by John Patrick
James spent another long day performing searches. Every house seemed the same now, people's plights less personal, less interesting. He would keep his head down and say as little as possible. His desperate rush to get back out of the door had gone. The day had started with the news that two more searchers were dead and the hunt was on for yet more. The searchers had gathered together outside the doctor's rooms and muttered about the grim fate that awaited them. James too realised that he had little chance of escaping this disease. If he ran away then they’d only go looking for Elizabeth and maybe Mary too. All he could do was keep going until plague found him and the rest would surely follow. And today he didn't feel well. He had a headache; a fever maybe. He was tired and nauseated. Was it all in his head? He didn't much care anymore. As he saw it, his life was over and this was just the first stage of his death. He was looking forward to getting it out of the way and moving on. His family not greeting him had just strengthened his conviction that the old life was gone and Elizabeth obviously knew it too. Were his family ill? Were they disinterested? It made no difference. This was his existence now until the Infection took him to away to the next, whatever that might be. He didn't bother protecting his hands. He even stole mouthfuls of bread at one house.
His day's work over he made his report, collected his small reward and took his blanket to look for somewhere to sleep. He wasn't going to seek out Brock in his up-market squat, that would only make his new friend sick. Instead he made his way back to the near ruin that was St Paul’s Cathedral and climbed again to the top of the tower. He stood on the edge of the crumbling stone alongside a grimacing gargoyle and looked down on the dying city, smothered again in the smoke of countless fires. He looked at the gaping burial pits around the church yard and the queue of carts and piles of shovels ready for another night’s work. He gazed down at the distant path around the foot of the cathedral and imagined himself falling, his troubles being blown away by the rush of warm summer air. He imagined lying on the ground, his worries gone forever, the plague cheated of its victim. He pushed a toe over the edge and watched the fragments of stone and mortar tumble until they became puffs of dust. The ground, the church yard, the burial pits, they seemed to be calling him, tugging him gently over the edge.
Brock emerged from the stairs. ‘Do you know how hard it is for me to get up these bloody stairs?'
'Go away Brock. You don't want to catch what I've got.' James edged away along the wall.
'Catch what you've got? What have you got? Have you got the marks?'
'No, but it's common sense. We both know what it is.'
'So just to make sure, you'll finish the job yourself, is that the plan?'
'There's nothing left for me here. This city is dying, I'm dying, my family's gone.'
‘Gone? What do you mean gone? Have you seen their bodies?'
James said nothing.
'No, thought not. But hey, don't let me stop you. You wanna do it, you do it. I've stood there many a time my friend, believe me.' Brock eased his way across the scorched beams then began to laugh.
'What's so funny?'
'Oh, just thinking. It's taken me ten years to find a friend in this awful city and as soon as I do he wants to go jump off the church tower! It's enough to make a man feel unwanted.'
James kept his gaze on the burial pits below.
'Look, it's not for me to tell you what to do, but let's face it, you don't know you're dying, you don't know your family is dead and if it was me, well as long as I had even the tiniest chance of one day seeing my wife and child again, I'd cling onto it with every bit of strength I had left. But you do what you want.'
'They don't need me.'
'Is that right? So that's what they'd say to you if they were here right now. They'd say 'Go on, jump off?''.
'I don't know what they'd say. What's it matter anymore?'
'And what if they do live through this? How will they go with no bread winner, no father, knowing what you did? If you ask me you're deserting them James, you're a coward running away when they need you most.' Brock picked up a small fragment of the stone from the crumbling wall and hurled it over the edge. 'But that's alright. You're choice.'
'I'm not asking for advice Brock. You wouldn't know.'
'I know James, I know all too well. I've been there many times, stood on that very spot.'
'So what stopped you? You're family aren't coming back.'
Brock heaved a deep sigh. 'I really don't know what stopped me James. I suppose in the early days, I was just pig-headed, angry. I wanted revenge on Cromwell and Fairfax, I just wanted to make them pay for what they did. But deep down I knew that was never going to happen. So I promised myself, if nothing else, at least I wasn't going to let them beat me. I'd stir myself into a rage thinking about what they'd done. Then I’d walk the streets 'til I found someone to take it out on. I’d pick a fight, sometimes against three of four men. I didn’t care if they beat the shit out of me; the pain was good, it was penance. If I couldn’t get angry I’d just try blinker myself, not think about yesterday or tomorrow, just look at the stars and try to think about nothing. Sometimes I’d imagine my child, that boy that never had a chance to take a breath. I'd imagine him sitting next to me, watching me, listening to me, copying me. And I’d promise him I’d do nothing. At least until tomorrow.'
'And that’s it? That’s how you keep yourself going?'
'After that Edwards found me. He has eyes like a hawk that man. He saw me, standing here, looking down at the ground. It was a bright summer evening, just like tonight. He came all the way to the top of the tower. I thought he was going to lecture me, tell me it’s a sin and all that. I was ready to push him off too. But he didn't. Said he was a business man. Said me jumping off this tower would be a criminal waste of a good asset. He told me if I came with him he’d give me a job and somewhere to sleep. So I did and he kept his word. And he took me into the church. He reminded me that one day I’d be standing up there looking them in the eye, my wife, my son, and God. He told me, if you jump off that tower today you won’t see them again in the afterlife, not ever. I hang onto that James, that promise. One day I’ll see them again, I know that now.'
'You can still believe that Brock, after all of this? You still believe there's a kind and just God up there after doing all this to us? A week ago I wouldn't have questioned it for the world but now...I can't believe any god could be this cruel. '
'I have to believe James, I have to. What else is there?' Brock reached into his pocket and pulled out a silver hip flask. 'And anyway, I figure He's waited this long for me now, so what's a few more weeks? Come on, sit down. Keep me company James; I don't want to sit up here alone. Just for tonight.' He held the flask out to James 'Here, try this, courtesy of my kind host, Mister. Richard...' he tried to read the inscription on the flask ' …Brooks I think. Drink with me, and then if you still feel the same tomorrow, you can jump off then.'
James looked disapprovingly at the flask. 'You don’t want to share that with me.' He pushed it away.
Brock laughed 'No offence but that did cross my mind'. He pulled out another shiny flask.
James smiled ruefully. He sat down on the wall alongside Brock, took a swig and looked at the drop beneath his feet. 'Do you think it’s a good idea sitting here and drinking this?'
Brock laughed. 'What, now you're ‘fraid you might fall off James?'
James had never sipped on port before. It was a pleasant surprise, the sweet treacly taste and warm glow that followed, a glow that grew more satisfying with each swig.
It wasn’t long before both flasks were empty. Brock leant back and reached into an elegant leather satchel. 'Here my friend!' He pulled out a full bottle of port, ripped out the cork and hurled it far into the sky. 'We might not live for long, but at least we’ll die with fine port inside us!'
As James accepted a refill, Brock gave him a playful slap on the back. James slipped forwards on the edge of the wall. Rubble fell past his feet and plummeted earthward. He scr
ambled for a grip on the rough masonry. Brock lunged, seized his arm and pulled him back. 'I'm sorry my friend!' Brock bellowed with laughter, then shook his head. 'No sooner do you change your mind 'bout jumping, then I try and push you off!' He took the flask from James’ hand and filled it back up with the sticky brown port. 'To our good health James!' Brock laughed again and swigged on the bottle.
They sat for hours, staring out over the darkening London skyline. James told his tale of trying and failing to see his family, of not knowing if they were sick or thrown out by Miss Pewtersmith or murdered by thieves. In slurred tones, they concluded that James must rise early the next day and try again.
Chapter 26
