Elvis overslept. He'd been awake for hours thinking about how to distribute the medicines, and had finally fallen asleep without reaching any useful conclusion. He was snoring heavily when his bedroom door opened and a bedraggled looking Monica peeped around the corner in her dressing gown.
'Someone here to see you Elvis.' she croaked. She pushed open the door and Henry walked in.
'Sorry mate. Bit early for you?'
Elvis rubbed his eyes. 'What time is it?'
'Nine thirty. Time to rise and shine Elvis. I reckon you're gonna have a busy day mate. How you feelin'?'
'Good, thanks.' said Elvis. 'You don't look so great though.' He added looking at Henry's unshaven face and crumpled clothes.
'Oh yeh, I know. I spent the night at the hospital.'
'Oh the baby, how's he going? How's Abit?' asked Elvis feeling guilty he hadn't remembered sooner.
Henry grimaced and shook his head. 'Not so good. But thanks for asking. I've just left to get a shower and change out of these stinky clothes and then I'm back in there. Come on, out of bed. Let's take a look at you.'
Elvis climbed out of bed and allowed Henry to give him a check over. He eyed the edge of the carrier bag protruding out from under the dangling sheets. Should he risk asking Henry for help? Was it unfair?
'All good Elvis. You're fitter than me mate.' he said as he shoved his stethoscope back into his carrier bag. 'Mind you that's not sayin' a lot.' he added with a brief smirk.
'Henry...'
'What mate?'
'Can you spare ten minutes? There's something I want to show you.'
'Is it important?'
Elvis nodded.
Henry checked his watch. 'Well, I suppose I could give you a few minutes. Nya's parents are there now anyway, and, well, 'tween you and me, her Dad's a pain in the arse. What's the problem?'
'I can't explain Henry. I'll just have to show you.'
'Look Elvis, there's something you should know.'
'What?' asked Elvis as he reached under the bed and pulled out the carrier bag.
'I was in the hospital canteen this morning and sat next to a couple of the micro guys. I heard them talkin'. They're all a buzz about all these sick people they got quarantined.'
'Yes...' Elvis knew where this was going.
'They're thinkin' it's plague Elvis. Plague in the middle of London in the twenty-first century! Can you believe that?'
'Wow' said Elvis through gritted teeth.
'Now they didn't say your name but it sounded to me like they were talking about you as the index case, you know, the first one. If that's right you're gonna be swamped by those nerdy public health people any minute.'
Elvis grabbed his clothes and began to dress quickly. 'We'll have to hurry then.'
'Hurry? Why, what do you want to show me?'
'I can't explain Henry. You'll just have to come see. Bring your medical bag.'
Henry followed Elvis across the road towards the hall. The vicar was stood in front of the iron-studded church doors defending the state of his churchyard to an irate man in a black cassock. The Reverend Singer was unimpressed.
'Have you no shame man!' he shouted. 'You claim to be a man of god. This churchyard is a disgrace! Do you know what the Bishop would say if he saw this...this... this atrocity?'
'Hey look, we've got the Scouts coming around for a clean up day in two weeks. We can't afford to pay people. You know what it's like.'
'Pay people! Why would you pay people? Order them! Tell them to do it man! Where's your authority?'
'Is your parish around here?' asked the young clergyman, dressed in shorts and tee shirt, dog collar in hand. 'Because I don't think we've met before. My name is...'
'And look at your clothes! How can you expect to command respect when you come out here in your underwear! What are you thinking, man?'
'Oh, these?' he laughed 'This is my five-a-side day. We play every week, the younger clergy you know.'
'You play? You have time to play when the devil walks amongst us!'
Elvis hurried across and stepped in between. 'Sorry vicar, he's with us.'
'With you? Who is he? What's he doing here?' whispered the vicar.
'Oh, he's...visiting. From overseas.'
'I see. Has he been there a long time?'
'Unhand me boy.' ordered Reverend Singer. 'Where's the Bishop. I must see the Bishop.'
'He's round here.' said Elvis, trying to lead him away.
'Sorry, I'll have to go.' said the vicar. 'Can't be late for the big match. It's Elvis, isn't it?'
Elvis nodded.
'I'll try and make sure we catch up. I'd love to have a good chat with you some time. And you Reverend, nice to meet you.'
Reverend Singer huffed his disapproval. 'Take me to the Bishop, boy!'
The vicar smiled then turned jogged away down the church path. 'I'll see you very soon Elvis.' He shouted as he passed through the gate.
Henry cast another anxious glance at his watch. 'Time's ticking away Elvis. We'd best get on with this.'
Elvis led Henry and Reverend Singer around the church to the doors of the hall. Through the row of high windows Henry could see smoke escaping and gently drifting skywards, he could hear the chatter inside and the sounds of children shouting and crying. He looked curiously at Elvis.
'What's goin' on, Elvis?'
Elvis didn't reply. He held the door open. Reverend Singer pushed his way through, in search of the Bishop. Henry followed. He was dumb-stricken. He stood inside the doorway of the hall with his hands on his head. He'd never seen so many sick people in one place. Through the haze of blue smoke he saw people lying on the floor, huddled together under blankets, coughing and wheezing, children crying, pans simmering on small fires, skins peppered with sores. Sure he'd seen pictures of disasters and epidemics. His family had told him harrowing tales from the old country, but he'd never actually seen it close up, near enough to see the look of fear in people's eyes, to smell the disease and feel squeezed by the sheer weight of bodies crammed into a small space.
