Sebastian Stiles called it art – to me it was butchery of the most violent and monstrous kind. I am a hollow man, a wretch doomed to an afterlife of purgatory and everlasting suffering and this destiny is exactly what I deserve. To serve a man like Stiles was not without benefits, social standing came without question, endless quantities of money and good times to name a few, it was all there. Mr. Stiles became the toast of the town and I hung onto his coat tails and relished every second. However, that was two years back, now I speak these words as I languish in my cell, it is a foul-smelling detestable place fit only for the rats and eight legged creatures that roam freely amongst its dark corners of damp and disease.

Jacob stays with me in this pit of horrors, a doctor by profession and my friend. I have known him many years, through good times and bad, this my dear reader is by far the worst – he says my life is ending – I have but days to live if I am lucky, heaven help that I should be, as I cannot continue in this existence much longer. He takes notes, he can write, it’s a gift I do not possess any longer.

Madness has finally ransacked my ability to see things in an orderly fashion, it wasn’t instantaneous as if caused by one incident, it has taken many years, like a slow creeping disease sucking the life from my soul. I am mad, I must be to have endured Stiles’ constant and threatening demands, him a renowned surgeon of royalty, of Lords and Ladies and me a common man digging in the depths of depravity and filth. There was never a time I could win, no redemption for the wicked, I enjoyed the glory and the good times, never knowing or understanding that one day it would end. There were times death was the only answer, not just for me, I could have killed him time after time – what stopped me, what drove me to stand in the darkness of the great man’s side-lines? Was it the money, the endless drink, the constant flow of ladies he provided? Yes, of course it was, I never wanted it to end, why would I destroy this giver of good fortune, my benefactor, my king, my lord and saviour. Worship him – why yes – that was the easy part. Stiles was my everything, my jealousy, my envy, the greed I harboured in the pit of my stomach at the greatness I would never attain – it was untouchable to me like a black star in the sky a million miles away, forever unreachable. I should have killed him when I had the chance, my life would be different now and this cell would no longer be my home, the place from which my removal will be swift, and my memory forgotten like pollen lost in a summer’s breeze.

The autumn of 1888 was cold and damp, it made my bones ache and at large I had to work alone during that period of endless British weather. When the task at hand was too great, I occasionally employed the services of Joshua Etherington, a lowly type intellectually, but I thought with his social displacement, he was a man that could be trusted. It wasn’t always easy to deliver the goods as demanded by my master – but I never let the man down, I never failed, and that’s what made me invaluable to the mighty Mr. Stiles. However, late December as Christmas was almost upon us Joshua Etherington died a very violent death, he was a hard man of dubious morals, he had a code that stated his law was the only law that was acceptable, and it became utterly disagreeable to Stiles especially when he got into the habit of demanding more. Etherington said he had bills, debts to pay, a Christmas to fund for his family and if he wanted him to stay quiet then a few extra pounds were all he was asking to keep his mouth firmly shut. Stiles, unfortunately, was not a man to be blackmailed by anybody, on any occasion regardless of circumstances, he had people he could call upon, high rollers, confidants, people at the very top of the social tree that would protect him for a price. Etherington was the first victim, his presence had become unbearable and Stiles decided to use the worthless creature for experimental purposes – remember I said he called it art. Makes me laugh and squirm to think that way now – the madness was already creeping quietly through my skin and into the very core of my psychosis even then, but it never registered, not in my thoughts or my actions, I remained unaware of the changes to my mental state. The man died, it wasn’t quick for Etherington, but it was bloody and agonising, I recall the screams and quiver at the horror in the cries of that poor dying man. Life quickly changed after that, you see Stiles had everything a man could want, there was nothing beyond his reach, nothing he couldn’t get or attain, his reputation as a surgeon was unequalled throughout the nation, he was a magnet for the gentry, for Lords and Ladies and their old money, but wealth and fame wasn’t enough for Stiles was it, no . . . he needed more, he craved that constant rush of excitement and adrenaline, needed to be a pioneer, a man that would change the world regardless of cost or loss of those close to him. Mary Shelley wrote Frankenstein, it was a homage to the creation and protection of life through science, Stiles thought he had an acute gift to be the first in all things medical, not to replicate or recreate what had gone before and not to be just another Dr. Frankenstein, but to be unique and empowered with a passion so dangerous it was finitely criminal – that was the challenge – and he took it to heart, it was all he dreamed of every minute he was awake – to create something of greatness – brilliant and clever in every conceivable way, to be magical and artistic, to produce a wonder that people, the great paying public would form queues to view and revel at the magnificence of his creation.

