Death is a Welcome Guest: Plague Times Trilogy 2 (37 page)

When he reached the edge of the wood Magnus realised that the night was not as dark as he had thought. The moon was only a slim crescent, but the air was clear and stars glimmered across a black velvet sky. He looked up and saw Orion’s Belt, the Plough and higher still a shimmer that might have been the Milky Way. His father and Hugh felt very close, though they had not been close to each other in life. His father had never warmed to Hugh, although he was his sister’s child. ‘Sib to the de’il’ he had called him half in jest and ‘a bad influence’ fully in earnest.

He walked down the path to Tanqueray House, hoping Malachy had not posted a lookout. The building was cast in turreted darkness except for the kitchen windows, which glowed with light. At first Magnus thought it was merely Jacob’s paraffin lamps, shining in an empty room, but as he grew closer he saw Father Wingate standing over a pair of jam pans that were steaming on the wood-fired Aga. Magnus guessed the priest was making refreshments for the crowd he hoped would come to the execution. He drew closer and saw that the old man’s lips were moving as he worked, as if he were muttering a prayer or an incantation.

The side door was unlatched. The hallway smelled sourly of Father Wingate’s brew, but it was deserted. Magnus walked quickly to the servants’ staircase, his senses so alert he could almost hear his blood pumping through his heart. It was pitch-black inside the passage, but Magnus did not bother with a torch. He imagined the building as a dolls’ house, its front walls pulled back to show the rooms within: Jeb lying in the foundations, contemplating his execution; Father Wingate standing hunched over his punch in the kitchen; Malachy and his followers alone in their beds on the upper floors, hearts heavy for the loss of their wives and children. He imagined Belle working on her collage in the attic studio, extending the Dance of Death into a worldwide ceilidh. Then he saw himself, a thin man dressed in black, creeping between the walls.

It was cold on the roof. Magnus hunkered down behind one of the decorative urns that punctuated the balustrade. From this height the moon looked like a slash in the fabric of the sky, behind which everything was silver. He heard a pattering noise and started, but it was only a bat. His eyes adjusted to the night and he saw that there were legions of them, flapping blackly against the darkness. The chill penetrated through his double layer of clothing. Magnus remembered the warm liquid bubbling on top of the Aga with longing, though he knew that anything the priest had made would taste foul.

Forty-Three

Magnus woke to a pink and blue dawn that gave way to a seamless sky. Pigeons had colonised the roof and daylight revealed their guano, white and foul, plastering the tiles and stonework. The house cast a dark shadow across the lawn that receded as the sun moved higher. Magnus lay on his front, among the bird shit and feathers, watching for the moment the shade pulled free of the execution platform, unveiling it like a prize object in a magic trick.

There was a hum of motorbikes coming and going along the drive. Magnus guessed that Malachy’s men were trying to spread the word, visiting outlying districts, like busy party activists before a by-election.

The sun caught him in its rays about mid-morning. Flies and insects buzzed around his head, making a feast of him. Magnus wriggled free of the black tracksuit and fashioned a turban from the jacket. He had an uninterrupted view of the platform, but worried that by noon the sun would begin to blind him. His childhood had had its seasons and all of them had included a portion of rain. He wondered if this part of England had always been subjected to such relentless summers. He had shoved a bottle of water in his rucksack, along with the binoculars and a few of the packets of dried food from Mr Perry’s house. Magnus felt too sick to eat, but took sips of the water, rationing it to last. He rationed his use of the binoculars too, afraid that the sun would glint against their lenses and give away his hiding place.

Some of the men had started to move trestle tables on to the lawn. Father Wingate fussed among them, dressed in a black cassock. Viewed from above, he reminded Magnus of the bats he had fallen asleep watching. The creatures had appeared fluttery and ill-directioned, but their natural sonar meant that every blind move was sure. The men placed the tables on one side of the lawn and then the other, until the priest was satisfied. Next they brought out tea urns and trays laden with cups and glasses. Magnus was dismayed to see that Malachy’s group had grown larger. He counted five new recruits, all of them men. There were not enough urns to hold Father Wingate’s refreshment and the men set out a variety of jugs and bowls full of brownish liquid which they covered with cotton cloths against bugs.

