John McPake and the Sea Beggars

by Stuart Campbell

  The path meandered across the smothered fields towards a windmill. Men and dogs approached cautiously. Its sails were still, each blade thick with snow, their rough hewn sides black with wetness. It was a redundant engine. A sinister wooden sarcophagus balancing improbably on a rick of beams that looked as if it had been abandoned in a hurry. Several sacks had spilled their contents onto the ground, hempen stomachs split for pleasure. A sodden bonnet lay at the foot of the ladder.

  While the dogs nosed round the spilled grain for the rich scent of vermin, Balthasar tentatively stepped onto the first rung and pulled himself upwards. As his head reached floor level a crossbow bolt was pushed against his forehead. He looked up carefully and saw it was being held by a small, elderly man with the physique of a bird.

  ‘God’s peace,’ said Balthasar, maintaining eye contact despite his obvious discomfort. The man lowered his weapon and used it to beckon him inside. ‘My companion too?’ The man nodded.

  Cornelius choked as he too emerged into the musky stinking interior of the mill. Their host, a tiny, wiry figure with the eyes of a madman, pushed them both against the far wall with a strength that belied his size. Balthasar and Cornelius looked at each other as the man put a hand up to each of their throats. ‘We come in peace,’ mouthed Balthasar.

  Satisfied, the man released his grip and motioned for them to sit down on the line of stuffed sacks that divided the available space.

  NINETEEN:

  The Miller’s Tale

  ‘Excellent!’ said the Academic. ‘The interpolated tale has a long and respectful literary history. Mind you, judging by the title we can’t deny Chaucer’s influence.’

  Quiet! Why do you keep interrupting the narrative, sometimes I think you’re just showing off.

  ‘I just thought … ’

  Well, don’t. What did Hamlet say? ‘Every thought quartered hast ever three parts coward … ’ See it’s easy to be clever for the sake of it.

  ‘They came last week,’ said the emaciated Miller, rubbing his brow with the blackened fingers of one hand. ‘They found nothing. I saw them approach and brought inside the rancid food which I keep for such occasions. The fat maggots swarmed,’ he added gleefully. ‘They clutched their noses and muffled themselves with their cloaks as they gagged at the stench. “For Christ’s sake, old man,” said their leader, “you should be put to death for smelling like that. Is this a mill or a charnel house? Do you collect the dead from the fields and hide them here?’’ He chuckled as he relived the moment of deception. “He kicked the legs from under me, spat, and made his way back down the ladder. And look what they missed, boys, look what they missed.’ He pulled back the curtain at the back of the room and showed the printing press.

  The wooden frame was nearly the height of a man. Cornelius touched it. ‘Lovely wood,’ he said.

  ‘I left with the other printers in ’56. Over fifty of us from all over Brabant made our way to Antwerp. The whole guild. Each of us with a bag of lead type, all emptied in haste from the frames before the raiders came. At first it was just the books. What bonfires, boys! Who would have thought bibles would have burned like that. “The Lord your God is a consuming fire … Who among us shall dwell with the devouring fire? … Who among us shall dwell with everlasting burnings?” He scampered through the confined space, skipping past the flames of his memory. ‘Spitting words and spines, precious prints of saints, martyrs, angels, prophets, gold lettering painstakingly applied, now curling in the fire. Each village square was alive with fire.

  ‘The solders would return from the raids with armfuls of bibles, testaments, homilies, imprecations, incantations, prayers for the dead, sermons, commandments. What a lot of holy words, all sacrificed to Satan, and then they demanded to know where the printers lived. Dragged screaming and struggling from their families and hearths, they too were thrust into the flames until their hot blood mingled with the molten lead running in white streams from the fire. My apprentice was spared for their sport. They stripped him naked and covered him with his own vat of ink. He roared like a blackamoor, the children screamed and ran away. The soldiers were so busy holding their sides and laughing they forgot to kill him. For three days and nights he hid in the wood and then came home, a shaking black Beelzebub. By then nothing remained, just the embers blowing on the wind. All God’s words scattered into the hedgerows, and into the river. Who knows, distant peoples may have snatched at a passing word, as at a butterfly, and taken it to heart.’ He mimed plucking the burned scraps from the air and then focussed with glee on an imaginary half page. Cornelius and Balthasar stared at the bizarre pantomime being acted by their insane host.

