The Doctor paused to look at her, his eyes glittering spitefully behind the mask. ‘You’ll no’ stand for it?’ he echoed mockingly. ‘My dear woman, you will do exactly as you’re told. You’ll need my permission to remove the white cloth from your window and, unless the boy comes with me, I’ll see to it that it stays there until hell freezes over.’ Missie Grierson took a step back as though she had been slapped in the face.
‘You . . . you can’t do that!’ she protested.
‘Try me,’ suggested The Doctor. ‘I think you’ll find, Madam, that in the current crisis, I have more powers than you might think. And another thing . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘There’s the little matter of ten shillings that you forgot to give me yesterday.’
‘But you didn’t treat Alison, so I thought . . .’
‘It’s ten shillings per visit,’ The Doctor assured her. ‘So that’s nearly two merks you owe me – a sum I’m prepared to overlook if the boy comes with me.’
Missie Grierson stared at him defiantly for a moment, but then lowered her head in defeat.
‘No!’ cried Morag. ‘No, Missie Grierson, you can’t let them take him!’
‘I have to, child,’ muttered Missie Grierson. ‘If we can’t do laundry, we can’t survive. None of us. And twenty shillings is more than I have in the world.’ She looked at Tom. ‘I’m sorry, lad,’ she said.
Then Tom was being propelled onwards towards the staircase. The Doctor’s assistant followed, thrusting the glowing hot brazier towards Missie Grierson to make her step back.
‘Goodbye, bampot!’ snickered Cameron and Tom felt an overwhelming desire to run back and punch him, but he was helpless in The Doctor’s powerful grip. He was pushed and prodded down the staircase and out of the open front door, into the crowded street. ‘Meet me later,’ The Doctor told the brazier man, ‘at the Four Talons.’
‘Aye, sir!’ said the man and he disappeared into the jostling crowd.
‘This way, boy,’ said The Doctor and he pushed Tom along in front of him, parting the crowds ahead with an imperious sweep of his cane. Tom struggled to break free but the hand that held him had fingers that felt like steel cables and he could do nothing but stumble forward. After a few moments, he heard a voice calling his name. He looked back and saw that Morag was running after him.
‘Tom!’ she cried. ‘Tom! Don’t go, please!’
‘Get away, you little fool!’ The Doctor lashed out with the cane and she fell back a couple of steps, shielding her face with her arms.
‘Morag, go back!’ Tom shouted to her. ‘It’s no use! I have to go with him.’
‘I won’t forget you,’ she called after him. ‘Not as long as I live, I promise.’
He managed to wave to her before The Doctor thrust him onwards.
They emerged from the Close onto the broader sweep of the High Street where a horse and carriage was waiting. The Doctor signalled to the driver and the man threw open the door. The Doctor lifted Tom clear of the cobbles and all but flung him head-first into the carriage, then climbed in behind him. ‘Coachman, ride on!’ he bellowed.
There was the sound of a whip cracking on the air and the coach began to rattle forward. Tom struggled around onto his knees and scrambled towards the open window. He leaned out and saw Morag standing at the top of the Close, a forlorn look on her face. She lifted a hand and waved to him. He waved back and then the horses plunged onwards and she was lost to sight.
A gloved hand grabbed his collar and jerked him back into the coach, then pushed him onto a seat. He found himself sitting opposite the cloaked and hooded figure of The Doctor.
There was a long silence as they sat, looking at each other. Then, lifting his arms, The Doctor reached up and removed his hood.
Tom stared. He sat there, mouth open, trying to find words and when they finally did come, they were the only ones that seemed appropriate to the situation.
‘Bloody hell,’ he said.
Fourteen
He was looking at Hamish – or at least, somebody very like him. Oh, the face was somewhat leaner and there was a shock of thick, oily black hair hanging to his shoulders, but he had the same brutish features, hooded grey eyes and wide, splayed nose that looked as though it had been broken at some point back in the past, most likely by a well-placed fist. The mouth was the same too: a thin-lipped slit which fronted a collection of irregular yellow teeth. The mouth currently held a disapproving scowl. Clearly, The Doctor did not approve of the language that Tom had just used.
