 
Elephants and Castles

John Patrick

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2013

This book remains the copyrighted property of the author and may not be reproduced, scanned, or distributed for any commercial or non-commercial use without permission from the author. No alteration of content is permitted.

Any resemblance of characters in the book to persons, living or dead is coincidental.

Part 1

Chapter 1

Late July, this year

The helicopter thundered over the moon-lit rooftops, dodging chimneys, rattling windows and sending children scurrying to their parents' beds. Inside the chopper, Commander Stafford of MI 5 straightened his ginger moustache before dropping a helmet like a gold-fish bowl onto his head, and sealing it against the neck of his crumply, white, bio-protective suit. A mile ahead, helicopter searchlights clashed across the night sky and one old London street outshone the huge silver moon above.

Stafford checked his pistol and zipped it back into his pocket. Moments later they were hovering over Monnington Street. Below them, gas-masked soldiers poured from trucks onto flood-lit tarmac, armed policemen in bio-suits barricaded the road and flashing blue lights winked back from every window. The pilot nervously lowered his craft into the car park between the take-away shop and the newsagents. Before it could touch the ground, Commander Stafford leapt out.

'Where's the boy?' His words were swept away by the storm from the helicopter.

A man in a gas-mask pulled him to the doorway of Cooley-Tabooley's Kebab House and they waited for the chopper to lift back into the night.

'I said where's the boy?' Stafford shouted again impatiently.

'This way Sir.' They rustled onto the street and the man pointed to a crumbly old red brick house fifty yards away.

Stafford hurried towards the rusty gate and wild privet hedge of Number 28. Around him was frenzy. Men and women in green and white suits and Perspex helmets dashed between gardens and garages, emptying bins, probing under bushes, reaching beneath parked cars and dropping samples into plastic bags. Diesel generators hummed and throbbed as more floodlights were hurriedly hauled up into the sky. Above them, helicopters swarmed like wasps at a picnic, their searchlights blazing down to expose every last hidden corner of Monnington Street.

Stafford hurried to the front steps of the house.

'Good Evening Sir.' A guard pointed his gun to the floor and stepped to one side. 'The mother's in the first door on the right Sir, kid's down below.'

Downstairs, in the basement kitchen, thirteen-year-old Elvis wasn't wearing a protective suit or a helmet. He was in his usual tired tee-shirt and a torn pair of old school trousers. He was watching his distorted reflection in the visor of the man across the table. They'd both been sitting there for hours; the initial shock and tears at being arrested had long since melted away into boredom, then frustration. Elvis's battered old crutch leant against the table next to him. He checked the clock on the mantelpiece again. 11.35pm; time was running out.

'How much longer you gonna keep me here?'

The eyes behind the visor flashed anxiously back at him but the man said nothing.

'What am I supposed to have done? You can't just keep me sitting here all night.' Elvis stood up.

'Sit down! Now!' The man seized his arm and pointed a gloved finger at the chair. 'You know what you done. Commander Stafford will be 'ere in a minute. He'll sort you out.'

'Sort me out? Sort me out about what?'

He didn't receive a reply. Elvis shuffled nervously in his seat and glanced at the clock again.

Moments later, the door flew open. Commander Stafford charged into the kitchen. 'Where is he? Is that him? Is that... it?'

'Yes Sir. That's Elvis Klatzmann Sir.' He barked, jumping to his feet.

'Blow me down. He doesn't look much, does he?'

'No Sir. He doesn't Sir.'

'Still, never judge a book by its cover. They're cunning these terrorists, you know. '

'Yes Sir, they are Sir.'

'Just think... what was your name?'

'Tompkins Sir, Kevin Tompkins.'

'Just think Tompkins, one day when you're old and grey, you'll be able to tell your grandchildren how you took part in Britain's biggest anti-terrorist operation since Guy Fawkes tried to blow up the Houses of Parliament. When they're burning effigies of Elvis Klatzmann, you'll be able to tell them how you sat guard over him the night that Commander George Stafford saved London! Think about that!'

'Wow, Sir!' The young man's eyes grew as wide as saucers.

'Well done young man, I won't forget this. Now I must question him alone. You're dismissed!'

The man didn't need telling twice; he almost ran from the kitchen.

'Who are you?' asked Elvis uneasily, 'What are you doing here?'

'Who am I? I'll tell you who I am! I am you're worst nightmare, boy, that's who I am.' Stafford strutted around Elvis inspecting his every angle. 'The name is Stafford, MI5.' He bent over and pushed his mask directly in front of Elvis's face, his ginger moustache bristling against the inside of the glass. 'Anti-terrorist division.' he added with a whisper.

'But... why? What's going on?'

'Don't play dumb boy. You've been caught red-handed! We know your game!'

'Game? I haven't got a game! What am I supposed to have done?'

'What have you done? Stafford laughed then fired his cold, green-eyed gaze back at Elvis. 'I'll tell you what you've done boy. You've terrorised the whole country, that's what you've done. You've closed down every airport in Europe, you've sent half of London fleeing for cover, you've filled every hospital emergency department in this city and you've brought down the wrath of the entire British Government on your head. That's what you've done!'

'That's crazy! I haven't done anything!'

'Is that a fact?'

Stafford picked up the remote control and aimed it at the television.

'BREAKING NEWS' flashed across the screen in red. An excited newscaster was clutching a sheet of paper. He read the words at a gallop. 'Now we're getting more information about the astonishing news from North London. Police have confirmed they have uncovered a major terrorist plot involving the large scale release of a biological agent. The pictures you're seeing now are live from our helicopter at the scene where a mass evacuation is under way.'

The image was of a city by night. Every street was a river of car headlights, stretching far into the distance.

'What... does that prove?' asked Elvis meekly.

The camera zoomed into a brightly lit street in the centre of the picture. One building stood out, lit up by brilliant white light, surrounded by dozens of flashing police cars and military vehicles. There could be no doubt; the weather-beaten brick house with bulging walls and sagging roof, the old stone church across the road, the two old buildings, islands amongst the new glass-fronted shops and boxy concrete flats. The street was Monnington Street, the house was his house.

'All buildings inside the exclusion zone are being evacuated. I repeat a compulsory evacuation is under way for everybody inside the red line on this map. You must leave immediately! Now police say the mastermind of the plot...'

'Here we go!' said Stafford, turning up the volume.

'... is believed to be this person, Elvis Klatzmann.' Elvis's picture appeared on the TV, smiling in school uniform, hair neatly brushed. Elvis's jaw fell open. 'Police are working quickly to identify his accomplices.' The TV picture returned to Monnington Street. On the front garden of Number 28, an enormous sheet of white plastic was being pulled towards the house. It was hooked onto the arm of a crane then dragged onto the roof. Gas-masked men hauled on ropes until the cover was draped down the all sides of the old building and fastened to the ground. The light faded from the kitchen window. The house was completely enclosed, wrapped-up like a chocolate bar.

Stafford's mobile rang. 'Yes Sir, of course Sir. Well you can reassure the President that we have this whole thing under control. I have the mastermind right here in my hand Sir. I'm questioning him as we speak. Of course Sir. I'd be happy to talk to the President if you... No, sorry Sir... Yes Prime Minister, I'll keep you informed.' Stafford pushed his 'phone back into his pocket. He looked at Elvis and shook his head. 'You ever heard of a place called Guantanamo Bay, Elvis?'

Elvis shrugged.

'No? No? Well you damn-well should boy, because you're going to be spending a hell of a lot of time there! And you know what?' The glass inside his helmet fogged as he roared at Elvis. 'It's the worst place on earth Elvis! The very worst - a place made especially for the likes of you! A place where anything goes, so long as it gets the job done. And I mean anything! Now either you can tell me the truth boy, or you'll be on the next plane to Cuba and they can damn-well torture it out of you. The choice is yours.'

'But this is crazy! You've got...You've got...' Elvis scrambled to remember what the crooks said on TV when they'd been arrested.. 'You got nothing on me!'

'Is that right? Well why don't we look at the facts, then, eh? Over the last month you ask your doctor about plague, you ask your history teacher about plague, you ask Google 600 times about plague. You have a notebook full of information about it, you have a box full of drugs to treat it and then, lo and behold, what happens next? Any guesses? Want to win a prize? No, you don't need to guess, do you? Because you know what happened next! Yes, you only go and catch the bloody disease and kick off the first outbreak of plague in England in a hundred years! Coincidence? Course it is! And what else? Oh yes, you hang around with terrorist suspects. Strange? And what's this?' Stafford reached to the kitchen cabinet and grabbed a handful of white envelopes and a pack of postage stamps and threw them across the table. 'Is this what you used to send plague around London? Is it?Is this how you spread your foul poison? Posted it out to all those poor bastards who got sick? Was it? You'd better start talking damned quick boy! Guantanamo Bay has room for one more!'

Elvis's heart was pounding, his hands were trembling. How could this man be serious? How could anyone think he, Elvis, the scrawny kid who gets pushed around at school, the boy who needs a crutch to walk more than a few yards, how could he be any sort of terrorist?

'Terrorist suspects?'

'What?' snapped Stafford.

'Before, you said I'd been hanging around with terrorist suspects. Who were you talking about?'

'Like you don't know!'

'I don't!'

'You know a Master Alan Singh...'

'Well, yeh, he's a mate of mine...'

'And Henry...I can't say his other name, that medical student.'

'Well, yeh, but he's no...'

'And Amelia Evans'

'Amelia? I don't ...know any Amelia.' Elvis replied unconvincingly.

Stafford pulled a mobile 'phone from his pocket. He pressed a button, lit up the screen and tossed it on to the table in front of Elvis. A girls face smiled back through the screen. 'Who's that then?'

Elvis blushed.

'There's at least half a dozen more pictures of her on that thing.'

'That doesn't mean...'

'You've got a lot to tell young man.'

The kitchen door rattled. 'I don't care!' The voice was shrill and piercing. 'I'm going to see my baby!'

Elvis's mother, Monica, burst into the kitchen, her hair wild, clothes ruffled, she was gasping for breath.

'Elvis! Sweetheart! What have they done to you?'

'I'm sorry Sir. She pushed past me. 'The guard explained sheepishly. 'I didn't... want to hurt her.'

Stafford stepped in front of Monica. 'What do you think you're doing, woman? I am in the middle of an interrogation! '

Monica shoved him out of the way. 'You're not interrogating my son! I'm his mother... that's my job.' She grabbed Elvis and squeezed him tightly. 'You'll tell me everything. Won't you sweetie?'

'Yes mum.' Elvis gasped. But where to begin? And the time was slipping away. 11.48pm.

Chapter 2

1660's London

These Blazing Stars!

Threaten the World with Famine, Plague and Wars:

To Princes Death: to Kingdoms many Crosses:

To all Estates, inevitable Losses:

To Herds-men, Rot; to Ploughmen, hapless Seasons:

To Sailors, Storms; to Cities Civil Treasons.

John Gadbuy, De Cometis, 1665

The winter of 1664-1665 felt like it would never end. The frost bit hard and deep, killing young and old in their beds, and turning the River Thames into a mass of brilliant white ice. But as if the cold wasn't bad enough, when darkness fell, as families huddled together to fend off the lethal winter chill and the frozen river sparkled in the crisp moonlight, a comet streaked across the night sky. A comet meant just one thing; no matter how vicious the winter had been, no matter how many lives had been taken by the savage cold, worse would follow; much worse. But what form would it take? War? Fire? Flood? Pestilence? There were so many things that frightened seventeenth century Londoners, it was hard to know; the Devil, God, consumption, war with the Dutch, war with the French, the Scots, with each other. But there was one particular fear that held a special dark place in their souls. And that was plague - the terrifying Black Death.

Plague had stalked the people of England for as long as anyone could remember. It lurked in the shadows of the rat-infested alleyways and haunted the filthy, overcrowded slums of the poor. From time to time it would emerge from the darkness to claim another life. It would brand them with hideous black skin sores that foretold of the suffering and death that would surely follow. Mostly it would satisfy itself with just the occasional poor soul, but when the urge took hold, the Black Death would erupt with an evil fury. It would rampage across town and country and slaughter all that it touched, rich or poor.

In the last few years whispered stories of outbreaks in Spain and Holland had sparked fear again in London. Conversations bristled with nervous talk of corpses piling up too quickly for the living to bury, of whole towns wiped from the map.

But for all the chatter, nothing much had happened in London. Sure there was the odd case, and every time the word plague appeared on the local death registers anxieties rose. But there'd been no real outbreaks, not yet. People started to relax again. Life went on.

'God is punishing the people of Europe for their evil ways!' they warned from the pulpits 'Watch your own house with care!'

So far, God had chosen to spare the English.

But Londoners knew they were no saints.

Then came reports of Black Death in Drury Lane. Foreigners, French or Dutch they said. Then more cases nearby. People began to get scared. Londoners started avoiding that end of town. The weekly death lists were scrutinised. As the icy winter started to thaw, rumours gathered strength; deaths were on the increase. More clusters were appearing. People began to flee the city. Parents scoured their children for the tell-tale black marks. They began to hoard, stockpile and make ready to hide themselves away. As more cases followed, fear grew to panic, people became desperate. They searched for guidance and help from anywhere. Churches overflowed into the streets, fortune-tellers, magicians, wizards, quacks and surgeons appeared all over the city. People devised potions and brews to keep the disease at bay, many deadly as the illness itself.

For the wealthy, there was but one answer. Pack up and move to the country. For their servants, the desperate hope was that they would be taken along with their masters and avoid the fate of their fellow Londoners.

For the poor though there was no escape. And little did they know that plans were afoot for when the time came, when plague was at the peak of its evil fury, dragging soul after sorry soul into the stinking burial pits, to imprison them in their slums, to lock them up to face their nightmare unaided and alone.

But then just as it looked to have started, the weather turned cool and it went quiet again. The kindling was still too damp to ignite. People went on with their business.

But May turned to June and the weather went from cool to hot.

And that's when it really began.

Chapter 3

Summer 1665

Ten year-old Samuel slouched against the gatepost of 28 Monnington Street. He knew he should be going about his work but the day was hot and packing was tedious.

'We should be gettin' back inside Sam.' his older sister Mary grumbled. As servants' children, she knew that they were lucky to be employed alongside their parents. She also knew it was a privilege that could very easily be taken away.

They'd been stood idly at the front of the house for almost half an hour, watching carriage after carriage rumble by. They'd never seen traffic like it. There was no break between them; one after another they rattled past the house, each one groaning under the weight of passengers and crates, their drivers shouting at each other and jostling for position. Pale, nervous faces peered out from carriage windows whilst servants clung on amongst the luggage on the roof. The breathless summer air was ripe with the sweet smell of horse manure and alive with swarms of frantic black flies zipping between swiping tails and slapping hands. It seemed that the whole of London had packed its bags and was leaving for the country.

Samuel pulled his catapult from the back of his trousers and looked at Mary with a smirk. He knew how to break the boredom.

'No Sam, you mustn't!' But the twinkle in Mary's eye said something different.

Samuel knelt down behind the wall. He waited until a carriage was right in front of the house, pulled back the strap; and fired.

'Shit!' Samuel hissed, dropping the catapult to the floor and shaking his hand. 'I shot me friggin' finger!'

Mary fell to the ground giggling. 'Your 'opeless Sam, give it 'ere!' Mary grabbed the weapon from his hand. She glanced back towards the house to make sure they hadn't been spotted. In a moment she'd sneak back into the kitchen before anyone even missed them. She peeked over the wall and took aim at a passing carriage. She drew back on the strap; then hesitated.

'Go on you chicken, fire!' urged Samuel.

'I will, I will!' replied Mary, beginning to wish she hadn't been so bold. She aimed again.

'Mary Young!' The voice screeched behind her. 'What the 'ell are you doin' girl?'

Mary knew the shrill, angry voice of Miss Pewtersmith, the plump, short-tempered cook, all too well. Her heart jumped, her knees went weak and her grip loosened. The stone slipped from her fingers and took flight, hurtling straight as an arrow until it slapped into the rump of a horse pulling a fine red carriage. The horse screeched. Mary glanced back to see Miss Pewtersmith standing on the house steps, arms in the air and mouth gaping. Back on the road, the animal reared up and began to bolt. The carriage lurched forward; a coffin-sized trunk tumbled from the back and exploded across the road. Boxes and cases tumbled after it; the servants clung on for their lives as the carriage took flight. A wall of traffic blocked the horse's path, but the beast charged on, smashing into a rickety wooden cart. Wood cracked and splintered, the wheels fell away and a small wagon with family atop collapsed to the floor. The horse came to a panting halt. The driver of the red carriage jumped down and calmed his animal. When he finally satisfied himself that his horse was unhurt, he turned to deal with Mary. He stormed over the broken cart towards Number 28.

Mary's gaze darted between the angry driver and the horrified Miss Pewtersmith behind. Samuel was still sniggering.

'Samuel you bloody idiot! What we gonna do now? You're gonna get us both killed!'

'Don't blame me Mary! You fired it!'

The door of the carriage swung open and a man's head poked out. 'Andrews, Andrews, what are you doing man? Forget them! Just get us out of here for heaven's sake!'

The driver hesitated for a moment, glaring at the children. How he would love to give them what they deserved. But this was no time to be risking his job. He gritted his teeth and turned away.

Mary jumped up and tried to run but Miss Pewtersmith was already on her. Her pudgy hand reached down and grabbed her ear. Mary squealed but there was no escape. With her other hand she grabbed hold of Samuel's mousy hair and dragged them both to the house.

'Wait 'til the master 'ears about this! You wait! You'll be for it. Be out on your ears, all o' ya! You mark my words. Serve ya bloody right it will! Lazy good for nothing trash the 'ole bloody lot o' ya!'

She hauled them up the stone steps to the main door of the house.

The house stood at the end house of a fine terrace of modern brick homes, each one fronted by neat a hedge and garden. At the side of number 28, a gravel drive lead down a gentle incline to a small stable for housing horse and carriage. Not counting the attic, the home boasted two storeys at the front and three at the back by virtue of the slope, allowing room for a basement kitchen that opened onto the drive.

The cook dragged the two children through the front door into a hallway stacked with wooden trunks and bulging bags. Furniture and pictures were hidden under white cotton sheets. A slender white cat lay on top of a pile of cases, spying them through one lazy eye. Miss Pewtersmith dragged the pair to the drawing room door. Muffled voices came from beyond.

'Stand 'ere!' the cook barked. She tapped gently on the door, cleared her throat and waited. There was no response. She tapped, again, a little harder then gently eased open the door. Inside the drawing room, the master of the house, Mister William Jarvis, stood with his manservant pointing at more trunks, crates, piles of clothes, crockery, pots, jugs and, it seemed, the entire contents of the house. He was sweating, his hair and clothes unusually unkempt.

'We can't possibly take all of this Lancaster. We must be more selective. Get some of these pots and plates taken back to the...'

Miss Pewtersmith coughed gently and waited, head bowed.

'What...what is it? What now?' Jarvis grumbled, not bothering to turn his head.

'Sir, I found these two urchins causing terrible trouble, they was....'

'What? I've no time for this now Miss Pewtersmith. Go about your duties. Go on now.' He continued ticking off the list in his hand.

'But Sir, they was...'

'For heaven's sake!' He slammed the piece of paper onto the drawing room desk. 'Go away, right now Miss Pewtersmith. I don't...I don't expect to be questioned in my own home.' he stammered. 'Is that clear? Find them... some chores or something. God knows there's enough around here to be done.'

Miss Pewtersmith shrivelled. She backed out of the door. 'Yes Sir, most sorry Sir.' She closed the door gently behind her and then turned on Mary and Samuel.

'You little barstards! Serve ya right if the 'ole bloody lots o' yers got plague! I 'ope 'e leaves y'all be'ind while we goes to the country!' She shook a chubby fist in the direction of Mary. 'Where's that useless mother of yours? If she don't thrash yer I'll do it me bloody self, I tell yer!' She thrust a hand into each of their backs and shoved them towards the basement kitchen stairs. 'And then yer can scrub that kitchen floor 'til it's spotless!'

They were marched down a narrow flight of stone stairs to the kitchen. The tables and benches would usually be spotlessly clean and organised but today there was clutter everywhere. The floor was covered with a maze of crates and cases, even the iron cooking range was hidden behind a tower of boxes.

'Elizabeth! Elizabeth! Where are ya?' screamed Miss Pewtersmith. 'Elizabeth!'

The children's mother came out of the pantry, dusting flour from her skirt. 'Is there a problem Miss Pewtersmith?'

'Problem! I should say there's a bloody problem!' Her face glowed scarlet as she spat the words out. 'These two urchins of yours was tryin' to kill people they was! Shootin' at carriage drivers an' horses. Caused a big smash, wrecked a bloody carriage! Who's gonna pay fer that? You? They need a damn good floggin' they do! An' if you don't do it, I'll do it me bloody self!'

'Thank you Miss Pewtersmith. I'll deal with them, I assure you.' Elizabeth ushered the children into the large walk-in pantry and closed the door. 'What on earth are you two doing?' she snapped.

'We were just watching the carriages leavin'...' Samuel started.

'Just watching! What do you mean just watching? What about your work? Look at you both, ten and thirteen years old and acting like street urchins - and today of all days! You're both grown-up now, so start acting like it!' She took a deep breath and composed herself. 'Come on, we've got to show Mister Jarvis that he should take us with 'im. We mustn't get left behind 'ere.' She licked her fingers and smoothed down Samuel's hair. He recoiled. 'Mary, go find your sister, she's with Ann from the kitchen next door, and Samuel, go out to your father, carry luggage and make sure you're seen, work hard. Go on now both of you.' She opened the door and waved them out.

Elizabeth's husband, James, came inside from loading the carriage. He was a tall, gaunt man, dressed in work clothes and black boots. 'Lizzie, he wants to speak to us now, in the drawing room.'

Elizabeth felt her heart quicken. This would be the news they'd been awaiting. Two weeks earlier Mister Jarvis had announced his intention to flee London, just as soon as he could get his affairs in order. Ever since, they'd been waiting nervously, not daring to ask if they'd be going with him and escaping the plague.

Elizabeth followed her husband silently up the dark stone staircase to the main house. When they arrived at the drawing room, the door was open and Mister Jarvis was still struggling to decide what to leave behind. James and Elizabeth stood quietly at the door and waited to be noticed.

'Oh, there you are! Come in. Take a seat.' He pointed to the sofa. Elizabeth and James were taken aback. They looked at each other hesitantly. 'Sit, sit!' encouraged Mister Jarvis. 'Lancaster you may leave.'

Miss Pewtersmith was sitting at the kitchen table wrapping provisions. Samuel trudged in and out lugging boxes and making faces behind her back. He lifted another crate from the corner of the kitchen. Half a dozen mice scurried away. Samuel stamped a foot and trapped one by the tail. He looked back at Miss Pewtersmith making herself busy at the table. This was his chance for revenge. He crouched down and cradled the mouse into one hand before creeping silently behind the cook. He gently placed the little rodent onto the back of her dress then kept on walking. Miss Pewtersmith was still wrapping. She wriggled a bit, had a scratch at her back then carried on with her work. But then the mouse found a route down the back of her clothing and burrowed its way between her shoulder blades. She jumped up and screamed. She writhed and wriggled, shoving both her arms into her clothes. Samuel couldn't hold it in; he erupted into a fit of giggles. The mouse finally found an escape from Miss Pewtersmith's dress, shinned down her leg and ran away to safety. The cook turned to Samuel with a vicious scowl.

Samuel backed towards the door still sniggering.

'You evil little rat!' She charged after him and slammed the door shut before Samuel had a chance to get through it. She seized him by the back of his neck. 'You've gone too bloody far this time! Too bloody far!'

She opened the door to the stairs and threw him upwards. He fell against the steps and tried to scramble away but she grabbed him again by his shirt. She hauled him up the stairs and pushed him across the hallway until they were stood once again outside the drawing room door. She stopped, brushed down her pinafore and straightened her hair. 'This time I'm gonna make sure 'e knows what you lot are like. You ain't gettin' away with it again. Not this time boy. I want you an' your family sacked an' out o' this 'ouse.' She took a deep breath and raised her hand. She was about to tap when she noticed the door was slightly ajar. Soft voices leaked out through the crack. Miss Pewtersmith pressed her chubby face to opening.

Mister Jarvis was stood in front of the fireplace and before him, sitting on the sofa were James and Elizabeth. Servants sitting whilst the master stood! What was this? Miss Pewtersmith was stunned. Favouritism! It must be! She cursed silently and eased the door open a fraction more. Elizabeth sat with her head bowed, face buried deep into her hands. James was sat facing away from her.

'Look,' said Mister Jarvis with a tremble in his voice that Miss Pewtersmith hadn't heard before, 'we can't all fit in the carriage. That's a fact. And someone needs to stay here and look after this place. I'm putting all my trust in you. You have the run of this house 'til I return. It's a great responsibility. I'll pay you good money to be here and I've spoken to my physician. I've asked him to provide you with medicine and advice whenever you need it.'

'Please Mister. Jarvis, we can work for no pay, we could sleep in the barn.' pleaded Elizabeth.

James sat in silence, his despondent face pointed to the floor.

William Jarvis looked down at his two staff members. He'd known them for many years, since before the birth of their children. He'd meant to speak to them a long time ago but hadn't quite found the time or courage. Now when he was about to leave and had no option, he had finally steeled himself. But it was no easier than he'd expected.

'Look, you keep yourselves locked in here, keep others out, take the physic and you'll be fine.'

'If you can't take us Sir, take our children. They'll be no trouble. Mary and Samuel are strong workers now, and they'll care for their young sister. They are old enough now. An' if we're gone when you get back they could take our place. They can raise young Alice to work for you too Sir.'

'Elizabeth, your children need you, this is no time for a family to be split.'

Elizabeth sank to her knees and reached for his hand.

Jarvis shrank back. And anyway, he'd made up his mind and this was no time to back down. He pulled his hand away and clenched his fists behind his back. He returned to his script. 'The children will stay with you here. James, I will show you my pistols and my sword in case you need them. You may order whatever provisions you need for the house and yourselves on my account, or if that fails, use this.' He handed James a small leather purse. 'But I want all of it accounted for when I return. Have nobody else stay in this house while I'm away. Nobody.' Much as he was trying to be cold and distant, Jarvis could hear the weakness in his own voice, and to his annoyance, his eyes were starting to fill.

'Thank you Sir.' James whispered as he took the purse.

'But Mister Jarvis...' Elizabeth started again.

'That's all.' Jarvis turned and walked briskly out of the room, pushing past Miss Pewtersmith and Samuel in the doorway without a glance.

Miss Pewtersmith gave Samuel a toothless grin. 'Ha, that's justice, that's what that is! 'E knows what you're like! You'll be stayin' 'ere. God'll be punishing you, boy. You and your family are gonna pay while we'll be living it up in the country. Ha!' She released his shirt and walked away with a broad smile across her round face.

Chapter 4

Time was getting on. Mister Jarvis's departure was already later than he'd planned and if he didn't go soon he'd have to be delay another day. Finally they loaded the last few pieces on the carriage.

'Let's go, let's go!' demanded Jarvis. 'Where is that cook? Samuel, go and tell her to come here right now! We leave at once.'

Samuel ran off to search. He found her having a final snack of scones and bread in the pantry.

'Don't want to waste this on you lot!' she spat crumbs at Samuel as she spoke. 'Too good for the likes o' you!'

Samuel swept the food crumbs away from his face. 'Mister Jarvis sent me, says it's time to go.'

'Right then,' replied Miss Pewtersmith, wrapping the rest of the scones in a cloth for the trip. 'I'll be leaving you 'ere then.' She looked at Samuel and smirked. 'You know, I 'ear that Black Death is 'orrible way to die. Real painful, real messy.'

'Is it? Well... well Mister Jarvis says you ain't got enough supplies yet. Says you gotta get more stuff before you leave.'

'What? Rubbish! I bought enough provisions to take 'alf the parish with us. Why do we need more? Where we gonna fit it?'

Samuel shrugged. ''E said it.'

'What's 'e want?'

'Oh, er flour, salted meat an'... stuff.'

'But we got all that! I'll go speak to him.'

'Oh, I wouldn't. 'E's very angry. 'E was saying 'e'll get a new cook if this one won't do what she's told. I ain't never seen him so mad.'

'Oh, I see.' She paused for a moment. 'Right then, tell him... tell him... tell him I'll be as fast as I can and get all the provisions I can 'old. You come an' 'elp me carry 'em.'

'If you like, but Mister Jarvis says I'm supposed to be 'elping him...but I'll just tell him you said I can't.'

'Oh no, no! You go back to him then. I'll be quick as lightening. You tell him. '

Samuel dashed back to the carriage outside.

'Where is she Samuel? What is she doing for heaven's sake?'

'She won't come Sir. Said she'd changed 'er mind. Said she couldn't leave 'er family behind Sir.'

'No, can't be. She was pleased as punch when I told her to come. Surely not!'

'Yes Sir. Look Sir.' Samuel pointed across the street. Through a gap in the horses and traffic was Miss Pewtersmith, walking as briskly as her stout legs would carry her away from the house.

'Well I'll be! Well, that's it then. We have no more time to waste. All aboard! Let's go!'

James opened the gate for the carriage and the driver rattled the reins. The carriage rumbled forward, its frame groaning under the weight of luggage.

'Goodbye and good luck James.' Jarvis reached out of the carriage and shook James' hand. 'May God protect you.' They pushed their way out into the heavy flow of traffic. 'I thought Miss Pewtersmith had no family.' mused Jarvis.

At the side of the house was a small window, not much bigger than a man's head, a lattice of lead divided it into diamond-shaped panes. Behind it was the face of Elizabeth, pale and red-eyed. Her right hand clutched tightly onto the crucifix around her neck. She mumbled the words 'God have mercy on us' as she watched them go.

Chapter 5

Samuel and Mary raced up the fine oak staircase. Their two year old sister, Alice, climbed slowly behind.

'I'm having this room!' declared Samuel, winning the race to the guest room overlooking the street. He dived head first onto the four-poster double bed and sank into the deep covers. The cat sprinted from out from underneath.

'That's not fair!' protested Mary, I'm older than you! I should choose!'

'You'll 'ave to fight me for it!' shouted Samuel and knelt up on the bed holding both fists out towards his sister.

Mary shook her head.

Alice made it to the top of stairs. She found a box of candles and happily posted them between the banister rails, listening for the breaking sound as they hit the floor below.

'Fancy Miss Pewtersmith changing her mind like that!' said Mary, 'Who would believe it?'

Samuel smirked. 'Yeh, fancy!'

'Sam... Samuel, you didn't... you didn't play one of your tricks on her? You didn't, did you?'

The smirk broke into a broad grin.

'Oh no! You did, didn't you?'

Samuel nodded. 'I just said Mister Jarvis wanted some more stuff an' if she didn't get it he'd sack 'er!'

'She'll kill you if she finds out Samuel! I mean it, she will!' Mary was laughing but then the humour drained from her face. 'An' you know what else you've done, you bloody idiot? You've kept 'er 'ere - with us! We would 'ave got rid of 'er and you stopped 'er leaving! You stupid ass!' Mary picked up a book from the side of the bed and hurled it at Samuel.

'Serves 'er right any'ow!' gloated Samuel.

'But what if Dad tells 'er that's not true. She'll go loopy! You'll get a hell of a floggin'... an' prob'ly me too!' She walked across to the window and looked at the busy street below. 'We gotta get down and meet her before she gets back. She can't find out what you did.'

In the drawing room Elizabeth heard none of the noise. She stared out of the window at the wealthy and powerful as they escaped the gathering dark clouds. On the sideboard next to her was the bottle of potion left by Mister. Jarvis. It lay on its side empty. James walked behind his wife and stretched his long spindly fingers around her waist, squeezing her tightly against his body.

'What's to come of us James? What's going to happen to Mary and Samuel, and little Alice?'

'We'll get what we need then I'll seal every door and every window in this house. No one will come in and no one will leave 'til this is over. We'll be all right. God will protect us.' He squeezed her again.

Mary broke his grip and turned to look at his pale and haggard face. 'You really believe that James? You really think we can live through this?'

'I'll make sure we do. I have Mister Jarvis's weapons. If anyone tries to bring that infection in here then they won't last long. I'll do whatever I need to do to keep us safe Lizzie. We'll get through this; you mark my words we will. We'll hide ourselves away 'til this whole thing's over then come out like squirrels in the spring.' He forced a smile.

Elizabeth bit her lip and looked enviously at the departing traffic.

Samuel and Mary stood at the roadside awaiting the cook's return.

'You've done it this time Samuel, you really have.' Mary shook her head in disbelief. 'She'll be so angry if she knows what you did. She'll flog you to death she will.'

After ten minutes Miss Pewtersmith appeared down the street, struggling with a sack of flour over one shoulder and a bulky paper-wrapped package under the other arm.

'Come on! We got to speak to her before she goes inside.' They walked hurriedly to meet her.

''Ere, 'elp me with this child!' Miss Pewtersmith shoved the package into Mary's arms. 'An' you boy, take this.' She leant forward and allowed the sack of flour to fall onto Samuel. His knees buckled under the weight and he crumpled to the floor. 'Oh thank God for that. They weigh a ton. Come on, 'urry 'up. Let's get these loaded up. We don't wanna keep 'im waitin'. You need to build some muscles boy.' She marched on towards the house.

'Miss. Pewtersmith, 'ang on...' Mary's voice trembled, 'It's....it's the Master, Miss Pewtersmith, 'e wouldn't wait. He...'e said you was too long. Said 'e'd ... have to find another cook in the country. I'm sorry Miss P.'

Her bright red cheeks drained in an instant. She stared open mouthed at Mary. 'No, no, can't be! I was real quick. I ran half the way I did!'

She dashed to the gate, now closed and locked. She held onto the iron bars and gawked through in disbelief. No horse, no carriage, no master of the house. She let out a piercing wail and ran on to the street. The traffic was heavy but only moving at brisk a walking pace. She ran alongside the carriages, calling for Mister Jarvis, for Lancaster. She peered in through carriage windows but all she saw were bemused, unfamiliar faces. Miss Pewtersmith wasn't built for running and after fifty yards or so she could go no further. Dejected and gasping for breath she collapsed at the roadside. Now she too was stuck in the city, to face whatever God decided to send.

James called Mary and Samuel into the drawing room. There was an urgency in his voice. 'I need you to run some errands. We need enough food to lock ourselves away in this house for months.'

'But Dad, Miss P has come back. She's brought more stuff. It's downstairs.' Samuel wasn't keen on the idea of carting supplies in the hot sun.

'We could be locked up in here for a long time Samuel. We need all we can get.' He rubbed the top of Samuel's head fondly. 'Mary, go to Mister Wiseman's and show him this list.' He handed Mary a list of supplies drawn up by Jarvis before he left. 'And if the credit is no good use this.' He passed her the small leather purse. 'Only use it if you've got absolutely no choice. It's all we've got. Look after it well.'

Mary nodded then pushed the purse firmly into her pinafore pocket.

'Samuel you go too.' James wrapped an arm around each of them and pulled them in. 'Don't linger. Get what we need and get straight back here. Whatever you do, keep away from anyone who is sick. Do you hear me? Keep well away.'

They both nodded.

'When you're back we'll lock this place up like a fortress. We'll be snug and safe in here until it's all over. Now be quick.'

Mary and Samuel darted along the street, dodging between pedestrians, pushing past bystanders, nipping between horses and carriages. Howls of complaint followed them. They rounded a corner into Market Street. Samuel had to pause for breath; it was hard work in the summer heat.

Mary walked back to him, hands on hips, sucking in the hot afternoon air. 'Can't keep up, eh?'

'Faster than you!' puffed Samuel. 'You run like a...three-legged donkey.'

'What? I can out-run you any day!'

'You think you can.'

'Right then, I'll race ya and prove it! Come on!'

Samuel was still bent over, hands rested on thighs, as Mary sprinted away.

'Wait! I wasn't ready!'

'Come on slow coach!'

Mary was still gloating over her shoulder at Samuel as she took off. She didn't notice the tall dark figure ahead of her until she crashed into him, bounced off and landed on her back on the road.

'Stupid girl!'

Mary looked up at a bearded face scowling down on her.

'You should take more care who you run into you.' The man swept his oily, shoulder-length black hair away from his face.

'I'm sorry, Sir.' pleaded Mary. 'I was in a hurry, running errands.' As she spoke she felt the pocket of her dress for the purse. It was gone. 'Samuel, Samuel! The money! I've lost it!' She span around desperately searching the ground for the leather purse. 'Samuel, quick!'

'Are you looking for this?'

The man tapped his leather boot. Beneath it was the purse. Mary lunged forwards to grab it.

'Oh thank you sir.'

He kept his weight firmly on the purse. Mary tugged on the string.

'Please Sir, it's mine, for my errands.'

He crouched down and spoke with his face inches from Mary's. 'I can do more for you with this than any shopkeeper can, my dear.' His breath reeked of decaying teeth and stale alcohol. He seized the purse and jumped to his feet. 'The name is Thomas Shipton, the last in a long line of great prophets!' he announced, swinging his arm out towards the house behind him. On the door hung a wooden sign with a crudely carved picture of a hag-like woman sitting at table. 'I am the finest and truest of all the Tellers in London. Only I can tell if you will live through this terrible time!'

'Please Sir, just my purse!'

'Wait girl!' he snapped and then went on. 'And if by chance we find that fate has cruel plans in store for you, only I can give you...no sell you...the trinkets to ward off evil and keep you safe.'

As he spoke, Samuel crept behind him. He reached out and snatched the purse from Shipton's hand. 'Mary, run!' he screamed.

But Shipton was quick. He seized Samuel's wrist, swung him around and hurled him like a sling-shot onto the steps of his house. Samuel scrambled to his feet as Shipton bore down on him. He staggered backwards up the three steps towards the door until he could go no further. Shipton's grimy hand reached towards Samuel's throat. Samuel covered his eyes and cowered.

'Come my boy, everyone wants to know their future.' Shipton reached past Samuel and undid the latch. The door swung open and Samuel fell inside.

The bare flagstones made for a hard landing. Samuel stood up, rubbing a bump on the back of his head. But when he saw what lay inside, his pain disappeared. Hanging from the walls were black and purple cloths adorned with crescent moons and white stars. Sparkling gems hung from the ceiling. At the far end of the room was a dining table with four candlesticks in a square in its centre. Around these were stacks of brightly coloured cards and a ring of stones and crystals. A large glistening red jewel took pride of place in the middle of the table.

'Wow! Look at this stuff!' marvelled Samuel, wandering deeper into the room and forgetting about the purse.

'I knew you'd see the light.' Shipton picked up the purse from the floor and tucked it into his pocket.

Mary stayed at the threshold. 'Samuel, get out of there! Now! Mum will flog you if she knows you've been in 'ere!'

Samuel paid no heed. He picked up a jewel and held it up to the window. 'Are these real? They are, aren't they? Even the king'd be proud of these! And look at this one' He held up the sparkling red stone. 'This one's like it's on fire!'

'Put it down boy!' snapped Shipton 'That's worth far more than any stupid royal jewels. They can't heal the sick! They can't make you better!' He snatched the stone from Samuel's hand and placed it back in the middle of the table. 'In the right hands these things hold power beyond your wildest dreams.' He turned to Mary 'Come girl, come and see.'

Mary was still stood just outside the door. She knew this was somewhere that they shouldn't be.

'Come girl. You've nothing to fear.' He dangled the purse in the air by its string.

Mary had no choice. Going home without money or supplies was unthinkable.

Shipton pulled off his long black coat and threw it into the corner of the room. Underneath was a crumpled purple velvet jacket with a broad black sash tied around his waist. He was soaked in sweat. 'Thank God for that! Who would 'ave thought it, this bloody 'ot in London?' He reached into a small cupboard by the fireplace, pulled out a dark bottle and poured a drink into a metal goblet. 'Come on girl.' He gestured to Mary to join him at the table, 'Let's get on with it.' He took a huge swig from his goblet and swept the drips from his beard with his sleeve.

Mary pulled out a chair and sat with Samuel on the opposite side of the table.

'Now tell me, what do you want to know? Do you want to know about the Infection, if you'll be safe, if your family will die? That kind of stuff?' He gathered together the cards on the table and then topped up his drink. 'That's very popular at the moment.'

'Tell me how to get rich. An'...get me own 'orse.... an' a house.' said Samuel.

'No, no. That's not the idea.' said Shipton, gulping his drink greedily again.

'When do we get the purse back?' asked Mary.

'For 'eaven's sake! All in good time! You came 'ere so I could tell your futures. You know, tell you 'bout plague an'... all that sort o' thing.' His speech was slow and a little slurred. He carefully and methodically dealt the cards across the table until he had made nine rows, all cards face down. 'Now you two... children, we will zee.' He lifted the first card and held it in front of his face. He gasped. 'Oh, no, it can't be!' and then took another swig.

'What is it?' shouted Samuel, jumping to his feet.

'I can't tell you, it's too terr...it's too terr'ble!' He was interrupted by a heavy rapping on the door. Shipton cursed, took another drink and rose unsteadily to his feet. By the time he had reached the door it was already open and a burly middle-aged man stood in the entrance.

'Where's me money Scroggs? You promised me you'd pay yer rent by last week and I ain't seen a bloody penny! You'd best not have drunk it all again 'cause this time you'll be out!'

'Drunk it? No, no. Me? No! Of course not! No. Why don't we talk about this outside, eh?' Shipton tried to usher the man clumsily back through the door. A hand in his chest stopped him.

'Don't you try shooing me out the door you stinky old drunk! I want me bloody rent.'

Shipton checked back over his shoulder. Mary and Samuel were busy sneaking peeks at the face down cards.

'Look' whispered Shipton 'I have your money but if you can wait 'til next week I'll pay you double. I'm doin' real good at the minute. See, I got customers, 'ere, right now!' He waved a finger over his shoulder towards Mary and Samuel. 'An' if you like I'll tell you your future. For free!' Shipton stumbled forward as he whispered.

'What? I don't believe your rubbish y'old fraud!' Blackburn pushed him away contemptuously. 'If I want to hear my fortune I'll go see Misses Bacon. She knows what she's talkin' about. All I want from you is what you owe, right now, or I'll sling you out of here and get a tenant who pays. And I'll take everything you've got in this house to make up for me rent.'

'All right, all right. I have your money.' Shipton pulled the purse from his jacket pocket and sneaked another glance at the children. They were still engrossed in his cards. He pulled a couple of coins from the purse and handed them over.

Blackburn looked at the money, sneered and grabbed the purse from Shipton's hand. He emptied it into his palm. 'That's for next week. You'll be ahead for once.' He returned one coin to the purse and handed it back. 'Nice to do business with you, Mister Scroggs, oh, sorry, Shipton.'

Shipton staggered back to the table as Blackburn left. He snatched the bottle and gulped from it. He drank without stopping until it was nearly gone. He slammed it angrily onto the table and slumped back into his chair.

'Well?' demanded Samuel.

'Well wha'?' replied Shipton, his words rolling together.

'What was that card? The one you turned over before.'

'Card? ...Wha' ...oh tha'. Yeh, well tha' was... tha' was the ...death card.'

'The death card?' gasped Samuel. 'What does that mean?'

'Wha' d'ya thin' it means? It's the death card for 'eaven's sake. It's hardly gonna be good luck, now, is it? Means you're gonna die, o' course. Both of ya... an' your ...family... an' your ... an'mals...'

'Die! When are we gonna die?'

'Oh, I dunno...next week sometime.' he waved a dismissive hand in the air.

Samuel jumped to his feet. 'When? When next week?'

'Oh, em... next... Thursday, at... four o'clock.'

'What, all of us?' asked Mary, 'We're all gonna die, next Thursday?'

'Yep.'

'All of us, and our animals, at four o'clock Thursday?'

'Tha's right. Four o'clock. Maybe...jus' a little bi' af'er, or maybe... jus' a li'le bi' before.' Shipton lifted his feet up onto the table and leant back.

'How?'

'Wha'?'

'How? How are we all going to die at 4 o'clock next Thursday?'

'Well...plague, prob'ly. Haven't y'heard? There's a lo' of it about.'

'What do you mean plague probably? I thought you were the finest fortune teller in all of London.'

'I am.'

'So plague's gonna kill us all, at four clock next Thursday? What's it gonna do, run us over with a carriage?'

'You're a septic, girl, that's wha' you are!' slurred Shipton 'You better watch it else God'll strike ya down...cruel vengeance ...an'... all that...stuff.'

Shipton rose to his feet at the second attempt, and then zigzagged across the room to a bed that was little more than straw and a few planks of wood on the floor. In seconds he was snoring.

'Did you hear that Mary? We're going to die - next week! All of us.' Samuel had tears in his eyes.

'Don't be silly. He's a worse fortune teller than you are. We're not going to die, not next Thursday, not never. He's just a faker.' She put an arm around Samuel and squeezed him. 'We'll be alright, Sam, you an' me. Plague won't get us, nothin' will, you'll see. We'll be tucked up snug as field mice in that 'ouse, 'til it's all over.'

For a change Samuel didn't push her away. 'But 'e's got all this stuff, he's a wizard!'

'He's a fake, an' a drunken one at that. Look at him!' Shipton was lying on his back, mouth open, his snoring so loud it nearly rattled the windows. ''E couldn't tell ya if it was day or night right now, let alone what's in the future. But I can tell yer somethin'. Dad will kill us if we don't get that purse back and get them errands.'

Mary released Samuel and they both inched nervously up to Shipton's bedside.

'He must have it on 'im somewhere.' whispered Mary before kneeling alongside him. She eased her hand slowly into his jacket pocket. It was greasy, damp, and empty.

Samuel began rummaging through a box of clothes he'd found on the floor.

Mary began to slide her hand gently back from Shipton's pocket. But before it was completely out, Shipton threw an arm around her neck and dragged her in.

'Jane, where you goin'?' he mumbled, his eyes still closed. 'Yeh, course I love ya!' He squeezed tightly around her neck.

'Sam!' hissed Mary. 'Sam, help!'

Samuel looked up from his searching and smirked back at his sister.

'Yeh, course I got cash.' Shipton mumbled on, Mary still held firmly in his grip. He smelt of sweat and unwashed clothes.

'Sam!'

But Samuel had found something. Like plucking a rabbit from a hat, Samuel produced the purse from amongst a pile of grimy clothes at the bedside and held it proudly aloft by it's string.

'Samuel! Get him off me!'

Samuel eased Shipton's hand away from his sister and allowed her to crawl out from his grip. Mary raised a hand to clout her little brother around the ear and then thought better of it. They retreated to the table and Samuel tipped out the purse. They were horrified.

'One ha'penny! Is that it?' Samuel held the purse upside down and shook it. 'Was there more in his pocket?'

Mary shook her head.

''E's robbed us! 'E's a bloody thief!'

'We can't go home with nothin'! What'll we eat? Dad'll kill us!'

Samuel looked at the table. 'What about all them precious jewels. They must be worth a fortune! We can take some.'

'They'll be fakes, like him,' said Mary dismissively, 'probably only worth a penny or two for the 'ole lot I bet.'

'So, let's take all of 'em, everythin'!' Samuel didn't wait for an answer. He started gathering together the crystals and cards.

'No, I don't know Sam. Any'ow, Mum ain't gonna like that sort of stuff in the 'ouse. She'd say they're the work of Satan. An' it's stealing. It's not a good time to be stealin'.'

'We won't show her. An' any'ow, it ain't stealin' 'cause he took our money. So we're buyin' 'em.' He picked up the stunning red crystal from the centre of the table and marvelled at it against the window again. 'These 'ave gotta be real Mary, look at it!' He shoved it into his pocket and then continued gathering together the remainder.

Mary was uneasy with the idea of taking the jewels but she even more nervous about the prospect of returning home with no money and no provisions. 'We'll just take enough stuff to make up for what 'e took from us, Sam, nothing more. Maybe we can sell 'em an' get our money back.' She cringed a little as she spoke. 'We'll bring 'im back anythin' left over.'

Samuel found a small wooden box under the sideboard. Inside were leather and string bracelets, necklaces and charms. He swept the crystals and cards on top. 'Right, let's go!'

'No Samuel, that's too much. That's nickin'.'

'Hey, 'e nicked from us first. Like you said, if we get too much, we'll bring 'im some back.'

Shipton began to stir in the bed.

'This don't feel right Samuel.' said Mary, heading for the door.

'Hang on, I missed some.' Samuel began jumping for a crystal dangling from the ceiling.

Shipton's snoring turned into a cough and then a choke. He scratched at his crotch with one hand and pulled at his beard with the other.

'Come on Sam! Let' get out of 'ere!'

Samuel managed to catch hold of a dangling stone and tore it from the ceiling. He dropped it into the box. He went for another, but as he jumped he bumped against the table. Shipton's wine bottle began to quiver and wobble like the man who'd just drunk it. Samuel lunged out a hand to grab it before it fell, but in his haste he just managed to send it toppling over, clattering into a candle holder. Mary and Samuel froze. Shipton started grunting and scratching again.

'Out of 'ere. Now Samuel!' hissed Mary. ''Fore he wakes up!'

Samuel picked up the box and started to tiptoe after Mary towards the door. But from behind came a gentle rumbling. The bottle was rolling slowly but steadily towards the far end of the table.

'Oh shit!' hissed Samuel. He dropped the box and dashed around the table to catch the bottle before it fell. Chairs blocked his path; he hurriedly shoved them away. Mary looked on, motionless. The bottle reached the end of the table. Samuel dived, stretching his fingers as far as he could. But he was too slow; the bottle plummeted past his fingertips and shattered on the stone floor.

