by John Patrick
No one came to Nick’s aid in the carriage house. After the seizure was over he lay in wet clothes, sleeping mostly, waking occasionally to shout nonsense and reach out for things that only he could see. Everybody else kept as far away from him as they could, watching him nervously in case he suddenly developed the strength to rise to his feet and chase after them. They pleaded with the guards to at least remove him, lest they all get sick, but that only served to reaffirm the guards’ convictions that they were doing the right thing by locking them up in the first place. The guards did though promise that he could be taken out of the building, just as soon as he was dead. And that went for the rest of them too.
'He’s going to kill us all.' hissed Le Clerc 'If they won’t get rid of him we should do it ourselves. You can see the miasma coming off him.'
'What about the potion?' asked a woman holding a child. 'Give 'im some an' cure 'im, for God's sake!'
Cormag pointed at the wet patches on the floor where the buckets had gone over and shook his head.
'What about all your potions?' asked the inn-keeper looking at Le Clerc. 'You 'ad loads of it. Give 'im some. Give us all some.'
Le Clerc laughed. He reached his hands in his pockets and took out several small bottles. 'Here. Have all you want.' He tossed the bottles towards him. 'And if you want some more, throw a bucket in the Thames.'
'You bloody fraud! I knew it!' The inn-keeper hurled a bottle back towards Le Clerc. 'So that's it. We’re stuck with him. We can’t make 'im better an' they won't take 'im out ‘til he’s stone bloody cold; by which time we'll all be near dead too.'
Le Clerc pointed up to the loft where sunlight was shining in through the small attic windows. 'There is a way.'
'What, through that window? How are we supposed to get him up there in the first place? Are you gonna carry 'im?'
'Thankfully, God gave at least one of us here a brain.' Le Clerc walked across to the rope and pulley hanging down from the loft and swung it across the room.
The inn-keeper looked around at the faces in the room for a reaction. There were looks of contempt for Nick, of fear of his disease but nobody appeared moved or upset by the prospect of dumping him through the upstairs window. He looked to the Reverend Singer. He would know what was right, what was justified. But Singer wanted no part in it. He wanted Nick gone, same as everyone else, though he preferred not to be seen to condone what was being done. Now all eyes had turned to him for guidance, there was no way of avoiding giving his verdict.
'God helps those who help themselves.' He nodded and then turned away to inspect the crucifix hanging around his neck.
Inside the house Samuel was struggling to understand being imprisoned. What did it mean? How long would it last? As far as he knew, everyone who had been locked up stayed that way until they were removed on a cart. Was this going to happen to him too? But he felt so well. Had he really felt the warm sun and soft breeze on his skin for the last time? Were these walls to be all he would see from now until death?
Elizabeth went to the pantry and divided up the food into tiny daily portions to make them last as long as she could. She’d entered the pantry feeling confident about her preparations, but things weren’t as she’d thought. There was less than half the food that she'd expected to find and to make matters worse, there were chewed scraps scattered across the floor. There was barely enough food for two weeks, even if they near starved themselves. The guards should bring a few basic provisions, a little fresh water and food. But Elizabeth knew that those sorts of supplies had a nasty habit of not turning up, of being sold or eaten long before they reached their intended targets.
Mary sat by an upstairs bedroom window. She stared at the glass but saw nothing of the back garden beyond. She recalled the face of Isabel as she had looked out from the house that became her tomb. Then movement at the carriage house won back her attention. A head appeared through the small loft window followed by a pair of shoulders. Mary cleaned the window with her sleeve. It was Nick. Was he better? Was he trying to escape? But he was right over two guards stood chatting and drinking. And he could never climb down from that height. She tried to open the window. She’d wave to him, shout and warn him to go back. Even if he managed to climb down the guards would catch him. But as she struggled to undo the stiff window latch, Nick’s arms then torso flopped through the window too. For a moment he dangled above the guards, arms swinging like pendulums. Then he dropped to the hard brick path, his head first then body crumpling after. The guards dropped their beakers in shock and reached for their weapons. But Nick was motionless on the ground alongside them. They prodded at him with their boots to make sure he posed no threat. There was no reaction.
Mary gently closed the window and turned away. Was this her fault for not bringing Nick into the safety of the house? Logically she knew that would have been too dangerous but that didn't stop her being pained with guilt. And who would be next? First Fran's boys, then Fran and now Nick. The unthinkable was happening. For so long this terrible storm had been threatening, like black clouds far out to sea. Now, suddenly it was here, howling around the house. Plague had arrived, sweeping in like a late autumn squall and stripping the leaves from the trees.
Elizabeth gathered the children together in the kitchen. She showed them the meagre rations they’d be eating in the coming days.
'But where’s the rest of it?' asked Samuel. 'Where’s all that stuff we got?'
'You tell me!' snapped Elizabeth 'In the stomachs of your friends across the way I expect. Anyway, there’s nothing we can do about that now. We’ve got to try and survive with what we have.'
