Elephant Man (31 page)

Marcus came right up to the cage and stared upward. From his tiny height it was a considerable distance.

“You all right?” he grunted.

“Y—yes.”

“Want to come out?”

Merrick did not answer this at first. In fact he hardly took the question in. Something else had impinged on his brain for the first time.

“You’re English,” he said in surprise. Marcus’s voice was not merely English, it was educated.

“Of course,” said Marcus, dismissing the matter with a shrug. “Do you want to come out?”

“Yes.”

“Won’t be a moment.”

He turned to the lion-faced man and said something in rapid French. Lion-Face immediately lifted a hand and easily unlatched the cage door. Marcus
began to speak to the others, using words that Merrick did not understand, but which were clearly instructions, for they began to assist him in his descent from the wagon. It was a slow business, and Merrick’s heart thumped with fear lest any noise should wake Bytes. But over it all was the glow of kindness and friendship, given without question.

When he was safely on the ground Lion-Face turned and relatched the cage. Then he positioned himself on one side of Merrick, and the Armless Wonder came to the other side. Lion-Face pulled Merrick’s right arm round his own shoulder, and Armless gave a jerk of the head, indicating that the left should be put round him. In this position Merrick could manage to stand. Marcus surveyed the little group with satisfaction.

“We’ve decided,” he said calmly. “You’ve got to get away from here.”

He ignored Merrick’s gasp of surprise at this cavalier attitude to the forces against them. He and another dwarf lit two lanterns and indicated that the others should follow them. Armless and Lion-Face began to move off, forcing Merrick to go with them, and the rest of the group fell into step behind. Slowly the little procession began to move out of the camp, its line of lanterns bobbing in the darkness.

Tony, dozing fitfully beside the camp fire, was jerked into wakefulness. He did not know what had wakened him; he was sure it wasn’t a sound. After a moment he saw the lights receding into the distance. Then, as his eyes grew more used to the darkness, he noticed the group of three walking clumsily together, and realized who the man in the center was.

Instinctively he opened his mouth to call for Bytes, but no sound left his lips. Something stronger than instinct held him silent, and slowly his mouth closed again. He rose and picked his way over the grass to where Merrick’s things lay where Bytes had thrown them. He scooped up the stick, then the cloak and
hood. Clutching them he began to run softly toward the slowly moving procession.

At the sound of his coming they stopped and eyed him warily. Merrick stiffened when he saw who it was, but Tony came on, walking straight up to him.

“Here—” he said in a quiet voice, holding the things out to him. “You’ll need these.”

He saw Merrick staring at him, saw the bewildered question in his eyes. But he returned his gaze levelly.

“Good of you,” said Marcus briefly, coming up behind them.

Tony never took his eyes from Merrick’s face. “Good luck,” he said.

“But—but—” Merrick hardly knew what he was trying to say, but Tony understood.

“I’ll be all right,” he said, jerking his head in the direction of Bytes’ wagon.

He began to back away, and at once the little band moved off, making slow but determined progress. Tony turned and wandered slowly back to the wagon. He moved indecisively, as though his feet would have taken him two ways at once.

At the wagon he stopped, and stood looking at the poster of the Elephant Man. From inside he could hear the sound of Bytes snoring as though it would take an earthquake to wake him.

It took Tony only a moment to gather up a blanket and some belongings from round the fire. Then he turned and began to walk quickly away, taking the opposite direction to the procession of freaks. After a while he increased his speed to a run, and in a few seconds the darkness had swallowed him up.

The darkness was a blessed friend, shielding them from the eyes of those who would have asked dangerous questions. The little group followed the lead of Marcus, the plume of his hat bobbing as he walked, his ark trailing incongruously behind him.

The journey was long, for Merrick was exhausted. And yet he walked further that night than he would have believed possible. Buoyed up by new hope and courage, he felt strength flowing again into his limbs.

Once, when they stopped for a rest, Marcus said to him,

“If you can get back to England, have you somewhere to go?”

“Yes, I know where to go—if only I can get back …”

“It’s not much further now.”

