Crow Boy (8 page)

Tom stood there, looking at the screen. Now Mom and Hamish were hugging each other, while Tom's other self looked uncomfortable.

‘Get a room!' he said and winked at the camera. The audience laughed like they were insane.

Tom had to force himself to make a move. He went to the range and opened the stove door, then took handfuls of kindling from the pile beside it and pushed them onto the glowing cinders. He blew gently and the flames caught hold, began to spread.

When he looked again, the TV was just a meat safe.

Ten

Tom woke alone in the kitchen to the sound of a fist thumping impatiently on the front door. He was slumped in a chair, his back aching and his hands raw. He, Missie Grierson and Morag had worked through the small hours, scrubbing floors, laundering clothes and hanging wreaths of lavender around Alison's bed.

Cameron had arrived back just before dawn, as grumpy as ever. He told them that, when he'd finally got to Doctor Rae's fancy house, he'd found a man waiting by the gateway. He'd told Cameron that the contagion was spreading like wildfire and that the doctor was away dealing with an outbreak in another part of the city. The man had a pen and paper. He took a note of Missie Grierson's address, then told Cameron that he was to go back to his home and hang white cloths in the windows, to warn others that the plague was there. The doctor would call the following day and, until he had visited, on no account was anybody to leave the building.

Of course, this was easier said than done. There were another seven storeys above the orphanage; did the rules apply to them also? In the end, they had climbed up to the various levels, informing people of the outbreak below and had left it up to them to interpret the rules as they saw fit. Missie Grierson had hung a white sheet in one of the grimy casement windows at the front of the building and they all settled down to wait for the doctor's visit. But, as the hours passed and nobody appeared, exhaustion overcame them and they slunk away to their beds, leaving Tom down in the kitchen to keep an eye out for his arrival.

The incessant pounding on the door continued. Tom shrugged off his sleep, got to his feet and staggered across the kitchen into the hall. He hurried to the front door and unlatched it, bracing himself for the sight of Doctor Rae standing there like a demon from hell; instead it was a small, skinny fellow with a pale, rat-like face, who was wearing a close-fitting cloth hat and a white cape draped around his shoulders. He was carrying a leather pouch, from which jutted an array of metal implements. He studied Tom closely, an expression on his unshaven face that suggested there was a bad smell coming from somewhere. He didn't look very well, Tom thought. There were beads of sweat on his forehead and dark bags under his eyes.

‘This the house with the plague?' he demanded, as though he hadn't seen the sheet hanging in the window.

‘Yes, sir,' said Tom.

‘I'm Joshua, assistant to Doctor Rae,' announced the man with evident pride. ‘Where's the victim?'

‘Upstairs,' said Tom. ‘First floor.'

The man nodded, stood to one side and clapped his hands. A second man appeared: a big brawny fellow, dressed like his companion and carrying, in thickly-gloved hands, a metal brazier that was already charged with slumbering hot coals. The two men entered the house, shoving their way roughly past Tom, as if they owned the place. They started up the staircase, their feet clumping hollowly on wood. Only now did The Doctor finally make his appearance, stepping out from the shadows of a doorway, looking absolutely terrifying in his leather cape and mask. He strode up to the door and stood for a moment, gazing down at Tom through grimy red goggles – and the boy could hear the tortured sound of his breathing under the birdlike mask.

‘Do I know you?' he growled, his voice a deep, hoarse rasp, muffled by the thick layer of leather.

Tom thought about mentioning that they'd passed each other on a crowded street a week ago, but he thought better of it and simply shook his head. The Doctor lifted his long cane in a leather-gloved hand and tapped Tom's shoulder with it. ‘Now, boy, what's your name?' he asked.

‘Tom. Tom Afflick. Sir.'

‘Well, Tom Afflick, why don't you start by telling me everything that's happened here?' suggested The Doctor.

‘Er . . . well, it's this girl called Alison. She's maybe twelve years old? She fell ill last night and now she has a buboe, here.' Tom touched the side of his throat.

The Doctor took a deep breath. ‘What know you of buboes?' he asked incredulously.

‘I know they're a sign of the plague,' said Tom. ‘You usually get them in the neck, the groin or under the armpit. But don't worry; we've already taken precautions to make sure it doesn't spread.'