  ‘We couldn’t stay, not after that. The pedlar agreed to spread the word though all the parishes and so it came to pass that the printers’ army arrived in Antwerp. At first the sea beggars who had agreed to take us to England thought our bags held gold but, no, it was lead, enough to sink their ships they said, and demanded more ducats. They made us sleep on deck, each man curled round his precious bag of type.

  ‘One night Leviathan himself came to the boat and swept his hand across the deck dragging one of our number over the side. He went to his death still holding his bag close to his chest. Think of his business now, boys, printing tracts under the salty waves. Sending his words out on every new tide to wash up on the shores of foreign lands and convert the heathens.’ Delighted with his own conceit, he cackled and smacked Cornelius on the shoulder.

  ‘England was cold. The people were cold. Not understanding our tongue, they would shout at us. Their children would laugh at our clothes and throw stones until we gave them letters, single carved nuggets of lead. The children cupped them in their hands like injured sparrows and took them home to their parents who soon arrived demanding their own pieces. They gave us beer; we gave them letters. It worked well.

  ‘When we saw the farmer squeezing whey to make English cheese we gave him money for his press. Soon we had a barn where the carpenters fashioned the rollers. The women scoured the hedgerows for berries, nuts and leaves, crushing them between stones. Soon their cauldron boiled with dark, dark ink. We tipped the letters on the ground and made our alphabets, but we had a problem. The children’s favourite letter was the S, but we had given too many of them away.’ He drew a huge S in the air, his elbow emphasising the shape like a painter with his brush. ‘They would offer their puppets, skittles, pickup sticks, rats’ skulls, lizard skins anything for the precious S; the snake letter that would ward off witches and bogymen. They would hide the magic letter in amulets; the young boys wooed the girls with a single S. So, what could we do? The only solution, said the elders, was to use the letter f … And God bleffed them and God faid unto them, Be fruitful and multiply, and replenif the earth, and fubdue it: and have dominion over the fifh of the fea.’ The lunatic miller threw back his head and roared. Balthasar was transfixed by the man’s epiglottis waggling in his black mouth.

  ‘Absolute nonsense,’ said the Academic.

  ‘Fooled you all!’ said the Jester. ‘Sometimes I take over the story without anyone noticing. The Narrator was getting bored so I seized my chance when he nodded off.’

  Don’t kid yourself. I chose to let you in. Where was I … ?

  Eventually the miller became calm again. ‘Soon we were printing hundreds, then thousands of tracts a day. Each week one of us would make his way to the dark shore and wait for the boatman who, for guilder, would take the bundles back over the sea. All seemed well until one of the boys playing on the rocks found a floating tide of sodden paper. We had been betrayed by the boatman. When he next arrived to take his cargo we slit his throat and left him among the slimy pools along the stony beach. It was clear that one of us must make the journey with the tracts … ’

  TWENTY

  ‘Your gaffer’s here,’ said the policeman. John’s head was a jumble of words, snatches of dialogue and a strange aching sense of something important but not fully remembered.

  ‘What on earth have you
been up to?’ asked Derek. ‘Selling drugs? I don’t think so,’ he continued for the benefit of the custody sergeant as much as for John. ‘Mick wandered in and said that you had been snatched by Nicaraguan death squads, then it was the Nazis, I think the Stasi also had a hand in your abduction, not to mention aliens with neo-fascist tendencies. Even Postman Pat seemed to be part of a global conspiracy to remove you from the streets. And here you are, alive and in one piece. You look a bit rough, haven’t been beaten up have you?’ He glanced towards the sergeant who raised an eyebrow. When the formalities were complete Derek led John back towards the hostel.

  ‘Another fine mess you’ve got yourself in, Olly,’ said

  the Jester, in a cod American accent. ‘Did you see that

  hairy mole on that copper’s cheek? Come on, John, cheer yourself up, you’ve only been arrested and charged with supplying illegal drugs, it’s not the end of the world is

  it?’