Etherington gave him the taste to indulge in human artistic construction, this spark of originality was all he needed to fall headlong into a new world of discovery. Stiles had seen John Merrick that year in a travelling show, the ‘Elephant Man’ as he later became known, a deformed travesty the public gawped at wildly, screaming in delight and horror and yet every voyeur that exited that circus, did so, with a sense of fulfilment and pleasure at witnessing Merrick’s suffering and discomfort.

It was a time of great change across those heady Victorian streets of London for public entertainment. Barnum and Bailey’s Circus, known as the Greatest Show on Earth – was maximum fascination for the public to immerse themselves in a new spectacle of mystery and precision in daily performance. This was the very same public that was equally horrified and enthralled by the reported violence of Jack the Ripper, crimes so awful and unbelievable to the common man and women that it had them talking in hushed tones on every street corner, yet they all scoured the daily papers to read the next instalment with glee. The wonder of blood and gore – what a nation we are to seek satisfaction in the suffering of others – there is a sickness in the populace of this land. So then, what greater wicked and outrageous concepts would the wealthy people of London pay to endure, a great question I admit – but Stiles had the answer, all he needed was the material and as I said 1888 was a bitter autumn.

Influenza raged through the poorly nourished citizens of that great capital during that cold and damp autumn and winter, whole families were consumed by the illness, thousands died in a short space of time by an outbreak that could not be controlled, and the local morgues overflowed with more bodies than the morticians could count or bury. It was not difficult to get my hands on a multitude of cadavers during that bountiful time, but it still did not please Stiles because most were old and worn, difficult to look at, awkward to work with bones so aged and skin sagging beyond repair. He reprimanded me heavily on that count, it seemed I had failed to deliver to his needs and in a fit of rage and contempt I suggested youth, desirable, supple in all ways possible, though difficult to obtain. He became shocked at my approach, detested my view, the argument was obscene he cried.

“Christ almighty, what man takes children and youth into his studio, it is not right,” he said, “I abhor the suggestion strongly, the truth is I am not the face of the devil,” he stressed with a look of thunder. That was a lie, I knew the truth and almost laughed loudly when those words erupted from his lips, as I knew Stiles was a disciple, and one that numbered large, of a secret cult that worshipped a god of their own making, if not Lucifer or any of his acolytes directly, then it was a direct descendant whose image we all recognise.

It was not my delight to rob the graves of the newly departed and planted, there was no need, pickings were rich as a few shillings in the right palms would get me a body or two, but these were no good for that damned man of experimentation, diseased with rigor mortis in the joints he just threw them out to rot where they landed. I saw Stiles’ frustration as he tried to work with the cadavers, he’d bang about and scatter instruments to the floor in disgust, speaking loudly with profanities I’d not heard from the likes of an educated man.

“I need live ones, get me a live one god damn it – these are no good to me! I need something fresh and pliable to work with, not this . . . not this thing!” he’d demand when he could not endure the failure of his work any longer. Stiles was a ladies’ man, maybe that was his greatest talent, they seemed to enjoy his flamboyant intonation and expertise of all things social and intellectual. He lured them into his lair with ease, wined, dined them at his great table, used and abused them physically in his great bed and then when he’d had his fun, I murdered them. There had to be no marks, bruises or abrasions to the flesh, that discipline took some time to perfect, but I had friends – military – services people who had attributes, secrets and methods to kill efficiently. They taught me well, training was exact, a metal spike through the ears worked a treat, limited blood, no scars and the brain died quickly with the victim experiencing limited discomfort. Stiles’ studio was out of bounds to me and certainly to his companions. He had no staff to bother him or worry about, no cooks, kitchen or chamber maids and no butlers wandering freely around the house, it was as humanly hollow as a derelict asylum, its patrons long since passed away.

He took those still warm cadavers into his studio, they had clear skin and eyes and pliable limbs, human dolls in every way conceivable, there were times he really thought he was the true incarnation of Shelley’s fictional character Frankenstein, because he would rant and rave over his failings, curse at his inadequacy and sometimes that heavy wooden studio door would slam closed as he left the room and looked at me breathless with beads of sweat heavy on his brow and blood on his dress coat and trousers and say, “It’s no good, it’s just no good – dead is no good to me – I’m failing myself, losing out in the pursuit of my art. I need live ones,” he’d say with all the passion he could muster like a politician making his maiden speech to Parliament, “with hearts and lungs that breath and pump blood. I want organs that work. Do you hear me, man? Living organs.” Stiles’ feet would stamp on the marble floor and he’d rant like a belligerent child who’d not got its own way after passing a sweet shop. “Not dead cells and blood congealing in pools inside the body. Get me living creatures.”

