The Lady and Her Monsters: A Tale of Dissections, Real-Life Dr. Frankensteins, and the Creation of Mary Shelley’s Masterpiece by Roseanne Montillo (William Morrow) is an entertaining almost pop-biography of Mary Shelley (with all the scandal) entwined with a study of the anatomists whose work in the 1700s helped inspire her to create her great novel.
APPORTS
Stephen Bacon
They met at a café on the corner of Mulberry Street. It was a fairly nondescript place — greasy net curtains, laminated menus, chipped formica tables. Probably bustling with overweight truckers first thing in the morning, but at this hour it was almost deserted. Casual patrons had possibly been deterred by the rain. Or maybe the poor hygiene.
Cowan spotted Jimenez as soon as he stepped inside. He was sitting at a table in the corner, and he glanced up and waved at the sound of Cowan’s entrance. The only other customer was an elderly man slurping noisily from a mug, a mangy dog lying at his feet. Despite the ban, the air was thick with cigarette smoke.
Cowan slid into the plastic chair opposite Jimenez. At first he thought the older man’s hair was wet, but then realised the greying locks were actually slicked back with Brylcreem. Dandruff dusted his shoulders. The lines around his mouth were deeply ingrained with age, greying whiskers indicating several days’ growth. He drew out a manila envelope from beneath the table and patted it with his nicotine-stained fingers. “Got what you wanted, Mr. Campbell.”
Cowan licked his lips. “Good.” He squirmed inside his tight collar. “Got the money?”
Cowan took an envelope from his pocket and passed it quickly across to Jimenez, who accepted it and transferred it into his own. There was a layer of dirt beneath the man’s cracked fingernails, so ingrained it looked like wood-varnish.
“Five hundred — like you said.” Cowan cleared his throat and glanced at the counter. The owner — an Asian woman in a stained apron — was wiping down the wall-tiles with a dishcloth. Behind her, a tinny speaker blared out the insipid blandness of local radio.
Jimenez began to speak. “I managed to locate him…. Before I run through what I found, though, I need to ask you one question — why’re you looking for Mark Fisk?”
Cowan continued to shift his gaze round the café. “I told you — we were at school together. He was a mate of mine. I just wanted to see him again. You know — catch up.” His eyes were restless. “Old time’s sake and all that.”
“Ah yes, I remember now.” He flexed his fingers and rubbed the back of his left hand. “Took quite an effort to find him. Our Mr. Fisk did not want to be found.”
“Really?”
“Hmmm. You see, he’s going under an assumed name now — Peter Feltham. Been living under that name for several months, in fact.” His eyes searched the younger man’s face. “I had to call in some extra favours to discover this, believe me.”
Cowan blinked. “I thought we’d agreed the fee—”
“We did, we did. Don’t worry — no extra.” Jiminez waved a hand. “No, I meant I know a few contacts in the criminal justice system, the legal profession. And the police, for that matter. Had to go to them to get the info. Quite interesting really.”
“Oh?”
“Well you know the first part of the story — up till he left school, right? Well after that, Fisk got a job in the steelworks. Worked for a Sheffield company. He inherited his mother’s house when she died in 1994. Lived there for a couple of years. Then in ’97 he married a Rosemary Willows. They sold his house and moved to Stannington. He was still at the steel company. She was a secretary at a firm of insurance brokers. They had a son, Alex, in 2002. This is where it takes a turn.”
He leaned forward in his chair. “In 2006 they separated. The wife left him and got custody of the kid. He was pretty cut-up about it, apparently. As you would be. Had to move into a council flat. For a few months he was just getting access to the lad every other weekend. The missus starts seeing another bloke. Looks like Fisk then gets edgy — thinking he’s going to lose the kid; reckons the lad’s going to start calling another bloke ‘Dad.’
“Then in the summer of 2008 he picks little Alex up as usual. Takes him to the top of the towerblock and they both jump off.”
“Jump off?”
“Well, Fisk jumped and dragged the kid with him. Even left a suicide note for the ex, saying if he couldn’t have his son, no one would.”
Cowan swallowed and glanced away from the scrutiny of the older man’s gaze. He watched the Asian woman browsing a magazine, licking her fingers as she turned the pages.
“I remember it in the news, actually,” said Jimenez. “There was a public outcry. Front-page shit.”
Cowan nodded noncommittally.
“But here’s the best part — although the kid died, Fisk survived. Just snapped his fucking legs. The kid broke his fall.”
Cowan looked out of the window. Mid-morning traffic crawled past, glistening in the rain. Pensioners shuffled along the pavement laden with carrier bags. He shook his head. “What a bastard.”
“Bastard indeed.” Jimenez pursed his lips. “He was charged with murder but the judge let him off — diminished responsibility. He got five years in a nuthouse. The ex-wife killed herself a few months later. Overdose.”
Cowan watched the older man remove a cigarette and light it, taking a deep drag and blowing the smoke out almost provocatively, his eyes narrowing. “The judge said Fisk was remorseful afterwards — he’d just cracked under the pressure of the divorce, that’s all.”
“So he’s — what? Locked up still?”
Jimenez shook his head. “Got released after four years. Since last summer he’s been living here under the name Peter Feltham.” He opened the envelope and took out a folded sheet of A4 paper. His fingers hesitated on it for a second before he slid it across the table.
Cowan unfolded the paper and looked at the address. “Leeds?”
“Yeah. As part of the rehabilitation process he was given a new identity. That’s why I asked why you were looking for him.” Jimenez paused. “This info can’t be traced back to my contact — it’s now a matter of public record anyway, if you can be arsed to wade through enough paperwork — but I wanted to make sure you’d be … discreet with it.”
Cowan forced himself to maintain eye contact. “So you think — what? That I’ll grass to the papers?”
“I don’t know, son.” His hand gripped Cowan’s wrist. “But if you go through with what I think you’re planning, I’d urge you to be careful.”
Cowan released his hand, on the pretence of scratching his nose. “Mr. Jimenez, I just wanted to see him — to talk. I won’t mention it to anyone else.”
Jimenez shrugged. “Look, I couldn’t give a shit. Just don’t bring my name into it if he gets itchy feet and scarpers. The authorities’ll have your arse for an ashtray.” His laughter sounded ugly and coarse.
“I just want to say hello — that’s all. Maybe he’ll be pleased to see an old face.” Cowan slipped the address into his pocket.
Jimenez smiled wanly and began packing the envelope away. “Aye, Mr. Campbell — or whatever your real name is — maybe he will.”
The rain hadn’t let up all week. Cowan tried to concentrate as he peered through the windscreen, the wipers doing their best to distract him. Rows of sagging shops blurred into one continuous line as he negotiated the ceaselessly spiralling roads. Leeds appeared to be a labyrinth of narrow streets choked by parked cars. The bricks of the buildings were a strange shade of ochre. It was quite unlike anything he’d seen before, certainly different to the houses in Sheffield.