by James Barrie
‘Sorry,’ Milton said.
‘Sorry?’ Purpleman said. ‘You’re sorry? I have tried to bring some love and laughter to this city. I have tried to bring out the awesomeness in everyone. But look at them.’ He waved his hands dramatically at the crowd around him. ‘All I see is hatred. I have failed in my mission. Now I am going home. I quit… No longer will Purpleman be the object of ridicule. No longer will he bring smiles to the faces of those both young and old. I am going home.’
Purpleman threw his purple hat onto the ground and then walked away. The crowd stood in silence, knowing that they would never see him again and that they were partly to blame.
Milton watched as Purpleman disappeared into the crowd. He then turned and began to make his way in the opposite direction, after Miles. But a hand grabbed his shoulder and spun him round.
‘You’re not going anywhere,’ one of the security guards said. ‘There’s a police van on its way. You’re going back inside…’
‘You don’t understand,’ Milton said. ‘There’s a plot to blow up the Minster. My brother Miles is behind it. We need to stop him.’
‘You want us to believe that?’ The security guard laughed. ‘You’re going back inside, mate.’
The other security guard approached. On his jacket he wore insignia that read, ‘Eboracum Security’. ‘Not such a big shot, are we now?’
Milton pushed the security guard squarely in the chest so that he fell against his partner. Then he spun round and began to run.
A York Ghost Story
Theodore followed Miles into the crowd that was heading towards the Minster. The shoes and boots drew ever tighter around him. He slipped between the protestors, dodging footwear from all sides while trying to keep sight of the blue rucksack as it moved through the crowd. But soon the rucksack disappeared.
He kept to the side of a pub. At cat’s eye level, he read:
‘IT WAS HERE I WAS BORN.
IT IS HERE WHERE THEY SERVE
THE BEST PIE IN THE CITY OF YORK.’
GUY FAWKES
I may well have to head back there and sample one of these pies, Theodore thought, once I have stopped Miles carrying out whatever heinous deed he has set his heart on.
He noted that the pub was unimaginatively called the Guy Fawkes Inn, for it was here that Fawkes is reported to have been born in 1570, in the shadow of York Minster and across the street from the church where he was baptised, St Michael Le Belfrey.
Ahead of him, Theodore spotted a very tall man wearing a top hat standing on the lawn off College Street. He must have been ten feet tall. In front of the very tall man there was a large crowd. He must be wearing some contraptions on his legs to be so tall, Theodore realised.
Theodore spied Oliver Bartholomew leaning against the trunk of a large tree in the shadow of York Minster. In his hand he had a two litre bottle of cider. Theodore slipped among the crowd gathered in front of the very tall man. He didn’t want to be snatched by Oliver again.
People were packed tightly around him. He spotted a raised plinth about two feet above the ground. He jumped up on top of the bronze plinth.
A plan of York Minster was portrayed on the plinth. Theodore padded across a bright red circle that had ‘YOU ARE HERE,’ written below it. The red circle had an aureole of shiny metal around it from people putting their finger on it.
Theodore entered the Minster from the east end. He passed by the entrance to the crypt and the quire, before settling down in the nave, his tail extending into the south transept of the largest Gothic cathedral in northern Europe. I never realised I was so big, thought Theodore, to be able to fill the nave of York Minster.
The tall man in the top hat began to tell a story, a ghost story.
‘Some sixty years ago,’ the top-hatted man began, ‘a family moved into the house over there. They had acquired it at a bargain price. A house in the shadows of the Minster… Usually they don’t come cheap.
‘But they were not aware of the house’s horrible history…’ The man paused for dramatic effect.
Not another horrible history, thought Theodore.
‘Weeks after they had moved in,’ the man continued, ‘strange things began to happen. The parents heard the wails of a young girl. When they went to their children’s bedroom, they found them wide awake, the light in their bedroom turned on. They asked them what the matter was…
‘The children said that they had seen a young girl sitting at the foot of the bed. When they had turned the light on, the girl was gone. The children refused to sleep in the room.
‘The next day the parents began to ask questions…
‘They discovered that during the plague, a husband and wife and their daughter had lived in the house. Both the husband and wife had contracted the disease. They were sealed in their house, so as to stop the spread of the disease within the city; their doors and windows were nailed shut. They quickly succumbed to pestilence. They were fortunate. Their daughter was not so fortunate.’ Again the tall man paused for dramatic effect.
‘Unfortunately for her, she was immune to the disease…
‘With her parents lying dead in the next room, she tapped at her little window, trying to get the attention of those passing on the road outside. She saw the carts of corpses being drawn by, being carried to the pits where they were covered in lime. She called and called at the passing people. But the people ignored her cries. They were worried that if she were released, she would infect them. During times of plague, there is little time for compassion.
‘So, without food or water, she eventually died. But, as you know, the human spirit does not give in easily. For weeks she fought death. Eventually she succumbed. When death did finally come, it was a blessing…
‘The house is now occupied by another family,’ the tall man said. ‘They do not believe in ghosts…’
The man turned and pointed at a small rectangular window set into a limestone block wall. ‘In that window, some people claim that they have seen the girl’s face. And on quiet nights, some people claim that they have heard the girl’s cries.’
