‘I’ll sit up with Peter tonight to relieve Timmy and maybe he’ll get some sleep,’ she said.
‘Won’t you be missed, if you don’t sign back in?’ asked Nora, knowing that once Elizabeth signed herself into a workhouse she became a prisoner of the state.
‘No,’ Elizabeth told her, ‘there are so many going over the walls these past few nights to escape the typhus that they’ve stopped all that.’
Many escaped late at night and Elizabeth knew she would soon have to do the same. She had calculated that the letter should arrive in another three weeks or so, and had been listening to the inmates as they compared escape routes in whispers. Her route was planned, all she had to do was to wait.
Timmy was still hard at work washing Peter down. Despite his best efforts, the child seemed even hotter than before, and his face and throat were very swollen. Elizabeth tried trickling water between his parched lips, but he choked on the slightest drop. The others sat in silence; even the youngest sensed something was dreadfully wrong. Hours crawled by, night fell, and the room became colder.
Elizabeth tried to persuade Timmy to lie down on one of the other beds, but he refused. They spent the night praying and taking turns to wipe Peter’s fevered face. The flesh on his wasted body burned beneath Elizabeth’s hands, and at times she almost cried out in frustration and anguish. She had been in the workhouse for over four weeks and seen many horrid and disgusting things during that time; senseless fighting over food and bits of clothing, parents climbing through windows and over high walls during the night, abandoning their children to the system, rats feeding on corpses in the hallways and on some that were not yet dead, but nothing could compare to the horror of a child dying.
‘Do you think he’ll get better?’ Timmy startled her out of her reverie.
‘It’s in God’s hands now. We just have to wait and see.’
He nodded and went back to wiping Peter’s body. The boy tossed and turned, calling for his ma. In his quiet periods, they sat watching him, willing him to live, but it was useless. As the first fingers of dawn crept slowly across the sky, the atmosphere in the room changed. A cold stillness descended, rousing them both from their thoughts and striking fear into their hearts. Sitting on either side of him, they each held a hand and stroked the bony fingers. Peter eventually opened eyes that were glazed over with fever and, just for a moment, smiled up at Elizabeth. He was seeing what he wanted to see, and managed to whisper, ‘Ma?’
‘Yes, darling,’ she sobbed, ‘Ma’s here.’
Timmy was crying too, but he didn’t make a sound. He had never seen anyone die before and was expecting something dramatic to happen. Surely, an event such as death would warrant a fanfare of trumpets, something to warn the watchers. But it was nothing like that. Peter pulled away from him, turned on his side and cuddled closer to Elizabeth. She brushed the wet blonde curls from his forehead, murmuring little words of endearment between sobs, and with just a brief sigh he drifted into death.
‘No,’ Timmy looked at the still form. ‘He can’t be dead.’
‘I’m so sorry, Timmy. He’s gone.’ She didn’t know what else to say.
Running over into a corner, Timmy scrunched down, folding in on himself, wanting to disappear. He couldn’t face the awful pain, the sense of loss.
Elizabeth got up from the bed, covered the body and went to fetch Nora. She found her sitting alone in the kitchen, staring into space. The woman looked up hopefully, but Elizabeth shook her head.
‘How’s Timmy?’ asked Nora.
‘Overcome with grief,’ she said, sitting opposite. ‘What do we do now?’
‘We’ll have to take the body to the burial cart. No one will come for it otherwise. There are dead and dying lying side by side all over the place, and no one to give them a Christian burial. God be with us all this day.’
‘Amen,’ Elizabeth whispered.
‘Well, no use just sitting here,’ Nora said. ‘We’ll carry him between us; God knows he won’t weigh much. It’s best he’s gone before the others wake.’
Elizabeth followed her back to the deathbed. The only sound came from the steady, rhythmic breathing of the sleeping children, and the muted sobbing of the boy in the corner. They wrapped the small body in the blanket and were about to lift it from the bed when Timmy stopped them.
‘Where are you taking him?’
