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Jack was in awe of the words that were coming out of Belle's mouth as they made their way back towards the hospital. At his side, Belle was giddy in her joy, on the high of her mother's miraculous recovery and the fact that Jack hadn't actually dared to leave her without saying goodbye. He was sure she'd come to her senses at some point and rip him a new one for even thinking of it, let alone executing, but for now he was more than content to simply hold her hand - in public, no less - without fear of being hung for it, and watch the way her eyes sparkled as she spoke, almost without pausing for breath, of all the plans she had for them now that her parents had finally given them permission—
"Well, I suppose that is one thing I ought to tell you," she said, her tone mellowing somewhat from her previous happy chatter. "It appears as though… well, it turns out Uncle Dickie might actually be… my biological father." She said the words as though revealing that she herself had syphilis, mouth tightening around the unpleasant words.
The revelation caught Jack off-guard, which was saying something. "I'm sorry, what?"
In his periphery, he watched her shoulders sag. "My mother… well, it's a long story. But my father - the Governor, that is - has said that I will always be his daughter as far as he's concerned. In any case, Dickie is a rather unsavoury alternative that I would rather not think further about."
Jack turned to her, taking her hands in his and running his thumbs over the backs of her hands in what he hoped was a soothing manner. "You know it has never once mattered to me who your parents are," he told her earnestly. "Even at the expense of any self-preservation I might have had." She smiled knowingly at that. "Belle, what has endeared you to me has only ever been the things that make you you. If your father being the Governor was never enough to deter me, why should some disgraced Duke who you've got no relationship with have any say in how I feel about you?"
Belle smiled and ducked her head, and he felt pleased that he'd said the right thing. Placing a finger under her chin, he gently tilted it up until their gazes met once more.
"I love you for who you are," he reminded her. "And for the person you encourage me to be."
He watched her lips break into an unabashed smile, and the sight of it set his heart thumping in his chest, drumming that familiar rhythm it associated with Belle. It was the most natural thing in the world, then, to lean down until his mouth was just grazing her bottom lip—
"Lady Belle! Lady Belle! And… Doctor Jack?"
Jack turned, somewhat reluctantly, to find one of the local kids coming to a screeching halt, gasping for breath a few feet away. "Doctor Jack, they said you'd left?"
"Yeah, well, I changed my mind; stupid idea, really," he said, realising just how stupid and juvenile it had really been—
"Has someone sent for me?" Belle asked, stepping forward. "Is it my mother?"
The boy - George, Jack remembered - shook his head. "They asked me to ask you to come back straight-way, milady," he huffed through his deep breaths. "Though I bet they'll be dead pleased to see you too, Doctor Jack."
"What is it; what's wrong?" Jack asked, seeing the grave look on George's face that had nothing to do with his recent sprint.
"It's Doctor Sneed," George explained. "The inspector had him. Looked like he'd been stabbed."
Darius was having a very mixed day.
Certainly, there had been some good parts; some bordering on excellent, in fact. Cruiky's demise, for example; oh, sure, they'd find someone to replace him eventually, but it'd take months, if not well over a year to convince someone of any moral persuasion to move to this cesspit - and in the glorious meantime, Darius would have the luxury of no longer being at anyone's beck and call. No more sucking up to Cruiky, playing the tedious role of reformed, pious ex-convict; no more having to pretend to be surprised at the altar wine being stolen yet again. Only god could judge him now - and Darius know exactly how empty that threat was. Indeed, the world was his oyster, leaving him free to his own devices - and to seek his revenge.
It had been a right pain in the arse, then, that Fagin had selfishly robbed Darius of the long-harboured delight of killing him. Darius had been apoplectic when they'd found Fagin in the hospital, looking far more peaceful in death than he had any right to be. And then Heep had simply abandoned the notion of beheading and pickling Fagin! What a waste! The bastard wouldn't be swayed, either, not even after Darius had torn after him and all but begged him to reconsider; it'd be a shame not to, after all, now the more difficult and legally questionable part of actually killing the bastard had been taken care of. But Heep had refused all the same, and by the time Darius had gone back inside to take matters into his own hands, the body had been moved, and no-one would tell him where.
Well, there was only one place bodies were legally buried in Port Victory. Wouldn't be difficult to work out where they'd taken him.
He'd made it back to the church, striding across the churchyard in time to see Fagin's band of sycophants lowering him reverently into a wooden casket at the freshly-dug graveside. Darius wondered whose grave and coffin they'd appropriated for this - certainly Fagin would have no estate to pay for either. Dawkins was nowhere to be seen - though Darius had heard some chatter back at the hospital about the dear doctor running off to rejoin the Navy, likely in a tizz after more frankly juvenile nonsense concerning the Governor's insufferable daughter. Good riddance, he thought, even if it denied Darius any sort of closure to his interactions with the doctor. No matter. Darius was realising with each step closer to the graveside that seeing Fagin like this, lifeless and grey and resembling so little of the once-great crook as he lay slightly crumpled in a pauper's coffin, was much more reward than he'd dared hope for.
Rotty, the old hag, noticed his arrival first and rose sharply from where she'd been crouching at the head of the coffin. Darius smiled to himself as he noticed her hand withdraw from where she'd been making gentle ministrations against Fagin's pale cheek.
"Well, isn't it such a lovely day today?" His tone was laced with just the right amount of sincerity to land as a barb, getting right under their skin.
He was pleases to see Rotty's lips curled into a snarl, taking his bait so easily it was almost disappointing. "Shut your mouth and piss off, Darius. You're neither wanted not needed here."
"Oh, but my dear Rotty, I am needed," Darius replied, shaping his mouth into a sarcastic smirk. "Unless you were planning on illegally burying this man without the church's knowledge or approval? A crime that carries a fine of fifty pounds and a three month custodial sentence?" He had no idea if any of that was true, but from the way Rotty stiffened, he supposed she didn't either but for some reason was taking his word for it.
"I'll let Cruiky know in due course," she snapped.
"Oh my- have you not heard the terrible news? Our dear Father Cruikshank has gone home to our father this very morning, may god have mercy on his soul." He might have slightly overdone the sanctimoniousness of making the sign of the cross to accompany his words, but it was worth it to see the old bitch seethe even more.
"Fine. Then we'll notify the Registrar, or whoever it is that deals with this that isn't you."
Darius hummed noncommittally. "Are you sure you don't want a priest to oversee the proceedings? I'd imagine dear Fagin's soul could use all the help it could get in front of good old Saint Pete."
"Piss. Off." Rotty looked ready to gut him, but he'd seen that face before and knew it was an empty threat.
The small one, Flashbang, stood from where he'd been kneeling slightly behind Rotty assembling a small wooden cross for the head of the grave. "You're not wanted here, Darius," he said softly, in a tone that dripped with grief and fury and even a little hatred directed at Darius. It was like being challenged by the smallest of dogs, or an old one whose teeth had all fallen out: all bark and no bite.
