Death is a Welcome Guest: Plague Times Trilogy 2

by Louise Welsh

  ‘Cherry stood up and pushed the chair against the balcony railings. I knew that she wanted me to tell her to stop, but I just stood there, even when she climbed on to the seat, still holding Happy in her arms.’

  Magnus kept his eyes on the road. The moon was hidden behind clouds and the night was pitch-black, but he could see the woman in his mind’s eye, her untamed hair catching the breeze as she mounted the chair.

  Jeb’s voice thickened. ‘She told me that she was going to jump and I said, ‘Fucking do it then. Let’s see if you can fly.’ Jeb sniffed and Magnus realised that the other man was crying. ‘I turned to go. I honestly didn’t think for a minute that she would do it. She loved that child.’ Jeb took a deep shuddering breath. ‘I was at the sitting-room door when Cherry let out a shout and I heard the chair falling over. When I looked back, she was gone. I told her to jump and she did.’

  They drove on in silence. After a while Magnus said, ‘You couldn’t know—’

  Jeb interrupted him. ‘I bloody know now though, don’t I?’

  They had gone their separate ways the next day. Magnus had wondered if Jeb had waited until he had decided to go, before telling the rest of his story. Or if it had been the other way around and once the tale had been told, Jeb had no choice but to move on.

  They had dropped him where he had told them to, on a deserted roadside. Magnus had offered to help him find a vehicle of his own, but Jeb had been determined to walk. ‘I’m not in a rush.’

  ‘You know where we’ll be, if you need us.’

  ‘Sure.’ Jeb had shaken Magnus’s hand and then the boy’s. ‘Maybe I’ll see you there some time.’

  There was a stile by the road. Jeb climbed it awkwardly with the help of his crutch and crossed into a field where some scraggy-looking sheep were grazing. The sheep raised their heads, but Jeb kept a city boy’s distance from them and they turned their attention back to the grass.

  Magnus sat Shuggie on the bonnet of the van and they watched Jeb limp away. His jacket and gun were twenty-first century, but his receding figure might have come from an earlier age. They waited until he passed over the brow of a hill and then Magnus helped the boy down and they continued their journey.

  Magnus steered the boat for one of the natural coves where he and Hugh had often landed. The sands were holiday-brochure white. He sank anchor, helped the boy into the dinghy and rowed them towards shore, jumping out when they reached the shallows and pulling the rubber craft with the boy in it up on to the beach. He reached for Shuggie, but he was standing up in the dinghy, pointing at the sands beyond.

  Magnus turned and saw a tall, slim woman with café au lait skin and cropped hair, standing on the dunes. She had a rifle in one hand and was holding the collar of a large dog with the other. Magnus held up his hands to show that he was unarmed and then turned and lifted Shug from the boat. They walked hand in hand across the sands to where she stood. Magnus said, ‘I’m Magnus McFall and this is Shuggie.’

  The woman had a London accent. ‘I’m Stevie Flint.’ She nodded at the dog. ‘And this is Pistol.’ Her expression gave no hint of how she felt about the arrival of new survivors.

  Magnus said, ‘I’m looking for Peggy and Rhona McFall. Do you know if they’re on the islands?’

  Stevie’s eyes met his. ‘I’m sorry, they’re not here.’

  Magnus looked at the ground. The boy’s hand tightened in his and Magnus smiled at him, to show things were okay, although they were not. ‘Are there any McFalls that you know of?’

  She held his gaze. ‘I know everyone on the island, there’s no one of that name.’ They stood there for a moment, the tall sea grasses on the dunes bending to the wind. Stevie said, ‘I’ve got a van. If you come with me we can find you a change of clothing and something warm to eat.’

  Magnus would have liked to have filled his pockets with stones and walked back into the water, but he had the boy to think of and so he followed her, over the dunes, towards the road.

  Acknowledgements

  The Black Death may have been named for the way its symptoms affected its victims’ bodies, or it may have been so called because of its scope and dreadfulness. It is impossible to know true figures for how many people died, but it is generally agreed that the first wave of the pandemic (1340–1400) killed at least a third of the population of Europe. The Black Death was a democratic killer. The young, the old, the poor and the rich, the educated and uneducated, religious and irreligious were all at risk. Everyone who survived had lost someone they were close to and had lived with the imminent prospect of their own death.

  The first wave of the plague pandemic left the world altered. There were more jobs, higher wages and increased social mobility. Some people with no expectations of ever inheriting anything became wealthy as a result of the deaths of successive relatives. A lack of manpower meant that women were able to access economic and social freedoms previously denied to them. The arts were also changed; inspired by the knowledge that death is everywhere. I am fascinated by the survivors of the Black Death. How must it have felt to still be alive in such a changed world?

  The Bubonic Plague still exists in parts of China and America. Its final outbreak in Glasgow, the city where I live, was in 1907 and was quickly dealt with. We need not fear another mass outbreak of the disease. But scientists are agreed that there will be another pandemic at some point in the near future. What it will be, when it will hit, and how many will die is uncertain. All we can be sure of is that it will come.

  Thanks are due to several people who helped me during the writing of this book. Roland Philipps and Eleanor Birne of John Murray have both been enthusiastic supporters of the Plague Times trilogy. They have given me invaluable care and editorial advice.

  My agent, David Miller of Rogers, Coleridge and White, cast his beady eye over the manuscript several times and discussed it with insight and good sense. He has saved me from devastating geographical mistakes and much more.

  As usual I have neglected my friends and family in favour of books and the blank page. Thanks once again to them for sticking with me.

  Special thanks are due to my partner, the writer Zoë Strachan who has been living surrounded by plagues and pandemics for a few years now. She read this book at the early and later stages and it is much improved for her rigour and expertise.