THE LITTLE SHOP ON STUMP LANE

 

THE LITTLE SHOP

ON STUMP LANE

 

A HORROR STORY by STRZEKA (01/23)

Stump Lane had long since seen better days. It was near the old docks. It led down to the river’s edge, once bustling with steam-powered cranes and crowded with the never-ending business of commerce. Now the shadowy street was a forlorn version of its former self, along with the surrounding redundant docks and the entire old commercial centre. Other nearby neighbourhoods had gentrified and modernised. They bustled with handsome fashionable youngsters, busy establishing their contemporary lifestyle in two hundred year old buildings intended for completely different purposes. Stump Lane had missed out. Perhaps it was a little too distant from the centre of town. Perhaps the buildings were a little too decrepit. There rose a dank smell from the river which was never entirely absent. Stump Lane had once housed thriving small businesses which owed their existence to local commerce. Now the trade was gone, along with the businesses, with one exception. The Emporium Prosthetica held on despite all odds.

 

It was owned by an old couple who had started a service for the many unfortunate men who needed to earn a living despite a disability. They may have lost fingers or a hand, or a leg may have been crushed and severed. Despite their stumps, a return to active work was possible, if not guaranteed, with the specialist knowledge of Walter Ardelean and his wife Invia, both first descendants of immigrants who had arrived on boats and contrived to settle in the busy town with green countryside around and its friendly hard-working people. That was early last century. Now they too were old. They changed the name of the shop from Ardelean Surgical Appliances to The Emporium Prosthetica. They were known among aficionados as curators of one of the nation’s most extraordinary museums.

 

Walter Ardelean continued his business in much the same way it had always operated since the latter half of the last century. Word of mouth was their trusted mode of advertising. The old couple had never spent money to make their name known. Among their faithful clientele and their admirers, the reputation enjoyed by the Emporium matured through the decades. Walter worked according to the old adage that the customer is always right regardless of how outlandish the request until advised otherwise. Walter strove to produce the artificial limb which his client not only needed but oftentimes would learn to lust after. No material was too exotic, no mechanism too complicated. The customers were unfailingly delighted with their new limbs after a while. In later years, after the docks had succumbed to modern times, a new kind of clientele tentatively presented itself. They were men who lusted for artificial limbs to replace healthy sound limbs. Walter was initially nonplussed. It seemed such an odd desire. Bur he recognised the opportunities to increase his waning business and discussed them with an old acquaintance, George László, whose renown as an orthopaedic surgeon was cemented in medical textbooks thanks to his radical and groundbreaking procedures. Over a period of years, they collaborated to convert Walter’s Surgical Appliances into an Emporium Prosthetica, where those desirous of an artificial limb or two might enter with sound bodies and depart with fresh stumps and wondrous prosthetic devices which Walter had created for them.

 

The museum on the floor above the shop contained examples of Walter’s handiwork throughout the decades. It occasionally happened that a customer placed an order for a limb but was never heard of again. Ships were lost at sea. Or a man died unexpectedly before his time. There were a myriad reasons why items might never be collected.  It was unlikely that such personalised prosthetics could ever be re-purposed. Walter kept them until there were enough examples to place on display in the shop. Viewing them helped prospective clients decide on a design for their own replacement limbs. Only later did Walter and Invia restructure the upper floor into a small but fascinating museum. Every week, a dozen or so visitors would make their way up the narrow wooden stairs to inspect and admire the wares on display. Many of the curious were amputees, curious to learn how Walter’s artificial limbs differed from their own. Entry to the museum was free and open to the general public, who very rarely ventured near.

 

The basement of the Emporium was, in contrast, a guarded secret. It was George’s creation. Here he provided the amputations requested by men who wished to gain a stump or two in order to use Walter’s artificial limbs. There was a small operating theatre immediately below the shop’s entrance, followed by a recovery room and finally a bedsit where a new amputee could live in comfort during the weeks it took for his stump to heal and for an artificial limb to be fitted. Then the customer would re-emerge into the world, a new man, quite often unrecognisable to his family. George’s greatest successes, from which he derived most personal satisfaction, were those few cases in which a client wished to replace all four limbs with prostheses. Walter, in turn, took pride in furnishing the most primitive prostheses possible. He would always entice a man who wished to gain an arm stump with a sterling silver hook, large and sensuously curved and a man requesting a leg stump would be shown a superbly shaped wooden peg leg terminating in a cast iron ferrule. Men requiring bilateral artificial limbs were fitted with even more imaginative devices, of which there were many examples on display, each more unlikely and ornate than the last.

 

Jonas Fell’s fate was sealed one summer day in a railway carriage. He was twelve years old, an only child, intelligent, imaginative and bearing every sign of becoming an enviably handsome young man. His blond hair was a mass of curls which framed his features. He was returning to the capital after spending a week visiting an aunt and her children, his cousins. Shortly after the train moved off from a brief halt at a rural station, a short figure wearing a fisherman’s pullover and denim shorts entered the compartment and, with some difficulty, raised himself into a seat diagonally opposite Jonas. The man immediately turned his attention to the passing scenery, knowing that the other occupants of the compartment would want to study him for a few moments. He watched the blurred landscape while his fellow passengers appraised his steel hooks and cylindrical wooden stubbies which extended as far as where his knees had once been. Jonas also noted the man’s gleaming bald head and full black beard and moustache. He was impatient to start shaving and hoped his beard would be as impressive as this man’s, although his own beard was unlikely to be so dark. As if reading Jonas’s thoughts, the man absent-mindedly scratched his beard with a hook. He turned his head and glanced around at his fellow passengers. His eyes were an electric blue, a stunning contrast with his dark features. His eyes met those of Jonas and they stared openly at each other for a few moments, both of them impressed with the other’s fine looks. The man’s face broke into a lopsided grin and he placed his hooks on top of his stubbies.

 

Jonas was acutely conscious of his growing erection. It always happened when he saw a disabled man or boy, even if it were only a plaster cast. Jonas was embarrassed and hoped no-one would notice. He looked down at his lap in rising panic. His zipper was closed which was one thing to be grateful for. No-one seemed to be paying him any attention. He looked back at the man who was studying an advertisement above the seats. The man’s legs were fascinating. He had never seen anyone wearing stubbies before but it was not difficult to work out the reason for them. The man’s legs had been amputated. Somehow the short wooden legs fitted onto his stumps and Jonas felt his penis twitch and expand still further. Jonas looked at the hooks instead. The man knew what Jonas was doing. His peripheral vision was quite adequate to the task. He opened both hooks and linked them. It was a hook user’s version of folding your hands into your lap. Jonas checked to see if the man knew he was staring at him. He knew very well but showed no sign of it. Jonas decided not to push his luck. He leaned back against his seat and shut his eyes. Instead of seeing the man in his mind’s eye, he saw himself similarly outfitted with short wooden legs and gleaming hooks. He was still himself, curly blond hair and all, but he was walking on short rigid legs and swinging his arms, which ended in hooks. His penis grew even stiffer and Jonas looked around again in alarm. The blue-eyed man was looking at him. Jonas glanced again at his lap and back at the man who had automatically followed Jonas’s eyes. The boy had an erection, obviously inspired by his artificial limbs. The man grinned again and nodded his head. He understood. He had himself been smitten with amputees as a young man and had contrived to gain stumps of his own, stage by stage, one by one. Now he had short thigh stumps and short forearm stumps and planned to reduce the length of his arms still further, perhaps over the next five years. One arm at a time until he boasted only short stumps at his shoulders. He anticipated operating physically demanding new prostheses and thinking about them still caused his penis to demonstrate forceful approval.

 

The train slowed. The middle-aged couple gathered their things and left the compartment. Jonas and the blue-eyed man were alone.

            – It’s warm. Would you help me? I want to take my pullover off but it’s difficult for me.

            – Er, yes, I can help if you like.

            – Thank you. I’m going to lift my arms and I want you to get the pullover off. Ready?

Jonas stood and moved in front of the man. He shrugged his shoulders, adjusting his harness and lifted both hooks over his head.

            – OK. Try it now.

Jonas worked the sleeves up along the prosthetic arms. The rest of the pullover followed and presently Jonas stood holding the thick woollen garment.

            – That’s very kind of you. Thank you.

Jonas sat back down. The man folded the pullover as best he could and placed it on his stubbies. Jonas looked at the man again. His short-sleeved shirt was dark blue with white stripes and the artificial arms were both visible in their entirety. The sockets were a dark beige and the leather cuffs were mid-brown. Polished steel bars extended from the cuffs down the sockets almost as far as the hooks. There was a large circular hinge at the man’s elbow. The man opened his hooks and linked them together again. He found it to be the most comfortable position for them. Jonas brazenly studied the artificial arms from end to end and once again imagined himself wearing them, needing them to compensate for his amputated hands for ever, always wearing hooks for everything, always. The limit was reached. Jonas’s straining penis ejaculated inside his underpants and he lost control of his composure. The man noticed and immediately recognised what had happened. He emitted a quiet chuckle. The boy had it quite bad. He hoped that in some way he had wordlessly encouraged the lad to contemplate his own amputations.

 

It took seventeen years after that encounter but Jonas was finally socially and economically in a position where he could forgo his hands. He had considered long and hard how he would transform his body. He reasoned that he would be more inconvenienced by losing his legs at this stage than by acquiring arm stumps. He was nearly thirty years old with a successful career as a biochemist in the family business, an independent brewery. The enterprise could easily tick over for a few weeks until he was equipped with hooks. Jonas had obsessed over becoming a bilateral arm amputee while he was still young enough to present himself as a good-looking disabled man. His appearance had matured and he no longer wore his hair long but he was proud of his blond beard which grew high on his cheeks and varied between almost white to auburn. His eyes were honest and intelligent. He strode along Stump Lane and paused outside the Emporium Prosthetica. There were two artificial hands on display in the window. One was metal with a dark patina and almost skeletal. The fingers could be positioned as needed. The other was a wooden passive hand for a gentleman. It looked superb naked but would have probably always worn a leather glove in the conventional manner. Jonas smiled and pushed the door open. A bell tinkled and Walter Ardelean appeared from the rear of the shop as if he had been waiting.

            – Good morning, sir. A very fine day.

The dank street was in shadow and cool but Jonas agreed. Walter waited for his visitor to explain himself.

            – I met a man some years ago, an amputee you understand, who gave me some advice. Which was this. When I am ready in my own mind, I should pay the Emporium Prosthetica a visit for further guidance.

            – I see. I certainly hope we will be able to offer you some guidance. What precisely do you need guidance with?

            – I want to transition to being a bilateral hook user. I wish my hands to be amputated mid-forearm and to be replaced with old-fashioned body-operated steel hooks.

            – I understand. And why exactly have you come here? How do you hope we can help you?

            – I was expecting some advice perhaps on who to turn to. I was left uncertain of what my amputee acquaintance was alluding to when he mentioned this establishment.

            – I see. Let us not stand here. We have much to talk about. Come into my office and we can discuss matters there. I shall call for tea.

            – Thank you.

            – Step this way, sir.

Walter retreated in the direction from which he had come and Jonas followed. There was a small office with wooden and leather furniture in the art deco style of the Thirties, the walls decorated with sepia photographs of men at work and at play, all of them wearing prosthetic limbs of some description. Walter indicated a chair to Jonas and sat behind his desk.

            – It is true that the Emporium can assist you in your requirements. What aspect of your transition do you consider more significant? Are you more desirous of reshaping your arms or more eager to adopt artificial arms?

            – I think the artificial arms and hooks are more desirable than the stumps. I regard the stumps as merely the preliminary phase of my transition.

            – Quite understandable, of course. Have you given thought to the length of your stumps? If you intend to wear hooks at all times, the length is immaterial.

            – I thought halfway along my arms would be a suitable length.

            – I have a suggestion which may intrigue you. I suggest rather longer stumps which then undergo the Krukenberg procedure. Are you familiar with it?

            – No, I’m sorry. I haven’t heard of that.

            – It is unusual in this day and age but it provides an interesting new dimension to losing one’s hands. Quite simply, it is a surgical operation on the stump to split it along its length and reshape the two halves into the form of long fingers. When healed, the stump consists of two prongs which are quite adequate for the necessities of daily life without needing to use prostheses.

            – So the hooks would not be necessary?

            – No. However, the procedure does not preclude the use of hooks. Even if your stumps were transformed into Krukenberg pincers, you would still be able to wear sockets with hooks.

            – I see. It sounds intriguing, as you say. Perhaps it is something to bear in mind after the initial amputations. I assume the procedure can be undertaken at a later date?

            – Oh, indeed it can.

            – Then I think I would prefer to start using hooks with normal forearm stumps.

            – Of course. Have you thought about a timetable? When do you want the amputations?

            – I am ready now, as of today. I have a suitcase in my hotel room with clothes and supplies I might need for an extended period.

            – How extraordinary! You have come prepared without even knowing what services the Emporium can offer. However, you have been wise to do so. It is true that we can arrange your amputations and supply you with personalised prosthetic arms to your specifications. An experienced surgeon will discuss the operation with you. There is, of course, a cost involved. The surgeon’s fee is not cheap and there are expenses involved during your recovery. But the Emporium has its clients’ interests at heart.

            – Can you give an estimate?

            – I can.

Walter proposed the average prices for the amputation, the convalescence and the prosthetic limbs.

            – Your artificial limbs will be the greatest expense. We will work together very closely to deliver superb examples of prosthetic art which you will be proud to wear and display.

            – I hope so. Shall we start the process? Ah! I almost forgot. When I have adapted to my new arms, something must be done with my legs. I have not decided yet on a configuration.

            – We will be here for you.

Walter suggested that Jonas wait at his hotel for a day or two while preparations were made for his amputations. George would have to make his way from home whenever it was convenient for him. Invia would need to restock her pantry with food for the invalid. Jonas left his contact details with Walter and paid an advance of twenty percent. An hour after entering the Emporium, Jonas departed with immense satisfaction at how close he was to achieving one of his paramount ambitions. He would soon be handless and nothing else could provide such fulfilment. Meanwhile Walter telephoned George and invited him at his earliest convenience to perform two straightforward trans–radial amputations. George suggested the morning of the day after tomorrow. Walter went to inform Invia that they were about to play host to a young man with no hands.

 

Jonas returned to his hotel and spent some time ensuring that all current bills were paid, outstanding emails replied to and otherwise settling his mind that a three week period of invalidity would not cause unnecessary avoidable problems. He slept for two hours in the afternoon and was awakened by the arrival of a text message. The Emporium would welcome him at nine in the morning on the day after tomorrow when he would meet his surgeon. He acknowledged the message with thanks. He downloaded a two hour private video depicting other young men from the past century who were confronted with the same disability which Jonas was shortly to acquire. He had edited it carefully and it was an accomplished documentary but so far, only Jonas had ever seen it. He connected his phone with the room’s tv and watched with a new point of view. He would very soon be joining the league of bilateral hook users. Jonas tidied himself and changed his clothes. He wanted to explore the town’s nightlife. He wore a black suit with red platform boots and a black sequin tie. He pulled skin-tight red leather gloves onto his hands and exited the hotel.