Shipton sat up with a jolt. He rubbed his bleary eyes. Mary ran to the door. Samuel quickly grabbed his box and dived under the table.

'Oi, no, don't go!' Shipton climbed from his bed and stumbled towards Mary. He tried to give chase but she disappeared through the door and away into the street before he got close. Shipton cursed and slammed the door behind her.

From beneath the table, Samuel watched Shipton's worn leather boots and grubby trousers trudge across the room towards his hiding place. Samuel shuffled further under the table out of sight. Shipton rubbed his eyes again and stared. Where was his drink? Hadn't he left it there? He shook his head and stumbled between the chairs. He found his precious bottle, shattered into a thousand pieces, the last remaining drops of wine spilt like blood across the flagstones. 'Hell and damnation!' he roared.

Samuel pulled himself in tightly, squeezing his legs against his chest and trying to suppress his panting breaths. His heart banged like a sledge hammer.

Shipton looked at the table again. It wasn't just his drink that was gone. 'Where... where's my cards?' An' my stones? They've taken my stones!' He thrashed his arm across the wood and sent candlesticks flying. 'The thieving little bastards! Wait 'til I get hold of 'em!' He booted a chair out his way before stomping to the cupboard in search of another bottle. The shelves were bare. He kicked the cupboard door shut. Tears filled his eyes. 'I'm ruined, I'm bloody ruined! They're gonna kill me!' He slumped back into his chair and dropped his face into his hands.

Samuel was still crouched under the table. He had to get out before Shipton found him. He didn't care about the box and trinkets any more, he just wanted to escape in one piece. Shipton was sat with his back to him. This was his chance. Heart in mouth he began to crawl towards the door. His heart thumped so hard he felt sure Shipton would hear it. He kept focused forwards. The front door was slightly ajar but it looked miles away. But if he could at least get close he could make a dash for it and Shipton would never catch him. Inch by painfully slow inch, the door got closer. Through the crack, Samuel could see the faces of people outside, hear the shouts and chatter. He was almost there.

The door crashed shut.

'Goin' somewhere boy?' Shipton loomed over Samuel. 'Ya got some things that belong to me, ya little bastard!'

Samuel jumped to his feet but Shipton grabbed him by his neck and dragged him back towards the table.

'I'm sorry Sir, I didn't mean to break yer bottle!' pleaded Samuel. 'An' we ain't taken noffin'! We ain't, not noffin! It's all under the table look.' He pointed at the box still sitting on the floor, overflowing with Shipton's treasures.

'Ha! So ya didn't get away with it after all!' Shipton's mood lightened a little. 'It'd better all be there boy! I'm gonna check. An' you owe me for that bottle. You got any more money?'

'No. An' that's not our money you nicked. That's the master's. And when he hears what you done...'

'Shut up!' he stroked his beard. 'So, your master trusts you with his money, does he?'

'No. It not like that, its...'

'Who is this master of yours then? Where's 'e live?'

'You're hurtin' me neck!' protested Samuel.

'What? Oh sorry. Wasn't thinkin'.' Shipton eased his grip a little. 'Where's 'e live then, this master? We could make a good team together, you an' me. You, know business partners. We could do all sorts. An' that girl o' yours. Where's she gone? She could...' Before he could finish his sentence a pebble smashed through the back window and skidded across the flagstones. 'Oi!' shouted Shipton. 'That's real glass that is. That stuff costs the bloody earth!' He dashed to the window as another missile crashed through, just missing his bearded face. 'Stop it! Stop!' he shouted and peered through the broken pane. There in the back alley was Mary, winding her arm back to launch again.

Shipton threw open the window. 'What you doin' girl? D'you know how much this stuff costs? You throw one more and I'll....' His words were cut short as a stone hit him on the cheek. Shipton winced. He raised a hand to his face and felt the warm ooze of blood between his fingers. 'That's it! You've done it now girl!' Shipton scrambled onto the window ledge and fell head first into the back yard. 'You get 'ere now girl!'

Mary let him get close and then sprinted away as fast as her legs would carry her through the alleyway.

Shipton fumed. He knew he would never keep up. He returned to the window and began climbing back in.

Samuel had the box under his arm and was running out through the front door.

'No! Bring that back!' Shipton scrambled inside and ran to the front door. But he was too slow; all that was left of his precious box was a few tarot cards scattered across the floor.

Chapter 6

James placed another plank across the window and thumped the nails into the wood.

'Very wise Mister Young!'

'Ow!' James smashed his finger with the hammer.

'Very wise indeed! There'll be riots in the streets, you watch! An' looters! They'll be everywhere you mark my words. We'll all be safer if our 'ouses is prop'ly secure.'

James sucked on his injured finger. In front of him was Elizabeth's sister, Fran, clutching a rolled blanket under one arm and a cloth bag in the other. Her three young sons followed behind, weighed down with luggage. The youngest was no more than four years old and was dragging his bag behind him.

'I 'eard you an' Lizzie were Lord an' Lady of the 'ouse now! Very posh! Thought you might like some new man-servants!' She nodded towards her boys, the older two now wrestling alongside her. She swung out her hand and slapped the nearest child across the head. ''Ere, you behave if you wanna stay in this 'ouse, else Mister Young will sling yer both out!'

'No I wouldn't... Wait, a minute, who said...'

'Come on, Billy, 'urry up with that!' she screeched at her youngest. 'Now, where's Lizzy then? Livin' it up in there, bein' a proper madam, I'll bet.' Fran moved towards the front door. 'Terrible i'n'it!' she went on. 'I blame the Dutch. They're real dirty they are. I reckon they sent this over 'ere on purpose. Want to kill us all. I 'eard in Dover everyone's dead. Everyone! Can you believe it?' She entered the hallway, without pausing for breath. 'An' in Spain....Wow, what a lovely place! He's got good taste, an' he. Lovely, real lovely, just 'ow I'd do it. Lizzie! Lizzie, where are you girl?...And them French is no better, we could teach them a thing or two... Lizzie!'

A muffled reply came from below.

Fran headed down the cellar stairs, James in tow. 'Half of St Giles have got it now, loads of 'em prob'ly dead I reckon but, they ain't saying nothin'.'

'Frances, it's good to see you again but...' James interrupted.

'It's lovely to see you too darlin'. Real lovely.' Fran pushed open the door at the bottom of the cellar stairs. ''Ere she is! 'Ere's my girl!'

Elizabeth was sorting jars and tins of food. Alice was perched on her hip. Fran dropped her bag and blanket and ran across the kitchen, arms out ready to embrace. Elizabeth smiled tolerantly and took the hug.

'Lizzie, my Lizzie! 'Ow are ya girl?'

Across Fran's shoulder, James scowled his disapproval at Elizabeth.

'An' look at me little Alice. She's pretty as can be she is! Ain't she grown?' She went to kiss the toddler's cheek but Alice buried her face into her mother.

'Fran, where are the boys?' asked Elizabeth looking around the room as if they might just pop out from a cupboard. 'Are they with you? Are they alright?'

'They's fine. They's 'ere somewhere. Prob'ly explorin'.'

Elizabeth grimaced at James. James looked to the heavens and trudged back up the stairs.

'I didn't expect to see you Fran. What brings you 'ere?' Elizabeth hitched Alice higher on her hip.

'Oh wait, look what I got!' Fran dashed back across the kitchen and dug through her bag. ''Ere it is.' She pulled out a child size white linen pinafore dress and brought it back to size up against Alice.

'Oh Fran that's beautiful!' exclaimed Elizabeth 'But you can't afford that, 'specially not with your three already.'

'Hey, this used to belong to Jake, my Jake. I made it from one of 'is shirts, them ones that 'e shouldn't o' had, if ya know what I mean. Any'ow, 'e don't need 'em no more, not where 'e is, so I thought, I know who can use 'em.'

'Thank you Fran.' Elizabeth leant forward to kiss her on the cheek. 'But don't tell James where it came from.'

'You know me, sister!' smirked Fran.

'So why the bags Fran?' asked Elizabeth rhetorically.

Fran began peering into the storage jars. 'You stocking up with food, ain't ya, Lizzie. Gettin' organised. That's good that is. My young sister was always good like that. We're gonna need plenty o' food. Don't know how long this thing's gonna take, now, do we?'

'We're gonna need lots of food?'

'Oh, and look at this, you'll love this, you will. Matty carved it for you all by 'imself.' She returned to her bag and began to rummage again.

The kitchen door burst open and two scruffy boys tumbled in. Behind them followed James, carrying Fran's youngest.

'You don't want to know what these three were doing in the living room,' grumbled James 'we'd be out right now if Mister Jarvis knew. We'd be gone.'

Fran looked up from her bag holding a small carved wooden figure. 'Matt, Isaac, you been up to no good again 'ave ya? I warned ya 'bout behaving yourselves, d'in I? If your father was here now he'd take his belt off to ya he would!'

Fran stood up and reached for her middle child Isaac. He ran behind the table.

'Well 'e ain't here, is 'e?' Isaac shouted ''E's never 'ere!'

'Well your uncle is! An' e'll give ya what for!'

''Ere, that's mine, gi' me that!' Matthew snatched the wooden figure from his mother.

'Oi, you said that was for your Aunt Lizzie....an' yer uncle.'

'No you said it was for 'er, not me!' bawled Matthew and shoved the figure down the front of his grubby shirt.

James was still holding on to four-year-old William and the boy was getting restless. He kicked and wriggled to get free. James leant over and placed him carefully on the ground. William span around, booted him squarely on the shin before scooting away under the table out of reach. 'It's not yours, it's Maffew's!' he shouted.

James gritted his teeth.

'Elizabeth, come with me please.' James ushered his wife into the pantry and closed the door behind them.

'What they doin' Momma?' asked William.

'They're prob'ly just workin' out where we gonna sleep darlin'.' Fran went back to the jars and began opening lids and tasting the contents.

'She can't stay here Liz. I'm sorry, I know she's your sister but she can't.' James spoke with a hushed voice. 'We haven't enough food, and anyway, the more people that stay here the more chance someone's gonna get sick and bring that disease in here. Then we're all dead. It's not just because of those boys. We gotta put ourselves first if we're going to live through this. We can't take chances.'

'Oh James, you know how they live! That house of theirs, that whole part of town is so dirty, so many people. And she's got no man there. We can't send them back, they'd be sure to get sick living there.' Elizabeth softened her voice. 'I'll help her look after the boys. They could sleep in the attic. We wouldn't hear 'em up there. We could even lock the door if you want, just pass the food in.'

'Lizzie I'm sorry, no. We agreed, no more people here.' James placed a hand onto Elizabeth's shoulder. Elizabeth swept it away.

'No James you agreed, not me. They're the only family I've got left alive and you're asking me to throw them out to die in that slum when we've got a house here big enough for everyone!'

'Elizabeth, we're you're family whether you like it or not and you've got to start thinkin' about protecting your own. You want to be responsible for killing our kids? You want to watch Alice and Samuel and Mary die of this God-awful disease. You start bringin' people in 'ere from the slums and family or not they're gonna kill us. It's not happenin' Lizzie. An' if you're too weak to protect your own children, I'll do it for you.'

Elizabeth looked back at James in exasperation, her eyes red and full. She searched her head for the argument that would prove James wrong, but deep down she knew it wasn't there. She had daily nightmares of her children dying from this terrible sickness. Everyday she'd scour their bodies in dread of finding the marks. And she knew that more people in the house meant more risk of them catching it. It may be her sister and her nephews that they were talking about but sadly James was right; they came from slums ridden with filth and disease and the cloud of miasma followed them everywhere, you could smell it. Protecting Fran's family could come at the price of her own children's lives.

She spoke quietly; 'You'll have to tell her then. I can't.'

James left Mary standing in the pantry. Fran was sitting at the table eating from a bowl. James pulled up a chair and sat alongside her.

'Broth good?'

'Very good. Reckon I'd 'ave put a bit more salt in tho'.' She shoved in another spoonful.

'Liz made that.'

'Always was a good cook.' Fran ripped off a piece of bread and pushed it into her mouth.

'Fran, this house...'

A jar fell from the side and broke at Matthew's feet.

'Matt! What you doin' there, you mongrel?' spat Fran.

Matthew looked back unperturbed. He opened another jar.

William's head appeared over the side of the table. A lightning-quick hand shot out, seized Fran's bread and then disappeared back underneath.

'Oi, Billy! Gimme that back! You little...'

'I'll get it!' Isaac charged across the room and dived under the table, crashing into the leg and causing the broth to slosh over the side of the bowl.

'On my life - I am gonna flog you two!'

Fran jumped to her feet, sending the chair tumbling backwards. Isaac and William were battling for the bread under the table. Fran got down on all fours and joined in.

'Gimme that back you little sods!'

The kitchen door swung open. Miss Pewtersmith's bulk filled the doorway. She stood open-mouthed. 'Oh my Good Lord! What the bloody 'ell is 'appenin' 'ere?'

Chapter 7

Samuel and Mary sat in an alleyway and caught their breath.

Mary tipped the only remaining coin into her hand. 'One ha'penny! What use is that?' she wiped her eyes with her sleeve as she spoke. 'We got a load of stuff to get! What's Dad gonna say?'

'No, look!' replied Samuel. 'We got all this!' He put his hand in the box and pulled out a fistful of crystals and bracelets. 'This is worth a fortune!'

'That's evil stuff that is. We should get rid of it. Burn it or bury it or somethin'.'

'No, we can sell it... trade it. We can get what we need with this! Come on Mary, what we got to lose. An' we'll still be gettin' rid of it.'

Mary looked at the lone coin in her hand and shrugged. What other option did she have?

The high street was nothing like they remembered. Dozens of new signs had appeared over shop fronts; banners were draped over doors and suspended from windows. They carried strange images they'd never seen before. There were stars and moons, weird metal heads, serpents and dragons, crude paintings and sketches of wizards and witches. There were signs for physicians, fortune tellers and the makers of potions and remedies. Incense burners were placed on window ledges and dangled over doors, scented smoke drifted across the street. People seemed to be hurrying to get home with parcels and packages or else they were gathered in small crowds listening to the warnings and promises of raucous speakers. On every bit of vacant wall notices were posted. They declared the special plague laws, the closing of theatres and music halls and the banning of public gatherings. Others promised miraculous cures, boasted the virtues of fortune tellers or announced the arrival of some grand-sounding doctor. They were pasted and nailed one on top of another, layer after layer. The notice that carried the most interest bore the skull and crossbones at the top. It listed causes of death for each parish. Week by week the plague numbers had grown but there was argument over how truthful the numbers really were. Were they hiding the truth from them?

'That's shit that is! I know meself of more people what's dead from plague than that!'

'We've been lucky so far. It'll come, just you wait.'

'Come on, you tell me how they be dropping' like flies not 'alf a mile from 'ere an' yet no one 'ere's hardly gettin' it.'

'They're dirty down there, that's what the difference is.'

'It's bloody lies, that's what's that is!'

And the arguments went on, all day.

Samuel and Mary made their way past the shouts, threats and promises on their way to Mister Wiseman's store.

'Prepare to meet thy God. Armageddon is here! Judgement comes!'

'Only this medicine truly cures plague! Buy it now before it's all gone! Save yourself while you can!'

'Come hear your fortune. She is the only one who truly knows!'

Onlookers shouted back, heckling, agreeing, arguing, scared.

Finally Mary and Samuel were within sight of Wiseman's store. Across the street a group had gathered at the bottom of the market hall steps. On the third step a middle aged man was adjusting his hat and navy-blue cloak. Before him a skinny, greasy-haired boy in his early teens banged a wooden spoon on a brass plate.

'Ladies and Gentlemen! Your attention please! Your attention if you want to live! Today you are the luckiest people in all England.'

They captured Samuel's attention; he quickly diverted towards the commotion.

'Sam come back, we've got to get the stuff!' protested Mary.

But Samuel was already pushing his way into the crowd. Mary followed, bending and squeezing her way between the onlookers until she caught up with Samuel at the bottom step.

The greasy teenager continued in a monotonous drone: 'We bring you salvation and deliver...deliverance from this terri1ble disease. We bring you the only remedy that is guaranteed to stop plague entering from your home and keeping your family safe. We are... no, we... bring you...'

A voice from behind hissed through a fake smile 'From Europe, from Europe. Remember! Get it right boy.'

'You can't give salvation!' shouted someone from the crowd. 'Only God gives salvation! 'Mumbles of agreement followed.

The boy tried again. 'Straight off the boat from Europe yesterday I give you Doctor Le Clerc, personal advisor of Europe's royal houses, carrying a remedy that has saved lives in thousands of countries. This remedy... is like no other...remedy...' He fumbled for words again. 'It... it comes from Europe... It...'

'He don't know what he's talking 'bout!' shouted someone.

'He's makin' it up!'

A few started to drift away.

His master ran out of patience and pushed his young assistant out of the way. His words were polished and spoken with confidence. 'My friends, my friends! Thank you for the kind invitation to speak with you today! I have rushed to you from Dover this very morning. Just two days ago I was in the Royal Dutch household where my remedy saved their Royal Highnesses from certain death.' He held up a small bottle of dark liquid with a hand written label stuck to it. 'This physic, this great medicine can save you and your family as it did to the noble people of Europe! They asked me to go to Paris to save the French Royalty but I said NO! I will go to my beloved London and give my friends the chance to be saved!'

'So why ain't you at the Palace seeing the King?'

'How much is it?'

'My friends, my friends!' all your questions will be answered. 'I have an appointment with the King himself this coming week, but before then I want to offer you, the people of London the chance to have this remedy, the chance to live!'

'Come on, how much?'

'Just sixpence buys you enough to last your family for two weeks! Sixpence to save your whole family! What a bargain!'

Grumbling broke out again, a few started to push their way out of the crowd.

'But wait! Today, as I love London so much, I will give this away at not six pence, not four pence, not even tu'pence but just one measly little penny a bottle. One penny! Can you believe that! Can you believe it Thomas?'

He turned to his assistant, but Thomas was busy scratching patterns into the dirt on the steps.

'Thomas, can you believe it?' Le Clerc flicked out a boot.

'Oh. Oh No, I cannot believe it. You can't sell it that cheaply, we'll be broke.' Thomas didn't look up from his drawing.

Le Clerc had won back the crowd. More people joined, curious to hear what was going on.

'So how much is he asking for it this time?' asked an onlooker at the rear.

'Just a penny, was sixpence. He's been selling it to royalty 'e says. Just got in from the port this morning. He's gonna sell some to the king next week.'

The man sneered. 'Got in from port this mornin', has he? That's funny, 'cause I saw him selling that stuff at Moorfields last week. That time he had just come from the Palace. I bought a bottle - for tu'pence - made me sick as a dog.'

At the bottom of the market steps there were no misgivings. The crowd pushed forward, money in hand desperate to make their life-saving purchase.

'Please don't all charge up together, form a line here and my associate will take your money and I will dispense the Miraculous Life-Saving Remedy. You're lucky we still have some. What will I say to the king if I have none left for him?'

'Hey, you, charlatan! When did you say you got in?'

Le Clerc peered towards the back of the crowd. 'I arrived from Dover just today my good sir.'

'Is that right? So how come I saw you last week? "Cos I ain't been to no bloody France nor 'olland or wherever else you s'posed to 'ave been!'

Le Clerc started handing out his bottles a little faster. 'Not me sir, your mistaken.'

'I saw you alright. I'd know your crooked face anywhere!'

'My good sir, I resent your implication. I assure you that I, and my associate here, got in from Dover this very morning. Now if you care to join the queue and take your turn you will receive your medicine.'

'Buy that stuff again? I'd have to be mad! I bought a bottle of that rubbish off you for tu'pence last week - and all it did was damn-well make me sick.'

The buyers at the front held on to their money and looked to Le Clerc for his response.

'No, no don't listen to him. He's a... he's just jealous. He... he has an inferior remedy and is trying to ruin my reputation. Well it won't work sir. These people can see straight through you! I've never seen you before in my life.'

'Is that right? Well look, I've got the proof right here.' The man rustled though his clothes and pulled out an empty bottle and held it aloft. 'Here it is!' He started to push his way through the crowd towards Le Clerc. 'An' I want me money back.'

Another voice joined in. 'Yeh, I saw him in Tower Hamlets last Thursday sellin' that stuff. He's a bloody liar!'

Le Clerc knew his time was up. He gestured to Thomas to start packing up. The people who'd just bought their remedy started shouting too. Their belief in their medicine was blown; they wanted their money back.

'Ladies and Gentlemen. This is guaranteed to save you from the plague. Why on earth wouldn't you want to keep it? Aren't your families worth one single penny?' Le Clerc backed up the steps as he spoke. But he wasn't convincing anyone. Hands were reaching out for refunds. 'I promise that anybody who catches plague can have twice their money back, that's how confident I am!'

'Give it back you bloody robber!'

Le Clerc stumbled backwards up the steps. 'Don't be silly! Do you want to die?'

Thomas slipped away down the alley at the side of the market. He was spotted.

'Look, he's running away!'

Le Clerc took his chance and sprinted up the steps and fled into the market. He entered a maze of small wooden stalls strewn with vegetables and fruit, with stacks of live animals in cages and dead creatures hanging above. Le Clerc dashed between them pushing shoppers out of his way. Behind him the howling mob poured into the market place and sent tables crashing over. Fruit rolled across the floor, chickens squawked and flapped free from breaking cages. The stall owners roared in anger, fists were raised and scuffles broke out. Meantime Le Clerc dashed out from the rear of the market place and was away.

The rest of the crowd on the market steps began to disperse. Samuel saw his chance. He ran up the steps, grabbed the discarded plate and spoon and banged them together with all his might.

'Samuel what are you doing?' shouted Mary 'We've got to get to the shop for heaven's sake!'

But Samuel wasn't listening.

'People, people, wait! We have something special to show you. Magic things with special powers to save you and...tell you the future!' Samuel tried his best to imitate Le Clerc's dramatic style. He held up the box of trinkets. 'These are better than them potions.' He put a hand in the box and pulled out a handful of crystals and bracelets and waved them to his audience.

'What you got there boy? What are those?' People began to return to the steps to see what Samuel had to offer.

'These are from.... magical... Scotland... and Wales... and Cornwall and ...France and Spain.' Samuel ran through all of the places he knew.

'How do we they're real?'

'He's probably another fake like the last one!'

'No, no!' shouted Samuel. 'Look at these priceless jewels.' He gazed into the box. The bright red stone stood out. It was the size of a small tomato and seemed to glow alongside the others. He plucked it out, spilling tarot cards onto the steps. He held it aloft. The audience gasped as it radiated a sparkling pink light. They gathered closely around Samuel for a better look.

'What you doing with these cards boy?' An elderly man picked up a tarot card from the floor. It bore the image of the Grim Reaper.

'You want to buy it?' asked Samuel, optimistic he had his first sale.

'Buy it!' the man threw it to the floor. 'Buy it! This stuff is evil! God will strike you down for this. You mark my words.'

But after seeing the glorious red stone, the rest of his audience had no such concerns. They pushed forward eager to see what else he had. They swarmed around Samuel like ants after dropped food. Samuel tried to back away but they surrounded him. Mary tried to push into the crowd but they were too strong, too eager and there was no way in. Hands pushed into the box and started to pull out the bracelets, necklaces, stones and armbands. Samuel tried to pull the box away but they were too many hands. His treasures were being held aloft like trophies, some were falling to the floor sending people scrambling to grab them. Samuel was pushed to the ground.

'STOP!' The voice was loud, and authoritative. 'I order you in the name of God!'

Hands left the box. Trinkets and crystals fell to the floor and the mass of bodies eased away from Samuel.

'What goes on here?' A clergyman dressed in a sweeping black cassock strutted down the market steps. 'What sort of people act like a mob within a stone's throw of God's house?'

The crowd parted before him exposing Samuel, now scrambling around the floor gathering together his trinkets. The clergyman crouched down and picked up a bracelet from the ground. He dangled it between his index finger and thumb with the same contempt that he had given the mouse he'd found dead in his pantry that morning. The bracelet was made of twine attached to brown circle of leather decorated with a motif. The clergyman brought the bracelet closer to his face and squinted. Burnt into the leather were letters formed into a triangle. They spelt 'abracabra'. The clergyman hissed. He hurled the bracelet onto the floor then kicked the box from Samuel's hands.

'What the hell are you doing boy?' he roared 'Do you want to burn forever you stupid child?' His face, even his balding scalp glowed a furious bright scarlet. He bent over and grabbed Samuel by his shirt, lifting him so he was suspended in front of his face, his feet six inches from the ground. 'God is watching you right now boy! As we speak he is deciding who lives and who dies a terrible death.' The crucifix around his neck lurched from side to side as he raged. 'You'd better change your ways before it's too late boy. Throw yourself before God and beg for his mercy!' He dropped Samuel to the ground and turned his attention to the crowd. 'And the rest of you are no better! Look at you all! I know your faces, the Bishop will be told your names, every one of you.'

Eyes turned to the ground and the gathering melted away.

He turned his attention back to Samuel. 'You boy. You said some of these evil things came from Scotland.'

'Sorry Sir?' asked Samuel, hurriedly throwing the items back into the box.

'I heard you. You said Scotland. Which one of these awful... things is from Scotland?'

'I dunno Sir.'

'Come on now, boy. You have a chance to make amends. Don't waste it. Tell me the truth. What here is from the Scotland? I saw a stone, a bright red stone. Is that the one?'

'No, really. I just made it up.'

'Don't lie to me boy! I am a man of God! Answer my question or you will pay, believe me! You will pay! Tell me, now!'

Samuel didn't have a clue about the origins of his trinkets. He'd shouted the names of anywhere he could think of to make the trinkets sound exotic. But what now? Should he make something up to keep the vicar happy? But would that be worse, lying to a man of God? He looked blankly back at the Reverend, trying to decide which was the lesser evil.

Mary gathered her courage and spoke up. 'We're sorry sir, we meant no 'arm, we was robbed. We lost our money and this was our only way to get it back. We thought we might sell it and...'

'Don't try and justify working for Satan!' he snapped 'This stuff is evil and must be destroyed! You will give me that box!'

Samuel clutched the box and backed away from the vicar. He glanced at Mary for guidance. She'd had enough; she gestured Samuel to hand it over. Samuel wasn't convinced.

A young woman ran up the steps to the clergyman, red faced, sweating and out of breath. 'Thank the Lord I found ya Sir!' she gasped. 'It's me baby. She's terrible sick. She can 'ardly breathe. I think she's dyin'. Please come Sir. Please! We're a good family.' She dropped to her knees before the clergyman and clasped his hand.

'Oh come my child, it's probably not as bad as you think.' He shook his hand out of her grip and turned back to Samuel.

But the woman wasn't going to be so easily dismissed. Still kneeling she seized the bottom of his cassock and began to sob. 'Please, please, I beg you sir.'

'Oh for heaven's sake!' He shook his cassock but she held on. 'Look, you and your family have my blessing. Now go home and pray for your child.'

'But Sir, please Sir, she ain't even christened yet. Please. We're only a couple o' minutes from 'ere.'

Samuel nodded towards the side alley and then jumped over the small wall and dashed away, still clutching his box. Mary scurried after him.

The clergyman spotted their escape. 'Oi, stop right there!' He tried to dash after them but the woman was still holding on to the bottom of his cassock.

'Please Sir, I beg you.'

'Get off me woman!' He angrily ripped the cloth from her grip and then hopped over the wall to give chase. But the children were already disappearing around the corner at the end of the alley. He knew he had no chance of keeping up with their young legs. He angrily kicked the wall then returned to the main street, scowling at the woman still sobbing on the market steps. 'So' he thought 'the rumours were true. That Scottish stone is in London. And in the hands of children. This was the news the Bishop had been waiting for.'

Mary and Samuel sat in the shade of a sagging willow tree at the edge of the common.

'You should 'ave just given 'im all that stuff. That's just gettin us in trouble. I ain't never 'eard no vicar talk like that before' moaned Mary. 'We should get rid of it all. Go leave it in the churchyard or somethin'.'

'But didn't you see how people wanted it? They was desperate for it. I'm tellin' ya this 'as gotta be worth a fortune. Let's see if we can trade it. Except for this one, I like this one.' He pulled out the blood red stone and held it up to the sky. 'Look at the glow from it. Is beau'iful it is.'

'I don't know. You heard what that vicar said. And that one's odd I reckon. Look at the colour of it. I don't like how it glows. It ain't natural. Gives me the willies.'

But Samuel was back on his feet. 'Come on; let's go see what we can swap 'em fer!'

Chapter 8

Mister Wiseman's store was crowded with desperate shoppers jostling and competing for what little was left. Mary and Samuel pushed their way to the front to look for the familiar figure of the store owner, Damien Wiseman, a canny elderly man, with one eye and several missing fingers. He'd thrill Samuel with tales of his exploits in the Civil War and how he had single-handedly won battles and rescued fair maidens. He had a different story for each of his four missing fingers and Samuel knew each one word for word. Some said he had bought his business on the back of treasures he had plundered during the campaigns but nobody knew for sure. Samuel wouldn't have cared. That would have made him all the more exciting. Today though Samuel couldn't see Mister Wiseman. He strained forward over the counter to look for the old man but instead there were two teenage boys looking flustered and trying to justify the lack of stock.

'Get back from there!' one of them shouted at Samuel.

'Where's General Wiseman?' asked Samuel, dropping back to the floor.

The boys looked at each other and smirked. 'He's gone with his army to the country.'

'What, he ain't here?' Mary was horrified. She wasn't as impressed by his stories but she enjoyed his kindness and knew he would have been sympathetic to their plight.

'He's left us in charge til he's back - if he's back. What do you want?'

Mary pulled out the note and handed it across. The young man read through it quickly.

'Well, half of this we ain't got no more and for the rest we need cash. There's no credit for anyone.'

'But this is from Mister Jarvis. He always comes 'ere. Mister Wiseman knows 'im.'

'No credit. Not for nobody. Dead people ain't good at payin' bills.'

'He won't be 'appy if he hears you've treated us like this.' warned Samuel.

'You got money or not. If not, I got lots o' folk here to serve.'

'Well, we ain't got much money but we got all o' this.' Samuel poured the contents of the box across the counter.

The banter and chatter around them went quiet. All eyes fixed on the strange collection on the counter.

One of the shop boys picked up a bracelet and looked at it with bemusement. 'You ain't serious? We can't take this stuff.'

'You could sell it from your shop.' explained Samuel. 'People want this stuff they do. 'An' these jewels is worth a lot.'

'What, these? These are just pebbles. And look at this stuff.' He held aloft a tarot card. 'Look, the Bishop comes in here. What's 'e gonna say if he sees this sort of stuff on the counter. I ain't gonna offend him. Not for any amount o' money.'

'But we gotta get the supplies, please!' pleaded Mary.

The shop assistant shook his head. 'Right then! Who's got cash 'ere today? Cash only.'

'Please. We gotta get this stuff!' shouted Mary

But they weren't listening.

'That's it. We're stuffed.' Mary sniffed.

A hand landed on Samuels shoulder and squeezed it gently. A soft female voice spoke into his ear. 'Wait, young man. Please, don't go. I'll buy your goods.'

Samuel turned around. Behind them stood a young woman in her mid-twenties her blonde hair tied back tightly behind her head. She was in a full length white embroidered dress. Samuel had never seen anyone so pretty. He stood and looked open mouthed. She smiled kindly back at him.

'You, shopkeeper, give them what they need. Put it on my bill.'

'Yes Miss Collins, straight away.'

'Samuel, it's rude to stare!' whispered Mary, tapping his arm.

The woman laughed. 'Don't worry. Anyway, we can't see a handsome young man like this starve now, can we?' She rubbed her soft hand across Samuel's cheek. His face flushed with embarrassment. 'And in return I ask only one thing. I would like the pick from your fascinating box of goodies. Just one small item is all I want. My choice. Is that a deal?'

Mary and Samuel looked at each other. How could they refuse? What a bargain! This was better than they had dared hope. They both nodded.

'Good, then the deal is done. My name is Miss Annabel Collins. You may have heard of me? Daughter of Judge Collins?'

The children shrugged, and anyway, who cared. She was paying the bill.

'Not to worry my darlings. Come on, bring your things and we'll go outside. This is exciting don't you think?'

Samuel scooped up his treasure from the counter and piled it back into the box. Except, that is, for his favourite red stone. He slipped that carefully into his trouser pocket and they followed the young woman out of the shop.

'Ain't you buyin' no stuff?' asked Samuel.

'What, me?' she laughed. 'Oh no, my staff take care of that. I simply come out of curiosity, see what provisions the stores have, see what's happening in the world. Wooldridge here takes care of my needs.' She pointed behind her to a tall middle-aged man smartly dressed in dark two-piece suit, cane and hat. Wooldridge nodded coldly to the children. Behind him, a couple of shop boys were bringing out their purchases.

'Why you helpin'us?' asked Mary.

'Children, children. The only good thing about such difficult times is it gives one the chance to show kindness of spirit, to show God how we can all pull together.' She smiled and added 'And anyway, I'm sure I'll find something I like in that box of yours.' She gestured to them to follow her towards her carriage.

Mary was tired. She was sick of the box and just wanted to get the supplies back home. 'Misses Collins, it's like this...' she started.

'Miss Collins. Not Misses, it's Miss Collins.' she pointed out with a little irritation.

'Miss Collins, we're real glad for what you done an' all, but we really don't 'ave any use for this box now anyhow.' Mary pulled the box from under Samuel's arm. 'So you can 'ave all of it.'

'No, that's my stuff!' protested Samuel.

'We got what we need.' whispered Mary. 'Let's just get rid of it.'

Annabel Collins nodded to her manservant and he removed the box from Mary's grasp. The shop boys dropped the packages on the ground by Mary and Samuel.

'It's been a pleasure doing business with you both.' observed Annabel Collins.

'It's been a real...'

But before Mary could finish her sentence, Annabel turned to Wooldridge. 'Take me home.' She ordered brusquely and marched towards her carriage.

'What d'you do that for?' complained Samuel.

'Come on, we got our errands, let's just go.'

Samuel reluctantly began picking up the bags and packages. 'I ought to give away your things an' see how you like it!'

Loaded with supplies and sweating in the afternoon heat, they began the long walk home.

Sitting inside her carriage, Miss Collins eagerly tipped the box out onto the seat and spread the contents out. She knew what she was looking for.

But the bright red stone wasn't there.

She searched again. She picked up the box and shook it. She threw the cushions off the seat to see if it had rolled into the gaps. Still no stone. She hurled the box against the wall of the carriage. She leant her head back and screamed. 'Wooldridge! Wooldridge! STOP!'

The driver pulled the carriage to a shuddering halt. Wooldridge jumped down and opened the carriage door.

'Wooldridge you idiot! It's not in there.' She hurled the box through the door towards him. Wooldridge ducked as it flew past his head. 'You've brought me a box of useless rubbish. God, why do I put up with you? Get me that damn stone!'

Without expression Wooldridge picked up the box, replaced the contents and set off in search of the children.

Samuel and Mary were making slow progress. The afternoon was getting hotter and stickier and the supplies were getting heavier. They grew close to Shipton's house. Mary became uneasy.

'Come on Sam, let's go the other way. I ain't goin' near 'im again!'

Samuel groaned. 'Oh no. It's miles that way! It's 'ot - an' I'm whacked. I ain't walkin' no further than I 'ave to.'

'What if he sees us? Come on Sam, it's only a little bit further.'

'No. You go the long way if you want to but I've 'ad it. He's prob'ly sleepin' any'ow.'

Mary reluctantly conceded. She was exhausted too.

Soon they could see the crudely etched sign over Shipton's door. They looked nervously for any signs of his greasy black hair and beard but all they could see were pedestrians hurrying about their business. Samuel dragged the sack of flour across his right shoulder, hiding one side of his face. Mary pulled a white cloth from her pocket, tied it as a headscarf and pulled it forward across her cheek. They walked as far to the to the opposite side of the street as they could, keeping their faces pointed to the ground.

Shipton's slurred words appeared through the hubbub. 'No, ya see, I don't need all that stuff. People like me, we only 'ave to close our eyes an' we can see the future clear as day.' He was stood on his doorstep trying, to woo new customers, but without the pull of his trinkets he'd only managed to attract a handful of unimpressed listeners. 'My family go back gen'rations' he went on 'we 'as foretold all sorts of things, big an' small. We...' He paused and raised a hand to shade his eyes from the bright sun. He squinted across the street. Was he looking at those thieving children?

'You've foretold what?'

Shipton didn't reply. He was struggling to see through the bobbing heads.

Samuel and Mary sensed the pause. Mary hastened her step, keeping her gaze fixed downwards. Samuel couldn't resist having a peak. He slid the sack back on his shoulder and peeped around it. Shipton recognised him in an instant; the nervous eyes, the pale young freckled face. For a moment the two of them locked their gaze together.

'It's them!' Shipton leapt from the step into the small crowd.

'It's who? What's 'e on about?'

'Come here! I need that stuff!' He pushed his audience out of the way, but then stumbled and fell.

'Mary, he's comin'!' shouted Samuel.

Mary span around in panic. Shipton climbed back to his feet and then began shoving his way across the street towards them. Mary looked around for an escape; they were loaded up and couldn't run. There was a small alleyway between a house and an Inn a few yards ahead.

'Sam, quick, in 'ere!' She grabbed his arm and dragged him into the passageway. The alley was a dead end. It was littered with empty wooden crates, barrels, broken bottles and empty flagons. Halfway down was a side entrance to the inn. They dashed behind a pile of crates and hid, dropping the supplies against the wall. Rats rustled and scurried around them. They were surrounded by rotting food scraps, bones and kitchen waste. The air was thick with flies and reeked of rat urine and decaying meat. They crouched down and waited.

Footsteps entered the alley. Mary put an arm around Samuel and pulled him in close. She screwed her eyes tightly shut. Perhaps he wouldn't see them; perhaps he would have a quick glance and move on. But the footsteps grew closer. Mary held her breath. Something tickled her leg. She brushed at it. Then she felt a scratch then a bite. She opened her eyes. A long-tailed black rat was sat on her foot, its eyes black as coals staring coldly back at her. Mary squealed and swiped at it. She fell backwards, and into something. She turned her head slowly. There was a pair of black shiny boots poking out from crisp black trousers. Those weren't the legs of Shipton. It was Annabel Collins' manservant, Wooldridge glaring down at her; the box of trinkets clutched under one arm.

Mary grinned. 'Oh thank the good Lord! It's you! You're with that lady, ain't ya? We thought you was that fortune teller bloke from across the way! Look Sam, it's 'im!'

'Thank God!' Samuel beamed.

'Is there somethin' we can do fer ya?' asked Mary ''Cause we're in a bit of an 'urry?' she kept an anxious eye on the opening to the street as she spoke. She knew Shipton would still be looking for them. She reached down for her packages. 'Grab the stuff Sam. Let's get goin' before 'e comes down 'ere.'

But Wooldridge wasn't done with them yet. He seized Mary's long hair and threw her against the wall. He raised his cane and pressed it into the base of her neck. 'You have something that belongs to Miss Collins.' he snarled. He pushed the cane deeper into her throat, the brass tip disappearing into her flesh. 'Where is it girl?'

Mary tried to answer, to explain that she didn't know what he was talking about, but the cane was choking her, she couldn't speak. She tugged at it with both of her hands but Wooldridge just pushed harder. Mary gasped for air but none came. Her vision was beginning to fade, her head was spinning.

Samuel threw himself at the stick and held onto it with all his might. 'Get off her! Get off!' he screamed.

Wooldridge booted him away but Samuel held his grip and dragged the cane away from his sister's throat. Mary collapsed to the floor, dragging rasping breaths into her desperate lungs.

Wooldridge looked down at them both and smirked. Samuel's desperate tug on his cane had pulled away its lower half, exposing a long slender blade that had been hidden within its shaft. 'Thank you boy.' Wooldridge grabbed Mary's long brown pony tail and dragged her back to her feet. He pressed the point of blade under her jaw. 'You'd better be able to help me girl, or your mother won't recognise your face tonight.' He rammed the box into Mary's belly, causing her head to jolt forward and drawing a little blood from her chin. 'You can keep the rest of this garbage. Now hand it over!'

'Please.' sobbed Mary 'I don't know...'

'Don't play games with me girl! You know exactly what I want.'

Samuel began to root through his pockets. He pulled out arm bands and necklaces and held them out. 'Here Sir, I got these.'

Wooldridge smacked them dismissively from his hands. 'Not that trash, the stone. The red stone!'

Samuel pushed his hand back deep into his pocket. He knew there was something special about that stone. He pulled it out and held it aloft with a trembling hand. It seemed brighter than ever, casting a warm glow into the shadows of the alley.

'That's more like it! Now that wasn't hard was it?' Wooldridge ripped the stone from Samuel's hand and shoved it into his jacket. 'She will be pleased.'

'Come on Mary.' urged Samuel reaching a hand out to his sister, 'Let's get out of 'ere!'.

Wooldridge seized Samuel's outstretched arm and hurled him against the wall alongside his sister. 'Not so fast. You're not going anywhere! People can't know who has this stone.'

'But we ain't gonna tell nobody!' pleaded Samuel

'That's quite right, you won't.' Wooldridge pointed his blade at the children.

Mary and Samuel edged back until they reached the door to the inn and could go no further. Their escape was blocked either side by walls of crates and empty barrels.

'We won't tell nobody!' sobbed Mary. 'Let us go an' we won't say nothin'.'

'That's a chance I can't afford to take.'

Samuel banged on the inn door and rattled the latch but there was no response. Wooldridge grasped Samuel by the throat and pushed him up against the door. He drew back his blade. Mary froze, mouth gaping, breath held. The box tumbled from her grip and emptied onto the ground.

'You shouldn't do tha'!'

Wooldridge felt a prod in the back of his head. He turned his neck to see the barrel of a pistol looking back at him, inches from his face.

'Gi' me the knife.' Shipton reached down, took the blade and tossed it back down the alley. His hand was trembling and the pistol barrel waved wildly in front of Wooldridge's nose. 'Now gi' me back my stone.'

Wooldridge hissed. He reluctantly took the gem from his pocket and tossed it into the waste on the floor.

'You boy, pick up all me things.' Shipton gestured to his trinkets scattered over the ground. Samuel knelt down and began to refill the box once again. 'An' find me that stone.'

Wooldridge said nothing. He looked at Shipton's sweating forehead, his trembling hand and the quivering barrel of the gun. He looked at the hammer on the side of the pistol. It wasn't cocked. He smiled to himself. This man obviously didn't have a clue what he was doing. Wooldridge stretched out his right arm sideways.

'Oi, what you doin'? Put your arm down, I'm warnin' ya!' shouted Shipton, the gun flapping ever more wildly. 'I ain't afraid to blow your friggin' brains out!'

'Please, go right ahead.' smirked Wooldridge. A long slender dagger slid from his sleeve and into his palm.

'Why, you...' Shipton pulled the trigger on his pistol. There was no shot, not so much as a click. Shipton cursed and tried to cock the gun but there was no time. Wooldridge thrust his blade deep into Shipton's abdomen and twisted. The pistol fell to the floor. Shipton clutched desperately onto Wooldridge's shoulders, but Wooldridge was having none of it. He pushed Shipton's failing body backwards and watched him crumple to the ground.

'Sam, run!' screamed Mary. She dashed down the alley but Wooldridge stepped in front of her and blocked her escape.

'Get back up there!' he snarled 'Both of you. I've not finished with you yet.'

Mary and Samuel retreated back up the alley away from the knife. Wooldridge dropped to his knees and began foraging through the filth in search of the stone.

Mary and Samuel were penned in. The passage was too narrow to try and dash past Wooldridge. The only windows were high above and the overhanging walls meant there was no way to climb upwards.

Wooldridge grumbled ominously as he fumbled through the rancid waste. 'You two are causing me too much bloody trouble!' he hissed. 'When I find this thing I'm going to sort you out!'

An idea struck Mary. She grabbed two cracked old flagons from the floor and shoved one into Samuel's arms. 'Ere, Sam, chuck this!' She lifted her flagon above her head and hurled it at the inn door. It shattered against the oak planks and showered fragments of pottery around her. 'Go on Sam, fling it!' She let out an ear-piercing scream then reached for another.

Wooldridge jumped up. 'What the hell are you doing?' He charged at Samuel but he was too slow and another flagon smashed into the Inn. Mary screamed again and hurled a broken bottle. Samuel began to howl.

Wooldridge reached for his knife. He'd shut the pair of them up for good. But at the opening to the alley, curious onlookers were beginning to gather, peering into the shadows. Wooldridge hesitated; he didn't want attention.

The back door to the inn rattled then creaked open. A man filled the opening; he was huge, overweight, unshaven, with a grubby blood-stained apron stretched over his pregnant-looking belly. In one hand he held a wooden club.

'What the 'ell's goin' on? Who's makin' that bloody racket?' He caught sight of Shipton lying on the ground clutching his abdomen, blood pooled in the dirt around him, then Wooldridge, dagger still pointing from his right hand. He raised his club and pointed it at Wooldridge. 'What's your game?' he growled.

Wooldridge didn't wait to answer. He bolted down the alley, pushed his way through the onlookers and was gone.

The inn-keeper walked across to Shipton. 'It's you! I might 'ave bloody known.' He turned to the children and pointed his club again. 'I want you two and 'im gone from here. I'll be back in two minutes. If you're still 'ere, I'll finish the job meself.' He stepped back inside the inn and slammed shut the door.

'Come on; let's get out of 'ere!' Samuel started to quickly gather together the supplies.

Mary hesitated. She looked at Shipton's pathetic figure bleeding in the dirt. 'Sam, 'e just saved our lives. We can't just leave 'im 'ere.'

'An' he nicked all our money!' pointed out Samuel. 'This is all 'cause of 'im. Serves 'im right!'

Shipton managed to drag himself up to sit against the wall. He was pale and panting. Sweat ran down his face like rain on a window and soaked his shirt. 'Help me across to me 'ouse.' he gasped. 'That's all I ask, then I'll be right.' He held a hand out to Mary and tried to smile. Samuel frowned.

'Come on Sam. It ain't a lot to ask. He can't 'urt us now can he?'

'But he robbed us!'

'Look at 'im Sam. It'll take us two minutes to get 'im back to 'is 'ouse an' then we're gone.'

Samuel huffed his disapproval but went along with Mary's suggestion. They hid the supplies away again, but not the box of trinkets. Samuel was determined not let that out of his sight.

'Lord's sake Sam. Let's get rid 'o that stuff!'

'No way! This is precious. Haven't you seen how everyone's after it?'

It took a several attempts but eventually they managed to haul Shipton to his feet then the three of them staggered like drunks into the street. They barged their way towards Shipton's house. As they got closer, Shipton suddenly pulled back and turned his head away. On the step of his house stood two men, arguing over something, fingers pointing, arms waving wildly in the air. Mary recognised one as the landlord who'd been demanding his rent from Shipton earlier. The other was a stocky red-headed and red-bearded man in a white shirt and blood-red tartan kilt. He was clearly angry about something.

'I can't go back there.' Shipton mumbled towards the ground.

'What?' demanded Mary, turning her head to hear.

'I can't go back there!' hissed Shipton then gasped for air again. 'Get me away from 'ere quick!'

'You gotta be kiddin'!' Samuel was not impressed. 'I ain't takin' 'im nowhere. We leave 'im right 'ere!'

'That man' stuttered Shipton 'will slice me up like a piece o' meat.' He kept his face pointed downwards. 'Leave me 'ere if you want but I 'ope you can sleep tonight knowing what you done' to me. You'll 'ave blood on your 'ands, both o' ya.'

'I'll sleep. I always sleep.' muttered Samuel.

'Why, what you done to 'im?' asked Mary.

'I ain't done nothin' to 'im, I swear! Just get me away, please!' pleaded Shipton. 'I'll explain everythin'. You'll be saving me life. I'll make it worth your while I promise!'

Shipton found new strength and began to stagger along the street, his arms draped onto a shoulder of either child, dragging them along with him. 'I 'ope you got that stone kids. We're gonna need that stone.'

They set off for Monnington Street. As Shipton tired, he leant more of his weight onto Mary and Samuel's aching shoulders. Samuel's other arm burnt with pain from carrying the box. There were no offers of help from passers-by, just worried looks and people crossing the street to stay well clear. Finally, the house was in sight. But Shipton was growing weaker.

'Mary I can't 'old 'im, he's too heavy!'

'Keep trying Sam, we're nearly there.'

But Shipton's legs finally buckled. He fell to the floor, pulling Mary and Samuel down into a heap with him. Mary crawled out and sat against the wall.

'Bloody 'ell Sam, what we gonna do now?'

'Let's just leave 'im 'ere.' suggested Samuel, rubbing a bruised elbow.

'Gimme ... a minute, I'll be... right.' groaned Shipton without conviction, his face ghostly white. He tried to sit himself up but his arms were too weak and he slumped back onto the road.

Mary and Samuel looked around for help. Across the street people stood and stared from a safe distance, but none were coming forward to offer help. Walking along the street towards them was a woman loaded up with bags. Three young boys around her were fighting over food and struggling with luggage. The woman was Fran.

'You share that properly, you 'ear. There'll be no more to eat tonight. Matt you give a bit to little Zac. Matthew... Matthew, stop eating it all, you pig!' She tried to clip Matthew around the ear but loaded with bags she couldn't get close.

Matthew's response was to force as much bread as he could into his mouth and then offer a food filled grin back at his mother.

'You wait 'til I get you home you greedy little urchin!'

