgotten the milkman he’d met at the door. It was the kind of cheerful encounter he made a dozen times a day while his mind was on something else. And people smiled and said how ready Dr. Treves always was to exchange a friendly word, and never knew that he had barely seen or heard them.

Fast as he had traveled, his mind had raced ahead of him. Indeed it had never been away. He had been forced to leave the hospital early the previous day and spend a boring afternoon in his consulting rooms at 6 Wimpole Street, dealing with the routine ailments he encountered in his increasingly prosperous private practice. He disliked these afternoons but forced himself to go on with them, partly through his ambition, which told him that no doctor ever made a name through hospital practice alone, and partly in fulfillment of the promise he had made to Alfred and Elizabeth Mason, thirteen years ago, when his one thought had been to convince them that he was fit to marry their daughter Anne. A solid private practice with which to keep their daughter he had promised them, and he had been as good as his word. The Masons, had they still been alive, could have had no quarrel
with the consulting rooms, or the home in Wimpole Street. As for Treves, he bent his head to the necessary yoke, but his mind lived at the hospital.

He had been forced to leave the Elephant Man in Mothershead’s care. He knew she would be competent, even kindly in an impersonal way. But she could not be everywhere, and the minor uproar caused by Merrick’s arrival had convinced Treves that his patient needed constant protection. There was no one to provide it.

He had left the strictest instructions that no one but Mothershead herself was to approach the Isolation Ward, and he counted on the ripple of fear he had detected in the hospital to ensure that those instructions were obeyed. But he could not be easy in his mind, and on the day following Merrick’s admission he made his best speed to the hospital and headed straight upstairs, pausing only at the kitchens to collect Merrick’s breakfast.

His first thought on opening the door of the Isolation Ward was that his worst fears had been realized and that Merrick had either been kidnapped or managed to escape. The Elephant Man was nowhere to be seen. A horrible thought struck Treves. Suppose his patient had died in the night? Suppose the blame were his own for failing to care for him properly—?

Then his eye was caught by a slight movement in the corner by the bed, and he breathed again. Merrick was crouched down, half hidden under the bed, his eyes still full of the terror that had filled them when he first heard the approaching footsteps. That much Treves could reconstruct for himself. He supposed it was only natural that approaching sounds should still frighten Merrick until he grew to know who was likely to be coming. What puzzled Treves somewhat was the gas lamp overhead, which was still burning brightly. He supposed Mothershead must have left it on when she paid her final visit the night before, although it seemed strangely unlike her economical
soul. Perhaps Merrick himself had been groping around and had accidentally put it on.

Treves made his voice as kind and gentle as he could manage, hoping that the Elephant Man would understand his tone.

“Good morning—John. I’ve brought your breakfast.”

This did not have the desired effect. Merrick began to babble miserably, making no effort to emerge from his hiding place. Treves placed the bowl of porridge on the table and went closer.

“What are you doing down there?” he said, still speaking quietly. “Come up, John, come up on the bed. The cold floor is bad for you. I won’t hurt you. Come on now …”

He put out his hand and grasped Merrick’s left, pulling as he did so. The Elephant Man slid out unresisting and allowed himself to be helped up onto the edge of the bed where he sat shivering. Treves continued talking as he turned away for the bowl, giving the frightened creature a chance to absorb the soothing murmur of his voice.