'Good God Elvis! What have you got yourself into?'
Across the road at Number 28, Monica was clearing up the living room. She picked up last night's empty wine bottles from the living room floor and cursed her weakness. She'd promised herself that she'd stop the drinking. How many times had she done that before? She couldn't begin to count; but this time was different, she'd even promised Elvis. Her mouth was dry and her head a little sore, but with all of the practice, she rarely experienced a proper hangover. She eyed the inch or so of white wine that still sat in the bottom of one of the bottles. She hadn't had breakfast yet but that drop of wine was still tempting. No, she steeled herself. She wasn't going to give in. Today things would change. She picked up the Drinkline leaflet from under the cushion on the couch. She'd hidden it there, worried that Elvis or Morris might see that she had a problem, might think her weak by asking for help. How stupid she thought to herself. Only an idiot couldn't see that she needed help. She shoved it in the pocket of her dressing gown. She vowed to ring them today. Now these bottles must go. She would empty the last of the wine out of the window right now and get rid of it. She pulled back the curtains of the living room and reached for the window latch.
Two pairs of eyes stared back at her from between surgical face masks and blue plastic hats. Monica screamed and dropped the bottles. One of the figures behind the window waved a latex-gloved hand then pointed at the front door. The other one held a small card to the window. It read 'Doctor Robert Latchford, Consultant. Dept. Public Health.' In the drive behind him, several others in protective overalls were unloading boxes from a white van.
Monica pulled the curtains closed again. There was a loud rap on the front door. She pulled her dressing gown tightly closed across her body. She looked quickly at her reflection in the polished brass plate on the wall and tried to straighten her tangled hair with her fingers. The knocking started again.
'OK, OK, I'm coming.' Monica opened a crac
k in the front door.
'Hello Misses Klatzmann. I'm Doctor Latchford, Department of Public Health.' He pushed a gloved hand through the gap. 'Call me Bob.'
Henry pushed his way past Elvis and out of the door. He pulled his mobile phone from his pocket.
'What are you doing?' asked Elvis.
'I'm calling for help. We can't deal with this! What d'you think you're playing at?'
Elvis grabbed his telephone from his hand.
'Hey, Elvis, give me that back. You know we can't handle all this! They shouldn't be in there. How did you find them in the first place?' he asked, reaching for his phone.
Elvis held the phone behind his back. 'I didn't. They found me. They just started appearing Henry. I didn't go looking for them, honest!'
'Well wherever they come from, they should be in 'ospital.'
'No, Henry, look at them. Look at the clothes, listen to how they speak. They're not from here... or now. They just keep appearing. If you report them they'll just lock 'em up ...or worse.'
Henry peered back into the hazy room. Elvis was right with the clothing. They wore pinafore dresses and bonnets, lace-up sack cloth shirts and worn leather boots. And the chatter belonged in another age.
'I don't understand it either.' Elvis went on 'All I know is I've got to get them well and send them back, or they'll just keep coming and spread it everywhere!'
'So this is how you got sick?'
Elvis nodded.
'And what about me? Have you thought about me getting sick?'
'You told me you were taking those antibiotics already, you know, from that list, for your spots. We just need to give all of them medicines too.' Elvis held up his bag of drugs. 'Can't we just try?'
Henry frowned. He glanced at his watch and then back into the crowded hall. He shook his head. 'You're gonna get me struck off before I'm even bloody qualified. I'll give you twenty minutes Elvis then I'm gone. If anyone asks, I was never 'ere, OK?'
Elvis nodded.
'And if this doesn't work, I'll be making an anonymous call to the hospital.'
Henry rummaged through his bag. He found his drug book and began hurriedly fumbling through the pages. He looked at the tablets and medicines, compared them with his book and then scribbled notes onto his pad of paper. 'Right Elvis' he said, scratching his head. 'See if you can find me a set of bathroom scales amongst all that crap. We need weights for those kids. Here,' he passed him a small note pad, 'give them a ticket each and write their weight on it.'
The people in the hall had sensed what was going on. The magical modern medicines had arrived; a cure was at last on hand. They began to gather around Henry, pushing forwards, knocking the table and spilling tablets onto the floor.
'Oi!' shouted Henry 'Careful. I'll be ready in a minute. Form a queue or somethin' will ya!'
But they paid no heed and continued jostling, barging and pushing the table back into Henry.
The Reverend Singer climbed onto a chair. 'Stop!' he shouted, with the same confident air of authority he'd used centuries before. 'Order! Get back in the name of God. Form a line here.'
'How come you're here Reverend?' shouted someone 'Did you 'ave a drink o' the old potion too!'
'No, no!' shouted Singer.
'You said it was witchcraft!'
'You said we'd go to hell if we drank it!'
'I only... I only drank it for refreshment.' he stammered. 'How dare you question me? I know who you are, and your family!'
'He's a fake, that's all he is, a bloody fake, like the rest of them!'
'Do as you're told! Form a line!'
But nobody was listening to him any more. The Reverend stepped down from his chair, deflated.
Whilst the clamour for medicines went on, Elvis dug through the jumble in search of scales.
'Can I 'elp?' asked a soft voice.
Elvis turned around; it was Mary. 'Yeh, course. I though you were up there with the rest of them, getting your medicine?'