The man paused and the crowd stared at the small window. A silent minute passed.
‘Now, we will make our way to our next haunted location. Please follow closely behind. York is very busy tonight… I wouldn’t want to lose any of you.’
As the crowd followed the top-hatted man on stilts towards their next haunted location, Theodore stared up at the window.
Suddenly a girl’s face appeared. Then he heard a wailing noise, a young girl crying out within the prison of her house.
He glanced around him. Oliver was still leaning against the tree. He was staring wide-eyed at the small window.
Oliver shook his head in disbelief. He lifted his bottle of cider to his mouth with both hands and took a big gulp. Then he staggered off towards the Minster, his head bowed.
◆◆◆
Theodore watched him depart. Then he looked back up at the little window. He didn’t believe in ghost stories. He knew they were based on human superstition and had their roots in the humans’ misunderstanding of the world. There was always a feline explanation to most things, he knew.
He heard a peel of laugher and then excited voices. He looked back up at the little window.
He saw the young girl’s face staring out into the night. Then it was joined by the face of a young boy. They were both giggling.
‘Did you see that silly man,’ the boy said.
‘Yes,’ the young girl said, ‘he fell for it, hook line and sinker!’
‘We really put the wind up him!’
And both the children laughed.
Theodore blinked. I told you that there would be a simple explanation, he thought. Then he set off after Oliver Bartholomew towards the Minster.
Bovine vs Badger
The war between the bovine and the badgers had been going on for many centuries.
It was a distant memory to both creatures when they had peacefully shared the
British countryside; before the humans had sided with the cows, understanding that they could be cultivated for food on a commercial scale while the badgers were harder to catch and didn’t taste as good.
The badgers were driven to ever-diminishing areas of woodland, as the land was given over to the ever-increasing herds of cattle. The dominant cows were mostly ambivalent about the matter; many of them did not even know there was a war: they spent so much time munching grass and farting clouds of methane that they had little time to think.
Sensing defeat, the badgers resorted to biological warfare: spreading bovine tuberculosis among the herds of cows.
The cows launched a propaganda war in response: Rumours abound that they were using their methane farts like napalm, wiping out huge areas of the remaining woodland indiscriminately. But on hearing this false news, the badgers knew it was just bullshit.
Then the humans got wind of the badger fightback and intervened, culling badgers in Gloucestershire and Somerset. The badgers retaliated, laying siege to Stroud with a network of sinkholes, resulting in a nationwide shortage of green baize for covering snooker tables and tennis balls. (The manufacture of baize is one of Stroud’s few remaining industries, along with organic banana cake and Damien Hirst artworks).
Some humans sided with the badgers. They tended to be people who didn’t like the idea of trained marksmen shooting down our remaining wild animals. Their numbers included many veterinarian surgeons, many of whom were veterans of the Stroud offensive. They called themselves the Badger Protection Squad, or the BPS for short.
Others sided with the cows. They tended to be those who enjoyed eating steaks and drinking milk. Their numbers included many snooker players and tennis fans. They called themselves the Bovine Preservation Society, or the BPS for short.
There were also cow supporters who didn’t enjoy steaks or milk; they objected to the treatment of the cows by the human farmers. But they quite liked badgers too, so were undecided when it came down to which BPS to support.
So, on this Bonfire Night, the warring BPS factions met in front of York Minster. It wasn’t long before skirmishes broke out between those dressed as cows and those dressed as badgers.
In the middle of the melee, a cow furry faced off a badger furry. The cow furry was flanked by angry snooker players and tennis fans wielding snooker cues and tennis rackets. The badger furry was flanked by angry vets, sporting elbow length gloves.
‘You disease-ridden creature,’ the cow furry shouted at the badger furry. ‘You should all be stood in front of a wall and shot!’
‘You’re full of hot air,’ the badger furry shouted back. ‘Get back to eating grass and farting in your field.’
‘At least I don’t root about in the dirt and eat worms and slugs…’
‘At least I don’t have suction cups stuck on my tits and my milk sucked out.’
‘You’ve gone too far with that one,’ the cow furry said, coming at the badger furry, her hooves raised.
The badger furry pushed the cow furry back. The cow furry responded with a swipe of her fluffy hoof to the badger furry’s black and white striped head. The badger furry jabbed the cow furry in the belly with his clawed paw. The cow furry doubled up. Other furries piled in. Scuffles broke out between the snooker players, tennis fans and elbow-length-glove-wearing vets.
The York mounted police decided to intervene. They had been armed with police-issue water blasters in case of just such an event. They knew that furries didn’t like to get their fur wet.
They rode into the centre of the crowd and pulled out their water blasters. Some of the protestors stopped skirmishing. They stared at the mounted police carrying firearms. Some stood their ground; others slunk off into the shadows, not wanting to get wet. Then someone threw a banger. It went off at the horses’ feet, scaring the animals.
‘Right,’ Paul said, ‘let them have it.’
Maria pulled the trigger on her water blaster. ‘Take that!’ she cried. A spurt of water shot out and hit a cow supporter in the face.
