The Life of a Teenage Body-snatcher Read online

  Penguin Books

  Doug MacLeod is an award-winning writer of books and television, whose humorous and fantastical stories have enthralled people all over the world; except for The Nile Delta, where he is hated. The Life of a Teenage Body-Snatcher is his sixth novel.

  dougmacleod.com.au

  Other books by Doug MacLeod

  Siggy and Amber

  The Clockwork Forest

  Kevin the Troll

  Leon Stumble’s Book of Stupid Fairytales

  (illustrated by Craig Smith)

  I’m Being Stalked by a Moonshadow

  Tumble Turn

  Spiky Spiky My Pet Monkey

  (illustrated by Craig Smith)

  On the Cards

  (illustrated by Craig Smith)

  Sister Madge’s Book of Nuns

  (illustrated by Craig Smith)

  The Birdsville Monster

  (illustrated by Craig Smith)

  Penguin Books

  Contents

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  EPILOGUE

  CHAPTER 1

  There are no stars, no moon to illuminate the grounds of the parish church. An owl hoots. Otherwise there is silence. It is a perfect night for what I must do.

  The coffin is six feet below ground, but the soil is easy to shift. The gravediggers have not pressed it down too hard. Since I cannot read my fob watch in the darkness I estimate that I’ve been here for approximately half an hour. Already, I’ve dug a hole three feet deep. I have a fine shovel with a good wide mouth. I have brought a strong calico bag in which the corpse will fit nicely. The bag is black. My clothes are black. The handkerchief that is tied over my nose and mouth is black. I am as invisible as I can be.

  The family purchased Grandfather a good coffin of a decay-resistant wood from the Orient. It will last for years. The owl hoots again. I decide I needn’t hurry, and pause to catch my breath. I do not believe in ghosts, except for the Holy One; nevertheless as I rest in my grandfather’s grave I do feel a presence. I am not alone, after all. I try to make out new shapes that might be lurking among the headstones. I see nothing, yet I know I am being watched.

  The owl hoots once more and I realise that it is not an owl at all. The sound comes from behind me, no more than a few feet away.

  I turn. Someone is crouching next to the pile of earth I have made. He chuckles. I should be afraid, but I feel nothing in the bitter cold. I might as well be one of the bodies resting below.

  ‘You make a lot of noise,’ whispers the man. He wears a tight hood that covers most of his head. I later learn that this is called a monkey cap and it is standard dress for a body-snatcher.

  ‘Why do you make so much noise?’ the man hisses. ‘You are not a resurrectionist. If you are, you are very new.’

  ‘I’m not a resurrectionist. I don’t even know the word.’

  ‘Body-snatcher. Are you a body-snatcher?’

  The person speaking to me can see better than I can in the dark. When I back away from him, he moves too, so that he is directly behind me. He is swift, a man who is at home in the night.

  ‘I’m not a body-snatcher,’ I whisper.

  ‘I thought not,’ says the man. ‘Your shovel has an iron scoop. I’m surprised you haven’t woken up half the town with your scraping. Give it to me.’

  He is very persuasive. I hold out the shovel and two gloved hands take it from me. The man places the shovel on a mound of earth.

  ‘Hold out your hands,’ he says. ‘I am going to lend you something precious. Be very careful with it.’

  I am handed another shovel. This one is lighter than mine, though it has roughly the same dimensions. I feel along its wooden handle, down to the scoop, and find that this too is made of wood.

  ‘Keep digging,’ says the man.

  ‘Do you enjoy ordering people around?’

  ‘Very much.’

  I thrust the tool into the earth.

  ‘Not so deep,’ he says. ‘You’ll break it.’

  ‘Then it’s a poor shovel.’

  ‘She’s one of the best there is, so treat her with respect. Her name’s Juliet. Feed her small clods of earth, not greedy great lumps. You’ll find you can work faster.’

  It is a curious sensation to use a tool called Juliet that makes no sound whatsoever.