Darius just snorted in amusement. "Fine. I'll not overstay my welcome; I'll just pay my respects and then I'll be on my way-"
His attempt to step closer to the coffin was halted immediately by Rotty, who bodily blocked his path with something akin to a snarl. "Like hell am I letting you touch him. He's already dead because of you; I won't let you commit whatever foul acts you have planned-"
Darius stepped back, bringing a hand to his chest in faux disbelief. "You wound me, Rotty. I know Fagin and I had our disagreements, but even I have some lines I won't cross, and desecrating the dead is one of them. I just want to pay my respects to someone who offered me a professional challenge, no more. I swear it," he continued, seeing that she didn't believe him. "I'll not harm him further." He held her gaze for a long moment as she assessed him, trying to detect even a whiff of insincerity. Finally, she nodded.
"Be quick about it. And if you try anything-"
"You'll gut me like the worthless fish I am; I know." He clasped his hands in thanks, just sincerely enough, and then knelt next to the grave.
Good riddance, you sneaky old bastard, he thought at Fagin. Hope you enjoy your permanent lodgings, down in the dirt where you belong.
"What's he doing here?" Aputi had returned with the lid of the coffin and was scowling at Darius with a hatred that Darius personally felt was unbecoming of his former employee. Rotty and Flashbang stood up to placate him, and in a moment of weakness, Darius took advantage of the few seconds of no-one looking at him to wad up a glob of spit and let it fall directly onto Fagin's cheek.
He regretted it as soon as it made contact with Fagin's greying skin, though, shame blooming deep in his chest that made him feel almost queasy. The feeling made him unsettled, and he moved to stand—
It was then he saw it: the smallest wrinkling of the skin around the nose, as if Fagin were showing his disgust at Darius' action. The shame quickly turned over into something akin to fear - and curiosity. Surely not… No. Darius had seen his share of dead bodies in his time, and knew that twitches could continue, sometimes for hours, after death, even after extensive, undoubtedly fatal injuries. Fagin was barely cold - his fan club having rushed to bury him almost immediately for reasons unknown to Darius - so surely the same thing was happening here. Right? Right.
And yet, there was a quiet voice in the back of his mind that sounded so similar to the instincts that had kept him alive all this time: something is not right here.
He ignored it. He could see for himself that no breath made Fagin's chest rise and fall, no pulse fluttered under the skin of his neck. And even if Fagin were barely clinging to life by the barest of threads, he'd soon be in the ground with six feet of earth preventing him from rejoining the living. No, the man was dead - and no longer a threat to Darius.
Darius smiled at the thought as he got to his feet, brushing the dirt from his knees. Rotty and co. had finished their whispered argument and were now scowling at him with varying degrees of seething hatred. Fine. Let him be their villain; if they wanted that of him, then he was more than happy to play that role. Let them remember who they'd fucked with - and let it remind them not to do it again.
He raised his right hand, closing his eyes as he made the sign of the cross over the open coffin.
"Rest in peace, brother Fagin." He cracked one eye open and looked at Rotty as he continued. "And may you be judged as you deserve: as a dishonourable, spineless thief."
He could hear Rotty fighting to take a shot at him as he turned to leave; Aputi and Flashbang must have been bodily restraining her. Sensible boys.
The smile on his face carried him all the way back into town. There were plenty of hours left in the day, and much business to be done.
And £20,000 to be located.
Belle could feel her heart pounding and her skin flushing by the time she and Jack made it back to the hospital, but thankfully nothing to suggest that Jack's careful work had come undone from the sprint. Her undergarments were surely drenched in sweat, but there was no time to think about changing. Boxer's gaunt face turning to her and Jack as they burst into the foyer of the hospital clearly set the tone and immediacy of the situation.
"Doctors," he sighed. "You're needed in theatre immediately. There's an abdominal stab wound that needs attending to. The nurses have been doing their best to staunch the flow of blood, but the damage must be quite extensive-"
"Nurses? Where the hell is Sneed? Or the Prof?" Jack's voice was almost as breathless as she felt as they followed the inspector into the theatre.
"Well, that's just it," Boxer began, and Belle just knew then, from his tone of voice, what awaited them on the table. Grasping her skirts and hiking them in the air once more, she ran, moving past Boxer to find—
"Rainsford!" she gasped, taken momentarily out of her stride by the sight of her friend writhing in pain with what seemed like half of his blood on the floor beneath him. There was a streak of it, she realised suddenly, leading from the door to the table in a great smear, as if someone had quickly tried to mop it up and then given up at the volume of it. The sight of it pinned her to the spot.
"What the hell happened to him?" Jack asked, immediately stripping off his jacket and rolling up his sleeves as he stepped over to the bowl to start scrubbing his hands.
"He was stabbed. By a scalpel, I think, judging by the wound."
Belle heard Jack snort. "Patient finally get fed up with his condescending bedside manner?" But his barb lacked its usual sting, and Belle knew he was genuinely concerned for his colleague. Dropping Rainsford's hand - when had she picked it up? - she rushed over to join Jack in scrubbing. One of the nurses silently handed her a pinafore, which she took with thanks.
Boxer only said, "not exactly, no." Hands scrubbed and held aloft, Jack moved to Sneed's right, taking the surgeon's position; Belle joined him at the assistant's place a moment later.
"Jack." Rainsford had come round somewhat from his bleeding-induced delirium and flung a hand towards Jack, who quickly dodged it. "Help me. Please."
Belle watched Jack's face soften at his colleague's desperate plea. "I promise you: Belle and I will save your life."
Rainsford huffed, but it was almost devoid of humour. "You can't promise me that," he whispered.
Jack smiled with a gentleness Belle had not expected him to have for his colleague. "I can and I am. We'll see you in a little while." He nodded at the nurse standing by with the ether, who moved in straightaway to anaesthetise Sneed. The lurching, uneven gasps of his breaths quickly settled into the deeper, regular rhythm of unconsciousness. Jack's hands were on his abdomen a second later, another nurse barely having had time to spray the area with carbolic acid before his scalpel was enlargening the incision of the wound. His fingers followed, exploring the cavity to find the source of the bleeding.
"It's nicked his liver," Jack said to Belle, and the room at large, a few moments later, his brow furrowing as he focused on what he was feeling under his fingertips. "And the hepatic portal vein, I think."
"Any arterial bleeding?" she asked, her voice breathy from the adrenaline pulsing through her.
Jack shook his head, reaching deeper in his exploration. "I don't think so. But the liver is bleeding badly. If we don't get it under control soon…"
"What do you need?"
"Clamps. Ligatures." One of the nurses wordlessly moved off to get them. "And…" His face contorted in confusion as he felt around some more. "He might need some blood, too. It'll buy us some time to get this liver laceration under control."
"Do you have the facilities to do that here?" Boxer's voice was quiet. Belle had all but forgotten that he remained in theatre with them, stood just behind Jack watching them work with an expression that was part horror, part simple need to know. Belle had seen it before: on the faces of people watching their loved ones suffer. She just wasn't expecting to see it here.
"We do," she told him, trying to sound reassuring. "We just need someone to—"
"I'll volunteer." Boxer's voice had finally regained its normal steadiness and composure.
"That's very generous of you, Inspector," Belle said softly.
Boxer's face shifted imperceptibly. "It's my… I mean, this ought never to have happened. I should like to do whatever I can to aid Dr Sneed's full return to health."
