![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
In which things go about as well as you'd expect, i.e. not very:
That night after finishing their evening rounds, they returned to Jennings' quarters, and drank strong coffee, made over a spirit lamp, in silence for an hour, until Jennings tilted his head towards the small high window.
"It's dark enough now for any piece of work." Reluctantly they pulled on their coats; they slunk down the stairs like hunted men; the lock on the morgue was as easy a toy as ever; the tools as carelessly strewn about. Cochrane's stomach pulled into a harder knot as their light fell on a huddled, shrouded figure at the foot of a table. Together, with numb fingers they lifted the bundle of calico that either could easily have lifted it alone. One man or the other must have had shaking hands, however, for of a sudden Lizzie's arm swung free of the winding sheet.
"Set her down! Gently." Cochrane took the limp hand to fold it back in; something impelled him to pause for a moment and gaze at it by the lantern. "The cuticles are not shrunken."
Gingerly he touched the thin wrist; hoarsely he cried to Jennings: "I dare not trust my myself - there - can you feel a pulse, or do I go mad?!" Jennings dropped to the side of the prone figure.
"It is very faint, but you are not mistaken. Good God! They mistook a fit for death! We must get her to the college without delay - the theatre will be unlocked, and and we may be able to shock her back to consciousness with a cold bath or..." He fell silent as they hurried back towards the dark mass of the main building, Cochran by some unspoken agreement carrying Lizzie's limp and doll-like body. The student could not feel if her heart continued to beat as they had noticed moments before - he could not in any case have heard it above the dread throbbing of his own. Every corner the two scientists rounded on their way to the operating theatre might reveal a fellow student unable to sleep and pacing the corridor, a nurse checking the wards, or one of the doctors making a late call; any of whom might question their mission and waste minutes or longer while they tried to explain themselves.
At last the theatre was before them. No seam of light appeared betwixt door and frame, but Jennings nonetheless tried the handle carefully, slowly, with a look of such concentration as he were pleading with the door, willing the hinges to silence. Entering at last, he set down his lantern and and dared to light a second lamp; Cochran placed Lizzie on the copper table in the centre of the room and checked her pulse again - still present, still faint. Jennings was running a hand along a shelf of bottles, his lantern shining on the labels. "We might try smelling salts," he mused, "If the cold water doesn't work. There's a pump in the room at the back; I'll start filling the bath.."
"Jennings." Cochran's brain, despite his fear, had been working steadily since they had left the morgue with Lizzie. The cataplexies they had previously observed in the patient had seldom lasted more than ten minutes, and never more than half an hour; yet had she been laid in the charnel-house a full four hours ago. His mind showed him again the small huddled figure they had found at the foot of a morgue table. No one would have left her like that, on the floor; and her position had not suggested the fall of a dead weight...
"Jennings!"
"Hush lad! What is it?" In the suddenness of his understanding Cochran had been unable to keep down his voice.
"Not the bath! Not cataplexy. Hypothermia. She needs to be warmed slowly, not shocked." Jennings returned to the table, the same realization dawning in his face. "The fit was as long as any we have seen yet - long enough for her to be pronounced dead - but she must have returned to consciousness and movement scarce minutes after she was locked in the morgue - and unable to make herself heard, she was overcome by the cold of the room until she fell into another kind of deathlike state."
"I'll get some blankets from the cupboard."
As Jennings wrapped the patient, Cochran began chafing Lizzie's thin wrists as vigorously as he dared. For a quarter hour they worked.
Lizzie's first returning breath was a choked gasp - her second, a long and piercing scream. Her eyes widened in horror as the lantern's light gleamed on Jenning's perspiring features:
"The Phosphorous Man! The Phosphorous Man!" She would not cease crying and shrieking, even when Cochran held her against his chest, trying to murmur reassurances. Then her voice choked off as suddenly as the little body seized and fell once more silent, inert. In the sudden hush the other two heard sounds of alarm from the corridor outside and the floor above:
"Did you hear that ghastly sound too, or was I dreaming?" "Nightmare!" "A girl! A girl cried out!" "Did it come from the operating theatre?"
Jennings looked at Cochran. His brow was now very damp and his eyes were dark with horror at the import of what he was saying - yet his voice was as calm as if he had been delivering one of his lectures to assembled students:
"She's slipped under again. Listen - you heard noises in the theatre. You crept in and found me about to conduct some unholy experiment. Don't, pray don't, let them take her back to the morgue. When she's recovered, you can let her know the truth; or as much of it as you would dare tell a sensitive child." Clasping his former student's
hand, he leaned across the table and kissed his forehead. "Take care of her, my dear friend; take care of yourself." Then he turned and vanished through the darkened door that led to the pump room and the side exit. Behind him he could hear Cochran counting slowly to twenty before he began his shouts for help.
The wind cut through Jennings' coat as he tripped down the stone stairs and made for the nearby woods. He would lie low there through the day, then cut across country to the next village, then the next, then to New York where there were a few friends who might yet help him, even with the news of his infamy preceding him. The placid stars overhead were still uncorrupted by grey dawn. He thought of Cochran, and of Lizzie, if she ever woke again; and wondered which of the three of them would have the hardest part to play.
