The Giant, O'Brien: A Novel

four

London is like the sea and the gallows. It refuses none.

Sometimes on the journey, trapped in the ship’s stink and heave, they had talked about the premises they would have at journey’s end. They should be commodious, Vance said, and in a fashionable neighbourhood, central and well-lit, on a broad thoroughfare where the carriages of the gentry can turn without difficulty.

“My brother has a lodging in St. Clement’s Lane,” Claffey said. “I don’t know if it’s commodious.”

Vance blew out through his lips. “Nest of beggars,” he said. “As to your perquisites and your embellishments, Charlie, they say a pagoda is the last word in fashion.”

“A pagoda?” The Giant frowned. “I’d sooner a triumphal arch.”

“Let’s see when we get there,” Vance said. “I think we’ll call you Byrne, Charles Byrne. It’s more select.”

A lurch of the timbers, a fresh outswell of mould and fust; Jankin was sick—he had the knack and habit—on Claffey’s feet. Claffey kicked out. Hot words flew in the stinking space.

“Will you have a story?” the Giant soothed them. For the time must be passed, must be passed.

“Go on,” Vance said.

The Giant did not stop to ask what kind of story they would like, for they were contentious, like fretful children, and were in no position to know what was good for them. “One day,” he began, “the son of the king of Ireland journeyed to the East to find a bride.”

“Where East?” Vance asked. “East London?”

“Albania,” the Giant said. “Or far Cathay.”

“The Land of Nod,” said Claffey, sneering. “The Kingdom of Cockaigne.”

“Wipe yourself, stench-foot,” O’Brien said, “then pin back your ears. Do you think I tell tales for the good of my soul?”

“Sorry,” Claffey said.

“One day the son of the king of Ireland journeyed to the East to find a bride, and he hadn’t gone far on his road when he met a short green man. The strange gentleman hailed him, saying—”

“I don’t like a tale with a short green man in it,” Jankin said.

The Giant turned to him, patient. “If you will wait a bit, Jankin, the short green man will grow as big as the side of a hill.”

“Oh,” Jankin said.

The wind moaned, the boards creaked and shifted beneath them. From the deck the world appeared no longer solid but a concatenated jumble of grey dots, sometimes defined and sometimes fusing at the margins, the waves white and rearing, the clouds blackening en masse, the horizon crowded with their blocky forms and their outlines unnatural, like the sides of unimaginable buildings, set storey on storey like the tower of Babel.

Conversing with the sailors—who cowered away from his bulk—the Giant found he had regained his command of the English language. One day, he thought, we will be making tales out of this. Our odyssey to the pith of London’s heart, to undying fame and a heavy purse. Rancour will be forgotten, and the reek of our fear in this ship’s dark hole. In those days Jankin will say, Do you remember, Claffey, when I was sick on your feet? And Claffey will clap him on the back, and say, Oh I do indeed.

And so at that time, after his father’s death and he being fourteen, fifteen years of age, John Hunter was still in the fields largely, the business of sending him to school having met with scant success. Having come home from the field to drink a bowl of broth, he heard one day a beating at the door, the main door of the house at Long Calderwood, and himself going to open it and propping out the door frame, short for his age but sturdy, his sleeves rolled and his red hands hanging, and there’s the carrier with some distressed bundle wrapped in a blanket. It’s human.

His first thought was that the man had been asked to transport some sick pauper, who being now about to take his leave of this mortal world was not required, I’ll thank you very much, to piss and shit his last in the cart, and so the fastidious tradesman was attempting to pass on his responsibilities and let some unsuspecting farmer’s floor be soiled. “Get off with you, and go to the Devil!” he’d cried, his temper even then being very hot if he thought anyone had made a scheme to take advantage of him.

But then from within the bundle came a long, strangulated coughing, and after that the words “John, is that you, my brother John?”

His brow furrowing, John approached the cart, and pulled back the blanket where it obscured the man’s face. And who should it be, but his own dear brother James. James, who had taken a degree in theology. James, that was a gentleman. James, that had gone to London to join brother Wullie, and become a medical man, and a man of means. See how far education gets you.

“Y’d best come in. Can ye step down?”

“I’ll have your arm,” James quavered. “Dear brother John.”

Stout brother John. He half-lifted his relative from the cart. “Is there a good fire?” James begged to know. Through the cloth of his coat John felt the quake of his body, his jumping pulses. There was a nasty smell on his breath: rot. Dumped on a three-legged stool, James seemed hardly able to support himself upright. “What means this?” John enquired. “What brings you home in this condition, mon?”

“I am done for,” James said. “I am worn out from the dissection room, the noxious emanations from the corpses, their poisoned fluids and exhalations, and the long hours your brother Wullie keeps. So jealous is he of his subjects, that he bade me sleep at night under the post-mortem table, lest one of his rivals should crack in at the windows and carry off the corpse.”

“I see. So theft of corpses is an ever-present worry, is it?” John asked. He clasped his hands behind his back and looked down at his shivering brother. Well he remembered the day James left for London, sovereigns in his purse, felicitations ringing in his ears, and a new hat in a leather box completing his general air as a man of present prosperity and greater ambition. And now—the ribs were stoved in, the stomach collapsed. There were two red blotches on his cheeks—a sick parade of well-being. “It seems to me you have come back to die,” John said. “All our family have a charnel disposition. Have you heard of a great man, called Sir William Harvey? He dissected his own relatives.”

James raised his head. Hope shone in his face. “Have you formed an interest, brother John, in matters anatomical?”

“But only after they were dead.” He turned aside, calling out to his sister Dorothea to come and view James. “You need not fear me,” he said, under his breath.

Dorothea came, and made a great fuss and to-do, and boiled something nourishing for the invalid. Dolly never criticised or carped, and when he became a great man himself he would have her for his housekeeper, since all his other sisters were now residing in the churchyard under sod.

When they docked, and stood on dry land, Pybus fell about, and affected to be unable to walk except in the manner of a sailor, rolling and slowly riding upon the element he has made his own. Claffey grew impatient with the joke, and kicked him, saying, “That’ll give you something to straggle for.”

