No, they can’t. Besides, this isn’t all fun and frolic, Keats said, his voice less gleeful than before. It’s what we need to do to survive. Fortunately, it harms no one…unlike some vices.
Alastair glared. I will debate that last statement until my dying day.
Which might not be too far away if you keep denying your heritage, my friend, Keats remarked. You know what that can cause.
I shall not become…unstable.
Keats shrugged. Old Roger Diamond said the same thing. I’ve heard he’s confined in a straitjacket now, thumping his brains against the walls of his family’s manor house in Dorset.
I am not so inclined, Alastair persisted.
Maybe not, but they prefer predictability.
I’m quite predictable, Alastair protested, his voice rising higher than he intended.
Nonsense. Predictable people don’t toss away their future over some street waif. Predictable people… Keats paused and then continued in a lowered voice, go about en mirage on occasion.
You, however, are as opaque as… She gestured toward the pair at the other end of the alley.
At that, the tradesman gave a short grunt and then stepped back, buttoning his trousers. The prostitute dropped her skirts.
Bless ya, luv, she said, humming to herself as they left the alley. They parted at the street, the act of dispassionate commerce complete.
Keats shook his head in dismay. Despite the killer, they still go off with strangers. I just don’t understand.
Alastair grasped the illusion’s arm and marched toward the street. I’ve had quite enough of you for one evening.
Treat me nice, Keats teased. If I give a shout, the crowd will be on you like a pack of hounds. From what I hear, you’re about the killer’s height and your hair is nearly the same color. Might take a bit of time for the mob to realize they’ve got the wrong fellow.
Alastair released her, unsure if the crank might pull such a stunt. He straightened his jacket, then strode toward the street, hoping Keats wouldn’t rejoin him.
The pest appeared at his side, eyeing passing gentlemen with stealthy glances.
Mindless twit, Alastair grumbled. Don’t you have someone else to torment?
His companion turned serious in a flash. He latched onto Alastair’s arm again, leaning close. Be careful, Keats whispered.
On all accounts. I would miss your gloomy person more than you might realize.
After disengaging herself, Keats adopted a saucy walk, veering toward the mangle of bodies loitering outside the Princess Alice.
The moment before crossing the threshold into the pub, she executed a short wave.
Bloody lunatic, Alastair muttered. He’s the one they should be worrying about, not me.
In time, the doctor reached the ramshackle building on Church Street that housed the clinic, a tailor’s shop, a saddle maker and ten families squashed into tiny, airless rooms. Situated on the ground floor in a space no more than fifteen by fifteen in size, the clinic consisted of two wooden tables, a few benches and an endless supply of the sick and injured.
Tonight was no exception; all the benches were full. Some of the patients held their heads, while others had barking coughs.
One man cradled his injured arm, a thick line of blood congealing on his shirt. Alastair’s fellow physician, Daniel Cohen, was attempting to place a stethoscope on a sobbing toddler’s chest. He glanced up, spied Alastair, and then shook his head in disapproval.
I won’t bother arguing with you, Daniel called over the noise.
You won’t listen to me anyway.
You need help tonight, Alastair replied, removing his hat, coat and jacket.
You require a night at leisure, Daniel replied. The recalcitrant child grasped the stethoscope and tugged on it playfully. Daniel obliged by placing it on the youngster’s chest.
I’ll take tomorrow night off, Alastair said, rolling up his sleeves.
So you always say, was the curt reply.
Alastair crossed to a cabinet and tucked his garments inside to prevent them from being stolen and pawned for ready money. He gestured for the next patient to come forward: an older man spitting blood into a dingy grey handkerchief.
At least here no one questioned his sanity.
No doubt they made a curious pair to any onlooker: the somber physician and the gregarious bootblack. Davy Butler had spied him the moment he left the clinic and now tagged along at his side, whistling a tune. As usual, the boy’s face begged for soap and water.
How’s your leg this evening? Alastair asked, noting Davy wasn’t limping as much as usual.
Right as rain, the lad chirped.
Alastair delivered a skeptical look. Davy would say anything to mollify him; it was the child’s nature. His mind skipped back to their first meeting––the twist of fate that had cost Alastair his future in Mayfair––Davy lying in the rain-soaked street, his right leg bent at an impossible angle while a carriage driver bellowed a torrent of abuse. Fighting back tears, the boy had insisted he couldn’t be hurt, that he had to work to feed his mum.
In the end, Alastair ensured Davy’s widowed mother was fed and the rent paid. After a fortnight’s convalescence, the boy was on the streets again, hawking papers while leaning against a crutch. Once his leg healed, he returned to sweeping the streets, polishing boots and scavenging along the Thames during low tide for discarded items he could sell. To his credit, and Alastair’s supreme annoyance, he’d insisted on repaying every penny of the doctor’s generosity.
You sure your leg’s not troubling you? Alastair probed.
It pains sometimes, but it’s not bad. Not like some I’ve seen.
You did right by me, doc.
Well, that’s good, then. How much did you make today?
’Nuff for two days’ food, Davy announced proudly.
Good job. Alastair clapped the lad on the back. How is your mother?
Her cough’s worse, Davy admitted. She works too hard.
Yes, she does. Have her come to the clinic tomorrow night.
I’ll try, doc. You know how she is.
Yes, I know. Stubborn, like you.
A smile bloomed on the boy’s face. I’d best be goin’. He tapped his cap. G’night!
See you tomorrow, Davy. My regards to your mother.
Right, doc. The boy scampered across the street and into an alley like a gazelle.
The sight made Alastair smile. A success in a sea of failures.
He paused to purchase a paper and then immediately thought better of it. Every penny counted. The clinic accepted what a patient could afford to pay, which was typically nothing. The cost of medicines, bandages and other supplies came from the pockets of the physicians and what pitifully few charitable donations they could raise. That evening, one of the children offered her dolly in recompense. Alastair had declined, a thick lump forming in his throat. It was clear the doll was all the child had to her name, other than a case of consumption that would carry her to the grave within the month.
Sir? the newsboy asked. Alastair realized he’d been woolgathering.
No, I’ve changed my mind. Thank you. He continued toward home, recalling when the cost of a paper was a trivial expense.
Pausing outside the boarding house, he stared upward at the window of his room. A world away from his accommodations in Mayfair.
At least I’ll go to my grave knowing I made a difference, he murmured.
Knees and back complained as Alastair hiked the stairs to the second floor. The Wescombs’ interrogation still raged through his mind like a squall.
Maybe now they’ve issued their warning, they’ll leave me alone.
He unlocked his door and pushed it open with a faint creak. The room looked untouched, with his medical books and diary on the rickety table and his spare suit hanging on a hook near the door, airing.
Delusions of persecution: one of the first indications that a Transitive was losing control.
Nonsense. He shut the door and stripped off his coat. Utter nonsense.
He was too weary. The words would not come tonight, no matter how long he stared at the blank page. Sighing, he leafed back in the diary, savoring earlier entries.