Death is a Welcome Guest: Plague Times Trilogy 2

by Louise Welsh

  ‘Poor guy.’ Magnus had feared that the hammer was meant for him and his voice wavered with unspent adrenalin. ‘I guess you must be certain this bloke’s guilty if you’re making an example of him. No one wants a wrongful execution on their conscience.’ He looked back towards the house. Malachy was almost upon them. ‘Is this the boss?’

  The man who had told him there was no one in charge said, ‘There is no boss,’ and the tall man said, ‘Malachy’s what you might call a natural leader.’

  ‘You’re making a good job of that.’ Malachy seemed not to notice the platform’s lopsided legs. ‘It’ll do the job nicely.’ He held out a hand. ‘I’m guessing you’re Magnus.’

  ‘You guess right.’ Magnus ignored the hand and Malachy dropped his to his side without any obvious embarrassment.

  Magnus said, ‘I was just saying to the boys here, you must have pretty concrete evidence if you’re confident enough to hang a man.’

  Malachy’s hair curled over his collar but his beard was neatly trimmed and there was a pen clipped to the top pocket of his shirt. ‘What made you think we were going to hang him?’ For a dazed moment Magnus thought that he had got the whole thing wrong. Then Malachy said, ‘There’s more than one way to skin a cat, if you’ll excuse the expression. Have you got time for a quick chat?’

  ‘I’m not sure. When’s the big event?’

  ‘Tomorrow at noon.’ Malachy handed the bundle of paper he was carrying over to the tall man. ‘Paul, do you think you could see your way to distributing a few more of these? Junctions are probably best. Stick them on trees and lampposts, wherever you think people might see them.’

  Magnus held out a hand. ‘Do you mind if I have a look?’

  ‘I thought you were a new recruit.’ Paul passed Magnus one of the pages. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Someone who would like to be sure the cat was guilty before they saw it skinned.’

  Paul said, ‘We’re not fucking vigilantes.’

  ‘Really? I thought maybe you were Fathers for Justice.’

  Paul’s fist knocked Magnus to the ground. He lay there, watching the tall man’s boots walking away, his head ringing.

  Malachy said, ‘You deserved that. All these men are bereaved fathers and all of them are passionate about justice.’ He held out a hand.

  Magnus shoved it away and struggled to his feet. He shouted after Paul, ‘Killing Jeb won’t bring anyone back. You can mount all the fucking crusades you want and all you’ll have to show for it is more dead bodies.’

  The man gave no sign of having heard him. He kept on walking, his back straight, shoulders square.

  Magnus’s nose had started to bleed, but he could already tell that it was not broken. He searched his pockets vainly for something to mop up the blood. Malachy handed him a cotton handkerchief. Magnus held it to his face and tried to slow his breathing.

  ‘Killing an innocent man won’t avenge the sweats.’ His words were thick and nasal.

  Malachy said, ‘Jeb’s guilty, don’t worry about that.’

  Magnus had dropped the poster when Paul hit him. He bent over, spotting it with blood, and picked it up. It was neatly printed in black marker pen.

  TOMORROW

  12.00 Noon

  EXECUTION!

  at TANQUERAY HOUSE

  of MURDERER, CHILD-KILLER & ESCAPED CONVICT

  JEB SOAMES

  SUPPORT A RETURN TO LAW AND ORDER

  A simple map and list of directions followed below.

  Magnus spat a gob of blood and snot on to the grass. ‘You forgot to mention the refreshments.’

  ‘Father Wingate said you were a bit of a joker.’ Malachy patted Magnus on the back and steered him towards the house, keeping an arm around his shoulder as if they were old friends, enjoying a walk home at the end of a long, boozy lunch at which Magnus had been the booziest. ‘You used to be a comedian, didn’t you? I think I saw you once at the Hackney Empire. You were good.’

  Magnus pulled free of Malachy’s grasp, resisting the urge to elbow him in the ribs. ‘I never played the Empire.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ Malachy’s face wrinkled. ‘I was certain it was there.’

  Magnus tipped his head back, trying to staunch the blood. ‘Maybe you meant the Comedy Store. People often get them mixed up.’ The venues had been different in size, style and clientele and had been located in different districts of London.