"Then we need that blood out of you and into him as soon as possible," Jack cut in; Belle looked down to see at three ligature strings trailing from the wound already. Damn, but Jack moved quickly - and effectively too. The blood pooling on the floor was slowing in its growth, but there was still enough dripping onto the floor that they risked Sneed bleeding to death if Jack couldn't get the laceration on the liver controlled soon. "Find one of the nurses and get them to draw it. Belle, can you-?"
"Dr Dawkins, none of us can gain venous access; it's only you doctors who have the skills to-"
"Fine, then get Prof to do it. I bet he'll love that, actually getting to do some real clinical work- although I apologise in advance, Inspector, if you end up feeling like a bleeding pin cushion at the end of it."
"I… I'm afraid the Professor…" Belle looked up to see Boxer's face had gone a terrible shade of grey again.
"Inspector?" she asked, even as the feeling grew in her that she desperately did not want to hear his response.
"The Professor… I stabbed him. In the neck. With a syringe. After he'd stabbed-"
Even Jack looked up from the table at that, the temperature in the room seeming to impossibly drop in response to the Inspector's words. Belle watched as her- oh, drat, they really didn't have a name to describe their relationship, and now was really not the time to be trying to decide on one- as Jack's face flitted through several emotions before settling on one that looked to Belle simply to be pain.
"He might not be dead," Boxer continued in the absence of a reply from anyone. "But even if he survived the wound-"
"He probably isn't the best person to be perfoming venepuncture on you right now, yeah," Jack finished. "Shit."
"What does he need more: the laceration being sutured, or the blood transfusion?" Belle asked him, finally reaching into the abdomen and getting her fingers on the problem for the first time. Jack was right: the trauma felt quite extensive and was continuing to bleed, albeit at a slower rate thanks to his interventions so far - or, she realised with a start, because most of Sneed's blood was already on the floor at their feet. And this mattered, because as Jack lifted his gaze to meet hers, she knew he understood as much as she did the impossible decision he was being forced to make: whether to continue the surgery without the blood and risk Sneed bleeding out before they could get the liver laceration under control, or to step away from the table to start the potentially life-saving transfusion, leaving a medical student with no experience with this kind of wound the only surgeon fighting death at the end of ruptured blood vessels.
She could see him struggling internally with the debate, and felt she had to step in to help him make it. She might not have a term for their relationship, but she knew without a doubt that in this, they were partners. A team.
"I have my finger on the laceration," she told him. "It's staunching the blood flow. I can stay here until you come back to the table."
His brow furrowed. "Belle, you know I know you're perfectly capable—"
She shook her head, dismissing his dismissal. "We don't have time to argue. He needs that blood if he's to have a hope of surviving this surgery. Go."
She watched him nod. "You are…" He pressed a fleeting kiss to her forehead, and then he stepped back from the table. "If anything changes—"
"I'll call you back immediately," she promised. "Go, now."
Henry felt completely and utterly drained, and his knee hadn't felt this bad since the worst storm he'd been through on the crossing. His head was pounding from the blow the Professor had managed to land, the scratches he'd sustained in their tussle twinging just enough to keep him on edges. He hadn't seen his bed in well over a day, and he felt every hour of it.
He thought of none of it, though, as he sat in a chair and rolled up his sleeve to give blood.
His wounds would heal; his knee would quieten. Rainsford Sneed's life hung in the balance, and he had the opportunity to lengthen the man's odds. Viewed that way, the decision was simple.
Dawkins' hands, he noticed, did not shake; not as he washed them free of his colleague's blood, not as he quickly gathered the necessary equipment. Only his voice, wavering ever so slightly as he spoke, gave any indication of distress at the current situation. "Now, there may be a small amount of discomfort as I put in the needle."
Dawkins continued setting up his equipment on the edge of the stands, kneeling at Henry's side. "Unfortunately, the needle will have to stay in for the duration of the withdrawal, so you have to keep that arm completely still the whole time. You think you can manage?"
The question was asked so genuinely, completely at antipodes from the snide inflection Henry had expected. Dawkins' eyes, too, burned with earnestness as they met Henry's gaze. There's the people's beloved doctor, Henry thought. There's the sensitivity that won Lady Belle's heart.
Underneath that earnestness, though…
"The Professor's actions have hurt you," he remarked softly, then cursed himself internally for speaking. It wasn't his place to make such comments; he and the doctor certainly weren't anywhere near close enough to be having this conversation.
But Dawkins answered him anyway. "I just can't believe that he did this. I mean, I believe you and what you've said; I just didn't think him capable of…"
"Grief can make any number of men make poor decisions," Henry replied. "It sounds like the Professor had been carrying his for quite some time."
"And stabbing Sneed was going to fix that?" Dawkins' tone was sour, but Henry knew his ire was directed at the Professor. At the table, Lady Belle looked up from her work with a thoughtful glance towards Dawkins, then resumed her focus on her patient.
"If it is of any comfort, I don't think he was in his right mind when he did this. Maybe he hadn't been for quite some time."
"Maybe. But you know who should've noticed that? His colleagues, who both happen to be doctors."
"The Professor's actions are not your responsibility to bear," Henry said softly. "And the consequences are only for God to judge now."
Dawkins held still for a few seconds, staring intently at the crook of Henry's left elbow with the needle and tubing held almost forgotten in his hands. Then, he lifted the needle and said only, "sharp scratch".
It was well over an hour before they had the bleeding under control. Belle had held her own well while he'd drawn Boxer's blood, and he'd managed to shove the Inspector's comments deep down inside himself to be dealt with at a later date as he returned to the table. They worked hard and well together with Nurse Alice's assistance, but in the end, despite trying every method known to either of them, he'd had no choice but to make the decision to remove the damaged lobe completely. He swore under his breath while making the incision for the time and ligatures they'd wasted trying to save it, but the partial hepatectomy revealed itself to be the right decision almost immediately, as the bleeding slowed dramatically and Sneed's pulse, which was barely being maintained by Boxer's donated blood, finally began to bound under their fingertips in a manner than made Jack start to believe he might actually pull through.
Across the table, Belle sighed in relief as colour slowly began to perfuse back into Sneed's cheeks and extremities.
"We did it," she whispered.
Jack sighed, more out of exhaustion than dismissal of her celebration. "We're not done yet," he cautioned her. "And there's a decent chance he'll die of infection anyway before the week is out." He cursed himself immediately for being so macabre as he watched her face fall.
"But we have done good work here," he continued, nodding his thanks to Alice, who looked almost as tired as he felt. "And Boxer's blood has certainly improved his chances. So we should be hopeful."
Belle's face brightened into a smile and he let himself drink in her sunshine. God, he didn't remember the last time he had slept, and they still had a hospital full of cholera patients to treat, and who knew what exactly he was going to say to Lady Jane the next time they spoke - but for a moment, he let himself forget all of it and just bask in the ephemeral blessing of Belle's unabashed joy and affection towards him.
For all of three seconds, at least, until the doors to the theatre banged open and Hetty strode in, looking like she, too, could use a good week's worth of sleep, or at the very least a very deep drink.
"Jack, are you nearly done?" she asked without preamble.
"We just need to close, wh—?"
"I've got three patients who haven't responded at all to the cholera treatment, Maureen Turner has just had another seizure, and Lizzie Hunter's maid has just come to say that she's going into labour with those twins. Sneed's obviously… and I can't find the Prof anywhere."
