Elephants and Castles

by John Patrick

Elvis was back in a jail cell. This time there was a mattress on the floor and a stainless steel toilet in the corner. Elvis didn't sleep. It wasn't the uncomfortable cell, he'd been in worse than this, he thought to himself. It wasn't the fear of what was going to happen to him. All he could think of was Mary, of how she would have been arrested and taken back to court. How they would have tried her again and then burnt her as a witch as Brock had said. He tried not to think about it but the images just kept re-appearing in his head. Why hadn't he just given the key and the stone to Brock and then the pair of them could have walked free. He could have lived out his days back then with Mary. Instead he'd forever have the guilt of his cowardice weighing on his shoulders.

  Every hour or so they'd come into the cell and drag him to another room for questioning. They'd try scaring him, making threats and then promises, blackmailing him over what they might do to him or his mother if he didn't talk. They wanted to know how he'd got hold of the plague bacteria, who'd helped him, how he'd stored it and sent it around, how he'd met Alan, and most of all they seemed obsessed with Morris. But what could Elvis say? If he tried telling them the truth they'd just laugh or think him a liar. So he kept quiet and they got angrier and angrier.

  They threw him back into his cell again. There was no window and he had no idea of time. He finally drifted off to a troubled sleep.

  The cell door opened again. Elvis braced himself ready to be dragged back to his feet and along the corridor. Nobody came in.

  A news reader's voice echoed along the concrete walls. '...and anger is mounting at what's being called the biggest cock-up in the history of British policing. The so-called terrorist plot to release plague into London was never real! The mass evacuation, the huge panic was all for nothing!'

  Elvis walked to the door to listen.

  '...the Leader of the Opposition is demanding the resignation of the Prime Minister and the question everyone's asking is 'how did the hospitals and the doctors got it so wrong?'. How did all these positive tests for plague suddenly disappear overnight? The dozen or so suspected terrorists who've been held in police stations across London are being released without charge this morning and people are being allowed to return to their homes. Police say they still wish to locate a Morris Klatzmann...'

  Elvis put his head around the door. The corridor was empty. Did this mean he was free to go? Another head poked around the next door along. It was a girl with shoulder length brown hair. Perhaps he could ask her. The head turned to look at him. It was Amelia Edwards, his classmate and until recently at least, the girl of Elvis's dreams. She was wearing the same blue pyjama-style prison clothes as him. Elvis shrunk back inside the door and cringed. His crush on Amelia must have led them to arrest her too. He'd have to go and apologise. But what could he say? Perhaps he might just sneak past and say nothing, pretend he hadn't seen her. He gritted his teeth and walked through the door. As he stepped into the corridor, Amelia Edwards' palm slapped him hard across the face. Before he could think of anything to say, she turned on her heels and marched away.

  Elvis followed, his cheek still smarting, through the steel-bar doors to a man standing behind a counter. The man thrust a pen into Elvis's hand and pointed where to sign. He shoved his crutch and a small pile of clothes into his chest and nodded at a changing cubicle.

  Two minutes later Elvis was stood outside the back door to the police station. A soft drizzle floated on the early morning air, barely enough to darken the pavement. Amelia Edwards was climbing into the back of a large black BMW. Shouting came from the open door before it was slammed shut and the car screeched away.

  'Aboot time laddie. Noo come on, we've got things to de!'

  Elvis cringed. He turned his head to the voice. The crooked figure of Mother Munro was stood behind him, a black woollen shawl pulled tightly under her chin.

  'No.' said Elvis, more weary than defiant. 'No more. I'm finished with all of this. Whatever needs to be done, you'll just have to do it alone.'

  'Ye canna stop noo boy. The job's only half done. There's a friend o' yours come in his carriage te take ye back hoom, an' then we can finish the work we started.'

  A car horn tooted. It was Geoffrey in his old Austin Princess. He put a hand out of the window and waved.

  Elvis shook his head. 'I'm finished. I want nothing to do with you any more, or your mad ideas. Just leave me alone.'

  Elvis walked away, leaving the old woman stood on the pavement.

  'Noo Elvis, ye dinna understand! Ye canna stop noo! Ye just canna!'

  A few hundred yards ahead was a queue of yawning early morning workers at a bus stop. Elvis could catch the bus home and get away from these people. He hurried towards them.

  'Elvis, please, listen te me boy. Ye've got te stop and listen.' The old car was crawling along the gutter at walking pace alongside him. Mother Munro had her head out of a rear window. 'If we dinne de this, it'll ne'er be over. It'll...'

  Her words lost under a wailing siren. A flashing police car pulled up behind Geoffrey's Princess. Two eager policemen jumped out.

  'Are these people annoying you son?'