Mary shrugged. ''Ave you seen 'em, pushin' and shovin'? Anyway, I had that stuff you gave me before. I'll wait 'til the argey-bargey's over I reckon. '
'You don't have... I got... this...these are for you.' He held out a small plastic bottle.
'You got them for me?' asked Mary surprised. 'Just for me?'
Elvis nodded. 'Yeh, I...wanted to make sure you didn't miss out.' he said quietly. He could feel his cheeks flushing. 'Where's your friend?'
Mary pointed at the crowd around the table. Nick was at one edge, fighting desperately to get through the wall of bodies.
'Is he getting you medicine too?'
'I doubt it.' Mary began battling with the child-proof top on the medicine bottle.
'Here' Elvis took the bottle from her. 'You've got to push and twist, look.' He tried three times but failed.
'Let me try again.' Mary retrieved the small bottle, twisted, clicked and removed the top. 'Easy! You modern people ain't half as clever as you think you is!'
Elvis smiled. 'Just take one. One every day.'
Mary put the tablet in her mouth and choked it down. 'Anyway, what we lookin' for?'
'A set of scales, for weighing children.'
'Right then, let's get on with it!'
They both set about the piles and boxes. Mary really had no idea what a modern set of scales looked like but she loved the jumble. She was especially fond of the cheap jewellery, the fancy scarves and the brightly coloured dresses. She found a once fine white wedding hat, now sad and droopy with ragged fake flowers on top and torn white lace dangling from the front. She couldn't resist trying it on. She found a necklace of fake pearls.
''Ere, Elvis, what d'you think?' she asked 'A Lady or what?'
'Wow, like royalty.' Elvis laughed. 'Here, try this.' He threw her gaudy knitted shawl.
Mary pulled it snugly around her neck. She picked up a faded top hat and tossed it to Elvis. He sat it on his head; it was huge and sank down to his eyebrows. Mary giggled. Elvis tipped the hat back, found a bulky plastic chain and medallion and some wire-rimmed spectacles.
'Oh look, 'e's a proper toff now!' chuckled Mary.
She continued to rummage through the jumble. She plucked out a toddler's 'First LapTop' computer and opened it. It burst to life with an electronic fanfare. 'Let's play!'
Mary dropped it and jumped away.
Elvis burst into laughter. Mary blushed red then shoved giggling Elvis away, pushing him over onto a pile of old clothes and blankets. Elvis continued to laugh. Mary quietly took the hat and jewellery off and placed them back on the table.
Elvis climbed to his feet. 'What's up? Did the talking toy scare you?' he asked still smirking.
Mary looked down at the table and continued to rummage through the jumble. 'I ain't stupid Elvis. Just 'cause I'm a servant, just 'cause I can't read, doesn't mean I'm dumb.'
The smirk fell from Elvis's face. 'No, I know you're not... I didn't mean...' He scrambled again for words, realising that he'd unwittingly done the very thing he hated others doing to him. 'No I didn't mean that, I don't think you're stupid. Honest, I don't!'
Mary cast a sceptical eye at Elvis. 'You sure?'
'No, I didn't, I don't. I'm sorry if it sounded like that.'
'Good.' said Mary quietly 'Cause I didn't want to 'ave to do this again.' She shoved Elvis back over into the pile of clothes. 'Now who looks stupid?' she giggled.
'Why you...' Elvis looked around him. There was a box filled with tired old teddies and stuffed animals. He grabbed a handful and began hurling them at Mary. A Beanie Baby hit her on the side of her head.
Mary began to hurl back hats and necklaces and anything in her reach.
'Hey! You two! Stop bloody clowning around!' Henry was stood on a chair, bawling over the crowd. 'I need those weights!'
'Oops, I think 'e means it.' said Mary. She reached a hand down to Elvis pulled him back to his feet. 'Look, 'ave you noticed? The sores, they're goin'. I'm gettin' better! It must be that medicine you give me before, it's w
orkin!'
She held out her arm. Elvis gently ran his fingers over her soft skin. In truth, he'd noticed already that her complexion was clearing; the mask of spots and sores had all but gone revealing her delicate features with soft, rose skin between the fading blemishes.
Mary became embarrassed by Elvis's admiring looks. 'Come on, we'd best find them whatever-they-are. You look over there.' She pointed to another heap of jumble.
Elvis turned, but before he could begin rummaging again he felt another shove in the back and he landed back in the mound of old clothes.
'Sorry' giggled Mary 'couldn't resist.'
Monica was struggling to accept the news she was hearing.
'Yes, that's right Misses Klatzmann, Elvis had plague.' explained Bob from behind his mask. 'Same as they had hundred's of years ago. Same as all those other people that you've seen on the news.'
'But, how did he catch it?'
'That's what we need to find out. He...'
'I bet it was that school. That's a dirty place! He got nits from there twice!'
'Well, we'll be looking at all the possibilities Misses Klatzmann. The thing that makes your son special is that is he was the first one to get sick. That's why we want to learn all about him and find out how he caught it.'
'Some of those kids look like they haven't washed ever! It's no wonder he got sick.'
'Yes, of course Misses Klatzmann, school is one of the places we'll be checking. Now, can we see Elvis please? We need to ask him some questions. Then we'll need to check out you and your husband.'
There was a clatter and the front door burst open. Four people walked in dressed in overalls, clutching folders, laptops and sampling equipment. 'We'll start in the kitchen.' announced one of them, 'Where is it?'
'Kitchen? Start what in the kitchen?' asked Monica, aware that the kitchen was no doubt a complete mess. 'What do you want with the kitchen?'