He felt the pain of the afternoon's events shoot through him once again. "Prof's not… there's just me right now."
"I can close," Belle said, firmly and without hesitating, and he fell in love with her even more. "Alice and I can finish up here and then get him a bed on the ward."
"We don't have any; put him on the cot in his office for now," Hetty replied, impatience bleeding into her tone. "Jack, the seizure was seven minutes and she's still not come completely round from it—"
"Alright, I'm coming."
He nodded his thanks to Alice again before turning to Belle. "You can do this," he told her. "He'll be much more happy with your stitching than mine anyway, I suspect."
She smiled at him again, and despite the shitshow he knew he was going out to face, somehow looking at her made him feel like it would all be okay.
"I'll see you in a little bit," she smiled, and then turned to Alice. "Can I have the straight needle, please?"
Jack left them to it without further ado, washing his hands as best he could and shaking them dry as he went to meet Hetty in the foyer.
"Did the Hunters' maid say how close her pains were?"
"One every ten minutes at present." She strode off towards the ward, leaving him no choice but to follow her.
Jack nodded, even though she couldn't see it. "Alright, hopefully she'll hold off active labour for a few more hours. The first twin was still cephalic when Sneed-" His colleague's critical condition reared fresh in his mind, and he came to a stop, his breath slightly harder to work for than it had been a moment ago.
Hetty heard him cut himself off and turned back to him.
"He'll be fine," she said, as though she was daring god himself to defy her. "You and whatserface will have done a good job."
"I know; it's just—"
"Jack!"
He turned over his shoulder to find Flashbang accompanied by Aputi, who looked like he'd been very recently crying, and Rotty, who looked completely distraught and also ready to plan a murder.
"Yeah, Flashbang?"
"There's, uh, something we gotta talk to you about." Flashbang looked distraught, too, but for the life of him Jack couldn't think why.
"Is someone actively dying of something I am capable of fixing?"
Aputi flinched; Flashbang simply stuttered, "well, no, but that's-"
"Then I'm afraid it'll have to wait. I'll come find you when it calms down here. Go find Fagin - he should've woken up by now - and drink the Bagpipes dry on my behalf—"
At that, Aputi let out a barely-concealed sob, and the intensity of their emotions finally registered with Jack.
"What is it?" he asked, his voice softer than it had been before.
Flashbang seemed overcome with emotion, so it was Rotty that stepped forward. "Jack, I'm so sorry, but Fagin…" She trailed off. Jack rolled his eyes.
"Has he gone and got high off that concoction? You know, I should've given him a bit more; would've saved us all a lot of hassle-"
"Fagin's dead!" Aputi blurted out, and then burst fully into tears. By now, everyone in the foyer and corridor was watching their conversation, eyes wide and flitting between them as though they were spectators at a football match.
Jack was getting far too used to the shots of fear that were regularly pulsing through him today - an experience he thought he'd left behind in the surgery-under-gunfire of the Navy. Well, at least until Fagin had shown his ugly face here, and Jack had fallen in love with the daughter of the most powerful man in the colony.
"No, he's not; it's just the tonic I gave him to get Darius and that bloke from the East India to leave him alone. He should be waking up about now."
"No, he's really dead, Jack," Flashbang insisted, regarding Jack as though he was denying the situation out of grief.
"Who confirmed it? There's no-one—"
No-one left, he thought to himself. No-one left but me.
At this, Flashbang grimaced. "No-one officially confirmed it, per se, but when we found him and he wouldn't wake up, we assumed… oh, god…"
"What?"
"We- he- we didn't want Heep to pickle him, so we took his body and we…" He trailed off at the look on Jack's face.
Jack's blood ran icy cold, which was saying something given it had already felt close to freezing with everything going on. "You mean to tell me," he said quietly, mindful of the watching audience, "that you took what you thought was a dead body and decided to bury it before anyone trained to do so had actually confirmed he was dead?"
Even Rotty looked horrified as she put together what Jack was saying.
"You mean to tell me," he said, much louder, "that you bodysnatched a man without a death certificate and then buried him alive?!" Everyone was looking at them now, now Jack's raised voice had made the conversation public.
"Jack!" Hetty had evidently disappeared back onto the ward during this conversation, because she ran back up to him now looking deeply concerned. "She's seizing again!"
Jack turned back to Flashbang and the others. "Dig him back up. Now." And then he turned and ran onto the ward.
Flashbang understood that they'd fucked up.
It all made sense in hindsight, as these things often did — the medical bottle they'd found next to Fagin, in the apothecary of Jack's hospital; that Jack hadn't been grief-stricken when they'd found him with the intent of letting him know that they'd taken care of Fagin, that they'd got him safely into the ground away from Heep and Darius, but that they hadn't had the funeral yet, because Fagin would obviously want Jack to be there, the closest thing he had to a son—
Yeah. They'd jumped to conclusions slightly, and now they were against the clock to fix their mistake before Fagin actually died because of it.
Aputi's breath was heaving at Flashy's side as the three of them tore back through town towards the graveyard. Time was certainly against them, ticking mockingly as they raced, desperately, to save their friend's life. The graveyard had been empty when they had left it earlier, and they hoped it hadn't been so long that that would have changed - they couldn't have any witnesses to this, just in case they were too late and did actually dig up a dead body.
"The spades should be in the shed 'round the other side," Aputi huffed to them as the church came back into view. "I'll grab them and meet you there."
"What if the spades aren't there?" Flashbang asked.
"We'll dig with our bare fucking hands if we have to," Rotty replied, pulling ahead of him as the gate to the graveyard appeared.
"I think the spades will be there, though," Aputi said quietly as he peeled off to the other side of the church.
Flashbang followed Rotty through the gate and along the path around the perimeter of the church, closely enough that he ran into her back when she came to a halt without warning.
"Fuck," she spat.
"What; what is it?" Flashbang asked, peering over her shoulder to see what the problem was.
Rotty raised an arm and pointed. "Her."
Flashbang followed her direction, and winced. At one of the graves only a few metres from Fagin's was an old woman, dressed all in black, lying prostrate on the soil.
"We have to get rid of her," he whispered theatrically to Rotty, who rolled her eyes. "Else she'll see what we're doing and get us done for body snatching."
"Well, obviously," she hissed back at him. She straightened her clothes and gestured for him to do the same, before striding over to the graveside.
"Good morning, ma'am. Our sincere condolences for your loss."
The woman waited for a few seconds, then slowly rose from her position with a litheness that belied her apparently advanced age. She regarded them with an expression that clearly demonstrated how unimpressed she was at them disturbing her; or perhaps it was just the usual disdain Flashbang was used to seeing from the rich, white members of the British upper class.
"May I help you?"
"We were just wondering how long you were going to be," Flashbang said. The woman continued to scowl at them.
"What my colleague was trying to say," Rotty said, taking her tourn to scowl at Flashbang before looking back at her with a more conciliatory look on her face, "was that we simply wanted to be respectful of your mourning so that we know when we can resume the normal activities of the yard without distressing members of the general public, if you know what I mean."
"Oh. Oh, yes; I understand. Well, I'm afraid you'll have to wait until tomorrow morning."
