The Carver
by Guy AdamsFlesh parts like the petals of an exotic orchid, flourishing and blooming at the touch of his scalpel. With delicate strokes, he peels away layers; skin, muscle, and fatty tissue falling like onion segments. Stripping the body back to its basic form; fresh and without identity, the wet core shared by all.
He pushes his hands deep into the warm center, steam rising in the cool flat where he plies his trade. This is one of many bolt holes. There are some attempts at decoration, tatty show bills hang from browning sticky tape; Casablanca, Gone With The Wind, Meet Me in St. Louis; old movies, romantic times. Rhett Butler ignores the crimson splatter that stains his left cheek; O'Hara's breasts are all he cares about. An armchair sulks in the corner, looking as if it came second in a street fight some years back. He could sew closed its wounds, but it feels too much like work, so he leaves it. He spends so little time in it, perhaps an hour with a book or watching an old movie on the portable T.V. in the corner before bedding down on his camp bed. His abilities are rare and the scarcity keeps him busy.
They call him the Carver, those that call him at all. A theatrical sobriquet, but accurate. That's just how he likes it, faceless, professional, that slight hint of melodrama.
Within the hot cavity, his hands move swiftly, knotting and rewiring the network of biomass that skulks there. The body twitches as his fingers send alien commands through the nervous system, responding like a marionette to the deft and authoritative commands of his tugging. The Carver smiles as the body smiles, a little tomfoolery to make the work pass easier. The body winks as he twitches a nerve, making him chuckle. Such a cheerful fellow, not at all like his reputation. The patient's name is Nikolai Korsopov - although he's not supposed to know that. He is from the old country. The Carver has always kept an eye on the Russian Mafia's business here in his adoptive home. Like a loyal supporter at an away game, he likes to follow his side.
He makes a mental note to give the man a handsome face - a little free extra. It's the least he can do.
He withdraws his hands from the body, the flesh rippling and reforming in response to the orders he has given it, and stands back to watch. He lights a cigarette, wet fingers staining the filter red. Standing there for a moment, he notes the reformation of muscle, the subtle shift of skin tone. It never ceases to please him, this dance of the flesh, the baseness and carnality combined with a sense of creation. The body, flayed bare, showing off its most intimate details in a private performance, a peep show of meat. Finally the skin folds back into place; coyly, the dancer takes its bow.
Finishing his cigarette, he observes the finished product, blank and formless, waiting for the sculptor's hands to give it form.
He accepts the challenge, stepping forward with blades at the ready. He slits a mouth, the flesh parting to reveal a zipper row of clean white teeth. He gouges open the eye sockets, plunging his fingers into the holes to clean and smooth the edges, inserting a pair of glistening eyeballs, corneas a perfect blue. They roll and blink fresh lids, settling into their new home. He pulls and kneads the flesh, forcing it into a landscape of laughter lines and crow's feet, wrenching out a nose, nostrils small and regularly shaped.
Standing back, he notes the balance, the slightly off-kilter mirror image that will give his face realism. Subtle variations marking one side from the other. Satisfied, he reaches for needle and thread, stitching in a small and well-trimmed beard, a distinguished flash of white at the corners of the mouth. Some use machines for this, but he is a craftsman, preferring the control and freedom of the hand, the luxury of expression.
From the face he moves to the body, sculpting a fit physique: strong chest, rounded nipples, a flat stomach. Trim but not excessively muscular.
He forms the genitalia, pulling a good length (after all, when starting from scratch, why not be generous?). Some more stitching and the torso is complete: a light dusting of chest hair, thick pubic thatch tapering up and in towards a slightly inverted belly button. The legs take very little: hair, of course, the sculpting of the muscle beneath the skin; simple work.
With the addition of hair on the scalp his work is complete, a newly formed figure that will be unrecognizable by either the authorities or rival gangs.
Grasping the skull firmly in both hands, he probes the pressure points, jolting life back into the body. The man convulses, his first lungful of air sucked deeply and violently. The body shakes and tumbles to the floor, senses fighting to regain control.
The Carver lights another cigarette and walks out of the door. He hates the birth; life bastardising his creation, turning it into a foul, sweating, shitting mess. It doesn't take long. A few minutes of spastic writhing, and then he takes in the air and thinks of home.
Leaning over the balcony, he watches a woman struggle with carrier bags as she digs in her handbag for her keys. Idly he notes her details: the thin dark hair, cut neat and bland, the small frame, well-built yet unimpressive. The short nervous steps betray a skittish nature, a tense woman. He smiles and wonders how he could improve on what he sees, how he could make her more powerful, more alluring. This is one of his favorite pastimes. He refuses to acknowledge nature as anything more than a cheap hack, a back street weaver of flesh. The woman succeeds in getting the door open and vanishes from view. Tossing his cigarette over the balcony, he steps back into the flat to collect his fee.
© Guy Adams
Guy Adams has given up the nonsense world of acting for the foolishness of writing. He is clearly a liar at heart and enjoys making stuff up. He is the author of the novel More Than This and the novella Deadbeat: Makes You Stronger (shortlisted for the best novella in this years BFS Awards), as well as the forthcoming Life On Mars: The Official Companion, which keeps him in gin. He is partly responsible for the publishing company Humdrumming and can be found waffling self importantly (and frequently obscenely) there.