Matthew laughed and skipped away down the street. He nearly fell on top of Shipton and the children.

'Matthew! Watch what you're doing!' howled Fran. She dropped her bags, ran to her son and pulled him away. 'I've warned you before Matt, why don't you listen? Keep away from them sort o' people!' She waved a disparaging finger and then looked again at the figures sitting on the ground. 'Mary! Samuel! What the bloody 'ell are you two doin' 'ere?' A broad, toothless smile consumed her face. She reached down a hand to either child and pulled them to their feet. She hugged them tightly into her body. 'I just visited your posh 'ouse. I missed seein' you two rascals.'

The children hugged Fran in return.

'An' who's 'e? What's 'e doin' down there?' Fran squinted down at Shipton lying on the ground, his clothes stained with blood. She pulled Mary and Samuel back away from him and then turned to her own children. 'Boys, boys, keep back. 'E's not safe!'

'No Aunty Fran,' said Mary, breaking free of the hug ''E saved our life, 'e did. An' he got stabbed in the belly for 'is trouble. We're takin' him back for Mum to look after.'

Fran took a cautious step closer and peered down her nose at Shipton. 'You sure he ain't got it? You know, the Infection?'

'No, look!' Mary bent over and hoisted up Shipton's shirt revealing the wound. Shipton groaned.

'Oh dear. That's not good. Not at all good.' Fran frowned. 'Suppose it's better than plague though. Still, I don't fancy your chances at the 'ouse. I went round, just to be sociable an' see you all, and that fat cook slung me out. She's a witch! Real nasty to the boys just 'cos they was 'ungry and 'ad a snack. I told her, don't come cryin' to me when you want somethin' 'cos I won't help you, oh no! Not one bit! You mark my words!' Fran tossed her head back and ran a hand through hair greying hair. 'An' if she won't let your Mum's sister come for a short visit I don't reckon she'll be 'aving grubby injured strangers to stay.' She knelt down to Shipton, placed a hand on his forehead and dragged his sweat-soaked hair back from his face. 'He doesn't look good does he? What's 'is name?'

'His name is Mister Shipton. It's a long story Aunty Fran but this fella was gonna hurt me and Sam an' Mister. Shipton 'ere stopped 'im. That's 'ow he got stabbed.'

'Yeh, after 'e robbed us.' added Samuel.

Fran turned and looked earnestly at Mary. 'Look, 'e can come and stay with me. I can fix 'im up. I know some people. An' any'ow, I need a man about the place. It's been a long time since...' Fran paused 'It's been a very long time.'

'But your place is miles away. He'll never make it.' argued Mary.

'We can go slow, carry 'im if we 'ave to. We'll get there.'

'Sit me up.' grunted Shipton.

Fran and Mary propped him against the wall. His head lolled back like a rag doll against the bricks, his mouth gaped open.

'Hmm, maybe you're right.' said Fran. 'He could snuff it any minute.'

'Get off! They're mine!' screamed Samuel. Fran's boys had spotted the trinkets and were fighting to get their hands into the box. Samuel was frantically trying to fend them off.

Fran came to his assistance. 'Boys, boys, get out of it!' She smacked Matthew around the head then picked a bracelet up from the ground. 'Sammy, what the bloody 'ell is all this stuff?'

'It's Mister Shipton's.' He held out a handful of polished stones. ''E can tell the future with these.' Then he held out several bracelets 'An' these'll keep you safe through anythin'.'

Fran held up a bracelet marked with letters that she couldn't read etched into the leather. 'What do they say?'

'Dunno. But it's magic.'

'Well 'e can't be very good can 'e?' Fran held up another and shook it as if looking for life.

'Why?'

'Well, 'e didn't see that knife comin', did 'e?'

'No, no.' Samuel jumped to Shipton's defence. 'It's not like that. Per'aps... per'aps 'e knew ...'e knew we was gonna be in danger an' that's why 'e was there to rescue us. And per'aps he ain't dead 'cause these charms is keeping 'im alive.' Samuel raised his eyebrows. He was pleased with his explanation. 'Yeh, that's it.'

Fran paused to think about Samuel's argument. He might have a point. 'Well any'ow, we can't leave 'im 'ere for the rats and crows. If he ain't up to walkin' no more then I guess we'll just 'ave to find somewhere to 'ide 'im at your place for now.'

Chapter 9

Miss Pewtersmith strutted around the house inspecting every room in turn. After opening each door she squealed her disgust down the stairs towards James and Elizabeth. They were going to understand that she was in charge now. Finally she returned to the kitchen where Elizabeth was still cleaning the mess left by her nephews.

'An' when you finish there you can damn well go up an' clean the rest of this 'ouse. Mister Jarvis would be appalled 'e would. Appalled!' She dropped herself into a chair and began to hack at a loaf of bread on the table.

Elizabeth cast a hopeful glance to James.

Miss Pewtersmith continued 'An' as the senior staff 'ere I'll be sleepin' in the main bedroom. You can go up an' clear it out.' She pushed the bread into her mouth. 'An' those kids of yours can sleep down 'ere in the kitchen. They'll not be makin' any more mess of my 'ouse. Or outside, they could sleep in the garden. '

'Miss Pewtersmith,' piped up James, 'I respect your position here as head cook and all, but when Mister. Jarvis left he did say that I was in charge. An' the children...'

Miss Pewtersmith pointed her knife at James. 'That was before 'e knew I was stayin'. If 'e knew I was here he'd want me running this 'ouse. I'm next in charge of all the staff after Lancaster.' her raised voice had a piglet-like squeal to it and she showered crumbs across the table. 'So you'd better be watchin' your step 'cause 'fore you know it 'e'll be back an' if 'e hears that you been underminin' me, you'll be out, all of you.' She pointed the knife at James, Elizabeth and Alice in turn. 'He'll already be upset once he's realised his mistake leavin' me here. Real upset.' She pushed more food into her mouth.

James looked at Miss Pewtersmith thoughtfully. She was certainly more senior than he or Elizabeth, but was this different. And James was the man of the house now. But he couldn't afford to risk losing his job. That would cost his livelihood, his home and maybe his family. He wasn't going back to the slums. .'Fine, we'll clear the room in a minute.' He turned and began shuffling the storage jars on the side, careful to avoid Elizabeth's piercing gaze. Through the window he saw Samuel run up and open the side door to the carriage house. James opened the latch and shouted. 'Make sure you put the flour in the barrel to keep the rats off Samuel.'

Samuel turned and looked vacantly back at his father then nodded and went inside. He wasn't thinking about the flour. He was looking for the sack truck. They had dragged and pulled Shipton to within a few yards of the house but they couldn't get him any further and now he was lying on the street again. A moment later Samuel flew back out with wooden planks bouncing up and down on the sack truck behind him. With Fran's help, he tied the wood into place to form a rickety stretcher.

'There!' declared Fran 'Perfect job. Now let's get 'im 'id in that carriage place o' yours.'

'But they'll see us through the kitchen window.' warned Samuel. 'Dad was watchin'.'

'Mmm, that's no good. We can't let that cook see 'im. She'll finish 'im off! We need some sort o' distraction.'

Mary muttered something into Samuel's ear. Samuel smirked.

'What you two schemin' at?' asked Fran.

Samuel lifted Shipton's blood soaked shirt and rubbed his hand across the wound. Shipton groaned. Samuel smeared the blood across his face and arms and then ran towards the house.

'I still don't understand how they left me behind.' Miss Pewtersmith moaned again in the kitchen. 'Mister Jarvis will 'ave been so upset. What are they gonna eat?'

Elizabeth and James said nothing.

'Those country cooks won't know how to cook nothin'! It'll be roast pigeon an' bloody.... bloody...badger pie!'

The door burst open and Samuel stumbled inside, blood across his face.

'Oh, Samuel!' squealed Elizabeth. 'What's happened?'

'...an' turnip soup an'...an'... rat stew...'

'I got hit by a carriage!' Samuel squeezed out a few tears.

James grabbed a cloth and soaked it in water. 'Where are you hurt Sam?' He wiped the cloth across Samuel's blood smeared face as Elizabeth fussed around him.

'My head...an' ev'rywhere.' moaned Samuel. 'It all hurts.'

Elizabeth took the cloth and held it on Samuel's forehead. 'Come over here by the window Sammy.' She gestured to him to sit and then wiped the blood from his face. She couldn't see a wound. She wiped some more and inspected his scalp. 'Where's the cut James? I can't see where this is coming from?'

James joined in the hunt, pulling his hair apart looking for a source of the blood.

Through the window, Samuel could see Fran and Mary battling to drag the sack truck along the drive. Shipton's arms trailed along the ground; he was barely conscious. Fran's boys followed behind, fighting and arguing. Finally they dragged Shipton him through the large wooden doors and out of sight.

'I feel fine now.' Samuel jumped to his feet. 'I'll take a drink...for Mary.' He grabbed the jug of water from the table and dashed for the door.

James and Elizabeth stood open mouthed. The short-lived injury was strange enough but the sudden concern for his sister?

'That's odd! What are they up to?' Elizabeth scratched her head.

James frowned back at her and nodded towards Miss Pewtersmith still mumbling away at the table.

'...an' crow pie, an'...bloody...bloody...shit like that! That's what they'll be eatin'. An' 'e won't like it!'

'Make sure all that stuff is put away Samuel.' James called after his son.

'I bet 'e sends for me, any minute! I'd best be sure I'm ready to go, at a moment's notice.' Miss Pewtersmith walked to the window and stood alongside James. 'What them two doin' out there, any'ow?' she asked as she watched Samuel disappear into the carriage house.

Mary and Fran made a small bed in a corner from clean hay and placed Shipton on top. The boys were exploring. They'd climbed into the loft space and now they were jumping down onto a pile of horse blankets and tarpaulins.

Shipton looked worse than ever. His skin was waxy and grey. The only colour came from his blue lips. He gulped air erratically. Mary looked anxiously into his face seeking some sign of recognition, but Shipton's gaze was fixed far beyond her.

Fran put a gentle hand on Mary's shoulder. 'Look darlin', we can only do so much. You didn't stab 'im and neither did I.' She knelt behind Shipton and raised his head onto her lap. She took the pitcher of water from Samuel and gently poured into his mouth. Shipton coughed and spluttered. Most of it ran down his neck and chest but Fran continued anyway until the pitcher was dry. She tore a long strip from the bottom of her dress and tied it firmly across the wound. 'You get more water Sammy and keep givin' him as much as you can.'

Samuel had another idea. He knelt alongside Fran with his box. He rummaged inside it until he found the red stone. 'Aunt Fran. There's somethin' special 'bout this. He said he'd be needin' it, an', well, everyone's after it.'

Fran took the red jewel from Samuel and caressed it in her hand. 'Tis a beautiful thing Sammy. What's it do?'

'It's magic. It can fix up the sick. It can tell the future, all sorts. I bet it can make 'im better.'

'Wow that is special. But, what d'you do with it?' Fran tried pressing against Shipton's forehead. He didn't seem to look any better. She held it over his wound. 'How d'you get it workin', Sammy? Did 'e tell ya?'

Samuel shook his head.

Fran stroked Shipton's forehead. 'Can you 'ear me darlin'? Can you tell us 'ow it works? We gotta know if we're gonna fix ya.'

Shipton's lips moved but no sounds came out.

Fran leant forward. 'What's that? You're tryin' to tell us, ain't ya darlin'? Come on, a little louder for old Fran.'

Shipton's lips moved again. There was a feint whisper but the words were still too soft to hear.

'Keep tryin' darlin'.' Fran leant over and put her ear against his lips and listened hard. 'Go on, you can do it.'

Mary and Samuel edged closer.

After a moment, Fran raised her head with a frown. 'He's tryin' to tell us but I can't 'ear him. You try Mary. Your young ears'll do better than mine.' She stroked Shipton's hair back over his head. 'Come on sweetheart, you tell young Mary.'

Mary pressed her ear close to his mouth and listened carefully. She nodded and knelt back up.

'Could you 'ear him?' asked Fran eagerly, clutching the stone.

Mary nodded.

'Well, what's he say then?'

'He says...'

'Yes, yes. Says what?'

'Say's 'e' hasn't got a clue. Says he won it in a card game from some Scottish bloke.'

'Bloody 'ell!' Fran pushed his head off her lap and onto the straw. 'Well that's it. I gotta be getting these young ruffians o' mine back home.' She began to gather together her luggage.

'But Aunt Fran! We can't just leave 'im here. Miss P'll find 'im.' warned Mary.

Fran looked back at him and frowned. 'Suppose you're right. We gotta hide 'im somewhere.' She looked around for ideas. Hanging from the roof above was a rope and pulley that dangled from the loft. 'We can use that an' 'ide 'im up there. They won't never look in the loft. Boys, you two climb up an' get ready to pull 'im in. We'll hoist 'im up.'

Fran tied the rope firmly around Shipton's chest whilst her two older boys made their way up to the edge of loft in readiness.

'Right Mary an' Sam, let's see how strong y'are. Pull!'

The three of them hauled on the rope and dragged Shipton up into the air. He hung limply, swinging gently from side to side.

'Come on kids, harder!'

He was heavy but eventually they pulled him level with the boys in the loft.

'Get him you two! Pull him in. Quick, he's 'eavy!'

Matthew and Isaac leant out over the edge and tried to grab hold of him. He was just beyond their fingertips.

'Get out the way Zac. Your arms are too short.' snapped Matthew.

Isaac turned around and shoved his brother. 'I'm not short!'

Matthew shoved him back. 'No, not if yer a friggin' pixie, you're not.'

'I'm not short, I'm nearly as big as you an'...an'...an' least I don't smell like fish!'

'Boys, stop fightin' and grab 'im for heaven's sake!' shouted Fran. This was getting too hard. 'Sammy, tie the end to that post, quick! I can't 'old on!'

Samuel fixed the rope around the wooden beam in the centre of the carriage house. Fran relaxed her burning arms at last.

'Now you two bloody pull 'im in else I'm comin' up there ta sort ya both out!'

But they weren't listening. Matthew smacked the back of Isaac's head.

'I don't smell like fish. An' I don't piss my pants every night like you do, neither.'

Isaac had no answer for that one. He turned sullenly and stretched out to try and catch Shipton again, determined to show he could do it. He curled his toes on the edge of the platform and stretched an arm as far out as it would go. Shipton was swinging like a pendulum back towards him. He was nearly in reach when Matthew gave him a violent shove in the back. Isaac had no hope of holding on. He was airborne; his only hope of avoiding crashing to the floor was grabbing the swinging body of Shipton. He threw his arms out and grabbed hold of Shipton's waist and clung on for his life. When he opened his eyes he was ten feet up and sailing across the carriage house.

'Isaac, get down now! He ain't no bloody swing!' screamed Fran. 'Matthew! I'm gonna tan your arse for you when I get up there!'

Matthew stood on the loft laughing.

Isaac meanwhile was no longer scared. In fact he was quite enjoying the ride and started pushing himself off the wall with his feet for a bit of extra swing.

'You two are bloody for it!' But then through the small side window Fran spotted Miss Pewtersmith leave the kitchen and begin marching towards the carriage house. 'Oh blimey. Quick! If that old bag finds us 'ere were dead! Isaac! Get off Mister Shipton right now!'

Isaac slid down Shipton's legs and dropped to the floor. He dashed back up the ladder.

'Quick boys, get 'im on there!' Fran cast an eye back to the window. Miss Pewtersmith had stopped and was shouting something back towards the house.

Matthew found a rake. He leant out and hooked it around Shipton's waist and finally pulled him over the platform.

'Sam, untie that rope an' 'elp me lower 'im down.' ordered Fran.

Samuel rushed to undo the knot. But the moment he loosened it, the rope fizzed through his fingers. It was too quick for Mary and Fran, and Shipton dropped like a stone. He hit the platform with a thump, bounced once and was left with head and shoulders dangling over the edge of the loft. Matthew and Isaac dived on his legs to stop him falling off altogether.

'Bloody 'ell!' hissed Fran. 'If he wasn't dead before... Mary, Sam, you go outside and try an' stop that woman getting' in 'ere. I'll go 'ide with the boys 'til she's gone. Go on, 'urry up. I'll make sure 'e's right 'fore I go home. Go on, quick now!'

Mary and Samuel slipped out of the door and tried to look as care-free as they could as Miss Pewtersmith approached.

'So boy, you've recovered from ya terrible accident then have you? That was quick. Not much to show for all that blood.'

'Yes thank you Miss P'.

'An where's all these extra supplies you brought back? She peered through the window at the side of the carriage house. She didn't see Fran and the boys trying to drag Shipton's limp body back from the edge. 'I'll be needing those soon. Where did you put 'em?' She reached for the door latch.

'We was extra careful to put 'em away proper.' replied Samuel stepping in front of her, ''Cause there's rats everywhere! Loads of 'em. Big, fat ones!'

Miss Pewtersmith paused.

'One bit me!' Samuel rubbed at his leg. 'A great big fat rat with huge dark eyes and big teeth.'

Miss Pewtersmith took her hand away from the latch. 'Hmm, well, not to worry, I'll get them later. Anyway, I got lots for you two to do. Lots o' chores. I'll see you both in the kitchen. You got two minutes, no more.'

'Yes Miss Pewtersmith, but we just gotta get the rest of the errands.' Mary smiled politely.

'What? You ain't finished gettin' the stuff? You lazy pair! Well bloody well 'urry up and get back 'ere when you're done. I got lots for ya both, ya hear me?'

Mary nodded and they headed off towards the gate.

'Bye Miss Pukersmith.' called Samuel.

'Shut up!' hissed Mary.

But the cook wasn't listening. She was back peering into the carriage house through the small side window.

Across the road the smart figure of Wooldridge stood in the churchyard, observing quietly.

Chapter 10

Mary and Samuel returned to collect their hidden supplies. They found the inn-keeper dumping more rubbish in the alley and kicking out at the scurrying rats.

Mary gave Samuel an unconvincing nod of encouragement and with heads down they walked quickly to their hiding place. Mary's heart was thumping. She remembered what the inn-keeper had said about finishing the job himself. And what if he'd found their provisions and taken them for himself? How would they explain that to their father and Miss Pewtersmith?

'This your stuff, is it?' The inn-keeper kicked his oversized boot into a sack of flour by his feet and laughed. 'Cos the rats have 'ad a good feed if it is.'

Small white clouds puffed out of ragged holes in the sack. Samuel pulled back the wooden crates in search of the rest of the supplies. Rats scurried out and ran over his feet. The packages were chewed and torn. Samuel picked up a parcel; it fell apart in his hands.

Mary collapsed down onto her knees by the sack of flour. She smudged the tears from her eyes. 'What we gonna say to Dad? We need this stuff and we ain't got no money left.'

'It's alright Mary. We can still carry this.' Samuel tried to pick up the sack but the flour poured out and filled the alley with a fine white mist.

The inn-keeper stood on his step and looked down on the pitiful pair. 'Oh, come on, I'll help you this once, if it'll get rid of you both.' He reached inside the doorway and produced a cloth sack and threw it to the children. 'Bring those packages in 'ere. I'm too kind, that's my bloody trouble. Be quick before I change me mind.'

Samuel scooped up the remains of the provisions and they followed him into the inn kitchen. Inside the air was hot and choked with eye-prickling wood smoke. The shutters on the windows were thrown wide open but there was no breeze. Spirals of blue-grey smoke drifted nonchalantly in shafts of sunlight. In a blackened fireplace, smouldering embers hissed beneath a bubbling cauldron, whilst a fat old bulldog snored by the hearth. In the middle of the floor, a wooden table was littered with the remains of rabbits that had been dismembered to top up the perpetual stew. The inn-keeper threw an arm down on the end of the table and swept the debris onto the floor. The bulldog waddled over to clean up.

'Right, put it all on 'ere.'

Samuel dropped a pile of chewed paper, dried meat and fish onto the table.

The inn-keeper produced a large cleaver and pointed it at Samuel. 'This is what you need if you're really gonna cut somethin' up.' He laughed and he crashed it down into the table.

Mary took a step back.

The inn-keeper took a piece of dried meat and began to hack off the chewed ends. 'So anyway, what the 'ell were you doin' with that useless drunk, Scroggs? He's no use to man nor beast, that man.'

'Scroggs?' asked Samuel 'Who's Scroggs?'

'Scroggs, that useless drunken scoundrel. The one lying on the ground with blood coming out of his belly!'

'That's not Scroggs, that's Shipton. He's a fortune teller.' explained Samuel.

'Shipton! Ha!' He crashed the cleaver back into the table 'He's no more a fortune teller than me!' He turned his bearded face towards the children 'You want to be careful with him. He's always drunk and always owin' money. He'll land you in trouble, he will. He's got a bill 'ere he 'asn't paid in weeks. An' it's not just me that 'e owes money too. There's a lot of people who'd like to catch up with 'im.' He smashed the cleaver back into the dried meat. 'There was a young lady and 'er man servant lookin' for 'im just today there was. An' another man yesterday. Yep, very popular man is old Scroggs. Very sought after.' He pushed the trimmed piece of meat to one side and reached for another.

'But he's got a box of jewels that...' Mary kicked Samuel.

'Oh, you know about the jewels!'

'Yes. That's what he uses to tell the future.' protested Samuel.

'Even if they did work, 'e wouldn't 'ave a clue what to do with 'em!' The inn-keeper pointed the cleaver at Samuel. 'He won those 'ere in a game of cards. Playin' against a few people an' they ran out o' money. So, they started playin' for other things. Pistols, clothes, 'orses, jewellery, all sorts. Most o' the stuff prob'ly never existed, 'specially what Scroggs was bettin'. Any'ow, he 'ad a good night for once, Scroggs - even though 'e would 'ave bin cheatin'. But turns out the men 'e beat didn't own the stuff they was gambling with neither. How d'you like that?' He swung the blade back into the dry meat. 'But they was all drunk as dogs and Scroggs took home everythin', including those jewels you're talkin' about.'

'Well that's not Mister Shipton's' fault. He wasn't to know they didn't belong them other folk.' pointed out Mary.

'Well, maybe so. Trouble is, from what I hear, there's one thing very special amongst that stuff an' the real owner wasn't 'appy when he 'eard one of 'is men 'ad lost it. They say when 'e found out he chopped him up and fed 'im to 'is dogs.' The cleaver thudded back into the table.

Mary shuddered.

'See' said Samuel 'I told you it was valuable!'

'So which bit is so special?' asked Mary.

'Well I heard a story, I don't know if it's true. I heard that one o' them stones has come all the way from Scotland and is a kind of a healin' stone. I heard they was gonna make potion to cure the sick. Would have made 'em a lot of money.'

'But how's it work?'

'I ain't got a clue.' The inn-keeper turned and pointed the cleaver at Mary. All I know is I wouldn't want to be holding that thing when that mad Scot finds it. I don't reckon 'e's gonna stop to ask how you got it.' He grabbed some cloth from the table and wrapped the trimmed meat and fish and handed it to Samuel. 'Be careful. You're messing with things you don't understand. If it was me I'd bury that stone somewhere safe. Somewhere only I knew about and I'd only get it out if I got sick.' He opened the back door to the inn. 'Now use that sack for the flour.' He looked ruefully down at Samuel and rubbed the top of his head. 'You look like my boy, you do. Same hair, same cheeky look.' His gaze became distant for a moment then he turned away.

'Where is he, your boy?' asked Mary, looking back into the inn.

'Six feet under. With his mother.' he answered quietly. 'Consumption took 'em both five years ago.'

'Oh, sorry.' replied Mary, wishing she hadn't asked.

'Don't be sorry. It's done. Can't be changed. Now get home with that and don't dawdle.' He slammed the door shut leaving them outside again.

When Mary and Samuel returned to the carriage house, Fran and the boys were gone. Shipton lay in the loft. Mary knelt by his side. He was the same; pale, clammy, breathless, unresponsive. Mary lifted his head and gently poured more water into his mouth.

'Pass me that stone Sam. There must be some way we can make it work.'

'Mary! Samuel! Where are you?' Miss Pewtersmith bawled. 'I saw yas! Stop hidin' an' get over 'ere. I got jobs for ya both!'

''Ere Sam, let's try somethin'. Pass me that strap.' Mary took the leather strap from the horse tackle and fastened it around Shipton's head. She shoved the red stone underneath so it sat over the middle of his forehead. 'There, let's try that.'

'That ain't gonna work!' said Samuel.

'You got any better ideas? Come on, we'd better get back.' She covered Shipton from head to toe with a horse blanket before they hurried back to the house.

The cook stood inside the kitchen door waiting for them. 'What you two been doin'?' She looked at them with a sneer. 'You're spendin' a lot o' time over there. You'd best not be up to no good. You'd best 'ave put that stuff up safe. If them rats get it, there'll be big trouble.'

Samuel stood behind her. He shook his head mockingly from side to side. Mary frowned a warning back at him, but Miss Pewtersmith had already seen. She swung her hand a clipped him hard across the ear.

'You'd better watch out you little brat! I know you two are up to somethin' an' I'll find out what it is don't you worry.' She walked across to the fireplace and starting pulling the blackened iron pots off their hooks and let them clatter onto the floor. 'Right, I want these scrubbed inside and out. Everyone of 'em. I wanna be able to see me face. And don't forget, I'll be watching the pair of you.'

Chapter 11

Three and a half centuries later, Stafford was leaning against the same fireplace. It was filled now with a shiny, white central heating boiler and hadn't seen a blackened pot in many a year. As he was getting nowhere with extracting information from Elvis, Stafford decided to stand back for a moment and see if Monica could do any better.

'Elvis, please! Tell me what's going on! They're saying you're a terrorist! Tell me the truth, sweetie, please.'

'Mum, it's crazy! I'm not a terrorist! I swear!'

'And they're saying that Singh boy and Henry are terrorists too! Tell me you didn't do anything silly Elvis! Tell me that you didn't... you didn't turn Muslim, did you?'

'Oh Mum! Don't be stupid!'

'Don't call me stupid Elvis! I knew I should never have let you play with that boy!'

'Alan isn't Muslim. He's Sikh.'

'I don't care, it's all the same.'

'Mum, it's not. And anyway, half the world's Muslim, for God's sake!'

'As soon as I saw that boy...'

'Look, Misses. Klatzmann,' Stafford interrupted, 'I haven't got all night. I need to know where else he's sent that stuff. I need to know where's it hidden and what else he's got. If he's not going to tell you either, then I'll have you removed.'

'You'll do no such thing!' shouted Monica, struggling to sound angry rather than desperate. 'This is my son, and... and...my house!'

'Oh for heaven's sake!'

'I'll... I'll have you removed!' shouted Monica, pointing a finger at his glass helmet.

Stafford laughed and smacked her hand down. 'Do you realise who you're talking to? Half of Britain's security services are outside this house working for me right now!' He prodded her forehead. 'You'll have me removed! Ha! That's good.'

'Don't you touch her!' shouted Elvis, jumping to her defence. But as he leapt to his feet, he stumbled and nearly fell.

Stafford looked contemptuously back at him, one hand still on the mantelpiece. 'Look at you! You're pathetic, both of you. Do you really think you can scare me? Or anyone else, come to that? Without your little bugs to send around the place to make people sick, you're nothing, either of you! Just a couple of sad losers, a washed up drunk and her cripple son! God help us! And as long as I'm wearing this suit,' he tapped smugly at the breast of his white overalls, 'there's not a thing you can do to harm me.'

The white cat was cleaning himself on the mantelpiece. Stafford's gloved hand was irritatingly close. He licked his paw once more and then sank his claws deep into Stafford's flesh.

Stafford squealed and jumped back rubbing at his hand. 'Stupid bloody animal!' He raised an arm to strike the cat, then noticed his glove was ripped and blood was appearing on the white cloth. He looked at his hand and then at Elvis. Realisation hit him; his protection was breached. He was no longer safe. 'Shit! shit!' He turned and sprinted out of the room, sending the stool tumbling over in his haste to escape.

Monica and Elvis were now alone in the kitchen.

'Elvis, sweetie, please, just tell me what this is all about?'

Without answering, Elvis grabbed his mobile 'phone from the table and began hurriedly tapping on the keys.

'Elvis, talk to me, please. What's going on?'

Elvis checked the clock again. 11.51pm. He had to go. 'Mum, look. I know it's hard to understand but I'll explain, I will, I promise. I'm not a terrorist.'

'I know you aren't Elvis.' She swept his fringe back from his face. 'I know you aren't.'

'But I've got to go right now. I'm sorry, there's no time.'

Elvis climbed on to the table and opened the window.

'Elvis what on earth are you doing? Get down!'

Elvis lifted his crutch ready to push it through the window. Monica grabbed the other end and pulled it back.

'Elvis, no! Where are you going?'

'Please Mum, trust me. Just this once.'

'But where...'

'Just this once, Mum, please.'

Monica hesitated. 'But...I'll be alone, with all these people. What am I going to say to them?'

Elvis shrugged. 'I'll be back, Mum. I will, I swear.'

'Come here.' She put an arm around his neck and pulled him in. She gave him a last hug then a wet kiss on the cheek. 'Take care sweetie.'

Elvis pushed his crutch through the window then followed it into the gap between the wall and giant plastic cover. He squeezed along the edge of the house. There was a parting in the plastic for the kitchen door. An armed guard had taken a couple of steps away for a surreptitious smoke. Elvis crawled past the door and then on around the side of the house. Eventually he made it to the front. A large, blooming lilac bush had been swallowed by the plastic sheet along with the house. Elvis pushed the branches out of the way and squeezed behind it. On the ground beneath him was an old iron drainage grid sitting over a gaping black hole. He dragged the grid to one side and let himself drop into the space. Once inside he reached up and carefully pulled the grid back across. He crouched down. In front was a tunnel leading away from the house. He wriggled along on his belly for several yards until it became wider. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small torch. It lit up a cave-like drain, the walls made of rounded, red brick, stained with the dirt from the floods of centuries passed. The drain was dry now but the air was still dank and humid. Roots from shrubs above had pushed their way between the bricks and dangled like spindly fingers above his head. The passage ahead split with a hole disappearing downwards and a larger space above. Elvis pushed his crutch into the upper space and crawled in behind it, clutching his torch between his teeth. Pairs of pink rodent eyes twinkled back at him from the darkness. After what always felt like miles but was no more than a hundred yards, Elvis came to another space large enough to stand. A rusted iron ladder was fixed into the wall. He clambered up it, creaking and wobbling, until he could slide open the heavy flagstone cover above and climb out. He was standing in a small stone building about six feet in diameter. There were no windows, just a big old door of wood and iron. He tugged on the rusted handle until finally it groaned open about a foot. Elvis peeped out through the gap. Across the road was his house. It was drenched in light and a hive of activity; a stark contrast to the dark lifeless churchyard in which he now stood.

He crept between the headstones and marble angels to the back of the medieval church. At its rear was an ugly concrete hall. As he reached the door Elvis could hear shouting and arguing, coughing and crying coming from within. Elvis cursed to himself and looked back towards the police and military just yards away across the road. He eased open the door. Inside there were more people than ever. Babies slept in mothers' arms, men played cards by candlelight and children ran about the room. They were dressed in a mix of rags, work clothes and seventeenth century finery. When they saw Elvis enter they flocked around him as one.

'How the hell could I ever explain this?' he asked himself.

Chapter 12

Miss Pewtersmith despised mornings. And once out of bed she would spend most of her day dreaming about getting back into it. Now that her boss Mister Jarvis was out of the way, she certainly wasn't going to be getting up early. She stayed submerged deep in the luxury of the soft mattress and crisp sheets on the four-poster bed and indulged herself late into the morning. Every now and again she would open one eye, smile to herself and vow to stay exactly where she was.

This gave Mary and Samuel the chance they needed. They gobbled down a token amount of breakfast before hiding the rest in their clothes. Samuel grabbed a jug of water and they headed out to the carriage house. Mary hesitated as she neared the top of the ladder; would Shipton still be alive? She peeped anxiously over the edge of the attic.

The horse blanket lay in a crumpled heap by the straw bed. The cup lay empty on its side but there was no Mister Shipton.

Samuel ran across and lifted the blanket up to check underneath. 'Wow, it worked!' He kicked at the pile of straw. A rat dashed out and disappeared behind a wooden beam. A concerned look appeared on Samuel's face. 'You don't think it... you don't think it turned him into a rat, do you?'

Mary shook her head.

There was a knock. Shipton was sitting at the opposite end of the loft tapping the red stone on the floor. He was leaning against the frame of the window, a small opening at floor level containing no glass, just a wooden shutter that was wide open and looked directly onto the house.

'Wow Mary, it sent him over there!'

'I had to get air.' whispered Shipton. He at least looked better than the day before but he was still pale and breathing quickly.

'No! You can't sit there, she'll see you!' Mary rushed across to him. 'You've got to get away from the window!' Mary grabbed his hand and started to pull.

'Stop!' Shipton winced. 'I'll move, just wait.'

Shipton gritted his teeth and shuffled along the floor away from the window, stopping every few seconds to clutch at his abdomen. Eventually he was several feet away and out of sight. He was gasping for air.

'We brought you food.' Mary knelt down and placed chunks of bread and some under-ripe apples onto his lap. Shipton made no acknowledgement.

Samuel poured water into the cup and held it up to Shipton's dusky blue lips. Shipton swiped it away, splashing water over them both. Samuel jumped back.

'Sorry, I thought...'

'No boy...' Shipton wheezed 'I...I need.... a minute... to breathe....I'm sorry.'

Samuel picked the cup back up. The stone lay in the straw near the window. It was immersed in the orange early morning light that was flooding in through the open shutters. It sparkled amidst the straw and dirt. Samuel seized it and took it back to Shipton. 'Did it work? Did it make you better?'

Shipton laughed then grabbed his side again. 'I don't know,' he grunted 'maybe it's started... but I wish it would ...damn well hurry up and finish.' He hungrily sucked air in again. 'Look, I'm... I'm sorry. You know... 'ow I was t'you both...at my place. I didn't mean no 'arm... I'm real grateful for your help.'

'You should be' pointed out Samuel 'you weigh a bloody ton!'

'That's alright.' reassured Mary. 'We couldn't leave you there now could we? And you did come to our rescue too so I guess now we're even. But you can't stay 'ere long. If the cook finds out we'll all be chucked out! Any'ow, what's this stone about? Why's everyone want it? How did you get it?'

'I didn't nick it. I won it, fair and square, playin' cards. Some new people. Never seen 'em before. One from Scotland.' He paused and looked for the cup. 'Here, Simon,' he puffed 'I'll have that water now.'

Samuel refilled the cup. Shipton sipped and then coughed and winced again. He took a deep breath.

'We'd 'ad plenty of ales so it's a bit hazy. I was havin' a good night. I'd cleaned this Jock right out. He was gettin' proper sore. I even won a couple o' pistols - you know - like I had in that alley.'

'Shame you didn't know 'ow to use it.' added Samuel.

'Yeh, well... Any'ow, I won lots of stuff from 'im and he started gettin' real upset. Said he had to win it all back but he had nothing left to bet. Not a thing 'cept the grubby clothes 'e was wearing and I didn't want them. So in the end 'e pulled out that stone. He'd been hidin' it. He told some long story 'bout where it come from.'

'Well' said Samuel eagerly, 'where did it come from?'

'I dunno. I'd 'ad too much by then. All I can remember was 'e said it was called somethin' like Motherly Stone, or somethin'. He said it could do all sorts of things. Said it was worth thousands.'

'Thousands! Wow! What sorts of things can it do?'

'Everythin' 'e reckoned, tell the future, cure the sick, make it rain - stuff like that. But he'd been drinkin' an' he was tryin' to convince me so who knows? Might o' been talkin' shit.'

'But why Motherly?' Mary asked.

'Dunno. But I 'eard next day when 'e went and told 'is boss what he'd done there was big trouble. I 'eard his boss is tryin' to find me to get it back. They say he wears a skirt an' has a huge dagger. They say it's as sharp as a razor and does terrible things with it. Say he pulls it out an' 'as sliced you like meat before you know he's even there!'

'So what are you gonna do?' Mary asked.

Shipton shrugged. 'Well, that man, the one who was standin' by my 'ouse. That's 'im. It's gotta be. I don't know any other blokes who wear skirts. 'E's found where I live so I can't go back there. Not 'til I know he's left London or I'll end up like up like a piece of mutton. But don't worry. I'll be 'out of 'ere as soon as I can walk. I just need a few days an' I'll be right.'

'So all that stuff you said 'bout tellin' the future?' asked Samuel

'Yeh, well...kind o' made it up. Sorry. Look, I 'ad all this stuff... it was just a bit o' business that's all.'

'And our money?' asked Mary.

'Oh, that. Sorry. 'E took it, me landlord. I'll pay you back, when I can, I promise.'

'And is your name Shipton?'

He paused. 'No, it's not. It's Scroggs. Alan Scroggs.'

Samuel looked at him with contempt.

'Look, you wouldn't pay to see a fortune-teller called Alan Scroggs now would you? It was like me stage name.' he paused to nibble on the bread. 'Look, there's a place I can go...maybe in the next few days when I'm stronger. A place where no one will find me. It's just a storage place near the river where they keep stuff from the ships. Nothing's comin' in no more so the place is quiet. I'll be out of your hair an' you can forget you ever met me.'

'Fat chance. And not 'til you paid us back.' muttered Samuel.

'I just need the key. It's at my 'ouse. I put it somewhere safe. You get me that key and I'll be gone from 'ere before you know it.'

'But we can't go off again. If old Miss P finds were missin' she'll go mad.' replied Mary.

'I ain't goin' all the way down there again!' moaned Samuel. 'An' what about that man in the skirt?'

Shipton shrugged. 'He'll 'ave cleared off soon as 'e knew I wasn't there. Anyhow, it's up to you. You wanted me gone...'

'Well, I suppose if we went now, while Miss P's still asleep... We'd 'ave to be real quick. Where abouts in your 'ouse is it?'

'Yeh, well that's another problem. I was a bit ... you know... unwell when I 'id, it an' I can't remember where I put it. But it's not a big 'ouse, is it? I'm sure you smart kids would find it.'

Samuel sighed.

'An' while you're there just 'ave a look see if there's a bottle o' port in the cupboard, or wine. Even just half a bottle.'

Chapter 13

30 Monnington Street was an ornate brick house with twisted chimney spires and rings of precise dwarf hedges and co-ordinated flowerbeds. Fifteen year-old Nicholas had lived at the house for the last few years, having been sent by his parents to stay with his wealthy merchant uncle. Their plan was for him to learn how to become a trader and with a bit of luck impress his uncle enough to be invited into the business. So far all he'd learnt was how to clean and carry. His uncle explained that first and foremost he must cover the cost of board and lodgings and learn how to work hard. Once he'd proven himself he could start to learn the complex world of business - but not before. Nick's disillusionment with his 'apprenticeship' was only matched by his longing to return to his family and his home in Norfolk.

Nick stood behind the tall padlocked iron gates at the front of number 30 as Mary and Samuel approached. Mary smiled coyly at him.

'Where are you two off to?' Nick looked upset, his eyes reddened and face pale.

'Can't tell you that.' replied Samuel sharply. 'It's private.'

'Nick is alright, he's not gonna tell anyone, are you Nick? Do you want to come with us Nick?'

'Tell what? Come where?'

'Mary, you can't bring 'im. What if he blabs?' Samuel argued.

'He won't tell nobody!' Mary whispered back angrily.

'What are you two on about? And anyway, I can't leave this bloody prison. Uncle says I can't go past this gate.'

'Shame' said Samuel with an air of finality. 'Come on, let's go.' He tugged on Mary's arm. She pulled back.

'You could climb over, Nick. It won't take long. You'd be back before 'e even knew you was gone.'

Nick looked at Mary then back at the house. It was tempting and after the morning he'd just had, why not?

'Nicholas! Get away from them and get on with your jobs!' His uncle's voice boomed from a first floor window. 'Go on you two, clear off!'

Mary was taken aback. Nick's uncle had at least always appeared courteous, even if he wasn't particularly friendly. It was unlike him to shout at them like they were common street urchins.

'I'd better do what the bastard says.' mumbled Nick and trudged away to the house.

'Come on Mary, for 'eaven's sake. Forget 'bout your boyfriend. Let's get this done before Misses P gets up.'

Mary let the comment pass and begrudgingly followed her brother. Samuel was still feeling deflated about the discovery that Shipton, or Scroggs, was a fraud. But at least he had the comfort of knowing the stone was special, and better still, valuable. He squeezed it tightly in his pocket to make sure he couldn't lose it.

Mary tried to picture Shipton's living room and places he might hide the key. She was nervous at the prospect of going back inside his house. If the Scottish man in the skirt was still there she would turn around and leave, no questions asked.

Suddenly someone clattered into them from behind, shoving in-between them. It was Nick. He placed a hand on a shoulder of each of them and stood panting.

'Found you!' he gasped.

Samuel pulled Nick's hand off his shoulder and pushed it away. Mary smiled warmly.

'Wasn't sure which way you went. What are we up to?'

'Your uncle'll kill you.' Samuel pointed out.

'That's up to him.' Nick replied with apparent nonchalance.

'What's eatin' 'im all of a sudden any'ow?' asked Mary.

'You didn't hear?' Nick looked surprised. 'The Galley house, you know, down the street. They got it. The Infection. It's all locked up with them inside. Got locks and chains, guards on the doors. He's wetting his pants.'

Mary halted. 'You're teasin'. What all of them? All locked up? Isabel an' all? Which one of 'em is sick? '

'I don't know. But Uncle says that's it now. Says it's got too close so he's locked the gates. He's going to lock up the house and we're all hiding away until this is over he says.'

'Oh so he's gonna love you coming with us then.' sneered Samuel.

'Where we goin' anyway?'

'We just got to go an' pick up a key for someone. It's a long story Nick. Come on. I'll explain as we go.' urged Mary.

But Nick stayed where he was, glaring up the street. Ahead were two men. One carried a blood-stained club, the other pushed a large handcart filled with dead dogs and cats, their heads bloodied and disfigured. Flies buzzed around the carcasses. As Nick looked at them tears welled in his eyes.

'What's the matter Nick?' asked Mary.

'Those evil bastards came and killed Cromwell.' he turned his head away. 'And he just let them. Said he had no choice.'

Mary went to put an arm around his shoulder but thought twice about being so bold and settled for a pat on the arm.

'They took him down the side of the house and bashed him. I could hear him, whimpering.'

Tears now filled Mary's eyes too, for Nick rather than the dog.

'I tried to stop them but they threatened me too and that old bastard just laughed.'

'Why they do' it?' Samuel frowned.

'They say they spread plague but that's a load of shit. There was nothing wrong with Cromwell. I should get a club and do the same to them.' He started to march towards them.

Mary grabbed his arm and pulled him back. Nick didn't resist. 'Don't be silly, there's two of them – and if you go home messed up your uncle'll know you been out. Come on, we got things to do.'

'Suppose you're right.' answered Nick. 'They can count themselves lucky.'

Shipton's front door was unlocked. Mary pushed gently and the iron hinges squealed as the door swung open. Images of a man in a kilt slicing people up filled Mary's head. She craned her head over the threshold. Samuel pushed his way in front of Nick.

The house was trashed, furniture thrown around the room. The contents of the cupboards and sideboard were strewn over the floor, bottles and flagons were smashed. The three children nervously crept inside, broken pottery crunching under foot.

'What the 'ell happened 'ere?' Samuel looked around in disbelief.

'It'll be that Scottish man he was on about.' answered Mary. 'He said 'e was nasty. He'll be lookin' for 'is stone. Hurry up. Let's find that key and get out.'

They searched through the sideboard, the debris on the floor, the cupboards, in the few clothes he possessed but found no key.

'Whoever did this obviously took the key.' Nick kicked at Shipton's bedding. 'We might as well go.'

There was a crash from upstairs. The children froze.

'There's someone up there.' hissed Nick 'Let's get out!' He hurried to the door. A white blur hurtled down the stairs and shot behind the upturned table. Samuel dashed after it.

'What the hell was that?' shouted Nick nervously from the doorway.

'How did you get here girl?' Samuel emerged from behind the table holding the white cat. Eloise rolled onto her back and purred. 'You'd better watch out or they'll bash you too.'

Nick huffed. 'That key isn't here. It's time we left before whoever did this comes back.'

'Just one last look.' pleaded Mary. 'It's got to be here somewhere. Then Mister Shipton can go.'

There was a cupboard under the stairs with a door as tall as Samuel. The handle was missing. Samuel squeezed his fingers in the gap around the wood and tried to prise it open but all he managed to do was buckle his finger nails.

'Move out the way, squirt. I'll get that!' Nick marched across the room and shoved Samuel to one side. He pulled out a small knife, squeezed it into the gap around the door and began trying to lever it open.

Samuel was unimpressed. He charged back and shoved Nick away. 'Get off it! I don't need your help!'

The blade snapped and fell to floor.

'Why you little...' Nick pulled back his fist.

'I've got it!' Mary found an iron key, hidden into a recess beneath the window. It was long and heavy, with a heart-shaped head and rusted shaft. 'This must be it. Thank heavens! Now we can get out of here!'

Nick scowled at Samuel and dropped his hand. Samuel stuck a finger up his nose and sneered back.

'Stop it Samuel! Come on you two, let's go.' urged Mary, tip-toeing over the debris towards the door.

Samuel picked up Eloise again and gently tucked her inside his shirt, leaving just her head peeping out, then followed Mary to the door.

Nick was distracted by a bracelet lying amongst the debris. The figures were poorly marked and hard to read. He wiped the dust away and slowly spelt out the letters ABRACADABRA. He wasn't sure what it meant but he had heard about magical trinkets with powers to protect the wearer. And anyway, no one was watching, no one would miss it amongst this chaos. He shoved it into his pocket. He felt safer already.

Mary pulled open the front door. Their escape was blocked. The hand cart, laden now with a huge pyramid of animal corpses, was parked across the front steps whilst the two sweaty workmen sat resting at either end.

'Samuel, hide Eloise!' hissed Mary.

The cat's bright blue eyes were staring out from Samuel's open shirt. Samuel shoved her head deep inside his clothes and tried to fasten his shirt but she was having none of it. She wriggled back past his hand and shook her head with disapproval.

'Oi! He's got a friggin' cat!' The man jumped to his feet, pointing his club at Samuel. 'Give that 'ere, right now!'

The other man reluctantly climbed to his feet. 'Come on boy, it's dirty. You don't wanna make everyone sick.'

Nick shoved a couple more trinkets into his pocket. He was still curious about the jammed cupboard. He gave it a frustrated kick. A soft thud echoed from inside and the door opened a fraction. Nick peered through the crack in the door; it was pitch-black. He squeezed his fingers into the gap and tugged with all of his strength. Suddenly the resistance disappeared and the door swung wide open. The corpse of a man thumped onto the ground at Nick's feet. His mouth gaped, his eyes stared upwards, his throat sliced open. The body was that of Blackburn, Shipton's landlord.

Nick panicked. He bolted for the front door. He barged past Mary and Samuel and leapt from the top step, landing on top of the cart. It toppled over and Nick found himself lying amidst dead cats and dogs.

'You bloody hooligan!' The man ran at Nick, club raised. Nick scrambled over the carcases and ran. Mary and Samuel saw their chance and sprinted after him.

The tired workmen had no chance of keeping up. As he fled, Nick howled and shook a triumphant fist over his head.

After a couple of streets they slowed to walking pace. Mary smothered Nick with her gratitude. How brave he had been charging out from the house to save them, how clever creating a distraction to allow them to escape - and he'd had his revenge after all. Nick enjoyed the adulation. He sure as hell wasn't going to spoil the impression by telling her the truth.

They arrived back outside Nick's house. He knew there'd be trouble from his uncle when he went in. Mary sensed the hesitancy.

'Why don't you come and meet Mister Shipton?' she asked.

'His uncle wants him.' pointed out Samuel.

'Yeh, he's right.' Nick looked anxiously at the house. 'I should really go back in.' He stayed where he was.

'You could show me what's happening at Galley's house.' suggested Mary.

'Suppose we could...' Nick glanced again at the house. There was no sign of his uncle.

'Can't believe your uncle allowed them to do that to Cromwell.' Mary added.

'No... I can't either.'

'Was he one of those dogs on that cart?'

'Probably.'

'Come on Mary. We should go.' Samuel started to head back home.

'Alright' resolved Nick. 'I'll show you the Galley's house, just for a minute.'

Chapter 14

The Galley's home was just fifty yards further down the street. It was a smaller house than the Jarvis's and on the end of another red brick row. The door was chained and locked and bore a bold red cross. A small crowd watched from a safe distance and a self-conscious guard shuffled awkwardly on a stool outside.

The Galleys were modest traders who had decided to take their chances and stay in the city to protect their interests. Misses Galley's illness had been spotted by the man next door and reported to the Examiner. When he voiced his concerns, the neighbour failed to mention that he had a long-standing dispute with Mister Galley and that the two had nearly come to blows on more than one occasion. Mister Galley was out when the officials came calling. The examiner brought his surgeon for advice. They debated whether the marks on the woman's skin were proof of the first case of plague on the street. They weren't typical and she didn't seem especially sick, but what was to be gained by complacency? They couldn't risk people's lives by being slack. They ordered the house be sealed up until further notice. They collected a donation from the neighbour and left. By the time Mister Galley returned home, the house was locked and the parish constable was standing outside with his watchmen waiting for him. Mister Galley's pleadings fell on deaf ears, and the house was opened just long enough to shove him inside. The neighbour clapped his approval.

