With each step downstairs the darkness squeezed my heart further up into my throat. There might be rats. My skin crawled. The men's sleeping room was empty. The door at the end of the corridor was closed. My fingers fumbled for the door-k.n.o.b, but I stopped as I heard her laughter through the wood, and the answering rumble of a man's voice.

As my eyes grew used to the dark, I saw a tiny light dribbling through a knot-hole at the level of my elbow. I crouched, and lined up my eye. At first I thought the room was on fire, then I saw it was the guttering of a candle-stub flaring against Lizzie's satin wrap where it was spread out beneath her, flaming the room with its sunset. She was laid upon it, naked as a babe, but very much larger. And upon her, the bony man who had come to speak to her.

I felt my face flush. I had never seen a man so unclothed: the shrivelled thighs, the bunching of bone at the knee, the drizzle of hair at the small of his back, feathering down into the dark crack between his b.u.t.tocks; the way he clutched his arms as far as he could about her gigantic body.

And I had never seen Lizzie so beautiful. Freed from the binding of her clothes, she unfurled in a great sweep of gleaming flesh, soft and white as the inside of a loaf of bread. As a child just born seeks warmth and home, the scrawny man made his way across her stomach and came to rest in the groove between her mountainous b.r.e.a.s.t.s.

I knew I should leave, but my feet disagreed. I watched him suck her great brown nipple into his mouth, kneading at the other breast as she stroked the top of his head. I did not know it could be so gentle, so unhurried, and with the room lit. She was tender with him; he was tender with her. He could see the whole of her; she the whole of him: that such things might happen between a man and a woman astonished me. Then I heard him speak.

'Take me, Lizzie,' he said. 'Make it all go away. Make it quiet. Just for a while I want to dream of my girl come back to me. Our boys still living and not dead of the cholera.'

I was holding my breath so tight I worried I might betray myself with spluttering, so I forced myself to breathe slowly. Lizzie bolstered him between her b.r.e.a.s.t.s and he wet them with slug trails of weeping.

'Come to Lizzie,' she hummed. 'Come to comfort.'

She held the nipple back to his lips, the ring around it almost the size of the dish under a Christmas roast.

'Don't let me go.' His voice was the snipped-off whimper of a puppy.

'Now, now,' she clucked. 'I'm here.'

She took his hand and nibbled his fingers to deep sighs from him.

'Come on, Lizzie. Give a man what he needs.'

'Be sure now,' she mumbled.

'I'm sure. A man needs some peace.'

'Never had a one who wasn't sure.'

'Do it, Lizzie. Do me,' he bawled into the deep cleft running from chin to cunny. 'Quick; can't you do it quick?'

'We've all the time we need.' She giggled, and smacked her lips. 'Don't hurry pleasure. Of all things, there should be no haste in that.'

He clambered further up her hill, snuggling into deep soft valleys. Her head fainted backwards, raining laughter: bubbling, spouting out of her throat and swirling around the room. The ring of meat beneath her chin swung its heavy necklace. Yet hers was not a cruel taunting: she chuckled so sweetly it tugged a string at the pit of my stomach and I wanted to shove open the door and dive into her too.

'Mama,' I sniffed, despite myself.

Her belly was broad as a pale mattress. His hand drifted into her navel and was lost up to the wrist; she smiled with the tickle of it.

'No hurry,' she gurgled. 'There's no hurry, my little man.'

Very slowly, her b.r.e.a.s.t.s began to squeeze together. At first it seemed by some magical force, then I saw she was bringing her arms closer and closer to her sides, scooping up great cushions of fat as she did so. Gradually he became enveloped in soft flesh, beginning with hips and chest.

Lizzie looked down and their eyes met. All the motherliness and kindness in the world was in that glance. It seemed to last an hour, but I suppose it was no more than a quarter-minute. I pressed my hand to my mouth for fear I should cry out at the sudden realisation that no-one had ever looked upon me with such love. She spoke again, very softly, and I would have heard nothing if all my senses had not been so on fire.

'Be sure. Are you content? Is all quiet?'

'All quiet, Lizzie,' he murmured, wriggling deliciously into her softness.

