The Sweet Smell of Decay

by Paul Lawrence

  ‘They being ignorant of God’s righteousness have not submitted themselves unto the righteousness of God!’ Keeling roared furiously from the back of the church, his voice ringing out clearly like a bell, filling every corner of the old building, bouncing from its walls and ringing in my ears.

  Kneeling down I slipped off my shoes. I slid them behind the pulpit then ran silently off to the left, heading for the shadows of the speaking pew. Keeling’s long, heavy stride echoed down the central aisle from font to pulpit. I ran on my toes towards the back of the church again, stooping down, hoping that he wouldn’t see me in the murky grey light.

  ‘Be not curious how the ungodly shall be punished, but ask how the righteous shall be saved, whose world it is, and for whom the world is created,’ Keeling shouted again from the pulpit. I watched him from above the side of a pew, a few feet inside the western wall of the church standing motionless, legs a few inches apart with his back to the pulpit. His head moved very slowly from left to right as he scanned the interior of the silent church. A soft virgin light floated down from the heights of the tall windows set into the eastern wall, reaching down to about chest height before choking in the black darkness that engulfed the floor. I found myself staring not at Keeling, but beyond. Behind him, ten or twelve paces behind him, was another door, the door to the vestry – where all this started. Thinking for a minute, I then dropped to my hands and knees. There was a door out into the street from the vestry. Crawling quickly back towards the font, my hand landed on something hard and rod-shaped. My cane. I stood up straight in the font’s shadow and projected my voice with all the confidence I could muster.

  ‘The souls of the righteous are in the hand of God, and no torment shall touch them.’ Immediately I dropped back down to my hands and knees and scurried back the way I’d come, with the cane tucked into my shirt.

  ‘Dearly beloved, avenge not yourselves, but rather give place unto wrath: for it was written, Vengeance is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord,’ he roared again, his giant steps cracking the air as he strode back again to the main door.

  Crawling and slithering as fast as I could down the side of the church across the stone floor, I kept my head down, determined to make as much time as possible to try the vestry door and get away again in case it was locked.

  ‘Lytle.’ Keeling’s voice was lower this time, smooth as silk, polished like a precious stone. ‘I have changed my mind, Lytle. I must inflict great pain on thee before I kill thee. I must make thee wriggle and squirm like a fish on a stick, like a cock with its eyes pecked out. So that thee may repent! Thou hath forsaken justice, neglected the opportunity of a noble trial. Now justice must show thee the error of thy ways. Ye must repent!’

  I reached the vestry door, grasped the handle and slowly turned it. I pushed. To my delight the door opened, silently. Easing it open eighteen inches, I slowly got to my feet then squeezed through the gap, at the same time peering back into the darkness. Keeling was quiet now; there were no steps, no breathing, no shadow. I slipped into the vestry. The door that led out was bigger with a heavy lock. Running across the room I seized the handle with both hands. Locked! I cursed, a silent scream of anguish and rage. Closing my eyes, I let the anger wash over me like a wave before turning slowly back to the vestry. The same wooden crucifix on the wall, table and chairs. I turned to the door that led back into the church, suddenly sure that Keeling was behind it. I stepped backwards behind the table. The vestry door slowly opened. Taking the cane out of my shirt I held it before me with both hands.

  ‘Judge me, O Lord, according to my righteousness, and according to mine integrity that is in me,’ Keeling said quietly as he entered. His eyes were narrowed, the sparkle of the luminous blue now subdued beneath a layer of thick sea-green ice. Drawing his hands up in front of him he steepled his fingers. ‘Thus saith the Lord God: Behold, I judge between cattle and cattle, between the rams and the goats. I, even I, will judge between the fat cattle and between the lean cattle.’ Reaching into the deep folds of his voluminous black coat he pulled the knife out again, then kicked at the table with a heavy black boot.