I had to dump those unworkable bodies, wretched and bloated from the misuse of surgery. The hardship of my work was of no consequence to Stiles, he never cared, or asked questions about their final resting places. To him they were meaningless, an inconvenience to his pleasure, just people he had entertained and conversed with hours before. His toys, play things to be used for amusement and medical satisfaction, he cared not one jot that we had ended their lives, that they had trusted him, believed in him as a decent human being. I think I began to see the real man behind the mask that Stiles wore that came with the grand banner of ‘I’m doing it only for the art – understand?’ There was a kind of hatred growing inside me for Stiles, but it was growing slowly, I did not despise him at this point, but I knew our actions were wrong, humanly wrong and worst of all criminally wrong, at least I cared for the damage we were creating, Stiles was emotionless, just an empty vessel in a vacuum of ego and self-righteousness.  

You could say I was lucky, or maybe just fortunate, I dumped them in the gardens of derelict houses, down dark alleys not frequented by normal mortal souls, only the perverse and insane dared venture into these forbidden places of squalor. Perhaps Jack the Ripper got blamed on far more occasions than he should for crimes committed by others, but I was never gonna admit to anything then, not for the likes of scum like Jack and because Stiles knew how to keep me quiet. His benefits kept me in a life of fine luxury I never deserved and would never receive under any other occupation. At that time Stiles could do no wrong for me, though doubt had started to linger in the back of my mind and still I never knew what he did to those bodies or what he was trying to achieve that ended in perpetual failure. In that respect Sebastian Stiles remained a remarkable mystery.

His demands for live bodies caught me off guard momentarily – no not bodies, that would be an inadequate noun – live subjects – living breathing people who were not dead. He never specified sex or age or colour, but I had my own moral code to consider and that was sacrosanct to the conditions of my engagement in the kidnapping of willing victims. There were clubs and pubs down every street, sailors, ladies of the night and bums – street dwellers and vagrants, but they were not considered of the right social calibre, I had to take care and only present Stiles with specimens of a cultured and privileged upbringing, it was maddening, as my pool of candidates was limited if not almost too shallow to consider. Though my new-found wealth helped me greatly and I invested in Saville Row tailors and lessons to correct my colloquial vocabulary. Stupidity was never a condition that could be laid at my door, there was a streetwise intelligence deep inside, it just needed enhancing with the superficial requirements of wealth and then I was set to descend on the world of variety and the theatre where the intellectuals and the desirables roamed freely.

The pickings were rich, if you pardon my pathetic joke, I enchanted them with tales of adventure and daring, splendid repartee that was beyond my ability, but it worked, and they took me into their clique after several weeks when the trust and integrity became part of my character and then . . .  back to Stiles’ quarters without question they trotted. Lambs to the slaughter they came, it was easy to use them and drug them, both women and men. It was not in my nature, I was not that way prepared for men in my life, but I endured it, suffered the humiliation and degradation for the rewards that Stiles presented to me and at last he seemed to be happy and content in his toil for the perfect of his art, whatever that was?

Where did they go, those living cadavers, because that’s what they were, dead in every sense of the word yet with hearts that still beat with a rhythm for pain and suffering to come? They were wheeled on trolleys into his rooms, his surgery, his studio, I don’t know which because I wasn’t privileged of that detail, yet it puzzled me endlessly until one day, with curiosity too great to bear, I crept silently along the cold corridors of his mansion and waited patiently outside doors hoping to hear words, any conversations that might provide an answer. Non-came, it drove me mad, to the very edge of exasperation, accelerating the fever in me to learn his secrets, but he was so guarded of his enterprise that I was excluded from all service after the victims were enrolled into his series of experiments.

I didn’t see Stiles for several weeks, he all but disappeared from sight, happy with the specimens he’d received I was free to roam and have some fun from the grim work I had previously undertaken and I came across a girl – an actress – beautiful and talented in the theatres there in London and I fooled her, she thought I was aristocracy. . . so maybe I was the better actor than the lot of them in the final analysis? She took to my charm and roughly hewn good looks and we went out on the town, it was a perfect distraction from helping that thug Stiles with his dirty work and over the subsequent weeks we became good friends.

