by John Patrick
The day was getting late. James had reported his work to Doctor Chambers. He hadn’t bothered to mention how two of the occupants had run from the front door at the first house. He didn’t tell him that some infected homes were empty, the occupants escaped and neighbours telling of guards being paid to look the other away or beaten and fleeing their post.
But he also found plenty of corpses. The sights and smells had appalled him at first; made him vomit and want to weep. But even during the course of just one day he had begun to harden. He was starting to follow his original plan of in and out in just a minute or two. A quick dash from room to room and a sprint back to the front door. Plague was usually obvious and if it wasn't, well who's going to argue with his decision. There were no second opinions. No conversation with survivors was his rule, but sometimes this was hard. He’d learnt that the quickest way of dealing with bribes and threats was to appear to acquiesce and then get out. In the process he had accumulated a fair amount of cash which made him feel uncomfortable. He reassured himself that if he didn't take it then someone else would, a house cleaner or body collector. And anyway, James wasn't going to use it; he'd give it to the church or the orphanage later, probably, once he knew that he and his family were safe. And he wouldn’t allow bribes to influence his advice to Doctor Chambers. Oh no, he would say they had plague regardless. So that couldn’t be wrong, surely.
The road outside the doctor's office was usually bustling with the well-to-do, window shopping, socialising, being seen. But not tonight. As James emerged back into the late evening sun, just a handful of people were striding purposefully past the boarded up shops and houses, taking care to steer well clear of other folk. This was not the crowded slums of St Giles; most people here had enough money and influence to pay whatever it took to get a certificate of health and get out of the city.
James trudged along the street with head down, trying not to think too deeply or catch anyone’s eye. He clutched his blanket and stick under his arm. He wore no badge or uniform but the few people on the street seemed to know, and they crossed the street to avoid him. Where could he go for the night? He’d have to find somewhere rough to sleep. Perhaps by the river. Somewhere well away from the houses he’d been searching and the churchyards that saw a nocturnal frenzy of digging, tipping bodies and burying.
Footsteps approached. James kept his head down. He didn’t need anyone else reminding him of his lowly position. They’d soon spot what he was and veer away in disgust. But the steps grew close. The sound was familiar, a rhythmical ‘step-scrape-step-scrape’. James looked behind to see Brock striding to catch up.
'Keep away.' snapped James 'You don't want to get close to the likes of me.'
'Huh! If God wants me he can have me.' Brock replied with indifference, 'And anyway, I know what it's like to be an outcast. People in this city only have to hear me speak and they think I'm about to eat their babies. Where are you headed?'
James shrugged.
'You can’t go back to your family, you know that?'
James nodded. 'I was going to have a look at the river.'
Brock laughed. 'What, you on the river! They’re not going to let a searcher onto one of their boats for heaven’s sake. They’re in those things to get away from the likes of us!'
'Boats? What are you talking about?'
'You haven’t seen them? Where have you been, man? They’ve been there for weeks now, more each day. It's a hell of a sight! People are living on them to escape this God-awful disease. Here, I’ll show you.' He gestured to James to follow. 'Unless you’ve got anything else to do?'
They made their way through the quiet streets until finally they were confronted by an immense grey cathedral, its intimidating stone walls rising up from the earth like a cliff face. Its flanks were punctuated by a series of ornate pillars, like knobbly fingers pointing the way to God.
Brock nodded towards the central tower. 'From up there we can see everything.'
'But... that’s St Paul’s, we can’t climb up there. What about the clergy, the wardens?'
Brock snorted dismissively. 'They didn’t care when Cromwell turned it into a barn and they don’t care now. They’ll be sitting down to dinner in some country manor house this very minute.’ He marched on towards the main door of the cathedral.
Saint Paul’s had seen better days. It had been built and rebuilt many centuries earlier to inspire awe into the people of London. Back then it had fabulously ornate altars, intricate tapestries and the finest stained glass in all of England. It had boasted the tallest spire in Europe; a magnificent marvel of modern engineering that had stretched nearly to heaven, towering over the puny Londoners below. But how times had changed. Long ago it had become home to the gossip merchants of London, to the horse traders and gamblers, to thieves and prostitutes. And then Henry unleashed his protestant storm and tore down the catholic idolatry from the walls, defaced the statues and smashed down walls to plunder the stone for himself. God showed his rage and struck the cathedral with lightening, sending the flaming spire crashing through the roof. But people paid no heed. They just patched up the roof and went on as before. They baked bread in the cloisters and sold wine from the crypt. They carried on as the old church crumbled around them. By the time the civil war came along and Cromwell used the place as a stable for his cavalry, the roof was falling in and the walls were falling down. Just to set foot in the place was to put your life in God's hands.