  Standing up straight I swung the cane about my head, catching Keeling a heavy blow to the side of the head as he walked forward. He staggered, his left hand clutching for support. He caught the back of a chair and fell forward onto it. The chair gave way and he fell onto both knees and I swung the stick again and hit him square across the back of his head, so hard that the stick broke. I stood panting, holding the top half of the stick in my right hand. Crouching, I heaved his body round. His eyes were half closed and his breathing was irregular. I pulled the folds of his coat apart, and started rifling through the pockets for a key. Both inner breast pockets were empty. Both side pockets were empty. I ran my hands up and down his body looking for more pockets, but couldn’t find any. Cursing, I turned to the main door. Just in time I turned back as Keeling lunged. Screaming in shock, I scrabbled backwards, kicking myself away from him. He stood, pushing himself up with his left hand, holding the knife steady with his right. The left side of his face was purple and swollen and he bared his teeth.

  I stood up to face him. ‘No more preaching?’

  He roared and threw himself forward, knife to my throat. We fell against each other, clutching and grappling. We writhed and wrestled on the floor, each struggling for the better position until he gasped, throwing back his head, eyes tight shut and teeth bared, white-lipped. His back arched and he peeled away from me, rolling gently across the floor.

  I stood up and looked down. One half of my cane stuck out neatly from between two of his ribs, the tip poking into the ventricle of his heart, the silver lamb sitting aloft, untouched by the bright-red blood that pumped out around the bottom of the stick.

  I pulled his body around a second time, and as I did so a glint of metal shone about his neck. It was a chain and the key to Bride’s was on the end of it. I walked out of the vestry door and painfully up the centre aisle. As I walked I saw movement again, out the corner of my eye, over to the east side beneath the tall, narrow windows.

  ‘Who’s there?’ I called, spotting a shadowy figure lurking in the gloomy south-east corner. No one answered.

  ‘Come out now,’ I shouted, walking across the pews towards it, beside myself with rage, relief and fear. But none replied. I walked slowly out of the church and into the wintry air I thought never to breathe again.

  A familiar figure stood at the church gate, a large man with a hard potbelly and broad shoulders.

  ‘Hill?’

  ‘Aye, Harry.’

  ‘What are you doing out here for God’s sake?’

  I saw the beads of sweat on his upper lip, the lines around his eyes. ‘I heard that you were to meet Keeling here. Has he come?’

  This made no sense. ‘Heard what? I was here to meet you!’

  Standing with his arms crossed and legs astride, he was barring my exit. ‘It is no matter.’

  Walking up close I returned his unfriendly gaze. ‘You sent me a note.’ I pulled it from my pocket and gave it to him. ‘Where were you?’

  Crumpling it into a ball, he thrust it deep into one of his pockets. ‘This is not from me.’

  Lying cock. ‘You’ve been here the whole while. You would have watched me die.’

  ‘No,’ he shook his head slowly. ‘You don’t understand.’

  ‘You are Shrewsbury’s agent. Why would you betray me?’ A lump formed in my throat, unexpected and unwanted. ‘No, I don’t understand. Less it be for money. Ready whore, ready money. It is what you value above all things, is it not?’

  ‘Let me alone. Had it not been me then it would have been another, and I would have found myself floating in Thames river.’

  ‘My life for yours, then.’

  ‘I was around to watch over you, Lytle. I have met with Shrewsbury every day since this started, telling him what you have been doing, to whom you have been talking. I’ve hightailed it after you from here to Epsom, here to Shoreditch, h
ere to Epsom again, and all about the slums and filthy pits of London. God’s mercy, it hath been most taxing.’

  ‘What assistance have ye lent me? Even now, you would have stood back and watched me killed.’ I shook my head sorrowfully. ‘You are no friend of mine, you shitty piece of scum.’

  ‘Aye, well.’ He bowed his head. ‘Soon we will all be dead, and I’ll receive judgement and so will you, and I am sure we will both be saying that we made mistakes and should have done better.’

  ‘You set me up to die.’