‘Watch your mouth, boy,’ he growled. ‘Or is that the kind of language they teach you south of the border?’ In the juddering, swaying confines of the carriage, his body odour was simply appalling. Tom was almost afraid to breathe. ‘What are you staring at?’ snapped The Doctor.
‘Sorry,’ muttered Tom. ‘It’s just . . . you look like my Mum’s bloke.’
‘Your Mum’s what?’
‘Her . . . boyfriend.’ Tom hated even saying the word. Why did The Doctor look like Hamish? What did it mean? He made a valiant attempt to change the subject. ‘Where are we going?’ he asked.
‘To my house,’ said The Doctor, matter-of-factly. ‘Where I can keep a close eye on you.’ He reached into his cloak and pulled out the packet of antibiotics. He opened it and withdrew what remained of the blister pack, then did a slow count of the contents. ‘Ten pills,’ he murmured.
‘You shouldn’t have taken those,’ Tom told him. ‘Seriously. Alison was supposed to finish the course. She could get ill again.’
‘Nonsense,’ said The Doctor. ‘She was completely cured. I examined her neck. The buboe had gone, as though it never existed.’ He stared at Tom. ‘Do you have any idea how important these things are?’ he whispered. ‘They are worth a fortune!’ He thought for a moment. ‘How many did the girl take?’
Tom considered. ‘Six,’ he said.
‘So there’s enough here to cure two more cases?’
Tom shrugged his shoulders. ‘Like I said, you’re supposed to take the whole course, really. That’s what the doctor told me, anyway.’
‘Well, we can definitely cure at least one person,’ said The Doctor. ‘And the first thing we’ll do when we get home is write to this Doctor Wikipedia and ask him for more pills. I don’t suppose you’ve any idea what goes into them?’
Tom shook his head. ‘I haven’t a clue,’ he said.
‘So how did you get hold of them?’
‘Well, I saw the doctor and he wrote me a prescription and I took it to a chemist . . .’
‘A chemist? Is that like an apothecary?’
‘I . . . I think so.’
‘And the doctor tells the apothecary what ingredients to put in the pills?’
‘Er . . . no . . . not really. The pills are already made. The chemist just has to get them off the shelf. It’s . . . easy, really.’
‘So, there’s a multitude of these things, sitting on a shelf somewhere?’ said The Doctor, excitedly.
‘Well, yes, but . . .’
‘So it shouldn’t take long to get our hands on a large quantity of them!’
Tom decided it would be easier for the moment to just play along.
‘I . . . guess,’ he said. ‘Sure, why not?’
‘When you tell Doctor Wikipedia about the situation here . . . how desperate the plight of the Edinburgh people is. . . I’m sure he’ll agree to send us what we need. It’ll take a couple of weeks to get hold of them, of course . . . but once I have them . . . I’ll be the most powerful man in the city.’ He leaned back in his seat and smiled. ‘For the time being, we’ll just need to pick the next case very carefully. Somebody who will be suitably grateful to have the exclusive rights to the only Sassenach pills in Edinburgh. Somebody of means.’ He rubbed a thumb and forefinger together, a gesture that hadn’t changed over the centuries.
‘You mean, you’ll ask them to pay?’ asked Tom. ‘That’s not fair.’
‘Whoever said life is fair, boy? ‘Wh
o pays the piper, calls the tune.’ You’d do well to remember that. And it’s hardly my fault that we only have ten pills left.’ He looked puzzled. ‘You said the girl took six tablets – but there must have been eight in the first pack to begin with. Who had the other two?’
‘I did,’ muttered Tom.
‘You . . . you had the plague?’
‘No, I had a sore ear. It got better.’
The Doctor looked at him in disbelief. ‘Doctor Wikipedia gave you the pills because you had a sore ear?’
‘Yes, well that’s how it is where I come from. Whatever’s wrong with you, you go to see a doctor and he fixes you up, gives you whatever you need.’
The Doctor scowled. ‘I’ve never been south of the border,’ he said, ‘but I know people who have. None of them seemed to have a good word for what they found there.’