The Giant looked up, scanned the English sky. A few scudding clouds, the promise of sun breaking through. “God’s same sky over us all,” he said. But the voices were foreign, the shoving, shouting men, the tangles of rope and rigging, the salt and fish odours, and the buildings piled on buildings, one house atop another. They had boarded after dark, so now Pybus gaped, and pointed. “How do they—”

“They fly,” Vance said shortly.

“Jesus,” said Pybus. “Englishmen can fly? And the women also?”

“No,” Vance said. “The women cannot fly. They remain on what is called the lower storey, or ground floor, where the men are able to join them as they please, or, when they sicken of their nagging chatter and wish to smoke a pipe of tobacco, they unfold the wings they keep under their greatcoats, and flutter up to what are called the upper storeys.”

“That’s a lie,” Claffey said. “They must have a ladder.”

The Giant gave Claffey a glance that expressed pleasure at his ingenuity. He was familiar himself with the principle of staircases, but in the lifetime of these young fellows there had been no great house within a day’s march, where they might see the principle applied.

“Oh yes,” Vance said, sarcastically. “Surely, they have a ladder. Take a look, Claffey—don’t you see them swarming over the surface of the buildings?”

They looked, and did not. Glass windows caught the light, but the Giant’s followers saw glinting, empty air, air a fist could pass through, that flesh could pass through and not be cut.

On the quayside, Jankin leapt in the air, pointing. He was swelling with excitement, bubbling at the mouth. The black man he had seen strolled calmly towards them. He wore a good broadcloth coat and a clean cravat, being, as he was, employed at the docks as a respectable and senior kind of clerk. He was young, his plum-bloom cheeks faintly scarred, his eyes mild.

Jankin danced in front of him. He gave a shriek, like one of the parakeets the Giant had heard of. His grubby hand shot up, massaging the man’s face, rubbing in a circle to see would the colour come off. Jankin stared at his grey-white, seamed palm, and clawed out his fingers, then rubbed and rubbed again at the fleshy, flattened nose.

“Get down, dog,” Joe Vance said. “The gentleman is as respectable as yourself.”

The black man reached out, and took Jankin’s forearm in his hand. Gently he removed it from himself, pressing it inexorably into Jankin’s chest, as if he would fuse it with the ribs. His mild eyes were quite dead. His mouth twitched, but it did not speak. He passed on, his tread firm, over the cobbles and towards the city he now called home.

The Giant said, “People are staring at me.”

Vance said, “Yes, they would. I should hope so. That is the general idea.” He rubbed his hands together. “Sooner we get you indoors and housed, the better for us all. We don’t want them gaping for free.”

The Giant saw the parakeets, green and gold, flit and swoop in a hot tangle of deeper green, and heard the alarm shrieks from their beating throats, and felt rope cut into skin and smelled the sweet, burned, branded flesh.

He called out after the black man, “Poor soul, you have a brand on your body.”

The man called back, “Shog off, freak.”

The first night of their walk to London, they begged lodgings in a barn. Joe Vance parlayed with the farmer, and purchased from him some milk, some beer, and some nasty dried-up bread with green mould on it. Claffey became militant, and raised a doubt about Joe Vance’s abilities. The Giant was forced to detain their attention with a long tale. He settled them among the straw, and turned his cheek to the alien breeze. They had come so far in thin rain, their heads down, purposefully observing as little as they could. London would be all wonder, Vance had said. They were disposed to believe it, and not notice anything immediate: just walk. They had expected lush valleys, mounts snow-topped, fountains, a crystal house or mansion at each turn in the road: but no, it was tramp, tramp, just tramp.

“Look now,” the Giant said. “Shouldn’t we have a conveyance, Vance? I’d have thought a coach would have been sent for me, or some sort of elegant chariot?”

Hm. Or possibly not. Vance seemed likely to break out into a rage, which he did too readily when things went wrong. “What kind of coach?” he yelled. “One with the roof cut off? Who’s going to wreck a perfectly good coach for the onetime transport of a giant? It isn’t as if England is teeming with giants, it isn’t as if having made a ruin of a perfectly sound vehicle they can hire it out again on a weekly basis, is it? No Englishman does business that way!”

“What about a chariot?” the Giant asked mildly. “The same objection cannot be raised to a chariot.”

“Oh yes, a chariot, but then it would have to be reinforced! You couldn’t have your customer stepping in and putting his giant foot through it, so it would have to be strengthened—which costs money—and then drawn by heavy horses.”

“Did you not think of this before?” Pybus asked. (And Pybus was only a boy.)

“Just what are you insinuating?” Joe Vance bellowed. “Are you insinuating that I have in some way exaggerated my experience as a giant’s agent? Because if you are, Pybus, I’ll slit your nostrils and pull your brains out through the opening, and then I’ll pound them to a paste and put them down for rat poison.”

The Giant asked, “Do you know the tale of the man that was drunk in the company of the priest, and the priest changed him to a mouse, and he got eat by his own cat?”

“No,” Jankin said. “By God, let’s have that tale!”

… As for what we can say of Buchanan—whoopsy-go Buchanan! Why John am I glad tae see ye—hup, whop, ye’ll take a drop, take another, take a flask, woeful tangle wi ma feet, here’s a go, here’s to you, here’s to lads, hup! Hic! Take a sip! Never mind, sit ye down, mind the chair, chink the cup, Saturday night, wife’s a-bed, hic! Whop! Saints Alive!

Slithery-go, oh, hey, clattery-hic—oh, phlat, hold yer cup out, no harm done—what a daft bloody place to put a staircase!

Well, Buchanan was an episode, nothing more. The man was not untalented as a cabinet-maker, but he could not keep his books straight, nor would a coin lodge in his pocket for more than an hour before it would be clamouring to be out and into the pocket of some purveyor of wine and spirits. In those first days in Glasgow, in the house of the said Buchanan, he would grieve—on windy days, the notion of fields would possess him, the sigh of the plane under his hand would turn to the breeze’s sough, and he would long to lie full length upon the earth, listening to the rocks making and arranging themselves, and deep in the soil the eternal machinations of the worms. But he said to himself, conquer this weak fancy, John Hunter, because fortunes are made in cities, and you must make yours. At night he opened the shutter, letting in the cold, watching the moon over the ridge tiles, and the stars through smoke.