  ‘For God’s sake, Lytle! That is enough! I am fed up with your whining and complaining. I have been tending you like a wet nurse these last days, watching over you, making sure nothing happens to you. You don’t know what it has been like.’ He stepped forwards and tapped me hard on the forehead with his finger. I had to stop myself from snapping it off. Instead I punched him as hard as I could in the mouth. When he didn’t fall I hit him again, harder. He stumbled back with a hand up to his jaw. I had caught him hard and cut his lip and his gum. His lip was starting to swell already. I smiled.

  ‘Thanks be to thee,’ he mumbled.

  I went to pass him. ‘Keep your thanks to feed your chickens, you piece of filthy scum. I’ll see you later.’

  Three men I’d not seen before appeared from nowhere and blocked my passage.

  ‘What’s this, Hill?’

  ‘You are under arrest, Lytle. For the killing of Lord Keeling.’ Busying himself with his bleeding mouth, he would not look me in the eye.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Dogges-rose

  Sometimes a smooth hairy lump grows on the stalks of this plant. If you cut open this gall, you will find it packed with small white maggots.

  That they put me in the same cell as Joyce may have been coincidence, I suppose. They took me to Newgate in a coach, wrists and ankles manacled. These men were sober, serious and very determined. They didn’t beat me or foul-mouth me, or indeed take any notice of me whatever, just made me go where they wanted me to go without any fuss or effort. In the coach one sat either side of me and one opposite. All three of them looked out of the window, eyes alert, practically silent. They spoke only when they had to, in short crisp sentences, very quietly.

  We were at Newgate inside twenty minutes. They themselves escorted me through the prison, along the corridor and down the slimy steps into the stone hold, never once uttering a word to any. My protests were ignored, my feelings were of no importance. Once the door was open, they propelled me firmly across the threshold and clapped manacles about my wrists and ankles before closing it behind me. When the sound of their steps had petered out it was silent and utterly dark.

  The floor beneath my feet was slimy and thick. It stank of piss and shit as it had done before. Through my shoes I could feel a thickish layer of mud and straw. God knows what lived in it. I leant against the wall as best I could, but the stonework was uneven and scattered with sharp edges. All was silent, save for the occasional rustle and squeak from the rats. Something bit at my ankle. I kicked out, though without much force. The manacles prevented it. No light, no noise, just me, all alone. I felt a sudden panic – what if none came to feed me? What if no one told any that knew me where I was? I stood there for an age, trying to quell the fear. But it was so black and so noiseless, and the rats kept nibbling at my feet. No hope. No life.

  Why was I here? Shrewsbury had what he wanted, didn’t he? He wanted to have it over Keeling. Well Keeling was dead – I had killed him. So why was I here? Hadn’t I given him what he wanted? My legs began to ache, first at the knees, then the ankles, and then my thighs. My muscles got stiffer and stiffer as if I had been walking for miles. No way of knowing how quickly time passed, I tried to think of something else. My stomach rumbled, despite the foul air. My tongue was dry. Things kept biting at my ankles if I didn’t move my legs constantly. The manacles started to rub raw against my wrists and feet. My head started to throb and the backs of my eyes began to burn. If there was a Hell, it would be like this. Where the worm dieth not, and the fire is not quenched. Well, my fire would not be quenched either. Sometime soon someone would open that door. In the meantime there was nothing to do but wait.

  It was not soon, but someone did eventually come. One of the gaolers strode in holding a torch above his head and gave me a ladle of foul water to sip. He threw a piece of green bread at my feet and then was gone.

  At some point there came a time when I could no longer stand. I searched for the driest quarter of the small cell floor and gathered there the driest straw. Then I sat down and waited for the water to soak into the seat of my trousers.

  There are lessons to be learnt in the art of being imprisoned. These include:

  1) Eat all the food they give you, no matter how foul it is. Else the rats will come and eat it.