Malachy trotted across the lawn followed by one of the puppies. The Irishman was dressed all in black and Magnus wondered if he had raided some dead priest’s wardrobe. Someone had fixed Union Jack flags around the platform like a skirt. Malachy stopped to admire the effect before leaping up on to the stage, as jaunty as a new manager about to reassure the workforce that redundancies spelled fresh opportunities. The dog sniffed at the flags and then lifted his leg against them and ambled away. Magnus was unsure what Malachy was carrying until he raised an old-fashioned megaphone to his lips. He had only ever seen one in comedy sketches and doubted it would work, but then he heard Malachy’s voice,
Testing, one, two, three, testing
, loud and clear across the lawn.

Magnus whispered, ‘I’d like to ram that up your arse, wide side first.’

The drumming started soon after: two slow beats, followed by three swift ones.

BANG–BANG–bangbangbang–BANG–BANG–bangbangbang–BANG–BANG–bangbangbang . . 
.

Tanqueray House had proved a treasure trove. There were three drummers. One of them had a massive bass drum, the kind used to mark time in military parades, slung across his body. He hit the heavy beats. The other two were equipped with snare drums and rapped out swift
ratatats
. The rhythm was simple, but it took the men a while to master it and even once they were under way one or other of them would occasionally trip, throwing the rest out of sync and creating a racket of bangs; the sound of a body tumbling downstairs.

Magnus recalled Jacob saying that Father Wingate remembered the way things used to be done, before technology took over.

He muttered, ‘You got that right, Captain, trouble is, the old days were fucking brutal.’

People began to arrive. They came singly, in pairs and small groups. Many wore the stunned expression of drivers involved in a motorway pile-up. Most were dressed soberly, though there were a few dishevelled souls who looked as if they had not changed their clothes since the sweats began. There were more men than women and none of the women was alone. Magnus recalled Belle’s story about the gang she had seen during her escape from London and was not surprised that solitary females had kept away.

Magnus had rehearsed assembling the gun in his tent in the woods, but his fingers were clumsy and it took longer than it should have. The sun seemed to signal midday, but he had no way of knowing the exact time, or whether Malachy intended to start on schedule. He cursed himself for not thinking to get a watch.

There were about thirty people on the lawn, including Malachy’s crew. Judging by the number of cups set out on the trestle tables it was fewer than Father Wingate had hoped for, but it was more people than Magnus had seen since the sweats. He mopped his forehead, trained the gun sight on the platform and then leaned back and observed the crowd. People were beginning to mix and he felt a desperate urge to go down and join them. He watched the way clusters drifted cautiously together, the need for human contact overcoming fear of contamination, and wondered if they had really come to see a man die.

No one was visiting the refreshments tables yet, but Paul and a few more of Malachy’s men stood awkwardly on hand, ready to serve. One of them poured himself a generous cupful and took a sip. His face buckled with disgust. Magnus guessed that the brew was alcoholic, because the man raised the cup to his lips and knocked the contents back. He shuddered and offered some to Paul who shook his head. The man forced down a second glass. He grimaced and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

The drummers stuttered to an exhausted halt and the small crowd looked towards the stage. Magnus scanned the gathering for Father Wingate and Malachy, but they were gone; in the dungeon, he guessed, preparing Jeb for his ordeal. He scanned the crowd again, looking for Will and spotted instead a familiar slim figure crossing the lawn, hand in hand with a boy of around six years old.

Magnus grabbed the binoculars and focused the lens. Raisha turned her head as if she were searching the crowd for someone and he wondered if she was looking for him.

‘Fuck.’ He rocked back on his heels. ‘Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.’