  ‘That sounds right, the Comedy Store.’ The Irishman grinned. ‘You did a routine about not fitting in.’

  All of Magnus’s routines had, in one way or another, been about his inability to fit in. But most comedy routines were. The trick was to make the audience believe you were both ordinary and extraordinary; a misfit-dynamo who held the stage feeding the absurdities of their lives back to them.

  Magnus said, ‘On second thoughts it couldn’t have been the Comedy Store.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘No.’ Magnus gave him a fuck-you stare, still holding the blood-soaked hanky to his nose. ‘I never performed there either.’

  Malachy was unfazed. ‘Ah well, I’m sure I saw you somewhere.’

  The bleeding had almost stopped. Magnus spat on a corner of the hanky and attempted to clean the blood from his face. His nose and eyes were throbbing and he knew from experience that they would bruise. ‘What did you do before the sweats? No, don’t tell me.’ He held a hand to his forehead, as if he were receiving a telepathic message from another realm. ‘You were a double-glazing salesman.’

  ‘I was a lawyer.’

  ‘I’m guessing you worked for the prosecution.’

  ‘You’re wrong about that too. I always stood for the defence. I spent decades keeping villains like your friend Jeb out of jail. I guess they took their toll.’

  ‘So now you’ve decided to become judge, jury and executioner.’

  ‘We’ll draw lots to decide who carries the burden of the actual act.’ Malachy turned to face Magnus. They were almost at the house but the steady sound of hammering followed them, like nails going into a coffin. ‘I know you think I’m a manipulating bastard who sees this crisis as an opportunity to grab some power—’

  Magnus interrupted him. ‘I couldn’t have put it better, except I wouldn’t have used the word crisis. Cataclysm is closer to the mark.’

  Malachy put his hands in his pockets and walked across the gravel where the line of motorbikes was parked. ‘You’re right, cataclysm is a better word. The sweats were a cataclysm which has imposed a level of equality on everyone. We’re all bereaved and we’re all frightened. Everyone has lost their sense of purpose. Those of us who were in the cities have all experienced lawlessness and most, with the exception of those hoping to profit from it, recognise the danger of anarchy.’

  Magnus said, ‘Killing Jeb will be murder. An illegal act can’t signal a return to law.’

  They had reached the house. One of the pups was lounging in the shade, its tongue hanging out. Its tail gave a couple of weary beats and it shut its eyes. Malachy sat on the stone steps that led up to the front door.

  ‘I disagree. Whatever that man told you, he is guilty of killing the woman and her child and probably of killing the priest. Okay, there are hundreds – thousands more people who have committed equally horrible crimes during the sweats. We can’t punish them all, but we can punish Jeb Soames. Public execution is an extreme measure, but it will serve as a warning to others and a rallying call to the districts around here to unite. Ultimately it will save lives.’

  Magnus sat on the step beside Malachy. It was the kind of day his mother described as heavensent. The sky was hung with cottony clouds that put Magnus in mind of white sails against a calm sea. Swifts reeled and swooped, performing Spitfire antics above the lawn, and promiscuous bees hummed as they pressed themselves into flower after flower. He touched his nose gently with his fingertips. It was tender and his nostrils felt crusted with blood, but the bleeding had stopped. ‘You’re forgetting that capital punishment isn’t legal in th
is country.’

  ‘Not under normal circumstances, but these are not normal circumstances. Execution also has the virtue of being popular. It may not have been legal before the sweats, but people wanted it.’

  ‘You’re as mad as the old priest. He believes sacrificing Jeb will appease God.’

  Malachy leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. ‘I’m not a spiritual person, but Father Wingate is expressing through religion exactly the same argument I’ve just put to you.’

  Magnus stared towards the drive. The avenue of trees was still and bound in shadows. Rooks cawed in their upper branches, black-coated and out of sorts, like puritans distressed by the festive weather.

  ‘You spent years defending people, now you’re about to kill a man who maintains his innocence. Don’t you have any doubts at all?’

  Malachy looked off into the middle distance. ‘The time for doubts is past.’ He got to his feet, scuffing the palms of his hands together, as if they were dusty. ‘Father Wingate said you and Jeb met in jail. What were you in for?’