There was no more talking. She flexed her arms, heaping up her b.r.e.a.s.t.s until he was covered, except for his spillikin ankles and the grimy soles of his feet. There was no struggle, no kicking. Lizzie let out a great sigh, as of some great labour accomplished. The candle flickered, making brief lunatic shadows, and went out.

On shaking legs I returned to my room and perched on the edge of my bed, unable to sleep. I wanted to cry, but could not. After a long while, I heard the unmistakable sweep of Lizzie's body ascending the stairs. I waited a little longer and then crept to her door. Through it, I could hear snoring. I tiptoed to where she was lying and tucked myself into the warm dough of her armpit; fell asleep with her yeast tickling my nostrils, thumb in my mouth.

ABEL.

London, FebruaryMarch 1858 Every morning, I wake up on a broad new bed, in a broad new room. It is below stairs like the place I was before, but lacks the comforting fume of men's bodies, the rolling murmur of their voices at all hours, the warm security of Alfred's friendship in which I wrapped myself so tightly it gave me a sense of who I am. Who I was.

Here, I have a clean mattress that rests upon a frame with four legs, and there is a washing-day when the sheets are taken away and returned at night smelling hot and empty. In the wall there is a window with gla.s.s in it that gives out on to a well at the rear of the building, and if I look up through it I can see a square of sky. Light comes through at strange hours and troubles me. There are no constant smells, no constant sounds, no constant shadows in which to lose myself.

There are only two other men besides myself: a boy named Bill who whimpers in his sleep, a thin sound which peels the air raw; and George, who does not shake me awake in the mornings, nor suggest we breakfast together, nor visit public houses. I lie on my bed all day, staring at the lines of brick outside the window until someone yells down the stairs that there is food, or beer, or it is time to show myself to visitors. After I have eaten, drunk or displayed myself, I lie down once more. So the days pa.s.s.

I lie in the emptiness of this room, through the emptiness of the days. Eating takes up very little time before my belly is satisfied, and I find myself with a surfeit of hours lacking activity to fill up the time. When I mention this to George he calls me an idiot and tells me I had better keep such dangerous thoughts to myself.

'I for one can find a wealth of things to divert me,' he says.

I ask him what he finds to do when he is not showing his tattoos, and he laughs in a way that does not invite me to join him.

So I lie and read my doc.u.ment, there being nothing else to do. The paper is soft, the folds almost worn through. I am a slaughter-man. I was a slaughter-man. I had a job of work before I came here: it occupied me. When I think of it, I feel contentment: the carcases, swinging on shining hooks, each drained flawlessly, split into faultless halves by my hand. My friend is Alfred, reads the next line. My heart turns over, for I have lost that security. I move on swiftly. Before I came to London, I was a clock-mender in Holland. The pleasurable feeling returns briefly, but no-one brings watches any more.

I shake myself out of such self-pitying meanderings and chide myself sternly. Such lolling about will profit me nothing. If there is nothing with which to fill the hours, why then, I must create useful diversions. I take myself upstairs to find George arguing with Bill in the hallway.

'But Mr Arroner told you to go,' complains the lad.

'I'm no man's errand-boy,' he sneers. 'Hop it.' He sees me appear and nods in my direction. 'Take him instead. It'll do him good to shift his a.r.s.e for a change.'

'But-'

'Don't let him hold the purse. He's as like to drop it in a beggar's hat and think it well spent.'

'I'll go,' I say.

'I don't know,' says Bill, looking at me nervously.

George sticks his face very close to the boy's.

'Another word from you, you little t.u.r.d, and I'll turn you upside down and use your head to mop out the privy. I've got a busy evening.'

He saunters away, whistling. Bill shrugs and we set off towards the market.

'All George does is prop his feet on the table and swig tea,' grumbles Bill. 'And gin. Lazy b.a.s.t.a.r.d.' He bites his lip. 'Begging your pardon.'

I laugh, and he relaxes.

'Just you wait,' he continues. 'I'm not putting up with him for ever. I've had offers,' he says proudly and sticks out his little chin. 'Don't tell anyone,' he adds in a whisper. 'Mr Arroner'd skin me. And George would hold the stone to sharpen the knife.'

'I'll tell no one, Bill.' I smile. 'George is no particular friend of mine.'