Rotty blinked at her. "I'm sorry; why?"
"Young lady, are you aware which day it is?" The old woman regarded Rotty imperiously.
"No, milady."
She scoffed, gesturing towards the headstone. "It is the anniversary of my dear Gerald's passing. Every year, on the day of his death, I come here and keep vigil at his graveside, forgoing all earthly needs, from the time of his death until the following dawn. You must be new; the experienced church staff are well aware of the imporance of this day."
"Is there any way we could persuade you to give us just an hour or two to finish what we need to do?" Flashbang tried, but she was having none of it.
"Certainly not! I have already so graciously delayed the start to allow you to bury your friend earlier; I shall not defer again. Now, if you please, I would request that you kindly leave my Gerald and I in privacy."
And with that, she turned her back to them with a harrumph, before raising her hands to the sky. "Father God, Lord Almighty, I beseech thee: I have come before you on this sacred day…"
Her prayers were thankfully less distinct in the shade of the trees on the other side of the yard, where they met with Aputi to fill him in and to work out an alternative plan.
"We could try asking her really nicely," Aputi said, before cowering under the unimpressed scowl Rotty sent his way.
"We could knock her out," Flashbang suggested. "Just a little. I'm sure we have something that could make her forget all about seeing us…"
"We are not drugging an innocent old woman!" Rotty hissed. "We've committed enough fucking transgressions without adding assault to the list. We need to fix this without making the whole situation worse."
"She wouldn't know it was us," Aputi suggested, but refrained from making any further comments when Rotty levelled him with a stare that screamed are you fucking serious?
"Then what do we do?" Flashbang whispered.
Rotty sighed, rubbing the back of her head with a hand. "We'll just have to hope that she doesn't really mean staying all night. Or that she falls asleep at some point, and then we can make our move."
"But Fagin might not have that much time!" Aputi said, becoming distressed again.
"I know," Rotty snapped. "But I'm not seeing any other good solutions that don't involve more crimes, unless you have any suggestions?"
They didn't. Rotty settled back with a sigh.
"We'll just have to wait her out, then. And pray that Fagin can last that long."
Flashbang looked towards the grave that contained their friend. He wasn't feeling optimistic about their chances - and that was saying something.
Jack wasn't sure what time the hospital finally started to settle down, only that the midnight oil had long since been burned through and something resembling dawn was creeping into the slithers of sky he could see through the windows.
The nurses had all worked at least two full duties each, covering each other for scant breaks to use the toilet and scarf down the bread rolls the baker's wife had kindly brought them at some point during the night. Jack had looked longingly, very briefly, at the pile of rolls and strawberry jam as he strode past the store room on his way between patients. It would have been a colossal workload for three doctors - but he and Belle had no choice but to tackle it as best they could, agreeing with minimal discussion how best to divide their workload and then simply getting on with it.
None of it had been straightforward, none of it offering them even a few minutes of respite. First had been Maureen Turner, and it had been a horrific few hours of watching her seize herself to death and trying to squeeze other duties in between. It would have been bad enough on its own, a drawn-out, painful, merciless death, but her daughters had been at their mother's bedside throughout, crying in horror at each seizure and the ensuing side effects, until whatever god there might have been finally showed mercy and let Maureen finally lie still. Her daughters' screams of grief then must have been heard back in England, and there was seemingly nothing Jack nor any of the nurses could do to console them.
They didn't even have a private room to move her to, for them to mourn away from the eyes of the rest of the ward who had been forced to watch and listen to the whole sordid ordeal, because Lizzie Hunter had arrived not long before the end of it in a much more advanced stage of labour than Jack had expected. He'd only had time to wash his hands before attending her. Hetty, saint of a woman that she was, had sent Catherine to sit with Lizzie and her husband while they waited for Jack, and it was seemingly only Catherine's gentle words and soothing strokes on Lizzie's lower back that was keeping both her and her husband from losing their nerve completely. The young couple had only been married for eight months and had seemingly been blessed with twins on their wedding night. Jack had palpated her fundus a few days ago and privately felt the gestation was closer to 36 weeks rather than 32, but he wasn't about to tell anyone that - especially since Sneed's notes seemed to tell the same story.
When he entered the room, his initial impression was that she was simply another first-time mother struggling to cope with the pains of labour, but as she shifted and groaned with the next contraction, his assessment was quickly updated to- oh, fuck-
He reached between her legs in time to catch the first of the twins, getting completely covered in liquor as the membranes around the babe, which had remained intact until that moment, ruptured on contact with his hand. Catherine wordlessly passed him a towel before handing him the clamp, so he didn't embarrass himself by dropping the instrument on the floor out of his wet hands, and he mouthed his thanks to her.
The second twin, by some miracle, had decided to follow her brother and come head first, too - which was a massive fucking relief, because he realised as he saw the second vertex advancing that he hadn't thought to stabilise her, and the last thing he needed was a fucking cord prolapse without any other surgeons available, because Belle was still in surgery with Sneed- and the Prof-
Distracted by his thoughts, the second twin nearly caught him off guard, too, and only Lizzie's grunt of preparation for the contraction gave him enough notice to reach up and help the babe follow her brother into the world.
The parents were duly sobbing with relief, and Catherine had a few tears in her eyes as she helped Lizzie into the bed and then to place the babes skin to skin with her, the boy already rooting for his mother's teat. Unsurprisingly the placentas came shortly after, one followed by the other in a whoosh that Jack managed to catch quite skilfully (even if he did say so himself) in a kidney dish. He kept an eye on the blood pooling on the sheets - it wasn't too much, not just yet, but he didn't want her bleeding out. They'd had enough puddles of blood on the floor already today-
"Is she alright, Doctor Dawkins?" the husband asked, looking very concerned as Jack realised that he'd just been staring at his wife's vagina with a stony look on his face.
"Uh, yeah, no, she's fine, sorry - congratulations, by the way," Jack replied, forcing himself back to his senses. "I'm just debating whether she needs a stitch or two to help the wound heal-"
"Whatever you think is best, Doctor," Lizzie said. "I'd rather it all heals nicely down there, if it's all the same to you."
It probably didn't need a stitch, he told himself as he was finishing up a short while later. He'd certainly seen worse - some poor women even tore right into their anus and suffered with incontinence the rest of their life - and the bleeding had mostly stopped before he'd even put a needle to her perineum. But it would probably help her avoid shitting herself through her vagina, and help her have a good sex life going forward, and honestly it was something he could fix - just a suture and some thread and his careful, methodical stitching to improve someone's outcome; something he could control, something he could fix-
He was abruptly broken from his musings by a sharp kick to his shoulder.
"Oh, I'm so sorry, Doctor; that was rather sharp, caught me off-guard-"
"It's no bother," he replied, subtly rolling his shoulder out and trying not to flinch at the bruise that felt like it was already forming there. "There's just one more and then I'm done."
He finished suturing without sustaining any further injuries, musing in the brief time it took to tie off that it would have been beneficial for Belle to have had a go - perineums being unique to suture as they were - but he'd barely set his instruments down before Hetty was there again. Because there was still a raging cholera epidemic and the related care required to treat those patients had been put on hold while he and Belle had been occupied.