As the child of a servant, Mary would not be allowed to mix with the likes of Isabel Galley, even though she was about the same age. It hadn't always been that way. Isabel's nanny was once a good friend of Elizabeth, and on Sunday afternoons, when Elizabeth was allowed some hours to herself they would meet, Elizabeth with Mary and the nanny with Isabel. They would stroll together through the streets, the adults complaining about their jobs and gossiping about the goings-on in their houses, whilst the children ran ahead. Until the age of seven Isabel and Mary had played happily, unaware of their different stations in life, their friendship kept secret from Isabel's parents. After that, Mary was given chores and Isabel an education, so their meetings dried up. They both retained fond memories of those days, but as time went on Mary had been made more aware of her lowly status and Isabel discouraged from associating below hers. Their communications became restricted to an occasional muted smile or nod. Their friendship wilted.

Now Isabel stared down from her upstairs bedroom window. She watched enviously as Mary walked freely outside. Isabel was frightened. She wanted to believe her mother's reassurances, but the Examiner had seemed fairly sure and now they were all locked up, like common criminals. Her father had schemed a plan to escape, to bribe or maybe even kill the watchman. They could sneak out of the back at night and head for the country.

But very quickly her mother had become truly sick. She had fever to go with the dark blemishes on her arms and legs. She was pale and could barely stand. She wasn't up to any midnight dash for freedom.

Isabel knew their chance to get away had gone. Now, all she could do was sit and wait and agonise over what might follow. There were only the three of them in the house. What if both of her parents became sick and died? What if she was left on her own in the house; just her, alone with her dead parents, locked in the house day and night for weeks. It was too awful to contemplate. She kept trying to block the thought from her head but it was like trying to stop a wave from rising up the beach. She watched Mary chatting with Nick. She tried to fill her head with happy memories of their games, trying to catch the summer butterflies, dodging the gaps in the cobble stones whilst the nanny and Elizabeth walked behind. But she couldn't. She had a lump in her throat the size of a rock. Her fists were clenched tight, palms wet with sweat. What she wouldn't give to be outside with Mary now.

Mary searched the windows for Isabel. Finally she saw her ghostly white face looking down from an upstairs window. She gave a brief self-conscious wave. Isabel stared glassy-eyed and motionless back at her.

'Come on' moaned Samuel, 'this is boring. Let's go back.'

Mary turned swiftly and poked him in the ribs. 'Where's your 'eart Samuel. That could be you sittin' up there!'

Samuel shrugged his shoulders and said nothing. When Mary looked back up, the face at the window had gone.

Isabel was sat on the floor. She chewed on her lip until she tasted blood in her mouth. What would she do if she was left all alone in the house? How could she get food and water? How would she get through the night?

She needn't have worried. Within two days the whole family was dead.

Chapter 15

Shipton was pleased with the key. He tied a string through its heart-shaped handle and wore it as a necklace. He didn't seem surprised by the state of his house and Nick made no mention of the corpse.

'I expected they'd be tryin' to find that stone' Shipton commented.

'You knew? Thanks for the warnin'!' Mary was unimpressed.

'Hey, it wouldn't matter. He doesn't know you, does he? An' this way I'm out of here in a few days and we're all 'appy. Now what about the wine? Did you find a bottle?'

'Wine! We got chased by men with clubs!'

'Shit!' He paused and thought for a moment. 'So does that mean no? You didn't bring me a bottle? You do, you mean no, don't you?'

'Yes, I mean no.' replied Mary through gritted teeth. 'We weren't thinkin' 'bout your bloody wine!'

'Shit! Maybe you could nip back an'...'

'No! I ain't nippin' nowhere!'

Shipton hissed. 'Well, any'ow, suppose I'd best be 'avin' me stone back now, if you don't mind.'

Samuel was hesitant. He caressed it in his pocket.

'I'm gonna need it if I'm going to get better... and get the 'ell out of 'ere.'

Mary nodded and Samuel reluctantly handed it over.

Shipton squeezed it tightly in his hand. 'This little gem is gonna do me a whole lot of good.'

Mary and Samuel spent the next few days smuggling as much food and water as they could to Shipton. It wasn't easy. Miss Pewtersmith was keeping a close eye on them and had boundless imagination when it came to finding them chores. Thankfully her long mornings in bed gave them a chance early in the day to get things done.

But Shipton's initial improvement wasn't maintained. As each day passed, he became weaker and less coherent. He stopped eating and was again only managing mouthfuls of water with help. He developed fever, tremors and was moaning and shouting nonsense. There was a risk he would be heard. Samuel suggested he might be possessed by demons but Mary clipped him around the head and told him to stop being so stupid.

The road at the front of the house had quietened. The flood of carriages had reduced to a trickle and only few pedestrians walked briskly by. The road was a major route out of the city but it seemed most who had planned to leave had already gone. Add to that the sight of a nearby house bearing the dreaded red cross and Monnington Street had become another place to avoid. Even the church of Saint Michael across the street, which had seen a roaring trade until now, had ceased all services. The clergyman had agonised but in the end he decided to put himself and his family first. He left his blessings behind and deserted his flock for the country. He left the church in the hands of a warden who unlocked it in the morning and locked it up at night. Worshippers came and went but instead of overflowing into the street now they came in ones and twos, a family at the most. They kept their heads down and sat as far apart from each other as they could. They prayed hard to escape God's punishment. As they left the church they took a wide birth of the dark suited figure lurking outside. Wooldridge paid no heed. His focus was on the activities at the house across the road.

Mary knelt by Shipton and tried again to give him water. There was no movement from his mouth. She shook his shoulders but the rambling rubbish he'd been talking for days had stopped completely now. She propped him up and poured the water between his lips. This time there was no swallowing and barely a splutter in protest. The water ran back from his open mouth, trickled down his neck and soaked into his grubby shirt. His eyes were glazed and distant. He smelt of sweat and urine and the hay he lay on was soggy and crawling with insects.

Mary turned to Samuel. 'I reckon we're losing him Sam. He ain't drinkin' this. I don't know what else to do.' She sniffed and wiped her nose on her sleeve. 'I ain't never looked after a sick person before. Pigeons and chickens but never a person.'

'We'll have to tell Mum and Dad.'

'No. Then Miss P will find out and she'll chuck us all out. We'll have to...we'll have to go see Auntie Fran. She'll know what to do.'

Samuel rummaged through Shipton's pockets until he found the red stone. They covered him up again and climbed back down the ladder. As they reached the ground the front doors of the carriage house creaked and then shook violently.

Samuel shot an anxious look at Mary. 'Who's tha...?'

Mary pushed her hand over Samuel's mouth and gestured for him to keep quiet. She grabbed his arm and pulled him to the side of the shed. Outside footsteps crunched on the dirt, moving around the side of the building. Mary pulled her brother down and they huddled together under the window out of sight. The steps paused and a shadow came across the opening above them. Mary squeezed Samuel tightly against her. This couldn't be Miss Pewtersmith; she would have just barged in through the side door. Thoughts of the Scotsman with his dagger filled Mary's head once more. Had he come looking for the stone? The footsteps started again, moving towards the small side door. It was unlocked. Samuel crawled across the doorway and slid a hand up towards the iron bolt. It was stiff and hard to move at the best of times. It wouldn't budge. The door opened a few inches and a streak of sunlight lit up specks of spiralling dust. Mary grabbed her brother and pulled him back towards her. The children sat together motionless. The door opened a little more. Samuel's heart was pounding. He looked around for a weapon to defend himself. Behind him was a small iron shovel. He grasped it tightly. Wooldridge stepped into the building. He stood a few feet inside the door and inspected the carriage house. Before him were scattered tarpaulins, wooden crates, boxes and a ladder to the upper level. Against the opposite wall was a mound of horse blankets. He stepped forward to have a closer look. Samuel rose to his feet clutching his shovel. Mary grabbed his arm and shook her head violently. Samuel paid no heed. He wriggled his arm free from her grip and crept silently behind Wooldridge and raised the shovel above his head.

In the house James was satisfied that the place was now secure. He had boarded up the entire ground floor leaving the grand rooms dark and airless. As the home had been built on a gentle incline, the cellar kitchen door opened at ground level onto the back garden and this was to be their only access to the outside world until they locked themselves away completely. The kitchen windows here bore thick iron bars so James was willing to leave them uncovered, and Elizabeth was grateful for the air and the daylight.

James sat at the table in the kitchen. He had Mister Jarvis's weapons laid out before him again. He had never fired a gun but Mister Jarvis had shown him how his pistols worked and he had learnt a little from his father before his death in the Civil War. The sword seemed a simpler option though and he wondered which he should chose if the time came.

The kitchen door crashed open and Mary came flying in. 'Dad, there's a man...there's a man' she gasped, 'in the carriage house!'

'Mary, slow down girl. We didn't get a word of that.' said Elizabeth, still organising the store of food.

'He's got Samuel...he's hurtin' 'im! Dad, quick!' she grabbed her father's arm and pulled him to his feet.

James grasped the sword from the table. He charged out of the door and across the driveway towards the carriage house. Inside he found Wooldridge holding Samuel by his throat against a wooden beam. Samuel's shovel lay on the floor. Wooldridge bore a spade-shaped dust mark on the back of his jacket.

'You'd better tell me where it is, boy. I'm growing very tired of this.' He tightened his grip on Samuel's throat and watched his face turn a deep purple and his eyes bulge.

James charged in and swung his weapon wildly at Wooldridge; but he was no swordsman. Wooldridge released Samuel and ducked out of the way. The blade crashed into the beam above his head, spitting oak chips back into his face. James hoisted the sword high into the air and brought it hurtling down again like an axe. Wooldridge slipped effortlessly out of its path and the sword clattered into the cobbles: sparks flew, half of the blade broke away and tumbled across the stone floor. Wooldridge had been hoping to avoid attention. He'd planned to get the stone quietly and slip away leaving nobody to tell of his visit. This was the last thing he wanted. He'd have to leave and find another way to get the stone. He moved towards the door.

But James wasn't finished. Mister Jarvis had been right. This disease was getting ugly and he had to protect his family. He dived at Wooldridge and seized his arm. He drew the remaining half of the sword back ready to plunge. But Wooldridge was slick and even half of the sword was still long and cumbersome up close. Wooldridge brought his elbow crashing into the heart of James' chest, expelling every last gasp of air from his lungs. He span around and landed a fist into James' face, knocking him off his feet. James lay wheezing on the cobbles.

Wooldridge straightened his jacket and snarled at Samuel. 'I've not finished with you yet boy.' He pushed Elizabeth out of the way and left.

Elizabeth ran to Samuel. He was on all fours coughing and fighting for air. James staggered to his feet.

Miss Pewtersmith stood disapprovingly in the doorway. 'You're up to no good you two. You're gonna get us all killed.'

From the balcony above there was a rustle and gentle cough, thankfully unheard by all but Samuel and Mary.

An hour later Wooldridge stood in the bright airy drawing room of the London home of Judge Collins. The tall picture windows looked out over precise box hedges that divided immaculate rows of purple and yellow flowers. A small army of gardeners busied themselves tending the plants. In front of the window sat Annabel Collins her long blue dress covering much of the French sofa, a small book of English poetry sat idle on her lap. Wooldridge stood with his head bowed and hands crossed behind back.

'What? I don't understand. You're telling me you can't retrieve this stone from a couple of children?' She spat the words at him. 'What sort of a man are you?' She rose to her feet and poked her index finger into his chest. 'I need that stone before we leave London. We would have gone days ago except for you.'

Wooldridge screwed up his toes and gritted his teeth. How he wanted to reply, but he knew better.

'God alone knows why my father keeps you on. You did him one favour in the war and you think he owes you a debt for a lifetime?'

'Sorry Madam. I came close but there were people there who could have recognised me and traced me back to you. I wouldn't...'

'Shut up! Shut Up!' she screamed 'I don't need excuses. You know what I want. If there are people in the way just deal with them for God's sake!' She returned to the sofa. 'I can persuade my father to delay for just one or two days more.' She picked the book up from the floor and began to thumb through the pages. 'If I don't have that stone by then I'll ensure my father's loyalty to you is well and truly over.' She waved him away as is wafting at flies. 'Go... and do whatever it takes.'

Chapter 16

There was a sharp rap on the kitchen door. James took hold of the broken sword. Elizabeth herded the children away.

'Open up! By order of the Alderman and the Lord Mayor! We know you're in there.' The banging started again.

Alice cried

James opened a crack in the doorway and held his sword out of view. Two men stood outside. One was dressed formally, sweating under a heavy dark cape in the evening sun, the other a large muscular man in tattered work clothes, one eye covered by a leather patch, a deep scar traversing his angular cheek.

'What do you think you're doing man, hiding from us? We've been at the front door for twenty minutes!'

James opened the door a little more. 'We weren't hiding. The upstairs is locked. This is the only entrance now. What... what are you doing here?'

'We are the law! My name is Edwards, Officer of the Alderman. That is Brock. '

Edwards nodded to his burly assistant who promptly shoved the door and James to one side. The pair marched into the kitchen.

'You'd be in charge of this house now would you?' Edwards pointed at James with a scroll of paper.

Miss Pewtersmith opened her mouth to speak, but then thought better of it and kept quiet.

'Well, the owner, Mister Jarvis, he's left for the country and...' James began.

'Yes or no?'

'Well, he left me in charge while ...'

'That's yes then.' Edwards started to unroll the scroll. 'Now you'd be aware of the Lord Mayor's decree about plague, would you not?' He held open the furling paper.

James looked at it blankly.

'Are you aware or not?'

James said nothing.

'You can't read it, can you?'

James shook his head.

'Can any of you read this?' Edwards looked at the other faces in the room. Miss Pewtersmith was nervous, standing well back, Elizabeth was holding onto her children as if snarling dogs had just entered the room. Edwards sighed. He turned back to James and then nodded at the chair. 'Sit, let me explain. This is the law as set out by the Mayor. It contains all the orders to do with plague.' He pointed to the paragraphs. 'This here says he can pick and choose whoever he wants to do his work, and if you don't do it he'll have you locked up. Each parish has an Examiner. He's in charge of everything to do with the plague, locking up houses, ordering who goes where and all of that. He's not a man to upset.' He pointed down the page. 'And here says about how the Examiner will appoint his watchmen, they're his jailers. They lock the sick up in their houses for twenty days at least, or more often 'til the house smells so bad that you know they're all dead. And further down it speaks of marking the sick houses with a red cross, about burying the dead, airing the house, no beggars and so on and so on.'

'What's this to do with us?' Elizabeth asked, still clutching her family around her.

'I'm coming to that.' He pointed to another paragraph near the top of the page. He paused, frowning at Elizabeth. 'It's not my choice this you know. I have children too... I don't know why they picked you out. I got no say in this.'

'What are you talking about? Haven't got a say in what?' James slid his chair backwards and cast a glance at his sword on the table. Brock leant a hand on the back of Edwards' seat. His one eye was fixed firmly on James.

'This part is about... about the searchers.' He cleared his throat. 'He appoints women to be searchers. It's the law, you know. To go and check the dead bodies for signs of plague. So the examiner knows which houses to lock up and where the Infection has got to. Stop it spreading. You must have heard about them.' He kept his focus on the paper before him.

'I still don't see what this has to do with us.' James' voice became a little louder.

Brock moved forward and placed his hand on the table alongside the sword.

'I'll get to the point. My orders are to come here and order your good wife to be a searcher for this parish. You are to be made a watchman to be called on when needed.' Edwards shot a glance at each of them. 'If either of you refuse I am to have you jailed until you change your mind.' Edwards edged closer to Brock.

'No please, no!' shouted Elizabeth.

James jumped to his feet. 'Get out! Out of this house now!' He reached for the sword but Brock already had a scarred hand firmly on the handle.

'Look, none of us want to be doing this but there is no choice. This is the law.' Edwards rose and stepped behind the burly figure of Brock.' I did expect this. Brock here will have no problems enforcing my orders if need arise.'

'They ain't stayin' 'ere an' doing that!' Miss Pewtersmith barked. 'They'll make this house dirty. They'll bring that disease in 'ere they will. You take 'em away with you.'

'And who might you be?' asked Edwards.

'Miss Pewtersmith, head o' the kitchen... and household.'

'I see. Then perhaps it's you we should be taking with us.'

'No, no, I'm just saying you don't want people like them infectin' clean 'ouses, that's all. You should make 'em go somewhere else. You wouldn't want me... I'd be no use to anyone. I've... got rheumatism in all me joints; I can hardly walk most days. I'd be terrible.' She backed away into the corner of the kitchen again.

Edwards returned his gaze to Elizabeth. 'And from now on you must keep no other employment. You must keep away from all public places and must not trade goods or launder any clothes except your own. That goes for all of you in this house. You must keep to yourselves.' He took a deep breath. 'Now it's time we were leaving. You must come with me.' He nodded at Elizabeth.

James stepped in front of his family. 'You'll not be taking her. You'll have to kill me first!'

'As I said, if the need arises...'

Brock lifted the sword from the table. It looked little more than a bread knife alongside his bulky frame.

Edwards looked at the pitiful sight of Elizabeth, clutching her children and his tone softened. 'Look, I don't want to be doing this but I have no choice. Someone in a high place doesn't like you. If I don't do this then it's me that's in trouble.'

Elizabeth reached a hand onto James' shoulder. 'We have no choice James. I must go.' She knelt down, wrapped her arms around her children and pulled them in tightly. 'Children, no tears.' She wiped Samuel's face with her sleeve. 'You be good for your father, you hear?'

'No Elizabeth, there's got to be another way.' James turned to Edwards. 'Look, Mister Jarvis, he'll pay you when he returns I know he will. He's rich and generous. He wants us to care for his house, I'm sure he'd pay. I give you my word.

Edwards looked at James disdainfully from behind Brock. 'Your word! What use is anyone's word? Half this city will be dead before this summer's over.'

Samuel pushed himself away from his mother and pointed an accusing finger at Miss Pewtersmith. 'Take her! She's the one you want. She's no use. It would serve her right!'

Miss Pewtersmith scowled back in silence.

Elizabeth pulled her son back. 'Hush dear, don't wish it on anyone.'

James looked desperately around the room. 'Here, take these.' He took the pistols from the cupboard and offered them to Edwards. 'They're the finest quality. Look at the metalwork in them.'

Edwards held a pistol and stroked along the barrel. 'It is beautiful, that's true... But no.' He pushed it back into James. 'It doesn't fix my problem. I've got to take back a searcher. I don't know why but they insisted I come here.'

'Right, then I'll go instead. As the searcher. Take me.' replied James.

'What you? Searcher is a woman's job. I can't take you!'

James pushed the pistols back in front of Edwards. He took them one in each hand and eyed them admiringly.

'You can't give 'im them guns. Them's the master's finest pistols.' Misses Pewtersmith came out from the shadows again.

Edwards raised the unloaded pistol to his eye and pointed it as Miss Pewtersmith. 'We do have plenty of vacancies to fill you know.'

Miss Pewtersmith shrank back into the corner of the kitchen.

Edwards turned his attention back to James. 'Well, I suppose watchmen are ten-a-penny' he rolled the pistols in his hands 'and I suppose there's no reason why we couldn't have a man searcher.' He stood and shoved one pistol down the front of his breeches. He pushed the other gun across the table towards Elizabeth. 'I suggest you hold onto this one. But understand, if the Alderman objects, I'll be back for you.' He rolled his document and pointed it at James. 'Look, I'll give you until tomorrow morning. Brock will be here just after dawn to make sure you don't change your mind.'

Half a mile away the Reverend Singer sipped on a small glass of port in the Bishops' sitting room. 'I understand there are other people searching for too, your Grace.' the vicar cringed a little as he spoke, awaiting the inevitable angry response. 'And I believe I saw it myself in the hands of children.'

'So why didn't you seize it man?' the Bishop was clearly irritated. His foot was acutely painful with another attack of gout and he was unimpressed by the news from his vicar. His leg was raised on a small stool, his toes covered in a poultice and bandage. He'd already delayed his departure from London by several days because of his diseased foot and he was keen to get going. 'That blasted physician is no use to man or beast.' he roared. 'Every time it happens he just wants to fill me full of opium until I can't think. He keeps telling me this is a sign of good health! I'd like to give him some good health, see how he likes it!'

'Let me look at it your Grace.' The Reverend Singer very carefully lifted the dressing from his foot. The big toe was swollen like a ripe tomato. 'Oh, very nasty.'

'Nasty? It's more than bloody nasty. I'd like to hack the thing off! Ow! Be careful man for God's sake!' The bishop gestured to his servant to top up his glass and continued through gritted teeth. 'This plague is a dangerous time for the church. This is a time when Satan can drive a hard bargain with any man, a time when witchcraft and wizardry lurk around every corner and people are tricked by the wolf into leaving the protection of our flock.' He focused his piercing dark eyes into the Reverend. 'You must burn the fear of God into every wretched soul you meet. I want them waking at night shaking with the fear of fire and damnation. Make sure they know they'll get torture and torment in hell for all eternity if they stray from us now. Don't let them forget.'

'Yes your Grace.' Singer sipped nervously on his wine. 'And when do you think you might be leaving us for the country?'

'Tomorrow, I hope. If this blasted foot lets me.' He shuffled awkwardly in his chair. 'God has plenty of work for me to do in the future. Once this silly panic is over I'll return and rid this sin-ridden city of the devil's work.' He twisted again and spilt his drink. Port wine ran like blood down the front of his white silk shirt. 'Curses! It's spoilt! Blast this foot!'

'Let me help Sir.' The Reverend plucked a handkerchief from his pocket and jumped eagerly to his feet. He lurched forward to dab the Bishop's chest and bumped his swollen toe.

'Ow! Are you trying to kill me man?' the Bishop howled, pearls of sweat appearing on his crimson face.

The Reverend shrivelled back to his seat and sat child-like on the edge of the cushion.

The Bishop took some deep breaths and started again. 'And this evil stone calls out to every wizard, every witch and friend of Satan in London. I want it found and I want it brought to me. People must know that anyone who touches it will burn in hell for ever. When you catch these children, and whoever controls them, I want them tried for witchcraft and executed. Burnt. Do you hear?'

'Your Grace, do you think... do you feel the judiciary would still support us burning witches?' The vicar chose his words carefully. 'These are modern times - we are in the 1660's now, after all. '

'Don't doubt me, Reverend. I know every judge in London. When the time comes, I will make sure whoever sits on that bench shares our passion.'

Chapter 17

Samuel wrapped the red stone in a cloth and pushed into the depths of his pocket. Mary was still asleep on rugs and blankets on the kitchen floor. The first glow of dawn had sparked the birds into a noisy chatter outside and brought a half-light into the kitchen. Samuel kicked his sister gently on her shoulder.

'Mary, wake-up. Come on. Before that old bag gets up, let's go.'

Mary rolled over and groaned.

'Come on. We've got to get out to see Fran before everyone's up. Remember?'

Mary pulled the cover over her head. The stone floor was hard and sleep hadn't been easy. Samuel kicked her again. 'Come on lazy!'

She reluctantly sat up and rubbed her eyes. 'Sam it's still night time.'

'No, look, it's nearly daylight. We gotta go.'

Mary dragged herself up from her blankets and straightened her hair with her fingers. She hid behind the pantry door and slipped back into patched-up grey frock. 'There, how do I look?' she asked.

Samuel rolled his eyes to heaven. 'Let's go.'

The sun was still well below the horizon but the day was already warm. The sky was a deep blue above and the more resilient stars still managed a twinkle in the early morning half light. Samuel and Mary walked briskly down the broad deserted Monnington Street. The air smelt of a burning wood and rubbish, and left an acidic taste on the tongue. Small columns of smoke sprouted out from between buildings before being smudged away by the feint breeze.

As they continued their walk towards St Giles the wide streets began to narrow. Houses became crammed tightly together and made of timber and rough stone rather than brick. Glass was replaced by wooden shutters and the roads became littered by deep potholes with gutters overflowing with filth in the centre. The smell changed too. No longer just the acrid smoke but now the odour of decay and sewage filled the air. The ground was coated with a layer of sleepy flies that rose like dust with every footstep. The chatter of birds had gone and was replaced by the sounds of babies crying, children coughing and a city waking from slumber. From some houses came piercing wails and howls, shrill, piercing screams that couldn't be shut out.

The roads became more alike and confusing. They had ventured this way once or twice before but a long time ago and never alone. Then their mother had guided them through the packed bustling streets, alive with chatter; with street sellers and entertainers, with laughter and fights. It wasn't quite dawn yet and the streets were deserted, no one to ask for help. They were lost.

'We just got to knock on a door and ask someone.' explained Samuel.

'I don't know 'bout that Sam. What if they's sick? You 'eard all that cryin'. I ain't knocking on no door and findin' someone covered in sores standin' there. Can you imagine?'

They came to another crossroads in the narrow streets.

'Look' Mary pointed 'there's a man sitting outside that house. Come on, we'll ask him.'

They ran the fifty yards along the street, skipping over the garbage-filled gutter in the middle of the road and sending rats scurrying for shelter. They slowed as they got near, seeing the man was fast asleep in the doorway.

'Let's wake 'im.' Samuel strode forward boldly. Mary grabbed his arm and pulled him back. She pointed at the door. A chain emerged from a crude hole punched through the timber and ran to a large heart-shaped iron padlock. Above the sleeping watchman was the cross, two feet or more high, the red paint streaked down the grain in the wood.

The watchman coughed and grunted. He opened an eye and spotted the children. ''Ere, what the 'ell are you two doin'? Don't you know what's good for you?' He jumped to his feet. 'Clear off back where you come from. Go on, sod off!' He raised his fist threateningly above his head.

Mary and Samuel turned and ran further along the street, deeper into the slums. They rounded another corner. In the centre of the road a heavily laden cart was being dragged by a weary, emaciated horse. It almost filled the narrow street. The driver trudged alongside his animal. He was covered in a thick sack-cloth cloak tied with rope around his waist. The ragged cloth came up to form a hood over his head and a rough scarf was tied across his face leaving only his eyes exposed. Mottled purple and black and fingers reached out from the side of the cart. The children flattened their backs against the wall as the cart rumbled slowly past. The driver made no acknowledgement of their presence. The air was filled with the foul odour of death and disease. It flooded the nose and mouth and dripped into the throat, teasing the stomach. The bodies were stacked in rows. Some had been wrapped neatly in cloth, now patterned by stains of blood and body fluids. Others lay as naked as the day they were born, limbs splayed, eyes wide open and mouths gaping as if silently shouting for help. Whatever pride and dignity they'd known in life had been lost completely in death.

Behind the cart two grubby young children ran and stumbled, desperately trying to keep up with the cart, their cries unheard by their dead parents.

A shutter above Mary and Samuel opened. A sandpaper rough voice shouted down. 'Wait, we got someone for ya. Wait there!'

The driver halted for a moment and pulled back his hood. 'Not this one mate. I'm chocka. You'll have to wait 'til tonight.'

As the cart stopped, the two young children finally caught up. They clutched at a purple limb hanging from the back of the cart. It belonged to the corpse of a young woman, her eyes open and gazing to the heavens. The children screamed and sobbed at their mother to wake up.

But then the driver whipped the tired horse and the cart rumbled on. The cold hand was pulled from the children's grip and the chase started again.

Mary turned away, buried her face in her hands and waited for the cart to disappear.

'Here, you.' the words were hushed, Help us. Please. See if you can undo that bolt.'

Mary peeped between her fingers. A door before her was formed of rough planks, the edges still bearing the contours of the mother tree. In a gap between the planks, a bloodshot eye stared back. The streak of face was ghostly white, the lips dry and cracked.

'Come on. Help us.' he whispered 'You got a family? Come on. Please... help. We ain't got no food nor water in 'ere.'

Mary took her hands away from her face. The door was locked with a heavy iron bolt and bore the red cross.

Another face appeared in a crack, this time at the level of Mary's waist. A young child, maybe three years old stared up through red eyes. She pushed her small hand through a gap and held it out to Mary. Mary's first instinct was to take the hand, squeeze it and comfort the young girl. But she knew she couldn't. She staggered back from the door. The child began to cry.

The man spoke again. 'I can pay, I have money. How much you want? Come on, get us out, please. We're gonna die in 'ere. Please!' The door rattled.

Mary looked along the street. Red crosses were daubed on every second or third door. A small group of watchmen sat on the ground and played gambling games in the dirt

'Come back!' the voice was louder now and more desperate. The door shook violently. 'For God's sake there's dead bodies in 'ere! Get us out!'

The watchmen looked up from their game. 'Oi, you two! Get away from that bloody 'ouse! Can't you see the cross, for God's sake?'

One of the men rose to his feet. 'Go on, sod off or I'll lock you up in there with 'em.'

Mary and Samuel sprinted in the opposite direction, past the body collector, and on until they were out of sight of the watchmen and ever deeper into the slums.

'We ain't never gonna get out of this place?' moaned Mary, looking at the confusing maze of cramped streets and alleys.

'I got an idea.' said Samuel

'What?'

'Well, Fran lives near that church, St Giles in the Field, don't she?'

'Well, yeh, we both know that clever clogs. But where the 'ell is it?'

'Well, where d'ya think he was takin' all those bodies? He ain't takin' 'em 'ome is he? He'll be takin' 'em to the churchyard so if we follow 'im, we'll find the church.'

Mary stopped and thought. 'You little genius!'

They followed the cart at a safe distance as it weaved its way through the slums. They kept one eye looking up to avoid the occasional shower of sewage from emptied chamber pots. A few drunks staggered by, shouting lewd comments at Mary, but none willing to get close to the cart.

For the body collector, the night's work was all but done. The horse plodded on until the spire of St Giles in the Field Church appeared. There were more carts in the churchyard; most empty, a few still fully laden queuing for their turn to unload their cargo into the pits. Two men were arguing. A pit had been overfilled; the corpses were too close the surface to be buried. Limbs would be left sticking out of the dirt. There were no volunteers to go into the pit and start taking bodies back out and now the sun was climbing over the eastern horizon. It was time they were finished.

Mary and Samuel left the cart as it rumbled into the church yard. The chasing infants were still stumbling behind. They were too exhausted to cry or shout anymore and concentrated all their efforts on just keeping going. A warden at the gate stepped in front of them. He shooed them away, prodding at them with a stick so as not to get too close. The children stood bewildered at the churchyard gate, just yards from the church, their tears forming pale streaks in the grime on their faces.

The warden raised his stick above his head. 'Go on, clear off. This ain't no bloody kids home!'

Chapter 18

The night had been long, quiet and still. Distant screams and wails lingered in the air in place of the usual barking dogs and drunken shouts. James and Elizabeth had laid awake agonising over what they should do. Neither said it aloud but they both knew that the job of searcher likely came with a death sentence. James had considered running away and hiding but that would leave Elizabeth or even Mary to take on the role of searcher. They could all run away, but the city was now sealed and the only other place they knew to hide was the slum of St. Giles, and that would likely see them all catch plague. In the end James vowed he would go as ordered and not return to the house. If he survived he would come back weeks after it was all over. Until then, every morning at dawn he would stand outside the church across the road to let them know he was still alive. Elizabeth argued with him, but inside she knew there was no other choice.

At dawn he rose. He gathered together a few valuables just in case the Alderman was open to negotiation. He had always driven hard into the children not to steal. He was a religious man and until recently had always followed his beliefs. Taking Mister Jarvis's goods didn't come easily. He vowed to make penance later; surely God would forgive this indiscretion if it meant he could live on to care for his family. He promised himself that one day he'd pay Mister Jarvis back, but he had no idea how.

Elizabeth said little. She fussed around James, gathering some clothes and food for him to take. She tried to avoid making eye contact for fear that would bring back the tears she had shed silently in their bed overnight. They both knew this could well be the last time they spent together.

Elizabeth made breakfast and they sat together in silence at the table. Alice was still sleeping. They both stared quietly at the food, unable to eat.

'Keep these doors locked, Elizabeth. Always locked.'

'I will James.'

'And practice with that pistol. Make sure you know how to use it.'

'Yes.' her voice quivered. She swept away a tear.

James wanted to be strong. He got to his feet and turned his head away. 'We'll get through this.' he croaked.

'We will James.'

But they no longer believed it.

There was a rap on the door. 'Time to go. The Alderman is waiting.'

James reached for the bundle his wife had prepared. Elizabeth jumped to her feet and grabbed his arm. She pulled him away from the door. 'No, James. There must be some other way. You hide. I'll tell him you've gone. You can hide in the loft. We could all hide there.' The tears now flowed freely down her face. 'They'll think we've run away. Let's get the children.'

James wrapped his long spindly arms around her pulled her body against his. 'Shh Lizzie,' he whispered' we both know I have to go.' He pushed his face into her neck and gently kissed. 'It's down to you now Lizzie.'

The knock on the door turned into banging. 'Come on! He's waiting!'

'Why don't we run? All of us. Head to the country. Get away from here forever.' she pleaded.

'Lizzie, we can't, you know we can't. The roads are blocked and people like us can't get a permit to leave London. And even if we did no village would let us in.'

'We should give them that fat old cook instead.'

James smiled. 'That's not nice.'

Elizabeth pressed her head against James' chest. 'Do you remember our wedding day James? Do you remember how wild the wind was that day, how the apple blossom blowing like snowflakes across the churchyard. And Fran, chasing after that vicar.' A smile flickered across her face. 'It shouldn't all end like this James.'

James pushed his face into Elizabeth's long brown hair and breathed deeply. There was no perfume. The odour was of wood smoke and household chores, of long, frightening births by candlelight and the daily struggle to survive on the pittance wages of servants. It was the smell of his whole family huddled together in bed to fend off the bitter cold of winter. It was a smell of all that mattered in his life.

The banging on the door started again.

'Where's Mary and Samuel. Are they upstairs?' asked James.

Elizabeth wiped her nose with her sleeve. 'I don't know. I haven't set eyes on them this morning.'

James shouted up the stairs but there was no reply. He ran up and searched the living rooms then up to the first floor but there was no sign of the children. He entered the bedroom where he'd spent maybe his last night with Elizabeth. In the midst of the crumpled sheets lay Alice, fast sleep and arms thrown wide open as if set to embrace. He tip-toed up to the bed, leant over and gently pressed his lips against her forehead, his eyes tightly closed. He pushed back the thought that this may be the last time he touched her perfect young face and felt her fine wisp-like hair and soft breath on his cheek.

Downstairs the banging on the door was getting louder. James reluctantly returned to the kitchen. Elizabeth was stood by the door, head down. James put a finger under her chin and gently raised her face to meet his. He had no words left so he kissed her for a last time; a long and passionate kiss, the like they hadn't known since before their children.

The door shook again.

'Lizzie, I...I'll always...'

'Get out 'ere now or I'm gonna knock this bloody door in!'

Elizabeth raised a finger across James' cracked lips. 'I know James. I know.'

James turned and slid open the stiff iron bolts. He smiled ruefully at Elizabeth, then left. He didn't see her collapse to the floor and sob.

Brock had little to say. He walked with a limp, his gangly left leg swinging out to allow for his rigid knee. Even so, he set a brisk pace. James followed a step behind, like a begrudging child following his mother. Brock wore a rough sack-cloth shirt with sleeves rolled up, exposing forearms disfigured by ugly scars. From behind James could see that the scars on Brock's face extended around to the back of his neck and disappeared under his shirt.

'Hurry up,' snapped Brock. 'I promised Mister Edwards we would be there just after dawn.' His voice was hoarse with a strong Welsh accent. He allowed James to catch up and then set off briskly again.

'You walk fast with that bad leg.'

Brock just grunted in response.

'You're not from round here. Where you from, Ireland?'

Brock scowled. 'No. I'm not from bloody Ireland. And that's none of your damn business anyway. Just keep walking.'

James was determined to engage him in conversation. If he could befriend Edwards' man servant then perhaps he could find a way out of this. He kept trying.

'Was it accident or war? Those wounds.'

Brock said nothing. He quickened his pace. James knew the likely reply. Brock was probably in his forties and would have been the right age for fighting in the Civil War that had raged a few decades before and had been followed by seemingly endless violent flare-ups. There were many men, and come to that woman too, who bore the scars of the battles that tore the country and its people to shreds.

'I lost most of my family.' James went on, 'My father, my sister, both my brothers. They died for Charles. You look back now and wonder what it was all about.'

'They'll answer in hell for what they did.' growled Brock.

'Who will?'

'Cromwell, Fairfax, all of them. That's why God sent this plague. He knows what he's doing.'

'Where did it happen?'

'Where did what happen?'

'Your wounds. Where did you get them?'

Brock hesitated. 'Naseby, if you must know.' he mumbled in reply.

'You fought in Naseby?'

Brock nodded. 'I did. With Charles. But these wounds weren't from no battle.'

'So, what happened?'

'What happened? Terrible things, that's what happened.' Brock looked to the ground, his walking pace now slowed. 'Terrible, terrible things.'

'My father told me some stories, before he died. He said ...'

'They rounded us up like sheep, after the battle was over.' Brock had stopped walking. He gazed into the distance as if watching the fight again. 'Said we were all Irish... said we deserved to die. They slaughtered us, like animals, cold blood, long after the fighting was done. We tried to run, to getaway into the trees but they stood around and just hacked us down. They thought I was dead. They made a bonfire of the bodies around me and set it at alight. I lay there as long as I could, 'til they'd gone. That's how I got these.' He pointed to his mutilated forearms.

'You were lucky to survive.'

'Lucky?' Brock spat the word back with contempt 'There was nothing lucky! Death would have been lucky!'

'No I didn't mean it like that. I meant...'

'I should have died.' He paused for a moment then went on. 'When they'd gone I went to where my wife had been camped with the women folk. They'd come to help us. They should have been waiting for us. It took me forever to get there. I could barely walk. I was praying they'd fled when they'd seen what was happening.' Brock took a deep breath and swallowed hard. 'But they didn't.'

'Did you find her?'

Brock nodded. 'I found her. Hell itself can't compare to what I saw that day. The bodies...they were everywhere. Women's bodies. Dead, dying, screaming. I can still hear them.' Brock screwed his eyes shut. 'Their wounds, worse than the battlefield. They called them Irish whores and witches. Just killing them wasn't enough. It took me an hour to find my Eleanor. I recognised her dress, and... and her belly... our baby was so close.'

James looked uncomfortably at Brock. He had hoped to find some common ground but now Brock had started to tell his story for the first time he wouldn't be stopped. This was more than James had bargained for.

'That's all I can see of her now. I try to remember her face and all I can see is what they did to her. Every day, every night when I close my eyes that's what I see. If only I'd been quicker, got to her sooner.' Brock fell silent.

'So why are you in London?'

'There was nothing left for me at home.'

'But why here?'

Brock smiled ironically. 'If I'm honest, I came here to get revenge. To get Fairfax. And maybe even Cromwell. Ha! Me against them! Can you imagine?'

'Did you try?'

'No, not really. I had some ideas, some plans. But I never even caught sight of them. I drank and that was about all I did. Then one day Mister Edwards saw me. He offered me a job and somewhere to sleep. He took me back into the church. And anyway, God's getting his revenge now. There's nothing I can do that compares that.'

James snorted. 'The likes of them will be in the country by now. They won't be troubled by this.'

'God will see to it. He's taken Cromwell already and he'll see the rest pay too.' Brock began his limping stride again. 'Anyway, we gotta keep going. We've got some way to go yet.'

They passed large boarded up houses, chained and locked but without the red cross on the door. Brock pointed at one of them as they walked along the street.

'There's plenty of places to live now. You can take your pick.' Some of the boarded up doors had been smashed down; people dressed in ragged clothes, clearly too poor to reside in such grand houses, were making themselves at home.

'Why did they pick you to be a searcher?' asked Brock.

'Don't know. Thought you might be able to tell me.'

'They only tell me what they have to.' Brock stopped and looked earnestly at James. 'Look if you want to see that family of yours again, don't touch anything in the those houses, especially the bodies.'

'What? How can I do that?'

'Use a stick. Throw it away after. Cover your hands, your face. Don't touch anyone or anything. Get out as fast as you can. Who cares if they've got plague or not. Just say they have. No one's going to argue. Don't make that wife of yours into a widow.'

Chapter 19

Mary and Samuel were finally outside Fran's home. It was a crude wooden building, with rough timber planks for walls and windows formed by holes in the wall covered by cloth and board. It was squeezed into a higgledy-piggledy row of similar houses in a cramped back street. The crooked upper storeys leant out over the road, almost touching above the middle of the street. They blocked out most of the sun's rays and gave the street a permanent twilight feel. The road around the house was littered with rubbish and human waste. The sun was up now and the heat had woken the flies and ripened the stench. Some of the neighbours' doors bore the cross and had watchmen outside. Mary and Samuel didn't care about that. They were just glad to have found the house at last.

Mary tapped on the door. From inside they could hear shouts from the boys and the forlorn efforts of their mother to enforce discipline.

Mary knocked harder.

'Just a minute. I ain't dressed! Matt, see who's there.'

Mary knocked again. 'Aunt Fran, it's us, Mary and Sam.'

'Zak, you get it. Zak! ZAK! Are you deaf? Oh bloody 'ell, I'll do it meself.'

The door swung open. Fran was still pulling her clothes together.

'You two! Oh my Good Lord! What the 'ell you doin' 'ere? Get inside for 'eaven's sake. You shouldn't be 'round 'ere.' She swept them both inside the house.

They lived in just one room. It was dark, the only light creeping in around the poorly fitting shutters and door. The wooden floor was part covered with a patchwork of worn and dirty cloth. The odour was no better than outside. The two older boys were sat on the only two rickety wooden chairs by a table in the middle of the room. Young William was busy tying to evict one of them so he could have a seat.

'Here, you boys get up so our guests can have sit down.'

'They ain't guests' replied Matthew dismissively 'that's Mary and Sam.'

'Get up, go on.' Fran raised the back of her hand to Matthew. He raised his back in return and stayed in the seat.

'It's all right Aunty Fran. I don't need no seat.' reassured Mary.

'What you two doin' 'ere anyhow?' Fran sat down on a mat made of sackcloth and patted on another for the children. They sat alongside her.

'It's Mister Shipton. He's real sick now. We ain't sure he's gonna live.' explained Mary.

'That's a shame,' replied Fran, 'a real shame. What you gonna do 'bout it?'

'We don't know! That's why we're 'ere. We thought you'd know what to do.'

'Oh, well, I ain't no doctor, darlin'. I don't know what else I can do.'

'What about the stone?' asked Samuel. 'There must be somethin' we could do with that. Don't you know some people?'

'Maybe....' Fran turned to her boys. 'Will you lot stop bloody fightn' for two minutes?'

The boys continued to argue.

'Look,' went on Fran 'there's this old Scottish woman called Munro, lives not far from 'ere. I reckon she'll know a thing or two. You still got that stone?'

Samuel pulled it from his pocket and held aloft. A shaft of light somehow found its way into the dingy room. It hit the stone and exploded into a kaleidoscope of orange, pink and red light that criss-crossed over the dark wooden walls. The boys fell silent.

Fran thrust her hands over the stone and pushed it back at Samuel. 'OK but keep it 'idden. There's people 'round 'ere that would love to get their hands on that thing. Come on, put it away an' we'll go find 'er.'

James was waiting at the Alderman's office. Edwards was inside trying justify having brought him a male searcher. A few weeks earlier the Alderman would have sent him away with a flea in his ear. A man doing a woman's job! That would have been unthinkable. But it really didn't matter anymore. His searchers were dying faster than he could replace them. So long as the job was done, who cared? He'd be dead soon anyway.

James sat in the lofty hall with half a dozen women waiting to be sworn in. Brock stood in the doorway gazing into the street. The women said nothing. They were no happier than James to be there and the promise of a small reward for each corpse they searched was scant consolation. They all knew they were unlikely to ever spend the money.

The door swung open.

'OK, all of you, in here.' Edwards gestured to them all to enter the Alderman's office.

A man in uniform sat between a polished table and an oak-panelled wall. He had quickly thrown on his gown and chain of office but they did little to hide the tired eyes and haggard expression. He didn't enjoy sending another group to their death.

'Thank you my good ...people.' Before him on the table lay a large leather clad book. He pushed it towards the row of new searchers stood before him. 'Time is pressing so I thank you all for your sacrif...your loyalty. My physician will explain your task shortly but I remind you that if you fail to carry out your duties you'll be imprisoned until you change your mind. Is that clear?' He waited for them all to nod in acknowledgement. 'Now you'll swear on the Holy Bible. Mister Edwards please.' He waved his hand impatiently.

Edwards took the hand of the first woman in the row and placed it on the bible. 'Repeat after me. I do solemnly swear before Almighty God, to carry out these duties...'

'I do solemnly swear before Almighty God, to carry out these duties...'

'to the fullest of my abilities and the satisfaction of my conscience...'

'to the fullest of my 'bility and the... the...satis...'

'so help me God, in the knowledge that failing to honour this oath...'

'so help me God, and...'

'will incur the wrath and vengeance of Almighty God...'

'will... will... what was it?'

'and eternal damnation. Next.'

In turn they each had a go at repeating the words. The Alderman shuffled and fidgeted in his chair, eager to get on.

'Good, good. Now all that remains is to tell you what you're looking for. The good Doctor Chambers has kindly agreed to speak to you all. Where is he Mister Edwards? Shouldn't he be here by now.'

'I think he's donning his attire Sir.'

'What? Have you told him these people haven't seen plague yet?'

'I told him Sir but he insists.'

The Alderman sighed. He flapped his hand dismissively towards the searchers. 'Sit, sit. This shouldn't take a minute.'

They sat in a row on a long wooden pew. A few minutes later, the ornate double door at the far end of the room rattled and shook. There was a thud then the doors flew open. A tall figure in ankle-length black cape and wide-brimmed hat stumbled into the room. He peered at them through fogged goggles set in the middle of a leather face mask and hood. A long duck-like beak protruded from the middle of his face. The searchers gasped in unison. They all shuffled away along the seat, pushing the furthest onto the floor. The doctor felt his way gingerly across the room with the help of his wooden cane.

'Good Morning Doctor Chambers. So pleased you could join us.'

The searchers rose to their feet.

The doctor said something but the words were muffled by the mask.

Edwards rolled his eyes heavenwards.

'Anyway, the good doctor will explain what you're looking for and what you must do when you find a body. Thank you doctor.'

Doctor Chambers talked quickly. He waved his arms and his stick in the air, pointing at James and the women in turn, touching the skin of their forearms and neck with his cane. It sounded as if he was talking underwater and nobody but the doctor understood a word of it.

The Alderman gritted his teeth. 'My good doctor, none of these people have even seen plague let along touched it. Can we please lose the mask?'

The doctor hesitated. He peered closely at the new searchers in turn through his goggles then the Alderman. After a little more thought, he finally removed the hat, hood and mask. Dried flowers and herbs tumbled to the floor. He flattened down the ring of red hair that surrounded his sweating scalp, mopped his freckled brow and looked nervously at the row of new searchers. 'None of you have had contact with plague before?'

They all shook their heads.

He looked dubiously at them and then carefully placed his hood and mask on the table. 'From now on none of you will come near me unless I am wearing these clothes. Is that clear?'

More nods.

'You all know about plague, you know about the black sores and the fever and the cough and the blood and all of that... yes? Well, you'll be told where the corpses are, which house you've got to search. I need to know how many dead you see and if it looks like plague. Make sure you check the whole house. Check for children who might have been shut away. Check every last part of every house.' He dabbed the beads of sweat from his face again. 'If anybody is not quite dead then you're to tell the watchman to lock the house up again and you must return two days later to make sure. Nearly dead doesn't count.'

'Pardon me, Sir.' One of the searchers raised a hand nervously. 'What if... what if they're all dead but for a child?'

'Weren't you listening? There are no exceptions! Do you understand?' The searcher opened her mouth to reply but Doctor Chambers didn't give her a chance. 'You'd want to take that sick child home with you? Is that it? Make your family sick too? Make us all sick! Listen to me. No child is going to run around here spreading death and disease. You make sure those houses are locked up, do you hear?'

She nodded quietly and bowed her head.

The Alderman joined the conversation 'And keep to yourselves. Apart from your own family you have contact with nobody. You don't work, you don't go out, you do nothing apart from this. If I hear otherwise you'll be jailed, all of you. Is that clear? Now Mister Edwards take them and tell them where they are to go.'

The group followed Edwards out of the room. James held back waiting for his chance to speak to the Alderman. After everyone else had left the room he pulled out several pieces of silver cutlery tucked in his clothes.

The Alderman looked up from his table. 'What do you want?'

'I thought you may like some gifts sir. These are fine silver. The best. The sort that would be fine enough for your table sir. I...I thought, that maybe you might find it in your heart to perhaps release me from this job... or maybe find somethin' else for me to do for you sir...'

The Alderman took the silverware from James. He glanced at them briefly and shrugged before placing them down on his desk. 'Thank you. I'll give it consideration.' He waved James away.

'Sir, I have a family and young children... If you can find it in your heart...'

'Good day Sir.'

'Please, my wife and children...'

'Listen to me!' snapped the Alderman, 'Every person I see has children. Every one of them. Good people too. Do you think I like sending them off to die? Do you? And then you come in here and think that because you've brought me a few pieces of stolen silver that I should favour you? He rose to his feet and stood nose to nose with James. His voice crackled with contempt. 'I don't care about your 'gift'. I know a hundred empty houses where I could go and get all the silver I want. But I don't. You know why? Because God is waiting for us, that's why. He is standing at the gates right now deciding who will enter. I have the sense not to flout his laws in the last hours before I go to meet him.' He grabbed the cutlery from the table and thrust it into James' chest. 'Take them back. Save them for your last meal before you got to meet your maker.'

