by John Patrick
Elvis was awoken by the cat affectionately digging his claws into his lap. It was dark. He had no idea of how long he had slept. Carts rumbled past laden with corpses. He was leant against a wall, Saint Paul's Cathedral stood again before him. Was this where he'd rested? Perhaps this was for the best he thought. Perhaps he could sit here and wait, see if he could spot somebody that might be James.
He watched as the carts trundled past, as the sky turned from black to blue and the stars faded and died. Then he saw someone emerge from the cathedral. A dishevelled looking man with a grubby blanket wrapped around him. Maybe that was James. Elvis jumped to his feet and headed after him. He was a hundred yards or more away and walking quickly. Elvis walked as fast as he could but the figure disappeared into the streets around the cathedral. Elvis followed his path. He rounded a corner. He could see the man disappearing into an alley. He had to catch him. He hobbled as fast as he could, his bare feet blistering and bleeding on the rough ground. He followed him through a small passageway. The man was now stood with his back to Elvis, arguing with a woman. All he had to do was explain who he was and give him some potion. How hard could that be? Elvis dashed to the man and grabbed him by the shoulder.
'James! I'm am so glad I caught you!'
The man span around and punched Elvis on the nose, knocking him from his feet.
'James? Who the bloody 'ell is James? Little urchin! Go on, bugger off!' He gave Elvis a kick and turned his attention back to the woman. 'Now come on darlin', you know I can't afford that much. I never pay that much.'
Elvis crawled away, blood dripping from his nose. The white cat ran past him and on up the alley. Elvis stumbled back to his feet and followed. He rounded another corner. It opened into a small ornate square. A fight seemed to be going on in the middle of the square alongside a fountain. A man wrapped in a filthy blanket staggered away whilst another in uniform stood gloating, cupping handfuls of water and splashing them onto his face. A wooden stool stood near to Elvis. Alongside it was food wrapped in a cloth and a small bottle. Elvis grabbed the bottle and tucked it under his cape. Could this man who was hurrying away be James? With the bottle hidden, Elvis set off in pursuit.
'An' you can keep away an' all!' shouted the uniformed man as he splashed water onto his neck. 'This ain't for the likes of you!'
With the bottle still hidden beneath his cape, Elvis ran through the ritual with the stone and the water as Samuel had shown him. It seemed ridiculous, but then so was walking through seventeenth century London. He scurried after the man. Perhaps he should try a different approach this time.
'Sir! Sir!' Elvis shouted. 'Wait.'
The man turned and looked suspiciously at Elvis's cape and staff. 'What do you want? If you want to ridicule go ahead. I'm past caring.' He turned to walk on.
'No, no. I saw you trying to get a drink. Here. I have some. You can share it.' Elvis held out the bottle.
'Why would you want to share with me?' James asked sceptically. 'I'm a searcher.'
'That's OK, I don't care.'
The man took the bottle and gulped it down.
'And what's your name sir?' asked Elvis.
'My name, why do you need my name?'
'I'd just like to know who I helped today.'
The man shrugged. 'Young, James Young.'
Elvis smiled. 'Frickin' awesome!' he shouted. That had been easy! All he had to do now was find that key and go home.
Samuel ran in through the church hall door screaming in excitement. 'He's back! He's back!' then rushed outside again. A moment later he walked back in through the door pulling a very dazed looking James in behind him.
Mary screamed and ran and threw her arms around her father. Elizabeth stood speechless, tears rolled down her cheeks.
James squeezed Mary tightly before releasing her and approaching his wife.
'James, I never thought I'd see you again.' Her words came out as a whisper. She threw her arms over his shoulders and pulled him in. She buried her face into his shoulder. 'I thought you were gone... forever.'
'But, but I saw you. You were... dead.' James stuttered. 'How can this ...?'
Elizabeth placed a finger across James lips. 'Who cares? We're together, we're all together.'
Samuel was still bouncing up and down with excitement. Mary brought a small packet of tablets and pushed two of them into her father's hand.