Early one day in the spring of 1889 Stiles called me into his office and said he had an exhibition of his work he wanted to promote – human art he called it. Surgery was a thing of the past he discussed, self-expression was where the future lay, he talked to me about being on a pedestal with the greats of art and science, it was just a matter of time before his genius was recognised in all the capitals of the world, was the contemptuous excrement that escaped his mouth . . . the things he talked about in his speech baffled me, technicalities of space and proportion, angles, cuts and design. I never did understand that higher verbal drivel, all that came to mind about the man and his speech was delusion, Stiles was evolving into a psychopath, an awkward and impatient man believing in his own importance, throwing out his own brand of brilliance to all who listened or tried to dismiss him. The exposition would have to be held in secret, behind closed doors he said, open only to invited guests of immense importance that could understand and appreciate the intelligence of his art. Later in the day, Stiles again took me to one side, gave me a bundle of cash and demanded I promote the occasion in the underground circles of the rich and famous, it’s what the celebrities needed he concluded, look at the Elephant Man, spectacular circus events and the strange and bizarre shows of the cheap monstrous kind . . . it’s what those people need, something to fill their drab rich lives and I have it man, I have created it all – my time has come to be recognised for greatness in all fields of creativity, he concluded looking almost God like in his stance. For a moment I could see him swoon in personal adoration, there was an imaginary halo evident around his head and he loved the image of his lusting.

April of that year came swiftly around, I realised Stiles was correct, the noble and socially erudite needed constant enchantment, their wealth was leaving them longing for something new and Stiles appeared to have tapped into their curiosity. The venue was booked, security was arranged and tight, I understood waivers were signed by all to retain secrecy on all information on fear of death, no other details emerged, even I had small knowledge. All I saw were numerous boxes and crates being collected from Stiles’ home, wooden, large, each numbered and coded with distinctive marks and symbols. To be honest at that time I was puzzled, as I had played a large part, the dirtiest portion anyway in respect of whatever his collection was, and momentarily I felt great exclusion not to be part of his secret circle of associates, but then again, realised I was just a lowly worker with way more intellect than I ought to harbour. Still curiosity was getting the better of me and I needed to know the truth – there had to be a way to see?

As the preparations continued and my promotional work was done, apparently fifty guests had signed up to the viewing, Stiles whispered daily in my ear, “still need them specimens, don’t get complacent in your duties, if you want the sweet life to carry on, eh?” His talk endlessly maddened me, with his calm slaver and blue-eyed swagger, I wanted to kill the arrogant bastard, strangle him with his own cane and leather gloves. Nothing would have given me greater satisfaction than to see his broken head on a spike at the Tower of London decaying and devoured by rats and ravens. Dreams come easy, reality often remains a dream in all probability, but dream I did.

Daisy Markham-Taylor was my companion, I did mention it earlier, we became very close, however, I never told her the truth about my circumstances, something I regret, but I was afraid her spell over me would be broken if I confessed . . . she went to her grave knowing only the good that I had in me and I remain eternally grateful for that one confidence trick I created so easily, if untruthfully . . . but the consequence of that fate drove me deeper into a depressive state with only hatred and bitterness to follow for all those in “the circle” and Stiles especially. You do understand though how I was trapped by it all, the glamour, the adoration, the lusting for more, that I couldn’t just give it up without a fight – you see there was always a sentence of death waiting for me on the other side.

Daisy loved me, I’m sure of it, can’t say we spoke openly about those feelings, but I knew the truth, even though she had taken easily to Stiles personality and informal ways, I always felt there was a way back for us. With the advent of his exhibition imminent, he made strict requests of more quality specimens to work with, beauties of remarkable countenance he demanded to complete a centrepiece of the grandest design and eloquence. So, I did my duty, like a good employee should in all the familiar places, the halls and corridors of theatreland where the radiant people hide. He got his students, his working models and I was released again temporarily from active duties, however, about that time Daisy disappeared and I never saw her again. To say my heart was broken, is the biggest understatement I could lay claim to . . . Stiles had an involvement in it, I was confident of that fact, put there was no proof I could register – as yet?

I need to rest, the more I talk, which is difficult in an extreme way tires me out, let alone having to contend with the emotional excess of dealing with the pain and the anger. Jacob sits with me, has been a faithful companion these past weeks, he doesn’t say much, its impossible to talk without a tongue and sometimes the gargle of blood in his throat turns me to tears with compassion. He’s a good friend, a close ally and writes on my behalf, the words flow easily on the page, and occasionally he jots down notes for my attention which he thinks might help my impossible circumstances. There are no excuses, and as I stated earlier, my time is limited, I forgive everyone for the suffering bestowed upon me in my later years, my pain is good, and I welcome it as a catalyst to expel the guilt I harbour like a disease of the brain. Now I sleep, maybe God will be kind and allow me to slip away undetected in the hours I dream. It’s unlikely the end will come easily, and I have a story to conclude.