'Sorry Sir, I didn't mean...'

'Get out of my sight!'

Chapter 20

Mary and Samuel followed Fran into a narrow, dingy alleyway. It was a tight single-file squeeze between the timber walls and the piles of rubbish. At the far end it opened into a small filth-ridden yard, kept in shadow by the overhanging buildings. At the far side was a rickety wooden door. Fran strode up and banged on the door. It nearly fell from its hinges.

'Don't know why I bother.' moaned Fran. 'She ain't gonnna hear me. She's deaf as this bloody doorpost, she is.' She pushed the door open and walked inside. 'Mother Munro, you in there?'

There was no reply. It was dark inside the room. The three of them stood and squinted for a moment as their eyes adjusted. They could make out a small wooden table with the remains of a candle in its centre and a single chair alongside. Against one wall was a bed at ground level and alongside that a wooden bucket for a toilet, crawling with fat flies. In front an empty fireplace was a rocking chair with its back facing them. The chair contained a body wrapped in a blanket, with the head poked out of the top and slumped to one side.

'Mother Munro, is that you?'

'Is she dead?' asked Samuel, edging back towards the exit.

Fran stepped forward and put a hand on her shoulder and gave it a gentle shake. The body didn't stir.

'Mother Munro, are you alright?'

Mary put her hand to her mouth. The room stank of mice and urine. Flies buzzed around her face. 'Aunty Fran, let's go. Please.'

Fran shook her again. This time there was a cough and a splutter and the old woman sat forward with a jerk. Her long scrawny fingers seized Fran's hand, her claw-like nails digging into the flesh. 'Who's that? What are ye after?'

Fran pulled her hand back but the nails dug deeper. 'Mother Munro. It's me, Fran. I've come to see you.'

'You'll not seize me!' she cast off the blanket and tried to jump to her feet but her old joints were crippled with arthritis and it was as much as she could do to stand. She turned to face the three of them, her back bent like a wilting flower. 'Who is it, what d'ye want?' she screeched 'I'm no afraid o' ye!' She leant forward to steady herself on the arm of the chair. It rocked forward and with it she started to fall. Fran reached out and caught her. The old woman struggled feebly to escape.

'You let go o' me or so help me I'll turn ye all te haggis!'

'MOTHER MUNRO,' Fran bawled the words into her ear. 'IT'S ME, FRAN.'

The old woman tried to straighten up but her back refused. She craned her neck up as far as she could in order to scrutinise the face before her. 'It's a what? A man d'ye say? What man? Yer noo talkin' sense!'

'Oh for heaven's sake! Mary, open that window. Let's get some light in here.'

The wooden shutter was wedged tightly in place. Mary pulled and tugged until finally it flew open. Startled rodents scurried for cover.

Mother Munro held her wizened old hand across her face. 'Och, that's tee bright.' She peered from between her fingers. 'Fran, is that ye?'

'It is Mother Munro. It is.'

'Why d'ye noo say dear? You child, close up that window and door, you're letting the cold in.' She turned back to Fran and gestured towards the table. 'Have a seat noo. An' tell me, what brings y'all here te see an ould woman like me?' She cast a quizzical old eye at Fran. 'Don't take me wrong, I love t'see visitors, but there's noo many come here withoot good reason.'

St Giles in the Field was home to the worst of London's slums. In the upmarket parts of town, most people had fled or gone into hiding, leaving the streets almost deserted. In the overcrowded slums, there was nowhere else to go, nowhere to hide and no choice but to go on with life as best you could. The well-to-do were terrified of the place, blaming the slum-dwellers for every robbery and murder that happened for miles around. As far as they were concerned, it was a filth-ridden den of criminals and prostitutes and should be avoided at all costs. Now that plague had arrived, it was even more reason to keep away. So this was one place that Wooldridge, with his expensive suits and manicured appearance, would not be inconspicuous. In the pre-dawn half-light, he had managed to tail Mary and Samuel, sneaking unnoticed as far as Fran's house. Then, as the sun rose, so did the people of St Giles, and suddenly his fine clothes and shiny boots were like an ice cream van at a children's playground. A small crowd gathered around him, some just curious, others with less innocent intent. He was forced to take refuge in the church, staying hidden until they finally lost interest and moved on. By the time he returned to the house, Fran, Mary and Samuel had gone. Luckily for Wooldridge, Matthew and Isaac were easily bought, and for a conjuring trick and a farthing, he quickly learnt where Fran, Mary, Samuel and the stone were headed. Now he was trying to walk briskly in the direction of Mother Munro's alleyway, but he'd drawn attention again. Children walked a few paces behind, shouting names and laughing at his tall black hat and smart boots. Their numbers grew again until soon a small crowd followed him. Wooldridge ignored them, hoping they might become bored and drift away, but there was no chance of that. Behind the children, two men followed at a distance, trying not to be noticed, biding their time.

As the crowd grew larger, the children became braver. They threw small stones at his hat to try and knock it off. They pulled his coat tail and then ran before he could grab them. People were stopping to watch and laugh. Wooldridge gritted his teeth. He was getting close to the alley now and he didn't want all this attention. He stopped dead; then span around to face them. The children were startled. They backed away. Wooldridge smiled reassuringly then crouched down and waved them in. They looked nervously at each other. Wooldridge reached into his pocket and pulled something out. Curiosity brought them closer. Wooldridge held out his hand and opened his clenched fingers. He held two coins. 'Children, come in, quick, don't be afraid. I'm not going to hurt you. Who'd like to earn some money?'

Their anxieties evaporated. They rushed in close and gathered around Wooldridge.

'I have two half pennies here. I'll give you one now and one when the job is done.'

'Why? What you want done mister?'

'What we got to do?'

Hands reached out for the coins but Wooldridge pulled them away. He pointed along the street.

'See that stall there, the one selling fruit?'

'Yeh, so what?'

'Well, that woman sold me bad food last week. Made my poor baby really sick, nearly killed her. What do you think about that?'

The children shrugged.

'Well that's why I need your help boys. That's what I want to pay you for. She nearly killed my baby and when I told her she just laughed! I need you boys to teach her a lesson. Do you think you're up to it?'

'Yeh, course!'

'If you're payin'.'

'Yeh, bitch. Bet she done it on purpose.'

'We'll teach 'er fer ya!'

'Good, boys, good.'

'It's gonna cost ya though, if you wan' us to beat 'er up. Wha' if 'er 'usband turns up? It's a dangerous job!'

'Yeh, it's gonna cost yer!'

'No boys, you don't need to hurt her. I all I want you to do is go knock over some of her baskets, you know, give her a hard time. Use your imagination. The bigger the fuss the more I pay. Is that a deal?'

'Is that it? Yeh we can do that!'

The prospect of being paid for simple mischief was too good to miss. Hands reached forward to grab the coin.

Wooldridge rose back to his feet. 'OK, you there.' Wooldridge pointed to the oldest, a boy of around 12 or 13 years. 'I'm putting you in charge. Here's half your money. When the job is done I'll meet you all at the front of the church steps for the rest of your pay.'

The children dashed off eagerly towards the stall. Wooldridge stayed put and awaited the calamity. Across the street, the same two men continued watching Wooldridge with hawk-like eyes.

Shouting and swearing came from up the street. There was a crash and the stall turned over. The children darted in circles around the poor woman, taking turns to run behind her and pull her apron as she chased hopelessly after them in turn.

With the attention elsewhere, Wooldridge slipped quietly into the alleyway.

The old woman was back in her rocking chair, the blanket covering her skeletal figure and keeping out the cold that only she felt.

'Samuel, go on, show it to her' urged Mary.

Fran nodded her approval.

Samuel pulled out the red stone and held it aloft for Mother Munro to see.

Her wrinkled old face glowed red and a broad grin exposed a single lonely tooth. 'Och, I never thought I'd see the day again. It's true. It really is here. Let me touch it.' She stretched out her finger tips and gently stroked the stone as if touching the face of a new born child. 'After all these years.' Her eyes filled with tears.

'What is it Missus, do you know? Is it magic?' asked Samuel eagerly.

'What was that boy?'

'Do you know what it is?' shouted Samuel slowly.

'Aye, o' course I do, I know very well.'

'Well,' asked Samuel impatiently 'what is it?'

'Aye, well if ye'll sit down and be quiet boy, I'll tell ye all 'boot it.'

Samuel and Mary knelt on the grubby wooden floor at her feet.

Mother Munro's gaze remained fixed hypnotically on the stone in her left hand. She began to recount her tale in a soft distant voice, as if talking to the stone itself. 'Way back in the mists of time, many long centuries ago, there was a brave knight. He came from a land far away, known as Scotland. It was the time of the great Holy Crusades and the feeble English pleaded with the brave knight to come join them on their quest. Y'see, his courage was famous across the whole country, and they say even Richard the Lion Heart himself begged him to come. He agreed te goo, but no for the king's sake. No, not one bit. Ye see, he was a holy man and he was answering God's call.' Her eyes were still locked on the glowing red stone. Mary and Samuel shuffled closer to catch each of the weakly spoken words. 'Noo, at that time the Holy Land was held by the evil Godless Saracens. Wicked, wicked people.' She shook her head with contempt. 'When the pilgrims went to the holy sites, the Saracens would capture and murder them, burn their babies and rape their women. So the Scottish knight gathered together the finest soldiers and footmen he could find and set sail for the Holy Land. They rode across Europe fighting the good fight as they went. And after every victory, more men flocked te join them.' Mother Munro paused for breath. It was rare to have visitors, especially ones interested in what she had to say. She loved to tell a tale and she was more than capable of filling any gaps in the stories. She took a deep breath and went on: 'Finally they came te the walls of a great city. They knew they were outnumbered with a hundred evil Saracens to every brave Scotsman. But God was with them. They fought withoot rest for twenty days and twenty nights until, with God's help, they won a great battle. And so then they killed every single Saracen, everyone except fer their king.'

'What, even the children?' interrupted Mary.

'What child?'

'Did they murder the children and... babies?'

'No murder girl. These were Godless people! They joost did what they had te. Noo don't interrupt again. Where was I?' She thought for a moment. 'Oh yes, the king. Now, our Scottish knight was a good man and he took pity on the king and said he would free him if he praised God and ended his evil ways. The king saw the light and did just that. He was so grateful he gave the knight a stoon, a beautiful red stoon. He said it was the petrified heart of a holy man from a thoosand years before. He said this stoon held great power to save the sick and te ward off evil. The knight was unsure if he should believe the old king so he took it oot te his injured soldiers, still dying aroond the battlefield. He did what the king told him. He drew the stoon three times aroond the top of a vessel and then bathed it in the water within. The soldiers then drank from the vessel.'

'Did it work?' shouted Samuel excitedly.

'Did it work? Aye, 'twas was a miracle! One by one each of the soldiers was cured.'

'So is this that same stoon?' asked Samuel.

'Well, yes and noo. Ye see, word of the stoon spread like a raging wild fire and the knight knew that everyone would want it. So he cut a small piece from the stoon and had it fixed te a groat and chain and gave it as a gift te his brother. But the rest of the stoon he hid away. He secretly had one of his knights, a close and loyal friend - or so he thought - sneak it back te Scotland. But the temptation was too much. This man had seen what the stoon could do and he decided te keep it for himself. So when he got back home he made up a lie that he'd been robbed on his way through France. But our brave knight knew that wasn'e true. He challenged him te a duel and won. He killed the thief.'

'So he got it back?'

'Just a wee minute boy, have some patience.' She held the arm of the chair and took some more deep breaths. 'And noo, he didn'e get it back.' She stopped to cough. 'You see before the duel, the thieving knight had hidden it away very carefully, and even as he lay dying he refused te say where it was. The knight searched high and low, year after year for the stoon but he couldn'e find it and in the end he went te his grave a bitter and angry man, still not knowing where it was.'

'What about the other bit of stone, on the chain? Why didn't he use that?'

Mother Munro looked back blankly.

'What about the other bit?' shouted Mary.

'Aye, well that became famous over the whole o' Scotland and saved many a man and his beast. But when the knight asked for it back the brothers fell out and never spoke again.' Mother Munro stopped and coughed feebly, holding her chest, her blood-shot eyes almost popping out of her skull-like face.

'So where is it now?' asked Samuel.

'A minute child. Let me catch my breath.'

'You need to rest,' said Fran with concern, 'we should come again later.'

Mary and Samuel groaned.

'What was that?' barked Mother Munro

'We'll come again later. You need rest.' Fran mouthed the words slowly, her voiced raised loud enough for the neighbours to hear.

But Mother Munro was having none of it. 'Noo, I'm fine dear. Ye need to know these things. Sit there and listen till I've finished. Now where was I?'

'The stone was hidden.' replied Samuel eagerly.

'Well ye'd best goo outside then young man. You canna be deing that in here.' Mother Munro looked at Samuel earnestly.

'No, the stone was hidden.' Samuel shouted back.

'Oh, yes the stoon. Well ye see, it was hidden.' She spluttered again then went on. 'And, like I said, he never did find it. Then a hundred years te the very day from when the knight died, a young shepherd boy was oot with his flock. Noo, at that time, a great sickness had befallen the cattle and sheep in Scotland. The crops had failed, the animals were dying and the people were starving. The young shepherd was drawn te a red glow from within a cave. He climbed inside and there was the stoon. He took it te his father who'd heard the legend. His animals were dying too and his family were hungry. So he bathed the stone in water and gave it te his beasts. In just a few days they were all cured.'

'Wow!' marvelled Samuel, looking at the gem in awe.

'Now, ye can imagine that as soon as word got aroond, everybody wanted that stoon and the man spent his days deing good deeds, going from farm to farm curing his neighbour's beasts.'

'Imagine that!' Mary enthused 'Being able to save all those animals. Everyone would be so grateful.'

'Well... aye. At first he did de it from the goodness of his heart, but soon he grew tired of all the travelling from farm te farm and he saw the chance te make himself some money. Te begin with he asked for just a little, but greed grows fat when it's well fed, and as his fame spread, demand grew and so did his price until almost nobody could afford it. People became angry watching him grow rich from their misery and it wasn'e long before they turned on him. They took the stoon and left him dead amongst his riches with his throat slit from ear to ear.' She mimicked the slicing movement with her bony finger and one-toothed grin. 'Since then its whereaboots have been kept a secret. It's been passed silently from hand te hand. People would hear a rumour, a wee whisper of where it might be and who might have it but it would never be seen. People were scared that they too would be murdered and robbed.'

'Did you ever see it?'

'Aye, once, when I was but a wee child.'

'Did it save your cows?' asked Samuel.

'What?'

'Did it save your animals?'

'Och, be quiet boy and listen.' she snapped. 'Now, where was I? Oh yes, well, my step-mother had been sick for weeks. Every day she got weaker and weaker. In the end she couldn'e stand, couldn'e eat, could barely even speak. Then one night I was awoken by whispered voices. I peeked from under my blanket and there was my father talking te a strange man holding a bright red stoon. Even though it was the middle of a dark Highland winter's night, the stone still glowed as if the sunlight was on it. I watched him run the stoon around the rim of the cup three times, then dip it in the water and give it te my step-mother te drink. She took the water three times a day for three weeks. Every day she got a little stronger and by the end of the three weeks she was well again.'

'Wow!' shouted Samuel 'It really is magic! It works!'

'Aye, it's true; but saving her life didn'e come cheap. When she was well again the man came back to get his reward. He took away all of our cattle and sheep. Every last one. We were ruined. We tried te survive by growing crops but the Scottish weather is no friend to the farmer and we lasted only one more year before the landlord threw us from the land. I was sent away. I never saw my family again.'

'Here, give me that stone. I know someone who needs a cure.' Fran jumped to her feet and plucked the stone from Mother Munro's spindly fingers. She walked across to a small table in the corner of the room and picked up a pitcher of water. She stroked the stone three times around the rim and then dipped it into the liquid before pouring a cup. She handed it to Mother Munro. 'Drink this. Let's see what it can do.'

'Och, there's nothing wrong with me ye silly woman. Save it for someone who's sick!'

'For once do as you're told, you stubborn old woman.'

Mother Munro cocked a disapproving eye at Fran. She took the cup and gulped down the water. 'There. Happy?'

Wooldridge lurked in a shadowy recess in Mother Munro's alley. Through the partly open door he could hear some of the conversation about the stone and listened with interest. He had wondered why his mistress had been so eager to lay her hands on this small piece of red rock and now it made sense.

In the street, the tumult caused by the children had settled. The poor stall keeper was desperately trying to gather together her spilt wares before everyone finished helping themselves. Wooldridge's two assailants had been distracted by the chaos. They were furious when they realised that he'd slipped away; but they weren't about to be that easily beaten. It's not often that the chicken comes to the fox and they were determined to find him again before he had a chance to escape. They split up and started searching either side of the street, peering into houses and down back-alleys. Finally, one of them reached Mother Munro's alley. Wooldridge was stood statuesque in the shadows under a lop-sided overhanging slum, his black clothes good camouflage in the gloom. But his shiny black boots poked out and gave notice of his hiding place. The assailant turned to call his friend but then stopped and thought better of it. This over-dressed toff would be easy picking - so why share it? He pulled a knife from his pocket and marched confidently towards the gleaming boots.

'Noo mark my words the three of ye.' continued Mother Munro 'This stoon may have great power to heal the sick but it also turns good men bad. Murder, robbery and misery follow it where so ever it goes. There's plenty oot there that would kill te have it and then there's those who are joost as keen te destroy it.'

'So why is it in London?' asked Fran.

'Money, of course. A man by the name of William MacDonald sent it here in the hands of his son Madadh. He heard 'boot the plague o' London and saw a chance te get rich. His plan was te charge the wealthy folk a fortune for the use of the stoon in return for saving their lives. He told Madadh to guard the stone with his life and God help him if he returned te Scotland withoot it.' She gestured the cut throat again. 'I wouldn'e want te be holding that stoon if he finds it.'

Fran and Mary sat silently pondering Mother Munro's words.

Samuel wasn't intimidated. 'Well he won't find it.' he announced defiantly. 'I'll make sure of that.'

'Well that's all very well for you to say but what if...' A muffled scream from outside stopped Mary in mid-sentence.

Fran and Mother Munro exchanged anxious glances.

'I think ye'd best be on your way.' said Mother Munro 'If people 'roond here know aboot this stone ye'll be getting a lot of attention. Perhaps ye should leave it with me, for safe keepin'.'

Samuel frowned and pushed the stone back into his pocket.

'Well then, ye'd best be prepared for anything, young man. Now go, whilst ye still can.'

In the alley Wooldridge dragged the corpse of his attacker back into the shadows and hid again. Mother Munro's door opened and Fran, Mary and Samuel stepped out. Wooldridge allowed the long slender blade to slip from his sleeve and into his right hand again. He pressed himself deeper into the shadows and waited.

At the church, Wooldridge's team of child helpers were getting restless. They had been waiting for the rest of their pay but Wooldridge hadn't shown up. They'd gone to great lengths to make sure the stall keeper suffered and now they wanted their reward. Eventually they gave up waiting and set off angrily to find him.

On the street near Mother Munro's alley, two more men were searching. They stopped and questioned passers-by and stall holders. Their accents were hard to understand and their kilts drew a little stifled laughter, but most sensed that they'd be wise to keep quiet. Answers the two men didn't like were met with threats or slaps and on they went to the next person. They had been told the slums would be a good place to find information but so far today all they had heard was of a smartly dressed man looking very out of place in St. Giles. Nothing about any red stone. Still, that man had to be here for a reason and that was worth checking out.

Mother Munro was feeling invigorated by her drink of the magical potion. She rose to her feet to test it out. Perhaps she could straighten that crooked old back that had been bent for many a year. She grunted and groaned and then with a sudden 'click' and a stab of pain, the back was straight.

'Wow!' she thought to herself 'It's working already!' She bent forward to test it out a little more. Stiff as a plank. 'Never mind' she thought 'better stuck straight than stuck bent. Wait until Fran sees this!'

Outside, Fran was trying to persuade Samuel to hand over the stone to keep it safe. But after what he'd just heard, he wasn't going to part with it for anyone, not even Fran. He shook his head and kept it in the depths of his trouser pocket.

Mother Munro appeared at the door. 'Och, look at me!' she performed a slow, awkward twirl in the doorway. 'It worked! The stoon worked! I'm a new woman!'

'Look Auntie Fran. I told you it was magic!' shouted Samuel.

'Hush!' hissed Fran. 'We don't want the whole of London to know it's here!' she looked around anxiously to see if anyone had heard. At the end of the alley a pedestrian continued wandering by. Was that something in the shadows? She squinted at the gloom. No, just her imagination. 'Come on kids; let's get away from here.'

'Look at me! Look at me!' shouted Mother Munro 'I can do the fling again!' She tried to jump, kick her heels together and dance as she once had, but her feet failed to leave the ground and there was little more than a sway of movement. 'I feel like I'm fifteen again!' she squealed.

Fran shook her head. 'Bloody 'ell, what was that stuff, gin?'

Wooldridge remained motionless. A couple of rats sniffed around his feet and the bottom of his trousers. One began to nibble at his boot. Wooldridge didn't move. Then a large drip splattered on the top of his head before trickling down his face and neck. The stench was putrid. He leant his head back to look up for the source. Another drip splashed into his eye. He swept it clear and squinted upwards. He was staring at the underside of an overhanging building. There was a broken plank leaving a large hole in the boards above. The space was filled with a face, the flesh mottled, purple and black. A pair of lifeless dark eyes stared coldly back at him. More fluid seeped from the nose and mouth and fell, splattering onto Wooldridge's forehead. Even Wooldridge wanted to scream. He staggered sideways, partly out from his hiding place.

The scraping of boots on dirt echoed in the narrow alley. Fran peered again into the shadows. This time she could make out a pair of legs pressed up against the wall. She'd lived in the slums long enough to know danger when she saw it. She seized Samuel's arm and yanked him back. She gestured to Mary and Samuel to get back inside Mother Munro's house. They squeezed hurriedly past the old woman who was now leant against the door frame panting.

'What's up?' asked Samuel, 'I thought we were leaving.'

Fran pulled Mother Munro back from the door and closed it quietly behind her. 'Is there a back way out Mother? Quick, we gotta leave.'

'Heaven's dear, what is the matter?'

'You were right about people chasin' this stone. There's someone there, waiting in the alley.'

The old woman pointed a crooked finger at a shuttered window on the back wall of the house. 'You can climb oot through there dear.' She grabbed Fran's arm and whispered. 'But be careful, that's where I empty my...you-know-what.'

Fran hurriedly pulled the wooden cover from the window. 'Come on children quickly, Sam, you first.'

She hauled Samuel up through the window and dropped him down. He landed into soft, sticky, foul smelling mud and human waste. He lifted his foot and shook off a turd. 'Oh my God! This is disgustin'!'

'Move Sam, Mary's comin' down!'

Mary landed with a squelch and scrambled quickly out of the muck before Fran dropped from the window. Fran slipped and skidded in the mud and then fell onto her hands and knees.

'Oh my Lord!' Fran squealed. 'How can an old woman do so much?' She skidded and slithered back to her feet. 'Come on quick, let's go!'

The latch creaked and the door opened a fraction. Mother Munro desperately looked around the room for something to use to defend herself. She had no weapon, just the bucket by the bed, still heavy with the last night's deposits. Wooldridge poked his head inside. With all of her new found strength, the old woman swung the bucket and hurled it squarely into Wooldridge's face, knocking him off his feet and back out of the doorway.

Mother Munro peeped around the door. Wooldridge was lying in the dirt, soaking wet with flies buzzing excitedly around him. She couldn't contain her smirk.

'You old witch! I'll make you wish you hadn't done that!' Wooldridge jumped to his feet, knife in hand. 'Where's that stone. Tell me before I slice that evil smile off your face!' He stormed towards her, knife clasped in hand.

In the street, the gang of children were running in between stalls and pedestrians in search of Wooldridge. If he wasn't going to pay up then he'd also see the havoc they could wreak. They charged along knocking into people, spilling baskets and crates. They approached the stall owner they'd harassed earlier; she was sitting on the edge of the road on an upturned wooden box, surrounded by what little she'd been able to salvage and wondering how she was going to feed her family. The children had the sense to steer a wide berth, all that was except one of them, a young boy of about six or seven years of age. He hadn't really grasped what was going on but he was enjoying the ride. The stall keeper saw them coming, saw the group run along the other side of the road at a safe distance, and saw the young child run straight towards her. She waited until he was right alongside and then pounced like a cat, seizing an arm and dragging him in.

'You li'le bastard! You... your family's gonna pay for all o' this!' she screeched.

The boy's older brother skidded to a halt and the rest of the gang ran into his back. He turned and approached the woman with trepidation. 'You let 'im go you old hag! 'E's only little!'

'Someone's gonna pay for all o' this. You lot bloody ruined me, you 'ave!' She twisted his ear as she screamed out the words. The boy began to sob.

His older brother picked up a rock and held it ready to throw. 'You let him go you 'ear me. Or I'll chuck this at your 'ead!'

The stall owner twisted the poor child's ear again making him howl. 'You chuck what you want 'cause whatever you do to me, I'll do to 'im ten times over! You lot gonna have to pay for all this.'

The boy lowered the rock. 'Just let 'im go, you 'ear? Let 'im go... please.'

'Oh it's please now is it? I didn't 'ear no bloody please just before when you was trashin' me stuff, did I?'

The young boy sobbed.

'Look, we're sorry. We didn't mean you no 'arm. It was that man what made us do it.'

'What? What man? What you talkin' 'bout? You're just makin' lies up now to get off the 'ook. Well it ain't 'appening. You've gotta make this good!' She twisted hard on the child's ear again.

'No, I ain't lyin'! I promise! 'E said you poisoned 'is baby. '

'Who did? What the 'ell are you on about?'

'That toff, what was 'ere before. 'E said you sold him dodgy food and made his baby nearly die. He told us.'

'Dodgy food? Look, my stuff ain't always perfect, but I sure as 'ell ain't sold it to no toff!'

'Yeh you did. 'E told us. An 'e got us to mess up your stall to teach you a lesson.'

'I'm tellin' ya. I bin doin' this bloody stall for three years an' in all that time I ain't sold no food to no bloody toff! How many rich folk you see shoppin' down 'ere, 'ey? You thought 'bout that you bloody idiots.'

'But... but 'e paid us. You must 'ave...'

'Look, them rich folk wouldn't come down 'ere to buy their food if I was payin' them! You gotta be mad! An' what you mean, 'e paid you?'

'He paid us to do it. Said 'e'd give us some money before an' some after. 'Cept 'e never come back to give us the after. So now we're tryin' to find 'im.'

'Right, I'm comin' with ya. We're gonna find 'im and make 'im pay for all o' this. Come on!' She yanked the child's ear and began to march down the street, the rest of the gang close behind. ''Urry up! I never 'eard such rubbish! Where d'you last see 'im?'

Mother Munro staggered backwards away from Wooldridge's knife. She caught her heel on the wooden step, tripped and tumbled to the floor. She felt a crunch and a paralysing pain in her hip. She gritted her teeth. She wasn't going to show him she was hurting. Not that it would have made any difference if she had; Wooldridge was not one to feel pity. He stepped quickly over her to check the house. With only one room it didn't take a moment to realise that Fran, the children and most important of all, the stone, were gone. He pointed the knife down at the old woman lying in the doorway.

'Where did they go? Where's that stone? Speak woman or God help me I'll end your misery once and for all.'

But before he received his answer, a vice-like grip crushed Wooldridge's shoulder. 'Ye'll nay be dein' that y'theivin' sassenach bastard!'

Wooldridge was hauled out of the doorway like a rag doll and thrown up against the wall. Madadh MacDonald pressed his dirk to Wooldridge's throat, His wild, bloodshot eyes stared out from between the flaming red hair of his head and his beard. 'I reckon ye might just knoo the whereaboots of a wee gemstoon o' mine.' His expression suddenly fell from anger to disgust. 'Waw, ye reek lik' jobby, man. Wit 'ave ye bin dein', ye sick mongrel?' He held a hand across his mouth and nose.

Wooldridge adjusted his jacket with a little embarrassment.

'An whit ye dane tae that auld wifie? Hey Cormag, gi' 'er some hulp.' Madadh nodded to his kilted friend.

'What... what on earth are you saying?' asked Wooldridge in his perfect English tones. 'Can't you people speak English?'

Madadh turned back to him and sneered. He held his knife to Wooldridge's lips. 'Ye'll nay be speakin' a word o' anythin' if ye dinnae 'ave a tongue in yer heed. Noo, whit ye ken 'boot ma stoon?'

Fran, Mary and Samuel scrambled through narrow gaps between the houses and along dingy alleys until they were well clear of Mother Munro's house. They made their way back onto the main street, stench and flies travelling with them.

Further down the same street, the stall owner was still dragging the poor child by his ear in search of Wooldridge. The rest of the gang followed just behind.

'So if we find 'im for ya, d'we get a reward?'

'What? A reward! I'll give some bloody reward, believe me!'

They passed the end of Mother Munro's alley. Jacob, the oldest in the group stopped and peered into the shadowy passage.

'Hey look at them men in dresses?' he laughed. The others gathered around and jostled to try and see.

'Hey, that's 'im, that bloke, the toff. 'E's getting' mugged look! That's why 'e ain't come!'

The stall owner pushed her way through. 'That one? Right!' She marched into the alley. 'Oi, you! What you think you're doin' payin' these brats to ruin my stall.' As she got closer she saw Madadh holding his knife to Wooldridge's face and his kilted friend Cormag attempting to drag the poor wailing Mother Munro back to the comfort of her bed.

'Thank the Good Lord you came!' shouted Wooldridge. 'I came to visit my grandmother and these foreign animals were attacking her and now they're robbing me! Look what they did to her!'

'Och ye dinne wanna heed his shite.' Madadh turned around and waved the blade at the stall owner. 'Away wi'all o' yous! We're reet busy!'

The stall owner was hesitant. She wanted to turn and run but her livelihood was wrecked and this man owed her money. Without getting at least something back there would be no food on her table and maybe no roof over her head.

'That man owes me money. He paid these kids to wreck my stall. He's gotta pay for it.' She kept a safe distance back whilst she spoke. The children gathered behind her.

'No, no they got the wrong stall.' pleaded Wooldridge from behind the blade. 'It wasn't supposed to be you. It was the other one, further down, I'm so sorry.'

'Will yous all shut the hell up!' Madadh was not impressed. 'He haes a stoon as belongs te me an' it's worth a lo' more than ya stall. Now 'way wi' y'all, reet noo! Goo on! Off!' He waved his dirk in the air and then turned his attention back to Wooldridge.

Meanwhile Cormag had disappeared into the house with Mother Munro. She might have been out of sight but there was no missing her screams and her swearing as Cormag lifted her feeble frame onto the straw bed.

The group of children weren't sure who to believe. But then they really only cared about getting their money and the sight of Wooldridge being mugged didn't do much for their chances. Jacob picked up a rock and launched it at Madadh. It bounced off the back of his neck. Madadh span around with a withering scowl under his red beard. With one hand he still held Wooldridge by the scruff of the neck.

'Ye dinne wanna de that ya stupid wee bairns. Y'nae tee small for a thrashin'.'

Another child picked up a rock and threw, then another and another. Cormag appeared at the doorway and rocks began to fly at him too. Madadh released Wooldridge and shielded his face with his hands. But the deluge of missiles continued. It was too much to take. Madadh roared with rage and then charged at the children, his long glinting dagger held high in the air, Cormag close behind. The children panicked and ran but the narrow exit from the alley formed a bottle neck and choked their escape.

Wooldridge spotted his chance. He slipped through the open doorway into Mother Munro's house. He spied the open shutter on the back wall and threw himself head first through the gap. He landed with a soft splat in the foul mud below.

Madadh and Cormag stood behind the children shouting and wailing, Madadh waving his dirk furiously just above their heads. Eventually they all managed to escape. Madadh turned to continue with Wooldridge; but he was gone.

Madadh cursed. He walked into the house and peered through the open window. 'Bastard.' he hissed.

'Och, lit him run' said Cormag, placing a hand on Madadh's shoulder 'a' least noo we ken who we swatch fer.'

'Aye, an' next tim ma dirk'll no stay dry. Cormag, where d'ye drop the wee woman?'

Cormag nodded to the other end of the room where Mother Munro lay quiet and pale on her bed.

'Och, she does ne look very good, Cormag. Whit ye dun te her?'

Madadh walked up to Mother Munro and looked down at her pathetic body. A look of surprise grew across his bearded face.

'Auld Mother Munro. Is tha'... is tha' really ye?' He knelt down by her side.

'Well I'm no the tooth fairy, Madadh.' Mother Munro still managed a wrinkly grin.

'But how... whit... whit ye dein' in this shite hole for God's sake? Nay offence, but I'm noo a lover o' London.'

'Aye, an' from what I hear, London's no lover of you either Madadh. Anyway, it's a long, long story.' She winced in pain as she tried to shift into a more comfortable position. 'An' look at you, all big and grown.' A brief smile turned quickly to a frown. 'That beard's a mess Madadh, an' your hair's tee long. You really should tidy y'sel' up.'

Madadh stroked at his beard self-consciously.

'And how's your father, Madadh? Is he still as grumpy as he used to be?'

'Aye,' he smiled 'he's a crabbit auld bastard to be sure.'

'I'd heard you where doon here Madadh. Heard you were lookin' for the Mother Lee stone. That right?'

'There's nay keepin' a secret fro' ye.'

'Well when ye walk 'roond London in a kilt you tend get noticed you daft wee thing. Did your father teach you nothin'? Mind, you MacDonalds were never known for your brains.' she chuckled to herself then winced again as the pain jabbed at her.

'Cormag, grab her a wee drink.' He held it gently to her lips. 'Sorry it's nay a bit stronger. So de ye ken where it's at Mother, the stoon?'

'Aye, I've seen it.' She sipped gingerly. 'Seen it this very day. Was truly beautiful. I never thought I'd see it again Madadh.'

'Today! So... where is it?'

Mother Munro hesitated then looked earnestly at Madadh. 'You must promise me Madadh; promise me that you'll no harm them. They didn'e take it from yer man. They're just wee children, that's all. If I tell ye, y'must promise.'

Fran arrived back at her home with Mary and Samuel. She opened the door a little anxiously, aware that her three boys had been left to their own devices for longer than she would have liked. She found four-year old William tied to a chair with a rope, a cloth around his mouth as a gag. He was wriggling and rocking, trying to free himself. The other two boys were nowhere to be seen.

'Oh no!' shouted Mary, stepping back from the door. 'He's been here already Aunty Fran!'

'I don't think so darlin'.' growled Fran. 'Matty, Zac, where the bloody 'ell are ya, ya little sods! Get 'ere now!'

The rear door to the slum creaked open and the other two boys crept in sheepishly.

'What you bin doin' t'yer bruvver, yer li'le sods. I warned ya 'bout this sort o' thing. Untie 'im right now! You 'ear me? Right now! Can't leave ya alone for...'

'You stink!' shouted Isaac, holding his hand across his face.

'You've crapped yourself, ain't ya?' howled Matthew.

Isaac laughed and pointed. 'Yeh, she's shit herself again!'

'No I have not! I fell over.' replied Fran indignantly, 'An' what you mean again. I ain't never crapped me self in the first place! You rude little sod! I'll give you what for!' She raised the back of hand ready to swipe at Matthew but he had already stepped back out of reach.

Fran started to untie William. 'Can't leave ya for five bloody minutes, I can't.

Matthew looked at Mary with concern. 'What you done to yer leg?'

'What?' asked Mary, absorbed by the mayhem around her.

'Look at yer leg. There's blood.'

Mary looked down. There was a rip in the bottom of her dress and blood ran down below her knee. Dark red stains surrounded the torn cloth.

'Oh, no! Mum'll kill me!' She lifted up the dress to reveal a gash just above her knee.

'Oo, that's nasty that is.' added Matthew. He grabbed the piece of cloth Fran had just removed from around William's mouth and took it to Mary. ' 'Ere, wrap this around it.'

'Thanks' said Mary, a little surprised by his concern.

'That's right, you'd 'elp 'er, but I bet you wouldn't bother if it was your old Mum, now would ya?' Fran snatched the cloth from Matthew's hand.' 'Ere darling, let me do it for ya.' She sneered at Matthew as she wrapped it around the wound.

'I don't feel good.' moaned Isaac, his face turning grey. 'I'm gonna spew.'

'Well get outside, quick!' shouted Fran but too late. Yellow liquid splattered onto the floor and wall.

William was now free. He ran towards Mary, skidding through the vomit. 'That's mine. Give it back!'

Fran was at the end of her tether. She threw an arm out to stop William, but in that moment, her frustration gave her more strength than she needed. She shoved him away, sending him tumbling into the wall and thumping his head into the bare wood. For a moment the room was silent, the other children open-mouthed. Then William began to scream. Blood was coming from his nose and a graze on his cheek.

'Now look what you made me do!' Fran shouted at Matthew.

'I ain't done noffin'.' replied Matthew defiantly.

'Come 'ere sweetheart, ya Mum's sorry.' Fran reached out to her son but William jumped to his feet and stomped off to the other side of the room.

Matthew took the cloth from the floor and placed it on Mary's wound. 'You better watch that Mary,' he added 'my mate Ash, he 'ad a cut like that, an' e was dead in a week.'

'Thanks Matt.' said Mary with a troubled smile.

Matt gave her a grin, satisfied with a rare good deed.

'You two better be gone.' Fran gave up on trying to reconcile with William, now hiding under the table. 'Be careful. Don't forget to go 'ow I told ya or you'll get stuck at them road blocks.' She opened the door. 'Be quick, go on. Get away from this place.' She gave them both a kiss on the top of the head and pushed them on their way.

Chapter 21

James had been appointed his first house to search. He clutched a rough brown blanket that he would use to cover himself and a long stick for prodding at the bodies as Brock had suggested. He'd be in and out as fast as he could and touch nothing. Two minutes he thought. Two minutes from the door being opened to him coming back out again. Surely that's all it would take.

He found the house. It was a modest two storey home in terraced row. It bore the now familiar red cross and words 'May God have Mercy' painted on a chained door. He introduced himself to the guard and began to cover up.

The guard took a couple of steps back. 'Jeez, they're getting' desperate now ain't they. 'Ow come they're sending men in? It's not right. I thought it was bad enough being stuck out 'ere guardin' 'em but I wouldn't want to be goin' in there with 'em!' He shook his head. 'That's women's work that is.'

'It's a long story.' replied James curtly. 'How many in there?'

'One dead, they're saying. A woman... a girl I think, died in the night. They been locked up for three days. I reckon there'll be just three or four of 'em left in there. The rest of the 'ouse must 'ave legged it before we locked 'em up.' The watchman undid the lock and chain then banged hard on the door. 'I'm opening this door now. Don't nobody try getting' out, you 'ear? Keep right back! There's a searcher comin' in.' He pushed the door open and added with a smirk 'Don't be surprised now, it's a man.' He stood well back and as soon as James had passed the threshold he slammed the door shut. The chain rattled as he quickly sealed the house again.

Inside was dark, hot, airless and strangely quiet. Soft sobs from upstairs broke the silence. James kept the blanket pulled well across his face, exposing just his eyes. Sweat quickly began to soak his shirt and run down his forehead, burning his eyes. Two figures stood silently in the gloom, watching from a doorway; a man, pale and motionless, and a girl half his height by his side, rag doll hanging from her hand.

'Right, let's keep this quick.' He thought to himself. 'I need to see the body.' he shouted, his voice muffled by the blanket over his face.

'It wasn't the Infection.' replied the man. 'It was consumption, not plague.'

'That's fine, where's the body.'

The man pointed up the narrow wooden staircase towards the sound of crying. 'It wasn't plague, I'm telling you.'

James made his way up. On the landing, a woman sat on the floor leaning against a bedroom door. Her face was buried between her knees. Her shoulders heaved in synchrony with her sobs.

James swallowed hard. 'I need to see...' He tried to bark the words harshly, show how cold and efficient he was, but the sounds became choked in his throat. He started to repeat himself but there was no need. Without a word or a glance the woman moved herself out of the way. James wrapped his hand with the blanket and opened the bedroom door.

It was a clearly a child's room. A few wooden toys sat on a shelf and a small home-made blackboard bore chalk sketches and messages. The window was open and a curtain flapped gently with the light summer breeze, but even so, the stench was overpowering. Flies covered every surface and circled the middle of the room. Two beds lay in parallel. On one lay a child, a girl, just a little smaller and younger than Mary. She was dressed in a white cotton night gown, now disfigured by yellow and brown stains. Her golden hair spilled over the pillow, her deep brown eyes gazed straight upwards from a lifeless grey face. The flies crawling over her eyes and mouth brought no response. Her once flawless skin was peppered with black and purple lumps and sores. Her arm pointed away from her body, fingers stretched outwards.

The sight and smells were too much for James. He dropped the blanket and dived for the window. His head made it through the opening just in time. The vomit splattered on the ground next to the guard, splashing against his legs.

'Oi watch where you're pukin' you moron!' he shouted 'God, why can't they get decent bloody people to do this job?'

James wiped the bitter fluid from his mouth and nose and turned back to the girl on the bed. Tears welled in his eyes. Her face, her clothes, her hair. It was if it was Mary lying there. It was a vision that had been waking him from his sleep in a cold sweat for weeks. He wanted to go to her, rearrange her limp arm back by her side, tuck her under the blanket, kiss her softly goodnight on the forehead. But he knew he couldn't. This wasn't his daughter and to touch her would be his death too. He crouched a safe distance from her, his knee inches from her outstretched hand. He pictured his own daughter reaching out for his help and protection. He wondered where she was now, what his other two children were doing. Maybe they were looking for him right at this moment, maybe he was failing them again. He saw the faces of Theresa and Helen, his two daughters who hadn't lived to see their third birthdays. They'd come before Mary and within twelve months of each other. He tried to remember the happy days of their short lives, not the pain of watching them both get sick then fade and die before him, of hearing them cry and call for his help and being powerless to do anything for them. That guilt would haunt him to his grave.

'I talked to her for two days through this door.' The voice came from the woman sat on the landing. She spoke with her back to James. She had no wish to see how her beautiful daughter had been mauled and mutilated by this evil disease. 'We had to lock her in, for the good of the family. We got two more kids, see. But she couldn't understand that. She shouted, screamed, it was so loud... she cried like she was a baby again...She begged and begged to come out... promised she'd be good.... Then when it got night, she got real scared. She banged and kicked the door. Screamed so much...God, I can still hear them screams. My husband couldn't listen. He hid downstairs. Don't blame him. What can you say to your own girl when you've give up on her to save yourself? Nine years old she was. Just nine short years...I had such dreams for that girl.' She wiped her eyes with her sleeve. 'So I sang to her I did, I told her tales and stories, just jabbered on so she knew I was here. Then after a bit she stopped shouting. It was real quiet... but I could still here her coughin'... still here her breathing if I pressed my ear to the door.' She turned her head to look but stopped herself. 'You always hope, you know, for a miracle... or somethin'. I prayed and prayed and prayed. But he ain't listenin' to us no more. Is she... she is gone, ain't she? I gotta know she's def'nitely gone. I heard stories of folks being taken to the pit still alive... I couldn't...'

'She's gone.' croaked James.

James used his blanket to cover his hand and then gently placed her arm by her side. He tried to close her eyes and her gaping mouth, but her facial muscles were rigid. He wrapped himself with his blanket, sniffed and steeled himself. 'Let me check the rest of the house.'

He closed the bedroom door and went on to the other upstairs room. It was bolted from the outside. He looked questioningly at the woman but she showed no interest. James unfastened the bolt and went inside. On the floor lay a boy, five or six years old, covered in the same sores and pustules. His breathing was fast, but that was his only sign of life. His eyes stared vacantly. James waved his stick in front of his face. There was no response. No flicker of movement, no blink or wince. Death was fast on its way. James walked to the window and leant out to try and get some air. A thick grey haze lay above the roofs in front of him, propped up by pillars of smoke from countless fires. From all directions church bells tolled. There was no fresh air to be had.

James swallowed hard. He walked quickly past the woman on the landing and headed back down the stairs. He'd seen enough.

The husband and his daughter were waiting at the bottom for him.

'It's not plague. It's consumption. Consumption.' He repeated it like a parrot.

'I'm sorry. I wish this wasn't happening.' James went to walk past.

The man stepped in his way. 'It wasn't plague. Tell them. That's all you have to say. You can save the rest of us. We can go free. I'm not sick, neither's my wife or little Alex here.' He nodded towards the girl holding his hand. She looked tired and pale but no sores or scabs were visible. 'I can pay you. I've got money, and other things. I'll give you enough so you can stop doing this shitty job and get away from here.' He held out a small leather purse. His hand shook wildly. 'Count it if you like. It's all our savings, everything. It's yours. Just tell them it was consumption and we'll be free.'

'Look I'm sorry. I'd like to help. I've got children.' He tried to squeeze past but the man didn't move.

'What difference does it make? It's everywhere. Half the people with this aren't locked up. Just tell them. They won't care.' He thrust the purse at James. 'Tell them!'

James' exit was blocked. He had to get out of this house. With his hand still wrapped in the blanket, he reluctantly accepted the purse and walked carefully around the man and his child.

'Make sure you tell them.'

'Open up!' James banged hard on the door. 'It's me, the searcher.'

The guard undid the lock and released James. He shut the door but kept one hand on the latch. 'So plague, yeh?' We lock 'em back up?'

James hesitated.

'Tell him. Tell him what you saw. Tell him it's not plague!'

The guard held the lock and chain in his hand and looked at James for guidance. 'Well, lock it or not?'

James looked at the ground. 'Lock it.'

'NO! Don't! It's not plague! It's not! You cheating bastard!'

James walked away, squeezing the purse tightly in his hand. 'I can't keep this.' he thought. He had to find somewhere to get rid of it. He couldn't keep blood money. But maybe he could hide it, somewhere safe, for the future, just in case.

'We had a deal! You promised!'

The guard eyed James with suspicion, then spotted the brown leather purse in his clutch. 'You thievin' sod!' He sprinted after James and seized him by the shoulder. As James turned the guard smashed the heavy iron padlock into the side of his head. James crashed to the ground. When he opened his eyes he found the guard stood over him, emptying the purse into his hand.

'You make me sick.' The watchman threw the empty purse at James before strolling back across the street.

The house was still unlocked. The owner inside saw his chance; he grabbed his daughter, dragged her through the open door and ran away down the street. The guard was unconcerned. He returned to the house, locked it shut again and counted his coins.

'You made a deal mister. Cough up!'

Jacob and the other children had found a grubby and irate Wooldridge striding back along the street after his escape through the old woman's window. They were in pursuit again. They wanted the rest of their money. Wooldridge was in no mood to make concessions.

'Go on, clear off the lot of you! It didn't work so you don't get any more money. Now sod off!'

'Ooooh! Ain't so toffee now, is ya? An' what was that stone they was on 'bout an' all? Bet you got it, ain't ya? Bet that's why they was after ya!'

'If I had that...' Wooldridge thought better and stopped himself from finishing the sentence. 'Just... just... piss off!'

But they didn't. They circled around him just out of reach, tormenting and teasing. All that was, except for one boy, Alfred, who followed quietly behind. Alfred didn't just fear God, he was terrified of him. Until recently Alfred had been working for a clergyman. Cleaning, scrubbing, fetching and carrying - a general dogs-body. The work wasn't well paid; at nine years old wages meant enough food to avoid starvation and little more besides. But he had learnt an awful lot about hell, damnation and God's terrible vengeance, enough to make him very sure he never wanted to see it. That made it all the more frightening when a few items had gone missing from the rectory, and the clergyman started pointing the finger at his servants, including Alfred. In the end, the decision was taken to sack the entire junior household staff. That way he was sure to get rid of the thief. Sadly for Alfred that included him, and no amount of pleading his innocence could save his wretched job. The only thing that poor Alfred took away from that house was a gruesome nightmare of what would happen to him in the next life if he didn't behave himself in this one. So when he ran with the gang he was careful to step back when their activities crossed the line. He made sure that he did nothing that could ignite God's terrible wrath. Before throwing them out of the house, the clergyman had told each of his sacked servants about an evil stone that was somewhere in London. This, he said, came straight from Satan and it was so evil that it would turn good men bad, would make them fight, lie and murder. Anyone who touched it would go straight to hell. On the other hand, if any of them could help him find this stone and destroy it, then they would surely be guaranteed a place in heaven.

Now Alfred reckoned he might just have the news that would keep him safe, his ticket away from damnation and torture and into eternal paradise. He ran eagerly up the steps at the back of the Reverend Singer's house. He couldn't wait to tell him about the men in skirts and the stone they were talking about. He knew that the vicar would be pleased. He opened the kitchen door and charged in, weaving between the cook and her helper. He flew into the hallway and crashed into the footman.

'What the hell are you doin' back here you little rogue? You come to do more thieving have you?' He grabbed Alfred by his shirt.

'No. I come to tell the Reverend somefin'. I ain't never stole noffin'!'

'Sure you haven't. An' you're not going to start now either.' He marched Alfred back towards the kitchen.

'I gotta tell him. I promised. He wants to know.'

'Sure he does. Come on, out before you wake him.'

The drawing room door opened and a sleepy looking Reverend Singer appeared. 'What is all this blasted noise? Can't a tired man have a two minute rest? What on earth are you doing, Armitage?'

'I'm most sorry Sir. I am just removing this intruder from the house.'

'Sir, Sir, it's me Alfred. I got some news sir!'

The footman continued to drag Alfred towards the exit.