The Doctor leaned closer. He seemed intrigued. Close up, he smelled of old sweat mixed with the tangy musk of whatever flowers and herbs were packed into the beak of his mask. ‘Have you now?' he murmured. ‘And what precautions would they be?'

‘We've cleaned her up and changed the bedding and her nightdress. We've scrubbed the floor of her room and we've put lavender round the bed . . .'

‘Lavender?' The Doctor chuckled throatily, a spine-chilling sound. ‘What do you hope to achieve by that?'

‘It should help get rid of the fleas,' said Tom. ‘You . . . you probably don't know this, but it's flea bites that cause the plague.'

The Doctor laughed again. ‘These notions get more fanciful all the time!' he exclaimed. ‘I don't know how such wild theories originate. Just last night, an old biddy was trying to convince me it was caused by mischievous elves. Said it was a curse for all the iniquity going on in the Close! Blamed it on one of her neighbours, but it turned out the two women have been feuding for years over the ownership of a piece of land. Elves!' He shook his head ‘Now you tell me it's fleas. Who am I to believe, the old woman or you?'

‘Me,' Tom advised him. ‘I've researched this.'

‘Have you indeed? And where did you do that, may I ask?'

‘At school.'

‘You went to school?'

‘Yes, where I'm from
everyone
goes to school.'

‘And judging from your accent, you're not from round here.'

‘No, sir . . . I'm from Manchester, England.'

‘Hmm. How goes the war?'

‘The . . . war?'

‘I am correct, am I not, in the belief that England is currently embroiled in a civil war?'

‘Oh,
that
war! Er . . . yeah, no worries, it's . . . going well.'

The Doctor prodded the roughly-sewn badge on the front of Tom's blazer.

‘And what does this signify?' he asked.

‘Nothing, sir. This is just my school uniform. And that's the school badge.'

‘Hmm. This school . . . they teach you to read and write?'

‘Yes, of course.'

There was a long silence. The Doctor seemed to be considering all this information. ‘Useful skills,' he said at last. ‘And rare enough in one so young.' Then he added, ‘Take me to the girl.'

Tom turned and led the way into the house and up the first staircase. The Doctor followed, his heavy boots clumping on wood. When they got to the top of the stairs, they found Missie Grierson waiting on the landing with one arm around Morag's shoulders. The poor girl was so terrified she couldn't even bring herself to look at The Doctor.

‘Who have we here?' he croaked.

‘I'm Mistress Grierson. I run the orphanage.'

‘Then it's you I should see about payment,' said The Doctor.

‘Payment?' Missie Grierson stared at him. ‘But I thought you were paid by the city council?'

‘What, you'd have me risk my life for nothing?' muttered The Doctor. ‘It's customary to tip the doctor ten shillings. Of course, if that's a problem, I can take my skills elsewhere . . .'

Missie Grierson shook her head. ‘Oh no, sir,' she said. ‘I'll . . . find it for you.'

‘Good. Have it ready before I leave. And who is this?'

‘This is one of my young wards, Morag. As you can see, she's . . . worried about her friend, Alison.'

‘She looks frightened to me,' said The Doctor. ‘As well she might. The plague is no laughing matter.' He lifted his stick and putting the tip of it under Morag's chin, he lifted her face to look up at him. ‘Wheesht, child, don't you worry your pretty little head,' he told her, ‘I'm going to take very special care of your friend.'

‘She's not going to die, is she?' whimpered Morag.

The Doctor waved a gloved hand. ‘I'm not in the habit of making rash promises, but we shall see. There was a time when the onset of the plague meant certain doom but, using the latest techniques, I've achieved some quite remarkable successes. These days, as many as one in ten manages to survive.' He turned and looked at Tom. ‘Lead on, boy,' he said.

‘Oh, perhaps I should take you,' offered Missie Grierson. ‘I've spent the most time with Alison.'

‘No need, Madam,' The Doctor assured her. ‘You'll be needing to put your hands on that ten shillings. And young Tom here has been expounding his fascinating views about . . . the efficacy of lavender. I'm sure he'll take good care of me.'

‘I know it sounds weird to you,' said Tom, ‘but you have to . . .'