So he spent the rest of the night flitting between cholera patients. Belle and Tim's discovery had certainly been a godsend for many patients who had otherwise been due to meet their maker, but there were still so many who were just too far gone to call back to the living. The ward strained all night under the grief of the losses with no respite to catch their breath, for as each bed was cleared either of the improving living or the dead, it was filled again by someone equally, if not more, desperately in need of their care. Not just cholera patients, either, but people still presenting with normal complaints, seemingly made worse by the madness of the night. It wasn't even a full moon, he heard one of the nurses complain to the other in the corridor. Jack was inclined to agree with the spirit of her complaint, if not the superstition behind it.
At one point, well into the night, Hetty enquired after Belle. Jack hadn't seen her himself for a while, so he took a precious few minutes the first time he felt comfortable to do so to track her down. It hadn't been hard - she was exactly where he expected her to be.
He found himself leaning against the doorframe of Lady Jane's room, just watching Belle's chest rise and fall as she slept in the chair next to her mother's bed, as though she'd come in only to check on her and had accidentally let her eyes drift closed. Lady Jane's breathing was still a little ragged, but considering how closely she'd brushed against death earlier in the day (yesterday? He had no clue, honestly), it was a really good sign that she had so much colour in her cheeks.
He considered, briefly, the conflicting emotions swirling under the surface: joy and relief for Belle, that she had not had to suffer her mother's unpleasant death; anger, not necessarily that Lady Jane had survived while so many in the Elbow had perished, but something akin to it; and something else he couldn't name when he thought about Fagin - the only thing resembling a parent he'd ever really had - and the striking extremes of emotion the man had put him through all his life but especially today. He hadn't seen Aputi or Flashbang or Rotty or even the man himself come back to let Jack know that their massive cock-up had been resolved - but he'd been so busy, they'd probably not had time to catch him, right? It certainly wouldn't be the case that they'd not- in time- that Fagin might be-
He somehow made it out of the room and to a stack of chamber pots down the corridor before he began retching. Not that anything came up besides a bit of bile. Christ, when was the last time he'd eaten anything, let alone drunk any water? He realised in that moment how dry his lips felt; how his stomach growled in hunger; the pressure building under his forehead.
"Jack." Hetty again. She at least had the decency to look apologetic this time. Or maybe it was just the exhaustion. "I'm sorry, but Doctor Sneed vomited, and he's ripped some of his stitches and it's oozing something awful. And when he's sorted, I need you back on the ward. I think Mr Harris' ulcer might be about to burst again."
He stood there for a few seconds, taking a deep breath to steady himself. Hetty was the glue that held this place together, without a doubt, but if even she was starting to show the cracks…
"Thank you for letting me know," he said, and it wasn't so much of an effort to smile at her as he feared it might be. He pushed away from the table he'd been bracing off and walked to meet her down the corridor. "Have you slept? You should get some food and some sleep."
Hetty's smile was a little sad as she fell into step with him. "I'll sleep when all my nurses have had a chance to rest. Hopefully that will be sometime before tomorrow night."
Jack nodded in understanding. "You know, we must have been through the-"
"Don't say it, you idiot. We'll say it when we know for certain that we're on the other side."
Jack wasn't normally one for superstition, but he had been in the Navy, so he'd learned not to question other people on theirs and just nodded in agreement.
Hetty turned to him as they reached the bottom of the stairs. "Have you rested? Sorry- I realised how stupid that question was the second it left my mouth."
Jack chuckled softly and turned towards Sneed's office, but before he could take a step he felt a hand close gently around his bicep.
"Jack, are you alright?"
Hetty should have known better, he thought, known what a dangerous question that was to ask him at that time of night, after everything that the previous day had subjected him to. And for a second, it all threatened to boil over - all the anger and grief and fear and frustration and disgust and sheer bloody exhaustion - and if it hadn't been for the fact that the foyer was still brimming with activity even in these so-called small hours of the night, Jack may well have let his carefully maintained control slip.
But Hetty had had good intentions in asking. And there was still a job to be done. So he looked her in the eye and tried to say "of course," but maybe something had gone wrong with that on the way to his mouth, because what actually came out was "I will be."
Hetty just smiled at him, a mix of understanding and sympathy. "I'm really glad you didn't join the Navy," she said softly. "Even you're better than no doctor at all."
He scoffed lightly at her gentle jibe.
One of the other nurses called Hetty from the ward, and she nodded at Jack before striding off towards them. "I'll have someone make you a cup of tea and a sandwich," she called to him over her shoulder.
And Belle or no Belle, Jack almost could have kissed her for that.
But he really was quite stupidly in love with Belle, so he vowed instead to make Sneed make Hetty matron, and headed down the corridor towards his next job.
Fagin might not have known the specifics on how one suffocated to death, but he knew enough to understand that there was a finite amount of air in the coffin with him, and once it was gone— well, that was it for him. The big question was how long was the air going to last, and whether it would be enough for someone to get him out of the living hell he found himself in.
He knew for sure that he was getting short on time when he started seeing fireworks.
Dodger would probably be able to explain to him what exactly was happening in his brain that was making him hallucinate vivid colours inside a box with no light, but Fagin was simply content to observe the light show in awe. Wasn't it brilliant that his brain was capable of making such amazing spectacles? Truly, he was one of a kind.
The colours of the light show faded after a while, no matter how much he tried to will them back into full brightness. Then, suddenly, the illusion was gone, and he was alone in a cold, dark, damp box, and he was going to die, oh my god—
He fought the panic, trying to bring his breathing back under control because if he only had a certain number of breaths left, he needed to go slow, ration them out. After a short time, he succeeded - mostly. The acute panic had been managed, but the underlying primal understanding that he was currently buried alive swirled unrestrained through his head, licking into every corner of his mind and whispering: you will die here, cold and alone, and no one will miss you.
And at that moment, he knew he'd do anything to get himself out of here; literally anything, including—
"Please, God," he breathed, his voice sounding shaky and unfamiliar, boxed in - ha, ha - by the small environment around him. "Get me out of here. I know I weren't exactly a shining beacon of moral fortitude, but I did some good, you know? All those kids I took under me wing, gave food and shelter to. That's got to count for something, right? And Dodger - look at him, going around saving all those lives because of the training, the encouragement I gave him. That's gotta earn me even more points, surely? So maybe you and I, we can come to an understanding as to me getting out of this box for another crack at life, huh? I'll owe you one - anything of your choosing. You let me keep on going and I'll do whatever you want. Cross me heart. You know I mean it. Please." His voice cracked on the last word, and he tried to tell himself it was because the air was cold and dry and for no other reason.
God, unsurprisingly, didn't respond. Fagin thought any voices he might have heard were probably of his own imagination anyway. Fine: he wouldn't put his trust in god, then.
He'd sit patiently and wait for Dodger to get him out.
Which he would. Any second now.
Any second.
Sneed, thankfully, slept through the reinforcement suturing Jack sewed into his abdomen. He observed Belle's suturing as a secondary task while he worked - not bad, for someone as early on in their training as her, but there were still learning points he tucked away to talk her through at a later date. The repetitive motion was soothing, but it gave him little to no defence against the tiredness that poked and prodded at him. He shrugged it off as best he could, drawing on the endurance that had seen him decorated at Sevastapol. If he could survive months of endless, desperate butchery in a war zone, he could make it through one night of hell in an Australian frontier town.