'Oh just some tests.' reassured Bob. 'Now where do I find young Elvis?'
'What? Oh, room at the top of the stairs, door facing you.' replied Monica impatiently. 'Just wait a minute you lot.' She chased after them, eager to get down the stairs to the basement kitchen first.
Bob headed upstairs and tapped gently on Elvis's bedroom door. When there was no reply he let himself in. With Monica occupied he took the chance to perform a quick search of the room. Perhaps he'd find pet rodents or other clues. He found nothing, until he pulled out a box from under the bed. Inside were empty packets from dozens of courses of antibiotics. Bob scratched his head. He knew that Elvis had been given medicine to take home but this was enough for a small pharmacy. That didn't make sense. He delved deeper into the box. At the bottom was a dogged A4 note pad. On the front cover was scrawled the name Amelia Edwards repeatedly, the name intertwined with 'Elvis'. Bob opened the first page. Under the heading 'B.D.' were notes scribbled in pencil. Bob squinted to read the handwriting. It was a list of symptoms of plague, what it looked like, how to catch it and how to treat it. He turned the page. Stuck to the paper were cuttings from books and computer print-outs, photographs of boils and sores, facts and figures about the black death and mortality rates in London from 1665. Page after page had images and facts about plague. A loose piece of paper fell from the book. It was another article from a computer entitled 'The rapid spread of plague – how does it happen?'
A chill ran down Bob's spine.There was only one conclusion to be drawn. This child clearly knew all along that his disease and the illness that was raging though London was the great Black Death of history. He'd been planning for it and preparing himself. He'd somehow stockpiled drugs to protect himself and his family. There was no other possible conclusion. He'd been expecting to find flea-bitten rodents, instead he'd found a smoking gun. He rolled up the exercise book and shoved it under his surgical gown. This needed reporting as soon as possible. Think of the publicity. As he headed back down the stairs he pictured himself being interviewed by the BBC, imagined himself answering questions on the evening news. This could end with a visit to the palace, an OBE, maybe even Sir Bob he thought as he gathered his things from the living room.
'I've got to nip out for a few minutes' he shouted down the kitchen stairs 'You lot keep going.'
In the hall Henry had finally achieved some order with help from Brock and the inn-keeper. A long line snaked away from the table. Henry handed out the packs of medicines with brief instructions and they were quickly ushered away. Elvis and Mary busied themselves weighing the children. As Mary could neither read nor write she organised the youngsters before Elvis stood them on the scales, wrote a number on a scrap of paper and sent them to the front of the queue. Before long all of the children were completed and the line of adults was flowing nicely. Then a Homer Simpson ring tone interrupted them. Henry paused, read the text and jumped to his feet. He walked away into the corner and dialled.
'Hey, what about my potion?' demanded the next in line.
'What's he doin'? Come on, we need this stuff!'
Henry finished his call but remained motionless. Elvis could see the pain on his face. He knew the call must relate to Abit. He shouldn't have persuaded him to help. He walked quietly up to Henry, his steps slowed by a dragging guilt.
'Everything OK Henry?' he asked softly.
Henry turned and forced a fake smile. 'No mate, it's not.' His mahogany brown eyes brimmed. 'They wanna take Abit off the machine.'
'But...but isn't that a good thing?' asked Elvis.
'Nah mate, it's not good. Not good at all.' He bowed his head to the floor. 'Abit's not gonna make it Elvis.' he whispered. Tears dripped from his nose to the floor.
'Can't you tell them to leave him on the machine? Tell them they have to! He's your son!' argued Elvis, feeling his own eyes fill.
'He is my son Elvis, you're right.' replied Henry, mustering another weak smile and placing a hand on Elvis's shoulder. 'But sometimes you have to be brave. Keeping him on the machine ain't gonna fix him. He's too sick. They can't do any more.'
'Will you two hurry up for God's sake!' came a shout from the line.
'Shut up! Shut up!' screamed Elvis furiously.
'Hey, cool it mate.' said Henry calmly. 'Look, I got to go. Most of that lot have had their medicines. It's all arranged, look.' He pointed to the pile of drugs. 'Kids are all done. Just give each of the adults one lot of meds, read 'em the instructions I wrote on the paper and tell 'em to keep takin' 'em til they're gone. OK?'
Elvis looked at the stock of medicines and the queue of people standing impatiently in front of the table. 'What if there's not enough...' But Henry was already walking through the door. Elvis would have to complete the job himself.
Brock caught Mary by her arm and pulled her to one side. 'Have you had your medicine Mary? Did you get some? I didn't see you in the line.'
'What? Yeh, well, why would you care?'
'I care a lot Mary, more than you might think. You'll be seeing much more of me in the future, now that your father's gone.'
'No!' shouted Mary 'The only reason that my father's not here is because you didn't do what you promised!'
'No Mary, it wasn't like that. I can be your father now. James would have wanted that.'
Mary wriggled free of his grip. 'You're not my father! You never will be! Keep away from us. We don't want you!' She ran out of the door and sat outside on a stone wall at the side of the church. Her body shook with rage.
Elvis saw her leave and chased after her. 'Come on Mary. We need to get this lot finished. There's no time to sit out here.'
Mary turned her head away. She gritted her teeth and cleared her eyes with her sleeve.
Elvis sat on the wall alongside. 'Come help me? We were a good team, us two.'
Mary cleared her throat to speak then thought better of it and settled for a nod.
