The carriage house was hot and noisy. Babies cried, adults coughed, moaned, and snapped at each other. The air was rancid. The floor was covered with people trying to sleep with even more bodies outside on the dirt. Others arrived in the darkness. Nick kicked off the tarpaulin. He sat, staring at the house through the small window.
Daylight finally arrived.
Mary and Samuel hauled buckets of potion across to the carriage house again. They had to weave their way through the crowd sitting in the drive and blocking the door. Inside was fuller than ever, but that didn’t stop people from outside cramming in behind them. Madadh and Cormag pushed their way through and took control.
'D’ye bring food as well? We need food here.' shouted Madadh above the commotion.
'No' replied Mary 'Mother says we haven’t enough, you have to find your own.'
'Find oor own! Find it where?'
Mary shrugged her shoulders and slipped out from the crowd clutching a small bottle of potion she’d made especially for Nick. Cormag began pushing back the crowd trying to establish order.
'We should tek the stoon an’ get away fro’ this place.' growled Madadh.
'Aye, an’ what’ll we de wi’ auld Mother here?' replied Cormag 'We could ne'er leave her here aloon. An’ anyway, tek a look aroond. We’ll noo get this many buyers anywhere else!'
Madadh rubbed his beard. 'Aye, guess you’re reet, Cormag.' He picked up a rock and banged it against a tin plate. 'Quiet! Quiet!' He banged harder. 'Will ye’s all shut the hell up! Form a line here if ye want some o’ this potion. But ye’ll have te pay. Money, jewellery, whatever ye got!'
A grumble rippled through the room. The first in line was a woman in her twenties. She already had her hand and a small cup in the bucket and was helping herself to a serving. Madadh grabbed her wrist. 'Sae what ha’ ye got tae pay fo’ that?'
Mary took the bottle of water to Nick. He was sitting in the same corner, his body mostly covered by the tarpaulin. He looked worse. His hazel brown eyes seemed to have sunk deep into his ghostly white face. His lips were dry and cracked and boils were appearing on his neck. In spite of the stifling heat he was shivering. He grabbed the bottle from Mary and gulped down every last drop.
‘More, bring me more.' he snapped.
Mary looked at the fighting and pushing going on behind her. 'Yeh...I will, later.' she reassured him. 'I’ll come back.'
'Don’t leave me here.' Nick reached for Mary's arm. She pulled it away before he could get hold. His hand was black, the rest of the limb mottled purple and peppered with sores and bruises.
'You’re trying to trick me' he hissed 'I know what you’re doing.'
Mary shrank back. 'No...no... I’ll be back Nick, I promise.' She stammered.
Nick saw his skin and began to swipe at the boils. 'Get them off me. Get them off! They’re crawling all over me!'
Mary stumbled backwards away from Nick. She tripped and fell into the scrum of people fighting to get to their dose of medicine. Feet trampled her arms, ripping at her hair and crushing her legs. She tried to push them away and get up but they knocked her flat. She pulled her arms over her head to protect herself but feet kept crashing into her back and her neck. A hand reached down, grabbed her wrist and plucked her from the crowd. It was Brock. He threw her over his shoulder like a sack of wheat, then shoved bodies angrily out of the way as he headed for the door. He placed her gently down on the drive. Mary was covered in dusty footprints; her hair was a tangle, her face and limbs bruised.
'Are you alright?' Brock asked, brushing the foot prints from her back. 'Who was that you were talking to over there? Why is he in that corner?'
Mary looked back at him blankly. Was he watching her? Had he noticed that Nick was sick? She left him without answering and hurried back into the kitchen. The house was silent now, her mother finally sleeping, Alice lying with her. She dropped herself into a chair. The potion wasn’t working for Nick. He clearly had plague and any chance of them ever being together was disappearing fast. Did he just need more potion? Had she started it too late? If it didn’t work he’d make everyone sick. But she couldn’t give up on him altogether. She’d just have to keep leaving him the medicine at arm’s length, say nothing about his illness, and hope Brock didn't go looking any more closely.
The line-up for potion was getting increasingly ugly. Most people had nothing to give the MacDonalds, but they also had nothing to lose. They weren’t going to accept a refusal.
'I ain’t come all this bloody way to be stopped by some freak in a skirt!'
'What gives you the right to say who lives or dies, you greedy bastards?'
The crowd surged, forcing cups and beakers into the buckets. Cormag and Madadh tried to push them back but there were too many outstretched hands. One man threw a punch. Cormag dodged out of the way before landing a fist back into the man’s face. From there it was chaos. Brawls erupted, fists and feet flew, children ran screaming to escape the scuffles. In the midst of it all, the buckets of water were spilt and the potion drained away into the dirt.
'Stop!' a voice bellowed. 'In the name of God, STOP RIGHT NOW!' The Reverend Singer marched into the carriage house. He made a path through the crowded room by swinging and slashing his black cane. Anyone too slow to clear out of his way received a blow. Nobody fought back. He was followed by two burly church orderlies. The crowd parted all the way to Cormag and Madadh.
'So this is who Satan sends to do his dirty work!' The Reverend Singer swung his arm as if announcing a stage act 'Men of Louse-Land! What else would you expect?' He raised his cane above his head as if about to thrash the pair of them. Neither flinched. He thought better of it, and instead pointed it at the face of Madadh. 'You, no doubt, will be the guardian of this trinket, this jewel of Beelzebub. You are Satan’s hand maiden. In the name of The Almighty and all that is still holy and good in this world, I order you to hand it over!'
'Och is tha' reet? Or else wha', exactly?' scoffed Madadh.