  ‘Perhaps your brother has joined the police,’ said the Tempter, ‘Did your brother have a mole?’

  ‘Pathetic,’ said the Bastard. ‘What pleasures remain in the day for you John? There must be a lot for you to look forward to. Let’s see, the over-concerned interrogation from Beverley, and your key worker. All that misplaced professional sympathy. I imagine that dippit social worker will put in an appearance and in his usual patronising way talk you through the consequences of your actions. You won’t say a word, will you? A big boy, unable to talk, unable to look people in the eye. You don’t talk, John, because I am your real Voice. I talk; you listen. It’s quite simple. Who would listen to you anyway? You’re just a boring shite. That’s why your wife left, not forgetting the other small matter of your drink induced impotence …

  ‘Do you remember that time in the staff room when you had a semblance of a life? What were you talking about? I can’t remember; I wasn’t listening either. That colleague from the maths department pretended to fall asleep, it soon spread, everyone there was pretending to snore. Good fun, wasn’t it?

  ‘Ah, life at the hostel! A community of the mad and the lost. Limbo lives passing the time before they die. Yet it’s home, isn’t it, John? Home, sweet home. Come to think of it, aren’t these very words crocheted and framed in the downstairs toilet? You don’t like that, John, do you? Reminds you of being in care. You still are, if you think of it. It’s an odd word ”care”, isn’t it? Basically no one cares, not about you, not about your brother – let’s not forget for a moment your favourite obsession. You don’t even care about yourself which says it all really. Do I care about you? Well now, that’s an interesting question. Perhaps I do, perhaps that’s why I have chosen to live in your head. There again, this could be my punishment. Trapped in the stinking cell of your brain.’

  Most of what the Bastard said proved to be prophetic. Beverley was indeed concerned and put her arm around John when Derek led him into her office. Overwhelmed by sadness and guilt, John let himself be rocked. ‘It’s ok,’ she said, ‘it’s ok.’

  The social worker turned up as predicted. He leant back on his chair like a bored school kid. He chewed the end of his pen as if he had not eaten for days. ‘We can’t go on like this, can we, John? You’re better off here than in prison, don’t you think?’ John nodded. Eventually Janet joined them and asked John if he was hungry. He shook his head but made clear that he wanted to be on his own for a while. ‘In your room or in the lounge?’ she said. ‘Kevin’s there but he’s sleeping.’

  Kevin’s head lolled sideways against the cushion, his mouth was open and his rigid right hand was pointing the remote at the blaring TV. The unctuous game show host wallowed in the applause and laughter as the wide-eyed contestants radiated disbelief at their good fortune at having been chosen in the first place. The couple hugged each other, and then sought consolation in each other’s arms when a tentative answer was met with a klaxon signalling failure. They left the stage to be replaced by an identical pair. He was a joiner with his own business, his favourite food was curry, she was a hairdresser and they met at a funfair in Skegness. Bells rang, gongs sounded, pound notes cascaded into a chest. The air was punched. Manly hugs and back slappings were bestowed on the male contestant by the host.

  ‘That could be you, John,’ said the Tempter. ‘You must enter; they’ll give you the number at the end of the show. Nothing easier. Then you could afford to pay a private detective to find Andy. No stone unturned, know what I mean?’ His voice was reasonableness personified. ‘It could be the start of great things. A holiday together, your own house. It can happen.’

  ‘From an academic perspective and speaking statistically, if one were to devote several years of one’s life to applying to appear on game shows, there is only a miniscule chance of winning a modest sum. Even then the odds of getting past the initial screening are remote but, it must be acknowledged, not as great as winning the lottery. According to a recent article in the Guardian’s g2 the chances of winning the jackpot in America’s multistate Powerball lottery is so tiny that a person driving ten miles to buy a ticket is sixteen times more likely to be killed in a car accident en route.’

