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What’s Your Story?
You run a finger across the chiseled wood carved to resemble
hand. You pretend it belonged to a calloused pirate and wonder at the truth
behind this rustic prosthesis.
You gaze over your collection. A cigar box full of glass
eyes. A few arms hanging on the wall. A leg leans into the corner next to your
coveted pirate hand. You realize then what you’re missing. Their stories. You
could collect a hundred different pieces, but without history, they’re
worthless.
You type up an ad on Craigslist offering money to
interview an amputee. You keep it short. You’ll pay for their story; the
prosthetic you’ll take. It’s more fun that way. More of an adventure.
Ad submitted, you let your mind wander toward the future,
picturing your interviewee coming to, a little groggy and missing a limb.
“Nothing new there,” you say aloud, chuckling to yourself. You decide to leave them with extra cash,
instead of just the agreed upon sum. You’re not a monster.
Barely an hour ticks by before the phone rings.
You snatch it from the cradle before the first ring ends. “Hello.”
“I saw your ad.”
You stand, pacing the room, almost giddy. “Fantastic. Arm?
Leg?”
The caller hesitates. “Leg.”
You fill the lingering silence. “Can we do this in person?”
“Yes,” the caller says. “Wherever. I’m starving. How soon?”
The caller’s eagerness matches your own and trepidation
tickles your nerves. Maybe this isn’t the best idea. You shake off the feeling
and agree to meet near the café in an hour.
When you arrive, something doesn’t sit right. You start to
turn and leave, then stop. A door in the alley across from The Sammy Snack
opens and a scruffy-looking man stands in the threshold like he belongs there. In
the empty cement room behind him, you glimpse two metal chairs. How long has he
been waiting before you arrived?
“You the guy?” you say, half hoping he isn’t. He nods,
lifting a pant leg to expose the metallic rod that disappears into his shoe.
You don’t need to see the neoprene foot to know it’s in there. He gestures you
inside.
As you squeeze past him to enter, he inhales audibly. “Delicious,”
he says, his sour breath warm against your ear.
Regret and dread settle into your belly.
Something pinches your neck, followed by stinging. Light glints
off the needle as he pulls it away. It’s then you know you messed up. You try to speak, managing only panicked
squeaking. Your limbs are already numb, uncooperative.
You stumble, falling to the floor.
The door latches shut.
He shimmies your pants off, and you’re helpless to stop him.
“Eating from a stranger isn’t ideal.” He runs his tongue
over your calf making yummy sounds in his throat. “I’d eat my other one, but
then I wouldn’t have a leg to stand on.” He chuckles “Just think of the story
you can tell when someone inevitably asks, what happened to your leg?”
Chapter Two
“Finn! What’s
this on the carpet?”
Oh, those shrieks!
Poor Finn, always in trouble. Citric Sylvia. Acid tongue and acid heart. I see
she makes you shiver. Hold my hand if you wish – and remember, she can’t see
you.
“Er, I think it’s mud. Sorry.” Finn’s always
polite to his stepmother. “Maybe I trod in some walking back from school?”
But
Sylvia is on the warpath. She wants this
cockney cuckoo, as she calls Finn, out of her nest. “I’ve had enough! You’re
always here, making a mess. I’m going to find you a job – in a shop, where you
work after school and at weekends.” I know, she’s practically spitting as she stalks
into the kitchen and slams the door.
Press your ear against it, she’s whispering to herself:
“A job that’s very dangerous, so I can be rid of you.”
A
very determined woman, Sylvia. I confess
I rather fear for Finn.
Let’s go into his
room while he cleans up the mud and look at the city lights from the window. If
you had binoculars, you’d be able to see Edinburgh’s Royal Mile and Jeanie
McSweenie pedalling furiously over the cobbles on her old black bicycle, the
wheels turning so fast they send sparks into the sky. Who’s Jeanie, you say? You haven’t heard of her? I thought Jeanie and her potions had gone
into the history books. You do have a
lot to learn. Come, let me take you closer. You’ll meet Finn again soon.
***
There she is,
Jeanie McSweenie the celebrated apothecary, dismounting her bicycle and resting
it against the railings by the churchyard.
Fingers of mist curl out from behind the gravestones, as if beckoning
her to join them. She takes no
notice. It takes more than a bit of fog
to scare her. Can you see her long red plait, swinging beneath the battered
black beret rammed onto her head? I
sometimes think she only wears that beret to hide her eyes - small, sharp, and
dark as currants. Currant eyes. Clever
eyes. There she goes, down that narrow
passage, moving fast – so fast, it’s as if she doesn’t want to be seen. Maybe she doesn’t.
A small dog
appears from the shadows; all white except for one smooth, shiny black
ear. Yes, it looks as if it’s been
waiting for her. “Hey Lightfoot,” she says softly, as she bends to stroke him. Lightfoot wags his tail, turns, and scratches
at a door which is almost hidden in the passage wall. It opens, just enough to
let the flickering light of a candle fall on Jeanie’s freckled face. Listen hard, what’s that she’s saying?
“The potion … yes
... Fraser Crannog said it worked. He …”
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