‘That must be because they never came to Manchester,’ said Tom. ‘It’s different there.’ The coach bucked over something in the road with a force that nearly threw Tom out of his seat and he had to grab the door of the coach to steady himself. He took the opportunity to slide his arm out of the carriage window and grasp the handle. ‘Look, I’m not being funny,’ he said, ‘but when can I go back to the orphanage? They need me there.’
The Doctor seemed amused by this notion. ‘Why would you want to go back to that hell-hole?’ he cried. ‘I’m offering you respectable employment, a decent roof over your head, a square meal in your belly. I dare say you don’t get any of that at Missie Grierson’s.’
‘Maybe not, but, working for you, it’s only a matter of time until I go down with the plague like Joshua.’
‘That was unfortunate,’ admitted The Doctor. ‘Joshua was one of my longest serving assistants. Must have been with me for near on three months. I’m going to miss him.’ He gave Tom a flat stare. ‘Forget about the orphanage,’ he said. ‘You work for me, now. You’ll no’ be going back.’
Tom frowned. ‘How much do I get paid?’ he asked.
‘Paid?’ The Doctor sniggered. ‘Well, we’ll have to see about that. If you can get me more of those pills, I might be inclined to cut you in for a small percentage but, don’t forget, I’ll be feeding you and providing you with a place to live. That’s worth more than any pay.’
He began to replace the pills into the pocket of his cape and Tom made his move. He turned the handle of the door, then slid along the seat with the intention of throwing himself out onto the road – but he had reckoned without The Doctor’s quick reactions. Before he could even raise himself up, a fist connected with the side of his head, flinging him back against the seat rest, his head spinning. As he turned to look at The Doctor, a gauntleted hand slapped him across the face while another yanked the door shut again. Then The Doctor leaned forward, so close that Tom almost retched from the stink of his breath.
‘Let’s get something straight, boy!’ he roared. ‘I am your Master now. When I say jump, your only question is: ‘How high?’ Do you understand?’
Tom nodded, his eyes blurring with tears.
‘And, as to your earlier question, you’ll no’ receive one farthing in payment. Your reward will be the honour of serving me and working to make Edinburgh’s streets free from contagion. Do I make myself clear?’
‘Yes,’ gasped Tom.
‘Yes, what?’
‘Yes, Sir!’
‘That’s better.’ The Doctor eased himself back in his seat and smiled a twisted smile. ‘You know, most lads would be grateful for such an opportunity,’ he observed. ‘Clearly, ingratitude is something that is instilled in you Sassenachs from birth.’
The coach began to slow and Tom wondered if they had reached their destination – but The Doctor took the opportunity to put his leather hood back over his head, as though expecting something to happen. After a few moments, the coach slowed to a halt alongside another coach facing in the other direction.
Through the open window, Tom caught sight of a shadowy figure sitting in the gloom of the coach’s interior and, as he watched, a gloved hand emerged from within and handed The Doctor a single roll of paper. The Doctor took it, nodded briefly to his opposite number and then shouted to the coachman to giddy up. The coach clattered forward again, gathering speed. After a few moments, The Doctor removed the hood. He untied the ribbon from around the paper and peered at its contents with considerable interest. As far as Tom could make out, it was some kind of handwritten list.
‘Who was that?’ he asked.
The Doctor glared at him. ‘Keep your nose out of what doesn’t concern you,’ he snapped. ‘Or is it another slap you’re wanting?’ He thrust the list at Tom. ‘Here, you told me before that you could read,’ he said. ‘Tell me what’s written there.’
Tom looked at him. ‘Can’t you read it?’ he asked.
‘My eyesight’s poor,’ said The Doctor. ‘Joshua used to perform such duties for me.’
Tom frowned but obediently started to read aloud, as best he could. The list was written in an ornate hand and had some very odd spellings, which made it hard to decipher. It was just a list of names and addresses, none of which meant anything to Tom, but The Doctor listened intently, as though considering each one in turn. Then Tom got to a name that did seem to ring a bell, Lord Kelvin.
The Doctor let out a grunt of satisfaction and Tom found himself wondering where he had heard the name before. He continued reading and, when he had finished, The Doctor took the list from him and pushed it into the pocket of his cape. ‘Lord Kelvin,’ he muttered. ‘Well, well, well . . .’
