by John Patrick
James had been appointed his first house to search. He clutched a rough brown blanket that he would use to cover himself and a long stick for prodding at the bodies as Brock had suggested. He'd be in and out as fast as he could and touch nothing. Two minutes he thought. Two minutes from the door being opened to him coming back out again. Surely that’s all it would take.
He found the house. It was a modest two storey home in terraced row. It bore the now familiar red cross and words 'May God have Mercy' painted on a chained door. He introduced himself to the guard and began to cover up.
The guard took a couple of steps back. 'Jeez, they’re getting’ desperate now ain't they. ‘Ow come they’re sending men in? It’s not right. I thought it was bad enough being stuck out ‘ere guardin' ‘em but I wouldn’t want to be goin’ in there with ‘em!' He shook his head. 'That's women's work that is.'
'It’s a long story.' replied James curtly. 'How many in there?'
'One dead, they’re saying. A woman… a girl I think, died in the night. They been locked up for three days. I reckon there'll be just three or four of 'em left in there. The rest of the ‘ouse must ‘ave legged it before we locked 'em up.' The watchman undid the lock and chain then banged hard on the door. 'I’m opening this door now. Don’t nobody try getting’ out, you 'ear? Keep right back! There’s a searcher comin’ in.' He pushed the door open and added with a smirk 'Don’t be surprised now, it’s a man.' He stood well back and as soon as James had passed the threshold he slammed the door shut. The chain rattled as he quickly sealed the house again.
Inside was dark, hot, airless and strangely quiet. Soft sobs from upstairs broke the silence. James kept the blanket pulled well across his face, exposing just his eyes. Sweat quickly began to soak his shirt and run down his forehead, burning his eyes. Two figures stood silently in the gloom, watching from a doorway; a man, pale and motionless, and a girl half his height by his side, rag doll hanging from her hand.
'Right, let’s keep this quick.' He thought to himself. 'I need to see the body.' he shouted, his voice muffled by the blanket over his face.
'It wasn’t the Infection.' replied the man. 'It was consumption, not plague.'
'That’s fine, where’s the body.'
The man pointed up the narrow wooden staircase towards the sound of crying. 'It wasn't plague, I'm telling you.'
James made his way up. On the landing, a woman sat on the floor leaning against a bedroom door. Her face was buried between her knees. Her shoulders heaved in synchrony with her sobs.
James swallowed hard. 'I need to see...' He tried to bark the words harshly, show how cold and efficient he was, but the sounds became choked in his throat. He started to repeat himself but there was no need. Without a word or a glance the woman moved herself out of the way. James wrapped his hand with the blanket and opened the bedroom door.
It was a clearly a child’s room. A few wooden toys sat on a shelf and a small home-made blackboard bore chalk sketches and messages. The window was open and a curtain flapped gently with the light summer breeze, but even so, the stench was overpowering. Flies covered every surface and circled the middle of the room. Two beds lay in parallel. On one lay a child, a girl, just a little smaller and younger than Mary. She was dressed in a white cotton night gown, now disfigured by yellow and brown stains. Her golden hair spilled over the pillow, her deep brown eyes gazed straight upwards from a lifeless grey face. The flies crawling over her eyes and mouth brought no response. Her once flawless skin was peppered with black and purple lumps and sores. Her arm pointed away from her body, fingers stretched outwards.
The sight and smells were too much for James. He dropped the blanket and dived for the window. His head made it through the opening just in time. The vomit splattered on the ground next to the guard, splashing against his legs.
'Oi watch where you’re pukin’ you moron!' he shouted 'God, why can't they get decent bloody people to do this job?'