  ‘Don’t throw the earth into the air,’ the man whispers. ‘Keep it together, in a neat pile. You’ll make less work for yourself later. What are you called?’

  ‘Thomas. My grandfather was buried here today.’

  ‘I spied you at the funeral,’ the man says. ‘I was there too, keeping a discreet distance.’

  ‘You were not invited.’

  ‘It was a nice way to pass the time.’

  ‘You must think it strange that I’m digging up my grandfather.’

  ‘Not at all. I’m sure many young men dig up their grandfathers.’

  ‘It’s what he wanted.’

  ‘No doubt. You feel a great injustice has been done.’

  I am surprised that he knows the inner most workings of my mind. ‘I do indeed.’

  ‘And you are here to make things right.’

  I stop digging and look at him. ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I saw it written on your face at the funeral.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ I say, going back to digging.

  ‘Yes, I did make up that bit.’

  There is a soft tapping noise as the spade strikes the coffin lid.

  ‘You’re certainly good at digging. Now, what do you intend to do?’

  ‘If we are going to have a discussion, I should know your name.’

  ‘It’s Plenitude. Pleased to meet you.’ He extends his hand.

  I ignore it. ‘Plenitude is not a real name.’

  ‘It is my resurrectionist name. I repeat, what do you intend to do now?’

  ‘I’m going to remove the lid from the coffin and lift out my grandfather’s body.’

  ‘And how will you do that?’

  ‘It won’t be hard.’

  ‘You’ve done this before, have you?’

  ‘Of course not. But it was my grandfather’s firm wish that his body be left to science.’

  ‘Don’t be alarmed. I’m joining you.’

  Plenitude eases himself into the hole. He is so close I can feel the warmth of his breath. I am used to smelling the rot of men’s teeth, but Plenitude’s breath does not smell at all. He crouches and with his gloved hands he gouges more of the earth away until the coffin lid is fully exposed.

  ‘It’s beautiful,’ he whispers, with real admiration. ‘It’s absolutely beautiful. It must have cost at least ten guineas.’

  ‘Twelve, actually. Mother boasted of it to our relatives, and indeed to some people she didn’t even know.’

  ‘Ah, the scent of cypress. And no nails. How civilised.’

  Plenitude removes the lid and grandfather is exposed to the night air. The s
hroud hides his torso and legs, though the head is uncovered. I find it hard to look upon my dearly beloved grandfather in this state.

  ‘Let’s get poor old James out so he can be put to good use.’

  Plenitude must have read grandfather’s gravestone; nevertheless, I shrink when he calls him by his first name.

  I lift my grandfather’s feet.

  ‘Don’t do that,’ says Plenitude. ‘There are better methods of elevating the body. There are labour-saving devices.’

  My grandfather’s shroud creates a sort of luminescence. I now have a better idea of what Plenitude looks like. His face is mostly hidden by the monkey cap, but a glimpse of his eyes suggests he is younger than I thought; old men do not have such clear eyes. At first I think he has a crooked back, like Richard III, but the lump turns out to be a bag he wears tightly. He removes the bag, which is made of fabric, and takes from it two lengths of rope.

  ‘Climb out of the hole,’ says Plenitude. ‘You’re useless to me down here.’

  I obey without question. He is more than persuasive. He is almost mesmeric. Plenitude takes the first piece of rope and feeds it under Grandfather’s upper torso. He hands me both ends of the rope. I observe that wooden stakes are tied at each end. One end is sharp and the other is padded with what feels like sheep’s wool. ‘Push the stakes into the ground,’ Plenitude says, ‘on either side of the grave.’

  I do as instructed. There is something cold and metallic a few inches from where each rope is fastened to the stake. It’s a mechanism that is a combination of ratchet and pulley. I feel a small handle. Even though I am touching metal, there is no hint of silver. This is black metal, designed for camouflage.