Buchanan was a hopeless case. His slide to bankruptcy could not be checked. He had taught a skill, at least; now he, John Hunter, could say, “I am a man who can earn a living with my hands.” But he was glad when he was able to pack his bundle and foot it back to Long Calderwood.

Buchanan died. Brother James died.

One day a letter came. “Wullie’s sent for me,” he said to Dorothea. “I’ve to go south. He’s wanting a strong youth.”

“Then I suppose you’ll do,” his sister said.

Seventeen forty-eight saw John Hunter, a set-jawed red-head astride a sway-backed plodder, heading south towards the stench of tanneries and soap-boilers. He came to London across Finchley Common, with the gibbetted corpses of villains groaning into the wind. A hard road and a stony one, with constant vigilance needed against the purse-takers, but he was counselled against the sea voyage by brother Wullie, who had once been in a storm so horrible that the ship’s masts were almost smashed down, seasoned sailors turned white from terror, and a woman passenger lost her reason, and has not recovered it till this day.

At the top of Highgate Hill he came to the Gatehouse Tavern, and observed London laid out below him. The evening was fine and the air mild.

It was an undrained marsh, the air above it a soup of gloom. The clouds hung low, a strange white light behind them. The Giant and his companions picked their way among the stinking culverts, and hairless pigs, foraging, looked up to glare at them, a metropolitan ill-will shining red and plain in their tiny eyes. As they tramped, their feet sank in mud and shite, and the sky seemed to lower itself onto their shoulders. As night fell, they saw the dull glow of fire. Men and women, ragged and cold as hermits, huddled round the brick kilns, cooking their scraps of food. They squatted on their haunches, looking up bemused as O’Brien passed them. Their eyes were animal eyes, glinting. He thought they were measuring the meat on his bones. For the first time in his life he felt fear: not the holy fear a mystery brings, but a simple contraction in his gut. All of them—even Vance, even Claffey—stepped closer to his side.

“Keep walking,” the Giant said. “An hour or two. Then lavish baths await us, and the attentions of houris and nymphs.”

“And feather beds,” said Jankin, “with quilts of swansdown. And silk cushions with tassels on.”

London is ringed by fire, by ooze. Men with ladders carry pitchsoaked ropes in the streets, and branched globes of light sprout from the houses. Pybus thinks they have come to a country where they do not have a moon, but Vance is sure they will see it presently, and so they do, drowned in a muddy puddle in Chandos Street.

John’s arrival was well-timed, for it was two weeks before the opening of brother Wullie’s winter lecture programme. “I hear you’re good with your hands,” Wullie said.

He grunted: “Who says so?”

“Sister Dorothea.”

Wullie put his own hands together. He had narrow white gentleman’s hands. You would never know, to look at them, where they ventured: the hot velvet passages of London ladies who are enceinte, and the rigid bowels of dishonourable corpses.

Wullie had also a narrow white gentleman’s face, chronically disappointed. It was some four years since his fiancée Martha died, and he had not found either inclination or opportunity to court any other woman; pale-eyed chastity had him in her grasp, and he thought only of sacrifice, late hours, chill stone rooms that keep the bodies fresh. The rooms of his mind were cold like this, and it was difficult to imagine him sighing and groaning, all night on a feather mattress beside the living Martha with her juices and her pulses, her dimples and her sighs and her “yes Wullie, yes Wullie, oh yes just there Wullie, oh my little sweetheart, can you do it over again?” Easier to imagine him a-bed with the dead woman, four years buried and dried to bone.

Easy to see, Wullie creeping up from the foot of the bed, his tongue out, daintily raising the rotted shroud: fingering her phalanges with a murmur of appreciation, creeping each pointed finger over the metatarsals and tarsals while his nightshirt, white as a corpse, rolls up about his ribs. It’s with a gourmet’s desire he sighs; then tibia and fibula, patella, and—ah, how he smacks his dainty lips, as he glides up the smooth femur, towards his goal! He pants a little, crouching over her, scarred Scottish knees splayed—and now he probes, with expert digit, the frigid cavity of her pelvis.

“Are you quite well, brother John?” Wullie asked.

“Aye. Oh, aye.”

“You are not fevered?”

“Only deep in thought.”

“Then fall to work on these arms. I am told you are observant and deft. Let us try your vaunted capacities.”

The arms came wrapped in cloths, bloodless like wax arms, but they were not wax. Severed at the shoulder; and his job to dissect, to make preparations, to serve the students with a feast for their eyes. His voice quivered. “Whose are they?”

“Whose?” The little query dripped with ice.

“Two arms—I mean, a right and a left—are they from the same man? I mean, is he dead, or was he in an accident?”

He was a raw boy, after all. He’d done little but stone the crows, follow the plough. Glasgow had been an intermission, and had not taught him about men with no arms.

Wullie said, “When I was a student in France, there was none of this nonsense of forty men crowding round the dissecting table, craning their necks and babbling. To each Frenchman, there was one corpse, and in the dissecting chamber there was an aura of studious calm. The French are a frivolous nation, and deeply mistaken in many of their inclinations, but in this vital matter they have the right of it.”

John got to work dissecting the arms. Later, he castigated himself for a jimmy idiot—bursting out like that in front of Wullie, as if it should matter where limbs came from. Still, he couldn’t help wondering, speculating in his mind: making up a life to fit the possessor of the fibrous, drained muscle. It was matter, no impulse to drive it; only half its nature was on display, structure but not function, and he knew this was less than half the truth, for how can you understand a man if you don’t see him in action? He couldn’t help thinking of Martha, when he himself lay down at night: he saw her narrow and flat and yellow-white against the bedlinen, and Wullie puffing above her, his shirt scooped up, and he heard the little chattering cries of pleasure escaping her nonexistent lips.

“Slig!” said Joe Vance. “Hearty Slig!”