  Magnus had half expected the question. He said, ‘I tried to save a woman from being attacked. It got messy and the police picked me up. It was just after the sweats took hold. Special measures were in place and I got thrown in Pentonville without a trial.’

  ‘Quite a string of bad luck. Some might say an unbelievable string of bad luck.’ Malachy tossed Magnus a set of keys. ‘I heard you were headed north.’ He nodded to the row of motorbikes standing outside the house. ‘These are for the Honda on the left. I imagine you want to hit the road as soon as possible.’

  ‘Are you telling me to leave?’

  ‘I’m telling you to be careful. You don’t want to end up in the same situation as your friend.’

  Magnus said, ‘He’s not my friend.’

  ‘So why are you defending him?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Magnus watched the swifts’ quick climbs, their sharp turns and swoops. No matter how many there were, cutting through the air, they never collided. ‘A friend of mine once wrote me a letter. It said, Life isn’t worth living once you realise the world is hollow. Maybe I’m scared of finding out what he meant.’

  Forty

  The Honda took the country roads’ winds and bends with ease. Magnus had left Tanqueray House with just the clothes he was wearing and the rush of air felt cool and reckless against his bare arms and head. He remembered what Raisha had told Belle about homes with children being easy to spot and tried to imagine the kind of house that would contain what he was in search of. It would be an old countryman’s cottage, he decided, somewhere neatly painted with a kitchen garden out back and a variety of prize roses out front. He had noticed a likely house, not far from the cemetery, on the way back from burying Jacob. An elaborate model of a sailing ship in full rig sat in its front window. It was the kind of object Magnus had coveted as a boy and he had been tempted to break in and steal it for auld lang syne. The ship had suggested more than his island childhood: it spoke of masculinity, order and patience.

  He smashed the kitchen window with a washing pole. A smell of rot and decay reached down into Magnus’s throat before he was fully inside and he crouched on the draining board gagging. He was tempted to retreat, but time was against him. Magnus grabbed a dishtowel decorated with a map of the Norfolk Broads and tied it around his face.

  The householder sat slumped in the sitting room, his head an explosion. He had used a rifle to do the job and the recoil of the blast had sent the gun to the ground. Magnus kept his eyes from the corpse and tried to shut out the buzz of flies. He reached for the rifle, lips clamped tight, skin crawling in response to the thought that the man might stretch out and touch him, though the man had been dead for weeks. Magnus lifted the gun gingerly, checked the chamber and put on the safety catch. It was fine for killing vermin, frightening bank tellers or shooting your brains out, but it was nothing special.

  The gun cabinet was in a room the man had probably called his study. He had been a law-abiding sportsman to the end and had locked the cabinet before he shot himself. Magnus guessed the keys were still in the man’s pocket, but there was no way he could bring himself to touch the corpse and so he forced the doors open with the aid of the sitting-room poker. The contents were disappointing, a pair of rifles as unremarkable and short range as the first. Magnus zipped both of them into their cases and scooped up a box of bullets. He left the model sailboat in its place on the windowsill. It was spattered with blood, like a vessel that had sailed into gory waters.

  The village felt strange. There were no abandoned cars skewed across the roads or smashed shop windows as there had been in London. The streets were litter-free, the cottage doors neatly closed. It was as if the residents had all gone off on an annual spree and might return at any time. Magnus wished he had never seen a zombie movie. It was too easy to imagine half-decayed villagers stumbling towards him. He muttered, ‘Get a bloody grip,’ and pushed the Honda down to the green. It was deserted, except for a pair of horses who lifted their heads and looked at him. One of the beasts lowered its head and resumed grazing but the other, a handsome chestnut with a white star on its forehead, walked slowly over to Magnus and nuzzled him. He knew the horse was in search of a treat, an apple or perhaps a Polo mint, but the clean animal scent of it came from his childhood and tears sprang to Magnus’s eyes. He stroked the horse’s long nose and pressed his brow against its neck.

  ‘I’ve got nothing for you, boy,’ he whispered into its mane. ‘Nothing for you.’

  The horse gave him a last friendly nudge and walked back to join its companion, as if it had understood Magnus’s words.