It was my challenge to enter the venue of his exposition and reveal his criminality, not just to the voyeurs of his show, but to the press and police, I was sure I would find Daisy there by his side, swimming in the aura of his radiance. Having not seen Stiles for some weeks I grew a beard and changed clothing style to a more appropriate design, hoping the disguise would give me protection should I gain admittance. By this time my hatred was acute, the stealing of my finest love Daisy was the final straw and I questioned my mental health, I was capable of achieving anything at that time, severe injury and possible murder were high on the agenda should I encounter the great man.

I was always conscious of the capability of Stiles, his acute arrogance deemed it impossible to be betrayed by repentance or guilt and I recalled how easily, without remorse, he removed Joshua Etherington from the face of the Earth. If my intentions became known to him, it would be treated as betrayal and punishment would be extreme if not fatal, but I couldn’t have cared less, he deserved to suffer for his art . . . and what art it was when I viewed it!

The theatre was heavily decayed on the outside, the sign hanging loose, the paint brittle and faded, it appeared unused for some time. By this time, I knew most people would have already entered its doors and were waiting patiently for the curtain to rise. Expectation of the patrons would be high, that was all but guaranteed, by any standard this was a very special occasion and the whispers on the street amongst the rich and famous portrayed entry to the secret location as the only place to be – it was a magnificence of the highest expectation and the most curious. Stiles could have filled the place a hundred times over, but it wasn’t money he wanted but adulation and respect for his work as a genius. Entry ultimately was easy, the man took my bribery guineas willingly, Stiles hadn’t thought his security would be tempted by the Queen’s currency, however, to save my true identity being uncovered later I had to end his life with a stiletto to back of the neck. I recovered my cash and hid his body in a small annexe and felt no remorse for the man. He was nothing to me, but an inconvenience and I was way beyond any emotion, a lapse of concentration could have jeopardised my goals, and nothing on earth was going to affect my intentions at that point to murder the bastard Stiles.

 What was my next move, would Daisy recognise me, I didn’t know and furthermore there was no real strategy in my mind, as I was unaware what I might encounter once inside the auditorium, yet my curiosity for his show was overwhelming? I was brimming with anticipation, what the hell was it, I had no idea, yet I was a founder in its creation, an important instrument in its conception and that thought alone drove me mad . . . as I would receive no credit for my assistance. The corridors were narrow and shadowy lit only by small gas jets. I passed several people, they assumed I was a guest and took no heed of me. There was an atmosphere in the air, unquestionable and almost solid, like I could touch it, squeeze the juice from it and a soft murmur of expectation in the background and music. I followed my instincts, passing through curtained doorways, the hushed tones grew lounder, it was almost time for the curtain to rise – 8.00 pm – I knew the agenda, everyone seated by 7.30, a small orchestra and piano heightening the emotional tension with dramatic music, I almost felt a voyeur at some sleazy vaudeville show awaiting the half-naked girls to appear.

Then I was there, standing at the back of a small hall, a number of people seated at the very front their eyes purposefully fixed on heavy embroidered curtains that were closed. The musicians were out of sight in a pit I couldn’t see, there were lights and smoke, heads bobbing wearing top hats, some women their faces partially covered and talk, whispers of expectancy. Some drank from hip flasks while they fidgeted in their seats, other were still as statues mesmerised by the occasion. Daisy was not there, somewhere behind the curtain I presumed, then Stiles appeared from stage left looking every inch a celebrity in his black dress coat, top hat and white gloves and at that moment all sound stopped. He had made it, standing centre stage behind a small plinth, he opened his mouth and spoke.

“Welcome friends, ladies and gentlemen, one and all. Tonight, within the walls of this small theatre I promise you a spectacle beyond the boundaries of your imagination. This exposition is unique; therefore, you are the very privileged elite, it may never be shown again, but what you see tonight will remain in your memory till the day you pass to the other side. Terrifying as it may first appear ladies and gentlemen, let me tell you that there is no suffering to any of the specimens you are to feast your eyes upon in wonder and amazement, because in all but life they are dead. Hollow entities without substance, feelings or emotions, needs or desires, they have been saved for a greater need than their own and placed on this stage, by my own hand purely for your personal fascination.  Before we begin, I ask that you remain calm, it will not appear easy on the eye as the curtain rises, should curiosity call then by all means take a closer look, but never touch.” At this point his voice rose a pitch and Stiles appeared stern with dangerous eyes. “If you touch my art you will pay a price incalculable by any standard,” his anger spewed out in bursts. “This art is my creation and mine alone, if you cannot accept that, then I suggest you leave, as you are not worthy to view the work of my genius.”  Stiles waited, checking for movement, the noise of clothing being rearranged, all was silent. “Then ladies and gentlemen let the show commence. I give you a masterclass in surgical art, a new genre outside classification, please wonder in amazement at what you see – art in its finest form?” The curtain started to rise, then stopped and descended slightly, Stiles was teasing the audience, increasing the tension of the participants – the man was a true showman.