They were standing in some alley. Vance clapped the man on the shoulder. His head indicated a low door, half-open, from which the man had just emerged: behind him, steps running down into the earth. “Can you lodge us?” Vance asked. “One night only. Tomorrow we move on to greater things.”

Slig gnawed his lip. “Two pennies each,” he said.

“Slig! And yourself an old friend of mine!”

“Be reasonable. I have to cover the cost of the straw. And fourpence for the big fella. I shall have to turn two away if I’m to let him in.”

“But it’s a privilege to have him under your roof! Besides being huge, he can tell tales and make prophecies.”

“Fourpence,” Slig said. “Liquor’s extra.”

Sighing, Vance disbursed the coins. Pybus and Claffey were heroes about the steps, striding down into the cellar as if they had been doing steps all their lives—though there was a moment of nervous hesitation from Claffey at the top of the flight, and the manner in which his frown changed to a cocky grin showed that he had harboured some anxiety. Jankin could not be persuaded to put his first foot forward, even though Pybus ran up and then down again to show how easy it was: eventually, the Giant had to carry him.

The room was low and filled with smoke. There was straw underfoot, and men and women sitting, convivial, their pots in their hands, and nobody drunk yet; rushlight on exiles’ faces, the sound of a familiar tongue. And a grubbing sound from the shadows, a snorting.

“Jesus,” Jankin said. “We have touched down among the rich. These fellows have got a pig.”

There was a moment’s silence, while the people considered the Giant; an intake of breath, and then applause rang to the roof. Men and women stood up and cheered him. “One boy of ours,” a woman said. “The true type.” She stretched up, and kissed his hip. “Giants are extinct here for hundreds of years.”

“And why is this?” the Giant asked; for the woman, who was not young, had a look of some intelligence, and the matter puzzled him.

She shrugged, and with a gesture of her small fingers pulled her kerchief down, modest, hiding her rust-red curls. “It may be that they were shut up and starved, or hunted with large dogs. The Englishman craves novelty, as long as it will pack and decamp by the end of the week. He does not like his peace disturbed; it is the English peace, and he thinks it is sacred. He magnifies his own qualities, and does not like anyone to be bigger than himself.”

“This bodes ill for my projected fame and fortune,” the Giant said.

“Oh, no! Your keeper was right enough to bring you. You will be the sensation of a season.”

“At the end of which, I shall still be tall.”

“But I expect you can tell stories? Giants usually can. Even the English like stories—well, some stories anyway. The ones where they win.”

“This is not what we were promised,” Claffey said. He looked around. “Here, Joe Vance! This is not what we were promised! But for the breath of the mountain air, we might be back at Connor’s.”

“No, Vance,” the Giant said. “It’s not what I’d call commodious.”

“Contain yourself in patience,” Vance said. “Give me the chance, will you, of a day to prospect for some premises for us.”

“I’d have thought you’d got it already fixed,” Claffey said. “That’s what it means, being an agent, doesn’t it?”

“Being an agent is an art you will never acquire, bog-head.”

“Now, Vance,” said the Giant. “Temperate yourself.”

“If you don’t like it, you know what you can do,” Vance said.

“Claffey, have patience,” Pybus said. “Joe will get us a place tomorrow. One with a pagoda.”

“Did we agree on a pagoda?” the Giant said. “I still favour a triumphal arch.”

“A triumphal arch is timeless good taste,” said a man squatting at their feet.

“Whereas a pagoda, it’s a frivolity worn out within the week.”

“It’s right,” said the red-headed woman. “There’s a whiff of the vulgar about a pagoda.”

Vance spread out his hands, smiling now. “Good people! He’s a giant! I’m a showman! Don’t say vulgar! Say topical! Say it’s all the buzz!”

“Tell that giant to sit down,” said an old man, who was leaning against the wall. “He is disturbing the air.”

“He is blind,” said the squatting man, nodding towards the speaker. “Strange vibrations bother him.”

The Giant folded himself stiffly, and sat down in the straw. Pybus bounced down beside him. Jankin was admiring the pig. Joe Vance looked easy. Claffey looked peevish.

“We saw pigs on our way,” Jankin said. “Skinny brutes. Not a one that could hold a candle to this. Why, at home, he’d be the admiration of a parish.”

“All of us own this pig,” the blind man said. “He is our great hope.”

A young girl with an open face, slightly freckled across the nose, reached up and plucked at the Giant’s sleeve. “Would you oblige, and cheer us now with an anecdote? We are, all of us, far from home.”

“Very well,” said the Giant. He looked at Claffey, at Pybus, at Joe Vance. He stretched out his legs in front of him; then, seeing he was taking too much floor space, drew them up again. “Here’s one you’ll know or not, and you may make your comments as if we were at home and gathered at Connor’s.”

He thought: there’s only this earth, after all. The ground beneath us and God’s sky above, and we will get used to this, because people can get used to anything, and giants can too.

The young girl looked down, smiling in pleasure. She had long fair hair, almost white even in the cellar fug: like a light underground, O’Brien thought, Persephone’s torch made from a living head. The girl’s cheeks were pink and full; she had eaten only yesterday. She settled her hair about her, combing it with her fingers, arranging it about her shoulders, drawing it across her face like a curtain. And now the outline of bowed shoulders, of sharp faces, must be blurred for her, and the facts of life softened: like a slaughter seen through gossamer, or a throat cut behind a fan of silk.

“A year or two ago,” said the Giant, “there was a young woman, pretty and light of foot, walking the road alone at night, coming to her cousin in Galway, with her babby of scarce six months laid to her breast. She had been walking for many a mile, walking through a dense wood, when—”

“A demon comes up and eats her,” said Pybus, with confidence.