'What's the matter? Is it your father?'
Mary nodded again. 'Why can't she see it? I don't understand, it's so bleedin' obvious!'
Elvis looked at her in bemus
ement. 'Who? See what?'
'Mum. Brock. He's bin trickin' 'er ever since 'e first arrived. 'E good as killed Dad an' now 'e wants to take his place and she's gonna let 'im! You should 'ave seen 'em in there... cuddlin' up.'
'Speak to her. Tell her what you think.'
'No point. She won't listen to me. We need to get 'im back, my Dad. There must be some way we can do it.'
'There is, I think, maybe.' replied Elvis.
'What?'
'An old Scottish woman, she knows about the stone. She said there's a way we can bring him here.'
'Scottish?'
'Yeh, really weird and old. She seemed to know you.'
Mary smiled. Mother Munro, it had to be. How did she get to be here?
'She's coming, tonight.' added Elvis. 'She said she knew how we can get your father back.'
Mary leant over and gave Elvis a fat kiss on his cheek. Elvis blushed.
'Come on then! What you waitin' for?' Mary pulled Elvis back to his feet and into the hall.
The shiny new Subaru was parked on double yellow lines outside Morris's television shop. The CLOSED sign hung on the door. In the back office, Morris's tall gaunt assistant was drowning three tea bags in boiling water.
'We've never been this close, not in hundreds of years!' roared the Subaru driver. 'I can smell it, taste it! We can't be scared off by a few people hanging around your house for heaven's sake!'
Morris sipped on his tea. 'You're right, 'he said thoughtfully 'but if we go charging in there now we're just going to draw attention to ourselves. I think we'd do better biding our time. And don't forget, if a whole houseful of people couldn't find it last time, what chance have two or three of us got?'
'But it's there, man. I can feel it in my water!'
The bell hanging over the front door jingled and the overweight woman from the house party panted her way through the shop.
'You're late.' growled the Subaru driver.
'I'm sorry, I came as soon as I could Bishop.'
'Don't call me that woman! How many time do I have to tell you?'
'I'm sorry, I didn’t mean to...'
'Sit down and shut up.' He turned his attention back to Morris. 'That new boy of yours. He knows where it is, he has to. He's the key to all of this.'
Morris nodded.
'Can't you get him to speak. Can't you bribe him or threaten him or something?'
'I've tried speaking to him. He's hopeless.'
'He's holding back, he has to be. Give him one more try. Offer him whatever he wants in exchange for our stone. If he still won't speak then then I'll beat it out of him. We're too close to let this chance slip by. I'll not wait another three centuries.'
Elvis handed medicine to the last person in line.
'Now what?' asked the inn-keeper.
'What do you mean?' asked Elvis.
'Well, what happens now. We take your tablets and then what? Do we stay here? Do we go home? What happens?'
Elvis shrugged. He hadn't really given much thought about what happened next. The old woman had just said to get medicine and he'd done that. He'd assumed that once they were better they'd somehow all just disappear and life would go back to normal.
'You mean you don't know? What happened to Cormag? Where did he go?' asked Le Clerc. 'He must have gone somewhere.'
'I dunno.' said Elvis. 'I haven't done this sort of thing before. How am I supposed to know where he went?'
An anxious murmur rippled through the room.
'There's an old woman I met. She seems to know about all of this stuff. She's coming tonight. She'll know what to do.'
Through the afternoon Elvis watched the cars coming and going across the road at Number 28. He delayed as long as possible but he knew that eventually he'd have to go home and face the music. As the afternoon faded into another long, muggy summer evening, he gritted his teeth and finally made his way home. He sneaked up the drive, past the men in overalls still searching behind the bins, and slipped in through the kitchen door. He crept along the hall and onto the staircase.
'Elvis! Where have you been!' His mother almost screamed the words at him. She was stood in the hallway, hands on hips.
A man in surgical greens clutching a clipboard appeared behind her shoulder. He waved affably.
'We've been looking for you all...'
Monica's words were drowned out by a deep rumbling that grew into a roar. The windows shook, a picture fell from the wall. Moments later the front door burst open and a dozen men in bio-protective combat suits and gas-masks charged in pointing gun barrels in all directions. Outside, a helicopter climbed away from the house, a rope-ladder still dangling beneath it. Military trucks began arriving on the road outside and troops poured onto the street.
Another six heavily armed men in gas-masks were standing in a hospital corridor outside a door marked 'Parents Room - Quiet Please'. They gestured impatiently to curious nursing staff and visitors to move away. The man nearest the door counted down silently with his fingers, 3-2-1, and then the next booted the door open. The six of them charged inside, guns raised. Inside they found Nya, sitting on a worn hospital sofa, clutching the body of Abit. He was wrapped in a soft blue blanket, covered except for his waxen grey face and one tiny cold blue hand. Henry sat alongside, clutching Abit's tiny palm between his index finger and thumb.
Nya screamed.
Henry jumped to his feet. Gun barrels pointed at his face, voices bellowed 'Get on the floor! Now! On the fucking floor!'
Henry paid no heed. He stepped in-between Nya and the weapons. Three of them engulfed Henry, twisting his arms and legs into knots and throwing him to the floor. Nya stood up and with her free hand tried to drag them away. She was seized and hurled face down onto the sofa. Abit fell to the floor, his lifeless, doll-like body rolled from the blanket onto the tiles.