'Do I know you boy? Armitage, stop a moment. Do I know you boy?' He looked with suspicion at Alfred. Was this some sort of scam?

'It's me, sir, Alfred. I used to work here.'

The Revered looked at him again and sneered. 'Never seen you before. Get out.' He turned to walk back into his study and resume his nap.

Armitage shoved Alfred back towards the exit. 'You're goin' to get a good thrashin' for your trouble an' all.' he hissed under his breath.

'But Sir, you said to tell you if I 'eard anyfin' 'bout the red stone.' shouted Alfred.

The Reverend turned on his heels. 'Did you say stone? Armitage let him go for heaven's sake. What do you think you're doing? Come boy, come here and tell me.' He ushered Alfred towards the drawing room. 'Armitage, get some milk for our young friend. Now, young man, tell me everything.'

Mary and Samuel hurried back towards Monnington Street. Their clothes were filthy and even amongst the many foul smells around them, they stank. Mary's dress was ripped and stained and blood still ran down her leg from her wound. They were both smothered in mud, dirt and sweat.

'We're gonna cop it from Mum when we get back.' grumbled Samuel.

'I know, but we can't 'elp that now, can we?' added Mary. 'At least we know 'ow to work that stone. Least we can do somethin' to fix up Mister. Shipton then he can leave like 'e said. Don't want old Miss P findin' 'im.'

'No, she'd prob'ly cook 'im up an' eat 'im!' Samuel sniggered.

'Don't be 'orrible.' Mary grabbed Samuel's arm and stopped.

'What's up?'

'Let's go 'round the other way, round the back.'

'What? No way Mary, we're nearly back. What's wrong?'

'Come on; let's go 'round.' She tugged his arm.

Samuel looked down the street and saw the problem. Nick was stood by the iron railings of the house next door. He was peering outwards, passing the time, avoiding work. 'Oh for 'eavens sakes. This is about 'im, innit?'

'No it ain't! I just...'

'Course it is. Come on, we're nearly 'ome.'

'Look at me Samuel!' hissed Mary 'I ain't lettin' 'im see me like this!'

'Oh, come on Mary. He don't care any'ow. Let's just get home. I ain't walkin' the long way 'round.'

'No way, he ain't seeing me like this Samuel.'

'Nick, Nick!' Samuel shouted 'How are you doin'?'

Nick cast an apathetic glance and then continued to stare vacantly through the railings.

'Sam, you little sod!' growled Mary through gritted teeth. Now she couldn't be rude and walk away. She flattened down her wild hair and tried to rub away some of the dried blood and dirt whilst carefully watching to make sure Nick's gaze remained elsewhere. She tried to look as casual as her dishevelled state would allow.

'You still sore 'bout your dog Nick.' she asked. 'That was real mean that was.'

Nick cast a vacant look at Mary. 'What? No, well yeh, I guess, that... too.'

'What do you mean, that too?'

Nick bent down and picked up a handful of small stones from the ground and began to throw them over the railings. His eyes were reddened, his voice unsteady; 'I 'eard from home this mornin'... they got it... got it in the 'ouse a couple o' weeks ago.'

'Got what?' asked Samuel. 'Who got what?'

'My folks. In the house. The Infection. What do you think you little moron?' He gestured as if to cast a stone at Samuel, but didn't.

'Oh, Nick, I'm sorry. Are they...have any of 'em...' Mary stuttered

'Died? Yeh, 'cept Lilly, my sister an' she's sick.'

'Why don't you go an' help 'er then?' asked Samuel.

'They won't let me. Said what's the point? You'll only get plague and you can't save 'em any'ow. Said if I go, they won't have me back.'

'But Nick. We got the stone now. We know how it works now. We could go and save her. Your sister. We could make her better.' urged Mary.

'It's too late for that.' Nick turned and began to trudge back towards the house.

'I'm really sorry Nick.'

Nick turned and looked back at Mary. 'You two need to clean up.'

Mary and Samuel braced themselves for trouble before walking back into the cellar kitchen. Miss Pewtersmith was stood with her back to them working at the kitchen table. She was quietly humming to herself. Mary nodded her head at Samuel and gestured silently towards the stairs to the main house. They tip toed alongside the wall behind her. Miss P kept on humming. They could get some fresh clothes and then wash themselves down and no one would need know about it.

'What are you two up to? Where you been?' Miss Pewtersmith continued kneading her bread without looking at them. 'An' what's that awful smell?'

Mary and Samuel cringed and said nothing; they kept on for the staircase.

'Don't ignore me ya ignorant brats!' She turned to face them both. Horror appeared on her face. Torn clothes, dirt, mud and blood. And that terrible, terrible smell. 'Oh my Giddy Aunt! Oh my! Oh my!' She jumped to her feet and backed away around the table. She had never seen plague but she had imagined the sights and smells and this surely must be it. 'You get out! Both of you out! Don't you bring that filthy plague in here! Get out now!' she screeched.

'No, Miss P, this isn't plague, look.' Mary stepped forward to show her how the dirt rubbed off but Miss Pewtersmith was taking no chances. She ran around the table, shrieking.

'Get away, get away!' I ain't catchin' no plague!' She bolted through the door, still squealing.

Elizabeth heard the commotion. She came dashing down the stairs, with Alice sitting on her hip. 'What's the fuss? Is that the kids?' She burst into the kitchen. 'Oh my Good Lord. What have you done?'

Within minutes Elizabeth had Samuel stripped and standing ankle deep in a bucket of water, scrubbing him from head to toe. She was horrified to hear that the pair of them had ventured into the slums of St Giles, even though Samuel had been careful to avoid mention of the stone, Fran, Mother Munro, body carts and any other murky details.

Elizabeth was angry. She scrubbed hard with a rough bristled brush. Samuel winced but knew well to keep quiet.

'How many times have we warned you not to go outside these gates and you go to bloody St Giles of all places!' At the end of each sentence Elizabeth scrubbed a bit harder for good measure. 'Do you want to get sick? Do you want to bring that infection into this house and kill us all?'

Samuel said nothing.

'You don't go past the garden fence again. Do you hear me?' Elizabeth stopped scrubbing and turned to Mary. She put a hand on each of her cheeks and forced her to look straight into her eyes. 'I'm not sure you're understanding me Mary. Listen carefully.' She spoke slowly and precisely. 'This is not a game. If you venture outside of this place again without my permission then you leave this house and this family forever. Disobey me once more and you're on your own. Is that clear? You won't bring death in here.'

The door opened and Miss Pewtersmith crept inside. 'I just come to get me stuff. I'll not be... Is that... Is that just dirt?' She looked in disbelief at Samuel, now scrubbed and clean, dressing himself by the table.

'They had an accident.' explained Elizabeth. 'They're fine now. No plague.'

'Are you sure? 'Cause I ain't stayin' 'ere one minute longer if they got it. I ain't getting' sick.'

'I'm sure. They're clean now. And they won't be off out again, will you Mary?'

Mary shook her head silently.

'Oh thank the Lord for that!' exclaimed Miss Pewtersmith. 'You stupid kids, you wanna be more careful givin' me a shock like that, could 'ave killed me. Then how'd you 'ave felt?'

Samuel opened his mouth to reply, then thought better of it.

'Mary, you and Sam take those dirty clothes outside and burn them. Make sure they're all gone.'

'Mum, that's my favourite. Can't we fix it?'

Elizabeth turned a stern eye to Mary. 'Burn it girl. Remember what I said.'

Chapter 22

The day was getting late. James had reported his work to Doctor Chambers. He hadn't bothered to mention how two of the occupants had run from the front door at the first house. He didn't tell him that some infected homes were empty, the occupants escaped and neighbours telling of guards being paid to look the other away or beaten and fleeing their post.

But he also found plenty of corpses. The sights and smells had appalled him at first; made him vomit and want to weep. But even during the course of just one day he had begun to harden. He was starting to follow his original plan of in and out in just a minute or two. A quick dash from room to room and a sprint back to the front door. Plague was usually obvious and if it wasn't, well who's going to argue with his decision. There were no second opinions. No conversation with survivors was his rule, but sometimes this was hard. He'd learnt that the quickest way of dealing with bribes and threats was to appear to acquiesce and then get out. In the process he had accumulated a fair amount of cash which made him feel uncomfortable. He reassured himself that if he didn't take it then someone else would, a house cleaner or body collector. And anyway, James wasn't going to use it; he'd give it to the church or the orphanage later, probably, once he knew that he and his family were safe. And he wouldn't allow bribes to influence his advice to Doctor Chambers. Oh no, he would say they had plague regardless. So that couldn't be wrong, surely.

The road outside the doctor's office was usually bustling with the well-to-do, window shopping, socialising, being seen. But not tonight. As James emerged back into the late evening sun, just a handful of people were striding purposefully past the boarded up shops and houses, taking care to steer well clear of other folk. This was not the crowded slums of St Giles; most people here had enough money and influence to pay whatever it took to get a certificate of health and get out of the city.

James trudged along the street with head down, trying not to think too deeply or catch anyone's eye. He clutched his blanket and stick under his arm. He wore no badge or uniform but the few people on the street seemed to know, and they crossed the street to avoid him. Where could he go for the night? He'd have to find somewhere rough to sleep. Perhaps by the river. Somewhere well away from the houses he'd been searching and the churchyards that saw a nocturnal frenzy of digging, tipping bodies and burying.

Footsteps approached. James kept his head down. He didn't need anyone else reminding him of his lowly position. They'd soon spot what he was and veer away in disgust. But the steps grew close. The sound was familiar, a rhythmical 'step-scrape-step-scrape'. James looked behind to see Brock striding to catch up.

'Keep away.' snapped James 'You don't want to get close to the likes of me.'

'Huh! If God wants me he can have me.' Brock replied with indifference, 'And anyway, I know what it's like to be an outcast. People in this city only have to hear me speak and they think I'm about to eat their babies. Where are you headed?'

James shrugged.

'You can't go back to your family, you know that?'

James nodded. 'I was going to have a look at the river.'

Brock laughed. 'What, you on the river! They're not going to let a searcher onto one of their boats for heaven's sake. They're in those things to get away from the likes of us!'

'Boats? What are you talking about?'

'You haven't seen them? Where have you been, man? They've been there for weeks now, more each day. It's a hell of a sight! People are living on them to escape this God-awful disease. Here, I'll show you.' He gestured to James to follow. 'Unless you've got anything else to do?'

They made their way through the quiet streets until finally they were confronted by an immense grey cathedral, its intimidating stone walls rising up from the earth like a cliff face. Its flanks were punctuated by a series of ornate pillars, like knobbly fingers pointing the way to God.

Brock nodded towards the central tower. 'From up there we can see everything.'

'But... that's St Paul's, we can't climb up there. What about the clergy, the wardens?'

Brock snorted dismissively. 'They didn't care when Cromwell turned it into a barn and they don't care now. They'll be sitting down to dinner in some country manor house this very minute.' He marched on towards the main door of the cathedral.

Saint Paul's had seen better days. It had been built and rebuilt many centuries earlier to inspire awe into the people of London. Back then it had fabulously ornate altars, intricate tapestries and the finest stained glass in all of England. It had boasted the tallest spire in Europe; a magnificent marvel of modern engineering that had stretched nearly to heaven, towering over the puny Londoners below. But how times had changed. Long ago it had become home to the gossip merchants of London, to the horse traders and gamblers, to thieves and prostitutes. And then Henry unleashed his protestant storm and tore down the catholic idolatry from the walls, defaced the statues and smashed down walls to plunder the stone for himself. God showed his rage and struck the cathedral with lightening, sending the flaming spire crashing through the roof. But people paid no heed. They just patched up the roof and went on as before. They baked bread in the cloisters and sold wine from the crypt. They carried on as the old church crumbled around them. By the time the civil war came along and Cromwell used the place as a stable for his cavalry, the roof was falling in and the walls were falling down. Just to set foot in the place was to put your life in God's hands.

James and Brock weaved their way through St. Paul's churchyard, between pits and piles of dirt, parked carts and horses. Workmen were readying themselves for the night's work, watering their animals, unloading shovels and tools.

Inside the cavernous cathedral the light was fading, but the holes in the roof and the collapsed southern wing still allowed in enough light to see. Rows of candles twinkled at the base of the stout stone pillars and created shadows that danced up the carved stone. A scattering of people sat on the few remaining wooden pews. Debris littered the cathedral floor, the once grand altars were reduced to bare tables before broken statues and defaced images. Coughs and moans echoed around the chamber.

James followed Brock to the base of the tower.

'You go ahead James; I'm not good with steps. Be careful though, they're a bit rough.'

The stone staircase was dark and seemed endless. James fumbled his way upwards, step after crumbling step, until at last he could crawl gingerly out onto the roof. He eased his way past gaping holes, careful to look no further than the scorched beams so as not to see the vast drop to the cathedral floor below.

The spire might have burnt down, the walls might have been crumbling and the roof partly collapsed, but what remained of the sorry cathedral still managed to dominate London. James found a solid looking piece of timber and perched alongside the pigeons to wait for Brock. In spite of his lofty position, the air around James at the top of the tower was heavy and still; the flag of Saint George drooped sad and lifeless from the nearby Ludgate. To the west the sky blushed red around a weary sun. Its feeble rays streaked in horizontally above the river, adding a blood-red tinge to the blanket of smoke over the city. Lengthening shadows stretched out like claws, dragging the city back into night. Hundreds of fires twinkled like stars in the fading light, and whilst most of the city dwellers locked themselves in their homes and prepared for another sleepless night, the grave diggers and body collectors emerged to ready themselves for another night's work.

On the river sat a hotchpotch of boats, dozens of them, all sizes and shapes, merchant vessels, barges, sailing boats and fishing vessels, their decks crammed with people. Rowing boats passed from one to the next, selling goods else trying to gain entry and being turned away.

Brock emerged from the staircase, felt his way across the roof and plonked himself clumsily alongside James, scattering the pigeons. 'It's quite a sight, eh?' Brock nodded towards the Thames. 'Six months ago we were freezing to death. Now look at this!'

'Is this really the end do you think Brock? You, know, the end... of everything?'

Brock shrugged. 'Could be James. And anyway, even if we do survive, if nothing changes, God will just send something worse.'

'Nothing could be worse than this.'

'There's always worse James, always.'

'But how could he do this? How can he sit up there and look down on this and be satisfied?' '

'They've brought this on themselves James.'

'But all the innocents? My wife, my kids. I can't bear to think of them being hurt by this. How can this be... ?' James halted his sentence as he recalled Brock's story of losing his own family. 'I'm sorry. I didn't mean...'

'I know you didn't.' Brock replied quietly then climbed to his feet to stand on the edge of the tower. 'Enough of this bleak talk. James, pick your house.' He swept an arm towards the surrounding streets. 'We are the care-takers of London, James. Half of these houses are empty - and the better half at that. We can live in a different house every night, sleep in the best four-poster beds, eat from the finest crockery.'

James looked at Brock with furrowed brow. 'What, you mean break in to someone's house? We can't do that! You talk about people changing their ways and then you...'

Brock put a firm hand on James shoulder. 'My good James most of those people will probably never come back and even if they do, we won't be stealing from them. We're simply looking after their property for them, you and I.'

James looked back unconvinced.

'James, you're telling me you're going to sleep under a bridge and get nibbled by rats so you don't crumple the sheets of some rich old bastard who's left us all here to die? 'Cause I'm sure not! God helps those who help themselves James.'

Chapter 23

The next morning, just before dawn, James left his salubrious overnight lodgings and headed back towards Monnington Street. Barricades sat across several of the streets, but as nobody had yet turned up to man them, James simply climbed over and went on his way. Finally, he was stood outside the church and across the road from Number 28, just as he'd promised.

Samuel and Mary had also risen early. Samuel had carefully rubbed the red stone three times around the top of a jug of water before eagerly taking it across to the carriage house with Mary to try it out on Shipton. This time he was sure it would work. Shipton lay asleep on his straw bed. They carefully propped up his head and poured sips into his mouth. There was little response from Shipton, just a few splutters but at least most of it went down his throat.

'Come on Samuel, it'll take time.' reassured Mary. 'Three times a day she said. We'll come back later P'rhaps if we give 'im some extra it'll work faster.'

Elizabeth hadn't slept. Alone in bed she had spent the night wondering what the future would hold, how she could keep plague from their door and away from her family. Now daylight was finally here she had at last fallen into a deep sleep.

James stood for an hour outside the home. He threw pebbles at the house but only Miss Pewtersmith heard them in the main bedroom upstairs. She pulled the covers over her head and went back to sleep. Finally James gave up. He was expected to report for work and if he didn't turn up they'd probably come for Elizabeth instead. Dejectedly, he set off back down the road. Head down, he didn't notice the two lost-looking kilted men on the opposite side of the road.

Annabel Collins sat with her father eating breakfast. The topic of conversation was the same as it had been for the last two weeks; her father was keen to leave the city and his only daughter was coming up with reasons why they should delay. The judge had been packed and ready to leave for days. His patience had run out. Today he announced, they would leave at noon come what may. She had two choices: leave with them or stay behind and ride out the plague with the support of his trusted servant Wooldridge. This time he wasn't going to be taken in by her pleadings, his word was final. This gave her just one last morning in which to find this charmed jewel.

Half an hour later Annabel and Wooldridge were sitting in a fashionable new Hackney Carriage heading towards Monnington Street. She had to find a way to get this stone. Wooldridge had proved useless. She would have to do it herself, she thought, though she brought him along, just in case.

Elizabeth finally awoke well after nine o' clock. Alice had been unsettled and had crawled into her bed early in the morning. Elizabeth carefully tucked her back in under the covers and tip-toed away. Then a sudden realisation gripped her. James was to have been across the road at dawn. She'd overslept. Would he still be there? She ran to the window of the small upstairs bedroom and threw open the shutters. There was no sign of him. The road was quiet except for a small carriage parked a little way further up the street. What would James think? That they'd forgotten him already, that they didn't care? That they were sick? Maybe he had never been there. Maybe plague had already struck him down, maybe looters had attacked him. The children, she'd told them to look out for him this morning. She dressed quickly and ran downstairs to find Mary and Samuel. They were in the kitchen preparing another jug of water for Shipton.

'You know we should drink this too, it'll keep us safe.' said Samuel as he rubbed the stone around the rim.

'I s'pose you're right, an' Alice an' Mum.'

'Not Miss P though. She can catch it - and she'd prob'ly look better if she did.' Samuel sniggered.

'We need to get some to Dad. He needs it most.'

'But we'd have to not tell Mum. She ain't gonna approve.'

'Approve of what?' Elizabeth stood in the doorway, hand on hip.

Samuel jumped and dropped the stone into the clay water jug. Elizabeth caught a glimpse of rose coloured light before it plopped into the water out of sight.

'What was that you had in your hand Samuel? That red thing.'

'What red thing?' Samuel shrugged.

Elizabeth frowned. She had no time for games. 'No matter. I overslept. Did either of you remember to greet your father this morning? Remember? At dawn...across the road... I told you both.'

Mary and Samuel exchanged guilty glances. In their haste to test out the stone they had completely forgotten.

'Mary? Surely you...'

Mary shook her head.

'Samuel?'

Samuel looked at his feet.

'Samuel?' His mother asked again. 'Well I guess there was no chance of you remembering.' She stomped across the kitchen. 'Oh why can't I rely on you two? Completely bloody useless the pair of you! One thing you could do for me!'

Mary and Samuel made no reply.

'And look at this kitchen! It's a bloody mess.' She picked up a wooden chair and rammed it under the table. Upstairs Alice started crying. 'Don't you care? Don't either of you God-dam care!'

The children had never heard her curse before. They stayed quiet. Alice's crying became louder. Elizabeth sat down and put her head in her hands.

Miss Pewtersmith walked into the kitchen. 'What is all the bloody racket? Can't a hard-workin' girl get her rest?' She walked up to the table and reached for the jug of water. Samuel pulled it away.

'Oi, what you bloody doin'? You'll feel the back of my hand, you will boy!' She grabbed the jug back and poured herself a drink. The children looked on anxiously as the water flowed from the jug to the cup. The stone didn't drop out.

'Cheeky li'le bastard.' mumbled Miss Pewtersmith then swigged back the water.

Alice still screamed upstairs.

Elizabeth sighed loudly and rose from the table. 'Useless, lazy....' she hissed under her breath as she passed Miss Pewtersmith.

'What? I 'eard that!' Miss Pewtersmith jumped to her feet. 'Don't you think I didn't 'ear that. You can't talk to me like that! I'm in charge 'ere. You'd better watch your step.' She waved a finger in front of Elizabeth's face.

Elizabeth pushed the hand away. 'You're not fit to be in charge of anything. And if you ...'

Elizabeth's reply was cut short by a tap on the door. A head peeped inside. 'I'm terribly sorry, I hope I'm not interrupting. My name is Annabel Collins.' She opened the door fully and swept boldly inside. 'I hope this isn't a bad time.' She stood alongside a chair and waited for it to be pulled out.

Miss Pewtersmith quickly obliged. 'Oh no m'lady, not a bad time at all!'

Miss Collins tucked in the yards of flowing white skirt and sat. 'I am the daughter of Judge Collins, you may have heard of me?'

'Oh, yes m'am. Course we 'eard of Miss Ann'bel Collins!'

'Good, good. Pray tell me, what you have heard?' she said, smiling at Miss Pewtersmith.

'Oh, well... nice things, lots o' nice things.

'Like what?'

'Well, like...like your... dad... him being... a kind judge an' all that.'

'Kind? Well he gets called many things but I didn't think he was very kind. Still, very nice of you, Misses...?'

'Oh Miss Pewtersmith m'lady. Miss Gertrude Pewtersmith.' She performed a small curtsey.

'And who might this be?' She smiled warmly at Elizabeth.

'Oh that's Elizabeth, a servant m'am.'

Elizabeth nodded politely. She was suspicious of the motives of this wealthy-looking pretty young woman.

'Oh and the dear children! The poor orphans!' she raised open arms to Mary and Samuel inviting them into a hug. The children stayed where they were. 'I heard the terrible news about both of your parents being taken away to do the mayor's dirty work. How awful! I do hope they're not already dead!' she shook her head sadly. She turned to Miss Pewtersmith. 'Any way, I've come to make you an offer you can't refuse! I'll take them off your hands, both of them! They can come to work for me. I'll give them board and lodgings and they'll learn a new a trade. It will be wonderful. How about that?' She beamed at Mary and Samuel.

'No, don't listen to 'er Mum,' shouted Samuel 'that man works for 'er, she was...'

'Mum? What do you mean, Mum?'

'That's right. He's my son.' replied Elizabeth coldly.

'What? But... but you were...I heard you were both taken away.'

'Their father was, not me.'

Annabel Collins hesitated. She poured herself a cup of water and watched as she swirled it around in circles; there was no way she would drink it, not water. But this spoilt her plan completely. 'Well, what wonderful news.'

'Mum, she was the one...' started Samuel again.

'How lucky you're both so well,' Miss Collins rose to her feet, talking over Samuel 'because there are so many dangers out there for children today.' She walked across the room towards them. 'You know just the other day I came across children just like you two with evil trinkets, the stuff of witchcraft and devil worship. If the bishop knew where those children where he'd have their whole family burnt at the stake!' She fixed her gaze on each of them in turn. 'Burnt to a crisp!'

'Well, Miss Collins it was very kind of you to call by and offer the children work. But as you can see we don't need assistance.' Elizabeth opened the door.

'There is one more thing.' Annabel Collins smiled sweetly again. 'A stone. A bright red stone that belongs to me. I think your children may have taken it... by mistake of course.'

'Is that right children?' asked Elizabeth.

'By mistake? Stole you mean!' scoffed Miss Pewtersmith.

The stone was still submerged in the water jug on the table. The children looked at the floor.

'It was my grandmother's,' continued Miss Collins 'she gave it to me on her death bed. I promised I'd look after it.' she sniffed. 'What would I say to my father if I've lost it?' She looked back to the children. 'And what would the Bishop say?'

They would have to hand it over. The thought of the Bishop turning up and accusing them of witchcraft was too much. Mary reached for the jug.

'Their father has it.' said Elizabeth.

'What?' snapped Miss Collins.

'Their father has it. He was taken to be a searcher. He took it with him for good luck.'

Annabel Collins' face dropped. 'You're lying!' she screeched. 'They've got it. I know they have! Empty your pockets!' She grabbed Samuel and ripped his pockets inside out. Mary happily turned her pinafore pockets out too. 'Damn you! Where's your husband? How do I find him?' she screamed at Elizabeth.

'I don't know. Where ever there's plague I suppose.'

'Dawn.' said Miss Pewtersmith. 'He'll be across the road from 'ere at dawn ev'ry mornin'. I 'eard 'em say it m'am.'

Elizabeth scowled at Miss Pewtersmith.

Annabel Collins swept out of the kitchen and stormed back to the cab. Wooldridge was waiting inside.

'Success Miss Collins?'

'Quiet! Just be quiet! Get me home. We'll have to come back again tomorrow morning. This is your fault Wooldridge!'

'Your father leaves today Miss.'

'Oh he'll stay for me. I'll see to that. You just get me home.'

Elizabeth closed the kitchen door.

Miss Pewtersmith returned to the kitchen table. She ripped a piece of bread from the loaf and shoved it in her mouth. 'Them two is gonna get us in trouble. You need to sort 'em out 'fore it's too late.' she spluttered through a mouth filled with food.

Elizabeth put her arms around Mary and Elizabeth and swept them towards the stairs. 'You two have got some explaining to do.' she whispered.

Samuel grabbed the jug from the table as Elizabeth herded them towards the main house.

Elizabeth took them to a corner of the sitting room and sat them down. The room was lit only by paper-thin streaks of sunlight that had found the cracks around the edges of the shutters. Dust rose from the unused settee as they sat. 'Now, from the beginning, I want to know what's been going on.'

Miss Pewtersmith was enjoying her breakfast again, so she was not pleased to be disturbed by another knock on the door, this time heavy enough to rattle the iron hinges. She cursed and went to see who was there. She found two kilted men stood before her.

'De ye ken i' this is where that wee bairn lives wi' our stoon?'

'What?' Miss Pewtersmith frowned and then chomped some more.

'Two wee uns, wi' a red stoon.'

'A red stone? Them bloody kids. I might have guessed it! What they been doin' now?'

'I'll tek that as yes. We'd lik tee speak wi' 'em.' Madadh MacDonald put a foot into the doorway.

Miss Pewtersmith was having none of it. She wasn't going to allow these bearded barbarians into the house. Who knows where they'd been? She raised her heel and stamped hard on Madadh's toes. 'Don't think you're coming in here with your foreign diseases!'

Madadh hopped backwards.

Miss Pewtersmith hurriedly slammed the door and bolted it shut. 'Now piss off back to where ever you came from! Go on!'

Cormag stepped back and dropped a shoulder ready to charge at the door like a battering ram.

'Och, dinne worry, Cormag.' Madadh rubbed his sore foot. 'Look' he said nodding at the carriage house 'the wee cottage o'er yonder. That'd de fine fer 'er fer noo.'

Mary and Samuel had shown their mother the stone and given her a little more detail about what they'd been up to. They stopped short of telling her how they'd hidden Shipton in the loft of the carriage house. Elizabeth eyed the stone with curiosity. She was a religious woman but not as superstitious as most. She had little time for talk of magic and sorcery. But these were desperate times and if everyone wanted the stone so badly, maybe there was something special about it. Her first instinct normally would be to try and trace the true owner and return it, but he might be dead. And even if he wasn't dead she couldn't be expected to try and track him down in the midst of all this disease. She'd keep it for now and try out its healing powers; see if it really could keep plague at bay.

No sooner had Miss Pewtersmith sat down to continue her breakfast and there was yet another sharp rap on the door. She slammed the bread back on the table and marched to the door.

'I've told you already, clear off! We don't want your sorts 'round 'ere.'

'I am here on behalf of the Bishop. Open this door!' the latch rattled.

'Oh yeh! An' I'm the pope. Now piss off! You ain't comin' in!'

'How dare you talk to me like that? I'm a man of God!'

'Is that a fact? Well ask him what the 'ell 'es playin' at, an' then sod off!'

The Reverend Singer was not impressed. He looked at the other openings to the house all boarded up. He gave the door another rattle then kicked it for good measure. 'I'll be back. You'll regret talking to a me like this! The Bishop will hear about you!'

A contrite Mary and Samuel entered the kitchen followed by Elizabeth. They'd been left in no doubt about the rules. Elizabeth carried Alice. The toddler had flushed cheeks and runny nose. Mary picked up a pot and began to clean it.

'You two trouble makers,' grumbled Miss Pewtersmith 'I've had more people after you, men in skirts, 'ere lookin' for you no more than two minutes ago. Talkin' some strange bloody tongue they were. Then they came back pretendin' to be the Bishop! Must think I'm stupid!'

Men in skirts, the Bishop. The pan slipped from Mary's hand and clattered onto the flagstone floor. She shot an anxious glance at Samuel.

'Clumsy thing! You need to be more careful what you're doin' - an' who you're hangin' 'round with! I'm watchin' you two, real close,' warned Miss Pewtersmith 'real close.'

Alice began coughing.

'What wrong with that child?' asked Miss Pewtersmith anxiously. 'Is she sick? She is, in't she? She's bloody well sick!'

'It's a cold. Nothing more.' Elizabeth hugged her tightly. 'Just a cold.'

'You'd better be right. If she's got plague you're out of 'ere. All o' you. Out! D'ya hear?'

'A cold. A simple cold, that's all it is.' replied Elizabeth, trying to mask her concern.

Annabel Collins screamed at the cab driver to speed up. She had to get home in time to sit down with her father and persuade him to stay in London for one more night, again. What excuse could she use this time? She had already feigned illness a couple of times and that wasn't likely to work again. She'd told him the horses were lame on one occasion, much to his anger when he found that they were fine. Perhaps she could tell him she had to say good bye to friends, maybe get some special provisions. She racked her brain to come up with a plausible idea. Perhaps she could tell him the truth? No, that would never work. Now the blasted cab driver was going to make her late.

'Where's he going Wooldridge? We don't live down here! Tell him for God's sake! We haven't got time for a tour!'

'This is the only way open now m'am.' the cab driver shouted back. 'They were closing off the road this morning when we passed.'

'What's he saying Wooldridge, for God's sake? Tell him to go back the way we came.' she shouted.

'He says it's closed off now Miss Collins.'

'Closed off! We came that way. Tell the idiot to go the same way we came!'

'M'am, I do believe...' the cab driver started to explain.

'Just do as your told man!' screamed Annabel Collins. 'What do you take me for? Do it!'

The cab driver shrugged, pulled his horse around and headed back in the direction from which they'd come. A few streets later they rounded a corner to be met by a barricade across the street. It was formed from wooden barrels, carts and debris. Two small bonfires pumped out black smoke either side of the road. As they neared the barricade, two men carrying flaming torches approached them, each with their mouths and noses covered by scarves.

'What's going on? Wooldridge, get them to clear the way, right now!'

'You can't come through 'ere. Road closed!' one of them shouted.

'This is Judge Collins' daughter. You'd better clear a path for us.' ordered Wooldridge.

'I don't care if it's the King of bloody Spain. No one comes through.' Another figure appeared from around the barricade, musket in hand. 'You'll have to turn around.'

'Wooldridge, Wooldridge!' Miss Collins was getting more irate 'We don't have time for this! Pay them. Get them out of the way!'

Wooldridge jumped out of the cab and pulled out a purse. 'How much?'

The two men stepped back and began debating their price. The third man armed with his musket was less impressed. He joined in, and the debate became an argument. They began to shout.

'Wooldridge just clear a path.' shouted Miss Collins.

'I don't think that would be wise Miss.' replied Wooldridge. 'If we just give them a minute...'

She climbed out of the cab and pointed at the barricade. 'Don't argue with me. Do it! Do it right now!'. She shoved him towards it.

Wooldridge looked at the men, shouting at each other, clutching torches, swords and musket. He knew this wasn't going to work but what could he do? He walked up to the barricade and began to slowly roll a barrel away. He waited for the inevitable.

'Oi! What the hell are you doin'? Get off that!'

The rifle was raised and aimed at Wooldridge. The other two men stormed straight for him. Wooldridge released the barrel and held his arms aloft. He had been seen to try, now they could get back in the cab and turn around. The handle of the sword smashed into his cheek and knocked him to the floor. A sword pointed down at his chest. Wooldridge felt for his knife but then thought better of it, he knew the odds were too heavily stacked against him.

There was a crack of reins and the cab driver did a U-turn and raced away up the road, leaving Annabel and Wooldridge behind.

'Wooldridge! Wooldridge! Stop him!' screeched Annabel.

But Wooldridge was still on the floor and the cab was gone.

It was a long way home and Annabel Collins was not used to walking. Her feet hurt, her delicate shoes rubbed her toes and her flowing dress was heavy and cumbersome. She cursed Wooldridge all the way back. His attempts at hailing another cab had failed, there were few carriages of any description on the streets now. They finally turned into the long gravel driveway that curled through the ornate gardens. The usual small army of garden staff was gone. The house was quiet. Annabel walked from room to room calling for her father. She was met by Richard, one of the kitchen staff.

'Your father asked me to pass you this note Miss.'

Annabel read it quickly then screeched again. She stamped her foot, screwed up the paper and threw it on the floor. 'He's gone! The selfish bastard has left me here!' She pushed Richard out of her way. 'Where is he? Where's Wooldridge.'

'Here Miss Collins.'

'This is your fault. You and that bloody barricade. I told you to hurry! You're sacked. You hear me? Sacked! Get out!' She picked up a small candelabrum from the sideboard and hurled at him. 'Get out!'

Chapter 24

Elizabeth lay Alice on the bed and stripped her down. She methodically inspected every inch of her body for blemishes. There were none to be found but that didn't stop her checking again five minutes later, and again and again. She watched every breath; she gently touched her eye lashes and watched for a flicker of life. Then she would pace anxiously up and down the room. Was this plague? Was this how it started? Or was this just a summer cold? She knew some people developed chest infections with it and Alice was coughing. She would search herself for spots and sores too, feel her own forehead for fever and then sit with Alice again on the bed and start the scrutiny of her young body all over again. How long before she could know for sure? Should she abandon her to ensure her own safety, leave her locked in the bedroom alone? But she didn't look sick enough to have plague, or perhaps she did. She couldn't decide. And anyway, if Alice did have plague then she probably did too; so perhaps she should lock herself away to protect Mary and Samuel. Her thinking was usually clear, decisive; but not today. Her head hurt. She wondered about the stone, what power it might have. She found these sorts of myths hard to believe, but it wouldn't do any harm to try it. Surely God would understand that these are desperate times and a mother would do whatever she could to save her child. This couldn't be the work of the devil and even if it was, she would be the one to pay, not Alice, surely. She had carried up the charmed jug of water that Samuel had treated with the stone. She poured a small cup and began giving Alice sips every few minutes.

Mary and Samuel were careful to complete all of the chores, and a few more for good measure. Eventually, Miss Pewtersmith disappeared for another nap so the children slipped across to the carriage house to check on their patient. Mary climbed onto the bottom rung of the ladder.

'Helloo children'. The voice was little more than a whisper, soft enough to have been imagined. They turned and there lying on a bed of straw was the feeble old frame of Mother Munro covered with a blanket. She tried to sit up but only managed to raise her shoulders a few inches before wincing in pain and collapsing back to the bed. A rat darted from behind her.

In the main bedroom of the house flies were buzzing around Miss Pewtersmith's face and annoying her. She wafted them away with irate swipes until one went exploring deep into her throat. She sat bolt upright coughing and spluttering. That was the last straw; she'd have to get up. She stomped angrily down the stairs. Where were those lazy, useless children? They'd feel her wrath if they hadn't done their chores. They'd feel it if they had. She could hear distant coughs and crying from Alice. She wasn't reassured by Elizabeth's promise that this was just a cold. Perhaps it was time to throw them all out, have the place to herself before it was too late. She threw open the kitchen door ready to give vent to her anger, but the room was empty. Through the window she could see the carriage house door slightly ajar. That was where those good-for-nothing children would be.

Mary and Samuel crouched by Mother Munro.

'Is that the pootion?' the old woman whispered.

Samuel nodded then gently held the jug to her mouth and allowed her to sip. She tugged the jug out of his hand and gulped it down.

'Thank you my child.' She sounded a little stronger. 'I'll be needing a lot more o' that if I'm to get well again.'

'But how did you get here?' asked Samuel looking at her frail body 'An' what's up with ya?'

'Friends brought me, good friends. I knew after your visit that you'd be here with the stoon. I had a wee trip, a fall. I've hurt my hip, badly. I canna walk.'

A look of alarm swept across Mary's face. She was knelt behind the old woman's head. She furrowed her brow and shook her head violently at Samuel. They couldn't manage another hospital case.

'Can you get me some food children? I've a poowerful hunger in ma belly. An' where's that stoon. Can I hold the stoon?'

Samuel reached a hand into his pocket for the stone but Mary grabbed his arm and stopped him. 'We left the stone in the house didn't we, Sam? We'll go find it and get you some grub.' She jumped to her feet and pulled Samuel with her.

'But I've got...' Samuel started

'Come on Samuel! Let's go get it.' She held onto his arm until she'd pulled him out of the carriage house.

'What you do that for? I 'ad it in me pocket all the time!' Samuel pushed her hand off his arm.

'I know you 'ave but we can't look after 'er an' all. What if Miss P finds 'er?'

'But what else we gonna do with 'er?' Samuel thought for a moment. 'Maybe we could take 'er back to Aunt Fran's place.'

'No, we leave this place once more an' Mum won't let us back in.'

'Oh shit!' groaned Samuel 'Looks who's comin'!'

Miss Pewtersmith was marching across the driveway from the house. 'Right you two. What you doin' shirkin' off? What you bloody well up to over 'ere any'ow?' She headed for the door into the carriage house.

Samuel stepped in her way. 'We just been tidyin' up. There's nothin' in there 'cept them rats.'

But Miss Pewtersmith wasn't going to be so easily put off this time. She shoved Samuel out of the way and marched inside.

At first she saw nothing out of place. Her eyesight was poor and it took a moment to adapt from the bright sun outside to the dingy carriage house interior. She squinted at the pile of straw and cloth against the wall. Was that someone lying there under that blanket? Surely not!

'Good morning Madam.' Mother Munro's voice was sprightlier now. 'Did you bring me food?'

Miss Pewtersmith squealed. Now she clearly saw the old woman lying on the straw and smiling back at her.

'Very nice to meet ye.' added Mother Munro.

Miss Pewtersmith's mouth was wide open, but for once she was lost for words. She edged backwards to the door, as if scared turning her back on the old woman might invite her to pounce. A cough came from the balcony, then another louder one, and a sneeze.

'Oh my good God!' screamed Miss Pewtersmith ''Ow many you got in 'ere? It's a bloody sick 'ouse!' She ran out of the door and across the drive to the kitchen. She slammed the door behind her and bolted it shut.

'Elizabeth! Elizabeth!' she screeched 'You get down 'ere, now! You wanna see what those brats o' yours are doin'! They're runnin' a bloody infirmary over there! You're out! D'you 'ear me? The 'ole bloody lot of ya! Out!'

'That's it.' moaned Mary. 'We're dead. Miss P'll chuck us all out on the street. Mum'll murder us. We might as well 'ave just caught plague.'

'Nonsense girl, dinna be sae wet! Come here, reet noo, the pair o' ye.' ordered Mother Munro. She had an excited glint in her eye. 'Noo, ye must act quickly. In times like these, ye have te use yer imagination. Ye got t'play the fat one at her oon game.'

'Elizabeth! Get down 'ere right now!' Miss Pewtersmith screamed again up the stairs.

The outside door rattled as Mary and Samuel tried to gain entrance.

'Get away! It's locked! You're not coming in! Elizabeth! Elizabeth!'

Elizabeth meantime had her young daughter now sleeping on her lap. She wasn't in any hurry to disturb her for the sake of satisfying Miss Pewtersmith. She stayed where she was.

The kitchen had two small windows high up on the wall protected by iron bars. They were kept open through the summer for ventilation. Samuel had long noticed that the bars weren't evenly placed and he had always fancied that he could squeeze his scrawny body through the largest of the gaps. Now he would find out. Mary stood on a wooden crate and Samuel stood on her shoulders and stretched his arms up towards the bars.

'Stay still Mary won't ya? How'm I s'posed to get up there if you're all over the place!'

'I'm tryin'! You're 'eavy, 'urry up!'

Samuel managed to get a hold of a bar and tried to hoist himself up. His feet slipped and skidded on the wall.

''Ere. Stand on me 'ands.' Mary held her hands up. Samuel's bare feet were black with dirt. She cringed a little but Samuel was finally up. He hauled himself up between the bars and wriggled his head and shoulders though the gap. But what could he do now? He was eight feet up on the kitchen wall looking down at the flagstones, his legs still dangling outside. If he let himself go he'd smash his head on the floor. He wished he'd thought about that earlier.

Miss Pewtersmith was fuming by the foot of the stairs and hadn't noticed Samuel squeezing between the bars. 'Elizabeth! Elizabeth!' She bawled up the stairs again.

'Go on Sam! Get in there!' Mary was impatient. She jumped up from the crate and shoved his feet upwards.

'Oi, stop it!' shouted Samuel. But his centre of gravity had already passed too far through the window; there was no stopping himself. He slipped through the bars and tumbled head first onto the stone floor. For a moment he was dazed, but when his senses returned he saw Miss Pewtersmith stood several feet back with a rolling pin in her hand. Samuel rubbed the side of his face; it was wet with blood.

'You get out of 'ere, you dirty little sod! You're diseased! Get out!'

Samuel struggled to his feet but his legs felt as if they belonged to someone else. He staggered forwards like a new born calf. Miss Pewtersmith squealed and ran behind the table.

Mary banged on the door. 'Sam, let me in!'

'Don't you open that! I'm warnin' ya! Don't you let that other dirty urchin in 'ere!'

Samuel stumbled to the door. He slid open the bolt and Mary pushed the door open.

Miss Pewtersmith stepped back against the wall. 'You little buggers!'

Samuel slumped into a kitchen chair.

'Miss P. We ain't well' declared Mary 'Look!' she rolled up a sleeve revealing fat, black swellings on her upper arm. 'An' 'ere as well.' She hoisted up her skirt to show off another. 'And look at Sammy.' She pulled up his shirt to reveal three large black marks evenly spread across his chest. 'Can you 'elp us Miss P?' She pulled Samuel to his feet and shoved him staggering in one direction while she walked around the other side of the table.

'Get away! Get away!' Miss Pewtersmith tried to climb over the kitchen table but couldn't raise her leg high enough to get up. She dropped to her hands and knees and crawled underneath. 'Get out of 'ere. I'm warning ya! Get out!'

Mary crouched down and began to crawl under the table towards her.

Miss Pewtersmith could take no more. The house was now full of plague, the carriage house was an infirmary and she was staring death in the face. She had to get away. She scrambled out from under the table and ran for the door, knocking Samuel over in her haste to escape.

'Good job Sam! She's gone. Sam. Sam?'

Elizabeth came through the door. Howls from Alice echoed down the stairs behind her. 'What is all the noise about? Where's that woman gone? Samuel? What's up with Samuel?'

'He fell over.' Mary pulled her sleeve down to cover the fake sores she'd made from the pitch in the carriage house.

Elizabeth knelt alongside Samuel and dabbed away the blood from his head. 'You need to be more careful Samuel. Now listen both of you. Your sister is sick. It's probably nothin' but you keep away from her. No one but me is to go into her room from now on. You keep out, d'you hear me?'

Chapter 25

James spent another long day performing searches. Every house seemed the same now, people's plights less personal, less interesting. He would keep his head down and say as little as possible. His desperate rush to get back out of the door had gone. The day had started with the news that two more searchers were dead and the hunt was on for yet more. The searchers had gathered together outside the doctor's rooms and muttered about the grim fate that awaited them. James too realised that he had little chance of escaping this disease. If he ran away then they'd only go looking for Elizabeth and maybe Mary too. All he could do was keep going until plague found him and the rest would surely follow. And today he didn't feel well. He had a headache; a fever maybe. He was tired and nauseated. Was it all in his head? He didn't much care anymore. As he saw it, his life was over and this was just the first stage of his death. He was looking forward to getting it out of the way and moving on. His family not greeting him had just strengthened his conviction that the old life was gone and Elizabeth obviously knew it too. Were his family ill? Were they disinterested? It made no difference. This was his existence now until the Infection took him to away to the next, whatever that might be. He didn't bother protecting his hands. He even stole mouthfuls of bread at one house.

His day's work over he made his report, collected his small reward and took his blanket to look for somewhere to sleep. He wasn't going to seek out Brock in his up-market squat, that would only make his new friend sick. Instead he made his way back to the near ruin that was St Paul's Cathedral and climbed again to the top of the tower. He stood on the edge of the crumbling stone alongside a grimacing gargoyle and looked down on the dying city, smothered again in the smoke of countless fires. He looked at the gaping burial pits around the church yard and the queue of carts and piles of shovels ready for another night's work. He gazed down at the distant path around the foot of the cathedral and imagined himself falling, his troubles being blown away by the rush of warm summer air. He imagined lying on the ground, his worries gone forever, the plague cheated of its victim. He pushed a toe over the edge and watched the fragments of stone and mortar tumble until they became puffs of dust. The ground, the church yard, the burial pits, they seemed to be calling him, tugging him gently over the edge.

Brock emerged from the stairs. 'Do you know how hard it is for me to get up these bloody stairs?'

'Go away Brock. You don't want to catch what I've got.' James edged away along the wall.

'Catch what you've got? What have you got? Have you got the marks?'

'No, but it's common sense. We both know what it is.'

'So just to make sure, you'll finish the job yourself, is that the plan?'

'There's nothing left for me here. This city is dying, I'm dying, my family's gone.'

'Gone? What do you mean gone? Have you seen their bodies?'

James said nothing.

'No, thought not. But hey, don't let me stop you. You wanna do it, you do it. I've stood there many a time my friend, believe me.' Brock eased his way across the scorched beams then began to laugh.

'What's so funny?'

'Oh, just thinking. It's taken me ten years to find a friend in this awful city and as soon as I do he wants to go jump off the church tower! It's enough to make a man feel unwanted.'

James kept his gaze on the burial pits below.

'Look, it's not for me to tell you what to do, but let's face it, you don't know you're dying, you don't know your family is dead and if it was me, well as long as I had even the tiniest chance of one day seeing my wife and child again, I'd cling onto it with every bit of strength I had left. But you do what you want.'

'They don't need me.'

'Is that right? So that's what they'd say to you if they were here right now. They'd say 'Go on, jump off?''.

'I don't know what they'd say. What's it matter anymore?'

'And what if they do live through this? How will they go with no bread winner, no father, knowing what you did? If you ask me you're deserting them James, you're a coward running away when they need you most.' Brock picked up a small fragment of the stone from the crumbling wall and hurled it over the edge. 'But that's alright. You're choice.'

'I'm not asking for advice Brock. You wouldn't know.'

'I know James, I know all too well. I've been there many times, stood on that very spot.'

'So what stopped you? You're family aren't coming back.'

Brock heaved a deep sigh. 'I really don't know what stopped me James. I suppose in the early days, I was just pig-headed, angry. I wanted revenge on Cromwell and Fairfax, I just wanted to make them pay for what they did. But deep down I knew that was never going to happen. So I promised myself, if nothing else, at least I wasn't going to let them beat me. I'd stir myself into a rage thinking about what they'd done. Then I'd walk the streets 'til I found someone to take it out on. I'd pick a fight, sometimes against three of four men. I didn't care if they beat the shit out of me; the pain was good, it was penance. If I couldn't get angry I'd just try blinker myself, not think about yesterday or tomorrow, just look at the stars and try to think about nothing. Sometimes I'd imagine my child, that boy that never had a chance to take a breath. I'd imagine him sitting next to me, watching me, listening to me, copying me. And I'd promise him I'd do nothing. At least until tomorrow.'

'And that's it? That's how you keep yourself going?'

'After that Edwards found me. He has eyes like a hawk that man. He saw me, standing here, looking down at the ground. It was a bright summer evening, just like tonight. He came all the way to the top of the tower. I thought he was going to lecture me, tell me it's a sin and all that. I was ready to push him off too. But he didn't. Said he was a business man. Said me jumping off this tower would be a criminal waste of a good asset. He told me if I came with him he'd give me a job and somewhere to sleep. So I did and he kept his word. And he took me into the church. He reminded me that one day I'd be standing up there looking them in the eye, my wife, my son, and God. He told me, if you jump off that tower today you won't see them again in the afterlife, not ever. I hang onto that James, that promise. One day I'll see them again, I know that now.'

'You can still believe that Brock, after all of this? You still believe there's a kind and just God up there after doing all this to us? A week ago I wouldn't have questioned it for the world but now...I can't believe any god could be this cruel. '

'I have to believe James, I have to. What else is there?' Brock reached into his pocket and pulled out a silver hip flask. 'And anyway, I figure He's waited this long for me now, so what's a few more weeks? Come on, sit down. Keep me company James; I don't want to sit up here alone. Just for tonight.' He held the flask out to James 'Here, try this, courtesy of my kind host, Mister. Richard...' he tried to read the inscription on the flask '...Brooks I think. Drink with me, and then if you still feel the same tomorrow, you can jump off then.'

James looked disapprovingly at the flask. 'You don't want to share that with me.' He pushed it away.

Brock laughed 'No offence but that did cross my mind'. He pulled out another shiny flask.