 

He spent a pleasant hour or so in a public house, enjoying aperitifs, watching other customers and the way regulars interacted with the staff. He continued his exploration and found a Chinese restaurant with a sensible menu and reasonable prices. He entered and ordered his favourite dishes. He deliberately ate his meal using chopsticks. It was the last time he would do so.

 

The next day was a torment of enforced waiting. Jonas ate as little as possible, drank fluids sensibly and forced himself not to glance at the clock every few minutes. He returned to watching videos of new hook users, each and every one of them earnest in their enthusiasm to demonstrate how they first placed a cotton stump sock on their stump followed by a description of their socket and an explanation of how the hook opened and closed. He determined that he would never proffer his own stumps for public consideration. They would be too highly valued to share.

 

Jonas slept poorly and rose shortly before five. He drank water to keep his hunger at bay. He should not eat anything before his operations. He made sure his suitcase was packed, waited ninety minutes for breakfast service to begin and enjoyed a cup of coffee. Finally, the time was suitable for him to check out and make his way to the Emporium Prosthetica.

 

George László was also on his way. He had reserved a seat on an uncomfortably early train which made its halting way across the country. Now he sat in the back of an electric taxi, his ancient black bag beside him. The taxi driver’s name had piqued his interest. As a result of his polite question, the journey from the station had been a delightful opportunity to speak Magyar with his driver. George was fascinated to hear how the old language had modernised since he left all those many years ago. The taxi slowed silently to a stop outside the Emporium and the young driver wished the old man good health. George responded in kind, checked his reflection in the Emporium’s front window and entered the shop to be greeted by Walter and Invia.

 

            – So wonderful to see you again. You look as beautiful as ever, my dear. Walter, who have you found for us this time?

            – A young man, English, seemingly with a secure future. He is educated and infatuated with the idea of wearing hooks.

            – Well, we must not disappoint him. Invia, my dear, do you think we shall have enough?

            – I think so. As always, it is in your hands.

            – Indeed it is! Ah! Look! Is this the man?

Jonas had stopped outside the Emporium to admire the artificial hands again. He was attracted by the wooden hand, a Sunday hand, useless for anything but looking more presentable than a steel hook. Perhaps a hand to be worn with a smart suit on a regular Sunday morning visit to church. Jonas sighed, shifted his suitcase and entered the shop. George, Invia and Walter stood in a line, all three beaming at the young man with the beautifully fashioned blond beard.

            – Good morning, Jonas. It is good to see you again. May I introduce George László who will perform your amputations.

Walter indicated the white haired gentleman in the old-fashioned suit who stood beside him. His eyes were almost black but caught the reflection from the window and they gleamed with wisdom and experience. He extended a hand and Jonas, still wearing his garish red leather gloves, took it and shook politely.

            – I am very pleased to make your acquaintance, young man. I will be your surgeon, and if our hosts will allow us, we have some matters to discuss.

            – Go into my office, George. We’ll be in our rooms if you need us.

            – Very well. Thank you, Walter. Now, young man. What’s this I hear about amputations? Let’s sit down in here and you can tell me all about it.

George made his way into a corner of Walter’s office space where there was a green leather art deco armchair with splayed arm rests. He moved a couple of papers from its seat onto Walter’s desk and sat carefully. Jonas turned the chair in which he had sat previously to face his surgeon and settled himself. He was perturbed by the great age of the man who expected to take his hands.

            – I am mostly concerned that you understand the consequences of your request. I will amputate both your hands but I would like some reassurance that I will be doing you no harm.

It was an extraordinary statement. George leaned back into the old chair and folded his hands. He waited.

            – Well, sir. I have always been fascinated by the idea of having stumps instead of hands. I have met very few men with hooks but I have felt enormous empathy each time, a feeling beyond empathy if that makes sense. I want to share in their experience of a new lifestyle, a new way of living, the mechanics of their prosthetic arms, the hooks. Am I making any sense?

            – You seem to be dedicated to the idea of using artificial arms. Am I correct?

            – Yes, sir. I am fortunate enough to be in the situation where I can achieve the limbs I want without risking my future. If I had acted on my impulses and desires earlier in life, I may have lost the opportunities I have had. But now I have reached a position in life which I am fairly certain is secure. I can now undergo the changes I want.

            – And what are these changes which you want?

            – I want my hands gone. I want to lift my arms and see two stumps midway along my forearms.

            – And is that all?

            – No, sir. After I become proficient with my hooks, I would like to have leg stumps. Perhaps two thirds as long as my thighs. I would like to use stubbies, if you understand.

            – I understand very well. Would you not prefer to have all four amputations now? What is it about your hooks which prevents you from gaining your thigh stumps?

            – Er, well, I can’t really say. I assumed it would be better to recover from one amputation first.

            – But you would be recovering from two. I can assure you that recovering from four would take half the time otherwise required. One trip, one hospital stay, one recovery, one departure as the man you want to be on two artificial legs and with two artificial arms. If you wish to have thigh stumps in the future, I suggest you do as the English saying has it—‘strike while the iron is hot’. That is what you say, is it not?

            – Yes sir. It is.

            – And it will come as no surprise to you to hear that my time may be approaching. I have enjoyed a healthy life but I am old. Every awakening is a pleasant surprise for me. If you delay your leg stumps, you may have trouble finding another surgeon who will help you. I am quite prepared to amputate your legs while you are here and you will leave the Emporium walking on two artificial legs swinging two artificial arms made to your precise design by my old friend Walter. He has a remarkable skill in replacing unwanted limbs. It is such an ironical conundrum, is it not? Our customers first wish to divest themselves of natural limbs and then spend money to replace them.

            – But do you not think that the artificial limbs have their own aesthetic value and their own mechanical charm? Are amputees not fascinating figures for the way they use such equipment to live their lives?

            – I see you have given the matter some thought. I do realise the charm of artificial limbs. Tell me now, shall I remove your legs? It will cost you more, of course. Shall we say two thousand per leg? Is that acceptable to you?

            – Yes, it is. Quite acceptable.

            – Then the matter is settled. Today I shall remove your hands and tomorrow I shall take your legs. Now, we have some paperwork to do and then I can get to work. Let me call Walter.

George pressed a red button in a brass holder on Walter’s desk. They could hear a creaking door open and close and Walter entered.

            – Is everything arranged? Are you ready?

            – Actually, Walter, Jonas has agreed to undergo operations on his legs.

            – Ah! How wonderful! An excellent decision, young man. We shall have much to discuss later but I leave you in the hands of the expert. Shall we renegotiate the price of the amputations?

            – No need, Walter. I have suggested another four thousand and Jonas had agreed.

            – Excellent. I shall draw up the new agreement and bring it for your signatures. If I may ask, what leg amputations have you chosen, Jonas?

            – Both legs, just below mid thigh.

            – A superb choice. We will discuss artificial legs later. I shall not be long.

Walter disappeared with the old agreement signed only recently. Jonas leant back imagining his legs terminating well before his knees. What would it feel like to don artificial legs using artificial arms? His breath was shallow with the mere thought.

 

The new contract was signed and the Emporium’s practised routine reactivated. George disappeared belowstairs to prepare the small surgery for two radial amputations. His instruments awaited in his old black leather bag, from scalpels to his favourite bone saw. The Emporium kept such staples as suture needles and bandages on hand. Walter imagined what kind of prosthesis he would recommend to his client and checked to see that he had the necessary components. He thought Jonas would adapt well to the standard of the early post-war period when materials were scarce and austere. Walter intended fashioning two artificial arms with steel framework and short leather cups to envelop the stumps. The prospective stubbies would be made in the same way. Jonas would possibly need some persuasion to accept Walter’s vision but in his post-operative condition, that should not present a problem. Invia prepared the guest quarters with fresh bed linen and brought a supply of water in gallon bottles. She sought out the specialised utensils which handless clients had used in the past until Walter presented them with prostheses. The room contained no modern electronics. An ancient radio stood on a cabinet. Invia was not sure if radio programmes were even broadcast on medium wave these days. She glanced around at her handiwork, rubbed her hands together and returned to her kitchen to ready it for the evening meal well ahead of time.

 

Walter conferred with his wife and they waited quietly for George to announce that he was ready. Jonas waited in Walter’s small office. He was not nervous, perhaps a little apprehensive because of his surgeon’s advanced age but the man seemed to be in possession of his wits and his hands appeared steady.

 

George was satisfied. He went upstairs to collect his patient. Jonas undressed in his room and put on blue pyjamas and slippers. George delved into his bag and took out a vial. He estimated Jonas’s weight and shook six small white pills into Jonas’s hand.

            – Swallow these. They are tranquillisers and anaesthetics. You will remain technically conscious during the amputations but I can assure you that you will neither feel nor remember anything.

The pills were mostly a blend of various narcotics. They would ensure the patient’s calm co‑operation during the procedure for at least four hours. The hands would be severed long before that and forwarded to Invia for preparation. Jonas gulped the pills with a mouthful of water and lay on the operating table, his right arm bared. George drew small symbols on the skin to act as guide for various incisions and shaved the area of body hair. He glanced at Jonas’s face. The eyes were half-closed and a beatific calm beamed back at George.

            – Are you ready, Jonas? Can you feel this?

George pinched Jonas’s arm hard. Jonas turned his head slightly. George waited a few more moments. Jonas was ready.

 

The amputations were as reassuringly predictable as George had expected. His scalpel created the future flaps and delved into the flesh to expose the bones which were quickly severed. George placed the hand in a bowl and set to finessing the wound before deftly closing it with neat sutures. He placed protective gauze over the scar and lightly wrapped an elastic bandage around the stump. Jonas’s eyes were closed and his breathing was slow but regular. George moved around the table and repeated the process on Jonas’s left arm. An hour later, the two hands lay draining of blood in the same bowl. George sliced the skin in order to simplify Invia’s work. He checked that Jonas was still calm and took the hands upstairs to Invia. They returned together to the surgery. Invia lent her experience as a surgical nurse and reapplied the bandages to coax the stumps to heal in the ideal shape. She left, leaving George to watch over Jonas until the boy revived sufficiently to be moved.

 

Jonas dreamed on. He cried out once, alarming George, who was reading an old Hungarian classic. Jonas had dreamed that his arms were thick muscular snakes. The image faded and he quietened.

 

Invia blanched the hands to make it easier to remove the skin. George had kindly made some strategic incisions for her. She allowed the meat to cool before continuing. Once the skin was removed, there was enough meat on the arms to make four schnitzels. The remnants of the hands she would simmer with a bouquet garni to make a stock. If the morrow were to deliver a leg or two, as George had promised, a stock could make an excellent sauce for some generous steaks. For now, it was enough to remove the muscles from the forearms and prepare them before making schnitzels and frying them in breadcrumbs to perfection.

 

Walter had already begun to manufacture Jonas’s arms. He had cut two lengths of mirror steel to size and bent them to form two shafts and the base of the lower arm. The hooks would screw into holes he would shortly drill and tap. The hooks would rotate ninety degrees but would not otherwise be adjustable in any way. It was best for a new hook user to learn on a beginner’s set of arms before introducing articulating wrists and other features. Walter had some thick black patent leather which he would use for the short sockets and the upper arm cuff. The sockets for the boy’s stubbies would also be black leather but Walter felt that patent leather looked inappropriate on male legs. Ordinary smooth leather was more suitable.

 

The afternoon darkened and the Emporium settled gently into evening. Jonas now slept a natural sleep. The effects of the narcotic anaesthetics had dwindled. His shortened arms rested on top of the sheets. George checked the boy’s breathing and ascended the wooden staircase to the shop. It was empty. Walter must be in his workshop. The aroma of herbs and onions wafted in the air. George found Walter examining leathers. There was a beautiful leather perfectly suited to leg stumps but Walter was concerned that perhaps there would not be quite enough for two stubbies.

            – Might it not help if I gave the boy shorter stumps? He wants stumps two thirds the length of his thighs. I can talk to him tomorrow and persuade him to go with half or even a third. Would you have enough leather then?

            – I’m not quite sure, George. I doubt that a small change in length would enable me to proceed as I wish. But I am quite sure that if the stump were only a handsbreadth, I could make him the most handsome sockets with this material.

            – It is extraordinarily fine, my friend. Leave it to me. I will talk to him and I am sure you will be able to use that leather to its best advantage.

            – I hope so. This is Italian. They don’t make it anymore. It would be such a pleasure to see it go to such a handsome young man.

            – Leave it to me, Walter. He will have the stumps which suit your leather. The boy is sleeping. I wonder how Invia is faring?

            – To judge by the smell, she is faring well. I dare not ask her. You know how she hates to be hurried.

            – I do. Bless her. Her meals deserve the time they take. They are worth the wait.

            – How right you are, my friend. Let’s wait here. She will let us know when she is ready.

 

George and Walter spent the time in comfortable silence. George descended twice to the surgery to check on Jonas, who continued to sleep. Finally, Invia announced that their supper was ready. The old friends went to the dining room, sat and heaped praise on Invia for the beautiful meals she placed before them. The schnitzels were a golden brown with a slice of lemon and parsley for decoration, served with potato purée and broccoli.

 

George returned to Jonas’s bedside. He would awaken soon and George would guide him carefully into the bedsit. He would be hungry. Invia would certainly have prepared something suitable for an invalid. But if the boy were to undergo further amputations the next day, he should not eat his fill. George still needed to discuss the length of Jonas’s leg stumps and persuade him if possible to forgo more of his legs than he had initially requested. Perhaps the morning would be a more suitable time for such weighty matters.

 

Jonas stirred after ninety minutes and was soon in the other bed in his quarters. George reported the situation to his hosts and Invia took down a meal of easily digested vegetable gratine and creamed chicken which she fed to the handsome young man whose forearms had provided such an excellent supper. George sat with Jonas for a while until Walter came to relieve him. George would need good night’s rest for the next day. Walter stayed by Jonas’s bedside until midnight, assisting him with intimate matters and ensuring the boy was as comfortable as possible. Jonas slept alone until he was awakened by Invia at six thirty with a cup of tea and a mashed banana. She fed Jonas his breakfast and promised to return presently to tend to his arm stumps.

 

Walter accompanied her and watched while his wife removed the bandages. They both inspected the stumps which appeared much as hoped and expected. The stitches were all neatly in place and the wound had not wept fluid. Walter took the opportunity to measure the length of Jonas’s stumps. The information was needed to begin making the leather sockets. The stumps would certainly shrink over time but Walter intended making adjustable sockets, tightened with laces which the boy would never adjust himself, however. Invia tied fresh bandages onto Jonas’s stumps, glanced at her husband and went upstairs. Jonas and Walter stared at each other, waiting for the other to speak first.

            – Are you ready for your thigh stumps? Do you wish to continue the process?

            – Yes. I am quite happy to lose my legs in favour of long stumps.

            – Ah!  That is what I wished to speak of with you. Why do you expressly want long stumps? Would not shorter stumps be more convenient? You have spoken of using stubbies. Short stumps with short stubbies will provide you with the sensations you crave.

            – I understand. My mental image is of me standing as tall as I am now when kneeling. I want my stumps inside leather stubbies.

            – I have another design I wish to show you. Your stumps will indeed be in leather sockets but the stubbies will be like steel cages and your feet will be iron heels.

Jonas thought back to his ideal, the man on the train with the steel-blue eyes. Where might he be now? I t would be wonderful to meet him again. Or even to merely glimpse him, to see that he was still alive, still living on his stubbies, thriving with his hooks. Jonas raised his severed forearms and imagined the hooks he would soon be wearing himself. The ecstasy of amputation washed over him anew and in an emphatic gush of urgency, he begged Walter for the most suitable stubbies and the most suitable stumps to fit them. Walter placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder and intoned that it would be so.

 

George and Invia were waiting for Walter’s reappearance and his verdict on what the boy wanted.

            – He has agreed to keep a third of his thighs. Take no more than that, George. I want to see him using stubbies.

            – He will walk, have no fear.

            – Invia, my dear. What would you prefer?

            – Only that the normal incisions are made. It makes my life so such easier, especially with a large joint.

            – If it will help you, my dear, I will remove the feet for you.

            – That would help me enormously, George. You are always so thoughtful.

            – Think nothing of it. Now, Walter. If you would help me transfer the patient, let us begin. Bring the pills with you.

            – Of course, George. Don’t worry about that. After you.

 

The old friends went downstairs to confront Jonas. He had agreed to the amputation of both legs, yes? And he had agreed that he wanted stumps a little shorter than halfway along his thighs, yes? Jonas, still light-headed from the previous day’s narcotic overdose, agreed enthusiastically.

            – In that case, my boy, let us continue this adventure. I will make sure you feel no pain but at no time will you be unconscious. You can watch me working if you so wish.

            – Thank you, doctor. I prefer to leave everything to you and your skilful hands.

            – Did you hear that, Walter? Very well, young man. Please swallow these pills and you will soon be on your way to needing stubbies.

Jonas swallowed eight of Walter’s proffered pills and the old men watched him sink rapidly into incoherence, insensibility and unconsciousness. Walter left George to work in peace. His friend knew what he was doing. He returned to his workshop, shaping two leather sockets for the new arm stumps.

 

George bore in mind the request which Walter had made concerning the amount of his excellent Italian leather. He was to ensure the boy’s leg stumps were not overly long. George marked out his incisions on Jonas’s thighs and envisioned the resulting length with those of previous clients who had gone on to use stubbies successfully. The resultant stumps were too short for standard full‑length artificial legs. George decided to create short stumps which Jonas might enjoy using with Walter’s steel cage stubbies or perhaps with short peg legs. How exciting it was to create such challenging crippled futures for the young men he loved to mutilate. How exciting it was for the mutilated to explore their lives with Walter’s astonishing prosthetic devices. And how rewarding it was to taste the pinnacle of Invia’s culinary skills with the fruits of amputation. George applied a tourniquet to Jonas’s thigh and began amputating the right leg.

 

Near the end of the procedure, George began to feel weak. His vision faltered. He lost perception of depth for a couple of minutes until it returned but with blurred vision. It was not the first time it had happened. It was a minor stroke. George leaned against the bed, waiting for his sight to clear and for feeling to return to his hands. He called out to Walter and Invia for assistance. Invia heard him and hurried downstairs to answer his call. She found him slumped over the severed leg, his breathing shallow, a look of resignation in his eyes. She quickly brought a chair for him to sit on and called out for Walter who heard her powerful voice. She looked at Jonas’s condition. By the looks, the stump could be closed. Walter appeared and took in the situation.

            – See to George, Walter. It looks like a stroke or heart trouble. I’m going to close the boy’s wound. I hope George has suturing needles in his bag.

            – Of course he does. You had better see to it immediately. Leave George to me.

Invia set to her task. She searched George’s leather bag for suture needles and scrubbed her hands for several minutes in Jonas’s bedsit. She closed the amputation site as quickly and neatly as possible, worrying about the two men nearby, one struggling to hold onto life. She washed the stump with alcohol, allowed it to dry and wrapped it carefully in bandages. George’s head rested against Walter’s chest. Suddenly, his eyes opened wide, and seeing nothing but sensing his friend’s presence, he whispered Köszönöm and his life ended. Invia and Walter looked at each other silently appraising their grotesque circumstances.

            – Bring him upstairs. I will call the undertaker.

 

Invia checked that Jonas was breathing regularly and made her way upstairs to telephone the local undertaker, whose telephone number was added many years ago to her list of numbers. George was not the first visitor to require the undertaker’s services. He was, however, the first who was not an amputee. Walter struggled to lift his old friend up the stairs, step by step. He was not a young man. He could feel the strain on his body. His heart beat faster, his breath was more rapid. George was at the top of the stairs. It would be respectful if George could rest in a chair. But Walter was exhausted. George’s body was at his feet in the shop front. Walter leaned against the wall and closed the staircase door behind him.

 

The undertaker and his assistants were confronted with George’s body lying where Walter had left him. Invia greeted the men and explained the situation. Walter was too frail to speak but confirmed his wife’s words with nods. There seemed to be nothing suspicious about the death. The assistants removed the body and Invia arranged a cremation service eight days hence with the undertaker. She thanked him and saw him to the door. They were alone, except for the amputee in the basement.

 

Invia was in two minds about what to do with the severed leg. It was mature healthy flesh and might provide many excellent meals. There was room in the freezer for the limb. But the effort seemed too much. She would dispose of it the old way. There was a disused well in the back yard. It had once served every household on the block but its water had long been spoiled by salt intrusion and it was now fetid and brackish. The old lady wrapped Jonas’s leg in plastic sheeting and went out into the yard to remove the cover from the old well. Dead air wafted into the yard and Invia pulled her cardigan over her mouth and hurried back inside. She would dispose of the leg later after nightfall.

 

The afternoon and early evening were a continual series of checks on the two invalids. She was worried about Walter slumped in an armchair staring into space but he had survived worse. He needed only to regain his strength. He had lost a friend. Jonas on the other hand would require several weeks’ convalescence. How fortunate that the boy still had one of his legs. Caring for a quadruple amputee single-handedly was beyond her. He would soon be able to sit in a wheelchair and scoot around with his remaining foot. She was not averse to tending to the boy’s intimate needs. Many of the Emporium’s amputee guests required the same after their arms had been devoured.

 

Jonas regained consciousness gradually and Invia was able to transfer him to his bed in the bedsit. Jonas was confused and surprised to realise he was one-legged when he had expected to see two stumps where his legs had been. And the stump he had was far shorter than what he had wanted. What was going on? He tried to question Invia but his words made no sense. She cradled his face with a soft wrinkled hand and told him to rest. She would bring him something to eat and drink a little later. Jonas fell back against his pillow and daydreamed of wearing artificial limbs. Invia dragged his severed leg out to the yard and dropped it into the fetid water of the well. She heaved the cover back and stood exhausted in the dank darkness. Night sounds surrounded the Emporium like a shroud. Invia shivered and returned inside where the echoes of illness, death and dismemberment still rang loud. If Walter felt any better, he would want something to eat. She should eat something herself but had no appetite.

 

Walter took to his bed for three days. He remained almost silent. Invia knew that the old man was shocked and indignant at his loss of stamina. She was relieved when she returned from attending to Jonas to find him standing in the kitchen waiting for her.

            – I am sorry to have worried you, my dear.

            – Are you well enough to be up, Walter?

            – Yes, quite well enough. How is the boy?

            – He is recovering well. His appetite is not what it should be but it is no cause for concern.

Jonas had a poor appetite partly because of the odd diet Invia served him. His evening meal had been cold sardines with mashed marrow, followed by a banana and a cup of Earl Grey tea. The cacophony of flavours lingered for hours.

            – I will go and talk with him a little later. I’m afraid his plans to walk out of here on stubbies will not come to fruition. The boy will need an artificial leg but I have no lust to make one for him.

            – You must, Walter. The boy has no hands. How can he use crutches? How can he use a wheelchair? No, Walter. You must gather your strength and give the boy a new leg.

            – I’ll discuss it with him. How are his stumps?

            – All healing well. You will see.

 

Walter retired to his own solitude. The Emporium had wronged the boy. He had paid for leglessness but the job was only halfway complete and worse still, the stump was much shorter than what the boy desired. It might be the case that, one day, he might gain a fourth stump in order to encase the remnants of his thighs in stubbies, as he had enthusiastically described. The Emporium needed to make amends. An idea so obvious that it was shocking suddenly burst into Walter’s mind, electrifying him with relief and new energy. He could face his young client in earnest now. He need no longer fear the inevitable confrontation. He rose to his feet, straightened his waistcoat and bow tie and strode purposefully to the door leading to the basement staircase.

 

Invia had allowed Jonas to forgo bandages on his arm stumps. The stitches still marred their appearance but Jonas had spent hours admiring his stumps and imagining himself using them to operate his hooks. The stumps were still somewhat swollen but their future form was apparent. Walter knocked gently on the bedsit door, which was ajar, before entering.

            – How are you, my boy? Are you in pain?

            – I’m as well as can be expected. As you see, my arms are exactly as I wanted. Unfortunately I cannot say the same for my legs.

            – It is indeed unfortunate. The whole affair is unfortunate.

            – When will the second amputation take place? I do not know why there is such a delay between operations.

            – Oh! Do you not know the reason? Has Invia not spoken to you?

            – She speaks but does not say anything.

            – She is a wise old bird, Jonas. She does not want to upset you. I’m afraid it falls to me to tell you that your surgeon passed away. He was able to amputate your leg before collapsing. I’m afraid he died, Jonas. You may get a fourth amputation but it will not be here at the Emporium.

            – I had no idea. How awful.

            – The funeral will be held next week.

            – I’d like to come. I want to pay my respects.

            – There is no need, Jonas, but you are a generous spirit to say so.

            – I could come in a wheelchair, couldn’t I? If we all go together, you or Ms. Invia will help me, surely?

            – Of course we would. Very well, we shall go together to see George laid to rest. Or assigned to the flames. He will be cremated.

            – Yes. I want to talk to you about my new leg.

            – That is something I want to talk to you about, too. Unfortunately, I do not have the materials at hand to make an artificial leg for you. I ordered materials for two pairs of stubbies and you will appreciate that they are hardly interchangeable.

            – No, I suppose not.

            – But as you know, the Emporium has a fine museum with many artificial limbs from many decades. If my memory serves me correctly, there are two artificial legs in our collection which may suit your needs. When you are able, we shall test them.

            – What about my hooks?

            – I’m afraid I have been ill myself in recent days, my boy. I have made a start and will complete your prostheses if you insist. But as with the leg, our collection contains many pairs of artificial arms, some with hooks, some with wooden hands, which are almost certain to suit your needs. I wish to beg your permission to offer you your choice from the Emporium’s history in order to satisfy your demands for replacement limbs. I am only too contrite to admit that we have caused you such a disappointment.

            – I will probably never walk on stubbies.

            – It is possible that that will never happen. But I hope you will find a limb in our collection which will satisfy your urge to be crippled. There are many primitive wooden legs which may satisfy your urge to appear severely disabled to the world. Legs the like of which have not been used for many decades.

            – And you would allow me to choose a set of hooks from the collection too?

            – If that is your preference, then yes. You may select what you need. I am sure you will find hooks to suit you. We need only add them to a harness.

            – It all sounds very intriguing. I wish I had inspected your collection before my amputations so I’d have a better understanding of what to expect.

            – If you will allow me, Jonas, I will take a few measurements of your stumps later. They will allow me to seek out the most suitable items from our collection. Are you sure you would accept artificial limbs, hooks, which may be half a century old?

            – If they work, why would I not accept them?

            – I am so relieved to hear it. Now, if you will permit, I shall leave you and begin my exploration.

 

Walter slowly ascended two floors to the Emporium’s tiny museum. The weak light from the window overlooking the street imparted a tangible sense of history, of an imminent ending. Walter looked around at his collection, the accidental and unintentional result of his handiwork throughout the decades. He moved to the glass-fronted cabinet containing right leg prostheses. He needed one with a belt. However well made the artificial leg may be, Jonas would need a belt in order to wear a leg not made specifically for him. However, it would suffice for a short while. Walter spotted one of the limbs he had envisaged. It was approximately the correct length and the socket was quite adequate for a short stump. The old leatherwork was a little stiff but might soften with a little linseed oil. The leg itself was burnished wood and the foot was a generic shape without toes. There was no ankle mechanism. When the leg was made, such practicalities were not heard of. Feet were attached to the lower leg and imparted the distinctive gait of a man with a wooden leg. Walter cast his mind back, trying to remember why such a beautiful limb had never been delivered to the client. He grunted and moved along the row of artificial legs until he saw the peg. He had made it as an example of his skill and innovation and exhibited it in some commercial show somewhere. He was annoyed to realise he could not remember where. But the peg leg was still a superb showpiece. It had a socket quite long enough for Jonas, assuming it was wide enough for the boy, and it too featured a waist belt, this time made of canvas. It was a little dusty but that was no problem. The peg was unique because it was collapsible. Extended, it provided a secure footing. It was sturdy, beautifully machined and the joints fit immaculately. Its great innovation was that it had two ‘knees’. It collapsed by releasing drop locks on the angled hinges one third and two thirds of the way along the peg. It folded across the wearer’s lap. The peg allowed its user to sit in a normal seat in any normal space with the shaft folded up out of the way. The peg was designed to lock rigid as the user stood. Walter imagined Jonas using it. Perhaps the boy would not want something quite so extrovert. He opened the cabinet and lifted the peg out. He was about to go across to the selection of artificial arms when he noticed one of the most primitive items in the collection. He remembered very well how it had come into his possession. A handsome young soldier had fashioned it himself from junk metal discovered near or in a prison camp in some Arab country where there had been some military conflict. The lad had arrived at the Emporium before the name change and ordered a wooden leg for himself. Several weeks later on his return, he had left the primitive leg he had arrived with and walked out on the new limb Walter had crafted. Walter had refurbished the limb soon afterwards, intrigued by its simplicity and strength. It now looked very much like an orthotic leg brace terminating in a metal wedge acting as a foot. Nothing about the device resembled anything like a human leg. And the socket was a short length of canvas to be wrapped around the stump and secured with a row of buckles. Walter tested the components and found them to be supple and bonded together well. He checked the length and found it to be the most closely matching of the three prospective limbs he had to offer Jonas. He would show it to the boy out of interest in how he reacted to seeing something so utterly basic.

