by Chris Hannon
Perry laughed and then caught himself. It felt wrong to be laughing now, like he was betraying Mrs D somehow.
‘They’ve probably snuck back to Mrs D’s.’
‘Want to go there?’
‘Not yet, the doctor and Brumpton might have it under watch. I might sneak back when it’s dark.’
His bed at Ma’s was just a bundle of old blankets and a chewed up eiderdown, not even a mattress. It would be good to sleep in his own bed tonight.
‘Ready to be cheered up then?’
He smiled, grateful for Joel’s enthusiasm. Perhaps he could come and stay in Mrs Donnegan’s place too.
‘Maybe. What is it?’
Joel’s face lit up, ‘it’s a surprise. Trust me, you won’t be disappointed.’
‘Why should I trust you?’
Joel looked hurt, ‘Friends trust each other and we’re friends now aren’t we? Me and you.’
Perry looked into Joel’s earnest face, ‘Yes, I suppose we are.’
A couple of miles from Southampton, the seafront road petered out to mulch gravel with thorn bushes and squat hedgerows to one side and a drop to a stony beach on the other. Tufts of stubborn grass thrust through chalky outcrops where seabirds sheltered in pockets against the shunting wind. Perry wrapped his arms close to him. He remembered the days of snow in Bishopstoke when his father sent him off to school with a hot potato in his pocket. It wasn’t as cold as that, but the way the wind bit and boxed his ears, a bit of warm in his pocket would be welcome.
Joel was quiet, perhaps suffering a little from the cold too. Perry was glad it wasn’t just him but it occurred to him that this was supposed to be cheering him up. There wasn’t much cheer to be had facing the bluster of the English Channel.
‘Are we nearly there yet?’
‘Nearly,’ Joel muffled back.
It had better be worth it. He cupped his hands over his cold ears to give them a moment’s warmth though it did little but chill his fingers to the bone. The road became rugged and spawned worn paths that followed the dip and rise of the landscape. The sky was one of grey cloud and the apple-green sea raged in a frothy torment of white, wind-swept waves. In the distance, the Isle of Wight hovered above the waterline like a mosquito standing on a puddle. It was all so bleak and worn, what he’d give for a cup of tea by the fire with the boys, hearing an Irish tale of giants from Mrs Donnegan.
They trampled down towards the beach, and it was only then, when they re-joined a gravel road that Perry realised where they were heading.
‘Joel, why on earth are we going down here?’
‘You’ll see.’
Perry heard the faint smash of surf. A bird squawked overhead and he followed the arc of its flight. As the road snaked around, a building came into view. It was a boxy brick construction sheltered by giant rocks to the rear and by a hull-shaped concrete sea wall that met the crashing waves to the front.
Birdshit Prison. He’d heard of it of course, but had never seen it before. The road led to the gated entrance flanked either side by a guard booth.
‘Looks more like a fortress than a prison don’t it?’ said Joel.
‘What the blazes are we doing here?’
‘Come on, don’t be soft.’
‘Soft?’ Perry was incensed; they must have walked for well over an hour, maybe two in the freezing cold to be cheered up in a prison!
‘Have you gone crazy?
‘Come on Perry!’ he yelled. ‘You ain’t scared are ya?’
Scared? The cheek to think of it. He was cold, tired and grieving. Not scared, not in the slightest. He should just leave Joel, turn around and walk back, find a café and wrap his hands round a hot brew…. but then Joel would think he was scared, when he wasn’t.
A guard came out and shook hands with Joel. Perry didn’t want to go in. Who in their right mind wanted to go into Birdshit Prison?
‘I’m not scared, there’s just no point.’
The guard yanked the gate open. Joel stepped through.
‘Prove it then.’
It was all too much to explain to his new friend.
The guard stared at him. ‘Come on son, you going in or what? It’ll be my job if I keep the gate open much longer.’
He didn’t want to. He couldn’t. He just wasn’t ready.
‘Hurry up!’
Against all his better judgement his feet were moving. And he was inside. They would be quick. It was just a dare. They’d go in and be out again straight away.