James smiled ruefully. He sat down on the wall alongside Brock, took a swig and looked at the drop beneath his feet. 'Do you think it's a good idea sitting here and drinking this?'

Brock laughed. 'What, now you're 'fraid you might fall off James?'

James had never sipped on port before. It was a pleasant surprise, the sweet treacly taste and warm glow that followed, a glow that grew more satisfying with each swig.

It wasn't long before both flasks were empty. Brock leant back and reached into an elegant leather satchel. 'Here my friend!' He pulled out a full bottle of port, ripped out the cork and hurled it far into the sky. 'We might not live for long, but at least we'll die with fine port inside us!'

As James accepted a refill, Brock gave him a playful slap on the back. James slipped forwards on the edge of the wall. Rubble fell past his feet and plummeted earthward. He scrambled for a grip on the rough masonry. Brock lunged, seized his arm and pulled him back. 'I'm sorry my friend!' Brock bellowed with laughter, then shook his head. 'No sooner do you change your mind 'bout jumping, then I try and push you off!' He took the flask from James' hand and filled it back up with the sticky brown port. 'To our good health James!' Brock laughed again and swigged on the bottle.

They sat for hours, staring out over the darkening London skyline. James told his tale of trying and failing to see his family, of not knowing if they were sick or thrown out by Miss Pewtersmith or murdered by thieves. In slurred tones, they concluded that James must rise early the next day and try again.

Chapter 26

Samuel and Mary were determined not to miss their father the next morning. They pledged to stay up all night to make sure. After their mother had settled for the night, they sat in the kitchen and waited. By one a.m. the candle had burnt out and they decided to take turns sleeping. Mary lay down on the floor with her blanket and was quickly asleep. Samuel would have first turn staying awake in the chair. Within minutes he was snoring.

Samuel awoke with a start. The kitchen was still dark but the sky beyond the window had the first navy blue hints of dawn. Was it too early for his father? Samuel took his blanket and went outside. He walked to the front of the house and sat on the top step. He wrapped himself in his blanket and waited.

James was awake too. He and Brock had spent the whole night on top of the cathedral tower. After a few hours, James' blinded alcoholic happiness had faded and left him with a gut-wrenching emptiness, a sadness, compounded now with a sense of failure. He spent the rest of the night staring at the stars, irrationally debating what he should do and chewing over Brock's comments. At long last morning began to creep in from the east and push the black from the sky.

James' head hurt and his mouth felt as dry as a desert. He wanted to vomit. Was this the plague? James had never experienced a hangover but the taste of port that kept revisiting his throat made him realise that last night's indulgence was a more likely cause. Brock was flat on his back, mouth open and snoring loudly. James grabbed his few possessions and headed for the stairs. It was a long way down and the sight of the spiralling stone stairs made his head spin. He felt the vomit well up inside his chest; he dropped the blanket and spewed, splattering his legs, his blanket and his friend. Brock felt nothing and continued to snore. James picked up his things and made his way very slowly down the stairs.

Once outside James clenched his teeth and tried to forget his pounding head. He walked briskly through the empty streets. His throat was even more parched, made worse by the taste of acidic vomit. There was a water standard on the way where he could get a drink. He cut through the back alleys until he came to a small square. In the centre stood a fountain. The sound of the water gushing from the mouth of an ugly stone fish was almost refreshment in itself. James dashed to it and was about to put his face into the flow when there was a shout.

'Oi, you, get away from that!'

Before he time to turn and respond, a rock crashed into his back.

'Go on, we don't want your sorts 'ere!' Another rock flew and crashed into the fountain. 'Clear off before I 'ave ya locked up!'

'I just want a drink. Let me be.' James pushed his face into the cool flow. He opened his mouth and let the water flood in. A blow landed between his shoulders and dropped him to the floor.

'I warned you. Now clear off!' The warden stood alongside James, clutching his wooden baton with both hands as if playing baseball. 'I'm not havin' your sorts dirtyin' my water. Go on, piss off!'

James clambered to his feet and shuffled away. His back burnt with pain, his head hurt even more but at least his thirst was partly quenched.

He continued his walk through the quiet, waking streets and until he grew close to Monnington Street. He turned a corner into a neighbouring road; the street was blocked. A barricade of boxes, wooden planks and carts sat across the road. Several men were dragging furniture across the street to add to the blockade. James cursed quietly to himself. He had to pass. He wrapped his foul-smelling, vomit-stained blanket around him, and with head down walked briskly towards the lowest point in the unfinished wall.

'Oh my God. Look, there's one! One of 'em's comin'! Ralph stop him!'

James quickened his pace, but he wasn't fast enough. Three men had already grabbed swords and clubs and now stood filling the gap. At the road side, a fourth was busy trying to load his musket.

'You're not comin' through 'ere mate. Turn around now so we don't 'ave to 'urt ya.'

James kept his head down and kept walking.

'I said turn 'round!'

James looked up at the men blocking his route and the half-built barricade. Should he turn and walk away. What if all of the routes to his family were blocked? Could he be over this before they knew what was happening? Maybe not but what was there to lose? He dropped his blanket and sprinted towards the middle of the barrier. He jumped onto the pile of wood and furniture and tried to scramble over it. But it was like trying climb a sand dune and the barricade collapsed around him. Hands grabbed at his shirt and legs and pulled him back, throwing him onto the ground. Boots began to crash into his body kicking him mercilessly into his chest, his back and legs. James tried to crawl out from the onslaught but a foot landed in his face and threw him over onto his back.

'Stop it!? Get off him! Leave him alone for heaven's sake!' It was a woman's voice. 'Do you wanna catch the bloody disease? Don't touch him!'

The barrage stopped; James crawled out and then staggered to his feet. Defeated, bruised and bloodied he retreated back down the street. Ralph meanwhile, had finally loaded his musket. He raised it and took careful aim at James' back. There was a flash, a cloud of smoke and a scream. The shot whistled over James' shoulder. Ralph fell to the floor blinded and burnt by a backfire.

James didn't quicken his pace. He continued to trudge away from the blockade. He tried two more streets but roadblocks seemed to be appearing everywhere on these more upmarket roads, and even where the road was clear his appearance was so dirty and dishevelled that he was attracting attention and abuse. Rocks were hurled, sticks and clubs raised and he'd be chased away. There seemed to be no way for him to get back to his family.

A few miles away Annabel Collins was stood at her drawing room window waiting impatiently. She had also planned to return to Monnington Street just after dawn to catch James with the stone. She had anticipated trouble with her route this time, and had hired some muscular assistants to help ease her way through. They were late. Finally the carriage swept up the gravel drive. It contained three burly, well armed court guards. She'd give them a piece of her mind for being late when they got to the house.

Samuel sat on the doorstep for hours. He snoozed, waking frequently to check for his father. Eventually Mary awoke and came looking for him. She found him fast asleep. She put a hand on his shoulder. Samuel awoke with a start.

'Is 'e 'ere?' asked Samuel hopefully.

'There's no one 'ere 'cept for you Sammy.' Mary sat dejectedly by his side.

Samuel stood up on tip toes and peered down the road. There was no sign of his father. A tear welled in his eye as he sat back down by his sister. Mary put an arm around him.

'They prob'ly just made 'im work early or somethin'. Bet ya 'e's alright.'

'Maybe he'll be 'ere tomorra?'

'Yeh, bound to be.' replied Mary. 'Come on; let's see 'ow they're goin' in the carriage 'ouse.' She grabbed Samuel by the elbow and pulled him down the steps. 'An' we need to make more o' that water.

A smirk appeared on Samuel's face. 'Hey, d'ya reckon them two might 'ave got together. Ya know, old Misses Munro an' Shipton.' he sniggered and swept away the tear.

'Samuel! That's disgustin'!'

'Think 'ow ugly their babies would be!'

They were both still sniggering as they entered the kitchen. Elizabeth was coming downstairs from the main house. She was ecstatic. Alice was well again. She had woken without fever; the runny nose and cough had gone. Elizabeth hummed as she watched Alice methodically descend the steps one by one; following just close enough to be able to grab her if she stumbled. She had to admit, this did look like the work of the stone. From now on they would all be drinking it at least four times a day, she thought. Alice saw her siblings coming through the back door and charged excitedly at them, arms open wide. Mary jumped back.

'It's all right,' Elizabeth laughed 'she's fine! Look at her!'

Mary eyed her with suspicion. Alice seized her leg.

'Did you give 'er the potion?' asked Samuel.

'I did Sammy. An' you're right, it worked! From now we're all drinking it!' she smiled as Alice pushed herself between Mary's legs. 'And your father, children. Is he there? We need to give him some of this. Did you see him?'

Samuel shook his head.

'Sam sat out there since 'fore dawn, Mum. He ain't come.'

Elizabeth's cheerful expression evaporated. 'There's still time. I'll go and see. Look after Alice for a while.'

After Elizabeth had disappeared Mary filled a bucket with water and Samuel ran the stone around the top. The water slopped over the side as Samuel staggered across the driveway. Alice followed enthusiastically behind.

First call was to Mother Munro. She gulped the water down. 'And food children? You've brought me some food?' Mary handed her some bread and apples. 'An' who's this lovely wee child?'

'This ours sister, Alice.' explained Mary.

'Och she's a pretty wee thing. Come sit with me.' Mother Munro reached a hand out, but Alice shrank shyly back behind her sister's leg. Mother Munro's expression changed to a scowl. 'Please yoursel'.' She hissed at Alice, giving her one-toothed snarl.

A moist cough came from above.

'An' who's that you got hidin' up there?' asked Mother Munro. 'Is that the man you told me 'boot? The man who stole the stoon?'

'He didn't steal it,' explained Samuel 'he won it.'

'Is tha' a fact? I think the boys may like a wee chat wi' him.'

'What boys?'

'Och, ye'll see, soon enough.'

Mary was feeling uncomfortable. She tapped Samuel on the shoulder. 'Come on. Let's get this up there.'

Samuel climbed the ladder and then reached back from the top to pull the bucket up from his sister.

'Come on Sam! Most of it's on me 'ead!'

Samuel chuckled and hauled it the last few inches onto the platform. Shipton also seemed to have benefited from his doses of the potion. He was awake, sitting In the corner, his knees tucked up under his chin, the key still dangling around his neck and a nervous expression on his face. Samuel dropped the bucket alongside him, spilling yet more.

''Ere y'are! Big delivery!'

'Shhh!' Shipton put a finger to his cracked lips. 'Who's that woman you got down there? What's she doin' 'ere?' he whispered.

Mary pushed Alice over the top step and came and knelt alongside them. 'That's old Mother Munro. She told us 'ow to get the stone to work. She knows all about it.'

'That's what I'm worried about. I 'eard what she said. An' she's Scot, ain't she?' muttered Shipton. 'Look kids, I'm real grateful for all your 'elp an' that but it's time I was gettin' on me way. If you let me 'ave the stone back, then I'll be off.'

'But you ain't well enough yet' pointed out Samuel 'an' any'ow, you can't 'ave the stone back. We need it!'

Shipton's expression transformed from fear to anger. 'That belongs to me!' He lunged forward but before he could reach Samuel, pains from his wound pulled him back. He grabbed at his flank. He forced a grin. 'Look, you been real kind, gettin' me the key an' all, real kind. But I need that stone. It's mine. Just give it me and I'll be gone.'

Samuel and Mary stood back out of reach.

'We ain't got it. It's in the 'ouse.' said Mary, 'An' I'm sorry but we need it too. If you stay 'ere we'll give ya as much water as ya can drink. An' if...'

'Shhh!' hissed Shipton again.

The door was creaking open. Samuel crept forward on all fours and peered over the edge. Two kilted men entered the carriage house.

'Is it him? The Scot?' hissed Shipton.

Samuel nodded soberly. 'There's two of 'em, in them skirts.'

'Oh my God!' Shipton looked to the heavens. 'You've killed me. You've gone and bloody killed me!'

Mary looked out through the small attic window. 'P'rhaps we could climb out of 'ere Sam.'

'Oh thanks a bloody bundle!' hissed Shipton 'Don't worry 'bout me will ya!'

Alice wasn't aware of Madadh and Cormag below, and even if she had been, she wouldn't have known to be scared. She was busy trying to pick up a bright red ladybird that she'd found crawling on the straw. She touched it and it buzzed away towards the edge of the balcony. She dashed after it, at least as much of a dash as her clumsy toddler legs would allow. The platform was made of irregular wooden planks, bent and warped with time and moisture. As she ran, her foot caught on a raised edge near to the top of the ladder. She tripped, fell and disappeared head first over the edge of the balcony.

Chapter 27

As plague rampaged mercilessly across London, people became ever more desperate. They'd looked on as residents of entire streets toppled like lines of dominoes. From good health to death in days, there was no knowing when it might come or which family would next be tossed like refuse into the midnight carts. The future had gone, only the present remained. Black Death followed a footstep behind everyone, good or bad, rich or poor, it lurked around every corner and hid in the shadows of every home.

So not surprising then that any rumour of a new remedy or cure was seized upon, no matter how desperate or improbable. The Mother Lee Stone was being talked about. People were asking what it could do, and where they could find it.

One man who was especially interested in the stone was 'Doctor' Le Clerc. He knew that there was money to be made from it, lots of it too, and he wanted the lion's share. His enquiries led him to the hotel near Shipton's house. He'd been told of a drunken, scruffy man who'd been boasting and flashing a beautiful red stone around the bar. Like all public houses, this one was closed by order of the Lord Mayor. Like most inns though, if you tapped on the door you would be allowed in to find business still went on, albeit with haggard patrons and a reduced range of stock.

Le Clerc sipped on his beer and looked thoughtfully at the huge man stood behind the bar. How could he ask him about this stone without giving away his true plans? This man ran a pub, sold liquor, ran gambling and who knows what else. He was a businessman and would be well placed to steal the jewel and turn it to his own profit. He'd need to use all his cunning.

'It's a fine establishment you run here sir.'

The inn-keeper grunted and continued to rearrange bottles behind the bar.

'Very fine indeed. You know I could help you in here. Make some more money for you.' Le Clerc waited for a response. The inn-keeper said nothing.

'I am a physician, you know, much travelled and with a guaranteed cure for plague. We could be partners, you and me. I'd sell my physic in here and you'd get half of the profit. How does that sound?'

'You another one of those quacks are ya? I'm sick o' your sort.'

'No quack sir, no quack at all. And anyway, let's talk business.' Le Clerc placed one of his small bottles of potion on the bar. 'Whether you believe in my wonderful cure or not doesn't really matter. A lot of people do and they're willing to pay good money for it. On one good day alone, I can make a small fortune, two or three Guineas just standing on the street. Just think what we could do working here together!'

The inn-keeper picked up the small bottle and scrutinised it. 'This is an inn. I'm supposed to be closed down. If you go advertising me, they'll lock me up.'

'Ah my good man, but that's the clever bit. We don't call you an inn. We make you a 'Healing House' and when all the people come in, you can sell them refreshments. Nothing wrong with that!'

'Hmmm. How many bottles of this stuff you got?'

'Don't worry about that. I can knock up as many bottles as you like in no time at all. There's just one problem though.'

'What's that?'

'Well, it's my brother. I hear he's very sick and I need to find him first. I need to get some of my physic to him as fast as I can before he dies. Trouble is I can't find him. Maybe you might know him?'

'What's he look like?'

'Oh nothing special... except the stupid oaf has got some silly trinket that he thinks is going to help him.' Le Clerc laughed ironically 'A stone, a red stone of all things.' He looked hopefully at the inn-keeper who was stood scratching his head.

'Is he tall, short, fat? What colour hair? We get all sorts in 'ere.'

'Yes, I heard he might have been here, might have even bought the silly jewel here... or won it maybe?'

'Oh no, you don't mean Scroggs? You do, you mean Scroggs, don't ya?' the inn-keeper threw his towel on the bar and placed his hands on his hips.

'Yes, Scroggs, you know him! That's wonderful news!'

'Know him! That brother of yours is a no good drunken bloody scoundrel. He owes me a fortune!'

'Oh, when I said brother I meant... I treat him like my brother,' explained Le Clerc, 'I try to steer him away from his terrible mistakes, try to make him into a better man, you know. When I see him I'll make sure he pays up.' Le Clerc sipped his beer again. 'Do you know where I might find him?'

'Humph! Well, his house is just across the street.' The inn-keeper nodded towards the window.

Le Clerc jumped to his feet.

'But he ain't there now.'

'What?'

'The last time I saw him he was in a mess. Looked like he'd been knifed. Went off with the help of a couple o' young'uns.'

Le Clerc sat back down. 'Oh dear. Do you know where he went?'

'Well, them kids came back to get their stuff. Said they were on Monnington Street, servant kids. Don't know what number.'

Le Clerc had the information he needed. He downed the rest of his beer and jumped back to his feet. 'Well my good man thank you for your hospitality. Now I must dash to the aid of my brother.' He picked up the bottle of potion from the bar. 'When I return, we start business together!'

The inn-keeper reached forward and grabbed Le Clerc's wrist. 'You forgettin' somethin'?'

'No, what sir? You're hurting my wrist.' He wriggled his arm but the inn-keeper's grip was firm.

'The beer, you ain't paid me for the beer.'

'I thought we were partners...'

The inn-keeper squeezed a little harder on the wrist and held out his other hand. 'We ain't in business together yet, mate.'

Le Clerc reluctantly placed twopence into his palm and left.

Brock was also looking for Monnington Street. Through a mixture of bloated authority, threats, evasion and small bribes made up of goodies taken from his recent abodes, he had managed to clear the roadblocks. He had cleaned himself up, dressed in fine clothes he'd found, and apart from the scars and the limp, looked rather distinguished.

Elizabeth was still sitting at the front of the house waiting for James. Brock's fine attire didn't stop her recognising him as being the man who had taken her husband. She'd expected that at some point he might return for her and probably Mary too. Searchers were in constant demand. She had resolved that come what may, she wasn't going to go with him. If she had to, she would shoot him. The pistol was loaded and ready to fire, she just had to get it. She scurried around the side of the house towards the kitchen door.

Brock put his face through the fence rail and called her. She ignored him. She had to get the pistol

'Elizabeth! I'm not here to take you. James sent me. He's sick!'

Elizabeth stopped.

Brock climbed over the gate. 'I saw him this morning. He tried to come, he tried hard but he got stopped at the barricades. I promised I'd try and check on you. He was scared something had happened to you all.'

'Where is he? Is he nearby?'

'No. He's not well, Elizabeth. He's got fever.'

'Has... has he got the marks?'

'No, not yet. But he thinks this is the start of it. I'm sorry.' Brock placed a hand on her shoulder.

Elizabeth turned her head away.

'He said... he said I was to remind you about the apple blossom, whatever that means.'

Elizabeth felt her eyes fill.

'Said he'll try again tomorrow, before dawn... if he still can. I'm real sorry Elizabeth.'

In the carriage house loft, Samuel stood open mouthed in horror. From below came Alice's hysterical screaming. Mary nervously stepped forward to peer over the edge.

Madadh MacDonald stood at the foot of the ladder holding Alice in his arms. She was howling in disgust at being caught by this strange, red-bearded man. 'Och, will ye shut yer mooth fer God's sake!'

'Get off 'er! Put 'er down!' Mary skidded down the ladder. 'You're not slicing my little sister! You put her down right now!'

'I'll de tha' wi' pleasure!'

Madadh laughed and gently placed Alice on the floor. She ran and hid behind her sister's leg. Shipton pushed himself further into hiding in a corner of the loft. Cormag was stood over Mother Munro. He pulled out his dirk, the long slender dagger glinting in a shaft of sunlight. Mary gasped. Her worst fears were about to be realised. These men were every bit as bad as she'd heard. But it wasn't the old woman that Cormag cut into, rather a green under-ripe apple. He handed half to the Mother Munro and bit hard into the rest. He winced in pain.

'Och this tooth is goona kill me Madadh. Ye'll have to rip it oot fer us.'

Madadh laughed. 'Tis joostice Cormag, fer gettin' leathered and loosin' the stoon in the first place!'

Outside, Brock and Elizabeth had heard the screaming.

'I'll check on it.' Brock smiled reassuringly at Elizabeth and headed across to see what the commotion was about. Ordinarily Elizabeth would have pushed him out of the way and dashed over to check on her baby. But not today. In a daze, she walked slowly back into the kitchen and sat at the table to try and digest the news she had just heard. Was this really the end for James? Was she about to be a widow, left with three children to raise alone? But then realisation dawned. How could she have been so stupid? She had to get some of the water to him! It had just cured Alice now it could do the same for her husband. All she had to do was find a way to get it to him.

Brock pushed open the carriage door to be confronted by the sight of the two kilted men, Cormag still clutching his glinting dirk. Mother Munro lay at Cormag's feet, working hard to chew an apple without the help of teeth.

'Good morning sir.' said Mother Munro. 'Would ye care fer some apple?'

Annabel Collins was pulling up at the front of the house. She too had cleared the barricades without too much trouble. Unlike Brock, she had relied solely on threats of violence and nobody was game to take on her guards. The front gates were locked to Number 28, but on her order they were lifted from their hinges and tossed aside. She rapped on the kitchen door flanked by her burly assistants. When there was no quick response she stood back and nodded to her men. They were about to remove that from its hinges too when Elizabeth opened the door an inch. Annabel nodded and the door and Elizabeth were pushed out of the way. Annabel Collins strode inside.

'Why are you here?' asked Elizabeth, backing away.

'You know why I'm here! I need my stone. Where is it? Where is that man of yours?' She prodded Elizabeth in the chest.

'James? He's sick. I don't know where he is. He could be... he could be dead now for all I know.'

'You're lying!' she screeched 'You're trying to trick me so you can keep my stone! 'She slapped Elizabeth across the face. 'I want it. And you're going to give it to me. It's here somewhere. Where is it?' She pulled open the cupboard doors and began to throw out crockery, jugs and cups across the floor. 'Don't just stand there,' she screamed at her assistants 'find it!'

In the carriage house the two MacDonalds had their dirks drawn and pointed at Brock. Brock was not one to back down. He'd picked up an iron bar and was holding it ready to strike. He might not be able to get them both but he'd be damn sure to down at least one of them.

'Och put those doon boys!' ordered Mother Munro.

'Shush Mother' said Madadh 'I'll handle this.'

'You'll no 'shush' me young man! Noo de as your told and put them doon!'

'No 'til he drops his.' replied Madadh.

'I said doon. Noo!' Her raised voice was piercingly shrill.

The two men looked at each other then reluctantly sheathed their blades.

'That's better.' Her voice softened 'Noo, why don't you introduce yourselves properly?' She reached for more fruit. 'I'm sure we're all here fer the same thing, te get the benefits of that fine stoon. I'm sure there's a way we can all get what we need.'

Brock knew nothing of this strange stone, but sensing his situation was improving he wasn't about to say anything to change matters. He nodded in agreement.

At Mother Munro's insistence they reluctantly shook hands.

'Ye can lose the iron bar noo.' pointed out Cormag.

Brock was reluctant to drop it. There were two of them to his one and this may yet be a trick.

'I think that would be fair, Sir' said Mother Munro. 'I won't be able to keep these two boys on a leash forever.'

Brock allowed the bar to slip from his hand and clatter to the ground.

'Noo, why don't you all have a wee sit doon an' ye can....'Her words were cut short by the sound of glass shattering.

Samuel ran to the door. 'Mary! There's stuff flyin' out the kitchen!'

'Mum!' Mary screamed and ran from the carriage house.

'I think ye'd best go tek a gander boys.' said Mother Munro

Mary burst into the kitchen and found Annabel Collins frantically throwing jars and boxes from the pantry shelves. The three men were pulling out draws, tipping out baskets and ransacking the place. Elizabeth was stood in the far corner, blood running from her nose.

'Get out Mary, run!' screamed Elizabeth.

'Grab her!' screeched Annabel Collins. 'She might have it!'

Mary bolted through the door. A court guard charged after her and straight into the path of and the MacDonalds. He stopped in his tracks, bewildered for a moment by the strange sight of the red-headed men in kilts. Brock didn't hesitate. He swung his iron bar like a windmill and crashed it onto the guard's head. He dropped to the ground.

'Did you catch her?' shouted Annabel, racing to the door.

'No, he didn't.' growled Brock.

Annabel's mouth dropped open. She edged back into the kitchen towards the protection of her two remaining guards. Brock and the MacDonalds followed her through the door. Elizabeth saw her chance to escape and ran towards Brock. A guard reached out and grabbed hold of her long brown hair and hauled her back. He pulled out his knife and held it to her throat.

Annabel stood close to her men. 'You three had better get out of here. I know what you want and you're not having it! The stone belongs to me. Get out, or he'll cut her throat!' Annabel pointed at her guard.

The guard looked anxiously at his mistress. He'd pulled his knife to Elizabeth's throat in panic, as a gesture, but he wasn't keen on the idea of killing the woman in cold blood.

'Aye, that's fine' said Madadh. 'Ye de tha'. Ye kill 'er.'

'You'll do no such thing!' Brock strode forward but Madadh threw out an arm to block his path.

'What?' said Annabel 'You'd have him kill a woman, just like that?'

'Aye, why no'? She's nay use te me. Kill 'er. An' then we'll talk.' He sat on the kitchen table and ran his finger along the edge of his dirk.

Annabel hesitated. She had no qualms about killing Elizabeth, but if she did, then her hand was played; and she had no doubts what these evil Scotsmen would do to her then. She had to find another way to outwit them.

'Gentlemen, this is silly.' she said, raising her sweetest smile, 'We don't need more blood spilt. I can see your intelligent men. What say we search together? We both want the same thing. When we find it we could share it.'

'That's a fine idea' agreed Brock. 'Let her go and we'll search together.'

'I'll noo be sharin' my stoon wi' ye or anyone else. Kill 'er.' said Madadh, without looking up from his knife.

The guard exchanged nervous glances with Annabel, sweat beading on his forehead.

'Goo on man, de it.' urged Madadh.

The guard looked again to Annabel for guidance. None was forthcoming. He too realised their plight. If he killed her they would surely be dead seconds later.

Mary looked on in tears from the doorway.

Madadh laughed. 'Och, o' course we'll share wi' ye! I'm just teasin' ye lassie.'

The guard smiled with relief. It had all been a huge bluff. He lowered his knife.

The moment the blade was away from Elizabeth's throat, Cormag pounced. He plunged his dirk deep into the guard's chest and let him drop to the floor. The other guard had seen enough. He dropped his weapon and bolted for the door. Brock stood to one side and let him go.

Elizabeth checked her neck before striding up to Madadh. She pulled back her fist and punched him squarely on the nose. 'That's for telling him to kill me.'

Madadh wiped away the blood then smiled wryly. 'Och woman, ye're alive aren't ye?'

'Will someone tell me what the bloody hell is going on?' roared Brock. 'What is this stone?'

'Mother Munro can tell you.' said Mary from the doorway.

'Who?' asked Elizabeth.

'Mother Munro.' replied Mary sheepishly. 'She's in the carriage house. She knows all about it.'

'And what are we going to do with her?' Brock nodded towards Annabel stood quivering against the wall.

'I could sort her for ye.' suggested Cormag, unsheathing his dagger again.

Annabel cowered.

'No' said Elizabeth 'there's already too much death. Let her go.'

In the loft of the carriage house, Shipton was trying to escape. He tucked the dangling key inside his shirt and tried different ways to get onto the ladder. The pain from his injuries kept pulling him back but eventually he managed to shuffle his backside onto the top rung. He was sweating and panting but at least he had made a start. Now he just had to turn himself around. But then from outside came footsteps and chatter. The Scotsmen must be returning. He scrambled back up the ladder, his feet slipping in his haste, pain tearing across his abdomen, but he wasn't about to stop. He knew what these Scotsman would do if they found him. He made it back on to the balcony just as the door opened. He crawled quietly back over the boards and hid himself again in the corner.

Mother Munro took pleasure in the chance to tell her story again. Each telling was a little more exciting than the last and with a few more twists, but the gist was the same.

From the attic Shipton listened carefully. It was even better than he'd imagined. Maybe if he bided his time he could still get his hands on the stone again before he escaped.

Elizabeth also listened carefully. A few days ago she would have laughed, but now she had seen it work with her own eyes and on her very own child. She had to find a way to get some of this precious water to her husband to save him.

Samuel smiled. He felt vindicated for his belief in the stone. No one seemed worried about the Devil or black magic now.

After the story was finished Elizabeth took Madadh to one side.

'Why did you bring the old lady here, Mister MacDonald?'

'She asked us tee,' explained Madadh 'she hurt her sel' an' she needed the cure fro' the potion.'

'We've not much room, but I suppose she can't really go anywhere else at the moment.'

'An' if she's here an' the stoon's here then me an' Cormag will be stayin' as well - te look after oor int'rests, if ye folloow.'

'You can't stay here' said Elizabeth 'I promised, James...and Mister Jarvis. No one can stay in the house.'

'Och we're noo talkin' boot the hoose lady, this'll be braw.' Madadh sat down and leant against the timber plank walls of the carriage house. He stretched his arms out as if sitting on a fine sofa.

Elizabeth frowned. She didn't like the looks of this pair.

'An' noo, 'tis 'boot tim ye gi'us oor stoon back.'

Elizabeth hesitated. Brock sensed her uncertainty and moved alongside her.

'I can't do that.'

'That's noo what I wanna hear.' said Madadh 'I'll be needin' ma stoon.'

'My husband is sick; my family are in danger Mister MacDonald. You can have your stone back when they are safe from this infection but not before.'

'I've noo come all this way for nowt. Ye'll be gi'in' me that stoon.' Madadh spoke through gritted teeth.

'Madadh, you're being rude.' interrupted Mother Munro 'We're guests here. As long as this fine lady and her children can continue to provide us with potion an' a place te sleep, then we'll be grateful. We can worry aboot the stoon later. That way we all get the benefits. I'll see nay more blood today.'

Elizabeth picked up Alice. 'I'll bring you potion four times a day. If you want anything else tell me, but I'd be glad if you stay out of the house.'

Madadh grunted.

'Come on children.' Elizabeth gathered her brood together and headed for the exit. 'Mister Brock can I have a word please.'

As they were leaving, Mary was distracted by a shuffling sound from the shadows in the corner of the room. She slipped away to investigate. There was a pile of wooden crates and spares for the carriage stacked in the corner. Behind the pile was a tarpaulin and from underneath poked out the toe-ends of a pair of boots. Mary was curious. She gently kicked one of the boots then stepped back. Fingers appeared over the top of the tarpaulin and pulled it slowly down. Nick's face peeped over the fabric. Mary's heart skipped a beat.

'Nick! What are you doin' 'ere?'

Nick looked around anxiously. 'I had to get away. I couldn't put up with that bastard anymore.' he whispered. 'Not after what he did.'

'But... what are you gonna do? You can't stay in here, under that. Not you Nick.'

'I know. I thought maybe... you might be able to get me inside your house... I'll hide, your folks won't know I'm there.'

'Mary. Mary! Where are you?' shouted her mother. 'We've got things to do.'

'Wait, Mary, don't go yet. There's something I didn't tell you.' He glanced nervously towards Madadh and Cormag. 'The day we went to that house, you know to find that key...when you told me all about the men from Scotland and their daggers and all of that? Well there was a body, a man, his throat cut with a knife, hidden in the cupboard. I didn't want to scare you back then. But that's them, right there isn't it. They're the ones you were talking about.'

Mary nodded solemnly.

'You got to get me out of here, into the house. It's not safe. Please Mary.'

'Mary, where are you?' shouted her mother again.

'Look' whispered Mary 'I'll come back later and we'll find a way to get you in the house. You can hide in the attic. I'll bring you food and water.'

'Please Mary. Don't forget.' Nick grabbed her hand then smiled 'You're special, you know that.'

Mary blushed. 'I'll be back Nick, I promise.'

'Mary, wait.' Nick gestured to her to come closer. As Mary leant over he reached a hand behind her neck and pulled her face towards his. He closed his eyes and pressed his lips to hers. 'You won't forget me Mary, will you?'

Mary's knees shook, her heart thumped. 'I won't, Nick, I promise.'

Nick pulled the cover back over himself and waited.

Madadh was unhappy. He wanted the stone in his hand.

'Look Madadh' said Mother Munro 'I canna go anywhere for the moment so nor can the stoon. There's nothing to be gained by fighting over it noo. We'll wait until the time is right and we'll get the stoon. Dinna be worryin' noo, have patience my boy.'

Samuel showed his mother how to make more potion and between them they converted pints of plain water into medicine.

Elizabeth poured it carefully into a large flask and handed it to Brock. 'Please be sure to give this to James. Tell him four times a day, every day. And here,' she poured more and handed it to Brock 'for you. To keep you safe.'

Brock smiled and swigged a mouthful. 'I'll be back. I swear. I'll make sure you're safe.'

Elizabeth followed him outside. At the end of the drive, a large fat man with an apron was marching over the iron gate towards the house. 'Oh for heaven's sake! Who on earth's coming now?'

'I'll see to this.' Brock strode towards him.

'Is this the home of the children? The ones with Scroggs?'

'Get the hell out of here!' Brock began to try and shove him back out of the drive but it was like trying to push an elephant.

'I'm lookin' for those servant kids, boy an' a girl. The ones what came to my inn.'

Samuel poked his head out of the kitchen door.

'Ah! There you are!' He barged his way past Brock. 'I thought this'd be the place. I 'ad some bloody trouble gettin' 'ere I tell ya!'

'What d'you mean, came to your inn?' Elizabeth asked with a look of consternation.

'No, no, it ain't like that! I found 'em down me back alley... wi' Scroggs, when he got stabbed.'

'Stabbed! Samuel, come back out 'ere! And you Mary.'

Samuel and his sister emerged reluctantly from the kitchen.

'No, sorry lady, it ain't like it sounds. Look, I had a fella came to see me an', well I reckon in 'indsight, 'e was a bit dodgy. He tricked me into tellin' 'im where you lot live. 'E said he was after Scroggs. But I reckon it's prob'ly 'bout that stone. You know the one, everyone's talkin' 'bout it. 'E's prob'ly on 'is way 'ere right now to get it.'

'Who? Who's coming? And who's Scroggs. I don't know any Scroggs. You're not making sense.' said Elizabeth.

'Scroggs, nah, not I'm not worried 'bout 'im, 'e's just a useless drunk. Nah, it's the other bloke, Le Clerc, says 'e's a doctor but I reckon that's a load of horse shit too. After 'e left my inn, I got thinkin'... well... I was just a bit worried, that's all, 'bout them two.' He nodded towards Mary and Samuel.

'Look, I'll stay here with you.' Brock reassured Elizabeth. 'He'll not cause you any trouble.'

'No, please Mister Brock, you must get that potion to James.'

'Look,' added the inn-keeper, 'I'll wait. I'll make sure if that bloke comes that 'e don't cause you no 'arm.'

Elizabeth put her hands on her head. 'What? No...I don't know...' This was all getting too much.

'Mum,' said Mary softly, ''he's alright, 'e 'elped us, when we was in trouble. Helped us with the food an' that, saw us right.'

Elizabeth shrugged. 'Alright then, but he stays in the carriage house with the rest of them. He's not comin' inside.'

'No problem. An' ... as I'm 'ere, hows 'bout a bit o' that med'cine everyone's talkin' 'bout?'

'Please Mister Brock, hurry back.' urged Elizabeth.

Chapter 28

Brock marched quickly through the empty streets. He flaunted the authority of the Alderman and the Mayor to bluff his way through barriers and aided by his fine clothes, he only occasionally had to use the threat of violence. He would be good to his promise to Elizabeth. This was the first time he'd felt needed since the death of his wife all those years earlier, the first time he'd had any sort of contact with a family, let alone a chance maybe to become a part of it. It seemed strange with death and suffering all around, but he was the happiest he'd been in years.

He finally reached the doctor's office. No one had seen James this morning. He hadn't reported for work. He was probably even sicker, thought Brock. Maybe he was dead. That would make Elizabeth a widow, then he could truly look after her and her family. He could get himself a wife again, someday, maybe even a child. No, he mustn't think like that, he mustn't be disloyal to James, his new, and come to that, only friend. He tried to force the thoughts from his head but they kept creeping back.

Brock searched for hours. He scoured the cathedral tower, the crumbling chambers below and the yard outside, being careful now not to get close to the rancid burial pits. He walked to the river and searched along the banks. He paced the quiet streets past boarded-up shops and red-crossed doors but he didn't find any sign of James, dead or alive. It must have been plague. He was probably lying somewhere right now, dead or dying. Maybe he'd already been collected by the body carts. But what should he tell Elizabeth? Was it kinder to say her husband was dead rather than keep her false hopes alive and leave her waiting for a man who would never return? He gulped down the charmed water meant for James, threw away the flask and headed for Monnington Street.

It was late afternoon before he made it back. On the way, he continued the debate in his head on what he should say. What would James have wanted? And what did it matter what he said to Elizabeth when James was likely dead anyway? She would never know the truth. He was still mumbling to himself as he entered the drive to Number 28. The side door to the carriage house was open. A young family was sat on the ground outside and from beyond the door voices were raised, laughing, crying and shouting. Brock hurried his step. The inn-keeper stood in the doorway with a disconsolate look on his face.

'What the hell is goin' on?' demanded Brock, staring wide-eyed into the carriage house 'What are all these people doin' 'ere? Get 'em out for 'eaven's sake!'

'Good luck mate 'cause I couldn't stop 'em.' replied the inn-keeper. 'They didn't care what I said, they just kept comin'. You chuck one out and two more come back in. Everyone knows about that stone now. An' they don't care 'bout nothin' else. '

Brock marched into the carriage house followed closely by the inn keeper. In the centre was a group of a dozen or so people crouched together in a tight circle. Against the side wall were sat several women, pale and haggard with babies and toddlers on their knees whilst older children played in the dirt. Three men sat on the ground throwing dice. Another sat in a corner quietly rocking back and forth. A row of legs dangled over the edge of the loft above. The carriage house was hot and humid.

'Right, out. Everyone get out! Now!'

A head popped up from the group. 'Hey! It's my partner again!' shouted Le Clerc as if greeting a long lost friend.

The inn keeper rolled his eyes towards heaven.

'And who is this gentleman you bring with you? You must be...' He stepped forward with his hand out ready to shake.

'I must be bloody stupid to go out and let this place get turned into a doss house. Now get out - you an' everyone else!'

Le Clerc withdrew his hand but kept the broad smile. Nobody else moved.

'Och, ignore him.' said Madadh. 'Look ye, we're discussin' a wee business idea here. Say, if yee dinna mind just pissin' off...'

'I'll be doin' no such thing!' shouted Brock. He grabbed hold of a teenage boy and began dragging him towards the exit. 'I'll throw each one of you out myself if that's what it takes.'

'Do what you like. I'll not be takin' my family nowhere.' said a woman sat breastfeeding her baby.

Brock paused, still holding the boy by the back of his neck.

'My 'ole street's dyin' like flies so if you reckon I'm goin' back there to do the same you're bloody well mistaken mister. Try your 'ardest but the only way you'll get me back there is in a box!' She placed the baby over her shoulder and began patting his back. 'We're 'ere to get some o' that potion. That's the only thing that's gonna save us.'

A murmur of agreement rippled around the room.

Exasperated, Brock threw the boy back towards the centre of the carriage house and stomped outside. He marched into the house in search of Elizabeth. He found her upstairs in the front living room putting Alice down to sleep.

''Ave you seen what's 'appening over there? There's dozens of 'em. It's like a bleedin brothel!'

'Shh,' whispered Elizabeth 'I know.' She took Brock's arm and led him away from Alice. 'I saw them. We tried gettin' them all to leave but they won't. They're desperate Mister Brock. They won't go anywhere.'

'But they're gonna make us all sick!'

'I had to compromise. I made a deal with them.'

'You made a deal!'

'If they get supplies of water and stay out of the house then I'll see they have medicine and they can stay over there 'til this is over. They mustn't come in here. So long as they have the medicine they should be safe, so we will be too.'

Brock gritted his teeth. He didn't want them here but what else could he do? 'You're too kind Elizabeth, that's you're trouble.'

'Not kind, just no choice Mister Brock, that's all.' She stopped and looked around to check Mary and Samuel were out of ear shot. She almost didn't dare ask. 'And what about James? Did you find him, is he alive?'

Brock hesitated. In the end he'd decided that the kinder option was say that James was dead, save her from the agony of a forlorn wait.

'Well, did you find him? Did you give him the water? Tell me you did, please tell me.'

Brock opened his mouth but the words stayed in his throat. Elizabeth looked on expectantly.

'I did Elizabeth. I gave him the water. He looked... fine.' Brock cursed himself as he heard the words come from his mouth. 'What a coward!' he thought to himself. Still James wouldn't survive for long, not as a searcher. It was only a matter of time. He'd tell her soon.

Mary and Samuel did as they were told and took four large pails of water sloshing back over to the carriage house. The crowd swarmed around them like a pack of dogs at meal time. Mary just had time to fill her beaker with water before being shoved out of the way.

'Some bloody manners!' she shouted but no one was listening.

Madadh wanted control. He grabbed an empty metal bucket and smacked it with the handle end of his dirk. 'Ge' back, all o' ye!' He roared, then dived into the crowd, shoving people away from the potion. A space formed around him. 'Noo, ge' in a line, reet there!' He pointed his dagger at the ground. He was truly a fearsome sight in Highland dress, with his long red beard with dagger drawn. Nobody was brave enough to argue. 'Tha's better. Noo I'll let ye have this one fer free but fro' then on, ye'll be payin' fer ma potion. Is tha' clear?'

Mary took the beaker of water into the corner for Nick. She pulled down the tarpaulin exposing his face. He was pale, with pearls of sweat on his forehead.

''Ere Nick, drink this.' whispered Mary.

Nick gulped the water down eagerly. 'Can you do it Mary? Can you get me into the house? This place stinks, there's too many people.'

'I'll try Nick, maybe tonight. Here, I brought you some food.' She pulled out a chunk of bread.

'Thanks Mary. You're the best. You won't forget, will you? To get me in the house? I can't stay here any longer. It's too hot.'

'No Nick, course I won't forget. You should get rid o' that blanket and cool off a bit. Nobody's lookin'.' She began to pull the tarpaulin away. Nick tugged it back, but not before Mary had time to see his mottled purple hand and several large oozing brown boils on his forearm. The stench was foul. Mary backed away.

'No, Mary, please! Don't tell anyone for God's sake!' He pulled the cover back over his diseased limb. 'I need that potion. Get me in the house, please. Mary, you can do it. You're the only one who can help me. I need you Mary. You and me, we could be together.'

'I'll see...I'll see what I can do Nick.' Mary hurried out of the carriage house. She dashed through the house and upstairs into the attic. She sat alone in a gloomy corner and tried to work out what she should do. She desperately wanted to help Nick, but to have him in the house with plague, risking her and her family, that was a big ask. But then there was the potion. That could save him and protect her family too. Maybe she could hide him away here in the attic and give him lots of the medicine until he was well again. And then she and Nick could be together, like he said. But he had plague; he was a danger to all around him wherever he might be. What if the potion didn't work on him. She should tell her mother or tell Brock and have him removed from the carriage house. But to do that to Nick? Eventually she decided, without great conviction, that it was too dangerous to have him in the home but it would be too cruel to have him removed from the carriage house. If he stayed where he was then he would still have access to the potion and food. She'd make sure of that. That way she at least wasn't risking her own family and the potion should make him well. Yes, that's what she would do.

The long summer evening finally faded. Mary and Samuel finished the last of the chores set by their mother. They were too exhausted to try and sit up through the night again and wait for their father. They fell asleep early. Elizabeth lit a candle and began her evening ritual of checking and rechecking the ground floor, ensuring all windows were still boarded up, doors locked and barricaded. She went down the stone staircase to the kitchen. Brock was sat at the table.

'I'll sleep down here Elizabeth. Make sure you're all safe.'

'That's very kind Mister Brock but you mustn't. I promised James that nobody else would sleep in this house and as long as he's still alive then I'll keep that promise.'

'I don't mean anything by it, just to see you're safe. I'm sure James would have wanted that.'

'You may be right Mister Brock but he's not here to ask, not yet anyway.'

Brock considered breaking the news that James was likely dead but thought better of it. He smiled and headed for the door.

'Mister Brock...'

Brock turned eagerly.

'Thank you.'

Elizabeth closed and bolted the door firmly behind Brock and returned back up to the main house. She rechecked the shutters in the living room and then the drawing room. The weak flickering candlelight struggled to illuminate the large rooms and failed to find the figure of Annabel Collins, sat silently in a corner. Elizabeth tucked the pistol under her arm and joined Alice in an upstairs bedroom.

Chapter 29

Elizabeth awoke with a start and sat bolt upright. Instinctively she knew something was wrong. Silver-grey moonlight was flooding in through the windows; spindly limbs of silhouetted trees scratched gently on the glass as if trying to find their way inside. She scanned the room. It was Alice, she was gone. Elizabeth jumped from her bed and began searching, softly calling her name. The bedroom door was open; hadn't she closed it last night before settling? She hurried onto the landing still calling. She stopped to listen. From below she could hear noises, scraping sounds, voices maybe; she couldn't be sure. A shiver ran down her spine, her breathing quickened. Where was James when she needed him? She should have let Brock stay in the house as he'd suggested. She took the candle from the table and leant over the banister, straining to hear over the sound of her own thumping heart. That was a definitely a voice. She remembered the pistol. She hurried back into the bedroom and pulled it from under her pillow. She cocked it how James had shown her. Would the charge inside still be good? She wasn't sure but there was no time to load it again. She crept down the staircase, following the tall dancing shadows given life by her flickering candle. The door at the top of the basement steps was open. A cough came from below. With pistol in one hand and candle in the other, she nervously descended the steps towards the dark wooden door at the bottom. The candle shook. She called softly for Alice again and then eased open the door. She pointed the pistol into the kitchen and held the candle above her head.

A gentle breeze drifted in through the open back door. A dark figure was sitting at the kitchen table.

'Who's there?' demanded Elizabeth 'Where...where's my girl? I've a pistol here...I'll use it!'

'It's me,' the figure mumbled quietly, 'only me.' The words were followed by a sodden cough.

'Who's me?' demanded Elizabeth again, curiosity dampening her fear. She stepped closer and held the candle aloft again. Sitting at the table was her sister Fran, with Alice asleep on her lap.

'Why Fran, it's you! Why didn't you say?' Elizabeth relaxed, lowered the pistol and placed the candle on the table. 'What are you doing here? Where's the boys? Are they here?'

'No Lizzie, they're not.' She answered in a whisper.

'Where are they? Did you leave them at home?'

Fran heaved a heavy sigh. 'You could say that.'

'What do you mean?'

'The boys ...the boys are gone, Lizzie.'

'What d'you mean, 'gone'? Gone where?'

'I mean gone, Lizzie. Dead. My boys are dead.'

'What? How...'

Tears streamed down Fran's haggard face. 'It was so quick Lizzie, so quick. I tried me best but I couldn't do nothin'. I had a bit o' potion but it was never enough. I tried bringin' 'em 'ere so's they could 'ave more, but they'd blocked the streets and sealed us in. I couldn't get nowhere 'til tonight.' She coughed violently then went on. 'The life ran from 'em so fast Lizzie. They was like...like water slippin' through me fingers. First it was Zac what was ill, then Matt, ' she paused to cough more '... 'e was so sick 'e couldn't move a muscle, me poor darlin'. An' they was hot. So, so hot. An' the sores... I knew what was happenin'. I prayed God just leave me one of 'em. Just one, just leave me little Billy. But then 'e began to cough an' 'e got fever. I sat there for hours and watched 'em getting worse an' worse. I gave 'em water; I 'ad nothin' else. I just sat an' watched...watched the life seep out of 'em, watched 'til each one had took their last breath.' She swiped at her tears and cleared her throat again. 'After they was gone I tucked 'em up in bed like they was just sleepin', like they was gonna wake up tomorro'. I even told me little Billy a story. He loved stories.' A momentary smile flickered across her face. 'But they ain't gonna, Lizzie. They ain't gonna wake up no more.'

A brief silence was shattered by Elizabeth. 'And then you come here!' she roared 'And hold my Alice!' She reached forward, seized Alice's arm and yanked her from Fran's lap. Alice dropped to the floor like a rag doll and then began to bawl. Elizabeth hoisted her up onto her hip.

'But... but we're family Lizzie. Where else am I gonna go? '

'You wanna kill us too, is that it?'

'No Liz, it aint like that. I'm not sick!' she coughed again and stopped to get her breath 'Not real sick. I thought... I could stay 'ere an' you could give me some o' that potion.'

Mary and Samuel had been woken by the voices and now stood watching from the door.

'Mary! Samuel! Get back upstairs, NOW!' Elizabeth screeched the words out. She turned back to her sister and tried to compose herself again. 'You can have some of the potion but you can't stay here. I'll put some in a bottle and then you go, you leave here Fran and you don't come back 'til this is over.'

'Go where? I ain't got nowhere. I can't go back to my 'ouse Lizzie. They ain't lockin' me up in there with me dead boys!'

'I'm real sorry for your boys Fran, I loved 'em too, but no one's bringin' death in here to my family, not even you.' Elizabeth placed Alice on the floor at her feet and then picked up the candle. Alice clung to her leg, still sobbing. 'Go on, leave, now. I'll put some potion on the step.' She pointed the pistol to the door.

Fran remained motionless.

'Get out!' Elizabeth kicked the table leg.

Fran didn't move.

'You leave now or...or I'll use this gun, God help me! You won't bring plague in here!'