“—she emerged at a crossroad,” the Giant continued, “just as the moon rose above the bleak and lonely hills. She stood there bedazzled, in the moonlight, wondering, which way shall I go? She looked down, into the face of her babby, but snug in his sling he was asleep and dreaming, dreaming of better times, and she could get no direction there. Shall I, she thought, linger here till morning, making my bed in the mossy ditch, as I have done many times before? It may be that in the morning some knowledgeable traveller will come along, and direct my way, or perhaps even in my dream I will receive some indication of the shortest route to my cousin’s house. I need hardly add, that her hair was long and curling and pale, her form erect, her body low and small but seemly, so that if the most vicious and ungodly man had chanced to glimpse her he would have thought her one of the gentry, and would have crossed himself and left her unmolested. Now this was her protection, as she walked the road, and she knew it; what man would touch a fairy, with a fairy babby bound in a cloth? And yet she was a mortal woman, with all her perplexities sitting heavy on her shoulders, and her worries making the weight of the babby increase with every mile she trod.”

A man said, from the shadows, “I’ve heard of a type of fairy where they carry their babbies on their backs, and the nursing mothers have tits so long and supple that they can fling one over their shoulder so the babby can suck on it, which is a great convenience to them when they’re labouring in the fields.”

“Yes, well, some people will believe anything,” the Giant said.

“Must be foreign,” said a woman. “A foreign type. I’ve never heard it. Still and all, it would leave your hands free.”

A man said, “Whoever heard of gentlefolk that labour in the fields?”

“Will you be quiet, down at the back?” Vance asked testily. “I’ve brought you over a master storyteller of unrivalled stature, and you’re just about going the right way to irritate him, and then you’ll be sorry, because he’ll stamp on your heads and burst your bloody skulls.”

“It’s not worrying me, Joe,” the Giant said. “Calm yourself and sit down, why don’t you. Shall I go on?” There were murmurs of assent. “So: just then, as she was casting around, she heard a noise, and it was not the sound of a horse, and it was not very distant, and she discerned it was the slap of shoe-leather, and she thought, here is a man on the road who is either rich or holy, either merchant or priest, and I will beg either a blessing or a penny—who knows which will do me more good, in the long run?

“Then out of the shadows stepped a little man, with a red woollen cap upon his head, and carrying a leather bag. So he greeted her, and ‘Step along with me,’ he says, ‘and I’ll fetch you to a place you can sleep the night.’ Now she looked at him with some dismay, for he was neither merchant nor priest, and she did not know what he was, or what he had in his leather bag. She says, ‘The wind is fresh and the moon is high, and I think I’ll step out, because my relatives are gathered about their hearth in the town of Galway, and they are waiting for me.’

“And he says to her, very low and respectful, ‘Mistress, will you walk with me for all that? I will bring you to a hall where a little babby is crying with hunger, with no one to feed him; because his mother is dead and we have no wet nurse amongst us. Do me this favour,’ he says, ‘as I observe your own child is plump and rosy, and he will not miss the milk, but without it our babby will die. And if you will do me this favour, I will give you a gold piece from my leather bag.’

“And then he gave the bag a good shake, and she could hear the chink of gold pieces from within.”

“She ought not go, for all that,” the red-haired woman observed. “It will end badly.”

“And aren’t you the shrivelled old bitch!” Pybus said. “Not go, and have the babby starve?”

“I’m telling you,” the woman said. “Just wait, you’ll see.”

“Do you know this story, then?” Pybus asked her.

“No, but I know that type of man that wears a red woollen cap.”

“Well now,” the Giant said, “let the true facts of what occurred put an end to your debate. For she was an amiable, good-hearted young woman, and she says to him, ‘For such a pitiful tale as you have told me I’ll come to the babby, and ask you no money, for you are an old man, and you may need your cash yourself, by and by.’”

“Oh, Jesus!” Joe Vance said. “If that were my wife, I’d beat her into better sense.”

“So off they step together, many a mile, turning her out of her true path, and still her babby sleeps, until she grows footsore and says to the old man, ‘I fear we will not be there by morning.’

“‘We shall come to the place before dawn, I promise you,’ says the old man. ‘This is a king’s son I am taking you to nurse, and it is not likely I should find him lying under the next hedge.’”

“A pox on kings,” said the blind man. “What do kings avail? Better he dies.”

“You speak out of your bitterness and affliction,” the Giant said. “Not all kings are bad.”

“Yes,” said the blind man. “They are bad inherently. It is not a question of their personal character. Kingship is an institution merely silly in itself, and pernicious as well.”

“Less politics,” the fair young woman said. “I want to hear of the girl, she is feeling she can’t go a step more, so what is the old man going to do to coax her, as she doesn’t seem to want his money?”

“Put his hand up her skirts and wiggle his finger?” Vance asked. “That’s often known to invigorate a female.”

The red-head yawned. “Little man, you might wave your cock to the five points,” she said. “Not a woman in Ireland but would be laughing.”

“Go on,” Pybus said, impatient. “Go on with the tale, Charlie.”

The Giant began again, taking up the young woman’s voice. “‘Good sir, I did not know it was a king’s son you were bringing me to.’ So off they step, across field and stream, for what seems another hour, and another, and another, and dawn does not break, nor does the sky lighten one crack, and on and on they go, into the dark. And again she is weary, the babby grown a leaden weight, her feet cold and sore, her breath coming short and painful, and every limb crying out for rest and warmth, her belly rumbling too. She says, ‘King’s son or no, I can walk no more.’

“Then the old man takes from under his coat a silver flask, and hands it to her, and she marvels at its workmanship, for it was finer than any she had ever seen or dreamed of. ‘Take a draught!’ says he, and she takes a draught, and it is like nothing she has ever tasted in her mortal life. It is like honey but sweeter, it is like new milk but milder, it is like wine but it is stronger than any wine that was ever poured into a chalice. And as soon as she drinks it down, she feels all weariness drop away from her, and all torment of mind, and the babby is as light as air, and her feet feel as if she’s on her way to a dance, twitching at the first strain of the fiddle and ready to jig through the night. So she says to the old man, ‘With a draught like that I could walk for half a year.’”

“Hm,” said the red-head. “You notice how he only offered it after she said she was all through and done for? Why didn’t he give her a swig when he met her? Too mean, that’s what.”

“Presently,” the Giant said, “they came to a halt. Before them was a forest.”

“I knew a forest would be in it,” Jankin said. “There is a demon in that forest, I bet you.”

“Seal your gawpy mouth, mush-head,” Joe Vance said. “Go talk to your friend the pig.”