'Quick, swallow these.'
'What? Why?
'Don't ask my darling, just swallow them, please.' urged Elizabeth. 'We'll tell you everything.'
James choked them down.
'Noo we just need that boy back and we'll be done.' said Mother Munro with obvious satisfaction.
The vicar reappeared in the hall. 'They're here!' He hissed. 'They couldn't find the Bishop so they woke up a judge. They're searching the vestry right now! They'll be in here next. You're times run out. You need to get away from here right now!'
'Quick then child! The potion!' Mother Munro pointed to the buckets on the table. Mary handed out the cups again, first to Alice, then her mother, Samuel and James. They gulped it down together. In seconds they were gone.
'Come Mister Le Clerc, Reverend Singer, ye must drink it too.' ordered Mother Munro. 'And ye girl, drink up.'
The Reverend looked at the cup of water in his hand and swished it around as Mary drank her potion.
Alan had a small torch and was examining the patched up piece of paper that formed the old death register. 'What was it Elvis called himself?'
'I believe it was Thomas.' replied the old woman. 'Thomas Cruso... or Cruton or something. Och, my memory isn'e what it was.'
'Look.' Alan pointed his torch at the list. Near to the top of the page was a new entry. 'Thomas Cruise. Executed, Witchcraft.'
'Oh dear. That's noo good.' said Mother Munro. 'Not good at all.'
'No' screeched Mary 'let me...' Before she could finish her sentence, she too was gone.
Alan turned to Mother Munro. 'How can we change this? How do we get him back?'
'We canna laddie. What's done is done. He knew there were risks.'
'You sent him to his death and that's all you can say?' bawled Alan. 'He knew there were risks!'
''He's no the only one who's paid a price.'
Outside torches were working their way across the graveyard, searching step by step and heading towards the hall.
'So what the hell do we do now?' asked Alan.
'Do? There's nothing to do. Ye'll go to jail, and as fer me, well, it's best t' noo even think aboot it.'
Satisfied with his work, Elvis hurried back towards the cathedral. He'd just find the key, get back to the top of the tower and be gone. Everything would be back to normal again.
It was mid-afternoon. The sun was hot, the flies were frantic and the smell was appalling. The cathedral was deserted but for a few in silent prayer. Elvis quickly made his way back to the piles of debris and began methodically searching. It had to be here somewhere. He searched under stones and timbers, through piles of rubble and garbage but found nothing.
'Is this, by chance, what you seek?' Elvis turned. The Bishop stood behind him holding aloft the iron key. Half a dozen guards stood around him swords hanging by their sides. Behind them stood the old church orderly, his face covered in scratch and claw marks.
Elvis tried to scramble over the rubble to escape once again.
'Seize him!' roared the Bishop.
This time, Elvis had no chance. The guards charged over the debris and grabbed him. They dragged him back before the Bishop.
'How dare you come to the house of God dressed in the clothes of Satan?' he boomed. 'And then you thieve from the vestry. And look!' The Bishop grasped Elvis's wrist and prised the stone from his fingers. 'Look at the evil trinkets he holds!'
'No! Give me that back!' Elvis lunged forward but the guards pulled him back.
The Bishop laughed coldly. 'I don't think so.' He looked thoughtfully at Elvis. 'Do I know you boy? You look familiar. What's your name?'
Elvis hesitated. 'Cruise. Thomas Cruise.'
In the shadows at the bottom of the tower stairs, Brock looked on silently.
'Does anyone here know this boy?' the Bishop went on. 'Will anyone speak up for him?'
The Bishop looked at the faces in turn. If there were accomplices here then he'd have them too. But nobody stepped forward.
The Bishop leant over, his nose almost touching Elvis's face. 'I do know you boy.' he whispered, 'You and the stone have escaped me for the very last time.'
He turned and almost skipped away, the stone and key clasped firmly in either hand. 'Lock him up! Trial Monday, execution Tuesday.'
Chapter 18