Mary and Samuel retreated to the top of the steps. Elizabeth reached her leg back and kicked the door shut behind them.

'She's gonna shoot her Mary!' hissed Samuel. 'You gotta stop 'er!'

'How?' Until recently Mary had barely heard her mother raise her voice and she was lost to know what to say to calm her now. 'She wouldn't hurt 'er, not Aunty Fran.' she said, trying to reassure herself as much as Samuel. 'I'll... I'll go and say... somethin'. See if I can settle 'em down.' She reluctantly headed back down the stairs.

'I could 'elp you look after the kids. I could 'elp a lot.' pleaded Fran 'An' that stone; it'll keep us all safe. Please Lizzie, I ain't got nowhere else.'

'I mean it Fran. I'm gonna keep my family safe. You've got to go.'

Fran shrugged her shoulders. 'Well you may as well shoot me then. Go on, shoot me, 'cause I ain't got nowhere else to go.'

'How can you be so damned selfish?' Elizabeth screamed. 'Your boys are dead an' now you want us dead too! You want to see Alice and Mary and Sam buried in one of those God-damned pits? Well it's not bloody happening!' She raised the pistol and aimed it directly at Fran's chest. 'It's not my fault you couldn't protect your boys!'

Fran looked at the wild expression in Elizabeth's eyes, at Alice hugging her leg and screaming. There was nothing to be gained from staying here. She might as well wander the streets and take her chances. She couldn't face the thought of going back home to be locked away with the corpses of her sons, and the idea of giving their young bodies away to be thrown into the stinking pits was even worse. She'd leave them where they lay, as if they were just sleeping. She'd take her belongings and drift along the dark streets and see where fate took her. She rose to her feet. Her rolled blanket and the few mementos of her boys were on the sideboard behind Elizabeth. She cast a wry smile at her sister, stepped forward and reached for her belongings.

'Get away!' screamed Elizabeth. She closed her eyes and squeezed the trigger on the pistol. There was a flash and a deafening crack. When Elizabeth opened her eyes again the room was in darkness, the candle flame extinguished by the blast from the gun.

With faltering hand, Mary pushed the kitchen door open and brought the feeble light of her candle into the room. Lying in the gloom, face down was Fran, a dark pool radiating like a halo from her head. Mary threw a hand to her gaping mouth and dropped the candle, plunging the room back into darkness. She turned and stumbled back up the stone steps.

'What happened?' begged Samuel 'Is Auntie Fran alright?'

Mary reached the top of the stairs and vomited.

Brock charged in from the driveway followed by the inn-keeper clutching a carriage lantern.

'Who fired that shot? Are you hurt?' shouted Brock.

'An intruder' replied Elizabeth. 'It was an intruder, but we're safe now, thank you Mister Brock.' Elizabeth felt no urge to kneel down and roll the body over, no desire to see the face and say goodbye to the big sister that had cared for her and played with her through her childhood, the sister who had guided her through her teens after her mother's early death, had shared in the excitement of her finding first and only love. This was no longer that person. This was a diseased body capable of killing her and her whole family; a Trojan horse in their midst.

'Please would you dispose of it Mister Brock?' Elizabeth turned her back on the corpse and headed back up the black stairway.

Only young Alice slept that night. Elizabeth spent the hours trying to justify her actions to herself, blocking any opposing thoughts like a boxer parrying punches. There were no tears.

Mary and Samuel lay awake too.

'But she might not be dead. 'Ow are you so sure she's def'ly dead?' argued Samuel between sobs.

'I saw 'er Sam, she was dead, I'm tellin' ya.' replied Mary quietly. 'She killed 'er.'

'We should go down an' check. She might be alive. We could make 'er well, like Mister Shipton.'

'They took 'er body Sam. She's gone. Not even the potion can save 'er now.'

Chapter 30

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

No one came to Nick's aid in the carriage house. After the seizure was over he lay in wet clothes, sleeping mostly, waking occasionally to shout nonsense and reach out for things that only he could see. Everybody else kept as far away from him as they could, watching him nervously in case he suddenly developed the strength to rise to his feet and chase after them. They pleaded with the guards to at least remove him, lest they all get sick, but that only served to reaffirm the guards' convictions that they were doing the right thing by locking them up in the first place. The guards did though promise that he could be taken out of the building, just as soon as he was dead. And that went for the rest of them too.

'He's going to kill us all.' hissed Le Clerc 'If they won't get rid of him we should do it ourselves. You can see the miasma coming off him.'

'What about the potion?' asked a woman holding a child. 'Give 'im some an' cure 'im, for God's sake!'

Cormag pointed at the wet patches on the floor where the buckets had gone over and shook his head.

'What about all your potions?' asked the inn-keeper looking at Le Clerc. 'You 'ad loads of it. Give 'im some. Give us all some.'

Le Clerc laughed. He reached his hands in his pockets and took out several small bottles. 'Here. Have all you want.' He tossed the bottles towards him. 'And if you want some more, throw a bucket in the Thames.'

'You bloody fraud! I knew it!' The inn-keeper hurled a bottle back towards Le Clerc. 'So that's it. We're stuck with him. We can't make 'im better an' they won't take 'im out 'til he's stone bloody cold; by which time we'll all be near dead too.'

Le Clerc pointed up to the loft where sunlight was shining in through the small attic windows. 'There is a way.'

'What, through that window? How are we supposed to get him up there in the first place? Are you gonna carry 'im?'

'Thankfully, God gave at least one of us here a brain.' Le Clerc walked across to the rope and pulley hanging down from the loft and swung it across the room.

The inn-keeper looked around at the faces in the room for a reaction. There were looks of contempt for Nick, of fear of his disease but nobody appeared moved or upset by the prospect of dumping him through the upstairs window. He looked to the Reverend Singer. He would know what was right, what was justified. But Singer wanted no part in it. He wanted Nick gone, same as everyone else, though he preferred not to be seen to condone what was being done. Now all eyes had turned to him for guidance, there was no way of avoiding giving his verdict.

'God helps those who help themselves.' He nodded and then turned away to inspect the crucifix hanging around his neck.

Inside the house Samuel was struggling to understand being imprisoned. What did it mean? How long would it last? As far as he knew, everyone who had been locked up stayed that way until they were removed on a cart. Was this going to happen to him too? But he felt so well. Had he really felt the warm sun and soft breeze on his skin for the last time? Were these walls to be all he would see from now until death?

Elizabeth went to the pantry and divided up the food into tiny daily portions to make them last as long as she could. She'd entered the pantry feeling confident about her preparations, but things weren't as she'd thought. There was less than half the food that she'd expected to find and to make matters worse, there were chewed scraps scattered across the floor. There was barely enough food for two weeks, even if they near starved themselves. The guards should bring a few basic provisions, a little fresh water and food. But Elizabeth knew that those sorts of supplies had a nasty habit of not turning up, of being sold or eaten long before they reached their intended targets.

Mary sat by an upstairs bedroom window. She stared at the glass but saw nothing of the back garden beyond. She recalled the face of Isabel as she had looked out from the house that became her tomb. Then movement at the carriage house won back her attention. A head appeared through the small loft window followed by a pair of shoulders. Mary cleaned the window with her sleeve. It was Nick. Was he better? Was he trying to escape? But he was right over two guards stood chatting and drinking. And he could never climb down from that height. She tried to open the window. She'd wave to him, shout and warn him to go back. Even if he managed to climb down the guards would catch him. But as she struggled to undo the stiff window latch, Nick's arms then torso flopped through the window too. For a moment he dangled above the guards, arms swinging like pendulums. Then he dropped to the hard brick path, his head first then body crumpling after. The guards dropped their beakers in shock and reached for their weapons. But Nick was motionless on the ground alongside them. They prodded at him with their boots to make sure he posed no threat. There was no reaction.

Mary gently closed the window and turned away. Was this her fault for not bringing Nick into the safety of the house? Logically she knew that would have been too dangerous but that didn't stop her being pained with guilt. And who would be next? First Fran's boys, then Fran and now Nick. The unthinkable was happening. For so long this terrible storm had been threatening, like black clouds far out to sea. Now, suddenly it was here, howling around the house. Plague had arrived, sweeping in like a late autumn squall and stripping the leaves from the trees.

Elizabeth gathered the children together in the kitchen. She showed them the meagre rations they'd be eating in the coming days.

'But where's the rest of it?' asked Samuel. 'Where's all that stuff we got?'

'You tell me!' snapped Elizabeth 'In the stomachs of your friends across the way I expect. Anyway, there's nothing we can do about that now. We've got to try and survive with what we have.'

'But that's not enough to feed a mouse!' argued Samuel.

Elizabeth shrugged. 'That's what we've got and it'll have to do.'

Mary counted up the rations her mother had prepared. 'What are we going to do after two weeks?'

'What do you mean?' asked Samuel.

'Mum, you've only done enough 'ere for two weeks. What we goin' to do after that? Is there more?'

'No Mary. This is the lot.'

'So what'll we do?'

'Well, I guess that will depend on those guards out there, Mary. If they're good men and do their job they'll bring us some food and fresh water and we'll be fine.'

'And if they're not?'

'Well...if not they'll keep it all for themselves. And then we'll have a problem. A big problem'

'But we'll starve. They're gonna lock us in 'ere for weeks an' weeks. We can't live on this!'

Elizabeth began to put the rations back into a wooden box. She spoke without looking up at her daughter. 'Desperate times call for desperate measures, Mary. We need to start... you and me ... start being nice to those men out there. Make sure they know we're not sick.' She rose from the table and picked up the box. 'You're a lot younger than me Mary, a lot prettier...'

'What?' asked Mary, confused by her mother's suggestion.

Elizabeth carried the box back to the pantry. 'For God's sake, use your imagination girl!' She placed the box on the shelf and out of sight leant her head against the rough wooden plank, her eyes screwed tightly shut. 'God forgive me.' she whispered to herself.

Samuel was confused. 'What's she mean'? Is she gonna shoot 'em?'

In response to Nick being thrown from the building, the guards had taken planks of wood and crudely nailed them over all of the windows of the carriage house. What little ventilation they'd had was now gone. The heat and smell were worse than ever, flies covered every surface. In the near darkness the rats had become bold, and were scurrying over beams and around the floor. People were being bitten. The two buckets that had been used to hold the magical potion were now toilets, but they were already overflowing and as all windows were boarded up, there was no way of emptying them.

'There's nay any choice Cormag' declared Madadh. 'Tween the lo' o' us we can smash doon these doors and ge 'away from 'ere.'

Le Clerc overheard the conversation. 'There's a lot of guards out there now. You'll need to be ready for a fight.'

'Aye, nay doobt,' replied Madadh 'but I'll die tryin' te escape before I rot in this stinkin' hole.'

'I'll be right behind you!' encouraged Le Clerc.

'You're being hasty' said the Reverend Singer holding a handkerchief across his nose and mouth. 'I know this place is foul but they're sending word to the Bishop. When he hears what's happening he'll send his people down in an instant to release us all. If we break out know who knows what those men out there might do? There's no need to get hurt. If we just hold on a little longer we will all be free. You have my promise. I give my word that everyone here will be looked after.'

In the gloom in the corner of the room a young woman put down her toddler and went through her hourly ritual of checking herself for sores and boils. Like most others she'd often find vague swellings deep under the skin and would spend hours trying to work out if they were normal or the beginnings of the disease. Today though, she felt ill. She was sweating and shivering, her body ached and she was glad the light in the room was so poor. Her armpits throbbed; they were so swollen she had to hold her arms away from her body. She nervously pushed a hand through the top of her dress. She paused before sliding her fingers any further along her clammy skin, frightened of what she might find. When finally she did, she found the first armpit bulging and full. As she pressed, pain ripped through her whole body and soft, warm pus oozed on to her fingers. A shiver ran through her body. She quickly checked the other side. The same hard, hot, tender swellings stretched the skin to breaking point. She closed her eyes. She would soon die, she knew that. Should she tell those around her? She had seen what they'd done to Nick and she wasn't going to let that happen to her. With a struggle, she climbed to her feet. She staggered through the maze of arms and legs on the floor. She found a place to sit as far away as she could from the cries of her toddler and sat down to await the inevitable.

Elizabeth prowled the house, looking for forgotten supplies, wondering what else they could use to supplement their rations and avoid the need to fall prey to the guards. There was the white cat. Perhaps he was somewhere in the house. That might provide a meal. Or mice, there were always plenty of mice, and rats too. She was unsure if she could bring herself to eat rodents but perhaps the time would come. Maybe there were supplies around the house left somewhere by the children or Jarvis. She searched through the sideboards and cupboards in the living room and then the drawing room. It was hard in the dark shuttered-rooms, but her eyes were adapting to the low light. The drawing room sideboard was empty. There was a cupboard behind the sofa. This room had a bad smell, more rats probably. She rounded the sofa. Annabel Collins was sitting in the corner of the room, surrounded by blankets and the remains of half-eaten food. Her usually immaculate clothes were grubby and torn, her hair tangled and hanging over her face. She looked anxiously at Elizabeth.

But Elizabeth had no energy left to be angry or scared. Without speaking, she turned and left the room. She closed the door behind her and twisted the heavy iron key in the lock.

Chapter 32

James brushed himself off and swept his greasy locks away from his face. He took a deep breath and headed from the churchyard towards the house. The red cross meant at least one person in the house had plague. Perhaps it was a mistake, maybe nobody was sick. Or perhaps it was Miss Pewtersmith. It was tempting to turn and walk away; as long as he knew no differently, there was always a chance it might not be one of his family with plague. How he hoped it was the cook who was stricken. There was no one at the boarded-up front of the house so he planned to sneak up to it and call to Elizabeth or the children. If he was seen he'd reason with them; persuade them to at least let him speak to his family. Maybe he could even talk them into letting them go or perhaps claim he's been sent to search the house and then say they were suffering with something else, some other disease that didn't require incarceration. There were too many guards around to challenge them physically, more than he'd seen at any other house he'd visited.

He climbed quietly over the front fence and made his way up the steps. The painted cross stood three or four feet tall on the door; the hastily applied paint had run like red tears down the wood. He tapped gently then listened. All he could hear was the chatter from the guards around the corner. He tapped again, cupped his hands against the door and called gently. 'Elizabeth... Samuel... Mary'. He listened again. Silence. He pressed his hands and face up close again and called a little louder this time.

A hand crashed into the middle of his back and thrust his face into the door. 'What the 'ell 'are you doin'?' He was hauled from the door and thrown down the steps. ''Enry, come see what we got 'ere!'

James scrambled to his feet and started to walk around the corner of the house towards the kitchen door. Two more guards were on their way to investigate.

'Hello' said James trying to appear composed 'I just want to speak...'

'Oh what we got? A beggar? Bloody 'ell, look at the state of 'im! Go on, piss off! We don't need your type round 'ere!'

'No' James tried to explain 'That's my family you've got locked in there. I just want to...'

'I said piss off! We got enough bloody mouths to feed 'round 'ere. We don't need another one!' He picked up a small rock and threw it towards James. 'Go on, get out of it!'

At the overgrown rear of the garden, behind an empty apple tree, gooseberry bushes and runner beans, Brock stood and watched as James was chased from the drive. Brock had been outside when the guards had arrived to lock everybody up and had slipped out of sight into the overgrown vegetable patch. Even though he was free, he had nowhere else to go and had stayed hidden in the garden. He too had been trying to concoct a plan to free Elizabeth and the children, and he had mixed feelings about seeing James still alive. As James ran from the flying rocks, Brock slipped further back into the bushes and hid.

Chapter 33

'Mum!' Mary shrieked like a siren from upstairs 'Quick Mum! Get up here!' Mary ran out of the bedroom onto the landing panting, shaking.

Elizabeth rushed to the stairs. 'What? What is it girl?'

Mary's mouth opened to speak, her jaw quivered but no words emerged.

Elizabeth hurried up the stairs and pushed past her into the bedroom. Alice lay on the bed. Her young body arched backwards, her limbs were rigid, her eyes stared vacantly at the ceiling. She began to jolt and shake again, all limbs jerking as if possessed. It lasted just for thirty seconds or so then abruptly stopped. Elizabeth approached the bed. Alice fell still. Her face was waxen; beads of sweat sat on her top lip and trickled from her brow. On both sides of her neck, grape-size swellings stretched her skin. Her eyes were closed now. Elizabeth crouched down a foot or two away from the edge of the bed to inspect her youngest from a safe distance. Her worst fears were confirmed. Elizabeth knew enough about plague to recognise the signs; her little Alice wouldn't recover. Suddenly it felt as if the weight of the world had fallen onto Elizabeth's shoulders and was crushing her down. She was panting; her heart thumped so hard it felt as if it would leave her chest; her mouth was dry; her hands trembled. As she stared at the porcelain face of her child, Alice opened her mouth and vomited.

Elizabeth staggered to her feet. She slammed the bedroom door in front of dumb-stricken Mary and Samuel. By using sheets and cloths to avoid touching her, she carefully moved Alice out of the foul liquid. Standing back she leant over and dabbed at her face with a cool wet cloth at arm's length. She placed a cup of water by the side of the bed and then left the room. She twisted the key in the lock then turned to Mary and Samuel.

'Is she alright?' asked Samuel.

'No Sammy, she's not. You must be brave now. Your sister is sick, very sick. No one goes in there.'

'Is it plague?'

Elizabeth nodded.

'What?' said Mary confused 'You can't just leave 'er on 'er own. You'll 'ave to go in there, an' look after her.'

'No one goes in there I said.'

'But... but she's just a baby!'

'What else do I do?' snapped Elizabeth 'You got better ideas? Do you want to get sick? Do you want to go in there and look after her?'

'So you're just gonna lock her up an' leave her in there, all alone?'

'D'you think I want to? D'you think I don't... If we don't lock her away we're all going to get it. Don't you understand you stupid girl?'

'Will she die?' asked Samuel, his young eyes filling.

Elizabeth turned her head away. 'Yes,' she replied in a voice as composed as she could muster 'yes she will die.'

'But the stone? What about the stone? The potion?' argued Mary.

'The stone doesn't work child. For God's sake! Look at your sister! She's been drinking the damn stuff and she's nearly dead!' She took a deep breath and softened her voice. 'We have to protect ourselves now. God, in his wisdom, has chosen to take Alice. We have to see that we don't get sick now. Nobody is to go in that room. Nobody, understand?'

'Can we see her again, one more time?' sniffed Mary 'Just from the door?'

Elizabeth shook her head. 'This door stays closed. Your sister has gone now.'

Elizabeth wanted to put her arms out and hug her children, bring them close to her; but she felt numbed and distant. Her emotions seemed to have been wrung out of her. All that was left was fatigue and anger. How could this happen, to her, to her children and her husband? Death was stalking her family and had its hands around the throat of her youngest child.

Elizabeth carried cushions and blankets and made a living area on the landing outside of Alice's bedroom. She sat by the door and listened for every breath, every sign of movement, every cough or sniffle that came from within. Mary and Samuel lay on the blankets alongside her and snoozed on and off.

Alice was quiet; until night fell.

Elizabeth had fallen asleep, her back leaning on the bedroom door. The handle rattled. Alice was too small to open the door even if it had been unlocked, but she knew how to try. Elizabeth jumped from her sleep. Alice began to cry. She rattled the door again and shouted for her mother. The crying got louder. Elizabeth tried talking to her, reassuring her, singing; but it made no difference. The crying went on.

Samuel placed his hands over his ears.

'Do something Mum! Stop her crying!' screamed Mary.

Elizabeth glared back at her in the candlelight. The crying turned into screams, hysterical wails and sobs that cut through Elizabeth like a knife and kept on coming, cut after cut. Elizabeth stood up and began to pace the landing, the key squeezed tightly in her hand. How long could she cry for? Surely she was too ill to keep this up.

But she didn't stop. It just got louder, sadder and ever more painful.

'Stop it! Stop it!' Mary jumped to her feet and screamed at the door 'I can't listen to it anymore! Shut up! For God's sake!'

But still the cries went on.

Samuel lay with a blanket pulled over his head. Elizabeth continued to pace the landing, wrestling with the temptation of opening up the door and picking up her beautiful daughter, cuddling her and lying with her on the bed, singing to her as she drifted off to sleep. How she longed to do just that; but she knew that if she did then the price would be her life too and she'd leave Mary and Samuel alone.

'Kill her.' said Mary. Her voice was steady and dark.

'What?'

'You said she's going to die. You said she has no chance. So end her suffering ...and ours. Go in there and end it.'

'How can you even think that?' asked her mother in astonishment. 'How can you talk about ... killing your own sister?'

'You're one to talk!' hissed Mary.

'You're evil, girl! Evil! Wash those thoughts from your head. I could never...' Elizabeth looked at Mary's face flickering in the candlelight. She looked older, more mature, sinister. But was she right? Was she just being a coward by doing nothing? But how could she possibly end the life of her own child?

From inside the room the sobbing ceased and the house fell quiet.

Mary and Samuel were sleeping again. Elizabeth was sitting cross-legged in the gloom thinking about what Mary had said. Until that point she hadn't entertained the thought of ending her daughter's suffering, but it was clear that Alice would die soon and what little was left of her life would be lonely, painful torment. Was she only thinking of herself by not bringing forward the inevitable? Was she the real cause of Alice's agony now through her cowardice? What would James say if he were here? And what about God and the church? Where were they when you needed them? What would God tell her to do if he was sitting with her now? Was he testing her? How would he tell her to manage the tortuous suffering of a two year old child; a child that he had chosen to make sick, to kill so slowly and cruelly? Was he punishing her, or James? What had they done that was so evil that Alice should pay like this? Was this for what she had done to Fran? Was this how hell would feel; an eternity of seeing her children tormented? She chased the thoughts in circles in her head for hours. Finally, as the early dawn cast its first granite light upon the house, she decided. She would do the brave thing and end Alice's pain. She carefully placed the iron key in the door lock and gently twisted. The lock opened with a clunk. She looked back to see if Mary or Samuel had been disturbed but they both slept on. They mustn't know what she'd done. They must be left thinking that Alice had died in her sleep. She eased the door open and crept inside. Alice was lying face up on the floor, her arms splayed out above her head. She was in deep sleep. The red swellings on her neck had increased in size and were now dark oozing sores. Her breathing was rapid and shallow. Elizabeth took a blanket from the foot of the bed and knelt alongside her. She folded it into a small tight rectangle and held it inches above her daughter's face. She gritted her teeth. She mustn't think about what she was doing. This was for her daughter's good. She hesitated. She pulled the blanket back and looked one last time at Alice's ashen face, her cracked, blood-red lips and long curled eye lashes. She tried to shut out the memories of feeding her in bed on cold winter nights, of helping her take her first anxious steps, of coaxing out the first words that only a mother would recognise. She had to do this, for Alice. She raised the blanket back up over her face and began to push it down; gently at first then with more force. There was no resistance. There was a noise at the door. Samuel was stood watching. Elizabeth recoiled away from Alice like a guilty child caught in the midst of mischief. Alice coughed, then woke up and began to cry again. She reached out for her mother and grabbed her skirt. Elizabeth jumped to her feet and shook away the grip of the small hand. She turned and ran from the room, slamming the door shut behind her. Alice was too sick to get up and follow, but she still had the strength to cry. The wailing started again. Mary pulled a blanket over her head.

Sickness was spreading in the carriage house too. A dozen or more people now had fever and sores. Others coughed and struggled for breath. The air became ever heavier and more putrid. Madadh and Cormag spoke quietly in the darkness. They had had enough.

'There are planks o' wood o'er by the wall there. We could lash them together and make a ram te smash through tha' window.' suggested Cormag. 'Those boards 'll fall away wi' a few good knocks.'

'Aye but there's still those guards oot there. We'd need te be quick gettin' oot an' ready for a fight.'

'Aye well, let's face it. If nothin' else you're always good fer a wee barnie,!' added Cormag with a smirk.

'An what'll ye de when you're ootside?' asked Mother Munro.

'We'll get the stoon and then head back te Scotland. We'll tek you wi' us an' all.'

'Well that's a kind thought but I'll be goin' nowhere Madadh. An' ye should'ne be either.'

'What? Ye reckon we should stay here wi' this rabble - to die?'

'No one wants to be here Madadh, but this is where we are. If ye chose to leave here ye'll take this foul disease along wi' ye. Ye'll tek it te your kin and te your homeland. Ye'll be forever known as the man who brought death te your own. Ye'll be as popular as an Englishman at Pinkie.'

'If we can find the stoon we'll be safe. We'll come back for ye an' make sure you're reet.'

'So ye think ye'll have time te break out from here, break into the hoose, search fer and find the stoon an' then leave wi' out anyone stoppin' ye?' Mother Munro lay back on her straw bed and closed her eyes. 'Good luck boys.'

There was no more crying from Alice. Elizabeth optimistically brought food and more water and gently opened the door to the bedroom. Alice lay on the floor where she'd left her. The water from the previous night remained untouched by the bedside. Apart from the rapid panting, Alice was still, her eyes closed. Elizabeth ached to lift her and at least place her on the bed but she knew she mustn't. She avoided looking at her face. She placed the bread and water alongside her and locked herself back out of the room.

Elizabeth expected to get sick; she knew her contact with Alice had been too close. She kept her distance from Samuel and Mary as much as she could. She gave them jobs and chores to keep them busy and keep them away.

Samuel had completed his tasks; cleaning the fire grate in the kitchen, sweeping floors. Mary was less willing. She cleaned the hallway and then half-heartedly began to clean some of the pots in the kitchen. But what was the point? She didn't care whether they were clean. She marched up the stairs with cloth and pan in her hand. Samuel followed, sensing the need to stay a few steps behind. Elizabeth was still sat outside the bedroom, singing softly to Alice.

Mary threw the iron pan onto the floorboards. 'You clean it! You want it polished, you do it!'

Elizabeth continued to sing the lullaby.

'Why are we doing this? We're gonna be dead anyway! All of us! Dead! Why do you need clean pans?'

Samuel fumbled in his pocket and found the Mother Lee Stone. He knelt alongside his mother and held it out to her. Elizabeth smiled. She went to hug him but thought again and stopped herself.

'Move away from me sweetheart.' she spoke softly but with purpose.

Samuel looked up at her, confused. She repeated herself with same gentle but firm tone.

'My dear Sammy, beautiful Mary, I'm so sorry, I've failed you.' she managed a slither of a smile.

'What are you talking about?' demanded Mary.

'I'm sick Mary. It's started. I'm so, so sorry. I should have protected you. I should have got you out of this city before it got to any of us.'

'No!' screamed Samuel 'No! No! No!'

'Shh my darling. It's happened. We can't change it.'

Tears ran down Mary's face. She stepped forwards towards her mother. Elizabeth raised a flat palm. 'No Mary. Keep away from me.' Her tone softened 'You're in charge now my girl. You have to be the woman of this house. Promise me you'll look after Samuel... and yourself.'

Mary said nothing.

Elizabeth placed the bedroom door key on the floor. 'I'm going to join Alice. When I go in I want you to lock this door behind me. There's enough food and water downstairs to keep you going. Keep sweet with the guards and ask them to bring you more. Promise me you won't come in after me.'

'No' shouted Samuel. 'The stone, use the stone, it'll make you well. It'll fix you!'

Elizabeth smiled at Samuel and shook her head. 'I'm sorry sweetheart.' She turned and entered the bedroom. 'Lock it Mary. Lock it now.'

With shaking hand Mary picked up the key and pushed it in to the lock. She turned it slowly until she heard the decisive clunk.

Elizabeth knelt alongside Alice, slid her arms underneath her and lifted her from the floor. Her breathing had stopped now. Her body was becoming stiff, her eyes open and staring vacantly back at her. Elizabeth kissed her on the forehead and gently closed her eyes. She felt almost relief to be ill, so as to be able to hold and touch her child again. She pulled back the covers and laid her gently down on her side. She lay alongside her and pulled her lifeless body into her bosom and softly sang the lullaby again.

Cormag waited until he was confident that old Mother Munro was sleeping. When she started to snore like a ratchet again, he prodded Madadh.

'Are ye sleepin' Madadh?'

'Not now I'm no'.'

'Whit dae yer reckon Madadh? Is the auld hen reet? Or shaa we ge' away fro' here?'

'It's tay late for me Cormag. I'll noo be leavin' this place.'

'What d'yer mean?'

'I can feel it Cormag. I can feel it brewin' inside me. We'll noo get oot of this place alive, no any of us.'

Mary and Samuel remained camped outside the bedroom door. They called to their mother every few minutes for reassurance until she tired of it and asked them to stay quiet. The day dragged on. It was warm and humid again. The flies buzzed annoyingly around the landing as if it was just another hot summer day. Samuel made more of the potion water but Mary had lost the faith now. She derided the claims of the useless stone. Samuel prepared the water in secret and fed it to them both without Mary being aware. The day felt endless. Every hour dragged slowly by until finally the light faded and the house was plunged back into darkness. Mary and Samuel lay close together on their makeshift bed, both wide awake. Rats and mice scurried in the ceiling and scratched at the hard oak floor boards. From outside distant shouts and moans hung in the still night air. Finally Samuel sat up.

'I'm going to lie with Mum.' he announced.

'You can't. You 'eard what she said. She's sick. You wanna get it an' all?'

'I don't care. We're all gonna get it anyhow. I'm not stayin' out 'ere.' He stood up and turned the key in the bedroom door.

'Samuel! You can't go in there. Get out!'

But it was too late. He'd already opened the door and stepped inside.

Mary wasn't going to stay alone on the landing. Samuel was right she thought to herself. They were all going to get sick so what did it matter. She followed him inside. He'd already found himself a place at the foot end of the bed and was nestling down for the remainder of the night. Mary found a place at the edge of the bed near to Alice and quickly fell asleep.

Across the road James too had made his bed for the night. He was in the churchyard behind a large tombstone, carved in days of more leisurely burials. He racked his brains for ways to help his family locked inside the house only yards away. He couldn't give up on them. What else did he have? He'd try again at first light.

Elizabeth tossed and turned. Her whole body hurt, her head throbbed and her bloated glands felt as if they would explode. She kicked her feet out and pushed at the foot of the bed. It moved. Elizabeth forced her head up.

Samuel rolled over.

Elizabeth screamed.

Samuel sat bolt upright.

Mary awoke and looked sheepishly at Elizabeth. In the morning light their need to lie with their mother suddenly felt stupid and childish.

'Get out! Get out! Both of...' Elizabeth was interrupted by painful coughs 'both of you, now!'

Samuel and Mary scrambled to their feet and ran back onto the landing. Elizabeth tottered over to the door and closed it behind them. She leant her back against the wood and slid down onto the floor. How could her body hurt so much? Her mouth was dry as sandpaper. She had left a jug by the bed. She crawled over to it and gulped down the water from the jug until it was completely empty. She knew she was getting worse. She could feel the illness growing, multiplying inside her.

Mary kept hearing her mother's words in her head. She had to be the woman now; she had to care for Samuel. She needed to do something to keep them both occupied through the long day. She would follow her mother's lead and set chores. They would polish the door handles, clean the floors. That would keep Samuel occupied and distract him from what was happening around him. She gave him a list of tasks starting with tidying the pantry. But Samuel wasn't keen. He too was starting to feel unwell. It was obvious that the stone had failed. He pulled it from his pocket and unwrapped it from the white cotton rag and held it in his palm. It still managed to find a ray of sunlight and emitted a warm red glow. Samuel trudged up the rickety stairs to the attic, to the quarters where he and his family had lived together in service of Mister Jarvis. He went to his bed, an oblong wooden box squeezed under the eaves. He lifted a floor board to expose the space where he hid the few little treasures he possessed, a small knife, a wooden cannon that Mister Wiseman, the shopkeeper had made him, and some pistol shot he'd once found and kept as toy cannonballs. He placed the Mother Lee stone into the collection and then carefully replaced the board. He descended back to the landing and dropped onto the floor outside the bedroom. He called out to his mother for sympathy. He loved the usual disproportionate concern for sore throats and grazed knees. But this time, when he really was ill, there was no reply. Mary appeared up the stairs and sat opposite, leaning against the banister rails.

'What you doin' up 'ere? I gave you jobs.' she grumbled.

'I ain't feelin' good.' replied Samuel.

Mary frowned back at him. 'No, me neither.' She rubbed ruefully at the swollen glands growing rapidly in her neck and winced with the pain.

'What we gonna do Mary?'

'There ain't nothin' we can do Sam. We just gotta wait an' hope an' pray we get better.'

But things didn't improve. By early evening they were both feeling worse, much worse. There was nothing to be gained from isolating themselves from their mother any longer. Mary unlocked the room and they both went inside. Laid in the centre of the bed was a toddler-sized parcel wrapped in a white cloth sheet. Their mother lay alongside, mouth gaping, eyes staring vacantly to the heavens.

'Mum, I'm sick' announced Samuel 'me 'ead hurts and me neck' he grumbled.

But the only sound from his mother was from the rapid gurgling breaths that were struggling to keep her alive. Samuel squeezed onto the edge of the bed alongside Elizabeth, Mary lay next to the parcel that contained her sister. Outside, night fell again over the shrinking population of London.

Chapter 34

With the arrival of the new dawn James decided to make another bid to free his family. Most of the night guards had drifted away before the end of their shifts and the day crew hadn't yet arrived. This would be his chance. He armed himself with a grave-digger's pick and headed towards the house. He had no subtle plan of persuasion. He was exhausted. Days of no food, mere mouthfuls of water and little sleep had left him weary and drained. This would be brute force and desperation without any real thought. As he walked up the drive towards the kitchen door, his footsteps roused the snoozing watchman.

'Oh God, it's not you again is it?' the guard climbed reluctantly to his feet and came to meet James 'I thought we told you to clear off. You're gonna be sorry if you...'

The sentence remained unfinished as James clattered the pick handle into the side of the watchman's head. He dropped to the floor.

Brock had spent an uncomfortable night trying to sleep amongst the weeds and brambles at the back of the vegetable patch. He'd been awoken by the rowdy dawn chatter of birds, and now the second guard was stood directly in front of his hiding place dropping his pants. As Brock withdrew further into the weeds to escape the splashes, he was shocked to see James advance down the drive and flatten the watchman. The guard standing before Brock cast a glance over his shoulder and hurried to finish. He turned, still fastening his trousers, stumbling in the direction of the house. Brock hesitated for a moment then pounced from his hiding place. He threw his huge bulk on top of the guard, crushing him onto the ground. The watchman kicked and wrestled to get free but Brock was too strong. He grabbed a rock from the edge of the carrot patch and slammed it into the back of the guard's head. The struggling stopped.

James fumbled through the pockets of the guard on the ground. The key had to be in his pocket somewhere. Brock climbed to his feet and headed towards James, but as he rounded the corner of the house, the day shift started arriving. Four new watchman entered the drive. They spotted James rummaging through the pockets of their fellow guard and charged to his aid. By the time James realised that he was no longer alone they were already upon him. James attempted to jump to his feet only to be knocked back to floor with the blow of a club across his back.

'Thievin' bastard!'

A watchman produced the missing key from his pocket. He stepped on James as he unlocked the kitchen door. 'If you like it 'ere so much you can bloody well stay 'ere!' He grabbed James by the back of his shirt and threw him into the kitchen. 'You can bloody well rot in there!' he shouted as he relocked the door.

Brock, meanwhile, slipped back into the undergrowth and watched from his cave of brambles. He agonised over going to James' aid until it was too late and the decision was made for him. He remained hidden.

With James locked away, the guards took the meagre daily rations of food and water to the carriage house and banged on the door.

'Step back you lot. I'm passin' in your brekky!'

But this morning the only reply was a few coughs and groans.

The guard quickly slipped the supplies in through the door and squinted into the gloom. He held his hand over his nose and mouth in a forlorn attempt to block the stench. 'I reckon we might be needin' some transport for these fella's tonight!' he laughed, happy that his work was nearly over.

James lurched painfully up the stairs from the cellar kitchen to the main house. He called out for Elizabeth and the children but there was no answer. He quickly checked the ground floor rooms. All empty except for the drawing room that was locked. There was no key in the door. James banged on the door and shouted. He could hear movement from inside; the door handle moved. He stood back and tried to kick the door open, but only managed to hurt his foot.

'Elizabeth, stand back!' James took a few steps back and charged at the door. The wood still held. He tried again. This time the door rattled and a large iron key fell from above the frame. James quickly pushed it into the lock and threw open the door. But instead of his Elizabeth or the children, before him, he found the ghostly white figure of Annabel Collins. James scanned the room frantically for his family. He grabbed Annabel by the top of her dress. 'Where are they? Where's Elizabeth?'

Annabel stared blankly back at him.

James pushed her away and charged up the stairs to the first floor. As he approached the landing he slowed. He saw the cushions and blankets where his family had been camped out, the pan on the floor that Mary had hurled in frustration, the drawings that Samuel had done to pass away the hours. The bedroom door was wide open. He tip-toed slowly up the last of the stairs. There was no sound. He walked into the bedroom, not daring to open his eyes. When he plucked up the courage, he found Elizabeth lying in the middle of the bed surrounded by his children. There was not a sound or a breath or a heartbeat between them.

James lay on the bed alongside his family. He stretched his long arms around his children and his wife, pulled them in tightly together and closed his eyes once more.

This would be the last place he would lay.

Chapter 35

Half a mile away and three and a bit centuries later, Misses Rani Singh was trying to sleep. It was nearly midnight and the bed was vibrating. How she wished Vikram, her husband would do something about that snoring. See the doctor, lose weight, buy a second bed, but do something. As with every night for months, she vowed to push him into action in the morning. In the meantime she pushed the ears plugs in even further, pulled the pillow over her head and tried to get some sleep.

Was that a noise downstairs? A rattle of the door maybe? She pulled out her ears plugs and listened carefully. There had been several break-ins in the street and she had been feeling a little anxious.

There it was again. She sat up. 'Alan, are you there?' she called.

'Oh, go to sleep woman,' grumbled her husband 'there's nobody there.'

'I heard something, I'm sure, I did. Go have a look, please.' She prodded him in the back.

'No. I'm not chasing your shadows again. You're imagining things.' he pulled the covers a little more tightly around his neck.

But Rani wasn't reassured. 'Alan, is that you?' she called again.

'Yes Mum, just going to the loo.'

'See!' gloated Vikram, 'Now please be quiet and go to sleep. I've got work tomorrow.'

'Look Vik, between your snoring and these burglaries...'

Vikram sat up and leant over his wife. He grabbed her ear plugs from the bedside table and shoved them into his ears. He smiled at her then lay back down.

This time she was reassured though. She snuggled down under the duvet, closed her eyes and started to drift off. Then the snoring started again, louder than ever without the ear plugs. That was it. She'd have to get up and sleep in the spare bed in Alan's room. Alan hated her sharing his room but that was hard luck. She needed her rest. She clutched her pillow and stepped out onto the landing. She peered down the stairs towards the front door. It was all quiet. How silly she was, hearing intruders all of the time. Why couldn't she just relax and sleep like her husband? They had an alarm, a well secured house; they were safe as could be.

But through the small fan shaped window at the top of the front door she saw a movement, a light flashed by, close to the frosted glass. Was that her imagination? Her heart began to race again.

'Vikram, come here. I think there...'

Before she could finish her sentence there was a searing flash of white light, an ear splitting boom and the front door flew down the hall. Grey smoke flooded the downstairs, pierced by streaks of torchlight.

Rani screamed and ran back into the bedroom and slammed the door. Heavy boots thumped up the stairs behind her.

'Vikram, wake up! Wake up!' she screamed.

Vikram heard nothing behind his ear plugs and snoring until the bedroom door was smashed apart. He sat bolt upright to find torches and guns inches from his face. Rani was hurled against the wall and her hands quickly zip-tied behind her back. Vikram tried to jump from the bed but before his feet touched the floor he was seized, thrown over onto his belly and his hands and feet secured. He was dragged from the bed and shoved against the wall to stand in his y-fronts alongside his wife. He quietly wished he'd chosen the pants with no holes.

'There's money, in my wallet in...'

'Shut the fuck up!'

' 'E's not 'ere sir.' The words were barked from the landing.

Vikram turned to look but his face was pushed back against the wall.

'What d'you mean not here?'

'His room's there sir, it's empty, 'e's gone.'

'Shit, shit, shit! Find him! Now!' The bedroom light was turned on. 'Turn them around.'

Mister and Misses Singh were spun around to face half a dozen gun barrels being pointed by men in green protective chemical suits.

'You'd better start talkin' to me real fast.'

Part 2

Chapter 1

He was never supposed to have been called Elvis.

He'd been conceived on the back seat of a car, a few hours and many drinks after his parents first met. You wouldn't have known it back then, through the plastered, monochrome make-up and the ripped punk clothes, but his mother, Monica, was just sixteen years old the night it all started.

The name was to have been Mini Cooper; a tribute by his father Steve to his favourite car and in recognition of the feat of agility required to make a baby on the Mini's tiny back seat. But the Registrar of Births and Marriages wasn't impressed; he told Steve it was silly. So Steve flattened his nose, the Registrar called the police and Monica was put on the spot. With her episiotomy wound throbbing, her head humming with codeine and Elvis Costello growling from the headphones around her neck, she said the first thing that came to mind. By the time Steve telephoned from the cells with the compromise suggestion of Austin Healey Sprite, it was too late. He was Elvis.

Steve, Monica and Elvis made home in a grim little flat above a fish and chip shop in the outskirts of Bolton. Life was tough, cash was scarce, but at least Monica had a baby to love and was away from her father's drunken attention. What they lacked in money, they made up for with ingenuity. Steve was an accomplished shop-lifter, so baby-clothes and alcohol were freely provided. The takeaway downstairs let them have the closing time left-over food in exchange for Steve providing an on-call security service. Three knocks on the ceiling with the broom handle would bring Steve charging downstairs ready to punch anyone that looked him in the eye. So by the time Elvis was three months old, his diet was supplemented by a tasty blended mush of battered cod, chips and ketchup. With time though, Steve found himself a proper a job and Monica finally had a little money in her purse. Life was looking up.

But she knew it was too good to last. It was just a year later, whilst singing along in the car to Elvis Costello's 'Accidents will happen', that Monica did just that and drove into a tree. Elvis was badly hurt. Before setting out, his car seat had been hurriedly shoved into the back of the car, and in her usual never-on-time haste, Monica failed to click the seatbelt into place. When the car was stopped by the tree, Elvis kept going. He was launched from the back seat, flew past his mother as she was being consumed by her air-bag, and exploded though the front windscreen. He sailed over the hedge of the house in front, through the dining room window and landed in the middle of Sunday lunch. As luck would have it, that particular Sunday lunch was being eaten by Tiffany, a nurse from the local hospital emergency department. She knew what to do. She quickly doused the hot gravy stains, did the necessary first aid and called for the ambulance.

How Monica wished she'd crashed somewhere else that day and sent Elvis through a different window.

Tiffany took a keen interest in Elvis's recovery. Working in the same hospital it was easy for her to make regular visits to the ward. Steve took an even keener interest in Tiffany, and before long his occasional visits to the hospital became longer and more frequent. Eventually Monica's suspicions were confirmed when she followed him back to Tiffany's house. She confronted him with the evidence; Steve never came home again.

Meanwhile poor Elvis was still recovering from two broken legs, full thickness gravy burns and head injuries. He didn't walk until he was four years old and then it was with callipers and crutches. Until he went to school at the age of six, he thought all children were like him; in and out of hospital having operations, blood tests, brain scans, skin grafts and struggling to learn to walk. That was his life and the only other children he knew were the same. It was only when his mother finally let him start school and he began to mix with other kids of the same age that he realised life had short-changed him. And the 'normal' kids could be very cruel.

Monica never actually said that her miserable life was all Elvis's fault. She didn't say that the endless nights spent on her own dreaming of travel and romance, the hours and days wasted in hospital waiting rooms and the poverty of being a full-time stay-at-home carer were all caused by Elvis. Not in so many words at least, but Elvis could read between the lines. Even when the house caught fire, it was the doctor, not Monica, who pointed out that she dropped the cigarette down the settee because she was drunk, and she was drunk because she was stressed, and she was stressed because of Elvis. She would never have been the one to make such a comment. But she did repeat it, quite often.

For years Monica kept the clothes from her past life hidden away in a suitcase, the tiny leopard skin mini-skirts, the thigh length red PVC boots, the low cut tartan tops complete with huge safety pins and carefully placed rips. But most of it was too small now, and even if it had still fitted, she wouldn't have worn it. The flame had long since gone out. When Steve left her to be with Tiffany he took away the car, the TV, the microwave, the entire Elvis Costello music collection (even though he hated it) and somewhere in amongst all of the debris crammed onto the back seat of the battered old Mini, he took away the last remaining fragments of Monica's self-esteem.

So it was through the internet and in a haze of white wine that she eventually met Morris Klatzmann. He seemed too good to be true and an almost perfect match to the boxes she'd clicked on the computer dating site. She was a little disappointed when she found out his work in television was actually selling them from his small London shop, and that his house in Las Vegas was really a caravan at the Las Vegas Holiday Resort in Southend-on-Sea. It was also a shame he'd used a photograph that was at least fifteen years old and possibly not of him - but what the heck? He seemed kind, he had his own business and a beautiful if under-maintained historic old home in London. And his ugliness would probably stop him from straying like her last man. Life could only get better.

So shortly after his eleventh birthday, Elvis packed his things into a couple of Tesco carrier bags and set off with Monica to Bolton coach station. Six dreary hours later, they finally arrived in London to be met by Morris. Up until then, Monica had only seen Morris in the flesh once. But even that hadn't discouraged her; ugly or not, his offer of a new life in London had to be an improvement on her current existence. As for Morris, he was just pleasantly surprised that at long last an internet relationship was going beyond first visual contact.

Chapter 2

The early weeks were painfully awkward. Morris had lived alone in the house for many a year and he was nervous about exposing his life and idiosyncrasies to someone new. As for Monica, her experiences with men had left her feeling just as insecure. She self-consciously went about trying to impress Morris, whilst quietly expecting to be told to pack her bags and go at any minute. The only time she relaxed in those early days was after Morris went to bed, when she could finally pull out the hidden bottle of white wine and get quietly drunk in front of late night television.

Morris admitted that he didn't find children easy. He wasn't sure why. As kept telling Monica, he'd been one himself not so very long ago. But today's children seemed, well, different. For reasons Morris couldn't understand, Elvis didn't get excited about repairing second-hand televisions, he showed no passion for stamps or rare insects and didn't seem to understand that his model train set was not a toy to be played with. So when they were occasionally forced to be alone together, the time was punctuated by long embarrassing silences and uncomfortable shuffling in the chair. It wasn't that Morris disliked Elvis, he didn't. In fact he actually quite enjoyed having him around. But he saw him a bit like the iPhone that Monica had bought him for Christmas. He liked having one, but he wasn't quite sure what he should be doing with it.

For young Elvis, moving to the big old house was like moving to an enormous London castle. It was older than he could comprehend and seemed to be filled with hidden passageways, secret staircases and a vast dark attic. In the daylight he loved to explore and imagine the people who had lived there through the ages, and at night he hid under his covers.

Elvis couldn't really remember anything odd happening in the early months in London, not in the house at least. Outside was different. School was a shock; it was vast and seemed to have kids from every corner of the globe. Even so, Elvis spent his recess and lunch break sitting on the edge of the playground on his own. In class he sat next to Radislaw, a new arrival from Eastern Europe. Radislaw was very generous with his kabanos, but his English was limited to a handful of words, and as Elvis discovered, it takes more than cured meat snacks to forge a friendship. The seat in front was occupied by Amelia Evans. Every time Elvis lost concentration and looked up, he saw the side of her pretty face, her golden shoulder length hair, her coy smile and self-conscious giggle. He lost concentration every few minutes. He vowed that one day he'd speak to her.

At first nothing much was said about Elvis's crutch, or his limp or scars; they were politely ignored, rather like a fart at a dinner party. But it wasn't long before the muttered remarks and sniggers started. As the days went by the muttering became less discrete and turned into shouts and name calling. Elvis did his best to ignore them, to laugh them off and hide the hurt; but it didn't help. One group of boys was especially cruel. It wasn't just the unimaginative shouts of 'spastic' and 'freak' that hurt. They began to steal Elvis's crutch and throw it across the yard or use it to as a bat to play cricket. As Elvis walked the school corridors the same boys would try to kick his crutch from under him. Elvis was wise to their tricks but he didn't always see them coming. At times he'd end up on his back, looking up at a ring of laughing faces. But Elvis wasn't one to complain. He didn't want to draw more attention to himself, so he said nothing about it at home, and as long as no one brought it up at school, the teachers seemed happy enough to look the other way.

For six long months there was nobody at school that Elvis could describe as a friend. That finally changed when Alan Singh arrived. Until recently, Alan's father had been a busy pharmacist running his own thriving business. Sadly though, greed had clouded his judgement and he had been disgraced on prime time television, caught bottling tap water and selling it as homeopathic medicine. No one had suspected anything until a disgruntled employee blew the whistle, secretly filming him topping up the pretty little bottles from a tap at the back of his shop. The scandal made great television and his face made the front cover of the Evening Standard. He paid a heavy price. Within weeks he was permanently struck from the Register of Pharmacists and shortly after that, he was prosecuted for fraud. Along with his pride, he lost his business, his Jaguar, his five bedroomed home and Alan lost his place at private school. All of this made Alan was a prime target for the bullies. Like Elvis, Alan spent recess time sitting alone on the edge of the playground.

Elvis's first conversation with Alan happened one lunchtime. Elvis's crutch had been stolen again and this time thrown on to the roof of the bike shed. