Burking - A Short Story

Follow William in the dark world of Victorian graverobbers as he helps the London Burkers with their final body for sale. 

Trigger Warning: This story contains descriptions of a dead body and a tooth extraction, which some readers may find disturbing.

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William shifted the duffel bag, filled with carpentry tools, so that the strap was more comfortable on his shoulder. The bitterness of damp wood became mixed with the scent of urine. The door knocked against the latch behind him and the floorboards creaked as he walked through the small house. He wished he could leave and return to his Ellen. She had been sitting in the rocking chair rubbing her growing belly when he left that morning. He needed this job. He needed the money. Outside the singular window, the orange-red sky was beginning to cloud over. He found the back door and pulled on the round handle.  

Grass reached over the doorway and onto his leather lace-up boots. Evergreen bushes nested against the boundary fence, their searching branches stretched outwards. In the middle of the garden was a crumbling well. A thick rope had been fed into it. William’s eyes followed the rope to the top branch of a knotted apple tree, then down to a man who was leaning against the trunk. His cream muslin shirt was stained by the day’s sweat and his belly hung over the waistband of his button-fly trousers. He was biting a fingernail on his left hand with an intent concentration.

William straightened his waistcoat and cleared his throat. ‘Excuse me, sir?’

The man gave one last tug on his finger and wiped his hand on his trousers. He tipped his flat cap to William.

‘My uncle sent me to, er, help you out?’

‘Huh, never mentioned you being so proper.’ The man’s dark eyes looked William up and down. ‘Sure you’re up to the job?’

‘I’m willing to try.’

‘Good. Name’s Bishop.’ The man offered him a dirty hand to shake.

‘William,’ he said as he returned the gesture.

‘Right then. Tonight’s goods have been swimming for a good forty minutes now. Time to haul it out.’ The man nodded towards the well.

William dropped his bag on the floor and rolled up the sleeves of his woollen frock-coat. He walked over and grabbed the length closest to the well. Bishop stood two feet behind him to keep the rope taut. They counted to three, then William pulled upwards. He adjusted his stance to brace himself against the weight of each heave. The muscles in his arms ached.

As he watched the length of rope get shorter, a small pair of lace-up boots, grey trousers, and a waistcoat, which had been taken-in at the back, appeared over the uneven top of the well. The men pulled again and the boy’s head emerged, his arms dangling down, dripping stagnant water. William let go of the rope and steadied himself against the well. He ignored the strained grunt from Bishop as he contended with the extra weight. Bile crawled up William’s throat, making him cough. Bishop cut the rope from the boy’s feet and placed the body on the grass. 

‘Come on, now. This ain’t your first body; London’s full of them.’ Bishop came to his side. William could smell the man’s rotting gums in his breath.

‘I’ve just never seen one so close before.’ William accepted Bishop’s hand to help him up.

They walked back to the boy. He didn’t look much older than William’s thirteen-year-old nephew. He had dark, curled hair and a fading tan beneath the soot-streaks covering his face and hands. Bishop knelt down and untied the boy’s shoes. William looked at the child’s face. His full lips were purple-blue in colour and the tip of his blackish tongue rested in between them. Blood-tinged foam had bubbled from his nose. His eyes were bloodshot. The pupils were dilated and glazed over, milky. William closed the boy’s eyes. He made the sign of the cross as he recited, ‘God, have mercy on this poor boy’s soul. Deliver him to your Kingdom and save me from Hell.’

‘Save your prayers. If you want your money, you need to play your part.’ Bishop had removed the boy’s trousers and was now tugging at the exposed underwear.

‘Is that necessary?’ William averted his eyes.

‘We’ve got to sell everything. Now, take off his tops.’

William wiped his forehead and ignored the burning sensation in his throat. With some difficulty, he slid off the boy’s blue woollen jacket and the waistcoat stained with blood at the collar. As he began to undo the shirt buttons, Bishop came to his side.

‘You’re taking too long. He’ll go stiff before you finish,’ Bishop drew out a dagger from his boot and cut along the button line. ‘There.’

The boy’s chest and swollen stomach were flecked with goose bumps. William wanted to get away from Nova Scotia Gardens but knew that he’d end up like the street-boy before him.. He took off the boy’s shirt and placed it on top of the waistcoat. Bishop dug a small hole beneath the nearest bush with his dagger.

‘Bring the clothes over and cover them up. I’ll take the body inside.’ Bishop pulled the last of the loose dirt out from the hole with his hands. William did as he was told. He wiped his hands on his trousers. Ellen would be annoyed about the mud. He wondered if he would find her asleep in the rocking chair again. Bishop carried the boy past him and through the back doorway. William followed him as he turned right to the washroom. The place was bare apart from a small tub filled with clothes and soapy water, a tin bath and a large wooden chest. Bishop placed the boy on his back in the centre of the room.