A gasp like a huge intake of breath escaped from the crowd, then silence as the shock filtered through the senses of the watchers, a scream high pitched and wavering flows from the worried mouth of a woman, followed by numerous cries of anguish, pitiful and ashamed. The woman collapsed to the wood floor, not a soul attends to her as all eyes are rigid to the spectacle of insanity perched upon that meagre stage. What can I say about that, common sense tells me I should have run, retreated back through the doorway I’d entered moments before, it would have saved my mental stability? I could have disappeared from searching eyes, hidden in darkened rooms the remainder of my life and tried to forget the travesty of humanity that was attacking my logic as the seconds and minutes passed there on that singular spot, sucking in the raw butchery of human kind presented to us like some nativity scene or family picnic at the riverside. Try and picture the images entering my head, you never will, its an impossibility because I would never be able to give you a mental picture in mere words – it was gruesome in its most shocking form, grotesque, inhuman, there are many adjectives to use but they don’t work, would never be enough for you to grasp the horror of it all – they are not visceral enough. Yet after all I say about the grim spectacle I witnessed, I didn’t run or hide, I just couldn’t tear my eyes away from it. In wonder and amazement, I stayed, locked like the rest of the crowd to the monstrous diorama, strikingly visual just twenty feet ahead of me.

Jacob looks at me horrified as I continue the story, the lines around his eyes show shock, he doesn’t blink – he can’t his eyelids are stitched open and the surface of his eyeballs are dry. The pain must be insufferable but still I believe he holds a pen; my head won’t move but I assume he’s taking notes of this content? These words are the retribution for my soul, my redemption, my atonement before God and the people I have wronged and the suffering I have caused.

“Waaaa ahowt Hazee,” Jacob struggles to talk, mumbling through gobs of blood from the end of his tongue hanging raw inside his mouth.

“Sorry Jacob, what’s that?” I ask conscious of his acute agony. I could cry, but I know I have to remain strong before my strength and endurance comes to an end, it won’t be long now, I hope I get to the end of this before it gets to the end of me?

“Hazee?” He tries to explain loudly so I understand. “Waaaa ahend whu her?”

“Yes Jacob, I understand, I’ll get to that bit shortly – Daisy, yes Daisy?” I say remembering the truth of her demise.

Slowly I manage to move my feet, its difficult as my brain seems numb and unable to comprehend the simplest request. Move forward – I ask, eventually we do. The woman is still unconscious on the floor, not one person cares for her condition, the men and the rest of the ladies have moved closer to the stage and I join them, milling into the throng to safeguard my identity should Stiles approach any of the individuals in the crowd. There is a woman in bed, she looks longingly at a man readying himself to climb in beside her, a table with a man and a woman seated and another lady bringing food to the table. Scenes of domestic bliss, indeed for all to see, a young girl rises from a bath in the corner of the room and a teenage boy appears to juggle with fresh oranges. But its wrong, all so wrong, I could vomit at the sight, but its all there, perfect, immaculate, pristine in its ingenuity. Wrong, all so wrong I could scream, but I hold the noise inside and grip my cane for balance. A mechanical device unseen by the eye pulls back the bedcovers and the woman moves to sit upright as her man approaches. My god . . . I cannot speak . . . cannot understand what I see, she has no skin or muscle attached to her arms as they reach out like a skeletal ghoul to accept her man, there is a cavity below her naked breasts, two lungs and a beating heart are visible within an open ribcage of white bone. No other organs remain, how the thing lives is a miracle. Her man moves on stilted legs of bone, the flesh tied and cauterised, half way down the thigh, there is no blood or discharge, no residue of sinew, his bone feet clack as some mechanism simulates movement. The top of his head is a skull carved clean above the nose, terrified eyes that are perpetually open scream at the woman before him, his mouth a rigid smile of apprehensive pleasure. A skeletal hand paws at her breast and his exposed genitalia is in sight of all that view the scene. It is pornography at its most heinous, how Stiles believes his public can wonder at this butchery, this dehumanisation of mortal souls is way outside my mental capacity. It is beyond outrage and description, there are no words, it is but a horror beyond horrors. The ladies in the audience swoon and struggle to breath, there are shouts of disdain, calls for Stiles to explain himself, I push to the front and as I look around, I see the security men wander closer to the crowd to view the spectacle or save us from violence, I don’t know, but they are there in the smoky shadows? I shall not attempt to describe the other monsters that Stiles has created, that he calls surgical art, but you can see it can’t you in your mind’s eye the missing flesh, the removed organs, the cavities and bleached bone? But can you smell the burned flesh, the nauseating reek of formaldehyde, terror and the impending stench of death? Its all here on this stage, an art form indeed, plain as day, the atrocity is akin to being whipped within an inch of your life, barbarism of the senses, overwhelming, like being shrunk inside a small cardboard box. Extreme claustrophobia!