 

Jonas’s arms presented less of a problem. His stumps were exactly the ideal length, the standard length which surgeons had favoured whenever possible for very many years and as a result, most of the pairs of artificial arms which the Emporium had inherited were ideally suited for a bilateral amputee like Jonas. There were beautiful pairs of arms bearing hand-carved wooden hands, all perfectly functional with movable thumbs to pinch and grip. Walter always thought of them as Sunday hands, suitable only for gripping the pages of a hymn book in church on the Sabbath. Almost certainly, any owner of such luxurious hands would also own a reliable pair of steel hooks with which to negotiate life. He saw the original pair of hands he had borne in mind when he began to create a new pair for the boy. A steel framework bent to shape with elbow hinges, the cuff and socket of rigid black leather polished to a high shine. The hooks were non-standard, larger than normal and semi-circular. Walter lifted them out of the display case. The next pair he wanted to show Jonas was a return. Walter remembered the man in question, a highly intelligent linguist who had lost his hands in a road accident. He had created plaster copies of the man’s stumps and created sockets of exquisite tan leather. The man had been delighted with the end result, to which easily available standard hooks would fit. Walter remembered the man’s gratitude, especially since it had been expressed in Magyar. But, tragically, some months later his family returned the hands, having discovered Walter’s invoice, explaining that his client had passed away from tuberculosis or pneumonia—he could no longer remember which—and they hoped the prostheses might be of use to some other invalid. Walter kept them aside for a year or so and then added them to his growing collection. If he remembered correctly, it was the return of these very hooks which inspired Invia to suggest starting the museum. With the exception of one scratch in the leather, the arms were pristine. Jonas might like seeing them. The third pair were altogether different. The sockets were of black leather too and highly polished. But they enclosed only the stumps, about half the length of the amputee’s former forearms. The rest of the forearm, down to the wrist, was a narrow steel tube terminating in a standard hook. The hooks could be adjusted from vertical to horizontal but no other movement was possible. They might be the ideal first pair for Jonas, a starter pair with which to learn how to operate a pair of steel hooks without the distraction of articulating wrists and extraneous additional applications which weakened the arms and increased the risk of a malfunction. These arms were certainly distinctive, to be worn by a man with above average self-confidence. Perhaps Jonas would prove to be such a man. Walter removed the insectile set of hooks and took them to join the rest of the artificial limbs he had selected. Perhaps Invia had a bag of some kind with which to carry them all downstairs. He left the limbs for collection later and went downstairs to inform his wife.

 

            – Three pairs of arms? And three legs? How wonderful, Walter. I have often thought that they should be used rather than merely admired.

            – I feel such a closeness to them. For so many, we provided stumps in exchange for some very fine dining. The limbs which were never collected hold so many memories. It is difficult to part with them.

            – But this latest young man is different, Walter. Especially under the circumstances with George. Remember the funeral is tomorrow. Jonas deserves the best new limbs from the collection, especially if you don’t have it in your heart to continue making the new pair.

            – No. You’re quite right, my dear.

 

Invia brought the wheelchair upstairs and parked it in a corner of the shop. She fussed over Jonas more than usual when she brought his breakfast, scrambled egg and slices of orange.

            – If you feel ready to face the world again, Jonas, we shall have to find you something dignified to wear to the funeral. I’m afraid it will have to be one of Walter’s old suits. It won’t be fashionable but I am sure I can remember a handsome double-breasted suit which may fit you.

            – So do you think my stumps are strong enough now to face the world, Invia?

            – Your arm stumps are perfect. They are still tender after the stitches were removed but remember that your arms will be inside the jacket and quite well protected. And your leg stump is almost ready to lose the bandage.

            – I am very proud of my stump, Invia. George cut it shorter than I wanted but I have grown to like it. I don’t know if I shall have the other leg off to match it. Time will tell.

            – You would look remarkable as a man on two artificial legs, Jonas. I do hope fortune favours you. Now, I must get on. Oh! I have some good news for you. Or perhaps Walter should tell you himself. Yes! I’ll let him tell you.

            – Invia! You can’t not tell me now! Is it about my hooks?

            – It is. Now I must find that suit, Jonas.

Invia took the dirty breakfast plates upstairs and went to the bedroom where a mothballed wardrobe contained all the beautiful suits her Walter had worn. The suit she had spoken of was under a silken wrap. She spread it on the bed and inspected it. It smelled faintly of mothballs but that would air out in a moment. She thought of what Jonas might reasonably wear under the jacket. He would not want to wear a dress shirt with a stiff collar. He was a young man of this century not some throwback. Perhaps a clean white T-shirt would be acceptable. George would not mind.

 

Jonas was washed and clean. Invia helped him dress in underpants and a sock and eased a fresh white T-shirt over his arm stumps.

            – Try on this jacket. Let’s see if it fits.

Jonas rose carefully and balanced on his leg as Invia gently fed his stumps into the sleeves and moved around to the front to inspect the width.

            – You are a bigger man than Walter but it seems to me that the jacket fits you perfectly, Jonas. I remember the fashion was to wear loose clothes back when we were young. Shall I do the buttons up?

            – Yes please. I can’t do it myself.

            – No. But I am sure that you will. Quite soon.

            – Do you know when I will be able to try the museum hooks, Invia? I really wish I could imagine what they are like.

            – Walter has found three sets, three pairs of hooks which he wants you to try. After lunch, when we have returned from the funeral, we will look at what he has found.

            – That’s wonderful.

            – Yes, I think so too. Now sit on the chair and we shall see how the trousers look.

The trousers were of the style known as Oxford bags which had first been fashionable in the Roaring Twenties and again when rationing was lifted after the war. She helped Jonas dress and when he was standing, balancing again, she undid a safety pin which she had fastened to her blouse, neatly folded the empty trouser leg and pinned it to the back of the trousers.

            – I believe the trousers may be a little long, Jonas, but when you are sitting in your wheelchair, the material will rise up so it won’t matter. Put your arm around my shoulder and you can inspect yourself in the mirror.

There was a long oval mirror on the back of the bedsit door. It’s mirrored surface had long since turned to craquelure. Jonas saw first a one legged figure in an old fashioned suit. Then he noticed the missing hands, the empty sleeves, and waved them back and forth. He grinned at how the silken lining caressed the sensitive skin on his stumps. The double breasted front of the suit made him look broader than he thought of himself. More masculine, more manly. He puffed his chest out and turned to the slight old lady next to him.

            – How do I look?

            – Magnificent. You look magnificent, Jonas. Are you happy to wear the suit?

            – Yes, of course. It’s wonderful. Thank you so much.

            – It’s nothing. Now we have to get you upstairs somehow. I’m afraid Walter has been feeling under the weather, as the saying goes. I wonder if you could hop up the steps if I stand in front of you holding your stumps?

            – I’m sure I could, Invia. Or we could take the jacket and trousers off and I could go upstairs backwards, sitting.

            – Oh, let us try the first way.

            – How long do you think it will be before I can have an artificial leg, Invia?

            – At least a week. Your stump is still swollen and we have to remove the stitches before you can test a new leg. Let us say two weeks and you can stand on a new leg, Jonas. Are you ready? Give me your arms.

Jonas stretched out his stumps. Invia held his upper arms and they worked their way to the stairs, the old lady walking backwards carefully, Jonas using her support to hop. As they reached the bottom of the stairs, Invia’s grip strengthened. Jonas balanced himself and looked at where his foot should land. He bounced up one step and smiled at Invia.

            – Only ten more like that!

            – There are more than ten steps, Jonas. Tell me if you need to rest.

They reached the top and Jonas leaned against the wall. Invia hurried to collect the wheelchair and held Jonas again as he lowered himself into it. He rested his elbows on the armrests and the empty ends of both sleeves drooped. He leaned forward to see that the wide trouser leg with its immense width had ridden up sufficiently not to look untidy. He needed a shoe.

            – Invia, I need something on my foot.

            – Do you want to wear a shoe? It will be fine to wear a black sock.

            – No, I’d like a shoe of some sort.

            – I’ll speak to Walter. I know his shoes are too small for you.

 

Walter was sitting in the living room browsing through an old photo album. The protective tissue paper between pages crackled between his old fingers. He was poring over a wide photograph, wondering at how such a photograph had been taken and how very young the attendees at the first special feast had been. It was a Sunday, two days after the amputation of a handsome young beatnik’s legs. The meat had served twelve. So many old friends, so few left. No, none left. Invia and himself were the last ones.

            – Walter, before you lose yourself, Jonas wants to wear a black shoe to George’s funeral. Do you have such a thing in the collection?

            – What size is he?

            – A good two sizes bigger than you. Will you see if there is something suitable?

            – I will. Look at this. Do you remember?

Invia peered at the picture. She recognised most of the young men present. They were Walter’s friends. Refugees from the bloodbaths and torture in the old country. How young they were. Walter left her to remember bygone days and went upstairs on behalf of the boy. A left shoe, bigger than his own. The shoes and boots he had were orthopaedic footwear, generally designed to correct discrepancies in leg length. Ha! There was a rigid boot, size ten, with a three inch lift. It looked superb with its expanse of glossy black leather. The boy could wear that. Without searching for other candidates, Walter plucked the built-up boot from the line of footwear and carefully made his way downstairs. He took the boot to the kitchen to show it to Invia for her approval. She handed him a cloth. Walter brushed the dust off the boot and turned it upside down to clean the interior.

            – It looks very imposing. Go on, Walter. Go and give it to the boy.

Walter looked at her in mock exasperation and took the orthopaedic device to wheelchair-bound Jonas.

            – This is the only boot I could find which might fit you. I’m sorry it is for an invalid and not a normal boot.

            – Don’t worry, Walter. I am an invalid. It will suit the occasion perfectly.

            – Let us hope so.

Walter sat opposite Jonas and pushed the boot onto Jonas’s foot. He begged Jonas to keep his leg outstretched while he tied the laces. When Jonas lowered his foot to the footplate of the wheelchair, the huge cuff of his Oxford bags covered the boot entirely. But Jonas was pleased. The boot was spacious and its unaccustomed height felt remarkable. For the first time since he had lost his limbs, he felt the reassuring return of his libido. The big boot excited him and his penis twitched with excitement. His body was being reconfigured and reassembled. His erection grew, invisible inside the leg of his voluminous trousers.

 

A long black limousine turned into Stump Lane and drove slowly until it stopped outside the Emporium. Black ribbons were draped from the bonnet ornament to the corners of the windscreen. The driver got out and stood to attention in front of the car. At exactly the arranged time, Invia, Walter and Jonas transferred to the car. Jonas’s wheelchair fit easily into the boot. Jonas sat in the passenger compartment facing the rear. It was a safer position should the car brake suddenly. Jonas would not be able to steady himself. His empty sleeves looked disturbing, otherwise he felt invigorated at being outside again after many weeks inside. Invia and Walter were dressed in mourning clothes, in spite of which they both looked elegant. They were solemn. Walter held Invia’s hand.

 

The service was short. The vicar read a brief eulogy praising George’s work on behalf of his fellow citizens and reassuring his listeners of the blessed rest promised to deserving souls. Walter held a hymn book and allowed Jonas to balance on his built-up boot, leaning against him lightly. They sang the Twenty-Third Psalm and recited the Lord’s Prayer. The vicar motioned them to be seated and George’s coffin moved slowly along a track towards maroon velvet curtains which slowly opened to accept the deceased. The curtains closed again. The vicar nodded to them and departed. The three mourners waited a few minutes, reflecting on their memories of George and then followed in the vicar’s footsteps. The return journey was done at a dignified pace but quicker than the outward journey. After a three hour absence, they returned to the Emporium and turned their attention from the past to the future. The time had come for Jonas to receive his new arms.

 

They dined together. Invia served another of her extraordinary meals, boiled ham served cold with creamed carrots. Invia fed Jonas, as always, watching Jonas eating with maternal care before offering him another mouthful. They wiped their plates clean with bread.

            – Now the time has come, young man. The time to try on some hooks.

Jonas beamed at Walter, who rose and collected three pairs of artificial arms from a cupboard. Invia quickly cleared the table and swatted it with a cloth. Walter spread the arms in a row on the table and watched Jonas’s eyes light up.

            – Here are three pairs which you might be interested in. You have not yet seen our collection, I believe. Perhaps you will find something more to your taste but I am happy to let you choose from these. Which ones would you like to try first? Invia, my dear, please bring us some stump socks.

Invia went to the bedroom where a large variety of stump sockets and modern liners were stored.

            – The black pair with the long thin forearms looks very interesting. I like the way the hooks seem to be part of the arm.

            – Let’s try it first.

Invia wordlessly placed thin socks onto Jonas’s outstretched stumps.

            – Hold out your right arm.

Walter carefully turned the socket so it matched the position of Jonas’s arm. He fed the cuff over the stump and told Jonas to hold his stump in place. It disappeared into the socket with little effort.

            – It seems to be a good fit. Is there any part which seems uncomfortable?

            – No. There is still room in the socket below my stump.

            – We can add some filling. It is important for your stump to fit accurately. How do you like the appearance? It is a little unusual, is it not? Let’s try another one.

 

He picked up the prosthesis made from bent steel to which the socket was riveted. It was easier to orientate. The socket was glossy black leather, lined with a softer leather of a light tan. The cuff was also black, outlined with the lighter tan. It was a beautiful prosthesis, extraordinary for the considerable gap between the bottom of the socket and the wrist mechanism. When worn under a shirt or jacket, only the bent steel frame holding the hook would be visible. It was a device for a man who was proud of wearing artificial arms without pretension. Jonas held his stump rigid again as Walter slipped the prosthesis onto his arm. To Jonas’s surprise, his stump reached the comfortably curved tip of the socket, although the fit was tighter than in the previous socket. Jonas twisted his arm around to view the steelwork from several angles. It was highly polished metal and reflected light from the window. His leather-covered stump was still obviously a stump. The device was unpretentious, existing simply to accept a steel hook in place of his flesh hand. It was a very desirable item. Jonas could imagine the attention he would attract with the deviant wrists poking out of his jacket. He was becoming slowly erect and subconsciously used his short leg stump to push his penis into a more accommodating position.

 

            – I like this one very much. It fits very well. It’s almost as if it was made for me.

            – It was made for a man who requested the same amputations as yourself, as I recall. You may assume that it was George who operated. He had his own preferences for the ideal stump length. Even after thirty odd years, he was able to craft your stumps the same as he did for the former client.

            – What happened to the other client? Why did he never collect his arms?

            – Who can say? Perhaps one could be ungenerous and say that he was able to get a free pair from the health service.

            – With the ugly pink sockets?

            – Yes. Or perhaps he committed a crime and was sent to prison. Who knows. His bad luck is now your good luck. If I may say so, Jonas, I feel that that arm could have been made for you. I could sense how well it fits as I placed your stump into the socket. Would you like to try the left arm too?

            – Yes. Yes, I would, very much. Do I understand that if I like one of these pairs of arms that I can keep it?

            – Yes, my boy. In lieu of not having a custom-made pair. I must confess, I was making a set exactly based on these arms. It has always been my favourite design.

            – I can see why that might be. Let me have the left arm, please.

Walter slid the cuff up Jonas’s left arm and tenderly inserted the stump into the glossy black socket. Jonas turned his arms, comparing the two, trying to realise that his arms were now black leather and steel, his hands the large steel hooks curving like mechanical invitations to his prosthetic future.

            – When you have a harness, you will be able to operate the hooks too. But for the time being, it is enough to check the fit of these arms. Are you ready to try the third pair?

            – Yes please, Walter.