'No, I suppose he's not.'

We walk through chilly streets. I decide that I must begin a new map to find my way about, so I note the name-plates as we pa.s.s, scribbling them on to my increasingly crowded doc.u.ment. Bill blows on his fingers.

'At least this b.l.o.o.d.y weather will keep the meat fresh. Arroner won't let me go early in the day.'

'Why not?'

He regards me as though I am rather foolish to ask such a question. 'It's a fair bit cheaper at the close of business.'

'Are we not wealthy enough to buy whatever we desire?'

He laughs. 'That's a good one, Abel.'

'But Mr Arroner talks of our wealth. Indeed, I would say he talks of little else.'

'You're not wrong there.'

The press of bodies, the creaking of loaded wagons to and fro, all the hustle and bustle reminds me of the time when I walked out every day during my stint at the slaughter-yards. I had forgotten how much I enjoyed the pounding of my feet along the cobbles, the drum of my heart beating a steady rhythm in my breast. I breathe in the scent of fresh horse-dung and scan the evening flood of workers, weary faces enlivened by the knowledge that their day's labour is done. The public houses are thronged, raucous with shouts for beer as men drown out all thoughts of returning to wherever they call home. I always walked directly home. Why would a man not go there straight away?

But I am falling into one of my reveries. I blink myself awake, and listen to Bill chatter about the list of items we are to purchase. He points out objects of interest in the shop windows: jewellery in one, ladies' hats in another. I do not remember looking so closely through their blank gla.s.s faces before. After many such diversions, we reach a street of butchers' stalls. To my eye, they are far more enthralling than a milliner or glove-maker.

The entire row is hung with carcases, festooned as though in preparation for some gay festival: a curtain of huge beeves suspended on hooks, accentuated by carefully arranged pigs; here and there a swag of furry coneys and a feathery pelmet of bantam hens, all hanging by their heels. Scrawny dogs skulk, ever hopeful, ever to be booted away with colourful curses. Costermongers' carts squeal along the stones, accompanied by cries of 'Sharp knives, sharp knives, fresh limes, ho!' Squat brown pots of rosemary and bay mix their fragrance with that of long-hung meat.

'Like lace on a t.u.r.d,' giggles Bill.

I sigh in happy contemplation as we stroll along the shop-fronts, nodding at the butchers shouting out bargains to be had. Bill catches the eye of one, swathed in a rust-spattered ap.r.o.n, and points out a tired piece of beef dangling from an iron spike.

'Who cut that?' I remark. 'Looks like he used a fork and spoon.'

The butcher laughs. 'I'd like to see you do any better.'

'Just give me a chance.' I smile. 'I was a slaughter-man,' I say proudly.

'Were you now.'

'Yes, at-'

I do not remember the name. Bill leaps in and fills the s.p.a.ce.

'Now he's moved up in the world! He's a proper sensation, he is.'

I cover my embarra.s.sment by prodding a slab of liver with my thumb.

'That's a nice piece. And those cow-heels,' I add. 'Make a succulent dish, they will.'

'Maybe you do know your stuff,' says the butcher. 'Best bits I've got left for such a price.'

He wraps them in b.l.o.o.d.y paper and throws in a slice of brawn for good measure. Bill counts out the coins with great care.

'You're a box of surprises, you know that?' says Bill as we carry our purchases away. 'I'd rather be with you over George, any day of the week. He talks to the traders like they're dirt on his boot. It riles them up and as often as not we walk home with sausages that are half off, or half straw. I'm looking forward to my dinner tonight.'

He skips along the pavement, dancing ahead a few paces and then back, singing s.n.a.t.c.hes of the kind of songs that Eve performs in the show. I think of Eve and it is a pleasant occupation of my mind. Bill jumps up and down happily and it occurs to me that he is still a child. I wonder if I was ever that young. I must have been. How many lifetimes ago? I push the question away. Such thoughts make me weary.

Later that night, after the show is done, I lie on my bed, listening to George and Bill snore. I draw out my paper and spread it on my knee. I shall record each day, each memory. If I keep writing, then I shall build myself up, word by word, line by line, page by page until I fill a book. Who knows, one day I may find myself writing a line and I shall cry out, Ah! This is the answer! I have found it! And all will be well. The thought makes me smile. When I have finished noting today's events, I fold the paper carefully along its well-thumbed creases and put it back under my armpit.