James wiped the bitter fluid from his mouth and nose and turned back to the girl on the bed. Tears welled in his eyes. Her face, her clothes, her hair. It was if it was Mary lying there. It was a vision that had been waking him from his sleep in a cold sweat for weeks. He wanted to go to her, rearrange her limp arm back by her side, tuck her under the blanket, kiss her softly goodnight on the forehead. But he knew he couldn’t. This wasn’t his daughter and to touch her would be his death too. He crouched a safe distance from her, his knee inches from her outstretched hand. He pictured his own daughter reaching out for his help and protection. He wondered where she was now, what his other two children were doing. Maybe they were looking for him right at this moment, maybe he was failing them again. He saw the faces of Theresa and Helen, his two daughters who hadn’t lived to see their third birthdays. They’d come before Mary and within twelve months of each other. He tried to remember the happy days of their short lives, not the pain of watching them both get sick then fade and die before him, of hearing them cry and call for his help and being powerless to do anything for them. That guilt would haunt him to his grave.
'I talked to her for two days through this door.' The voice came from the woman sat on the landing. She spoke with her back to James. She had no wish to see how her beautiful daughter had been mauled and mutilated by this evil disease. 'We had to lock her in, for the good of the family. We got two more kids, see. But she couldn’t understand that. She shouted, screamed, it was so loud… she cried like she was a baby again…She begged and begged to come out … promised she’d be good. … Then when it got night, she got real scared. She banged and kicked the door. Screamed so much…God, I can still hear them screams. My husband couldn’t listen. He hid downstairs. Don’t blame him. What can you say to your own girl when you’ve give up on her to save yourself? Nine years old she was. Just nine short years…I had such dreams for that girl.' She wiped her eyes with her sleeve. 'So I sang to her I did, I told her tales and stories, just jabbered on so she knew I was here. Then after a bit she stopped shouting. It was real quiet… but I could still here her coughin’… still here her breathing if I pressed my ear to the door.' She turned her head to look but stopped herself. 'You always hope, you know, for a miracle… or somethin’. I prayed and prayed and prayed. But he ain't listenin' to us no more. Is she… she is gone, ain’t she? I gotta know she’s def'nitely gone. I heard stories of folks being taken to the pit still alive… I couldn’t…'
'She’s gone.' croaked James.
James used his blanket to cover his hand and then gently placed her arm by her side. He tried to close her eyes and her gaping mouth, but her facial muscles were rigid. He wrapped himself with his blanket, sniffed and steeled himself. 'Let me check the rest of the house.'
He closed the bedroom door and went on to the other upstairs room. It was bolted from the outside. He looked questioningly at the woman but she showed no interest. James unfastened the bolt and went inside. On the floor lay a boy, five or six years old, covered in the same sores and pustules. His breathing was fast, but that was his only sign of life. His eyes stared vacantly. James waved his stick in front of his face. There was no response. No flicker of movement, no blink or wince. Death was fast on its way. James walked to the window and leant out to try and get some air. A thick grey haze lay above the roofs in front of him, propped up by pillars of smoke from countless fires. From all directions church bells tolled. There was no fresh air to be had.
James swallowed hard. He walked quickly past the woman on the landing and headed back down the stairs. He’d seen enough.
The husband and his daughter were waiting at the bottom for him.
'It’s not plague. It’s consumption. Consumption.' He repeated it like a parrot.
'I’m sorry. I wish this wasn’t happening.' James went to walk past.
The man stepped in his way. 'It wasn’t plague. Tell them. That’s all you have to say. You can save the rest of us. We can go free. I’m not sick, neither’s my wife or little Alex here.' He nodded towards the girl holding his hand. She looke
d tired and pale but no sores or scabs were visible. 'I can pay you. I’ve got money, and other things. I’ll give you enough so you can stop doing this shitty job and get away from here.' He held out a small leather purse. His hand shook wildly. 'Count it if you like. It’s all our savings, everything. It’s yours. Just tell them it was consumption and we’ll be free.'
'Look I’m sorry. I’d like to help. I’ve got children.' He tried to squeeze past but the man didn't move.
'What difference does it make? It’s everywhere. Half the people with this aren’t locked up. Just tell them. They won’t care.' He thrust the purse at James. 'Tell them!'
James' exit was blocked. He had to get out of this house. With his hand still wrapped in the blanket, he reluctantly accepted the purse and walked carefully around the man and his child.
'Make sure you tell them.'
'Open up!' James banged hard on the door. 'It’s me, the searcher.'