The yard was completely empty, save Joel, who stood there, his hands in his pockets flicking some of the shingle with his feet.
‘I thought you said this was going to cheer us up?’ Perry did his best to sound confident. ‘So we’ve been inside. Let’s get out of here now.’
‘We only just got here! There’s money to be made first.’
‘Money? You’re sixpence short of a shilling more like.’
Joel snorted, ‘We’ll see.’
A claxon sounded. Guards looked down on them from metal towers.
‘What’s happening?’
Joel didn’t reply, but nodded to the inner building. Two guards stepped out, followed by a line of men in striped shirts and baggy trousers. The prisoners spread out in the yard; some lit cigarettes, others leant on the wall but a few headed their way.
This wasn’t happening. It couldn’t be happening. Anxiously he flitted from one face to the next, there were hundreds, too many to count.
‘Let’s get out of here!’
Joel had a grin on his face and waved.
‘Gents!’
Perry couldn’t believe it. ‘What the hell are you doing? Don’t wave them over!’
Two wrinkled prisoners approached them.
‘Hi Joel,’ one of them said in greeting, ‘got a helper today I see?’
Perry looked around for the guards and stopped in his tracks.
‘How do they know your name?’
‘That’s right Si,’ said Joel, ignoring Perry, ‘what you got for me?’
‘Here you go boy,’ Si pulled a bit of paper from his pocket and handed it to Joel with a farthing.
Joel returned it, ‘There’s no address on the back.’
‘Mine’s got the address on,’ said the taller man.
Joel collected the note and a coin. ‘Much obliged sir, in times like these we need to stay in touch with our loved ones.’
Joel winked at Perry; ‘I’m cheaper, quicker and uncensored.’
Perry was amazed. How had Joel even come up with such an idea? Delivering notes for prisoners, where did the inmates get the money from? His eyes darted over the prisoners in the yard, but each was a hallow-eyed stranger.
Perry realised he wasn’t being much help and didn’t want to be accused of being scared once they were safely out of there, so when a trio of prisoners approached them, Perry straightened up ready to take their notes.
‘What news on The Sick?’ one asked, ‘the guards don’t tell us nothing.’
Perry had an idea and took the newspaper out of his pocket, ‘There’s loads gone caught it, but only a few dead. We got names in here of them taken. Yours for a farthing.’
‘Ain’t right to profit from such a thing,’ the man said.
‘What you in here for then?’ Joel chipped in.
‘Thievin’’
‘Well then,’ Perry shrugged, ‘If you want to know,’ he held out his palm. One of the men grumbled and handed him a farthing.
Perry unfurled the paper and cleared his throat,
‘The county coroner lists five deceased: Gavin Straker,’
The prisoners all removed their caps and bowed their heads.
‘Terence Colestaff,’ Perry went on.
‘And Billy and Drew too,’ one of the prisoners said shaking his head.
‘Yes, Billy Cudgill and Drew Fletcher,’ Perry confirmed, ‘Hold on, how come you know?’
‘They were inside here, all of them.’
‘What? All of th
em were in here?’
‘Aye, carry on lad, I paid you the money didn’t I? Is there anyone else, anyone from outside?’
‘There was one more,’ he said with a pang of guilt, ‘Norma Donnegan.’
The man’s face dropped. ‘Not poor Norma. She were here visiting but a few days past,’ he shook his head and wandered off.
‘Wait! She was here? Come back! Talk to me.’
‘Oh now you want something for free? Piss off!’ the man spat back, barely turning round. Another pair of prisoners pushed in front of him, wagging their notes in the air. Joel was grabbing notes off some others, checking for addresses, assuring the men of safe delivery. He turned to Perry.
‘Glad you’re here to help me deliver all these, looks like a bumper week!’
Perry took the notes off the prisoners and their coin. He couldn’t credit it, Mrs D venturing this far from home and to prison. It could only mean one thing. She was visiting his father.
By the time the claxon sounded, they counted twenty-one notes between them. The guards bellowed for the prisoners to fall in line.
‘Look,’ Joel pointed, ‘one more?’