The stage is easy to climb. “Stiles,” I shout – I am on the verge of abject madness. “Stiles where are you, get yourself out here. Your public needs you.” I try to appeal to his ego, and he eventually appears holding a pistol – it is pointed at me.

“So, you came,” the man says nonchalantly. “I thought you might? I am ready for you – we are all ready for you.” A small cheer erupts from some nameless members of the crowd with a few hand claps. What does he mean this man who stands before me bristling with delight?

“Tell me about Daisy, Stiles? What did you do to her? Answer me you murdering bastard? Is she one of your living dead also, have you sliced and butchered her too like the rest of these pathetic specimens? Explain yourself Stiles, I worked hard for you but I didn’t think I was a party to this . . . to this brutality . . . what in God’s name were you thinking? Was it not good enough to be the best surgeon and save lives, but this travesty of humanity is beyond any words I can muster? You’ve disgraced and betrayed the very ethics you stood for Stiles.” 

For a moment he lingers under the smoky lights thinking, his face is in partial shadow, the man looks like a phantom, as though he could disappear any moment. “Oh, I don’t think so, after all this is medical science, this is forging the boundaries of surgery and someone had to pioneer these practices, my young friend.” He says with arrogance, slowly tilting his head to one side as he views his mannequins. The words are unthinkable, I can’t listen to any more. “Shut up Stiles, just shut up, you deserve a fate worse than the death I was going to bring you.” He doesn’t listen, the man’s mind is contemplating things more magnificent than my threats. “Do you believe some hack of a surgeon could have done this work, it is more surgery than art, but it is art – isn’t it?” Slender fingers point across to the human carnage spread across the stage. “See, not a spill of blood, not a grimace of pain, testament to the skill of these hands. Only a true master could skin these bones, tie up veins and arteries, carve bodies so they do not die. Can you not see it, understand the achievement, young man this will change everything – you see nothing will ever be the same again. I have been given the power, the gift of greatness . . . can you not see that?”

I lunge forward pulling the knife from my pocket as I close in on Stiles. “Madness is what you have, and I need to remove it.” The screams are deafening, the knife enters his shoulder – how could I miss his heart – if he had one – I have failed again. The room swims, there is pain rushing through my head, all around the images are swimming into darkness I am about to fall unconscious. “Before you sink into the normal concept of death, let me answer one question you have raised. I’m not sure if I feel ashamed about it, as it was an abject necessity just as it was to gather all these other donors, a basic requirement for this grandest of exhibitions. Her skin, you see,” Stiles draws his gloved hand down the side of his face, “the colour of alabaster, beautiful and soft like velvet, hair so fine and vibrant, the hue of a morning sunrise. So, to me she was perfection, a unique specimen I was unlikely to encounter ever again, and I deemed her be the masterstroke of my art. But how could I defile such a flawless body? How could I? But I did and I hate myself for it. At that very moment I questioned myself, doubted my skills, with her on the table under the knife, one bad incision and it would be all over, finished. So, my dear dying friend, maybe I killed her on purpose just to know failure, but I can never be sure. All I know is she died. The love of your life, she’s gone, just gone,” Stiles gloats at my loss without a care or moment to contemplate remorse, “so cry little baby, cry her out or your system – she’s not coming back, but now I have you, haven’t I . . . and I won’t fail with you on that table. All these people here, your public have been waiting, just waiting to view my talents and your transformation.” Stiles pulls papers from his inside coat pocket and shows it to the audience. “It’s all here ladies and gentlemen, the very reason you ventured out on this cruel evening. Every cut I shall make, every slice of the scalpel will renew your faith in my skill as a surgical artist. So, let the show begin, make ready the theatre and prepare to witness the extraordinary come to life right before your eyes.”

A dream comes to mind, I’m not sure if Jacob is smiling, I see his ever-open eyes and the gash of blood that is his mouth, but the rest of his features are covered by the hideous mask. “Is this amusing for you Jacob, my predicament eh?” Yes – I hear the chuckle somewhere under that grotesque extension of his face or is it the thought of that ragged tongue oozing out the remnant of his lifeblood? Still I worry not, he has more time left on this planet than me – I hope he’s writing this down? There’s a fear, not only can I taste it, but feel the imprint of it, as if it’s a tangible entity, like a smashed leg or loose tooth. Occasionally, I have felt overwhelming joy in a dream, sometimes you wake up feeling euphoric, but never terror, I’ve never submitted to that in any dream. I’m talking of a dread that filters through the outer layers of the body to the very core of your soul – and it was being ripped apart molecule by molecule. The atoms of my body floated out from my flesh in a constant flow, one by one, just like a shower of rain in reverse, it was almost beautiful to watch . . . almost . . . until the prophecy of my death came back to haunt me and suddenly, I was hit with the terror all over again.