The Giant glanced at Joe; he saw he was heart and soul in the tale. He’s not a bad man at that, he thought, and he’s a good standby when the weapon of words must be employed; with his natural, flowing abuse, he’s working within a fertile tradition. “She enters the forest,” he said. “They walk a half-mile. She’s light now, her steps bouncing. Before her, she can see nothing but trees. Then when she looks again, she can see a gate set into the trees—and the gate is made of gold.”

“A common delusion,” said the red-head.

“Then the old man says, ‘Mistress, will you enter in?’ She does so. And there she beholds such splendour as there never was this side of heaven.”

“Silk cushions with tassels is in it,” Jankin said.

“Indeed,” said the Giant. He closed his eyes, and drew in his brows. So many times he had been called upon to describe splendour, and so many times he had called upon himself to do it; by now the thread of his invention was wearing thin. “There were hangings on the wall,” he began, “rich and dense tapestries, with every manner of flower and child and beast depicted upon them. There were mirrors between these hangings, their gilt frames studded with rubies. There were candles blazing, and the skins of lions to sit on, and there was a huge joint of meat roasting on a spit, and a mastiff—no, a brace of mastiffs—to turn it. So when she sees all this, she thinks, I should have taken that gold piece after all, because it’s obvious now that there’s plenty more where that came from.”

“First glimpse of sense she’s shown all evening,” Claffey said.

“So there she stood, her babby in her arms, looking about her open-mouthed. At one end of the great room a door opened, and in came a man and a woman, tall and elegant, attired in sumptuous robes embroidered with silk. She bobbed her head then, and she was shy and tongue-tied, having no acquaintance until now with princes, which was what she took them to be. But they spoke her very fair—their voices were low and gracious, a whisper merely—and stretching out their hands to her they drew her towards them, and said they would conduct her to where the child was. So they took her into another great chamber, its hangings even richer than the first, the logs blazing, and golden birds singing in their cages, and the music of a harp sounding in her ears as sweet as the breath of angels. Surely I’ve died and gone to heaven, she said to herself—but then the woman reached forward to her, and drew her babby out of her arms, and the man put a hand on her breast and, with the utmost reverence, uncovered her dug. ‘Here,’ says the woman, and led her to the cradle, which was draped in purple velvet and set on a stand carved of ivory, fetched from—”

“Jesus!” Claffey said. “I am getting weary of the catalogue of furnishings, so I am. A hand plucks back the curtain and she sees—”

“—a yellow-skinned babby, its skin wrinkled, its eyes rheumy—”

“Much like he must have been,” the red-head said, indicating Vance.

“—so ugly she had never seen a child like it, and her gorge rose, and she said—putting aside all common politeness, such was the strength of her feeling—I don’t know that I can touch it. Then the man and woman again spoke to her, and their voices were low and whispering and they seemed to hold in them the same shivering note of the harp-string and the melody of the golden birds bowing on their perch—and they said, cooing to her, ‘There’s nothing the matter with the child, except want of nourishment.’

“And the woman shook her head, saying, ‘If that’s the manner and appearance of a king’s son, my own fair child should be emperor of the earth and skies.’ But she pitied them, and she pitied the yellow baby, and so she lifted it from the cradle of velvet and ivory, and laid it to her blue-veined breast. And all the while her own child lay sleeping in the arms of the woman so richly dressed, and lay so quiet and still that it seemed he was under an enchantment.”

“Which indeed he was,” the red-haired woman said. Again she plucked nervously at her kerchief. “You could see it coming a mile off.”

“I wish you’d be quiet, mother,” Pybus said.

“Yes.” Jankin broke off from his play with the pig. “I want to hear, I want to hear. It is not the demon tale we thought it was.”

A man laughed. “They are simple, these. Come over the water just now.”

But the blind man shushed him, saying severely, “It is seldom, in these debased days, we are able to hear a tale told in the antique fashion, by a gent of such proportions.”

“So when the yellow child was laid to her breast, he took a fierce hold, and drank greedily, and she cried out, ‘Oh, you did not say he had teeth! Surely, blood is springing from my tit!’”

“Dear, dear,” Vance said satirically. “What the female sex have to endure!”

“‘Ah, my dear, he has but one tooth, one tooth only,’ said the queen, soothing her. ‘He will suck me dry!’ the young woman cried. ‘Feed him but one minute longer,’ they coaxed, ‘and then you shall have a soft bed to lie in all night, and a goosedown quilt to cover you, and in the morning we will give you seven gold pieces, and shoes to your feet, and in no time at all you will be in Galway amongst your own people.’

“So, thinking of the bed, and the quilt, and the shoes, and the gold, she let the yellow child drain her. The moment it was done, it flinched away its head, like a rich man offered a dry crust. And the queen took it from her—and all at once, she felt her eyelids droop, her legs weaken—and that was the last thing she knew.”

“Now you will hear the coda,” said the red-head. “I feel I could whistle it. It is no pretty tune.”

“Morning came at last. She woke, and put out her hand to stroke the feather bed—”

“But felt,” said the blind man, “only a mulch of leaves.”

“It was cold, and the harp-string was mute, and only a common sparrow of the hedgerows sang in her ear. She opened her eyes, sat up, looked around her—and the hand that had smoothed the bed grasped a handful of weeds, too rank to feed a cow—”

“And her babby?” the freckled girl said. Her fingers parted her curtain of hair. Her voice was sharp with anxiety.

“She is twelve years old,” the red-head said. “Excuse her. She has not heard many tales.”

The Giant shook his head. “Then this is a sad one, for a beginner. For the young lady, who last night was in the hall of kings—now her feet are in the ditch, her mouth is dry, there is muck in her hair, and her belly is empty. And she cries, ‘My babby! Where is he?’ She casts around, but her rosy babby is not to be seen—and then from the hedge she hears a little bleat—”

The red-head laughed. “Time to run.”

“—and looking into the hedge what should she find but the yellow child, its skin flapping, its eyes running and its nose snuffling, its evil pointed teeth grinning at her, and its wizened arms held out to fasten about her neck.”