The man shuffled towards them, his shackles clanking as he went. Perry knew instantly. He knew by the shaggy hair hanging over his face, by his big gardener hands. Hands that had tucked him in at night and mussed up his hair in Bishopstoke. The hands that had abandoned him.
‘We’ve got enough. Let’s go,’ Perry stuffed the notes in his pocket.
‘Oh come on! It’s only one more. Not frightened of him are you?’
‘Not him Joel,’ he said sharply and left as fast as he could without breaking into a run.
Perry felt sick with guilt. He just wasn’t ready. Maybe Samuel Scrimshaw was just hoping to send a note like the rest of them, maybe he’d recognised his son. But he didn’t want to know.
‘Let me out,’ he said to the guard.
‘Wait for your mate,’ the guard replied and to his relief Joel was bounding towards him.
‘Thanks Jack,’ Joel dropped a few coins into the guard’s palm.
‘Anytime,’ Jack opened the gate and Perry rushed through the gap. He gulped the air like he’d been stuck underwater.
A hand patted him on the back. ‘You alright Perry? You don’t look so good.’
‘Fine. Just had to get out of there.’
‘Don’t worry. I’m scared of them sometimes too. The ones in shackles are the murderers apparently.’
A chill went down his spine. His father had killed someone, he knew that much, he remembered the towering policemen and being frightened out of his wits, but who his father had killed or why – he had never wanted to know. Murder. The word was sinister black, an unshakeable leech that had attached itself to his father forevermore.
They returned up the path, Perry stirred his hand around his change-filled pocket, feeling marginally better with each step he took away from the prison.
‘We done really well today, I- ’ Joel stopped counting the coins in his hand and looked up. Perry heard it too; the rumbling wheels of a carriage. When it got to them, Perry and Joel stepped off the road onto the scrubland to let it pass. Perry craned his neck and caught a glimpse through the window of a man with white hair and a moustache.
‘I think that was Dr Fairbanks.’
‘Who?’
‘He came to see us when Mrs D caught The Sick. He was after me, wanted to take me away to a sanatorium,’ panic flushed over him, ‘what if he saw me? Come on Joel, we better scarper.’
Joel chewed his lip. ‘Another one of the prisoners must have gone down with it. Contagious don’t just mean it’s serious does it?’
Something clicked in Perry’s mind; the dead prisoners, Mrs D visiting the gaol.
‘Contagious means you can catch it.’
‘Like the plague,’ Joel whispered.
What if his Pa caught it - and that was the last time he ever saw him? Then, what if he himself caught it. He ran his hand over his Adams apple.
‘Bloody hell! We might have got it off one of them,’ he grabbed the fistful of notes in his pocket and threw them onto the ground.
‘Don’t be stupid, none of them looked ill.’
‘I’m not touching them,’ Perry wiped his hands on his shirt.
‘I can’t do all of them on me own!’
‘Don’t then. Throw them away! We got the money didn’t we?’
‘They’ll find out! I’m not pissing off a bunch of thieves and murderers! Anyway, why would I? It’s a right money-spinner.’
‘Not my problem,’ Perry walked past the notes, twitching in the wind, threatening to take flight.
‘I’ll tell Ma,’ Joel called.
‘So what?’ Perry sneered, ‘I’m not coming back. I’m going home to Mrs Donnegan’s! She might not be there anymore but my bed bloody well is.’
‘Perry!’
But there was no point arguing anymore. He marched to the top of the road and paused to see if Joel was following, but no, he was chasing the skittering notes across the scrubland. Stupid fool.
5
The Southampton rooftops glistened with rain in the early dark. People scurried in heavy coats, brollies gleaming dully under the streetlamps, shuffling along like beetles. All had handkerchiefs and rags fastened around their noses and mouths.
At the wealthier townhouses near Charlotte Street, an exodus was in motion. Carriages lined up outside half of the residences. The street teemed with drivers carrying luggage from house to cab, assisting wives and children into vehicles.