  ‘Absolute bollocks. No, to be fair, a game show for psychotic alcoholics could catch on. Lots of folk would want to laugh at the dafties. The Americans would like it. You would each be asked to describe, and possibly act out, your favourite delusion. You’re right, Tempter, John would win hands down with that guff about looking for his son in some cold painting. Excellent plan. It gets better, at the end of each episode you get to decide who should be executed. Live of course. Well … until he’s dead.’

  ‘Did you hear the one about the lunatic who ravished the laundrette assistants and then ran away, NUT SCREWS WASHERS AND BOLTS said the headline!’

  ‘Everyone’s heard it, Jester. We don’t need jokes to make us laugh, just look at this failure here. How funny is he? See what I mean?’

  If you lot have finished …

  Adverts followed for stair lifts, health care insurance, dog food and mattresses that retain the sleeper’s shape perhaps forever. After several false starts Kevin’s snoring reached a snarling crescendo that catapulted him back into wakefulness. He looked around startled before focussing on John.

  ‘Lifted were you? I can’t stand sharing my living space with criminal scum. I’m going to ask for a move to supported accommodation. I’ve had it up to here with this place. Criminals and folk no right in the head. Remember I was the original Bisto Kid, I had a future. They wouldn’t have stood for this at ICI … ’

  John decided that his room, even if it reminded him of the cell he had just left, was the preferred option. On the stair he met Mick, who grunted conspiratorially and offered his hand.

  Paul was waiting for him on the top landing. ‘I’ve found him,’ he shouted, ushering John through the door. ‘Watch where you stand!’ John looked down and saw that every square inch of the floor was covered with index cards, utterly symmetrical, all facing the same way, all impeccably covered in neat copperplate handwriting.

  ‘He’s there somewhere,’ said Paul. He saw the confusion on John’s face. ‘Your brother,’ he explained, exasperated. ‘He’s here, it’s just a puzzle and I can’t quite see him.’ He put his hand up to his head and pressed hard against his brow.’ He’s here, somewhere on one of these eight thousand, two hundred and twenty-seven cards. I’ve committed half of them to memory but it’s difficult. I’m getting tired. I have to get back to Nostromo. It’s taken me forty-four hours and seventeen minutes to look at all the phone books in the library. They asked me to leave and I hadn’t finished. It was very annoying. I had only got as far as Walthamstow; there was a long way to go. Why couldn’t they let me stay? I had a feeling about Wycombe.’

  ‘Autism,’ said the Academic. ‘An unusual bedfellow with schizophrenia but not without precedent. Treatment predictably is compounded by the fact that the patient rarely gains sufficient insight to question the reality of the delusions. He experienced them, therefore, they
happened. As simple as that.’

  ‘You never know,’ said the Tempter, ‘there might be method to his madness. He’s got a sharp brain.’

  ‘A card sharp, by the look of it,’ said the Jester.

  John nodded his appreciation to Paul and returned to his own room. His heart was rocking against its chest cavity wall. Perhaps the membrane of thin cartilage would tear asunder and he would be free.

  TWENTY-ONE

  He woke from dreams of his brother variously falling in slow motion from a high rise flat, sinking into a desolate bog recreated from black and white newsreel footage of the Moors Murders; as a grown man in pyjamas sucking his thumb in a bedsit, staring up at the tiny bright circle of sky from the bottom of a well-borrowed from a story book.

  He pulled his pillow over his head and briefly considered the logistics of self-smothering. Pushing his face into the sheet he breathed in. Choking, he moved his face into the air. Somewhere, he knew, the Bastard was smirking. As he relieved himself in the sink he caught sight of an index card that had been pushed under the door. 3, Farrington Road, Newcastle NE5 8GE.

  ‘You’ve got to go. At last, progress. A breakthrough. Paul knows things that others don’t. It’s just a couple of hours away by train. Two trains an hour. You have to. At last!’

  John waited for the Bastard to belittle the Tempter’s enthusiasm, but he could only hear the Jester quietly singing Blaydon Races in a silly Geordie accent.

  The Big Issue seller on Waverley Steps looked at him as if he was about to steal his pitch. The woman queuing in front of him at the ticket office tut tutted to her pal and the clerk spoke to him very slowly and loudly.