“Well?” asked a woman in the shadows. “Did she turn and walk away?”

“I think not,” the red-head said. “It’s the hand you’re dealt, isn’t it? She’d pick him up. It’s what women do. She was a fool, and well-intentioned, and just a little bit greedy, and isn’t that like most of us?”

Jankin gaped. “What happened to her babby? Did she get him back?”

“He was never seen again,” the Giant said emphatically.

There was a long silence.

Jankin broke it. “Do you know what I think? I think, if she had not made the remark about the child’s ill-looks, and not said that about her own child being an emperor, I think they might well have seen her safe back on the road and a penny in her hand. For they are decent-minded people on the whole, the gentry, but they will not stand for spitefulness.”

“In my opinion,” said the red-head, “when the old man first offered her a gold piece, she should have said, ‘Show us the colour of it,’ then grabbed it in her hand and run.”

“Well, however it may be, and however you think,” said the Giant, “this happened to my own cousin, on the road to Galway, but one or two years back. And this is the story, as I had it from her own lips; and if you don’t like it, you may lengthen it by your complaints.”

There came from the company a great sigh, an exhalation; they were, on the whole, satisfied. Drink had now been taken, and Slig came down the steps with a cannikin, offering more. The cellar was warming up, with the press of extra people, and the heat of the pig, and the heat of contentious opinion. The blind man had sunk down against the wall, into a heap of rags, and he held out his beaker, his voice searching, “Slig? Slig? Fill us up here.” He turned his face in the Giant’s direction. “Would you like to hear our ballad, big man?”

“Certainly, yes.”

“It is still in the making.”

“That is the most interesting stage.”

“So polite you are!”

“I add it to the advantages of nature.”

“You do well.” The blind man paused. “We are making a ballad about the circumstances in which we find ourselves. Does that suit you?”

“There was in former times a great poet who made verses upon the subject of the shovel he used to dig a road for Englishmen—so simple and pure his heart, and that object not too low. Can I then disdain your cellar, or the circumstances in which you are found?”

The blind man nodded. “So. Very well. I will proceed. We are making our ballad on Hannah Dagoe, a wild girl, that when the hangman came to noose her she knocked him clean out of the cart.”

“What was her crime?” asked the Giant.

“Stealing a watch only, and that on St. Patrick’s Day. She came out of Dublin, and her trade was milliner.”

“Whenabouts was this?”

“I don’t know. Some year. They hanged her, anyway. We have also a ballad of Thomas Tobin and William Harper, how William Harper was rescued from the Westminster Gatehouse by twenty Irish boys with cutlasses.”

“And Thomas Tobin?”

“And how Thomas Tobin was not.”

“Did they hang him?”

“I expect so. For Robert Hayes was hanged, though he spoke Latin like the pope. And Patrick Brown was hanged for stealing silver spurs. Bryan Cooley was hanged, and his wife and four of his children came from Ireland to see it. Patrick Kelly was hanged, that was fifty years old, that filed coins, that made a speech about if each had their own no man would be poor. James Carter was hanged, him that was five years with the French armies, and John Maloney, that fought in Sicily, which is a hot country at a good distance but it’s not the Indies. John Norton was hanged, and him twelve years a soldier. Thomas Dwyer was hanged, that came from Tipperary and had no coat to his back. William Rine and James Ryan, Gerald Farrell and James Falconer, they were all turned off together. Teddy Brian was hanged and Henry Smith, that robbed the high bailiff of his gold-topped cane. Katherine Lineham was hanged, but her husband was hanged before her, and Ruggetty Madge was hanged, that was Katherine Lineham’s friend, and Redman Keogh, and black and damned Macdonnel that sold them all to save his neck, but they hanged him anyway. William Bruce was hanged, that stole a silk kerchief and a man’s wig off his head, and they found him in a barn, he was a man out of Armagh. James Field was hanged, him that was a boxer, and the watch were afraid of him till they came to take him in strength. Joseph Dowdell was hanged, he was a Wicklow man but fell to picking pockets in Covent’s Garden. Garret Lawler was hanged, that was a cardsharp. Thomas Quinn was hanged, and Alexander Byrne, and Dan the Baker, and Richard Holland, and all of those you could find any fine night of the year drinking at the Fox Tavern in Drury Lane. Patrick Dempsey was hanged, he was a sailor, turned off when he was drunk. William Fleming was hanged, he was a highwayman. Ann Berry was hanged, a weaver turned a rough robber, and Margaret Watson, she heeded no laws. Robert Bird was hanged, and of him I know not a jot that would make a line or half of one. James Murphy and James Duggan were hanged, and their bodies cut up by the surgeons.”

“Dear God,” said the Giant. “Was the whole country of Ireland hanged, and not one spared?”

“When the people gather they call it the crack-neck assembly. When you are turned off they call it the cramp-jaw, and the new jig without music, and dancing in the sheriff’s picture frame.”

“It is the slaughter of a nation,” the Giant said.

“Katherine Lineham was what we call a hemp-widow. Her husband was a month in Newgate, and she so in love with him that every day she waited till she saw him led from the cell to the chapel, that she might see his shadow slide against the wall. Oh, then how he did bounce, his face to the city! Rope is the first word of English that an Irishwoman learns. Hang is the word of her husband: hang him, the thief, he is a rebel, hang him for a rogue. Dog is the word of her children: kick them out, kick them out like dogs. These are the next words: papist, and starve him, and let him be whipped.”

They separated then; the women moving chastely to one side of the hovel, the men to the other. A low hum of good-nights, smiles in the dark. By the last flicker of light the Giant saw the red-headed woman draw the fair young girl to her breast, patting her, and he heard the tiny bleatings of sorrow and loss suppressed. Later, when the darkness was thick and clotted and absolute, he heard Claffey and Joe Vance whispering to each other. “I for one don’t believe it. Because, lion skins? He said she saw them, heaped in the great chamber. How would they get lion skins? How would they get lion skins, in Ireland?”

“Also,” Claffey said, “it couldn’t have happened to his cousin. He wouldn’t be able to have a cousin that was low and small. Any cousin of his would be a monster like he is.”