Their journey ended at a railway station just as it was getting light. Merrick was coming to the last of his strength when they stopped again, still in the shelter of the trees. The station could be seen up ahead, with a train standing in it.

“Just a little further,” said Marcus, looking him up and down. “Once you’re on the train to Ostende you can get all the rest you like. You’d better put your cloak on now.”

The freaks helped him into his things. Top, who had carried his stick throughout the journey, handed it to him and squeezed his hand again. Merrick was weeping almost too much to speak, but he managed to say, “Thank you, my friends.”

Marcus relayed this message back to everyone, and there was a small commotion as they all responded in their different languages.

“They say, ‘It has been a pleasure. People like us have to stick together,’ ” Marcus told him.

People like us
: it was the first time Merrick had ever heard the comradely expression. He savored it.

“I’ll go in with you,” Marcus continued. “You’ll need a ticket.”

There was more jabbering in various languages, and as if with one movement the entire contingent began to rifle through their pockets to produce coins, which they handed over to Marcus until a large pile lay in his hands. They beamed their goodwill on Merrick, but he could no longer see them. Tears of joy were running down his face behind the hood.

At the entrance to the station he turned and took a last look at his friends. They were smiling and waving at him, and he raised a hand and waved back.

Marcus bought the ticket, speaking in rapid, fluent French, and escorted Merrick to the barrier where two ticket collectors were standing. There he said something else that Merrick did not understand, but it was sufficient to make the collectors stand back and allow them both to pass.

“I told them that I was going to help my friend to board the train,” he said as they went down the platform.

He got Merrick down the platform as fast as he could, holding him tightly with one arm while the other hand never let go of the ark that trailed behind him. They headed for the far end where the third-class carriages were. As they passed the first class Merrick caught a brief glimpse inside, just enough to register the ornate interior with its thick, plush seats and glass lamps. In one carriage he saw a youngish handsome couple who looked as sleek and contented as a well-fed pair of seals. He wondered if they were as happy as he was at that moment, his spirits borne aloft by hope and friendship. He knew the difficulties
that still faced him, but the simple, childlike religious faith instilled into him by Donner told him that if God had sent him this incredible means of escape, then God intended him to get home—to find Mr. Treves …

Marcus searched in vain for an empty third-class compartment. At last he sighed and indicated the last one, which was crowded.

“This will have to do,” he said.

Merrick climbed laboriously aboard. At once the four other occupants edged as far away from him as was possible. Marcus sniffed in open contempt.

“I’m sorry I could only get you a third-class carriage,” he said. “But it’s all we could afford if you’re to have enough for the rest of your journey. The money I’ve given you should be enough to take you to London if you’re careful. When you get to Ostende, go into the ticket office and just say “Dover.” You won’t need to say any more than that. They’ll just assume that you’re another Englishman who can’t speak French. They’re perfectly used to them. When you get to Dover, do the same thing again, and ask for ‘Liverpool Street.’ ”

“Oh—my friend—” Merrick wept.

“Say hello to London for me,” Marcus went on, patting his hand, which lay on the windowsill. “I miss her.”

“Oh—yes.”

“You know, I saw you once there, in London. You’re a great attraction.”

Marcus gave a broad grin that transformed his ugly face. The whistle blew, the train jerked, and began to move slowly away. Marcus began to walk down the platform, keeping pace and still talking to Merrick through the open window.

“Luck, my friend,” he shouted against the noise. “Who needs it more than we?”

Merrick nodded and held out his hand, beyond speech. The train picked up speed. Marcus grabbed his hand and they shook. Then the train jerked ahead
even faster and their hands were parted. Merrick leaned out as far as he dared to keep Marcus in his sights as long as possible. The dwarf was standing still now, waving violently, his plume nodding back and forth in the early morning sunlight. Then Merrick’s eyes were blinded with tears and Marcus vanished from sight.

He followed the dwarf’s instructions to the letter. At Ostende he said “Dover” and received a ticket from a man who knew without question that he was dealing with a third-class passenger.