'Abit! My baby!' screamed Nya. She wriggled to reach him but she was firmly pinned back down.
A soldier leant down and reached for the child's body.
'Leave it. It's already dead. 'said another 'One less fucking terrorist.'
Staff and patients looked on as Henry and Nya were handcuffed and marched out.
'Unbelievable!' said the staff nurse as she picked Abit's tiny body from the floor and dropped him into the wicker basket. 'After all we did for them.'
The blue Subaru was stopped by police barricades at the end of Monnington Street.
'Sorry, road closed.' said the policeman curtly. He was dressed in flak jacket and holding a small machine gun. Behind him, Morris could see troops pouring out of trucks and pulling on protective suits. Most of the activity was focussed around his house.
'Do you live 'ere?' asked the policeman.
'No, no. None of us live here.' snapped the Bishop and slammed the car into reverse.
As they headed away from Monnington Street, helicopters swarmed overhead and military trucks and flashing police cars dashed by.
'Shit!' hissed the Bishop 'Now how the hell are we going to get it? I'll not wait again, you mark my words. This time it will be mine!'
Elvis had been marched down to the basement cellar. A guard stood at the foot of the stairs and another outside the back door. Elvis was staring at a man wearing a helmet akin to a goldfish bowl. He'd been sat there for at least an hour now.
The noise of the helicopters grew louder again and the crockery began to rattle on the sideboard. Time was getting on. He was supposed to be meeting the old woman at midnight across at the church hall. This might be his only chance to get out of this mess. Would the wily old woman be able to get past all of these police or soldiers or whatever they were? He wasn't sure but it was still his only hope. He looked at the clock on the mantelpiece. 11.40pm.
'I don't know what you're on about!' Monica protested again. 'All I know is my Elvis got sick and went to hospital and now he's OK again. I don't know anything about your stupid plague.'
'So why didn't you get sick? How come half of London has been catching it but y
ou live with the main culprit and somehow you don't? Don't you think that's a bit strange? That's why you and him had all of those antibiotics, isn't it?'
'What?'
'And your husband, Morris. Where's he? Why isn't he sick? Where's he gone? Very strange how he's suddenly disappeared now isn't it? Is he organising some more terror attacks? Gone to kill more innocent people?'
'I don't know what your talking about!' sobbed Monica. 'All I know is my baby got sick!'
'You know it's a strange thing but we've done some research on your husband. And you know what? He doesn't exist.'
'What?' Monica took her hands from her face.
'He was never born, never went to school, never paid taxes, never been to a doctor. He doesn't exist. How do you work that one out?'
'I don't understand. What are you trying to say?'
'I'm saying he's a fake, a terrorist who's been hiding away, biding his time. And you, and especially that brat of yours, are his willing accomplices. That's what I'm saying!'
The door opened and a man put his masked head through. 'Did you want to speak to the boy sir? He's downstairs waiting.'
Stafford rose to his feet. 'You stay right there!' He barked at Monica. 'I haven't finished with you.'
Monica sat shaking on the sofa. How could he say that Morris didn't exist? He had a house, a business, a caravan. He was flesh and blood. He had to exist. She racked her brains. She went back to how she'd met him on the internet. How they'd married in a registry office in a ceremony performed by an odd man in a flashy blue car. About his strange family that came and ransacked the house. About how he never allowed her to pay the bills or look at the bank account, how he kept his business so secretive. Perhaps it was all a lie. Perhaps she'd believed him because she wanted to, because she needed to believe it. She walked over to the drinks cabinet and pulled out a bottle of red wine and unscrewed the cap. She poured herself a tumbler. She didn't know about Morris she thought to herself, but she did know her own son. She did know that he was no terrorist. He wouldn't hurt anyone. Had she sacrificed him in her haste to escape the drudgery of her old life? Had she spent so much of her time in a cloud of booze that she hadn't seen the obvious? She looked at the glass of wine in her hand. Suddenly she felt as if she was standing in the corner, looking back at herself. She despised what she saw. She looked again at the trembling glass of wine and then tossed it onto the floor. She had a chance to prove herself, a chance to show that she could be a good mother who would do whatever it took to protect her child. She took a deep breath and marched up to the door. It was time. She reached for the door handle, then stopped. What would she do if she found half a dozen of them in the hall, armed to the teeth? She had to risk it. She reached again. But what if this made her look more guilty? What if she just made things worse? Her hand twitched at the door handle. She looked back at the wine bottle. Perhaps she should just have that one quick drink for courage. She went back to the sideboard and poured another glass of wine. But before she had time to gulp it down, the door opened.
'Was that you messin' with the 'andle?' The guard stood in the doorway, legs spread, arms folded in front of his chest and gun slung over his back. 'Cause you ain't goin' nowhere darlin'! Not you, nor that kid o' yours; you won't be seein' daylight for a long long time!'
'No.. yes. Well, I just... wanted to show you something.'
'What? What d'you want to show me? Come on. 'urry up.'
'I thought you should see it. It's in here, in this... drawer.' Monica reached towards the sideboard, still not quite sure what she was doing.
'Oi, leave that! Get your 'and away!' He reached towards his gun. 'I'll open that.'
Monica stepped back. Her shaking hand was still clutching the glass of red wine. The guard pulled the drawer open and looked inside. There were drink coasters, a few old photographs and some tooth picks, but nothing else.
'What is this?' The man pulled the drawer out and shook it onto the floor. 'This is just shit!'
