Drawn Up From Deep Places

To the river!

BOWKER

That’s right—the river!

PURL

(As they drag him past)

Mrs. Bentham, for the love of God, the constables—

BOWKER, LEAN, POACHER

The river! The river! The river!

Chanting it, a ROLL OF THUNDER blends all their voices together in a SINGLE HOWL. They seize PURL and drag him SCREAMING from the room. The door SLAMS.

MRS. BENTHAM

Doctor! Doctor!

(Dazed)

But they can’t—my God, it’s monstrous. It’s not his bag, it couldn’t be.

JACK

No.

MRS. BENTHAM

It simply couldn’t be, can’t they see that? It’s just not his!

JACK

No, you’re quite correct: It isn’t.

MRS. BENTHAM

(Turns, finally hearing him)

And how would you know, exactly?

JACK

Because it’s mine.

MRS. BENTHAM is shocked into silence. We hear FOOTSTEPS, as JACK approaches the desk. Something has changed in his voice; “Stephen,” whatever there was of him to begin with, is gone. The KNIVES RATTLE as he runs a finger across them.

JACK

My father gave me these. Said my talent was for surgery. Anatomy lessons—practice on the dead to make perfect on the living. To cure death itself, as though that were even possible. His whole life through, he never gave up trying. But . . . I did.

(Picks up the JAR)

My mother said this was the one thing no one could cure, and she was right. Something inside, the wonderful secret. Blood. Babies. It turned against her, and she died.

He dashes the jar on the floor, suddenly; it SHATTERS, SPLASHING over MRS. BENTHAM’S boots. She draws back, with a CRY OF HORROR.