Elephant Man - Christine Sparks [102]
“Eat, damn you!” he yelled. He knelt and grabbed the bowl, jabbing it at Merrick as if he would have liked to ram it down his throat.
“I said eat.”
But Merrick did not move, and Bytes, oblivious to everything but his own temper, hurled the contents of the bowl at him. Merrick lapsed into a coughing fit, and Bytes abandoned the attempt for the day.
When morning came Merrick found himself violently hungry, hungry enough to try the revolting potatoes. But after a few mouthfuls nausea overcame him again and despite a hefty kick from Bytes he could eat no more.
He grew weaker. When Bytes tried to vary their performance by making him stand on a wooden stool in the center of the crowd he could barely keep his balance. Bytes walked round him, jabbing his exhibit now and then with the stick, while the crowd pressed in for a closer view, and Merrick turned round and round obediently, sometimes seeing Marcus’s frowning face on the edge of the circle, sometimes not.
When it became obvious that Merrick had not the strength to keep upright on the stool Bytes abandoned this method and reverted to using the back of the wagon. But even these performances were becoming too much for him. The simple movement of turning round involved slow, agonizingly painful movements. Dancing became impossible. His attempts at rhythmic movements faltered into cumbersome lunges that left the audience disappointed and hostile.
Bytes was becoming desperate. His takings had fallen off and it was this creature’s fault. One day he threw caution to the winds and brought out the stool again, thrusting it up onto the wagon beside Merrick.
“Up! Up!” he rapped.
Already exhausted, wheezing and coughing painfully, the Elephant Man made futile efforts to climb onto the stool, but he could not manage even that little ascent. The audience shouted its disapproval, booing and hissing both the Elephant Man and his exhibitor. Bytes swore and banged with his stick on the wagon floor. Again Merrick tried to mount, but again he failed.
Frantic to save his failing show, Bytes climbed into the wagon and grasped Merrick by the arm, forcing him up onto the stool. As soon as he let go, Merrick tottered dangerously, his head swaying from side to side. Bytes rapped the stick.
“Give the call of the elephant,” he commanded.
Merrick hesitated and Bytes banged the stick again. The audience quietened down, willing to be entertained, but the few quavering sounds that Merrick could manage soon had them grumbling their disappointment again.
“Louder,” demanded Bytes.
Merrick tried again but there was no improvement. A dozen jeering voices came from the audience. A dozen different languages exhorted him to make the noise of an elephant. He swayed on the stool and tried to save himself by stepping down, but it was too late. He had no strength left to do anything but collapse in a heap on the wagon floor. The crowd, no longer scared of this piteous helpless mass, burst into fury, screaming their disappointment and pelting the wagon with filthy objects.
Bytes, at first humiliated, became swiftly angry.
“Get up, you miserable bastard,” he screamed.
But the heap on the ground only moaned and wheezed, and seemed not to have heard him.
“I said, get up!”
He jabbed Merrick a few times with the silver-tipped walking cane. The jeers of the crowd grew louder, and to them was joined a clap of thunder from overhead. Bytes spat his disgust.
“I’m beating a dead horse,” he said, half to himself.
He made nothing on that performances, and the very small profits from the two performances earlier that day were quickly expended on a bottle of cheap wine. He consumed it that night sitting over a small, damp campfire and brooding on his wrongs. He felt put upon. Everything conspired against him.
The wine was making him quickly drunk. He was more used to gin, which he could drink in huge quantities with little ill-effect. Wine, being unfamiliar, got to him quickly. From the wagon behind him he could hear Tony urging