'Or else face the wrath of God and the anger of these people before you!' He looked around the room for support. Faces looked away. The Reverend grabbed a bucket and placed it upside down on the ground. He carefully stood on top of it and raised his arms in the air. 'People, people!' he cried, then fell off. He cursed, replaced the bucket and climbed back on. 'People, listen! For the rest of you here there is still hope. God can forgive but you must act now! In a moment, and with your help, I will leave this place with that evil stone in my hand so it can be cast back to hell. If you still have a flicker of goodness left in your souls then you must help me take back that stone then leave this evil place with me. You must come with me and repent! Stay here with these demons and you burn in hell, burn in hell forever!'
'The stone ain’t ‘ere.' said a timid young woman.
'What?' replied Singer 'Speak up woman! God gave you a tongue. Use it!'
'That stone. Them two don’t ‘ave it. They keep it in the ‘ouse. There’s two kids what bring over the potion.'
'Why didn’t you say before for heaven’s sake?' Singer jumped down from his perch. 'Come with me. We will turn that house upside down until we find it!'
The crowd parted and Singer marched grandly through, followed by his two orderlies. But before he could leave, the door slammed shut. There was a rattling of iron chains. Several men ran forward and desperately tried to open it, but the door was locked, chained and padlocked from the outside.
'Open this door! Now! What's going on?'
'This place is infected. It’s locked by order of the Mayor. No one is to leave.' Red paint ran down the wood and under the foot of the door.
There was panic, shouting, screaming, crying. Hands pushed and rattled at the locked door, others charged at the large front double doors of the carriage house but they were firmly chained and locked too. Through the small side window they could see more men locking the house.
The Reverend swaggered to the door. 'Quiet!' he ordered 'I will handle this.' He pushed his face to a crack in the wooden
planks. 'My good man,' he shouted 'I’m here on behalf of the Bishop. I am the Reverend Singer. I order you to open this door now and release me.' He stood back and confidently awaited the rattling of chains and opening of the door.
'I’m sorry Sir. I can't do that, I have my orders.'
The Reverend couldn't believe what he was hearing. 'I don't care about your bloody orders! There are scores of people in here. You can’t possibly up lock me up with them! I'm not asking you to release everyone, just let me out for heaven's sake. I represent the Bishop!'
The inn-keeper pushed his way through. '‘Ere, don’t waste your breath. We’ll just smash our way out.' He dropped his shoulder and charged the door like a bull. It held firm.
'You keep that up an' there'll be trouble.' shouted a voice from beyond the door.
'Stop it!' snapped Reverend Singer 'There’s no need for that. We can do this in a civilised manner. He obviously doesn't understand who he's dealing with.' He pushed his face back against the opening. 'My good man, please tell me your name.'
'Em, Watkins Sir.'
'Good, now we're getting somewhere. Now let's start again and I'll make it clearer for you this time Watkins. I am a Reverend, a man of God, a very, very close friend and colleague of the Bishop himself. Now, if I have to tell the Bishop that you, Watkins, locked me up in this stable with this rabble he will be very angry. Very angry indeed. And the Bishop has been known to do some terrible things to people, and their families, when he's angry. So if you know what's good for you, you'll OPEN THIS DAMNED DOOR!'
'Right sir. I'll go speak to the Alderman right now and get the key to release you. Only you though.'
The guard walked across the drive smirking. 'Hey,' he called to two other guards. 'There’s one in there who thinks ‘e’s the Bishop!'
The others chuckled.
A shrill scream ripped through the carriage house. The crowd shrank away clearing a space. Reverend Singer pushed through to see what was happening. Nick had cast off the tarpaulin and was crawling, dragging himself on his belly across the dirt. His sores were on display now for all to see. He reached the centre of the room and then stopped. He looked up at Singer before his face developed a contorted grin, his body became rigid and then all four limbs thrashed wildly in seizure, saliva foaming though his gritted teeth. Singer’s mouth dropped. As one, the crowd turned and began to pummel the doors and walls, screaming to be let out.
The guard outside double checked the chain and padlock before turning to his mate. 'Go quick an’ speak with the Alderman. We’re gonna need more guards to keep this many locked up.'
Elizabeth had spent a restless night. She had tossed and turned, opening an eye occasionally to check Alice was still with her and then willing herself to drift off. Finally she had fallen asleep again as the sun appeared.
The bedroom door burst open and Mary flew in. 'Mum! Mum! Quick! They’re locking us in!' she screamed 'Quick, get up!'
Elizabeth jumped from her bed, grabbing at clothes as she hurried from the room. She ran down into the basement kitchen and tried to open the outside door. It wouldn't move. She rattled it and kicked it but it was fast. 'Who’s there? Who’s locked this door?' she bawled.
'Plague,' came the gruff reply 'your infected and now you’re locked up. No one's to come or go from this ‘ouse. By Order.'
'What are you talking about? There’s no one here with plague. There’s not any illness here!'
'That’s not what we got told. Any’ow. Not up to me. I just lock the door.'
'There’s children in here! You can't... for God's sake!' She shook desperately on the door handle again.
Samuel sprinted upstairs. He threw open a window and dangled out as far he dared. On the front steps of the house stood two men, one nonchalantly holding a pot of red paint whilst the other slapped a huge red cross on the door.
Across the street a dishevelled figure looked on from beneath a grubby blanket, his beard thick and untrimmed, his hair black, greasy and plastered to his head. Tears broke their way through the grime on James’ cheeks and ran off his bristles. He sat and silently watched as his family was incarcerated.
A safe distance further along the street Miss Pewtersmith also looked on, but without tears. 'Serve's 'em right!' she mumbled to herself.
Samuel ran back down into the kitchen. 'They’re paintin’ a cross on the door! Mum, do somethin’! Use that gun again. Shoot ‘em!'
'There’ll be no more shooting Samuel.' Elizabeth dropped into a chair. 'Perhaps this is for the best.'
Chapter 31