One of the nurses came in at one point to lay a mug of tea and half a pie on Sneed's desk for Jack, and he gratefully ate them after finishing, wolfing them down more out of desperate hunger rather than a need to get back on the ward. But inevitably, it was a good thing he did, because as he threw the last mouthful of tea back Margaret came in to tell him they needed him in theatre, urgently. It transpired, as he followed the expletive-laden explanation that was summarily reprimanded by the nurses, that Billy Parker had got drunk and fallen onto the pier and into the ocean. By the time his mates had finished laughing, they'd realised that he was struggling to swim because he'd somehow dislocated his shoulder and ripped his calf open on the way down, probably from the rust-covered bolts that jutted out from the crumbling wood.
The shoulder Jack reset straightaway, remembering as Billy started screaming in pain that he could, probably should have done it with the man under ether; though one of Billy's mates gave him another swig of something that smelled god-awful instead, which seemed to do much of the same trick. It also meant Billy quickly went under from the alcohol and blessedly stayed still while Jack set about trying to reconstruct as much of the calf as he could. The wound was surprisingly deep and required his full concentration, even as he rubbed at his eyes with the back of his arms and rolled his shoulders in quick succession in a desperate attempt to stay awake.
The sunlight was just starting to give the theatre a warm glow as Belle strode in to find him.
"You didn't wake me." Her voice was still rough with sleep; she must have come straight to find him as soon as she woke. Warmth bloomed pleasantly within him at that - that her first instinct had been to seek him out.
And, fuck it - he was too tired to hide the smile that crept onto his face as he turned to take her in. His expression was clearly disarming to her, because all the indignation from her posture disappeared at the sight of it, her face seemingly mirroring his joy at seeing her.
"We were managing," he said, forgoing a greeting as she had. "The tide had turned; it got easier from then on."
"Did anyone else sleep?" she asked as he turned back to the wound, which was looking remarkably better than it had done half an hour ago.
He shrugged and said nothing.
"That's not fair, Jack. You should have woken me; I could have covered someone-"
"The nurses covered each other, and we needed another doctor more than you stepping in as a nurse for an hour."
"Even more reason why you should have woken me! You could have slept for a bit, Jack, if it had really calmed down that much."
Jack finished tying off and set his instruments down. It would be an ugly scar, but Billy was still young; the muscle damage would likely heal well. Turning to face Belle, he rose to his feet and walked across to stand in front of her, resisting the urge to cup her face with his hands that were covered in drying blood and god knew what else.
"It was easier to keep going," he explained. "We're used to just pushing through even when we're exhausted. It takes some getting used to though. No-one thinks any less of you for having rested when you needed to."
"But I-"
He brought his hands almost to cup her face, then settled for resting them on her shoulders instead. "I love you, but I'm too tired to have this argument with you right now. You haven't let anyone down. I would have woken you if we really needed you, I promise."
She considered him for a few seconds. "Alright," she finally relented, seeming to believe him. "Then I will relieve you now."
Jack sighed, releasing his hands and walking past her back towards the foyer, intending to go and check on the ward. "I'm fine, I don't need—"
"Hetty!" Belle turned and strode back towards the foyer in that imperious manner that meant she was going to make sure she got her way. It was all Jack could do to try and catch with her.
The nurses were almost all congregated in the apothecary room. Some were lost in sleep in piles on linens or on each others' shoulders. Most, though, were slumped over in their chairs or even just on the floor with their legs stuck out in front of them; awake, but utterly spent, their gazes unfocused and the room devoid of even idle chit chat.
Their general appearance seemed to stopped Belle in her tracks. "Oh my- when was the last time any of you slept?"
Jack caught up with her and leant on the doorframe, trying to yawn quietly.
Hetty pointed a finger towards a nurse visibly fighting to stay awake in the nearest corner of the room. "Catherine got a two hour-nap yesterday evening."
Catherine saluted sarcastically, then dropped her head back against the wall with a thud.
"Can you rest now? I mean, are there enough of you to relieve the others—?"
"I sent Maggie and six others to bed around three," Hetty replied, not evening opening her eyes this time. "They should be back to relieve us in the next fifteen minutes. I wanted them to have more than five hours, but…" She trailed off, waving her hand vaguely at the room and the obvious exhaustion it contained.
"I see," Belle said softly.
"You were calling; is there something you need, milady?" Alice asked, leaning forward as if preparing to stand from her position on the floor next to Catherine, but Jack watched Belle wave her off before he could stand the nurses down himself.
"No, no, nothing like that- I just wanted to check with Hetty if it was suitable for Jac- for Dr Dawkins to go and get some rest now too. I'll be around for anything immediate, and we can wake him if necessary-"
"And I've already told her that I'm fine for a few more hours-"
Hetty sighed loudly. "I've neither the patience nor the energy to listen to you two bicker like a married couple right now. Jack, we're coping at present and you're the only qualified surgeon I have until Dr Sneed is back to health. You should sleep while you have the chance."
Belle whirled around to face Jack, her face screaming I told you so. Jack might have cared more if he'd been confident that he wasn't going to fall asleep standing up any minute soon.
"Alright," he agreed. "I'll be…" He stopped, realising he wasn't sure where he could actually go to get some sleep. He didn't want to go to Fagin's, not then. There was too much hanging over the two of them; too much that they needed to sort out between them, and he just couldn't face doing it after the night he'd had.
"We've been using your old room as a store cupboard," Hetty said quietly, correctly interpreting his pause. "But the bed's still there. You can borrow some linens if you need them, as long as you promise to wash them before you give them back."
"I'm going to make you the Queen of England if the opportunity ever arises," he told her in complete sincerity.
Hetty's smile managed to break through her exhaustion. "I appreciate the sentiment, but let's not add regicide to your list of sins when you're not five minutes clear of your last death sentence." She waved her hand towards the door, shooing him out. "Go on. I'll get Maggie to send for you if you're needed."
"Thank you," Jack said quietly. He turned to the room, looking each of the nurses in the eye - the ones who were awake, at least. "Thank you, every single one of you. This place would collapse without you lot."
The nurses smiled gratefully at that, and Jack felt like he'd finally done something right that night.
Belle turned back to him and took him by the hand. Jack was more than content to let her lead him upstairs to his old room, which they found to be stacked full of boxes and supplies as Hetty had said, but someone had had the good sense to throw a dust sheet over the bed, and under that, it was almost identical to how he'd left it that last morning, all those months ago. The sight of it stirred something like relief in him, but he was too tired to examine it fully.
Belle waited patiently and uncharacteristically silently by the door as he stripped off his outer layers, trying to avoid thinking about how many different bodily fluids from how many different bodies must be soaked into the fabric of his sleeves and waistcoat. Mercifully, there was a clean pair of undershorts still in his old wardrobe, and he changed into them gratefully, so far beyond caring that Belle was probably getting the least sexiest of her life right now. He turned to find that she'd actually disappeared - only to reappear seconds later with a bowl of warm water and a bar of soap. He looked at her gratefully as he plunged his hands into the water.