The End
That night after finishing their evening rounds, they returned to Jennings' quarters, and drank strong coffee, made over a spirit lamp, in silence for an hour, until Jennings tilted his head towards the small high window.
"It's dark enough now for any piece of work." Reluctantly they pulled on their coats; they slunk down the stairs like hunted men; the lock on the morgue was as easy a toy as ever; the tools as carelessly strewn about. Cochrane's stomach pulled into a harder knot as their light fell on a huddled, shrouded figure at the foot of a table. Together, with numb fingers they lifted the bundle of calico that either could easily have lifted it alone. One man or the other must have had shaking hands, however, for of a sudden Lizzie's arm swung free of the winding sheet.
"Set her down! Gently." Cochrane took the limp hand to fold it back in; something impelled him to pause for a moment and gaze at it by the lantern. "The cuticles are not shrunken."
Gingerly he touched the thin wrist; hoarsely he cried to Jennings: "I dare not trust my myself - there - can you feel a pulse, or do I go mad?!" Jennings dropped to the side of the prone figure.
"It is very faint, but you are not mistaken. Good God! They mistook a fit for death! We must get her to the college without delay - the theatre will be unlocked, and and we may be able to shock her back to consciousness with a cold bath or..." He fell silent as they hurried back towards the dark mass of the main building, Cochran by some unspoken agreement carrying Lizzie's limp and doll-like body. The student could not feel if her heart continued to beat as they had noticed moments before - he could not in any case have heard it above the dread throbbing of his own. Every corner the two scientists rounded on their way to the operating theatre might reveal a fellow student unable to sleep and pacing the corridor, a nurse checking the wards, or one of the doctors making a late call; any of whom might question their mission and waste minutes or longer while they tried to explain themselves.
At last the theatre was before them. No seam of light appeared betwixt door and frame, but Jennings nonetheless tried the handle carefully, slowly, with a look of such concentration as he were pleading with the door, willing the hinges to silence. Entering at last, he set down his lantern and and dared to light a second lamp; Cochran placed Lizzie on the copper table in the centre of the room and checked her pulse again - still present, still faint. Jennings was running a hand along a shelf of bottles, his lantern shining on the labels. "We might try smelling salts," he mused, "If the cold water doesn't work. There's a pump in the room at the back; I'll start filling the bath.."
"Jennings." Cochran's brain, despite his fear, had been working steadily since they had left the morgue with Lizzie. The cataplexies they had previously observed in the patient had seldom lasted more than ten minutes, and never more than half an hour; yet had she been laid in the charnel-house a full four hours ago. His mind showed him again the small huddled figure they had found at the foot of a morgue table. No one would have left her like that, on the floor; and her position had not suggested the fall of a dead weight...
"Jennings!"
"Hush lad! What is it?" In the suddenness of his understanding Cochran had been unable to keep down his voice.
"Not the bath! Not cataplexy. Hypothermia. She needs to be warmed slowly, not shocked." Jennings returned to the table, the same realization dawning in his face. "The fit was as long as any we have seen yet - long enough for her to be pronounced dead - but she must have returned to consciousness and movement scarce minutes after she was locked in the morgue - and unable to make herself heard, she was overcome by the cold of the room until she fell into another kind of deathlike state."
"I'll get some blankets from the cupboard."
As Jennings wrapped the patient, Cochran began chafing Lizzie's thin wrists as vigorously as he dared. For a quarter hour they worked.
Lizzie's first returning breath was a choked gasp - her second, a long and piercing scream. Her eyes widened in horror as the lantern's light gleamed on Jenning's perspiring features:
"The Phosphorous Man! The Phosphorous Man!" She would not cease crying and shrieking, even when Cochran held her against his chest, trying to murmur reassurances. Then her voice choked off as suddenly as the little body seized and fell once more silent, inert. In the sudden hush the other two heard sounds of alarm from the corridor outside and the floor above:
"Did you hear that ghastly sound too, or was I dreaming?" "Nightmare!" "A girl! A girl cried out!" "Did it come from the operating theatre?"
Jennings looked at Cochran. His brow was now very damp and his eyes were dark with horror at the import of what he was saying - yet his voice was as calm as if he had been delivering one of his lectures to assembled students:
"She's slipped under again. Listen - you heard noises in the theatre. You crept in and found me about to conduct some unholy experiment. Don't, pray don't, let them take her back to the morgue. When she's recovered, you can let her know the truth; or as much of it as you would dare tell a sensitive child." Clasping his former student's
hand, he leaned across the table and kissed his forehead. "Take care of her, my dear friend; take care of yourself." Then he turned and vanished through the darkened door that led to the pump room and the side exit. Behind him he could hear Cochran counting slowly to twenty before he began his shouts for help.
The wind cut through Jennings' coat as he tripped down the stone stairs and made for the nearby woods. He would lie low there through the day, then cut across country to the next village, then the next, then to New York where there were a few friends who might yet help him, even with the news of his infamy preceding him. The placid stars overhead were still uncorrupted by grey dawn. He thought of Cochran, and of Lizzie, if she ever woke again; and wondered which of the three of them would have the hardest part to play.
The End