'But that’s not enough to feed a mouse!' argued Samuel.
Elizabeth shrugged. 'That’s what we’ve got and it’ll have to do.'
Mary counted up the rations her mother had prepared. 'What are we going to do after two weeks?'
‘What do you mean?' asked Samuel.
'Mum, you’ve only done enough ‘ere for two weeks. What we goin’ to do after that? Is there more?'
'No Mary. This is the lot.'
'So what’ll we do?'
'Well, I guess that will depend on those guards out there, Mary. If they’re good men and do their job they’ll bring us some food and fresh water and we’ll be fine.'
'And if they’re not?'
'Well...if not they’ll keep it all for themselves. And then we’ll have a problem. A big problem'
'But we’ll starve. They’re gonna lock us in ’ere for weeks an' weeks. We can’t live on this!'
Elizabeth began to put the rations back into a wooden box. She spoke without looking up at her daughter. 'Desperate times call for desperate measures, Mary. We need to start... you and me ... start being nice to those men out there. Make sure they know we’re not sick.' She rose from the table and picked up the box. 'You’re a lot younger than me Mary, a lot prettier...'
'What?' asked Mary, confused by her mother's suggestion.
Elizabeth carried the box back to the pantry. 'For God's sake, use your imagination girl!' She placed the box on the shelf and out of sight leant her head against the rough wooden plank, her eyes screwed tightly shut. 'God forgive me.' she whispered to herself.
Samuel was confused. 'What’s she mean’? Is she gonna shoot ‘em?'
In response to Nick being thrown from the building, the guards had taken planks of wood and crudely nailed them over all of the windows of the carriage house. What little ventilation they’d had was now gone. The heat and smell were worse than ever, flies covered every surface. In the near darkness the rats had become bold, and were scurrying over beams and around the floor. People were being bitten. The two buckets that had been used to hold the magical potion were now toilets, but they were already overflowing and as all windows were boarded up, there was no way of emptying them.
'There’s nay any choice Cormag' declared Madadh. ‘Tween the lo’ o’ us we can smash doon these doors and ge 'away from ‘ere.'
Le Clerc overheard the conversation. 'There’s a lot o
f guards out there now. You'll need to be ready for a fight.'
'Aye, nay doobt,' replied Madadh 'but I’ll die tryin’ te escape before I rot in this stinkin’ hole.'
'I’ll be right behind you!' encouraged Le Clerc.
'You’re being hasty' said the Reverend Singer holding a handkerchief across his nose and mouth. 'I know this place is foul but they’re sending word to the Bishop. When he hears what’s happening he’ll send his people down in an instant to release us all. If we break out know who knows what those men out there might do? There’s no need to get hurt. If we just hold on a little longer we will all be free. You have my promise. I give my word that everyone here will be looked after.'
In the gloom in the corner of the room a young woman put down her toddler and went through her hourly ritual of checking herself for sores and boils. Like most others she’d often find vague swellings deep under the skin and would spend hours trying to work out if they were normal or the beginnings of the disease. Today though, she felt ill. She was sweating and shivering, her body ached and she was glad the light in the room was so poor. Her armpits throbbed; they were so swollen she had to hold her arms away from her body. She nervously pushed a hand through the top of her dress. She paused before sliding her fingers any further along her clammy skin, frightened of what she might find. When finally she did, she found the first armpit bulging and full. As she pressed, pain ripped through her whole body and soft, warm pus oozed on to her fingers. A shiver ran through her body. She quickly checked the other side. The same hard, hot, tender swellings stretched the skin to breaking point. She closed her eyes. She would soon die, she knew that. Should she tell those around her? She had seen what they’d done to Nick and she wasn’t going to let that happen to her. With a struggle, she climbed to her feet. She staggered through the maze of arms and legs on the floor. She found a place to sit as far away as she could from the cries of her toddler and sat down to await the inevitable.
Elizabeth prowled the house, looking for forgotten supplies, wondering what else they could use to supplement their rations and avoid the need to fall prey to the guards. There was the white cat. Perhaps he was somewhere in the house. That might provide a meal. Or mice, there were always plenty of mice, and rats too. She was unsure if she could bring herself to eat rodents but perhaps the time would come. Maybe there were supplies around the house left somewhere by the children or Jarvis. She searched through the sideboards and cupboards in the living room and then the drawing room. It was hard in the dark shuttered-rooms, but her eyes were adapting to the low light. The drawing room sideboard was empty. There was a cupboard behind the sofa. This room had a bad smell, more rats probably. She rounded the sofa. Annabel Collins was sitting in the corner of the room, surrounded by blankets and the remains of half-eaten food. Her usually immaculate clothes were grubby and torn, her hair tangled and hanging over her face. She looked anxiously at Elizabeth.
But Elizabeth had no energy left to be angry or scared. Without speaking, she turned and left the room. She closed the door behind her and twisted the heavy iron key in the lock.
Chapter 32