My shirt pulls up from the waistband of my breeches and I look at my belly: silver lines radiate across its paleness where once it had expanded and now is shrunk, sagging between the heels of my hipbones like the collapsed skin of a milk pudding. Once, I must have been fat; now I am thin. When did that change? Why I should forget is still a mystery.

I look at my clever hands, crossed with lines, dark against the biscuit-brown of my skin. Something stirs; deep, close. I know this sensation, as familiar as breathing. I sigh, and wait. The pictures will come now. I fall into a drowse that is not sleep but a breathless lifting of myself to another place, immeasurably far from the bed on which I lie.

I smell blood, hear the rasp of sharp blades. At first I am confused for I see knives every day: pressing them into myself for the show and feeling their brief consolation. This is different, however. I gaze at the ceiling and am washed with light from high windows, the room suddenly pungent with the stink of dead bodies that I discover arranged around me in rows. My nostrils sting; yet somehow I know that in a few moments I will barely notice it.

A question stirs: perhaps this is where I will find an answer to my questions, for why else would I be brought here? I am sure that I belong in this unfamiliar place: I know with a certainty that my hands have laid out these corpses. I walk amongst them, brushing the cheek of one, stroking the hand of another, showing them kindness for they are gone into the slumber from which only G.o.d can rouse them.

I sense the stretch and bulge of muscle, the squeeze of lungs, the soup of the stomach, the purples and reds of their insides bound up in the perfect bags of their skins. My breath catches, and I wonder if I am sickening into a swoon, but it does not occupy my attention for long. I am far more intrigued by the scene unfolding before me.

I see a white-haired man, neither George nor Bill, standing beside one of the tables on the far side of the room. He is dressed in outlandish clothing: short breeches, tight stockings and a long waistcoat, and furthermore he is wearing not his own hair, but a wig, dusted with powder. Other men clothed in the same odd fashion surround him, and each of them watches his movements, intent upon his words.

He raises his hand, smiling, beckoning me. When he speaks it is not English, but another tongue I recognise instantly, full of poetry. I hesitate, for I think myself an observer, not one who can be observed; he speaks again, more urgently, and I understand he is asking for particular instruments, although the words are strange and I have no recollection of hearing them before.

But I know where I am: in the Museum of Anatomy, in Florence, the studio of Master Calvari. It is as sure as I knew the watch-mender's shop in Nijmegen. I go straight away and find the blades, knowing that I have selected the ones he named; I return to his side and he nods at my correct choice. Warmth fills my breast: I have pleased him.

Our first cadaver is laid out in readiness. My master for I know with a firm conviction he is such draws back the sheet laid over her in an effort to preserve her modesty. Her mouth is still full of her last sour breath; her b.r.e.a.s.t.s are pale, the vital liquids within them long settled into the flesh of her back and b.u.t.tocks; her belly thrusts upwards like a sack overfilled with beans.

'She will make an excellent model for our studies, caught so late in the pregnancy,' my master declares.

We gaze at her, not one of us showing any discomfort at her nakedness. My master points at various parts of the dead body, naming its function, even marking the small details of the porta hepatis, so easy to overlook. He turns to me.

'Lazzaro,' he says, for that, in his mind, is my name. 'You may make the first incision.'

My heart soars with pride. I take my knife and draw apart the curtains of her body, cutting into her belly. I fish within and bring out the heavy loops of her greater and lesser intestine. I peer at the foam about her lips, the inky blotches on her b.r.e.a.s.t.s and upper arms; examine her stained and blackened hand.

'She drowned,' I say.

'Your reasoning?' he asks, forefinger tapping his great square chin.

'See, they had to cut a branch from between her fingers. She must have clutched at it when she cast herself into the water.'

My master laughs, pleased with my clever deduction. He presses his thumb into her distended uterus, exposed now that I have lifted out the reeking contents of her belly.

'Observe,' he declares, 'the condition which prompted such a desperate act. But it was not a whole-hearted decision, for indeed she reached out and tried to save herself. Sir, continue.'