I have a difficulty myself, the Giant thought. The fine workmanship of the flask: how did she see it in the dark?

Through her fingertips? That’s possible.

Jankin and Pybus lay on their sides in the straw, heads down and knees drawn up. Both of them cried in their sleep.

“Sir, let me tell you, the noblest prospect which a Scotchman ever sees, is the high road that leads him to England.” It’s true. True. Buchanan, all that giggle and tripe—it’s behind him.

Long Calderwood’s behind him now: the thatch, the tending of the graves, pulling up weeds when ye could be doing something more useful. Beginning as Wullie’s gofer, sleeping on the floor at Hatton Garden (we all, my dear brother John, must endure these preliminaries), he became a trusted manager in Wullie’s deeper designs (to each Englishman, one corpse) and in summer attended upon Cheselden as he committed surgery against the patients at Chelsea Hospital, while in the winter he served as dissector and factotum to Wullie again, who was then pursuing his increasingly celebrated series of lectures in anatomy. A year later he was a surgical student at Barts, and a year after that he moved with Wullie to Jermyn Street, and fetched down sister Dolly, who had been left alone at Long Calderwood with the weeding. Wullie—always carping, criticising, and finding fault—came to him one day and told him to proceed to Oxford, to obtain a seemly education: “For your uncouth manners, John, hamper the family, and my nerves are frayed with anticipating what you will say and do next. And at the venerable seat of learning they will inculcate that knowledge of the great civilisations of Greece and Rome which seems to have escaped you, and they will instil merely by example, shall we say, a more urbane demeanour, a lighter touch, a wittier—oh well no, perhaps not.” Wullie turned away. “We must be realistic in our expectations, must we not? But try, brother John; do make a little curtsey in gentility’s direction. You are too much the North Briton still.”

John thought: I see you every night in your bed, fockin a skeleton.

At Oxford he lasted all of two months, and he made sure that, even at two months, he outstayed his welcome. He cracked Wullie’s scheme like a louse; what, make a canting professor of him? All he knows, all he needs to know, he feels under his hands, or through the knife’s blade. Flesh and steel; they are their own encyclopedia.

Yet did they not give him a post at St. Georges’ Hospital, and a little house to go with it? Later, St. Georges’ elected him a governor, but by now he was possessed by a great interest in gunshot wounds, an interest that he found hard to indulge, so near to Hyde Park. It was a defect, in Londoners, that they did not shoot each other enough. “Why, why, why,” he asked (his face reddening, blood thudding through his system, ker-clunk, ker-clunk, ker-clunk), “why do you insist on treating a gunshot wound as different from any other?” “Because it is,” was all they could say. Because it is. Because it is, because we believe it is. Exasperation drove him to the post of army surgeon. William flared his nostrils. “A step retrograde, I’d have thought?” Wullie by now had got his dainty fingers up to the wrist in the cunt of the queen of England, who was puffing and squeezing out of her innards a prince of Wales.

But later John was able to publish a treatise on gunshot wounds, which owed nothing to Wullie at all, and brought him the wholehearted esteem of the profession. In the year 1767, he was elected a fellow of the Royal Society, an honour which came to him a full three months before it came to his brother. In that same year, while dancing—an understandable reaction to good news, though a rare one, for him—he snapped his Achilles tendon. (“Really, John—what Hibernian romp was this?”) Another St. Georges’ appointment put some money in his account, and by the time Wullie vacated Jermyn Street and he took over the lease he had surgeon-apprentices bound to him at five hundred guineas for their five years, and live-in students who paid a hundred per annum for their board—surprising, when it comes to it, what a student can bring in when it’s one hundred pounds minus cost of porridge, meat but sparingly, linen-wash extra, and always use yesterday’s milk.

In 1771 he published a first part of his treatise on the teeth—his knowledge, again, thanks to his presence on the battlefield, because the dead don’t squeal and scream when their teeth are drawn, and in order to write in this speciality what do you need? Teeth, teeth, a plentiful amount of teeth! That year also he got married to Anne, the daughter of Robert Boyne Hume, a surgeon of repute who had helped him in his career. It was ten years since he had met her father, and it was true he had dallied, after his initial proposal, but women cost so! Lace and musical evenings, the scraps for covering screens and what-all, minced chicken-liver for lapdogs, and accoutrements for their heads! It is Anne’s fancy—and she had one of her relatives execute it—to paint a gallimaufry of cupids on the panels of their bedroom wall; there they bob and gambol, in and out of season, bare pink flesh bubbling and seething among the fair-weather clouds.

Since 1780, Wullie and John are no longer on speaking terms. They have quarrelled about the structure of the placenta.

So raise a glass. Here’s a toast to London, where the Hunters live and thrive, and where their prey survive as tripe-makers, spinners of catgut, coal-heavers and vinegar-brewers, industrious pencilmakers and ballad-singers, soap-boilers and cobblers, drovers and match-sellers and dealers in old clothes, where cobblers sleep under their stalls and milk-walkers in the cellar with the cow, where the cow is dying from lack of light and air, where the people are dying of dropsy, quinsy, tisick, measles, croup, gout, canker, teething, overlaying, mold-shot head, thrush, cough, whooping-cough, duelling, surfeit, pleurisy, dysentery, lethargy, child-bed, king’s evil, and unknown causes: and some from grief, and some from a footpad’s ball, some double-ironed in dungeons and some from the bite of a mad dog, some from French pox, cholic, gripes, flux, scurvy, fistula, worms: and are buried at St. Andrew above Bars and St. George the Martyr, at St. Saviour, Southwark, and St. Paul Shadwell, at St. Giles without Cripplegate and St. Botolph without Aldgate.

Joe Vance was visibly cheered when daylight came. “It’s just as the people said last night,” Slig told him. “They’re crying out for giants. They’re also extremely keen on two-headed calves, so if you have—”

“One wonder at a time,” Vance said. He turned to O’Brien. “I have made up my mind on it. We will call you Byrne, Charles Byrne. It meets with the approval of all here.” He tried it out. “Charles Byrne, the Surprising Irish Giant. The Tallest Man in the World.”