‘To the funeral cart,’ Nora said.
‘They’ll just throw him in a grave and I’ll never see him again.’
‘There’s nothing we can do, lad,’ Nora bent, once again, to pick up the dead child.
‘No,’ Timmy stopped her. ‘I’ll take him.’
They stood back as he slid his arms under the bundle and lifted it. They followed him in silent procession through corridors, up to the main door and outside into the crisp morning air. They could tell from the movement of Timmy’s shoulders, that he was crying as he walked. They stayed well back, but vigilant in case he should fall under the weight of his terrible burden. The loaders were already at work and the cart almost full, even at this early hour. Seeing Timmy and the women, the men stopped for a moment before one of them gestured to the bodies stacked up by the gable.
‘Throw it there. We’ll see to it later.’
‘This is Peter.’
‘What?’ The man looked puzzled.
‘This is a little boy called Peter,’ Timmy repeated.
The men looked from one to the other, unsure of what to do, until the man leading the cart came forward.
‘Give Peter to me, lad, I’ll take care of him now.’
Timmy allowed the bundle to slip from his hands and into the waiting arms. They watched, as he laid the child on top of the pile of bodies that already filled the cart and, taking the reins, he led the horse away. With the movement, the blanket came loose and one small, white hand appeared. The jogging of the cart over the rough ground made it look like Peter was waving one final goodbye. Timmy, overcome with weakness, sank to his knees. Elizabeth and Nora supported one another as the cart passed. No one moved until it was out of sight and Peter’s tousled, blonde curls were lost to them forever.
The horror of that day was to be relived over and over as the children succumbed to the fever. It spread rapidly within the confines of the room. Soon Timmy, Katie and Elizabeth were the only ones to remain untouched by it. Nora had disappeared, going over the wall one night within a week of Peter’s death. The trip to the burial cart became a daily occurrence, but they no longer cried. Seeing so much suffering numbed them, and they developed a resignation that each day would be filled with sorrow.
No one besides Timmy, Elizabeth and the doctor, would come near the children. They huddled together, vomit forming a thick crust on their clothes, waiting for death. Even Timmy’s stories brought no relief to them. All were living skeletons, many blinded as eye infection spread from one to the other. So they lay, in the freezing cold, watching the dark shapes of carers moving around them. They never moved, never cried, as they waited for death. Timmy and Elizabeth were exhausted and in very real danger. The constant minding of the children, coupled with lack of food and sleep, left them open to the fever.
A sad little procession returned to the room after the last child died. They gazed at the empty beds, each lost in private thoughts. Katie held tightly to Timmy’s hand and he could feel her shivering from fright and cold. That one so young should witness such heartbreak was beyond understanding. Queues no longer formed at the workhouse gates, as people chose to die on the land or in their makeshift shelters. Others were too sick and weakened by hunger to make it that far. Most of the guardians had died, and there was no longer any order or organisation within. Neither was there any food.
The corridors were strewn with corpses, floors so matted with blood that the worn soles of their shoes stuck as they walked. Drainage gullies outside were packed and stinking with human waste. The air was heavy, cloying and the stench reached everywhere.
‘We have to get out,�
� Elizabeth said, adamant they would take their chances on the land. Her cousin’s letter should have arrived by now, and there might even be enough to pay the passage for Timmy and Katie. It was only because of her genuine concern for the boy and little girl that she had stayed so long in that dreadful place.
They saw no one throughout that day and it was a great relief when twilight fell. It was freezing and they needed warm clothing. Timmy and Elizabeth crept about the corridors and rooms taking whatever they could from those no longer in need of them.
They both knew where they would go. Timmy thought of nothing else, but seeing his family, and Elizabeth would go straight to Maycroft.
All was quiet as they crept away. Keeping well into the shadows, they moved under the archway and towards the gates. No one noticed their going … not even when the gate groaned loudly as they squeezed through. The town was quiet as they walked along, buildings casting dark shrouds across the dead bodies on the road. From somewhere far off came the sound of rifle shots. Later, they would learn the soldiers were shooting at dogs feeding off the corpses. Soon, they were on the outskirts of the town and the road lay bare and open before them. Despite his hunger Timmy wanted to run, to jump for joy. They were free and he would soon be back with his family.