  2) Choose one corner in which to sit. Take care that it is not the lowest part of the floor. Use the farthest corner to piss in and shit.

  3) Regard your body and your mind as two different entities. If you cannot dissociate your brain from the rats and the roaches and all the bugs that walk about your body, then you will go mad.

  A man came to see me. He looked like a clerk, like I did a week or so ago. His face betrayed disgust, like I was an animal or a madman. He looked at me like I probably looked at Joyce just a fortnight ago.

  ‘You have been indicted,’ he told me, as if he expected some reaction. He pulled out a piece of paper from his jacket and read it aloud. I don’t recall exactly what he said, but it was basically an indictment for the murder of Lord Keeling. Sitting in my pool of crap and piss I watched him speak. It was a good thing, I reflected, for it meant that I would be going to trial – and soon. Out of this hole.

  It had occurred to me before this fellow arrived that I had two choices, should I be indicted. I could talk about what we had discovered at Epsom, with no mention of my doubts concerning the truth of it, nor of course the disinterment – the tale that Shrewsbury clearly wished spoken in other words. Or I could tell the whole truth. This was my dilemma. The more time dragged on, with my wrists and ankles burning like they were doused in lime, the less well disposed I was towards Shrewsbury, and the more I felt inclined to speak plainly. Now that I had been arrested, by Hill of all people, and indicted, now I could not trust Shrewsbury to safeguard my well-being – this was obvious.

  I had thought through all of my witnesses. First I would call Dowling, who could testify all that I had seen. The slaughterer that had seen Keeling kill John Giles. As my star witness I would call William Ormonde, who could surely now speak openly, and I would consider calling Mrs Johnson and John Stow. The combined testimony of all these witnesses would surely be enough to acquit me.

  ‘What is your plea?’ the clerk asked me.

  Ah now! This was important. I struggled to pull myself up to my feet. He stepped back uncertainly so that his face sunk back a little into the shadows of the torch held by the gaoler.

  ‘Might we speak upstairs?’ I enquired politely, bowing slightly, trying my best to put the fellow at ease.

  The clerk opened his mouth then shut it again, looking at the gaoler as if for guidance before realising the absurdity of it and becoming flustered. I avoided his eye. ‘Yes.’ He wrinkled his nose. ‘That is a very good idea.’

  Never has a shithouse smelt so fresh as Newgate once we climbed out of the stone hold. When he saw me in the light I fancy he was able to see that I was unlikely to pounce upon him in some manic frenzy. Optimistic that this fellow would listen to me, I began to feel quite rejuvenated, hopeful that I would be able to put forward my point of view. When he dug into his pocket and purchased a meat pie and a jug of ale for me, then I almost danced for him.

  ‘Well,’ he said, sat on a little stool opposite me, ‘what is your plea?’

  My mouth was full of gravy and thick, dry crumbs.

  ‘You may wish for the judgement of God, or you may go to trial. I assume you wish to go to trial?’ I nodded vigorousl
y. If you wished for the judgement of God, then there was no disgrace upon your family, nor would you be executed in public. However, you were laid upon your back on the floor over a large boulder. A board was placed upon your stomach upon which were loaded heavy stones. One by one. Over the course of several days.

  ‘Then you may plead innocence, self-defence or provocation.’ He regarded me earnestly with anxious brown eyes. I considered. The fact was that I had stuck Prynne’s stick into Keeling’s ribs. That was an accident, self-defence or provocation? If I was successful in pleading an accident then I would be acquitted. If I was found guilty of self-defence then I would be pardoned, but would be fined a sum of money equivalent to the value of all my goods. Which by now was half what it had been anyway. If found guilty of killing Keeling under provocation, then I’d lose my property and be branded on one hand. The jury would never believe it was an accident; he came at me with a knife and I stabbed him.

  ‘Self-defence,’ I replied.

  ‘Very well.’ He opened a volume that lay upon his knee and wrote in it. He then closed it and stood up.