Paul sprayed a group of retreating badger supporters. He laughed and then jetted more water over the crowd.
‘Hey!’ one Radiohead fan, who had until recently been lying on Lendal Bridge stopping traffic, shouted, ‘Lay off, pig!’
One BPS member removed her cow mask and wiped the water from her eyes. She noticed that the black paint had started to flake away from the water blasters, revealing garish yellow, orange and blue plastic underneath. She turned to the crowd, who were rapidly dispersing.
‘Hang on,’ she shouted. ‘They’re just water pistols. They’re not real guns… They’re just Nerf water blasters, painted black.’
Paul examined his water blaster. It was true: they were just cheap, plastic water shooters, painted over with black gloss paint. ‘Bloody cutbacks,’ he muttered.
The crowd had started to regather. They began to surround the two mounted officers.
Maria aimed her water blaster and tried to soak a girl dressed as a badger. The badger girl laughed at her. Maria sprayed over the crowd that were closing in on them. The water pressure began to go.
‘I think I’m running out of water,’ she said, panicking.
‘Me too… Come on, let’s get out of here! Leave them to it!’
‘Yes,’ Maria said. ‘Let’s get back to the station and have a nice cup of Yorkshire Tea!’
◆◆◆
Theodore watched as the mounted police cantered off into the night, horse hooves clipping on the flags of Yorkstone.
He was crouched at the base of the statue of Constantine the Great, located by the southern entrance to the Minster. He stared out at the crowd of masked protestors from between the great man’s legs. He spotted a police dog, a German shepherd, running amok among the crowd, its handler nowhere to be seen.
Then, from the direction of Minster Yard, Miles appeared, his rucksack strapped to his back. Then, from the direction of Minster Gates, Milton appeared. Such convenient synchronicity, thought Theodore.
The two brothers saw each other at the same time. Milton headed straight for Miles. Miles ran behind the Roman Column. When he emerged seconds later, Theodore noticed that he was without his rucksack.
Theodore remembered Miles fiddling with the rucksack when he had been sitting in Pavement. Then in Bettys toilets, the rucksack had ticked three times as the door closed behind him. There had to be a bomb in the rucksack, he realised.
Miles began to push his way through the crowd, away from his younger brother. But Milton caught up with him and grabbed him by the shoulder, swinging him round.
‘You’re too late,’ Miles cried.
Milton removed his Guy Fawkes mask. ‘You what?’
‘You heard,’ Miles said. ‘You’re too late!’
Miles then hit Milton in the face. Milton staggered backwards and fell to his knees. The crowd parted around the fighting men. Milton got to his feet and the two brothers squared up.
Theodore looked across at the Roman Column. Miles must have put his rucksack behind the huge column. The bomb might go off at any minute. The explosion would cause the column to topple onto the crowd in front of the Minster, flattening the protestors.
He looked back at Miles and Milton. Milton punched his brother in the face. Blood spurted down Miles’s shirt. Miles wiped the blood from his mouth and then kneed his brother in the groin. Milton doubled up in pain.
Then Theodore heard a bark. It was the police dog that had got loose. It had picked up his scent and was circling the great stone plinth on which Theodore was standing.
Theodore glanced at the Roman Column, back to the brawling brothers and then down at the barking dog. How was he going to get off this statue and through the crowd to the column to defuse the bomb before it went off, killing and maiming innocent people?
Then he remembered the police on their horses and had an idea.
He stared down at the police dog as it did another lap of the statue. Then he approached the edge of the st
one plinth. The dog did one more lap.
Theodore chose his moment. He dropped from the plinth, as the dog came round again.
Oliver Bartholomew’s Last Drink
The Roman Column is subject to much misconception.
Many believe that the ancient column has stood in its current location for centuries. They are wrong. The huge erection of rock was put up in the Minster Yard in 1971, having been found in a crypt beneath the south transept of the Minster, lying where it had fallen. Originally it was built by the Ninth Legion in circa 100AD to form the north-eastern colonnade of the Roman headquarters. It was taken down and reconstructed in the fourth century.
Oliver was leaning against the ancient stone column; he liked to have something to lean against. He took a swig from his bottle of cider and gazed out dreamily at the crowd. He wasn’t sure what all these people in masks and costumes were doing in front of the Minster and didn’t really care about finding out. He was enjoying the fireworks that went off over the crowd every few minutes, the coloured flares of light blurring into the night sky.
Then the crowd before him suddenly parted and a cat riding on the back of a German shepherd appeared. It was the same cat he had been begging with earlier that day.
‘It can’t be!’ he muttered.
The dog-mounted cat was heading straight for him.
‘Please no!’
It was coming for its revenge.
Oliver glanced at his bottle of cider and then at the advancing cat. The dog barked, the cat wailed and Oliver fell backwards onto the stone flags with a scream. His last thought before he blacked out: I never knew justice would take the form of a big fluffy cat riding a devil dog.
When he woke in a hospital ward the next day, he vowed never to take another drink, and the Theodore ‘treatment’ he had received would prove effective. The reformed Oliver Bartholomew would never have another drink in his life. After that Bonfire Night, he would be completely teetotal.
