The Journal of Dora Damage(149)

‘Good evening, my dear Dora,’ Sir Jocelyn said.

‘Lucinda,’ I said. ‘Where is she?’ They did not answer me. ‘Take me to my daughter.’ They took an arm each, and led me like this out of the room, and down the stairs. I wanted to spit in their eyes. ‘Please,’ I begged. ‘Tell me where Lucinda is.’ I was really scared now. We passed maids, dusting cornices with long feather dusters, and Goodchild, carrying a tray. None of them flinched at the sight of me. We went into Sir Jocelyn’s office.

A large leather trunk and two smaller wooden crates stood in the middle of the room. Many of the shelves were empty; the floor was strewn with papers, books, and the paraphernalia of scientific exploration waiting to be packed: sextants, telescopes, microscopes, compasses, even a portable bath. Was it here that they would kill me?

‘Be seated, Sir Jocelyn,’ Diprose said eagerly, and rubbed his hands together. ‘You, over here,’ he said to me, and pulled me to the corner of the room behind the anatomy model. Vesalius’s De humanis corporis fabrica libri septum was still on the shelf; I spotted its large black and gold binding immediately. ‘Now, lift your skirts.’

‘I will not, Mr Diprose!’ I said, in a rage. ‘I will not!’ I clutched his hands with my own, and dug my flaky nails into his flesh. He only smiled, and grabbed at my skirts. I pushed his hands down again, and kicked his shins with my boots, then seized his greasy beard and yanked it firmly downwards, such that his chins bumped onto my collarbone.

‘Come, come, my little sauce-box,’ he chuckled. ‘You shall do me some damage, tiger.’

How dare he laugh? I scratched upwards into his eyes, but he jerked his head out of the way, caught both my hands in his, then forced them down behind my back.

‘Possibly you enjoy antagonising me. I suggest you learn a little obéissance.’ His chest pressed against mine, his black whiskers scratched my cheeks, and his breath was hot and smelt of whisky. I could see the fur on his tongue, the gold of his molars.

All the while Sir Jocelyn sat and watched us from the other side of the room, as if observing one of his fellow travellers subduing some gibbering native in order to carry out an anatomical study.

‘Well, Charles. I see you are struggling to unveil your Galatea to me.’

Still holding my hands tightly, Diprose was able to turn me round, but as he tried to lift my skirts again I kicked him sharply in the shins, and he howled with pain. He was not deft, or agile, and he was too old to have any real strength. If I continued to struggle, I thought I could hold out.

But as I kicked backwards again, he intercepted my ankle with his foot, and I fell forwards. He would not relinquish his grip on my hands, so he stumbled on top of me, and we collided with the anatomy model, which crashed to the floor too, and we were a mess of limbs and organs, chipped paint and bruised bones, and Diprose was sitting on my back. He had my skirt up, and started to investigate my bare buttocks.

‘Good, good,’ I heard him say, and felt his finger following the inky wounds. ‘Sir Jocelyn, I shall trouble you to attend to us here, for I cannot persuade the termagant to come over to you willingly.’ I heard Sir Jocelyn rise, and slowly pace over to us. He picked his feet carefully over the scattered pieces of his precious anatomy model.

‘You are evil,’ I hissed, at them both.

‘I prefer “exceptional”,’ retorted Diprose, still squatting ignominiously on me. ‘Sir Jocelyn, regard.’ Sir Jocelyn’s feet were by my head; I could bite his ankle, I thought, if he takes half a step towards me. ‘May I present to you the cover of your next oeuvre.’ I beat my fists on the floor, and tried to buck him off me. He was a dead weight. Sir Jocelyn was silent for a moment. ‘Quite exquisite, Mrs Damage,’ Diprose continued, ‘if I may say so,’ he said, as if congratulating a lady on her flower arranging. ‘And they are healing so quickly. Only minor scabbing. It won’t be long.’

‘What in the devil’s name have you done, Charles?’ Sir Jocelyn eventually said. His voice was low and urgent, as if his teeth were clenched. ‘Get off her.’

Diprose’s weight shifted on my back, crushing my ribs into the floor. Then he stood up, and I breathed out heavily, and pushed myself quickly up to standing, arranging my skirts.

‘Come, Sir Jocelyn,’ Diprose said hastily. ‘Could there be a more appropriate way . . . ? Just think of the beauty . . . The perfect accord with . . . The pricelessness . . .’

‘Of what, Charles?’ I could not read Sir Jocelyn’s face.

‘Come, Sir Jocelyn,’ he said again. ‘This time I will prove to you I’m no circus master. You shall know that your masterpieces are not made from white pigskin, unlike those shrunken heads and miniature mummies in the street shows.’