Chapter Seven Frankie #2
“I know who you are,” the knackerman said, as he inhaled the smoke, then let out a wet cough. He stared hard at Uncle Thomas, and I thought perhaps I caught a glimpse of amusement in his eyes. As if he found my uncle, and the fact that he’d introduced himself, funny in some way.
“Then you, sir, are at an advantage,” Uncle Thomas continued. “I’m afraid I don’t know your name.” He gave the leather-clad man a warm smile, waiting.
The hulking man spat in the mud again, and took another deep drag. “I’m the knackerman. What more is there to know?”
He began coughing once more, leaning against his cart as he struggled to catch his breath. The cigarette fell from his thick fingers to the ground. Thick phlegm coated his lips, stuck to his beard.
“I have a proposal,” Uncle Thomas said.
“What’s that?” the knackerman wheezed, cocking his head, looking at Uncle Thomas the way you’d look at a little dog who was trying to steal your lunch—a dog you were seconds away from kicking.
“I’d like you to come to my home.”
“Your home?” The large man looked truly perplexed, worried even.
Uncle Thomas nodded. “I have a medical office there. I’d like to examine you.”
The knackerman shook his head, his tangled hair flying. “No.”
“We can have a brandy. And I’ll pay you two dollars for your time. I was hoping we could talk. I’d like to ask you some questions.”
The knackerman frowned. “What sort of questions?”
“I have questions about horses, and I understand you’re the one I should talk to.”
The knackerman was quiet, sucking at the air. “Will it take long, then?” he asked at last.
“Not at all,” Uncle Thomas promised. “A glass of brandy, a quick exam, a few questions, and you can be on your way with two dollars in your pocket. And perhaps I can give you some medicine to help with that cough.”
The knackerman relented, and Uncle Thomas led us down the street to his office.
The snow fell heavily around us, already covering the road.
I walked a few steps behind, observing the unsteady gait of the knackerman.
He would list to one side, then correct himself and list to the other.
He looked like a giant compared to Uncle Thomas, who stood five foot ten—two inches taller than myself.
At one point, he stumbled slightly, and Uncle Thomas reached to steady him. The knackerman shoved him away.
“Fetch the bottle of brandy and some glasses from my study, will you, Frankie?” Uncle Thomas asked when we arrived.
I hurried to the study, grabbed the bottle and three glasses from the shelf. I returned to the office and poured a glass of brandy, offering it to the knackerman, who downed it in one large gulp. He held his glass out and I refilled it, then poured a brandy for Uncle Thomas and one for myself.
Uncle Thomas began the examination with some difficulty.
The bear of a man protested, insisting he was not ill, though he was hot to the touch, beads of sweat collecting on his brow.
He’d taken off his heavy patchwork coat and stood in a soiled undershirt.
Thomas attempted to take his temperature, but the knackerman jerked away, declaring, “I said I ain’t sick!
” He swatted away the thermometer, breaking it; glass and beads of mercury skittered across the floor.
I grabbed a broom and began sweeping up, the mercury breaking into smaller and smaller droplets and seeming to flee the broom like living things.
“Please,” Thomas calmly pleaded.
“I know what you’re doing. Why you brought me here,” the knackerman said, eyes darting around the room like a trapped animal.
“I only want to help.” Uncle Thomas laid a hand on the man’s shoulder. “If you’ll just sit down, let me examine you—”
The knackerman jerked away from Thomas, placed a hand on the knife he wore at his side. “Let me go. I’ve got to collect the beasts.”
“Of course,” Thomas began, “but I think—”
The knackerman wrapped his fingers around the handle of the knife strapped to his belt and Thomas stepped back.
“If I don’t, they’ll rot in the yard, the stink of death upon them, flies gathering.
And then will come the scavengers—the creatures that feed on the dead—they’ll send the ladies screaming, running inside and locking their doors. ”
Uncle Thomas nodded. “I understand the importance of the work you do.” He held up his stethoscope and dared to take a step closer. “If you’d let me listen to your chest, maybe I can help you to feel better so you can—”
“I don’t need help from the likes of you. Don’t you come near me!” He raised an arm as if to hit Uncle Thomas, but turned and smashed at the glass-fronted cabinet Thomas kept his instruments in. The glass shattered and the whole cabinet rocked.
I let out a squeal like a scared young girl and was immediately furious with myself for it.
Quickly regaining my composure, I squared my shoulders, raised the broom like a weapon, and crossed the room to stand by my uncle, ready to defend him. I’m skinny, but have spent my life in the company of boys. I know how to throw a punch, how to fight if I need to.
The knackerman now appeared to look through Thomas, his eyes blazing—the whites seemed to have yellowed further in the time since he’d pulled up to the tavern. He was gritting his teeth, his breath coming through them like a train. Thomas stood frozen, stunned. He raised his hands in surrender.
“Easy now,” I said, my voice low and soothing. It was the same voice, the same words, that Luther St. James had used just yesterday to settle his crazed mare, Shirley.
I set down the broom, took a step toward the knackerman.
His yellow glare moved to me and I was reminded of the way Shirley had looked at us just before charging, eyes blazing like little fires.
He had cut the inside of his forearm quite badly but was in such a worked-up state that he seemed not to notice the dark blood that was dripping to the floor.
I was close enough to smell the blood, the coppery scent of it mixing with the sweetness—all of it bringing me back to the horses in the field with their torn-open bodies.
Slowly, carefully, I reached for the knackerman to help stanch the flow of blood. His skin was blazing hot to the touch, and blood flowed heavily now. “You need a bandage, possibly sutures,” I said.
He stood frozen, looked down at my hand on his arm, my long fingers pale against the blood dripping from under them. Then he jerked away from me, took a step toward Uncle Thomas.
“Do you know?” he asked, eyes blazing as he looked at Uncle Thomas.
He was breathing fast and hard and started to cough once again, his whole body heaving, bloody mucus coming up out of his mouth, dribbling down into his beard.
He staggered backward, resting against the wall.
He closed his eyes, his chin going down to his chest as he struggled for breath.
“Know what, sir?” Thomas’s voice had an uncharacteristic strain.
The knackerman opened his eyes, threw back his head, and laughed, showing blocky teeth stained from tobacco and blood.
Bloody sputum dribbled down the corners of his mouth.
He pushed himself off from the wall, dove for Thomas.
Thomas leapt to the side with a quickness that surprised me, leaving the big man to grab an armful of empty air, stumbling so badly I was sure he would fall.
He steadied himself by grabbing hold of the cabinet with the smashed front, then, with a roar, pulled it forward, toppling it with a horrible crash—instruments, medicines, and supplies spilling out across the floor.
The force of his effort was so great that he went down with it like a great tree felled, landing on the floor beside the cabinet, where he lay in a motionless heap, blood leaking from his arm, a soft groan escaping his lips.