 

Walter removed the black sockets, pleased with the excellent fit of the nearly forty year old prostheses. Invia had been right. It was better that the gems in the Emporium were put to the use they were made for. His life had been dedicated to creating and fitting invalids. Providing his last customer with his choice of prostheses was a suitable end to his career. He picked up the tan arms and Jonas expressed his admiration for them.

            – They are beautiful. I hope they will fit. They are leather, aren’t they?

            – Yes, my boy. I am sorry to say they are not perfect. Look here. There is a nick in the leather.

            – I’m sure it can be repaired.

Jonas lifted his right stump without being asked and Walter carefully worked the cuff to Jonas’s upper arm. The stump slid effortlessly into the leather socket until Walter felt resistance. The sockets were a little loose. Perhaps if Jonas wore a liner instead of merely a cotton stump sock, his stump would fit more securely. It would also be possible to add an infill to the interior of the socket to make the fit more accurate. But Jonas was impressed. He knew instinctively that the socket needed adjustment but the prosthesis was far too well made and desirable to pass up over such a minor detail. These would be his new arms.

            – May I try the left arm too, please? I like the look of these very much. Do you think it would be possible to tighten the sockets a little?

            – I could add a lining. Would you like to try a pair of liners first? Perhaps liners on your stumps would be sufficient.

            – That might be better.

            – Wait a moment. I will ask Livia to bring a pair.

Walter went to the foot of the stairs and called up to his wife.

            – Is everything alright?

            – Yes, my dear. Would you fetch a pair of liners for the young man’s arm stumps?

            – I will see if we have a pair.

She shortly returned and called down. Walter stood at the foot of the stairs and caught the unopened packet of liners which Invia tossed to him. Walter ripped the cellophane off and looked at the cotton covered silicone sheaths.

            – Hold out your stump. You know how to put these on, do you not? With the inside on the outside first. Watch me.

Walter poked the liner inside out and placed it carefully at the tip of Jonas’s stump. He rolled it along the arm, past the elbow, up to Jonas’s shoulder.

            – Now let’s see how the arm fits.

The socket was immediately a more secure fit. The liner slid smoothly into the socket until it began to feel tight.

            – Does that hut you, Jonas? Is the pressure painful?

            – No, not painful. But I can feel the pressure in my stump. Just a little further and the elbow will be in the right place.

Walter could see better than Jonas where the prosthesis needed to extend to. Trusting the boy’s words, he increased pressure and pushed the socket as far as necessary. Jonas smiled at him and moved the socket about, inspecting it, admiring it, grateful to see a normal steel hook in place of his natural hand.

            – Let’s try the left arm again. I’m pretty sure that these are going to be my arms. I love them already.

Walter was proud to hear the words. He could remember the previous owner expressing similar sentiments, all those years ago. The left socket slid down the liner-covered stump and confronted increasing resistance just before the elbow was in place. Another firm push and the arm was in place. Jonas lifted both prostheses into the air and lost himself in the ecstasy of perfectly fitted artificial limbs.

            – Are you pleased with them, Jonas?

            – They’re perfect. What else can I say? But I really like the ones with the steel frame.

            – The second pair?

            – Yes. With the big curvy hooks. I would love to wear those sometimes. How much do they cost? Could I buy them? Would you sell them?

Walter was taken aback. He was prepared to let the boy choose a pair of hands and a leg from the collection. He had not thought about releasing two sets of hooks.

            – Jonas, let me talk to Invia. She will want to know about any arrangements we make. Now let me take the sockets off and I will put them on a harness. Then you will be able to operate the hooks.

            – Thank you, sir.

            – Think nothing of it, my boy.

Invia was surprised at Walter’s naïveté.

            – Give the boy what he wants, Walter. Why do you want to keep the other pair? Put them on harnesses and let him take both.

            – Very well. I wanted to make sure you were in agreement.

            – Of course I am.

Walter pecked his wife’s wrinkled cheek and carried both pairs of Jonas’s replacement arms to his workbench. He would have liked to make customised harnesses, especially for the tan-coloured pair, but he knew he had standard issue canvas harnesses for a bilateral and that the boy was impatient. He fetched two pristine black harnesses and set about attaching the prostheses to them.

 

He was correct in thinking that Jonas was impatient. Not only did he want to have his hooks at last, he was also impatient to leave the Emporium and return to the brewery. His leg stump was healing well although it was still rather tender and slightly swollen. It might be two or three weeks before he could be fitted with a leg. Walter’s reappearance with two pairs of artificial arms was most welcome.

            – Which pair first, young man? Black or tan?

            – Black I think, please. I love the steel around the wrist. And I like the hooks on that pair. They are not standard hooks, are they?

            – No, Jonas. They were made in America by a company run by a man who had himself lost a hand. He knew his closest competitor had devised a hook which had been adopted by the American army hospital. He could compete only by creating a wide variety of hooks, all of them with their own charm. This pair is one of the most popular but unfortunately the company soon closed. So you will have some historical hooks. Take good care of them. They are rather larger than the hooks of today. I like the look of them. I think it will be a confident man who will wear such hooks in these modern times.

Jonas used his teeth to don cotton stump socks.

            – We will look at the correct way to put on the harness, Jonas. This time I will help. It will take time to get the sockets to fit well. Raise your arms.

Jonas put his stumps in the air and Walter slipped the harness and sockets over them. He gently pushed Jonas’s head down and pulled the harness across the boy’s shoulders. Unsurprisingly, the prosthesis was a little loose. Walter tightened some straps and turned his attention to the cable. He adjusted its length until Jonas’s stumps rested comfortably in the black leather sockets and the slightest additional pressure caused the hooks to open. Jonas looked at his arms. Leather‑covered, they reached as far as mid‑forearm. Then there was empty space bracketed by steel and then the old-style hooks. Jonas groaned with relief, pleasure, ecstasy—who could say? He lay back and lifted his hooks. Such an extraordinary pair of arms. Unique! He loved the way the short black sockets cupped his stumps, advertising their brevity, promising the revelation of an identical flesh stump within. The hooks opened smoothly. Their tips pointed inwards towards each other.

            – How do I change the position of the hooks?

            – They are designed to be rotated by the opposing hand, Jonas. You have no opposing hands so you must create your own method. The hooks can be rotated to forty-five degrees or ninety degrees. They will lock into those positions. This is old equipment, my boy. You must not expect modern things.

            – No, no. Of course not. As long as I know. Walter, as much as I love these, may I also try the other pair? That’s the pair I think I am going to make my own.

Walter was quite touched by Jonas’s statement. He had rarely ever heard what his clients thought about his handiwork after he delivered it. Customers would say they were grateful and wish him good day. Then they were gone forever. Now Walter was realising the impact his efforts had on young bodies. He smiled inwardly. Obviously the pleasures of the flesh worked in both directions. His clients received stumps. He and his compatriots received the flesh.

 

Walter fitted the leather arms to Jonas, adjusted them with professional care and paternal love. The hooks were the usual design, adequate for everyday life. They could be exchanged for other designs but if Jonas wanted them, he would need to order them himself. This time Jonas was too emotionally overcome to lift his new arms to test them. He stared at the leather sockets leading to steel hooks as they lay motionless in front of him. These were his arms. He had fantasised about having a smart pair of artificial arms for much of his life. Now he had them. Walter saw the boy’s emotion and left him without speaking.

 

It was left to Invia to advise Jonas not to wear his new arms for hours at a time.

            – Your stumps are still healing, Jonas. You should let them heal completely. Then you can wear the arms. Wear them for an hour, then let you stumps be free.

Jonas understood. As he healed, he spent more time with the Ardelean couple in their quarters. Walter showed him his collection of publications, pamphlets and catalogues relating to prosthetic care from the twentieth century, many of them in languages other than English. Jonas was fascinated to learn how the basic design of the prostheses he would be wearing himself had come about, through trial and error, through needs and desires, until by the end of the Korean war, artificial arms had at last been perfected. He owned an equivalent pair.

            – Do you think you could go upstairs to the museum? I will help on the stairs.

            – I would love to see what you have there. Yes, I’m sure I could manage.

Walter allowed the triple amputee Jonas to curl an arm stump around him as they made their slow way up the curving stairs to the Emporium’s museum. The legs which Walter had selected for Jonas were downstairs in the couple’s bedroom. Otherwise the entirety of the collection was open for Jonas’s perusal. Walter supported Jonas by holding on to his upper arm as they moved slowly along the row of artificial legs. Walter pointed out various features which had evolved or been dropped altogether from later limbs. Jonas was intensely conscious of being in the situation that he would soon be walking out of the Emporium wearing one of the legs from the collection. He did not know of Walter’s choices.

            – That one looks very heavy.

 

They were looking at a wooden leg which Walter claimed was from the first decade of the twentieth century. The top of the socket was thick and beautifully curved to rest against the hip bone. The thigh was burnished to a high shine with the grain of the wood plainly visible. The lower part of the prosthesis was more mundane. A mere length of steel rod, tipped with a worn rubber ferule. A once fine artificial leg had been converted into a make-do peg leg. It was such a pity that the lower leg was missing. It would have been a wonderful leg to own. Jonas hopped slowly down the row of prosthetic legs, fascinated by the myriad methods of attaching them to a leg stump. His own stump was short and he knew he would always need at least a belt to hold it firmly to his stump. As they reached the end of the display, Jonas turned to Walter with concern.

            – I couldn’t see anything which might fit me, Walter.

Walter chuckled.

            – Don’t worry. I have already found three legs for you. I will show you when Invia tells me your stump is ready for an artificial leg. Perhaps another week. Try to be patient, my boy. Shall we look at the artificial arms too while we are here?

 

They crossed to the opposite side of the room. The first arm prostheses were for clients who had lost an arm above the elbow. The sockets were wooden or leather with a tangle of cables reaching to the unnaturally slim forearms and a variety of terminal devices. Some of the arms terminated in bare wrist mechanisms. Jonas spotted a handsome pair of below elbow prostheses not dissimilar to the pair he had already chosen. They were covered with black leather with showy steel fittings. But the sockets were obviously too large for him. The bilateral amputee these prostheses were intended for must have been a large man with muscular arms.

            – Have you seen enough? Shall we go back?

            – Walter, I am interested in the wooden hand in the shop window. It is such a beautiful hand.

            – Yes, it is. It has the same fitting as your brown arms.

            – So it would fit on my socket?

            – It would. You do realise it is what you call a passive hand? It cannot move. It is only to give the impression that the amputee still has a hand. It is worn with a glove.

            – I would wear it as it is. So the wood can shine.

Walter looked at Jonas’s expression. What use was the hand in the window? Here was an enthusiastic young man who would wear it, display it.

            – Would you like it? I think we can allow you to have it. You will care for it, will you not? It is valuable for its beauty and for the many hours of work it took.

            – Did you make it?

            – Yes. I made it for my best friend. Oh, he was not an accident victim. He was an amputee from childhood. He was attacked by a wolf in our village.

            – The wolf bit his hand off?

            – It did. His cries alerted the men of the village. They killed the wolf but it was too late for my friend.

            – What happened to him?

            – He died, Jonas. I do not want to speak about it.

            – And you would let me have his hand. Thank you, Walter. It means a lot to me.

 

Another week passed. Jonas began to feel that the old couple were like grandparents. Walter had days when he was talkative and they spoke of the past which Jonas had not seen and the future which the old folk would not see. Jonas’s fourth amputation was not mentioned. He inured himself to a one-legged life, realising that being completely legless was a challenge too great for a man without hands. He imagined himself as a man able to walk wherever he wished with the assistance of an artificial leg using his lusted-after hooks to do what he needed to do. He would be able to function at the brewery in his duties as a triple amputee with primitive prothetic limbs as well as he had before. The difference was only in the joy of possessing stumps. His arm stumps shrank further during the week and he wore shrinkers under the tan-coloured arms with the practical hooks. Invia allowed him to wear them for several hours at a time. He was reluctant to remove them but admitted that the old lady knew what was best.

 

The day came when Invia pronounced his leg stump healed enough to test an artificial leg or two.

            – Walter has selected legs which may fit you. I hope they do. If they are not quite the correct length, I am sure we can provide you with a built-up shoe to even the length of your legs. Of course, the size of the foot may not match your own.

            – That doesn’t matter.

            – When you are ready, come upstairs. Call for Walter if you need help.

Jonas had started wearing his hooks all day and was able to hold on to the railings on both sides of the stairs as he hopped from one step to the next. He appeared in the doorway of the couple’s quarters, wishing Walter a good morning.

            – Today is the day, my boy. Time to get you walking. Go into the other room and sit on a high chair. I will bring your legs.

Jonas grinned with excitement and hopped to a dining chair. Walter gather the three artificial legs he had selected and hung them over his left arm. They were not heavy.

            – Here are three legs which I think you will be interested in. Take your shoe off, Jonas. I need to see how long these legs are against your own. Put this stump sock on your leg. Let us start with this one. Stand up and put your stump into the socket, please. Ah, as I thought. A little short. No matter. We can make it fit with an orthopaedic boot.

It was the wooden leg. The top of the socket splayed out to spread weight and it cradled Jonas’s hip bone. His stump fit inside the socket comfortably but it would not stay in place without being attached to a belt. Walter circled around Jonas inspecting every aspect of the limb.

            – You will need to wear a liner with this, or maybe two. The socket should be tight. But you also need the belt. Let me tighten it.

Walter whipped the belt around Jonas’s waist and cinched it tight. The prosthesis straightened under Jonas’s stump. He felt off balance. The leg was too short. Walter noticed immediately.

            – I feared this leg was too short. But it is a matter of six or seven centimetres. Do you have ordinary shoes with you? I don’t mean your red boots.

            – I have some trainers. They are in my bag.

            – And your bag is in your room? I will get your trainers if you allow.

            – Yes, of course. Please do.

Walter went to fetch Jonas’s shoe. Jonas swung the artificial leg back and forth and rested his weight on the wooden foot. His other leg was bent. Walter reappeared with his trainers.

            – Put it on, Jonas. I will try to find another orthopaedic boot for the prosthesis.

Walter went upstairs to the Emporium’s museum. Eight or nine centimetres on the right foot, standard size. Here was a shoe… was there a boot? Ah! There it was. He remembered making this boot. The client had tried it and complained that it was too big. Walter checked his notes and was mortified to see that he had made a mistake. The client was patient and waited for a replacement. At last Walter could be rid of the damned thing.

            – Let me put this on the prosthesis. Put your trainer on, Jonas. We shall try again.

Walter held the wooden leg in his lap and expertly fitted the built-up boot to its foot. It pointed upward slightly which was not a problem.

            – Stand up again and test the length.

Jonas tested the length and spread his artificial arms out to test his balance. He leaned on the prothesis and spread his legs slightly. He felt himself to be balanced. The built-up boot gave his wooden leg the extra length it needed to make it practical.

            – This seems to be he right length now. Will I always have to wear the special boot with this leg?

            – Yes, it will always need a raise. If you wear normal shoes, you will need this boot. If you want to wear your red boots, you will have to tell your shoemaker to make the sole taller.