  Elvis looked at the aging figures sat in the car. 'Not any more.' he replied and walked on.

  'Shit! Are you sure?'

  Elvis shook his head as he trudged away.

  'Well, we'll take some details anyhow.'

  Elvis took his seat on the bus. He stared vacantly through the steamy windows. He didn't notice the street cleaners sweeping up last night's chip papers, or the milkmen dashing with bottles from house to house, or the newsagents bringing in fat bales of newspapers carrying the stunning news of the terrorist fiasco. He didn't see Geoffrey getting animated with the policemen and then getting handcuffed across the bonnet of his car. All he could see was Mary, standing on top of the cathedral tower. He closed his eyes. He was exhausted after the sleepless night. He began to drift away. Then in a flash he was back, standing on top of the tower, the warm breeze stroking his face, Mary's hand pressed to his chest. He could feel her finger gently pressed to his lips, her frightened eyes gazing deep into his. This time their lips touched, soft and warm. Then he was gone, deserting her, leaving her to the mercy of the troops and the Bishop. He watched as they dragged her down the stone staircase and threw her back into the dingy prison cell. He sat in the courtroom and watched the sham trial, saw her ridiculed, tormented, convicted, and then burnt. Elvis awoke with a start. The drizzle still fell outside. The wipers were still squeaking back and forth. His stop was approaching.

  Number 28 Monnington Street had that morning-after feel. Workmen were busy clearing away lights and generators, winding up security tape and extension cables and packing away equipment. A trail of people were quietly walking in and out of the house carrying out boxes and papers.

  Monica was in the living room. She was surrounded by piles of papers and boxes left from the night before. A couple of lap top computers were open on the coffee table. She'd found a box of cigarettes and was struggling to connect one to a trembling match. Elvis slammed the front door shut.

  Monica dropped the match onto the carpet. 'Shit! Shit!' she squealed and stamped it out.

  Elvis hadn't seen her smoke openly in years. He should tell her to stop but he was too weary. He just shook his head.

  'Elvis, sweetheart! You're OK!' She ran and engulfed him with her arms. 'You are OK aren't you?'

  'Yes Mum, I'm fine.' answered Elvis, easing out of the bear hug. 'Are you angry Mum?'

  'Not with you sweetie. Not with you.'

  'I'm sorry.'

  'Shush. Your little friend is upstairs, what's his name?'

  'Alan'

  'You know, the dark boy.' she added with a whisper.

  As Elvis only had one friend, the extra description wasn't really needed. Elvis chewed on his lip. How was Alan going to react? What had the police done to him? Perhaps Elvis could play it down and make out is was all just an exciting adventure.

  As Elvis reached his bedroom, Alan was lettin
g himself out, a handful of computer games and DVDs tucked under his arm.

  'Hi Elvis.' stammered Alan, avoiding eye contact. 'I just came to get these.' He pointed a finger at the boxes of discs.

  'No problem. Some night, eh?' he added weakly.

  Alan said nothing. He shoved the discs further under his arm and went to walk past Elvis.

  'Did they keep you up all night too?' asked Elvis.

  Alan nodded. 'And they arrested my parents. Dad says I'm not allowed to talk to you any more. They'd go nuts if they knew I was here now. I'll have to go.'

  'They'll get over it.' reassured Elvis. 'It's all finished now. I'll see you at school.'

  'No.' Alan shook his head. 'We're moving. Some place called Preston. My Dad's going to join my uncle in a business. They've already started packing.'

  'Oh, I see. Well, maybe you... could call in... when you're back?'

  'We won't be back Elvis. And don't come round. My Dad would kill you.' Alan pushed past and disappeared quickly down the stairs.

  Monica had her cigarette lit. She puffed hard and drew in the smoke. It had been a few years and it tasted awful. She coughed, her head span. What was she doing? Why was she letting them get to her like this? She had to be stronger. She hauled open the living room window and threw the cigarette out, followed by the packet and the ashtray. Alan stepped back as the red tin disc flew past. It was followed by a large box of files that burst apart at his feet. Then came another, followed by a lap top computer that smashed on the gravel.

  'Oi, you leave that stuff alone!' A man in blue overalls stood in the hall way frowning.

  Monica tossed another brown folder through the window and then marched to the hall. She took the workman by his arm, opened the the front door and shoved him down the steps with all of her might. 'Get out!' she screamed 'Get out of my house!' She grabbed his tool box from the floor and threw it after him. She was shaking and now she really felt like a cigarette. She slammed the door behind him and burst into tears. Elvis sat at the top of the stairs and watched quietly. After everything he'd been through, all he'd managed to achieve was a night in jail, the loss of his only friend, turning his Mum into a nervous wreck and losing probably the only girl that would ever like him.

  Chapter 21