The guard undid the lock and released James. He shut the door but kept one hand on the latch. 'So plague, yeh?' We lock ‘em back up?'
James hesitated.
'Tell him. Tell him what you saw. Tell him it’s not plague!'
The guard held the lock and chain in his hand and looked at James for guidance. 'Well, lock it or not?'
James looked at the ground. 'Lock it.'
'NO! Don’t! It’s not plague! It’s not! You cheating bastard!'
James walked away, squeezing the purse tightly in his hand. 'I can’t keep this.' he thought. He had to find somewhere to get rid of it. He couldn’t keep blood money. But maybe he could hide it, somewhere safe, for the future, just in case.
'We had a deal! You promised!'
The guard eyed James with suspicion, then spotted the brown leather purse in his clutch. 'You thievin' sod!' He sprinted after James and seized him by the shoulder. As James turned the guard smashed the heavy iron padlock into the side of his head. James crashed to the ground. When he opened his eyes he found the guard stood over him, emptying the purse into his hand.
'You make me sick.' The watchman threw the empty purse at James before strolling back across the street.
The house was still unlocked. The owner inside saw his chance; he grabbed his daughter, dragged her through the open door and ran away down the street. The guard was unconcerned. He returned to the house, locked it shut again and counted his coins.
'You made a deal mister. Cough up!'
Jacob and the other children had found a grubby and irate Wooldridge striding back along the street after his escape through the old woman's window. They were in pursuit again. They wanted the rest of their money. Wooldridge was in no mood to make concessions.
'Go on, clear off the lot of you! It didn’t work so you don't get any more money. Now sod off!'
'Ooooh! Ain’t so toffee now, is ya? An’ what was that stone they was on ‘bout an’ all? Bet you got it, ain’t ya? Bet that’s why they was after ya!'
'If I had that…' Wooldridge thought better and stopped himself from finishing the sentence. 'Just … just … piss off!'
But they didn’t. They circled around him just out of reach, tormenting and teasing. All that was, except for one boy, Alfred, who followed quietly behind. Alfred didn't just fear God, he was terrified of him. Until recently Alfred had been working for a clergyman. Cleaning, scrubbing, fetching and carrying - a general dogs-body. The work wasn’t well paid; at nine years old wages meant enough food to avoid starvation and little more besides. But he had learnt an awful lot about hell, damnation and God’s terrible vengeance, enough to make him very sure he never wanted to see it. That made it all the more frightening when a few items had gone missing from the rectory, and the clergyman started pointing the finger at his servants, including Alfred. In the end, the decision was taken to sack the entire junior household staff. That way he was sure to get rid of the thief. Sadly for Alfred that included him, and no amount of pleading his innocence could save his wretched job. The only thing that poor Alfred took away from that house was a gruesome nightmare of what would happen to him in the next life if he didn’t behave himself in this one. So when he ran with the gang he was careful to step back when their activities crossed the line. He made sure that he did nothing that could ignite God's terrible wrath. Before throwing them out of the house, the clergyman had told each of his sacked servants about an evil stone that was somewhere in London. This, he said, came straight from Satan and it was so evil that it would turn good men bad, would make them fight, lie and murder. Anyone who touched it would go straight to hell. On the other hand, if any of them could help him find this stone and destroy it, then they would surely be guaranteed a place in heaven.
Now Alfred reckoned he might just have the news that would keep him safe, his ticket away from damnation and torture and into eternal paradise. He ran eagerly up the steps at the back of the Reverend Singer’s house. He couldn’t wait to tell him about the men in skirts and the stone they were talking about. He knew that the vicar would be pleased. He opened the kitchen door and charged in, weaving between the cook and her helper. He flew into the hallway and crashed into the footman.
'What the hell are you doin’ back here you little rogue? You come to do more thieving have you?' He grabbed Alfred by his shirt.
'No. I come to tell the Reverend somefin'. I ain’t never stole noffin’!'
'Sure you haven’t. An’ you’re not going to start now either.' He marched Alfred back towards the kitchen.
'I gotta tell him. I promised. He wants to know.'
'Sure he does. Come on, out before you wake him.'