            – That would look very special.

            – Indeed it would, my young friend. How do you like that wooden leg? Is your stump comfortable? You know that is the most important thing?

            – Yes, of course. It feels very comfortable. I love feeling the top of the socket supporting my weight.

            – Excellent. We shall try walking in another few days. Take it off and let us try something special. It is special to me, at least.

 

Jonas tugged at the wide rigid belt holding the wooden leg onto his stump with his hooks and handed the prosthesis back to Walter. Walter in turn lay it on the floor with the built-up boot still attached and reached for the peg leg. Jonas had not noticed it and stared at it in amazement. A peg leg represented the ultimate in eroticism for a one-legged man. He lifted his stump slightly as Walter fit the socket onto it and waited while a belt was once again cinched tightly around his waist. The peg was exactly the right length for use with a shoe. Jonas looked down and saw the locks along the leg which he did not recognise.

            – Walter, what are these?

He reached down and tapped the upper lock with his hook.

            – They are locks. This is a unique peg leg, Jonas. When you stand, the locks will drop into position and hold the peg leg straight. You will have a rigid peg leg from your stump to the floor. But if you wish to sit, you can pull the locks with your hook and the peg leg will bend. It will bend on top of your legs.

            – Into my lap?

            – Yes, that is correct. Try it. Sit down.

Jonas did so. The peg leg jutted out in front of him.

            – Pull on the top lock.

Jonas manoeuvred his hook carefully and let it close below the lock. He pulled it back slowly and the lock rose above the hinge.

            – Good! Now you can pull the peg in to your lap. And the next hinge is easy to unlock. The bottom part of the peg leg will fold back against the middle part. Try it!

Jonas struck his hooks together in an attempt to twist the right hook into the correct orientation to grip the lower lock of his peg leg. It shifted and Jonas gripped the bottom section with both hooks and pulled it towards himself. Now the peg leg was folded neatly across his thigh, out of the way of a passer by, for example, and allowing him to sit anywhere without the peg jutting out in front of him. Jonas laughed at the improbability of it.

            – This is remarkable! I’ve never seen anything like this before. And what happens if I want to stand?

            – You will balance on your leg and stand up. The locks on the peg leg will fall and you can walk.

Jonas prepared himself to stand. He leaned forward and stretched his hooks in front of him and rose. He spread his hooks out to both sides and allowed the peg to straighten. The locks dropped and he had a rigid peg leg again. He leaned on it and took a short step. He lifted the peg and swung it forward. Within seconds, he was one with the theory and practice of peg leg use. He could feel pressure around his groin and some stress on his stump but it was not uncomfortable. It felt good to rest his weight on the socket. Secure. The peg leg swung almost on its own accord. When its tip landed, it was easy to simply step ahead of it. The peg leg followed, landing ahead of him again. Jonas pegged around the living room, leaning on the peg as he changed direction.

            – Oh, this feels wonderful. Much easier than the first leg. I would love to always use this.

            – It looks remarkable on you, Jonas. Think of it as yours. You may take it with you. There is one more leg for you to see. It belonged to a young English soldier who made it himself when he was in a prison camp. I have made some changes to it. Do you want to try it?

            

Walter held up the metal framework with its canvas wrapping. It was to be tied around the stump and then around the waist. To all intents and purposes, it was another peg leg. Jonas looked at it with trepidation.

            – Walter, it is a wonderful piece of equipment but I don’t think it is very stable. Do you mind if I don’t try it on? I feel safe on my peg leg and I don’t want to change to something so flimsy.

Walter was a little surprised but understood.

            – As you wish, my boy. I do understand.

Walter was impressed that Jonas was so enamoured of the peg leg he had crafted when he was himself younger than Jonas. It seemed impossible that the peg had waited so long to find a user. The other prostheses which Jonas had accepted also fit him extremely well. It was almost as if this was preordained. Walter did not believe in such things, otherwise he would not have led the life he had. He knew his end was near and he did not fear it. It was a fitting end to find a young man whose enthusiasm for amputation was as great as his own—indeed more, as the boy had willingly rid himself of his limbs in order to wear the wondrous equipment Walter had created for so many decades. Would he have wanted to become an amputee himself? No. He was more satisfied with seeing other men maimed, their healthy masculine limbs reduced to lumps of rounded flesh to which leather and steel might be coaxed to replace that which was occasionally destined for Invia’s dinner table. It was only in the company of his compatriots, with the men he had known in their homeland, that he could feel the earthly satisfaction of sharing well earned human flesh. Invia felt the same way. No-one had ever prepared such enticing meals as his lovely wife, who appreciated men’s stumps as much or more than he.

            – Would you like to wear that peg leg for the rest of today? You must take it off if Invia tells you. You know she is very strict.

They laughed conspiratorially.

            – Yes I know. But she is wise. You told me so. ‘A wise old bird’, you said.

            – She is a remarkable woman. I love her dearly. But it is best always to do as she says.

 

Invia was initially reluctant to allow Jonas his peg leg. But she could see how pleased the boy was to be walking again.

            – Promise that you will take the peg leg off if your stump starts to hurt. Remember that you have a fresh stump, Jonas. It will take months before it is really strong again. You must be careful.

            – I promise. It is much lighter than the artificial leg.

            – Walter has kept that peg for sixty years. I think he was waiting for you.

 

Jonas returned to his bedsit and considered his situation. He had fresh stumps which might require further care but he had also acquired prosthetic limbs which surpassed every expectation. Theoretically he could thank the old couple and bid them adieu. It seemed churlish to leave at the earliest possible opportunity. He would stay another forty-eight hours and, assuming his stumps allowed, he would take his leave and head home. He made his plans known to the couple as they dined. Invia served artichoke hearts with boiled chicken.

            – We shall be sad to see you go, Jonas. You have been an ideal guest. I hope you have everything you came for.

            – I have my arm stumps at last. They are my great pride and joy. As long as I live, I shall remember you both whenever I see them.

            – You have very beautiful stumps, Jonas. George did excellent work. Are you sorry to have only one leg stump?

            – Not now. I was disappointed at first when I expected to see two leg stumps. And the one I have is much shorter than I asked for. But after walking on my peg leg, I am grateful to George. I would not have been able to use a peg if I had two short stumps. I wanted to use stubbies, as you know. But I feel that being disabled and being able to wear a selection of artificial legs is very much to my advantage.

            – I think so too, young man. You are in the fortunate position of being able to choose.

            – And the same goes for my hooks. I can wear these beautiful leather arms or the steel frame ones with the large hooks, and I have the wooden hand from the window too. I will treasure that.

            – I am sorry that I was not able to make custom hooks for you, young man. I am grateful that you agreed to accept these museum pieces.

            – They are wonderful. Much more interesting than modern plastic and resin prosthetic limbs.

            – You may rest assured, young man, that those arms are completely unique, one of a kind.

Invia shot Walter a stern glance. Walter recognised the look and realised how close he was to revealing the truth.

            – So shall we agree that I will leave the day after tomorrow, if Ms Invia gives my stumps her approval?

            – Let us do that. Now, my dear. Have we anything for dessert?

            – I have some stewed rhubarb with chocolate sauce.

            – Excellent!

 

Jonas practised walking as much as possible. The peg leg held him firmly and he discovered how easy it was to alter direction by spinning himself on the peg. Despite that, he had a noticeable limp, which he accepted it was part of the persona he had wanted. His artificial arms were comfortable, stylish and distinctive. The leather on the sockets was a unique colour which lent an air of a hybrid, half natural, half mechanical. His hooks glinted as he moved and he delighted in seeing his flesh hands replaced by the hooks, first one and then even more shockingly, the other. Bilateral hook users were few and far between and certain to attract attention. Jonas assumed it would always be admiring attention.

 

The time had come. Jonas had ordered a taxi to collect him at ten. His bag was packed with his few clothes, his red boots, the steel frame hooks, the peg leg and the wooden hand. He was wearing the tan-coloured hooks and the wooden leg with its built-up boot. It made a stunning contrast with the white sports shoe on his other foot, but it was part of the normal outfit for a disabled man. A taxi arrived for the appointed time. Jonas shook hook to hand with Walter, and touched Invia’s cheek with his right hook.

            – Thank you for everything. Goodbye.

The taxi driver lifted his bag into the boot and assisted Jonas to draw his wooden leg into the car. He drove to the railway station where Jonas bought a series of tickets which would take him up country, home to the brewery.

 

The first train arrived, its old carriages with compartments rather than an open saloon. Jonas gripped his bag and stepped up into the carriage and slowly worked his way down the corridor searching for an empty seat. He found what he was looking for and pulled the door open. He immediately turned his attention to the passing scenery, knowing that the other occupants of the compartment would want to study him for a few moments. He watched the blurred landscape while his fellow passengers appraised his steel hooks and built-up boot. A teenager sitting opposite could not look away from the boot with its abnormal expanse of black leather. Jonas noticed him and grinned. He opened both hooks, linked them and let them settle in his lap.

 

Invia was curious to know why Walter had offered the boy the tan-coloured arms he had become so enamoured of.

            – It was time they were put to good use again. The boy will never know. There is no danger.

            – I hope he never questions why the leather sockets have no seam.

            – Don’t fret, my dear. Why would he suspect the leather sockets are the skin of another man’s arms?

 

 

THE LITTLE SHOP ON STUMP LANE

 

 

The Freakshow

 

THE FREAKSHOW

A Victorian Gothic Horror Story

by Doug UK

 

Billy was born in 1857, into a London celebrating British success in the three‑year horror of the Crimean War. He never knew his father and suspected that his mother had conceived him with a drunken returned soldier in the excitement at the end of the war. His mother had been a lady’s maid in a big house on Park Lane, but had been forced to leave her employment when her pregnancy was discovered.

Her work as a lady’s maid had included a great deal of sewing and mending, so she avoided the workhouse by taking in sewing work in their one‑room home in Vauxhall. To make ends meet, she sewed from morning to late at night and had little time for Billy, who roamed the streets all day. Billy soon found the best rubbish bins to dive into for food by crossing the river into fashionable Chelsea, and as long as he headed home at dusk each day and stayed clear of trouble with the police, his mother was content to let him roam. Despite living largely on food found in the rubbish bins of Kensington and Chelsea, Billy was a solidly‑built, almost fat boy, and loved nothing better than finding a box of stale buns in a Chelsea rubbish bin, sitting on the pavement and devouring them all.

The little boy grew up on the streets, and was a quiet kid, silently watching the crowds, keeping himself to himself. One day during his usual wanderings, when he was about twelve years old, Billy found himself outside the astonishing new store called Harrods in the Brompton Road. Although they were poor, and his mother knew he hunted for food from bins in affluent neighbourhoods, she forbade him from begging, and he never did. Outside Harrods, however, he encountered a beggar who had returned from the Crimea with missing legs.

Billy became obsessed by the sight of the shattered body of the man who begged close to Harrod’s door and after watching him for some time, plucked up the courage to talk to him.

“’Ere mate,” he said, “what happened to your legs?”

“I left ’em in Sebastopol,” grunted the ex-soldier. “What’s it to you?”

“I dunno,” said Billy, “but I ain’t never talked to a cripple before. How did you lose ’em?”

“Blown off by a cannon ball,” said the man. “Kids like you here in London have no idea what war is like, and the bloody Crimea was bloody awful. A mix of old‑fashioned horses and flashy officers with swords, and a load of these new‑fangled bloody cannons, and explosives, blowing everyone to smithereens.”

“But you didn’t die,” said Billy.

“No I didn’t, but it was a close run thing. There was this famous nurse, Florence Nightingale – ”

“I’ve heard of her,” said Billy. “My mum said she was like an angel.”

“I can’t deny it was lovely seeing a woman in all that dreadful death and dying, and she arranged for some of us who didn’t die to be loaded onto a boat at Balaklava harbour. Some of the other bastards who hadn’t died on the battlefield, or in the hospital, died on the voyage and we was seeing bodies being dumped overboard all through the voyage. But some of us survived, and was carried alive down the gangplank, only to find bugger‑all waiting for us. No-one wants half a man; no work, no jobs, nothing for us, just begging. Now skedaddle kid. You’re in the way and I need to shake my tin mug to get a few pennies from these toffs, not sit here talking to you. You ain’t got any money, have you?”

“No,” said Billy, “but I’ll come and find you tomorrow. Are you always in the same place?”

“Always.”

“What’s your name?”

“Dickie,” said the legless man. “Now fuck off.”

Just by Vauxhall Bridge there was a fruit and vegetable stall, a regular haunt of Billy’s on his way home. This evening he got an unusually large haul of carrot since a bag had burst, and the stall-holder had not bothered to pick up all the carrots which had fallen in the gutter. Finding a discarded box nearby, Billy picked up as many as he could.

“We’ll have carrots for a few days,” laughed his mother, “but that’s good. I can put them with the oats and make a better gruel than we’re used to.”

“I’m going to take some to this beggar I met today,” said Billy. “His name’s Dickie and he’s got no legs.”

“Got no legs?” said his mother.

“Left ’em in Sebastopol,” he said, “wherever that is.”

“In the Crimea,” said his mother, “where Florence Nightingale was looking after the poor injured men.”

“Yes – he said he met her,” said Billy, “but loads of the men died even if they were alive when they got on the boat to come home. Lots died on the voyage.”

“Poor sod,” said his mother. “Shot to bits in war, then reduced to begging back in London.”

“Can’t give him any money,” said Billy, “but I could take a few of these carrots.”

He found Dickie in the same place the next day. “What ’ave you got me?” said the legless man.

“Carrots,” said Billy.

“I ain’t a fucking donkey,” said Dickie.

“I’ll take ’em ’ome again,” said Billy.

“No leave ’em. I’ll eat ’em raw.” The legless man paused, looking at Billy. “’Ere,” he said, “You got a boner inside your shorts?”

“No,” said Billy, trying to push his erect cock out of sight.

“You ’ave!” laughed Dickie. “Fuck me! I never though being legless would have that effect on a lad.”

“I’m sorry,” said Billy. “I don’t know why…”

“You ever suck a man’s cock, boy?” said Dickie.

“No,” said Billy. He paused, swallowed, then looked the cripple in the eyes, “but I wouldn’t mind.”

“Tell you what,” said Dickie, “if you’ll do one or two errands for me, I’ll let you suck me off.”

“What sort of errands?”

“Takes me ages to drag myself along the pavement, so even when I’ve collected enough for some supper, it’s bloody hard work going to get it. Come back this evening when the shops are shutting and I’ll take you to where I sleep. It ain’t very nice, but I don’t think that will worry you. You get me a hot potato and then I’ll let you swing on my todger.”

Billy walked away, rubbing his very stiff cock, his heart beating at the thought of what was going to happen and certain that he couldn’t resist returning to the man at nightfall. As dusk was falling, he was back outside Harrods. With little more than a grunt, the legless man started dragging himself on his hands along the pavement. Billy followed slowly. As he watched the laborious progress of the legless man, his cock started to rise again. After a while, the man launched himself across the road, ignoring a Hackney, and headed down Hans Road. Billy knew this little road with its posh mews houses – this was where some of the best rubbish bins could be found.