Monica eyed the open door. She could just about dash through before he caught her. But then what?
The guard sensed her intent. 'Don't you even think about it!'
He reached out to grab her. Monica threw her glass of red wine into his face. It splashed across the visor of his gasmask and for a moment he was blinded. Without stopping to think, Monica bolted for the door. The man chased after her, wiping away the wine with his gloved hand and failing to spot the magazine rack. He tripped and crashed to the floor. He scrambled back to his feet but Monica was already out of the room. She slammed the door shut and turned the old iron key in the lock.
The guard rattled the handle. 'Open this door! Open the God-damn door now woman!'
Monica looked around her. The hall was empty. But what could she do now? She'd heard them say that Elvis was downstairs. Nothing else for it but to go in search of her son.
Alan Singh was cursing Elvis, again. He'd been anxiously watching the news in his bedroom. He'd no doubt at all that Elvis was the cause of all of the trouble. He'd rise from the computer every few minutes to nervously pace up and down his room, agonising over what he should do. They were bound to link him to Elvis sooner or later. Should he wake his parents and tell them? Should he just run away? Should he keep quiet and just pray that they didn't come looking for him? He couldn't decide; so he just kept pacing and biting on his nails.
His phone beeped. It was a text from Elvis. It said: 'Police no bout u. R on way 2 ur place. Get out now. C me u no wer @ 12 mn.'
Alan opened his mouth and screamed silently. If the police hadn't tied him with Elvis already then they sure as hell would do now. He hurriedly deleted the text, and then pulled on his shoes and a jumper. Now there was no choice, he had to get out. He climbed out of his bedroom window onto the garage roof. He slid down the drain onto the bins. As he landed on the concrete pavers, he heard the gentle rattle of resting diesel engines from beyond the garage. There were dull thuds of car doors closing. He peeped over the fence. Two navy blue Transit vans were standing at the front of the house and at least a dozen armed men stood alongside, faces hidden by gas masks, they were readying their weapons.
Alan's knees went weak. Elvis had been right. He had to get away and fast. He turned and dashed across the back yard and scrambled over the back fence. He ran as fast as his legs would carry him. But where could he go? His family had been shunned since his father's court case. He had no relatives or other friends he could call on. There was nowhere he could go apart from Elvis's bloody church hall, he thought to himself. He sprinted, through dark alleys and back streets. As he got nearer to Monnington Street the roads became steadily busier, until eventually they were one big log-jam. Cars were queuing to escape, engines revving, horns tooting. Policemen stood in the street trying their best to usher them through the chaos. People poured out of houses throwing bags and children hurriedly into the backs of vehicles. Loud hailers and sirens repeated the order to evacuate the area over and over. Alan cut through gardens and then across a wooded park. Finally he emerged onto the road adjoining Monnington Street. He froze in astonishment. Ahead, helicopter searchlights streaked across the sky, the entire horizon was lit like daylight, flashing blue and red lights swirled across the fronts of buildings and the air hummed with the sound of generators and choppers. Countless figures in protective suits and gas masks scurried between houses and vehicles. A barricade blocked the entrance to Monnington Street. Alan hesitated. What could he do? He couldn't go back home but he'd never get past the police road block. He'd have to carry on past Monnington Street and see if he could find a back way to the hall. He kept on walking. He pulled the hood of his jumper over his head and walked briskly against the tide, ignoring the barricaded turning.
'Hey, you stop!' barked a voice.
Alan kept his head down and kept walking.
The voice came again, this time through a loud hailer. 'You, with the hood. Stop now!'
Alan looked behind. Two policeman were marching briskly straight fo
r him. Alan began to walk faster but so did they. He panicked and ran; but the pavement was choked with people carrying children and bags out to waiting cars. Alan tried charging through but he was neither strong nor fast and within seconds he was caught. A burly hand grabbed his shoulder and brought him to a halt.
'I didn't do anything!' puffed Alan 'Honest, I didn't know anything about it!'
'You're going the wrong way mate.' replied the policeman calmly.
'What?'
'You're going the wrong way. Everyone's gotta leave that way.' he pointed back past the flashing lights.
'What's the matter,' asked the other policeman. 'forget somethin'? 'Cause you can't just go back and forth gettin' stuff you know. This is serious.'
'Oh, yeh, I forgot something...'
'What was it? Phone? I-Pod? You'll just have to survive without 'em for a few days.'
'No, no nothing like that, it was ...was my Mum's... asthma puffers. She's got really bad asthma. Mum says I got to get them or she'll end up in hospital, again.'
'OK, well you'll have to be quick.' He turned to his colleague. 'I'll see you back at the car in ten minutes Phil.'
His mate nodded and left.
'Come on then, which house is it?'
'No, you don't have to come, really.'
'It's no problem. I insist. Now which house?'
'Oh, it's just... just up here.' stammered Alan. His instinct was to run but he knew he wouldn't get far. He'd just have to try and bluff his way out. But Alan was far from cool under pressure. He could feel his knees wobbling.
'How long you lived 'round here?' asked the policeman.
'Oh, em, not long.'
'Do you know Kevin Dickson, lives just up on the right. His kid's would be around your age I reckon.'
'Oh, yeh, Kevin.' mumbled Alan.
'What's his kids called? I can't remember?'
'Emm...I forget.'
'And what about...'
'This is it. This is the house.' Alan pointed at a semi-detached house with a driveway that disappeared into a dark garden. Behind it the old church and trees were silhouetted against the bright lights of Monnington Street. 'Thanks officer, I'll be fine now.'