Raisha crossed the lawn and fell into conversation with a short, slim youth in a cloth cap and tweed jacket. The youth crouched down to welcome the little boy. He tipped his cap back and Magnus saw his – her face. Belle was grinning as if the presence of the child had put the reason for the gathering from her mind.

‘Hello . . .’ Malachy had mounted the platform without Magnus noticing. Father Wingate stood thin and dignified by his side. Magnus had expected the priest to dress up in embroidered finery, but he had donned a simple white robe and black surplice. The effect was theatrically austere.

Malachy raised the megaphone to his mouth. ‘Hello, fellow survivors.’ There was a mumble of hellos from the crowd and Malachy nodded in acknowledgement. He looked sure and solid. ‘My name is Malachy Lynch. I’m not here to make a long speech. We have all suffered. We have lost the people most dear to us and our hopes and dreams have gone with them.’

Some heads were nodding. Malachy had a strong voice and Magnus wondered why he continued to use the loudhailer for such a small crowd, but then he saw him glance towards the perimeter and knew that he hoped there were other survivors lurking beyond the lawn, listening.

‘Our task is to honour those we have lost by building a new England, one they could be proud of.’ Malachy left a pause for people to contemplate the dead and the kind of world they might have wanted. ‘Law and order are at the heart of a civilised society. Without the rule of law all we have is chaos.’ More heads were nodding. ‘We are here today to take a step towards re-establishing justice. A few days ago Father Jacob Powe, a man who gave his life to peace and who, despite his own hard losses, was determined to build a community here, in the English countryside, was brutally shot in the back.’

Jacob had been shot in the head, his fine brain full of hopes, plans, pain and memories, blasted across the lawn.

Malachy paused again, leaving space for the crowd to react, but they had experienced too many outrages of their own to be easily shocked and stood in silence, waiting for him to continue.

‘The murderer is a man called Jeb Soames. Jeb Soames was a new member of Father Powe’s small community, a man who Father Powe had rescued from certain death, a man who he had sheltered and was nursing back to health.’

Raisha was standing with her back to the house, her hands resting lightly on the boy’s shoulders. She lifted a hand and stroked his hair. Magnus wanted to tell her to take the child away, before they brought Jeb to the stage.

Malachy’s voice was rising. ‘What Father Powe did not know was that Jeb Soames was a convicted killer, a man who had brutally murdered his wife and daughter and was serving life for the crime when the sweats gave him the chance to escape prison.’

Father Wingate was smiling beatifically. Magnus followed his gaze towards the refreshments tables and saw that more of Malachy’s men were helping themselves to the brew. A few of the crowd had joined them. The drinkers grimaced as the liquid passed their lips. On some other occasion their contortions might have been comic, but now they underlined how desperate people were to escape reality.

Malachy’s voice dropped. ‘Sometimes fate gives us a second chance. It took the deaths of millions, but Jeb Soames was given just such an opportunity. He used it to kill a good man in cold blood.’ Malachy raised his voice again. It reached across the lawn and out into the woods beyond. ‘I say that a man like Jeb Soames, a child-killer, a murderer, has no place here. Why should he live, when so many good people have died?’

Malachy’s men clapped loudly and one of them shouted,
Hear, hear
. A few heads in the crowd nodded and some people joined in the applause, but there were others who stood with their hands at their sides, or looked silently at their feet.

‘Our country has a long and proud history of democracy. This small community has decided to send out the message that murder will not be tolerated.’ Malachy’s men were clapping again. ‘If you agree that Jeb Soames should be executed for the murder of Father Jacob Powe, say Aye.’

AYE!

The shout was loud and masculine, but Magnus had the impression that not everyone had joined in.

Malachy said, ‘The ayes have it. In a moment we will bring Jeb Soames to the platform, but before we do I would like to ask Father James Wingate to lead us in a prayer.’

The priest stepped forward and Magnus caught him in his gun sight. Father Wingate had been awake, concocting his refreshment until the small hours of the morning, but his skin had a pink glow and Magnus would have sworn that he looked younger than when they had first met. He whispered, ‘Fucking vampire.’