Tom’s mind was racing. What had the brief meeting been about? There had been something very secretive about it: the other man keeping himself out of sight; The Doctor taking great pains to ensure that he was masked. And who were the people on that list? It was clear that something was going on and, whatever it was, it was dodgy; of that Tom was sure.
The Doctor didn’t speak again for the duration of the journey and, some twenty minutes or so later, the coach came once again to a grinding, juddering halt. The Doctor pushed open the door and climbed out. Then he turned back, threw up a hand and grabbed Tom’s lapel, pulling him out of the carriage and down onto the cobbled street. Tom turned to see that they were standing in front of a soot-blackened house, with dirty windows and rotting frames.
‘Home, sweet home,’ said The Doctor. He flicked a coin up to the coachman and, grabbing Tom by the scruff of the neck, frogmarched him up the steps and in through the paint-blistered door.
They found themselves in a grimy, windowless hallway, lit by the dull glow of oil lamps. To one side, a staircase led upwards and, beside it, there was a large wooden enclosure, filled with straw: the kind of place where you might keep an animal. Tom immediately knew something was wrong. Cameron had described Doctor Rae’s house as a fine, two storey building of grey stone set in its own grounds – and though this place was bigger and more imposing than the tenements of Mary King’s Close, still it looked grim and forlorn, badly in need of cleaning.
The Doctor let go of Tom long enough to pull off his heavy leather cloak and hang it on a hook on the wall. He hung the hood beside it. Then he turned back as a door opened and an old woman came out into the hallway to meet them. She was ancient and infirm, her back stooped, her face an assortment of lines and wrinkles, out of which one tar-black eye stared at Tom intently.
‘Who’s this?’ she croaked, in a voice as worn out as her body.
‘Mother, meet my new assistant, Tom,’ said The Doctor. ‘He’ll be taking Joshua’s place.’
‘Him?’ The old woman looked doubtful. ‘He’s nothing more than a boy.’
‘I appreciate that, Mother. But he has hidden talents. Now, hurry and fetch us food and a tankard of ale. My belly feels as though my throat’s been cut.’
Fifteen
Tom sat at a grubby wooden table in a filthy, windowless kitchen and picked half-heartedly at a tin plate of cold meat that the old woman had found for him. Opposite him, The Doctor was devouri
ng a much bigger portion with evident relish, tearing wolfishly at the meat with his yellow teeth and washing it down with great swigs of ale from a pewter tankard. Occasionally he paused to let out an appreciative belch.
Meanwhile, ‘Mother’ sat at the end of the table, observing the two of them in silence. She didn’t seem to want any food herself but instead chose to drink cup after cup of a colourless liquid, which she kept topping up from a bottle at her side. She was in a bad mood, judging by the sour look on her wizened face. Eventually, she spoke.
‘I don’t know why you’ve brought us another mouth to feed,’ she said, her voice slurred, as though half asleep. ‘It’s all we can do to put meat on our own table. And where’s he going to sleep?’
‘We’ll find somewhere for him,’ said The Doctor, as though it was of little importance. ‘And you know I need a good stickman. Joshua isn’t going to pull through; I’m sure of that.’
She scowled. ‘I never liked him anyway,’ she said flatly. ‘He always thought he was too good for us. And he ate too much.’ She studied her son for a moment. ‘How much did we earn today?’ she asked.
The Doctor wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his shirt and shook his head.
‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘In fact, I had to forgo my fee in order to procure the services of young Tom here.’
‘What?’ She looked horrified. ‘But I thought they said you’d get five shillings a day! We have expenses.’
‘Yes, I know . . . and chief among them are the bottles of gin you put away every night.’
She gave him a crestfallen look. ‘It’s medicinal,’ she told him. ‘It’s the only thing that settles my rheumatism.’
He scowled. ‘The amount you drink, it’s a wonder you can stay upright,’ he said. ‘Anyway, don’t worry about the money; if everything works out as I hope it will, this boy is going to pay his way many times over. We’ll be out of this stink-hole and installed somewhere more appropriate to a man of my calibre.’ He chuckled and withdrew the pack of antibiotics from his pocket. He placed them on the table in front of her. ‘What do you make of those little beauties?’
Crow Boy Page 10