'You got a key?'
'No, I mean yes. But it's for the back door. Thanks for your help, I'll be OK now.'
'Here, I've got a torch. I'll come with you. Got to make sure you get that stuff to your Mum.' He said, almost smirking.
Did he know? Was he teasing him? 'No really...'
'Yes, really. Let's go.'
Alan trudged slowly up the drive, desperately trying to conceive a way out. The policeman walked alongside.
'Hurry up. We haven't got all night.'
The policeman's radio hissed and then spoke.
'Just a sec mate.' He stopped and pressed the hand-piece to his mouth. 'This is one-five-eight, I'm currently at 34 Abott Road, over.'
Alan kept walking. He slipped around the rear of the house, and stood with his back pressed against the wall trying to work out what he should do next. Perhaps he could make a run for it. But if the policeman saw him bolting over the wall into the graveyard they might follow him and search the place. The back door to the house was locked. The wood-panelled fences either side were six feet high, too tall for him to climb. Perhaps if he dragged something to the fence, he could climb over. There was a tricycle on the lawn. He grabbed it and ran to the edge of the garden. He balanced on the saddle and tried to haul himself up. His leg was nearly on top when the tricycle shot out from under his foot. The fence wobbled then the whole panel collapsed and fell flat.
'Sorry, got to go!' The policeman shouted down the driveway, 'Lots happening tonight. I'll come and check on you in ten minutes.'
This was Alan's chance. He allowed a moment for the policeman to leave then ran and dived head first over the back garden wall and into the churchyard. He dashed between the graves until he was well away then pressed himself against a large old tombstone and waited for his heart to stop thumping. He peeped around the edge of the stone. The gravestones and the craggy old trees were silhouettes against the dazzling lights across the road at Number 28. In the centre of the graveyard was a large box-shaped tomb. A shadow emerged from one edge, and headed towards the hall. The shadow carried a crutch.
'Right!' thought Alan 'Wait 'til I get my hands on him!'
He stepped around the gravestone to chase after Elvis. But then he spotted another shadow, a taller, broader figure, ten yards or so further back, walking briskly in pursuit. Alan dived back behind the stone.
'Who the hell was that?' he thought. Perhaps they were onto Elvis. Maybe that's the police come to arrest him. He knelt back behind the stone and sneaked another peep around the corner. Elvis disappeared into the shadow of the hall ,followed moments later by his pursuer.
Monica fastened the kitchen window shut and pulled the curtains. Stafford marched back into the room in a fresh protective suit.
'Where...where is he?' he asked, looking around the room.
'Toilet.' replied Monica, trying to sound casual.
'What? He doesn't leave this room without my say so. He can piss in the God-damn sink!' He stormed back to the door and threw it open. 'What the hell are you doing letting that brat out of here? I told you he doesn't go anywhere! Get him, now!'
'Leave Sir? Nobody has left that room. Not through this way Sir.'
Stafford ran to the outer door and pulled it open. The guard outside hurriedly stamped out his cigarette.
'Where's that bloody kid? Did you let him out?'
'No Sir, not seen him Sir.'
Stafford slammed the door and swooped on Monica. 'Where is he? What the hell is going on?' His eyes flashed around the room. The walk-in pantry; that was the only place he could be. Stupid boy! As if he could hide from half of the British Secret Service! Stafford marched up to the pantry door, put a hand on the handle and grinned at Monica knowingly. 'Come out, come out, little terrorist! We know where your hiding!' He hurled open the pantry door and held out an arm as if introducing a stage act. Nobody appeared. He looked into the pantry. The shelves were stacked with canned spaghetti, pickles and UHT milk: but there was no Elvis.
A look of fear consumed Stafford's face. Surely he couldn't have let the world's newest, youngest and already most infamous terrorist escape from under his nose? He ran to kitchen cupboards and threw them open in turn. 'Where is he? Where's he hiding?' he screamed. He stood and desperately looked around the room for more hiding spots. The window! Had he escaped through the window? He threw the curtains open. All he could see was the white tarpaulin cover outside. And how would he get past the the security cordon? He ran to the door to the stairs and hurled it open. 'You've let him escape you idiots! Sound an alarm. Find him!' He turned back to Monica. 'Where's he going? Don't lie to me woman, I'm telling you! Do you know what you get for aiding terrorists? Do you?'
Monica shook her head.
'Life! That's what you get. Life - if your lucky! You'd better tell me the truth so help me!'
'Morris's shop.' said Monica quietly.
'What?'
'Morris's shop. 9 Ferguson Road. That's where he'll go.'
'You'd better not be damn-well lying.' he growled and sprinted up the stairs.
Alan clung to the tombstone and peered around it into the darkness, wondering again what he should do. He couldn't stay where he was all night amongst the graves, that was way too creepy, but who was chasing Elvis? He stood on tip toe, arms hugging the gravestone and strained to look over the top.
'Och, that's a sad sight. Ye must ha' bin very close, laddie'
Alan spun around. 'Who said that?' All he could see was darkness.
'Ye ha' te let them goo.' Mother Munro emerged from the darkness.
Alan ran around the other side of the tombstone.
'People need te die boy, we should allow them that privilege. Ye'll be here with Elvis no doubt. Come on, ye'll be catchin' your own death oot here. We'd best goo inside.'
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nbsp; Chapter 15