SEVENTEEN
October 2003
Within weeks the first complaints started to filter through to the developer’s office. There was nothing specific, no talk of building flaws, as he might have expected, just an overall feeling of uneasiness within the houses; freezing draughts that could not be explained, doors banging for no obvious reason. His men came back puzzled. They could find no reason for any of it. Windows and door seals were tight. The whole thing was bewildering.
Still … no, he brushed the fleeting image of the graveyard from his mind. That was stupid. The dead were dead. He decided he was dealing with a hysterical group of nutters. Upwardly mobile shitheads and aging hippies, who liked nothing better than causing trouble.
He stopped his jeep outside number 26 and consulted his notes. Mr and Mrs Byrne, oh, yes, how could he forget, the brash ex-army sergeant and his timid little wife. He had met them when they put a down payment on the house. Mr Byrne was one of the more persistent complainers; best dealt with first. Everyone else would be a doddle compared to this loudmouth.
He forced a smile as he rang the bell. Byrne, holding tightly to the leash of one of the ugliest dogs he had ever seen, opened the door.
‘Ah, Richards, about time. I’m sick of the endless trail of cowboys you keep sending. Come in.’
Bob Richards edged his way past the dribbling dog, his back to the wall so that it was in sight at all times.
‘Never mind old Brutus here,’ Byrne reached down and scratched the ears of the dog. ‘He’ll not bite you. Not unless he’s ordered. Will you old boy?’ The dog glanced up at his master, but there was no pleasure in the look. Brutus had been beaten during training and had not forgotten.
Richards was ushered towards the lounge with the dog so close behind that he could feel its breath on the back of his legs. He sat down without being asked, opened his folder and started shuffling papers about.
Christ, the atmosphere in the house was stagnant. The air felt heavy, cloying. He wrote note after note, barely pausing to look up, wanting to be done. He left with promises to call back with a team of specialists, who would check the drains and whatever else they thought might be causing the cold.
It was with great trepidation that he approached number 27. Already he could hear the shrill voice of the woman inside and the whimpering of a small child. Taking a deep breath, he rang the bell. The door was thrown open and a look of anger disappeared from the woman’s face, to be replaced with a coy, welcoming smile.
‘Mr Richards. Do come in.’
He remembered this one all right. Too sweet to be wholesome had been his first impression on meeting her. She had arrived on the arm of a much older man who was, he learned from her gushing endearments, her new husband. He had seen it all before. Men like her husband were easy targets for these women. And she had been showing all the usual signs of desperation. Neckline almost meeting hemline and make-up applied with a trowel.
‘Good morning Mrs Mahoney.’ He swept past her, but could not fail to notice the tear-stained face that peeped between the banisters. He winked up at the child and she tried to smile.
‘Do come in and sit down.’
He hurried into the lounge, wanting to be out of smelling distance of the perfume she wore. It was overpowering and, although probably very expensive, applied in much the same way as her make-up.
‘Now, about these problems.’ He went through the same routine as before, taking down complaints, asking questions. Once he almost laughed aloud when, despite her advanced state of pregnancy and ridiculously tight dress, she tried to cross her legs suggestively, and almost slid off the couch.
There was a distinct lack of warmth about the place, not just the usual chill of morning. Small footsteps pattered down the stairs and along the hallway towards the back of the house. A door clicked shut. He smiled at the woman, who shrugged and returned his smile.
‘Children,’ she simpered, ‘they can be so trying at times. Do you have any of your own?’
‘No. I never married.’
There was that smile again. He now knew how a mouse felt under the deadly gaze of a cat.
‘So despite the cold and doors banging, have you noticed anything else?’