No doubt Stiles was doing his worst while I was lifeless on that operating table, there was no fight in me to deny him anything, maybe that was the fear I felt in the dream? Probably so, if you analyse the prospect of me waking to normality after the context of his remarks. Art, he called it, butchery is my definition, but only time will tell? Will his name live on, will Stiles go down in history as a great man – only future generations can be the judge of that fact. I hope not, it would be disrespectful to the memory of those he destroyed in his search for immortality as an artist. And what of Daisy, my sweet sweet love, what really happened to her. I never did find out, but rumour recounted her body disappeared, never to be found anywhere? Dumped in the Thames no doubt, like a sack of garbage, used and abused and discarded into the water like useless garden waste.

This was the one and only time I ever lived inside a vision, it could have been a nightmare, all the symptoms were there, the reality of consciousness, touch and smell or it could have been rendered an hallucination? There is, however, a third option that came to mind latterly as I tried to understand the function and form of the images – I was already dead and passed over across the line to a new life or was living out the remnants of the old ties. I still have no idea what I encountered, except it wasn’t as real as the vision that crucified my senses as my drowsy eyes opened once again into the realm of the living. I say that, not understanding the true aspect of the visceral assault I was to live and breathe the rest of my short days on this earth. There never was any pain, Stiles was right about that, a neatly severed spinal cord at the neck resolved that difficulty with instant ease. But the rest, my god, I can barely talk about it, let alone look and describe the details I visualise. How this cadaver must appear to other humans hanging here like some half mutated, semi devoured corpse I cannot comprehend, but in all my bloody glory they must have appreciated the show. You see, I thought I heard them cheering, from time to time, like an echo from the past, thought too that I smelt the iodine and chloroform as Stiles made those deep cuts, carving the flesh and sinew and muscle from my bones. Jesus – oh – Jesus Christ the son of god please forgive my errors, these aged wrong doings of a selfish imbecile, lusting on wealth and the pleasures of the female. I beseech you to forgive and free me from this suffering and indignity, surely as your servant I deserve a better way to die, than this cruel endorsement of human rights.

Jacob looks at me, I see the pity in his eyes, he’s the hangman, the perpetrator of my diabolical demise and I the victim at his weary hands. It will soon be over, the suffering, that is, has to end. No man can endure this eternal indignity, it is cruelty at its most poignant. I want it to end . . . need it to be final. You see this existence is worthless, can you not see the irony in what Stiles has created. It’s almost funny, if you were to see this thing in all its ghastly splendour, then maybe you would be horrified, but now that you know the back story, the real truth of the matter, then you too would laugh and say I have finally received my just rewards. But what of Stiles, well he brings Jacob and I our nutrition, we receive that on a daily basis, a liquid fed to us via a drip or an injection of some kind, I don’t recall drinking or eating anything, it is impossible to digest when you have no bowels. How my biological form survives under this duress I can only guess or wonder at? Stiles truly is a marvellous mystery.

Fatigue washes over me again – I need to rest, it is difficult to keep up the pretence of happiness when you are barely alive, Jacob grunts in his usual style, he understands me, though his arrangement is far less taxing on the remainder of his body than mine. His bony hands rest heavily on the wooden lever and are probably nailed there to support his weight as he re-enacts the Hangman’s intent to take a life, he cannot take notes, has no book or pencil in his hands. I am mistaken, my memory is not what it was, it has felt to much suffering to be coherent in its understanding. And me? You make up your own mind, whether I deserve this death, the purgatory of public execution night after night, because that is my everlasting role in this theatrical charade until I am released permanently to gain favour in another world, but Stiles the bastard, will never grant me that wish whilst there is showmanship and legends to create – Jacob says my end is near and I have come to trust his judgement implicitly. Till that moment arrives and God willing it has to come soon, I hang at the end of this noose, my neck crooked and bent, with arms long since withered and dead clawing at the greasing blood stain rope around my neck, as my skeletal frame swings in the gentle breeze of a summer’s afternoon. The audience that gazes upon this dreadful spectacle wonders, oh how they wonder what has befallen this man that he should need to live this daily routine suspended from a rope, half human and all skeleton from the ribcage down to his toes.