The drawing room door opened and a sleepy looking Reverend Singer appeared. 'What is all this blasted noise? Can’t a tired man have a two minute rest? What on earth are you doing, Armitage?'
'I’m most sorry Sir. I am just removing this intruder from the house.'
'Sir, Sir, it’s me Alfred. I got some news sir!'
The footman continued to drag Alfred towards the exit.
'Do I know you boy? Armitage, stop a moment. Do I know you boy?' He looked with suspicion at Alfred. Was this some sort of scam?
'It’s me, sir, Alfred. I used to work here.'
The Revered looked at him again and sneered. 'Never seen you before. Get out.' He turned to walk back into his study and resume his nap.
Armitage shoved Alfred back towards the exit. 'You're goin' to get a good thrashin' for your trouble an' all.' he hissed under his breath.
'But Sir, you said to tell you if I ‘eard anyfin’ ‘bout the red stone.' shouted Alfred.
The Reverend turned on his heels. 'Did you say stone? Armitage let him go for heaven’s sake. What do you think you're doing? Come boy, come here and tell me.' He ushered Alfred towards the drawing room. 'Armitage, get some milk for our young friend. Now, young man, tell me everything.'
Mary and Samuel hurried back towards Monnington Street. Their clothes were filthy and even amongst the many foul smells around them, they stank. Mary’s dress was ripped and stained and blood still ran down her leg from her wound. They were both smothered in mud, dirt and sweat.
'We’re gonna cop it from Mum when we get back.' grumbled Samuel.
'I know, but we can’t ‘elp that now, can we?' added Mary. 'At least we know ‘ow to work that stone. Least we can do somethin’ to fix up Mister. Shipton then he can leave like ‘e said. Don’t want old Miss P findin’ ‘im.'
'No, she’d prob’ly cook ‘im up an’ eat ‘im!' Samuel sniggered.
'Don’t be ‘orrible.' Mary grabbed Samuel’s arm and stopped.
'What’s up?'
'Let’s go ‘round the other way, round the back.'
'What? No way Mary, we’re nearly back. What's wrong?'
'Come on; let’s go ‘round.' She tugged his arm.
Samuel looked down the street and saw the problem. Nick was stood by the iron railings of the house next door. He was peering outwards, passing the time, avoiding work. 'Oh for ‘eavens sakes. This is about ‘im, innit?'
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'No it ain't! I just...'
'Course it is. Come on, we're nearly 'ome.'
'Look at me Samuel!' hissed Mary 'I ain’t lettin’ ‘im see me like this!'
'Oh, come on Mary. He don’t care any’ow. Let’s just get home. I ain’t walkin’ the long way ‘round.'
'No way, he ain’t seeing me like this Samuel.'
'Nick, Nick!' Samuel shouted 'How are you doin’?'
Nick cast an apathetic glance and then continued to stare vacantly through the railings.
'Sam, you little sod!' growled Mary through gritted teeth. Now she couldn’t be rude and walk away. She flattened down her wild hair and tried to rub away some of the dried blood and dirt whilst carefully watching to make sure Nick’s gaze remained elsewhere. She tried to look as casual as her dishevelled state would allow.
'You still sore ‘bout your dog Nick.' she asked. 'That was real mean that was.'
Nick cast a vacant look at Mary. 'What? No, well yeh, I guess, that... too.'
'What do you mean, that too?'
Nick bent down and picked up a handful of small stones from the ground and began to throw them over the railings. His eyes were reddened, his voice unsteady; 'I ‘eard from home this mornin’… they got it… got it in the ‘ouse a couple o' weeks ago.'
'Got what?' asked Samuel. 'Who got what?'
'My folks. In the house. The Infection. What do you think you little moron?' He gestured as if to cast a stone at Samuel, but didn’t.
'Oh, Nick, I’m sorry. Are they…have any of ‘em…' Mary stuttered
'Died? Yeh, ‘cept Lilly, my sister an’ she’s sick.'
'Why don't you go an’ help ‘er then?' asked Samuel.