  Plenitude places the second rope below my grandfather’s thighs. He hands me the two ends of rope with the stakes and the gadgets, and once again I am told to secure them opposite each other, on the graveside.

  Plenitude hops out of the grave. He does not speak. His mind is intent on conducting the next part of the operation, which he performs swiftly. He hammers the four stakes deeper into the earth. Though he hammers hard – I can hear him grunting with the effort – there is barely a sound. His mallet, also produced from the bag, is similarly muffled with sheep’s wool.

  When the fourth stake is in place, Plenitude scurries to my side to explain what happens next. We will each of us wind the ratchet handles a little at a time and gradually lift my grandfather out of the coffin.

  These mechanical devices make minimal noise. It takes five minutes to raise Grandfather. His corpse rests on the two ropes, within reach. Plenitude pulls it towards him.

  ‘He is lean,’ says Plenitude. ‘That’s good. They prefer them that way.’

  I shiver.

  ‘Have no fear, Thomas. James will be dissected at one of the finest private medical schools and studied closely by brave students who will become the great doctors of tomorrow. Will you be a doctor too?’

  ‘That is my plan.’

  ‘I thought so.’

  ‘There was a name in the will – one of Grandfather’s colleagues at the hospital – a Dr Luscombe. Grandfather suggested his body be entrusted to him.’

  ‘Your grandfather is most certainly not going to Dr Luscombe. I know his anatomy school and it is not a good one. He once dissected a deer. Now, what are the students going to learn from that? How to remove a person’s antlers?’

  ‘But in Grandfather’s will –’

  ‘Dr Luscombe is a local man with limited facilities. Your grandfather deserves better.’

  Plenitude packs his ropes, spikes and mechanical devices. Lovingly, he places Juliet the spade into a black cover that appears to be made of velvet.

  ‘I have a horse and cart. London’s prestigious schools are barely two hours away. We shall grant your grandfather’s dying wish and properly give his body to science.’

  My eyes have adjusted to the dark. I can see that Plenitude stands a little over five feet. He is not stocky, but gives the impression of strength. Though he moves swiftly, he has a slight limp.

  ‘I’d like to come too,’ I say.

  ‘You must remain here and fill in the hole, so that our little act of charity remains undetected.’

  ‘We’ll fill in the hole together. Let me come with you.’

  ‘You have great spirit.’ Plenitude chuckles again.

  ‘Will you let me accompany you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I insist.’

  ‘It’s dangerous.’

  ‘Then forget London. I will not leave my grandfather with you. I will deliver him to Dr Luscombe myself.’

  ‘I cannot allow that,’ Plenitude says.

  He reaches into the bag and takes out a gun. Unlike his other devices this has not been camouflaged for night use. It has a silver barrel that doesn’t care to hide in the shadows.

  ‘You won’t shoot,’ I say.

  ‘I might.’

  ‘You are far too concerned about noise. A gunshot will alert the populace.’

  ‘I’m sure I could evade them.’

  The gun remains pointed at my head. It is interesting that people who have been shot in the head can sometimes continue to live. You can shoot away the left frontal lobe of a man’s brain and he may survive. But he will have no shame or knowledge of what is wrong or right. At present, Plenitude is aiming the gun at my left frontal lobe. I cannot bear the thought of living without a conscience.

  ‘Perhaps I deserve this,’ I say. ‘I thought God might understand why I am digging up my grandfather, but I may have been mistaken.’

  ‘Don’t talk twaddle. You acted for the right reasons. You will be rewarded in heaven.’

  ‘I’d prefer not to go there just yet.’

  Plenitude laughs softly. ‘Good chap.’

  ‘If you are to murder me I would prefer you to shoot me through the heart,’ I say. ‘Right here.’ I indicate the exact area with my hand.

  ‘I do know the location of the human heart.’

  ‘I’m sorry for doubting your intelligence.’

  ‘Not at all.’

  ‘Plenitude, do you vow to take the very best care of my grandfather’s body?’

  ‘Don’t you worry.’