‘We need to curl him up so he’s nice and small.’ Bishop walked over to the body and tucked the legs into the foetal position. William helped him move the cold arms so that they rested on the boy’s chest. The hands were wrinkled and prunish. A spongy fingertip brushed against William’s arm and he cried out, stumbling backwards. Bishop laughed at him and grabbed a cloth sack off the lid of the wooden chest.

‘Stop messing about and help me get him in here,’ Bishop said as he shoved the boy’s feet into the sack. William steadied himself and held the bag open. Once the head was in, they tied the cord, then lowered the body into the chest.

Bishop shut the lid and rubbed his hands together. ‘Fancy a drink?’

William nodded. His head felt heavy, and he wanted to sit down. Opposite the washroom was a chipped wooden table with three chairs around it. William sat next to the empty fireplace made from lumps of stone and broken bricks. He took the offered bottle of stout from Bishop.

‘Hope you like Meux’s. I’ve a friend who, uh, acquires it for me.’ Bishop clinked their bottles together. William shrugged and took a swig. The stout had a bitter taste that lingered in his mouth and made his throat dry. He preferred sweet sherry.

‘Did you bring your tools with you like we asked?’ Bishop swirled his bottle.

‘Yes, my bag’s outside in the garden.’ William placed his own drink on the table.

‘Good. My partner, May, wants the boy’s teeth for a dentist. Man claims they’re for ‘schooling’, ha, cheating more like. Corpse teeth are nice and cheap.’ He winked at William.

‘Oh… wait, which dentist?’ William ran his tongue across the denture that replaced a tooth he’d lost a month ago when a beam he’d been carving had slipped from its harness.

‘Some guy in Newington Causeway.’ Bishop leaned back in his chair.

‘Thank God.’

‘Anyway, have you got a brad-awl?’

‘Well, yes, most carpenter’s do. Why?’

‘I want to use it to push out the teeth.’ Bishop chewed the nail on his thumb.

‘Are you sure that would be the best tool to use?’ William thought about the other tools he would have in his bag.

‘Nope, but it’s one I’ve used before. It worked then and it’ll work now.’ Bishop spat the nail across the room.

Bishop downed his stout in two gulps, then left to get another from a crate on the other side of the room. William emptied his own bottle into the fireplace before walking back out to the garden. His duffel bag had been left by the newly covered hole under the hedge. He hoisted the bag onto his shoulder and re-entered the house. Bishop walked past him towards the washroom and returned with the damp sack they had used to hold the boy’s body. William put his bag on the wooden floor and searched through his collection of tools: three adzes, a small axe, a selection of hammers and mallets, chisels, a saw, a few files, and the brad-awl. He gripped the balloon-shaped handle and approached the table. 

The boy had been laid out, flat and straight, as though he was on a surgeon’s table. Bishop tied a cotton apron around himself and handed William a spare. With shaking hands, William put the brad-awl by the boy’s feet.

‘When you’re ready, I’ll hold his jaw open and you start pushing those pearls out.’ Bishop walked over to the boy’s head.

William stepped away from the table.

‘We need his teeth.’ Bishop picked up the brad-awl and approached William. He pushed the tool into William’s sweaty palm.

‘But he’s - was - just a boy.’ William gripped the damp, worm-holed wall.

‘If you don’t want the job, fine, go home.’ Bishop returned to the boy’s head and opened the stiffening jaw. ‘Or you can come and earn your wage.’

William thought of the baby stretching Ellen’s marked stomach, the morning sickness, the constant discomfort that only tea and the rocking chair could help. Her sacrifice for the family. He gripped the brad-awl’s smooth handle in his hand and walked over to Bishop’s side. William looked at the boy’s face. The blackish tongue had slid back a little in the mouth, still swollen, like a giant slug. William took a deep breath and exhaled as slowly as he could. 

Bishop shoved a grubby finger into the boy’s mouth. He pulled the tongue to one side and exposed the teeth. William then slid the slanted point of the brad-awl between the gum line and the boy’s back molars. The scrape of metal against the teeth reverberated up the handle and William winced at the sensation. He dug it in a little further until he reached what he thought was the root of the tooth. He angled the blade and pushed upwards. The tooth gave way, but only a little. He pushed again, harder. A sharp crack echoed around the room. Two back molars and a large chunk of jaw-bone lay stark and white against the boy’s tongue.