The boat was already in. Merrick waited till the last moment before boarding, the memories of his previous voyage swirling in his head. But no fear could be greater than his determination to get back to London, and Treves. Finally he stumped up the gangplank and onto the deck. He searched for, and found, a dark corner beneath a stairway. There he sat crouched and prayed that no one would disturb him. No one did, and when a sharp lurch announced that the boat had cast off, he felt a soaring sense of triumph. He was away. He had left Belgium. When he moved from this place, it would be to step on English soil.

He slept the sleep of exhaustion. No storm came to trouble this voyage, and the gentle rocking of the boat soon lulled him off. He woke at the first touch of a few drops of rain, and scrambled up to find himself looking at the white cliffs of Dover.

In England the nervousness began again. In Ostende they had shrugged him off as a weird Englishman, but in England he could expect to attract more hostile attention. But again his luck held. The booking clerk was tired and hungry for his lunch, and in no mood to quibble. He just made out the words “Liverpool Street” before he shoved forward a ticket, took the money, and called “Next.”

Merrick found another third-class carriage and climbed in. This time he got there first and that was a piece of luck, because after that no one else would enter the carriage, and he made the journey to London
in peace. Hope was rising in him. Not much further now …

The air was grey and smoky when he got out of the train at Liverpool Street. A high glass ceiling covered the station to let in as much light as possible, but already darkness could be seen beyond it. Merrick had no idea of the time but he felt as if he had been traveling forever. Was it only this morning he had got on the train somewhere in Belgium?

Even in his state of nerves and excitement the station was a wonderful place to him. He stood and regarded it, with its newsstands, sweet stalls, and shoe shiners calling their services. Passengers moved to and fro, carrying luggage, surveying noticeboards, seeking platforms. In one part of the station a row of benches stood for the benefit of passengers with a long time to wait. A woman in her early forties was seated at one of the benches, deep in conversation with another woman beside her. On her other side stood a large pile of baggage, atop of which was perched a boy of about twelve. He looked about to pass out from boredom, and his eyes roamed round the station in search of some diversion more interesting than his mother’s conversation. Not finding it, he raised a peashooter to his mouth, aiming it at an elderly man and his wife who were passing. The woman beside him turned just in time and grabbed the weapon with the hand of maternal authority.

“Little beast,” she admonished him. “I thought Mummy told you not to bring that horrid thing. Can’t you behave?”

The boy made a face, which she did not see, having resumed her conversation again immediately. He turned his attention back to the barrier at the end of the nearest platform, through which were streaming passengers from the newly arrived boat-train. There was one who caught his eye before he even reached the barrier, on account of his strange attire. He wore a long black cloak that enveloped him completely, and a grey flannel hood hung down obscuring his
face. Even through this obliterating disguise the little boy could see that the creature’s head must be vast. He began to tug on his mother’s skirt.

“Mummy, mummy! Look at that man! His head, it’s huge! Mummy, why is his head so big? Mummy? Mummy?”

“Do be quiet, Tom,” she ordered. “Can’t you see Mummy is speaking?”

Merrick had passed the barrier now and stood uncertainly, trying to decide which way to go. His eyes, sweeping round the station, fell on Tom tugging at his mother’s skirt and pointing at him. At once he turned away and began to walk in the opposite direction along a wall stacked with trunks and suitcases, trying to blend in and escape attention. His heart was filled with dread.

A few people gave him casual glances but then looked away and passed on. But young Tom was not to be deterred. He had got down from his perch and was chasing after him, catching up.

“Hey, mister,” he called, “why is your head so big?”

Merrick gave him a brief glance, then looked round for an escape. Across the station a large archway led out onto the street. He began to move toward it as quickly as he could.

“Mister,” Tom called after him, protestingly.

His voice attracted the attention of two other boys nearby. They moved over to join him, and the three of them watched the weird figure of Merrick escaping hastily across the station. As one boy they ran after him, moving with the instinct that inspires a greyhound in pursuit of a mechanical rabbit. It moves: chase it.