  ‘I have a final request.’ My mind races. ‘I loved my grandfather a great deal. After you shoot me, will you bury me in his coffin?’

  Plenitude is momentarily lost for words. ‘I’m sorry, Thomas, but I don’t think it’s big enough.’

  ‘I’m sure you’re mistaken. Let me prove it.’

  Plenitude keeps his gun trained on me as I climb into the grave. Slowly, I slip into the coffin. I lower my backside first, like a child lowering itself into a bath. I lie back and feel the upholstery press against my shoulders. Lastly, I allow my feet to take their resting place in the coffin. I look up to see Plenitude gazing down.

  ‘You see, I’m perfectly comfortable,’ I say.

  ‘Fold your arms across your chest,’ says Plenitude.

  I do as requested.

  ‘No, I’m afraid you won’t fit. Your chest and arms are too big. The lid of the coffin won’t sit flat.’

  ‘It will. Put on the lid.’

  ‘All right, Thomas, but I’m only doing this because I like you.’

  Plenitude climbs into the grave and places the lid on the coffin.

  ‘Good heavens,’ I hear him say. ‘It does fit you after all.’

  CHAPTER 2

  I wriggle my arms so that they are no longer folded across my chest. I place my hands on the underside of the lid. The triceps are not the strongest muscles in the human arm, but they are all that are available to me at present. With all my might I push upwards, hoping the lid will strike Plenitude. I am in luck. The resurrectionist lets out a cry. I rise from the coffin and press hard on the lid so that Plenitude is pushed against the wall of the grave. Now I can use my biceps, which are stronger than the triceps. I can also use my back, which is stronger still. Plenitude is like a pamphlet in a book press. His right hand, still
gripping the weapon, pokes out from under the lid but flails uselessly.

  ‘Surrender your gun,’ I say.

  Plenitude drops the gun. Keeping my left hand pressed against the lid, I snatch up the pistol with my right. I could shoot Plenitude through the wood and most likely kill him. The noise would undoubtedly bring people running. I could tell the authorities that I had caught a filthy body-snatcher lifting my grandfather’s corpse from its resting place. I could assure them that I was outraged. There was a struggle. I was compelled to kill out of self-defence. My story would be believed. I am a gentleman.

  I allow the coffin lid to fall away so that Plenitude is released. I am amazed to see that he is not perturbed. He chuckles, as though we are playing a marvellous game.

  ‘What a clever chap you are,’ says Plenitude. ‘Your idea of climbing into the coffin and using the lid as a weapon was quite inspired. You’re also very strong.’

  ‘Strong enough to strangle you where you stand.’

  ‘Surely you couldn’t be so cruel? Come, Thomas. You have bettered me fair and square, so I must reward you.’

  Plenitude reaches into a pocket. I jab the pistol into his chest. Chuckling, Plenitude slowly takes a coin from his pocket and holds it up.

  ‘A laurel coin for you,’ he says. ‘It’s more than a hundred years old. Much more valuable than any sovereign.’

  I keep the gun poised. I don’t care to look at the coin. I’ve seen gold before.

  ‘It’s rare, you know. They didn’t make many of them.’

  ‘I won’t take the loot of a body-snatcher.’

  ‘This wasn’t stolen from a corpse. I would never do that. Whatever else I find in the grave stays in the grave. One does not want to aggrieve the Grim Reaper too much.’

  He looks at the gold coin in his hand. He’s keen to distract me, but it won’t happen.

  ‘Be gone, devil,’ I say.

  ‘And what will become of your grandfather? Will you leave him to rot here in the grounds of St Martin’s?’

  ‘Come the morning I will carry him to Dr Luscombe.’

  ‘I’ve already pointed out the futility of that scheme. Luscombe will be too slow about scheduling the dissection. While he’s fussing over a timetable your dear grandfather will decompose in the cellar, fill up with gas, then putrefy and burst. London is the place for him. Let’s take him together, as you wisely suggested.’