"Do you want anything to eat?" she asked as he finished scrubbing his hands and turned back to her. He shook his head, bringing his hands up to run loosely through his hair, and then immediately regretting it as he felt how greasy his hair was under his fingers. A bath would have to wait, though - he'd risk falling asleep in it otherwise. Likewise with a meal. He said as much to Belle, who nodded in understanding.
"I should leave you to get some rest," she said, and turned to leave.
"Wait." He lunged and clumsily caught her wrist. "Would… would you stay? Just for a little while. I…"
He adored the way her face softened at that, at how she hastened to say "of course" in a breathy voice and lead him to lie down on the bed with her.
The end was coming, Fagin thought.
He didn't know it for certain, but something had changed in the last few seconds and it almost definitely wasn't for the better.
There was a rustling somewhere near him. Probably the rats, coming for a meal. You'll not enjoy eating me, Fagin thought to them. I'm only skin and bones. More likely it was just his ears taking a turn at hallucinating. Why couldn't his eyes have another go, giving him a final good look at the sky before he drifted off into eternal sleep? Australia had been a blight on his life for many reasons, most of all his current situation - but Fagin would be lying if he didn't admit the sky was the most beautiful one he'd ever seen.
And he didn't want to lie now. Not in the last moments of his life.
In his chest, his heart seemed to slow, and his eyes drooped with an unbeatable heaviness. Fagin stretched an arm up - or at least, he tried to - and whispered, with all of his soul:
"Please, God…"
And with that, the first light of dawn and blessed, blessed fresh air suddenly bloomed above him.
Fagin gasped, the breath seemingly using every muscle in his body as his chest lurched towards the sweet, sweet outside—
Somewhere above him, blurry shapes seemed to call his name in familiar voices, but he couldn't place them immediately. A few seconds passed, and they cleared, his eyes focusing on them, his friends, come to rescue him—
"Thank you, God," he whispered. A pair of hands reached down to help him up, and Fagin swore he'd never felt anything as good as the firm clasp of Aputi's calloused palms in his. "I'll make good on our bargain."
Norbert Fagin stood, breathed in the air, and began his second life.
Her mother might have changed her mind on her daughter and Jack courting, but Belle felt she might have a heart attack at the way she and Jack were entwined on the bed. Belle couldn't really bring herself to care as felt felt Jack nuzzle into her and the way all the weight on his shoulders seemed to vanish with her touch.
There had been no way she would be able to get onto the bed with that ridiculous skirt on, so Jack had helped her take it off in what was definitely the least sexy, most domestic way to date. And that shouldn't have done anything for her, but…
With Jack's head pillowed on her chest, she felt his arms wrap loosely around her torso, his legs sprawled in a way that surely could not be comfortable, but even as they settled into each other Jack was seemingly struggling to keep his eyes open. She craned her head down to plant a kiss on his forehead, staying in contact with his skin and pulling him a little tighter.
He spoke so softly into her blouse that she almost didn't hear him. "Every night in that prison, I dreamt that your aorta was rupturing. That my suturing wasn't enough to save you. Night after night, I watched you drown in your own blood, completely helpless to stop it."
Belle went completely still, feeling her pulse suddenly start to pound. Jack shifted slightly, until his right ear lay in the centre of her chest.
"I can hear your heart now, though. It's beating. Strong. So maybe I'll get to keep you."
And how her heart ached for him at that; at the fear he must have constantly lived in for her-
"I still see your body dropping on the rope when I close my eyes," she whispered. "Every time, I'm running through the crowd, screaming for them to stop, but I never get to you in time." Jack let out a ragged breath and squeezed her tighter. "Sometimes, they don't put the bag on your head, and I watch your face for every second as you slowly suffocate."
Her fingers gently traced the unblemished skin of his neck, and she pressed another kiss to the top of his head. "But you're here with me," she said, her words muffled a little by his hair. "And you're a free man, now. So maybe I'll get to keep you too."
She felt him press a kiss to her sternum. "Maybe we should stop tormenting each other," he muttered against her skin, words slurring together a little.
Her lips brushed against his head again. "Probably. But that's love, I suppose. And I love you beyond measure, Jack Dawkins. I should certainly hope you know that by now."
Jack didn't reply; his breath had settled into the deep rhythm of sleep as she'd spoken.
She probably needed to get downstairs - there were undoubtedly jobs that needed attending to already, and she wanted to check that Rainsford had survived the night (and her suturing). Right that second, however, she indulged a little longer in the sensation of Jack sound asleep on her chest, knowing he felt loved and safe enough to do so.
He deserved it.
Someone had put a tiny drum in Darius' head and was banging away at it as he trudged back to the church. The sun was clearly in on the torment, too; somehow seeming to shine directly into the back of his skull no matter which way he tilted his head.
At least the hangover was a result of revelry and not commiseration - though he'd certainly indulged in a little moping at missing the opportunity to end Fagin's miserable existence himself. Heep had been more than willing to hear Darius out when he'd explained, a shrewd smile twitching onto the man's face. They'd drunk to new opportunities, to making themselves disgustingly rich - but most of all, to revenge.
The thought cheered Darius as he entered the grounds of the church, and in continuation of that good spirit, he decided to treat himself to a pick-me-up.
The graveyard was abandoned at this time of the morning; even the devout mourners were sensible enough to wait for their breakfast to go down and the sun to come all the way up before making their pilgrimage to the graveside. It gave Darius an hour or two to himself before he was expected to offer any meaningless services such as "words of comfort" and "moral guidance".
The hem of his cassock rustled softly over the grass as he made his way through the yard. God, he hated how fucking tight that thing was around his neck, like it was taunting the noose he'd barely escaped. He was in no hurry to get himself back in that position. He hated Fagin for freeing him; hated that he felt like he owed the man a debt of sorts for it. At least now the bastard would never be able to come—
His feet staggered to a halt. Darius raised a hand to his eyes, scrubbing desperately to clear what must have been an illusion.
There was a fresh mound of dirt next to the hole Fagin had been buried in. He knew beyond doubt which plot it was - he'd watched, smirking, through the window of the church as Fagin's sycophants had lowered the coffin into the grave, partly for the satisfaction of the whole thing but mostly to make sure they were actually going to bury him. He wouldn't put it past Fagin and Dawkins that there hadn't been some trickery involved to help the old bastard defy death.
And now there was a hole where the earth should have been covering a coffin. A hole which looked like it had been dug in haste in the middle of the night; the dirt from it was scattered across the surrounding area in a way that would have the groundskeeper spitting feather.
But why would they come back to dig him up? There would be very few reasons a person would risk the penalty associated with disturbing the dead.
Unless—
It flashed back to him. As he'd knelt at Fagin's grave yesterday, revelling in seeing the old man being exposed to the sun for the final time. The glob of spit he'd let loose that had fallen onto his face.
The way his nose had twitched, just once.
Darius staggered back as though he'd seen a ghost.
But he hadn't. Because ghosts were nothing more than children's stories, and the dead didn't walk.
Except when they did.
Darius' hangover disappeared in a single moment after his revelation. Good. He wanted to be clear-headed when he personally ensure that Norbert Fagin was dead enough that the only function he could possibly serve was carrion for crows.
Turning on his heel, he stormed back into town to find Heep; damn the early hour. Their plans needed to be altered.
Darius needed revenge.