The man crossed towards the gardens of Hans Place and to Billy’s astonishment, pulled one of the iron railings aside and clambered through into the garden. “Remember where the loose railing is,” said the man. “It’s the only way in or out for beggars like me.”

Pushing into what appeared to be impenetrable bushes, Billy found himself in a kind of nest, hidden from even the sharpest eyes. “This is it,” said Dickie. “My own little palace in Knightsbridge. Not as grand as some of the other palaces ’ere, but it’s mine.”

Dickie put his hand onto Billy’s crotch. “Still good and hard in here,” he said. “Never thought I’d excite a boy so easily. Now here’s three pence from today’s begging. There’s a hot potato stall on Sloan Street, do you know it?” Billy nodded. “Get me a good big one, and you’ll have your reward when you get back.”

Billy took the three coppers from Dickie. “I won’t be long. I just hope I can find how to get into here when I get back.”

“You’re a bright kid,” said Dickie. “I’m sure you’ll manage.”

Billy pushed out of the dense bushes, found the loose railing, and was soon running up Basil Street. He found the potato stall, handed over the three pennies and was given a big potato wrapped in newspaper. He found the loose railing, pushed through the bushes, and thrust the potato into the man’s hands.

“Well done kid. I can see we’re going to get along just fine. Can you imagine how long it would have taken me to go and get this own my own?”

Billy nodded breathlessly. His own cock was stiffer than it had ever been before and he couldn’t take his eyes off the ragged bag containing the man’s cock and the little that was left of his legs.

“OK,” said Dickie, “You’ve earned your reward.”

Shuffling from side to side, he pulled the ragged bag away, revealing a large and well-proportioned flaccid cock, nestling between the remnants of his thighs.

“Can I touch it?” said Billy.

“’Course you can, boy, and then suck it.”

“It’s ’cos you ain’t got legs,” said Billy, “that it makes me feel all strange and want to touch you; touch you where your legs used to be and touch your cock.”

“Now I want to enjoy this nice big potato while its hot,” said Dickie, “so I suggest you just lay yourself down with your face nice and close into my crotch and enjoy yourself.”

Billy pulled his own cock out of his ragged shorts, and with one hand on his own cock and one on Dickie’s, he lay down and pushed his face into the older man’s crotch, smelling his strong sweaty aroma. After a while, he licked the musky cock and took the head into his mouth.

Billy lost track of time as he sucked the cripple’s cock, and stroked his own. Both cocks were swelling and after a while Dickie had finished the potato and was laying back against the bushes. “Take it all, boy,” he said, and thrust into Billy’s mouth. Billy struggled not to choke. Suddenly the man exploded into his throat. At the same time, Billy’s own cock shot a load of young cum into his hand. Billy lay still, gently sucking on the big cock as it became flaccid again.

Dickie stroked the hair on the head nestled between his destroyed thighs. “Well done lad. Was that your first time?”

“Yes, sir,” said Billy. “I liked it.”

“So did I, boy. It don’t happen to cripples like me very often. Now you’d better get yourself home and think up a story to tell your mother why you’re late. I’ve got a cigarette some toff gave me a couple of days ago. I’m going to enjoy it while I can. Oh, and here’s another penny. See if the potato chap’s got a little one to eat on the way home.”

That night Billy lay awake on the pile of rags which was his bed, unable to sleep. He’d discovered so much in a very short time, not only that he loved sucking cock, but that the idea of having no legs was very sexy. Just thinking about the cripple gave him another hard-on in bed, but with his mother sleeping close by in the tiny room, he couldn’t do anything about it.

Billy visited the legless beggar regularly after that first encounter and became his friend. Sometimes there was very little in his tin cup and Billy could not get him any more than a hot potato; sometimes there was more and Billy went to another food stall, perhaps for a meat pie or a piece of fried fish. Once or twice, when Dickie had had an especially lucky day, there would be enough for Billy to buy supper for them both.

The hidden nest in the bushes of Hans Place was the scene of much sexual activity. Billy became addicted to sucking Dickie and loved to caress the remnants of the older man’s legs; but whatever they did, Billy was never satisfied. He didn’t tell Dickie, but deep down, he knew he wanted to be like the cripped man and lose his legs and walk on hands and arse like Dickie. He began to fantasise about sitting on a railway line at one of the new stations being built in London and having one of the new‑fangled trains run over him, but he was scared he’d only be killed and not live to enjoy the legless body he craved.

As he grew older, his mother became used to him returning home later at night, and he lived almost independently of her. He found labouring jobs around Vauxhall and often helped out at the dairy farm at the end of the road where they lived, but as he’d never learned to read, he couldn’t aim for any better employment. He was pleased, however, after he’d had a few days’ work to be able to take some money to Dickie and buy their supper. As far as he knew, Dickie had no other friends or family, and the cripple’s life was confined to begging outside Harrods and sleeping in Hans Place Gardens.

One late afternoon, he arrived at Harrods’ door. There was no sign of Dickie. As he walked down to Hans Place, he was horrified to smell smoke. Turning the corner, he could see the bushes and trees of the garden square were burning fiercely. Just as he got there, a horse-drawn fire engine arrived and several policemen came running. “Hey, kid, get back. Don’t go near. It’s not safe!”

A dreadful vision came into Billy‘s head: had Dickie had a cigarette given to him, and set the whole thicket of bushes on fire with him inside?

The heat of the fire forced Billy back against the wall of the nearby houses. Servants and housemaids came crowding out to see what the commotion was about, and more fire engines arrived. Tears pricked Billy’s eyes as he realised that Dickie could not have survived the fire. Billy stood transfixed by the conflagration, shaking with fear and sorrow. As darkness fell, the fire was under control and most of the servants and onlookers melted away to their chores.

Billy remained, a solitary inconspicuous boy, crouched down in a shadowy corner of the street, and he remained there all night. He fell asleep for a while, waking suddenly to find it was daylight.  The firemen were rolling up hoses, and of the gardens there was nothing but a blackened smouldering mess. Of Dickie and his nest there was no sign.

Billy wandered the streets aimlessly for much of the day and finally found himself at the door of the room he shared with his mother. He stumbled in.

“I hear there was a big fire in Knightsbridge last night,” said his mother.

“Yes, I saw it. I was there.”

“That beggar you know, did you see him?”

“No mother. In fact, I think it might be that he was in the fire. It was the bushes and trees of Hans Place that burned, and if he was there, he could not have survived.” Billy burst into tears. “It’s not fair mum, is it? He gets blown up in a war, and then burned to death in a fire. What kind of life was that? And no-one except me will even remember him.”

Billy fell onto the pile of rags that was his bed and soon fell into a deep sleep. For some days, he felt lost. He missed the casual sex as much as he missed the strange friendship he’d had with Dickie; and most of all, he yearned to lose his legs and become legless like his dead friend. It was not far to walk to the ramshackle terminus at Waterloo. Several train lines intersected there in strange ways, reflecting the chaotic muddles of railway development. He saw how steam trains could not stop quickly nor easily and realised that even if the driver saw him sitting with his legs across the rail, the train would not stop in time and he’d be crushed. But how could he do it without dying?

Billy remained despondent for some time, mourning for his lost friend, and increasingly obsessed with becoming legless. His only consolation was in food, and he continued to eat excessively, and become fatter and fatter – a noticeable exception to the usual kind of late-Victorian impoverished youth.

One day his mother had news which jolted him out of his depression. “They’re looking for strong blokes to work as navvies on the railway. All around Waterloo, they’re putting in all kinds of new train lines. Most of the chaps there are Irish but I’m sure they’ll take you on as you’re big and strong.”

Working on the railway projects seemed a good idea to Billy. He would be close to moving trains and carriages, and the rough working conditions meant that serious accidents were not uncommon. The work might be hard and dirty, but he was one step nearer to his goal of leglessness. He soon found himself in a team of navvies shovelling huge barrowloads of stones to make the track bed of new railway lines. Great gangs of brickies were building cavernous railway arches to support the trains from Vauxhall into Victoria, and Billy’s gang was soon on top of the arches filling in vast chasms with rubble and laying new track work. Immediately beside the area where they were sweating were working lines, bringing suburban trains in to Waterloo. Billy liked working close to moving trains as he knew they would one day bring him the amputations he desired.

The gang of mainly Irish navvies were all tough and strong men, but mostly skinny and muscled. Billy, on the other hand, was not as strong as his mates, but was by far the biggest and got used to the rest of the gang calling him “Fattie”.

The pay was good for those who worked hard, and Billy was not only able to give cash to his mother but also to indulge his love of food. His appetite was enormous, and the rough workman’s cafes in the area learned his extreme eating habits. He was surprised to find he enjoyed the company of the Irish men, and soon became a popular and hard-working member of the gang. He was almost a kind of mascot for the gang as he was so noticeably fatter than even the toughest of the Irish navvies.

 After some months working on the lines, and becoming well-known to his mates in the gang, he was ready for his ‘accident’. Checking that several workers were close by, he suddenly stumbled, falling over his own shovel, and fell into the path of a passing train. Just as he planned, both legs were severed above his knees, but the loss of his left arm as well was unplanned.

“Fucking hell!” came a shout from the other men. “Fattie’s copped it.”

“Get your belt off and pull it round his leg as tight as you can,” shouted the shocked foreman, “and someone else do the other leg, and his bloody arm. Be quick or he’ll bleed to death.”

“He’s fucking dying,” said another.

“Not yet, if oiy can help it,” said the foreman, his thick Irish accent even stronger in the emergency. “He’s our moite and we’ll do what we can to save ’im.”

Billy had chosen his location carefully, close to the hospital which he hoped would save his life. The men soon had him on a tarpaulin and ran across the road to St Thomas’ Hospital.

“Stand back! Look out! Injured man coming through,” shouted the foreman, and within a few minutes of his accident, Billy was in the hospital and a doctor came running to see what the commotion was about.

“He’s still alive,” said the foreman.

“Only just,” said the doctor grimly. “Whoever pulled these tourniquets tight saved his life. Now all we have to do is clean him up and stop the bleeding.”

“Is he going to live?” asked the foreman.

“God knows,” said the doctor. “We’ll do our best, but it will be touch and go for several days. We won’t know if he’ll survive for at least a week or more. Find out if he has family and get a message to them.”

They knew he lived “down Vauxhall way”, but none knew his address, nor if he had family. His mother, worried that he hadn’t come home for two nights, went to the hut beside the men’s work area to ask about him.

“Oh missus, we’re glad to see you. Your Billy was in an accident a couple of days ago, but he’s hurt very bad and not bin able to tell anyone about where he lives or his family.”

Billy had been semi-conscious for the time since the accident and appeared to be asleep when at last his mother found him in the poor ward at St Thomas’s. She sat with him for a while, but he showed no sign of knowing she was there.

“Give it a week,” said the nurse. “Sorry to tell you, but by the end of the week, we’ll know if he’s going to survive.”

“Or die,” said his mother grimly.

When Billy woke up he was very confused at first, but slowly realised where he was and what had happened. He lay silently for a while, listening to the bizarre sounds which filled the air of the poor ward, gradually remembering what he’d done and recognising that he’d better appear to be very upset and not delighted by his amputations.

“Are you awake, Billy?” asked the nurse.

“I think so miss,” groaned Billy. “I bloody hurt all over and I’ve got a raging thirst.”

“I’ll get you water.”

After she brought some, she asked Billy if he knew what had happened. “Not really,” he pretended. “I think I remember falling. How long have I been here?”

“Nearly two weeks, Billy,” said the nurse. “Your mother’s been to see you once or twice. She was very upset because she thought you were going to die.”

“I ain’t dying,” said Billy firmly. “I’m going live a few years yet.”

“It won’t be easy,” said the nurse. “You’ve lost your legs and most of your left arm as well.”

“Is that why my arm hurts so much?” said Billy. “You mean it ain’t there?”

The nurse nodded.

“I’m starving,” said Billy. “Ain’t there nothing to eat in this place?”

The nurse laughed. “Your mother said it would be a sign that you’re getting better when you asked for food. There’s only very basic rations here in the hospital, but when your mother comes, you can ask her for extra food.”

Despite his extensive injuries, Billy’s appetite was undiminished, and his mother brought him iced buns and other treats. She called in the afternoon, often after she returned from delivering recent mending or sewing and had a few pence to buy treats for her boy. Slowly his massive wounds healed, and the day came when his mother found him sitting in a chair beside his bed.

The nurse spoke to them. “Sorry, but this is all we can do, and we can’t keep you here any longer. This is the poor ward, and we depend on charity. You’ll have to leave.”

His mother looked alarmed. “How are we going to get you home?”

Billy said, “I’ve been thinking about this. Mother, you know the workman’s hut, just by where they’re working? Well, go and bring a couple of the lads with a bit of tarpaulin. Then they can carry me out.”

“Oh dear, how awful,” said his mother, little knowing how much Billy was looking forward to being out in the world as a legless cripple.

The Irish foreman was pleased to help, and with two more of the navvies, they soon had Billy back at home in Vauxhall. Depositing him on the pile of rags he called his bed, the foreman asked if there was anything more they could do.

“Yes,” said Billy. “Come and get me in the morning on your way to work and carry me up to Waterloo. I reckon I ought to do well begging at the station entrance, and as the station gets bigger and busier, and I get established in my pitch, a legless beggar with one arm should get good pickings.”

Billy settled into the daily routine, with his old workmates carrying him to the station early every morning, and back home at dusk. The new commuter trains brought more and more workers into the station and many of them regularly gave Billy coins. Some offered food and a few of his “regulars” started to balance a fresh bun on his begging cup.

“Christ, Fattie,” said the foreman one day, “I do believe you’re getting even fatter. You’d better not eat too much more or even a gang of Irish navvies won’t be able to carry you.”

Billy giggled. His obsession for being an amputee seemed to have developed into a desire to be extremely fat and he loved the idea of an increasingly bigger gang of men needed to carry him back and forth from his home.

He became aware of one particular man who he thought was befriending him. The man was distinctive in a green velvet frock coat, battered top hat and unusual high-heeled boots. He had a strong Cockney accent, and Billy was interested in the man with his flashy clothes, who often gave him a few coins and a cheery greeting. 

One day – Billy had been begging for almost a year – the man approached with a box and set in on the pavement in front of Billy. To his surprise, the man then sat down beside him.

“I’ve been watching you for a while,” said the man, “and I’d like to make you a proposition.”

“Me?” said Billy. “What kind of a proposition?”

“I’ve noticed that you’ve got quite an appetite,” said the man. “Look in the box.”

Billy lifted the lid to discover a dozen iced buns. “I don’t understand,” he said. “What’s going on?”

“That’s just a little present, to help say ‘hello’. I’m Bertie Smart. I expect you’ve heard of me.”

“No,” said Billy, confused.

“Bertie Smart of Smart’s Sideshow and Amusements.”

“You mean a freakshow?”

“In a way, I suppose so, but it’s got class. It’s on Oxford Street, the posh end near Marble Arch, the up-and-coming area.”

