Elephant Man - Christine Sparks [95]
Merrick had backed away on the bed as far as he could but as the girl’s bawling face approached his, he tried to escape again. Too late he felt his head slip backward out of his control and his cries turned to frantic wheezing. Somewhere over his head he heard Renshaw’s voice say, “Mind his head—you’ll kill him.”
Through the haze that was coming down over him he could just sense that the room was filled with people. Most of the rest of the crowd had jammed into the room, laughing and screaming and trying to see what was happening on the bed. Renshaw pulled the Elephant Man’s head up, hissing frantically, “Quiet down … quiet down. You’ll have the whole place down on us.”
The noise dropped suddenly and in the comparative silence that followed Merrick heard the voice he would know and fear to the day of his death.
“Bring him out then, so we can all see him.”
Merrick began to look round frenziedly to see where Bytes’ voice had come from, but Bytes was not in the room. The crowd was dispersing now, clambering back through the window until Merrick was left alone with Renshaw. He felt himself propelled to the window again.
Suddenly one of the crowd, emboldened by drink and excitement, reached out and caught Merrick’s good hand, pulling him half out of the window. In a moment the others were on him, yanking him from Renshaw’s hands, over the low windowsill and out onto the cobbles of the square. The clumsy movements knocked Renshaw off-balance and, groping to save himself, he cannoned into the cardboard cathedral which clattered to the floor and disintegrated. He swore furiously as he clambered up, tearing at the bits of cardboard which seemed to be everywhere.
He found himself alone in the room now. Merrick was outside, on his hands and knees on the cobbles. No one was near him. Revolted by the touch of him the crowd had let him go and were staring at him from a few feet away. An uneasy hush had fallen over them, and a little chill wind stirred the women’s hair.
Quickly Renshaw scrambled out and hauled Merrick to his feet. He looked round to see if the noise had roused the hospital, but could see no sign. The crowd was moving in again.
“Give ’im a drink,” said a man, moving forward with a bottle of gin. He grabbed Merrick and poured some gin into his mouth, then pushed him away. At the same moment Renshaw released him so that he went reeling. The porter was beginning to enjoy himself again.
Merrick was caught by another man, force-fed more liquor, shoved again. A woman caught him this time, and shoved him hard into the arms of another woman. The audience took up the rhythm of snatching and shoving till Merrick was whirling around them faster and faster until he fell to the floor, dizzy and sick. His head lolled to one side and he gasped for breath. The first man was standing above him, emptying the remains of the gin bottle over his head.
They were silent now, circling him like a pack of dogs closing in on a terrified rabbit. He swept his eyes round the circle that had formed around him, seeking some spark of human mercy in any of them. But they were animals.
Without knowing it he began to wail, a high, pitiful, endless sound, that seemed to delight them, for they joined in, imitating him, then bellowing with laughter as they came for him, seized him, and threw him above their heads. They tossed him higher and higher, then spun him round, ignoring his feeble flailing.
At last Renshaw intervened, not from pity but because he wanted to regain control of the situation. It irked him that the crowd should enjoy his exhibit in any way but the one he offered them. And he was beginning to fear for Merrick’s safety. It would be a shame to lose such a prime source of wealth.
“Here now—here now—” he called, pulling at the crowd. “He’s had enough. Show’s over.”
With grunts of disappointment they lowered Merrick to the ground, where he was grasped by Renshaw just in time to prevent his collapsing.
“Meet you at the Peacock,” he