'They won’t let me. Said what’s the point? You’ll only get plague and you can’t save ‘em any’ow. Said if I go, they won’t have me back.'
'But Nick. We got the stone now. We know how it works now. We could go and save her. Your sister. We could make her better.’ urged Mary.
'It’s too late for that.' Nick turned and began to trudge back towards the house.
'I’m really sorry Nick.'
Nick turned and looked back at Mary. 'You two need to clean up.'
Mary and Samuel braced themselves for trouble before walking back into the cellar kitchen. Miss Pewtersmith was stood with her back to them working at the kitchen table. She was quietly humming to herself. Mary nodded her head at Samuel and gestured silently towards the stairs to the main house. They tip toed alongside the wall behind her. Miss P kept on humming. They could get some fresh clothes and then wash themselves down and no one would need know about it.
'What are you two up to? Where you been?' Miss Pewtersmith continued kneading her bread without looking at them. 'An’ what’s that awful smell?'
Mary and Samuel cringed and said nothing; they kept on for the staircase.
'Don't ignore me ya ignorant brats!' She turned to face them both. Horror appeared on her face. Torn clothes, dirt, mud and blood. And that terrible, terrible smell. ‘Oh my Giddy Aunt! Oh my! Oh my!' She jumped to her feet and backed away around the table. She had never seen plague but she had imagined the sights and smells and this surely must be it. 'You get out! Both of you out! Don’t you bring that filthy plague in here! Get out now!' she screeched.
'No, Miss P, this isn’t plague, look.' Mary stepped forward to show her how the dirt rubbed off but Miss Pewtersmith was taking no chances. She ran around the table, shrieking.
'Get away, get away!' I ain’t catchin’ no plague!' She bolted through the door, still squealing.
Elizabeth heard the commotion. She came dashing down the stairs, with Alice sitting on her hip. ‘What’s the fuss? Is that the kids?' She burst into the kitchen. 'Oh my Good Lord. What have you done?'
Within minutes Elizabeth had Samuel stripped and standing ankle deep in a bucket of water, scrubbing him from head to toe. She was horrified to hear that the pair of them had ventured into the slums of St Giles, even though Samuel had been careful to avoid mention of the stone, Fran, Mother Munro, body carts and any other murky details.
Elizabeth was angry. She scrubbed hard with a rough bristled brush. Samuel winced but knew well to keep quiet.
'How many times have we warned you not to go outside these gates and you go to bloody St Giles of all places!' At the end of each sentence Elizabeth scrubbed a bit harder for good measure. 'Do you want to get sick? Do you want to bring that infection into this house and kill us all?'
Samuel said nothing.
'You don’t go past the garden fence again. Do you hear me?' Elizabeth stopped scrubbing and turned to Mary. She put a hand on each of her cheeks and forced her to look straight into her eyes. 'I’m not sure you’re understanding me Mary. Listen carefully.' She spoke slowly and precisely. 'This is not a game. If you venture outside of this place again without my permission then you leave this house and this family forever. Disobey me once more and you’re on your own. Is that clear? You won't bring death in here.'
The door opened and Miss Pewtersmith crept inside. 'I just come to get me stuff. I’ll not be… Is that… Is that just dirt?' She looked in disbelief at Samuel, now scrubbed and clean, dressing himself by the table.
'They had an accident.' explained Elizabeth. 'They’re fine now. No plague.'
'Are you sure? ‘Cause I ain’t stayin’ ‘ere one minute longer if they got it. I ain’t getting’ sick.'
'I’m sure. They’re clean now. And they won’t be off out again, will you Mary?'
Mary shook her head silently.
'Oh thank the Lord for that!' exclaimed Miss Pewtersmith. 'You stupid kids, you wanna be more careful givin' me a shock like that, could 'ave killed me. Then how'd you 'ave felt?'
Samuel opened his mouth to reply, then thought better of it.
'Mary, you and Sam take those dirty clothes outside and burn them. Make sure they’re all gone.'
'Mum, that’s my favourite. Can’t we fix it?'
Elizabeth turned a stern eye to Mary. 'Burn it girl. Remember what I said.'
Chapter 22