“What’s it to me?” said Billy.

The man leaned close to Billy. “I got a vacancy for a fat boy. You could come and work for me. Much better than sitting here on the pavement in all this filth; and you’d get paid, and you’d have a bed to sleep in.”

“I’ve never slept in a bed in my life,” said Billy, “except when I was in the hospital.”

“I thought not,” said the man. “Now, what’s your name?

“Billy.”

“Excellent,” said Bertie. “Good name for a fat boy.”

“What would I have to do?” said Billy.

“Nothing,” said Bertie. “Sit on a comfortable chair, smile and let people feed you buns.”

“Sounds alright,” said Billy.

“Best offer you’ll ever get.” Bertie Smart leaned in very close to Billy’s face. “There’s only one thing. You’ll have to have your other arm off.”

“Shit!” exclaimed Billy. “I don’t know about that.”

“Think about it, Billy. Now enjoy the box of buns I’ve brought you, and think about it all night Billy, and I’ll come by tomorrow. You can stay here in the gutter begging for pennies, or you can come and work for me, a clean comfortable life, with all you can eat, and nice clean clothes, and a bed at night. Think about it.”

As he was carried back to the grubby room in Vauxhall, Billy’s mind was in a whirl. The idea of a comfortable bed, good clothes and plenty of food was very tempting – almost, it appeared, a life of luxury. He’d no longer be a burden on his mother, and no longer dependent upon begging. He thought about having his remaining limb removed. He was attracted to the idea and since he was already almost unable to move, losing his right arm and hand would not be such a shock – and it would force his new friends to care for him. In the darkness of the night, he was attracted to losing his fourth limb, and in the morning, after a sleepless night weighing up the arguments for and against risking everything with Bertie Smart, he had made up his mind.

“Ma,” he said, “I’ve got an offer to go and join a freakshow. I’ll have a bed to sleep in, good meals and decent clothes. I’ve decided I’m going to give it a go.”

His mother was calm, recognising that a great deal of responsibility would be lifted from her shoulders. “Very well, my boy: if it’s what you want, I’ll not stop you. When will you start?”

“Today, I think. I’ll go to the station as usual and the freakshow people will come for me.” He didn’t tell his mother that the offer was subject to having his arm amputated.

The navvies called as usual and hefted Billy onto his tarpaulin. “Christ, you’re getting heavier and heavier,” they said.

“You’ll not be doing this again after today,” said Billy. “I’m off to see the world!”

The men laughed, thinking it a joke, but when they went to fetch him at the end of the day, he was gone.

Bertie Smart had arrived with a couple of workmen pulling a handcart.

“Well young man,” said Bertie, “are you with me or not?”

“I’m with you,” grinned Billy.

Bertie’s assistants did not speak a word – they appeared to be deaf and dumb – and Bertie signalled to them to hoist Billy onto the handcart, which they did with considerable effort using his old tarpaulin. Bertie signalled again and they set off, the two men pulling, Bertie walking beside Billy. They crossed Westminster Bridge and Billy said, “I used to wander about round here when I was a nipper, but I didn’t go much further north.”

Bertie looked at his new specimen. He really was fat and without three of his limbs had almost no movement. He had had a vacancy for a fat man since the last fat boy died, and a room and a booth ready for a new occupant. Without his limbs, Billy would make an even better attraction than the previous fattie.

The strange group made its way through some of the grandest streets of London: along Whitehall, up the Haymarket and Regent Street, and eventually turned left into Oxford Street. Bertie was now on his home turf, and several shopkeepers acknowledged him by tipping their hats as they passed by. Eventually, just before the Marble Arch, they reached a garish shop with the whole frontage covered by an enormous brightly painted sign proclaiming it to be “Bertie Smart’s Sideshow and Amusements”.

They were met by a tall and extremely skinny man. Bertie introduced him. “This is Monsieur Jacques. He’s going to be your best friend, and servant. He’ll do anything and everything for you.” Bertie did not pronounce the man’s name as if he was French, but “Mon-sewer Jay-queez”.

“Pleased to meet you Billy,” said Jacques. “Mister Bertie told me all about you last night. Now we’ll take you down to your room and let you rest after your journey. You must be black and blue bumping along in that old handcart.”

“Black and blue and probably hungry,” agreed Bertie. “Jacques, as soon as Billy is settled, make sure he has a good big lunch.”

With a great deal of dumbshow for the two silent workers, Jacques supervised moving Billy through the shop, which seemed to consist of a number of curtained booths, all still closed, and to a narrow staircase down to the cellar. The men were unsure how to get Billy down, but he said, “I can do this myself. Put me down on the floor.”

With his one arm, he bumped down from step to step until he was at the bottom. Guided by Jacques, he made his way slowly along a passageway and into a small room which was to be his living quarters. It would have appeared squalid to many people, but after the room which he had shared with his mother all those years, it was very attractive – all the more so because of a big bed which dominated the room.

“Is this for me? I’ve never had a bed before,” said Billy, “but I’ll need help getting up onto it.”

The two silent men heaved Billy onto the bed and he sat contemplating his new situation. Bertie entered the room. “Will this do, Billy-boy?”

“It’s splendid,” said Billy. “What happens next?”

“Lunch,” announced Bertie, “and then a siesta, I think. You haven’t forgotten the deal, have you?”

“To lose my right arm?” said Billy.

“Yes, fat boy, it’s coming off this very afternoon. I want you ready for exhibition as soon as possible and there will be a little time of recovery from the amputation before we display you to the paying public.”

“How’s it going to happen?” asked Billy, a little fearfully.

“Nothing’s impossible in the London underworld,” said Bertie. “A very nice surgeon I know will be here later and he’ll see to everything. You’ll be sound asleep, of course, and Jacques here will look after you as you recover.”

“I’m feeling a bit frightened,” said Billy.

Bertie laughed. “Nothing to be frightened of. I take very good care of all my charges, and I look forward to the day you join my stable of freaks.”

Jacques appeared with a large warm meat pie for Billy. “I’ll feed you,” said Jacques. “After all, when your other arm’s gone, you’ll be totally dependent on being fed by me. You’re lucky. You’ll get lots to eat. The master wants you to be as fat as possible. Me? I get almost nothing. I’m advertised as the human skeleton and there’s nothing of me under these clothes. A pie this size would last me a week.”

“Show me,” said Billy.

Jacques took off most of his clothes. He was wearing a little golden posing pouch which appeared to contain a large penis, but nothing else about him could be considered large. He was the skinniest man Billy had ever seen. Every rib stood out prominently. “Bloody hell, Jacques,” said Billy. “It’s a wonder you can stand up.”

“I surprise myself sometimes,” said Jacques. “Now Doctor Victor will be here soon. I must get you undressed ready for him. You can keep your pants on, he’ll only want your top half exposed.”

Doctor Victor turned out to be a mousey little man. He arrived with an apprentice and a bag of tools. “Christ, another fat one,” he exclaimed. “Wasn’t like this in the Crimea. All the boys were skinny, and amputations fast and frequent. I held the record for the most legs chopped off in a day,” he continued proudly. “We’ll soon have that arm off, and the other stump while we’re at it. Master Smart wants you to have nicely rounded shoulders with no sign of arms or stumps.”

Despite the apparently horrific situation, Billy found himself sporting a huge erection. Doctor Victor noticed immediately. “Oh, you’re one of those,” he said, “who think amputation is erotic. We’ll see what you think when your arm’s gone and you’re only a fat torso.”

He decided to operate on the floor, and his apprentice unrolled a large oilcloth. Billy used his right arm for the very last time, dragging himself into position on the floor. “Now Monsieur Jacques, you’re going to be in charge of the chloroform. Hold this bag under Billy’s nose. There’s a sponge inside and your job is to keep the sponge moist with the chloroform and keep Billy asleep, but beware you don’t sniff it yourself and knock yourself out. We don’t want that. My apprentice here is in charge of the blood. There will be some, but not too much as he’ll be catching the blood vessels and tying them off as we find them.”

Doctor Victor took out a bottle of disinfectant and splashed it around liberally. “We got through gallons of this stuff in the Crimea,” he said cheerfully, “but we still lost a lot of men.” Billy looked alarmed. “Don’t worry, son. This is routine. We won’t lose you. Now are you ready?”

Billy nodded.

“Chloroform, Monsieur Jacques, if you please, and away we go.”

Good as his word, Doctor Victor was a very fast worker, slicing into Billy’s shoulder, quickly finding the top of the humerus.  He did not saw the bone but removed it entirely from its socket. The apprentice was very efficient in controlling the blood, and it seemed no time before the doctor was sewing up the wound with neat stitches. Hardly had the operation finished than he’d moved to the other side, opened Billy’s left shoulder and fished out the remnants of Billy’s left humerus and closed that wound. The whole procedure was over in less than half an hour. The apprentice used several rolls of bandage to bind the wounds.

“I’m slowing down in my old age,” grinned Doctor Victor. “There was a time when I could do half a dozen arms in half an hour. Now Jacques, keep him asleep for an hour then let him wake up. Here’s a dose of laudanum to give him when he wakes. Don’t touch the bandages for a week, then use warm water to gently remove them. The wounds should have healed, and you don’t want to pull them open when you take the bandages off. He’s young, so he should recover quickly. I’d usually say he’d be up and about in a couple of weeks, but of course without arms and legs, he’ll never be able to be up and about. I hope he likes being such a total cripple. I’ll leave him in your tender hands.”

The two deaf and dumb servants were called to help get Billy into his bed, the apprentice rolled up the oilcloth, and the Doctor departed. Bertie appeared at the doorway. “All done?” he asked.

“Very nicely,” said Jacques. “Now all we’ve got to do is look after him and get him fit and well.”

Billy woke slowly with a great deal of groaning. He knew from his days at St Thomas’s that he’d be in agony but knowing about it didn’t make it any easier to deal with. Jacques sat with him and fed him small doses of laudanum, and he fell in and out of fitful sleep. For a while, Billy had nothing but water to drink but they knew he was getting better, just as the nurse in the hospital had found, when he said he was hungry.

Bertie was delighted. “He’s hungry – hurrah! That means he’s getting better. We’ll soon have him on display. Well done, Monsieur Jacques! Another good job.”

When he could sit, Billy began to receive visitors, and met his fellow freaks. The first to arrive was the bearded lady, soon followed by the Siamese twins, a pair of giggling young women. They seemed very pleasant and welcomed Billy to their strange community.

Next to visit was a particularly handsome and well-muscled young man. “Wotcher,” said the man, “I’m Thor; and I know you’re Billy, although I bet Master Bertie will change your name.”

Billy looked at Thor. “You don’t look like a freak,” he said. “You’re a very handsome man.”

Thor laughed. “I don’t look like a freak, that’s for sure, but this is what I do.”

He produced a long sword and tipping his head back, proceeded to swallow it.

“That’s brilliant,” said Billy. Thor pulled the sword out and grinned.

“It’s not the only thing I can put down my throat,” said Thor. “I’m fantastic at swallowing cock. Now you have no hands, I bet you’d love to get your cock sucked, wouldn’t you?”

“I can’t tell you how much I need it,” said Billy. “Getting amputations gives me a constant hard on, and Jacques doesn’t want to know. I am pleased to see you, Thor. I’ve been desperate. I’d be so pleased if you want to get down there right now. There’s all the saved-up spunk from the erections I had when I was getting amputated.”

Billy had no idea just how brilliant it would be to be sucked by such an expert. He knew he had a big cock and was amazed to see the whole thing slide down Thor’s throat so easily. Billy was aware that Thor had no gag reflex. He could push hard and deep into the man’s throat. Gradually he felt his climax growing, and when he came, it lasted longer than he could have imagined.

Panting heavily, Billy was speechless for a while. “I hope I haven’t burst my stitches. I’ll try suck yours when I’m recovered from my operations,” he said.

Bertie put his head round the door. “What’s going on here?”

“Just lubricating my throat, boss,” said Thor. “I think I’m going to need to do it daily with Mister Billy.”

“Well done,” said Bertie, “I like all my stable to be happy. Now let Billy get some sleep.”

Billy was nervous when it came to peeling off his bandages, and he saw his new body for the first time. Jacques was very gentle and sponged Billy’s shoulders with warm water. “We’ll soon have you presentable,” he said. “I think it’s time for Master Bertie to design your costume for display. I expect he’s been thinking about giving you a stage name.”

A couple of days later, Bertie appeared with some carefully drawn images. “I think we’ll start off with this Tweedledee-Tweedledum idea,” said Bertie, “although I’ve got other ideas. I’m not spending money on lots of outfits as I assume you’ll get bigger and fatter and soon outgrow this first costume. I’ve been thinking about stage names. I’ve got a very simple idea: we’ll just call you Big Boy. Is that OK for you?”

“I love it,” said Billy, “and as soon as I’m properly healed and got my appetite fully back, I want to get bigger. By the way, you know that Jacques can’t get me in and out of bed on his own? We need the deaf and dumb boys every time; and they’ll be needed to get me up and down the stairs.”

“Don’t worry, Big Boy. Deaf and Dumb are here to do all the heavy lifting and they’ll be ready and willing to carry you about.”

The bearded lady, Lizzie, visited Billy in his room to offer her services. “Poor thing, you must be very frustrated, lying here all day,” she started, exposing her ample bosom to Billy. Billy chuckled. “Sorry, Lizzie. You have lovely tits but I’m not that way inclined.”

“Bugger!” she laughed. “I suppose Troy got here first. Well, never mind. I have enough fun with Monsieur Jacques to keep us both happy. He’s got a lovely cock.”

To any outsider, the strange community living at the sideshow appeared to be very odd indeed, but for its residents, it was a safe, happy and almost luxurious existence. Few of them could have any life outside the freakshow. There were no opportunities other than travelling circuses which would employ them. Bertie Smart cared for his bizarre troupe and knew that he got their best performances by treating them well.

The sideshow was often crowded and Big Boy became a particular favourite. His lack of limbs and vast bulk gave young Victorian ladies a strange thrill. Deaf or Dumb would sit outside Big Boy’s booth providing, at considerable extra cost for the punters, a long stick with an iced bun on the end, which they could offer Billy as he sat helpless on his throne. Thus he was supplied with an endless supply of sticky buns, as well as the generous meal Bertie provided. Soon his initial Tweedledum costume was too tight for him and Bertie had new, roomier clothes made: an enormous baby costume, a giant soldier outfit, and the crowd’s favourite, a giant Humpty Dumpty suit.

Billy settled into a happy regime: Troy woke him with a long and satisfying blow job every morning, followed by a hearty breakfast; Jacques dressed him in his costume for the day; Deaf and Dumb carried him upstairs and set him in his booth ready for the afternoon viewing when he’d eat the iced buns supplied by the public; and the day ended with Jacques feeding him a big meat pie. Not once did he regret losing his arms and legs. Now and then he remembered the beggar who started him on this bizarre lifestyle. He was sad that Dickie’s life had been so grim and rejoiced in finding a way to thoroughly enjoy limbless life.

 

THE FREAKSHOW