  Paul had reached the green before him and some of Malachy’s posters were taped to lampposts. Magnus ripped them down and tore them into confetti. The sun was high in the sky, the execution less than twenty-four hours away. He scanned the houses that edged the green. There was something about them that added to his usual stock of unease. He stared closer, noticing their gardens’ trimmed hedges, clipped lawns and tidy beds. Horses did not leave neat edges, nor were they known for discriminating between weeds and flowers.

  ‘Are you one of the judges?’

  The voice gave him a jolt. It was high and bad-tempered and belonged to a tall woman in a straw hat and gardening smock. The smock was printed with improbable flowers: blue orchids, neon ferns and purple daisies. Magnus wondered that he had not spotted her before.

  ‘I might be. What would I be judging?’

  ‘England in Bloom.’ The woman was standing behind a hedge. She had a pair of secateurs in her hand and looked as if she were tempted to use them on him. ‘I’m the only one of the committee available, but I’m happy to show you round, though I must say you’re rather late. I’m afraid some of the gardens are past their best.’

  Magnus said, ‘It’s been a difficult year.’

  There was a flicker of something behind the woman’s eyes, but she tucked the secateurs into the front pocket of her smock and pushed open the gate. ‘Perhaps we should start with Mrs Norris’s garden.’

  He needed to get away from the woman and her madness, but Magnus could still feel the kind touch of the horse’s face against his. He said, ‘I’ve already done my inspection and I am delighted to announce that Tanqueray Village has won England in Bloom.’

  The woman kept her hand on the gate and gave him a suspicious look. ‘When did you do your inspection? I’m always here. I would have seen you.’

  ‘A few days ago.’ Magnus took a step backward. He had propped the motorbike opposite her cottage, on the edge of the green. ‘Tanqueray won hands down. We’ll be sending a photographer to record it for the local paper.’

  ‘Now I know you’re lying.’ The woman’s voice was more menacing for being soft. ‘Everyone at the Gazette is dead. Jeremy who always takes the photographs is dead. They are all dead. Robin my husband is dead, our son, our daughter-in-law and our little grandson are dead. Mrs Norris is dead and so is everyone else who lived
on the green. You have the damn cheek to make excuses about a difficult year. I have had a bloody dreadful one, but I have continued to work my fingers to the bone keeping these gardens in bloom. I demand that you do your job and inspect them properly.’

  If it were not for Jeb he would have walked the boundary of the green with the woman, exclaiming at the gardens, but time was running out.

  ‘I’m sorry. I can’t.’ Magnus’s hand was on the saddle of his bike.

  The woman said, ‘I’ll report you to the committee,’ though in her heart she must have known that the committee were also dead.

  ‘I’m sorry to dash.’ Magnus swung a leg over the saddle of the Honda. ‘You really have made an amazing job in what has been a tremendously challenging year.’

  He must have hit the right note of pomposity and apology because the woman’s mood shifted and she smiled. ‘Do you really think so?’

  ‘No doubt about it.’

  Her smile widened. ‘Please come back. We can have tea outside if the weather holds up.’

  Her change of temper was too swift to last, but Magnus risked a question. ‘Was your husband a hunter?’

  The woman looked confused. ‘Robin was a member of the RSPB.’

  Magnus said, ‘The what?’

  ‘The Royal Society for the Protection of Birds. My husband was a bird-watcher. He opposed hunting in all its forms. He and Mr Perry had a falling-out about it one night at the White Hart. Mr Perry’s a firebrand, but Robin stood up to him. I was worried they were going to come to blows.’

  ‘Where does Mr Perry live?’

  ‘Sycamore Cottage, opposite the school, but I’m afraid he’s dead too. I took a clematis from his garden. It’s thriving.’

  Magnus dislodged the Honda’s kick-rest. ‘Congratulations on your win.’

  ‘Thank you.’ The woman’s mood was shifting again. She sounded bemused. ‘I’m not sure what I’ll do now that the competition is over. It’s given me something to focus on.’

  ‘You need to start preparing for next year.’

  She treated Magnus to a smile that said she knew he was patronising her and bore him no ill will. ‘I don’t think there’s much point in that, do you, dear?’