‘Lead on, boy, before the poor girl dies of old age!' snapped The Doctor impatiently, so Tom led him along the landing to the door of Alison's room. When he pushed it open, he saw that The Doctor's two helpers were already in there. The stocky man had opened the small casement window and had placed the glowing brazier in front of it. He was blowing on it to coax fresh heat from the slumbering coals. Joshua had unrolled a leather pouch and was arranging a row of fearsome-looking metal instruments on the floor beside the bed.

As Tom watched, he selected what looked like a poker and thrust the head of it into the midst of the coals. He caught Tom's eye and winked mischievously. Alison looked on, wide-eyed in terror, as well she might. Tom knew from what he had read that the preferred method of dealing with buboes at this time was to cut them open with a razor, drain the pus and insert a red-hot iron into the wound in order to cauterise it. It was not uncommon for patients to die of shock and those few who actually survived the plague would be scarred for life by its drastic treatment.

The Doctor stood beside Tom, staring at the bed. In the small room, he smelled even worse than he had down on the street, like something that had died and been left to rot. He approached the bed and looked at the clumps of lavender hanging from the metal headboard on lengths of twine. He reached out and touched one of them.

‘Where did you first hear of this nonsense?' he hissed.

‘It's not nonsense!' said Tom, without hesitation. ‘It's . . . the latest thing.' He studied Alison and thought she looked a little better than she had the night before. The swelling at her neck seemed to have gone down a bit and she was no longer gasping for breath. ‘Honestly, she's looking loads better than she did. I think she's already on the mend.'

The Doctor didn't seem so convinced. He moved closer to the bed. ‘Now, my pretty,' he purred, as he leaned over Alison. ‘How are we feeling this morning?' He lifted the stick and poked at the red swelling under her jaw, making her flinch. ‘Is that sore, my dear?'

‘A . . . a little,' gasped Alison, staring up at the hideous beaked mask. ‘But nothing like as bad as it was last night. I think the Sassenach pills must be working!' She pointed to the cardboard box of antibiotics on a rough wooden table beside the bed.

‘The . . .
Sassenach
pills?' The Doctor reached out and picked up the box. He stared at it for a moment, puzzling over the printed design and the brightly coloured logo. Then his masked head turned to look at Tom again. ‘What are these things?' he snarled.

Tom swallowed. ‘It's j . . . just some medicine I brought with me from . . . from Manchester.'

‘Doesn't look like any medicine I've ever seen. What manner of apothecary despatched these?'

‘Oh, just my . . . regular GP! Those pills are made ‘specially for the plague.'

‘Plague pills?' The Doctor shook his head in disbelief. ‘Are you making mock of me? There's no such thing!'

‘Not here, but you can get them in England! E . . . everybody's using them.' As he watched, The Doctor was opening the box and pulling out one of the transparent blister packs. His head tilted to one side as his seventeenth century mindset tried to figure out just exactly what he was looking at.

‘You'll see,' Tom assured him, ‘she's only had two, so far, but if she finishes the course, she'll be right as rain and the plague will be gone. I guarantee it.' He gestured at the metal implements beside the smoking brazier. ‘There's no need for any of that, honestly.'

‘I'd say that's for me to decide,' said The Doctor. He slid the blister pack back into its box and threw it almost contemptuously onto the table-top. Then he walked back to the foot of the bed and gestured to his assistants. ‘We will continue with the treatment,' he told them. He propped his cane against the end of the bed and held out one hand. Joshua stepped forward and placed an evil-looking scalpel into it. Alison gave a little gasp of terror.

‘Don't fret, my dear,' whispered The Doctor. ‘A simple cut to release the purulence and then a wee tap with the hot poker and we'll be done . . .'

‘No!' said Tom. He stepped forward to bar The Doctor's path. ‘No, please, give me another day or so and she'll be as right as rain. I promise.'

The Doctor stared down at him, his eyes glittering dangerously behind the black mask. He seemed to be considering his next course of action. For a moment, Tom feared that he would lift the scalpel and plunge it into his chest.

‘You impudent pup!' he hissed. ‘You dare to challenge me, the leading expert in my field?'

‘O . . . only because I've worked with an expert too,' Tom assured him. ‘In Manchester.'

‘Expert? What expert?'

‘It was er . . . Doctor . . . Wikepedia,' stammered Tom. ‘Yes, he's the talk of the city. Any question you ask him, he knows the answer. He's brilliant. I've worked with him many times. He gave me the pills. He said to me, if I saw anybody with the plague up in Edinburgh, I was to use them.'