Perry cowered under a tree for shelter, watching them leave. He was jealous; not just of the wealth in itself, but the safety it afforded. They could flee town at a moment’s notice while he had been exposed to Mrs D and to the inmates at the prison. On the walk back he’d checked himself every quarter of an hour or so, but he was tired and wind-battered. It would be easy to believe every little muscle twinge or sneeze was the start of something more and he had to fight to keep calm, to remind himself that he wasn’t at death’s door. After all, only adults had been taken by The Sick thus far.
The drizzle left him itchy damp and the idea of sleeping in his own bed again was a warming prospect. Perhaps he’d even see the boys. He continued on to Simnel Street, hazy with fog and the air smelling faintly of bacon. Perry crept along, keeping an eye out for the doctor or the apothecary. As he neared, the smell grew stronger. This was no fog. It was smoke.
He pressed on; the murk enveloping him was now so thick he could barely see. He used his shirt to cover his mouth and wafted his hands in front of him, but saw no flicker of flame, no heat, only the pattering rain on his face and the sting of smoke in his nostrils. Up ahead there came a strange sound, a squeak, repeating over and over like the rusted wheel on the lackey’s barrow at the dry docks. Then, a snort. Not a human sound. He stopped, frozen with fear and squinted through the fug. It looked like…he took a step closer, yes, it was the black stamp of a horse in the milky gloom. The beast’s nose was warm and damp and it lowered its head submissively as he stroked it.
‘What happened here boy?’ he said to the horse.
‘Fire,’ came the unexpected reply.
‘Huh?’
The squeaking stopped.
‘Over here.’
Perry traced the voice to beyond the horse and saw as he stepped closer, that it was harnessed to a fire truck. A silhouette of a man came into view, chest heaving and leaning on a pump.
‘Bad fire?’ Perry asked him.
‘It’s mostly out thank Christ. The rain saved us a hell of a job here.’
‘Bit more water!’ came a yell from the gloom,
‘Coming!’ he returned to the squeaky pump. Perry followed the hose, water belched out in thick gobbets, like a picture he’d seen once of a rat in a snake’s belly. The smoke had disorientated him and he couldn’t be sure of exactly where he was, so he traced the hose to the nearest house. It was Mrs Donnegan’s.
‘No!’ he ga
sped.
It was a smouldering ruin, charred and black. On the front door a skull and crossbones had been painted in red, the streaks baked hard by the fire. Smoke caught the back of his throat. His eyes stung, oozing out tears. What had he done to deserve this? He wiped his nose on his sodden sleeve.
A fireman appeared in the doorway, hose in hand. ‘Oi, you shouldn’t be here.’
‘Sorry,’ Perry stammered, ‘what happened, what’s the skull mean?’
‘Madness is what it is. Fourth one today. There’s folk going round torching the houses of the infected to stop it spreading.’
Perry stared at the ruin and his sense of dread sunk to his very core. The boys. ‘Were there any bodies?’
Grimy and grim. ‘Not yet.’
Thank God, let it stay that way. Perry wiped away the tears and cleared his throat. Before he knew it, he was climbing back over the rubbish heap and sploshing through the swollen Blue Anchor Lane puddles. He knocked at Ma’s, hating that he was here again and in no mood to make amends with Joel.
The door swung open violently and before he could speak, his chin was in Ma’s vice-like grip.
‘Ow! Get off! What are you doing?’
He struggled and squirmed, not believing how strong she was.
‘Stop wriggling!’
Lantern light flooded his eyes, too bright and too close. He batted it away and finally tore himself free from her grasp. Ma stood there grimacing, her bosom heaving. Then he realised. Joel must have told her about the notes.
‘Look, I know what-’
‘-Don’t you start with me you little scamp! You were one of Donnegan’s boys weren’t you? The whole Ward’s talking about The Sick starting there!’
Wrong-footed, Perry opened his mouth but no sound came.
‘You might have brought it into my house!’
‘I ain’t got The Sick,’ he said limply, then gathered up his resolve, ‘It ain’t possible Ma. I spoke to Dr Fairbanks see, you heard of him?’
‘The doctor looking for a cure?’
‘Yeah him, he said I can’t get it because I’m not an adult. Otherwise they would have taken me for disinfecting wouldn’t they?’