‘Well, my husband says I’m imagining things, what with the baby and all,’ she patted her stomach, ‘but I hear whispering and feel as if someone is touching me.’
He had been right, a nutter.
‘How strange,’ he tried to look concerned. ‘I’ll certainly check this out with the other residents and get back to you if I hear anything similar.’
He knew she was watching as he walked down the path. He had met only two of the residents so far and both were head cases. He went towards the next house thinking there must be an easier way to earn a crust, and wondering if he was too old for prostitution.
****
Once she was safely outside the back door, Jenny ran as fast as she could. There was nowhere to go, except through the bushes at the end of the garden. She crawled through a small gap and into the next field, where the grass was high, and it was hard to see where she was going. The ground felt lumpy and her foot slipped a couple of times into small holes. She wondered if they were rabbit burrows. She would have liked a rabbit or a kitten or puppy. But her mother said animals were dirty, disgusting things and would not allow her to have a pet. The thought of her mother made her scowl. She hated her mother. She hated when she shouted, hated the way her nails dug into her arm when she was angry. Most of all she hated the way she looked when she beat her. Then her face would look like a witch’s.
Her mother had been so angry that morning that Jenny shivered, remembering. She went to use the bathroom unaware that her mother was already in there. When she opened the door the wind had whipped all her white powder off the sink unit, and she had screamed bad words, naughty, nasty words. Then her mother dragged her back to her room and hit her. On the head, in the face, scratching, screaming and punching. Her mother had only stopped, when the doorbell rang.
‘Stay there,’ she’d warned, wiping the white powder from her nose. ‘Don’t move until I get back.’
But she knew better. She would hide until Joe got home. Then her mother would be different. She never hit her in front of him. And it was quiet here, she could dream about starships and rockets to the moon.
‘Ouch,’ her foot slid into another hole. Deeper this time and something hard rubbed against her shin. She sat down to survey the damage, rolling down her white knee-sock. Her ankle was skinned. Small strips of flesh bunched here and there, and a trickle of blood stained the sock. That was the last straw. She curled up as tight as she could, her head against her knees and howled.
‘Is it the hunger?’
&nb
sp; ‘What?’ Jenny looked up towards the voice, and shuffled backwards in terror.
‘We’ve all felt it too.’
What was this thing? It was horrible and weird looking, a monster.
‘Are you from up there?’ she asked, pointing towards the sky.
‘No, down there,’ Katie touched the earth. ‘We all live down there.’
‘All who?’
‘All of us,’ replied Katie, gesturing behind her. Lots of other monsters crawled towards her through the grass.
‘I … I have to go home,’ Jenny stammered in fright.
‘Please stay and talk to us. We have no one to play with.’
They all nodded, clustering around her, and this started her crying again.
‘Is it the hunger?’ Katie repeated.
‘Do you mean am I hungry?’
‘Yes, we used to be hungry all the time.’
‘No, I’m never really hungry. I hurt my leg,’ she pointed to her reddened shin.
‘I’ll get Elizabeth,’ one of the monsters said, before crawling away.
No one spoke as they waited for Elizabeth. The dead children were just as fascinated and uncertain as the living one. Soon, there was a shuffling in the grass and they turned towards the sound.
‘This is Elizabeth,’ Katie told her. ‘She’s nice.’
Jenny looked up at the woman standing over her and her crying started again. She didn’t look nice, just scary like the rest of them. Cold fingers circled her ankle. Were they going to eat her?
‘Have you a mother?’
Jenny peeped up through her fingers and nodded.
‘She will need to clean this in case of infection.’
‘I’m a bit afraid,’ the child admitted.
‘So are we,’ said Elizabeth.
‘You are?’
‘Never mind,’ Elizabeth said, straightening and casting a fearful glance around the graveyard. So far there was no sign of Carey. This was strange, as he must have been heard the child crying. They could hear every sound, no matter how far away. Timmy came strolling through the long grass. He had been wandering among the living, enjoying all the new sights and sounds. He stopped on seeing the child.
Paupers Graveyard Page 15