James and Brock weaved their way through St. Paul’s churchyard, between pits and piles of dirt, parked carts and horses. Workmen were readying themselves for the night's work, watering their animals, unloading shovels and tools.
Inside the cavernous cathedral the light was fading, but the holes in the roof and the collapsed southern wing still allowed in enough light to see. Rows of candles twinkled at the base of the stout stone pillars and created shadows that danced up the carved stone. A scattering of people sat on the few remaining wooden pews. Debris littered the cathedral floor, the once grand altars were reduced to bare tables before broken statues and defaced images. Coughs and moans echoed around the chamber.
James followed Brock to the base of the tower.
'You go ahead James; I’m not good with steps. Be careful though, they’re a bit rough.'
The stone staircase was dark and seemed endless. James fumbled his way upwards, step after crumbling step, until at last he could crawl gingerly out onto the roof. He eased his way past gaping holes, careful to look no further than the scorched beams so as not to see the vast drop to the cathedral floor below.
The spire might have burnt down, the walls might have been crumbling and the roof partly collapsed, but what remained of the sorry cathedral still managed to dominate London. James found a solid looking piece of timber and perched alongside the pigeons to wait for Brock. In spite of his lofty position, the air around James at the top of the tower was heavy and still; the flag of Saint George drooped sad and lifeless from the nearby Ludgate. To the west the sky blushed red around a weary sun. Its feeble rays streaked in horizontally above the river, adding a blood-red tinge to the blanket of smoke over the city. Lengthening shadows stretched out like claws, dragging the city back into night. Hundreds of fires twinkled like stars in the fading light, and whilst most of the city dwellers locked themselves in their homes and prepared for another sleepless night, the grave diggers and body collectors emerged to ready themselves for another night's work.
On the river sat a hotchpotch of boats, dozens of them, all sizes and shapes, merchant vessels, barges, sailing boats and fishing vessels, their decks crammed with people. Rowing boats passed from one to the next, selling goods else trying to gain entry and being turned away.
Brock emerged from the staircase, felt his way across the roof and plonked himself clumsily alongside James, scattering the pigeons. 'It’s quite a sight, eh?' Brock nodded towards the Thames. 'Six months ago we were freezing to death. Now look at this!'
'Is this really the end do you think Brock? You,
know, the end... of everything?'
Brock shrugged. 'Could be James. And anyway, even if we do survive, if nothing changes, God will just send something worse.'
'Nothing could be worse than this.'
'There's always worse James, always.'
'But how could he do this? How can he sit up there and look down on this and be satisfied?' '
'They've brought this on themselves James.'
'But all the innocents? My wife, my kids. I can't bear to think of them being hurt by this. How can this be... ?’ James halted his sentence as he recalled Brock's story of losing his own family. 'I'm sorry. I didn't mean...'
'I know you didn't.' Brock replied quietly then climbed to his feet to stand on the edge of the tower. 'Enough of this bleak talk. James, pick your house.' He swept an arm towards the surrounding streets. 'We are the care-takers of London, James. Half of these houses are empty - and the better half at that. We can live in a different house every night, sleep in the best four-poster beds, eat from the finest crockery.'
James looked at Brock with furrowed brow. 'What, you mean break in to someone’s house? We can’t do that! You talk about people changing their ways and then you…'
Brock put a firm hand on James shoulder. 'My good James most of those people will probably never come back and even if they do, we won’t be stealing from them. We’re simply looking after their property for them, you and I.'
James looked back unconvinced.
'James, you're telling me you’re going to sleep under a bridge and get nibbled by rats so you don’t crumple the sheets of some rich old bastard who’s left us all here to die? ‘Cause I’m sure not! God helps those who help themselves James.'
Chapter 23
