The Resurrection Men by Icy Sedgwick - Issue 1 Archived

Midnight mist swirled around my ankles. I stumbled, my foot caught under a tree root. At least, I hoped it was a tree root. I didn’t want to think what else might grab my foot in a cemetery.
“So what you’re saying is, you won’t steal, you won’t run any doxies, and you won’t get a job. How else do you expect us to make money?” asked Will.
I noticed he didn’t struggle with the sack. Perk of leading a gang, I suppose. We do all the hard work, he gets the glory.
“Well, not this. It’s robbin’ bodies, Will! Diggin’ up graves. It’s not right,” replied John.
I couldn't see him in the gloom but his reedy voice carried on the still air.
“It’s not exactly diggin’ ‘em up when the diggers leave the damn graves open, is it?” said Will.
“Think about it, John. The surgeons pay a pretty penny for bodies. Plenty o’ money for little work. We're helpin’ ‘em with their studies. Medical advances, and all that,” said Richard.
“What if we get caught?” asked John.
“We won’t be. Anyway, we’ve done it now. Might as well just go sell this ‘un, get our money and be off,” replied Will.
Will led us through alleys and dark streets to the back of a grand house near the Embankment. I almost dropped the sack twice on the way there. A crusty old man answered the back door. He wanted to send us away until Will told him about the sack. He didn’t want to see the contents, but he said his master would. He made us stand in the back yard by the midden heap. I couldn’t see anything, but I could smell the pile of crap by my foot. Even rich people need to dump their shit somewhere.
The back door opened a crack. A rusty metal lantern thrust through the gap. I could just make out a tall gentleman with a shock of white hair. Shadows pooled in the folds of skin under his eyes.
“What do you want?” he asked.
“We’ve got a body for you, sir,” said Will.
“A body, you say? And where did you get this specimen?” asked the surgeon.
“The gallows, sir,” replied Will.
The surgeon stared at him. The skin around my neck crawled. Perhaps this was what the surgeon’s anatomical specimens felt like.
“The gallows, you say,” said the surgeon. “Do you mind if I examine the hand of the specimen?”
“Why?” asked Will.
I shifted my feet. The acrid tang of sweat filled the air. I heard Will gulp. If he could smell our unease, so could the surgeon.
“Humour me.”
Will nodded at Richard. He pulled back the sack and lifted the left hand free. The fingers stuck out like solid rods. The skin glowed pale green in the lantern light.
“I’m afraid I cannot buy this specimen,” said the surgeon. He let the hand drop.
“Why not?” asked Will.
“The last hanging at Tyburn was this morning, yet the stiffness of the fingers would suggest this specimen has been dead for several days. I also notice discolouration to the skin, and soil clings to the nails, which tells me this specimen was only recently dug up,” said the doctor.
“So?”
“I care not what you do to make money; however, I may not purchase specimens from grave robbers. I may only buy the bodies of executed criminals. Therefore I suggest that you take this specimen elsewhere.”
The door slammed shut. We heaved the sack back out into the alley behind the house. Will thumped his fist against the brick wall.
“Damn! I thought the old fool would take it!”
“You thought? We thought you knew ‘e would!” exclaimed Richard.
“I knew this wouldn’t work; I knew it was a bad idea,” said John.
“So what are we going to do now? We can't leave this ‘ere,” I said.
“Maybe one of the other surgeons’ll take it. Just because they’re not supposed to buy it don’t mean they won’t,” said Will. Desperation raised his voice.
“Shut up, do you want everyone to know what this is?” said Richard.
“Hang on. The surgeon said he can only take an executed criminal,” I said. A plan tickled the edges of my mind.
“Yeah, and?”
“Well, grave robbin’ is a crime. Pretty much everythin’ is punishable by hangin’,” I said. A strange look of hunger came into John’s eyes.
“Your point? I suggest you get to it,” said Will.
“Well I think we’ve got ourselves a criminal right ‘ere,” I said.
Understanding passed between us as we looked at each other. We all looked at Will.
John called for a constable.

About Icy Sedgwick

Blown far from her Northern homeland, Icy now lives and works in old London town. She’s only 27 but she remembers the days when she wrote stories in crayon. She likes writing about everything from grave robbers to telepathic parrots. 
She spends her days running an office, and her nights hunched over her laptop. She dispensed with sleep some time ago. She appreciates loiterers at http://www.icysedgwick.com, and Twitter followers @icypop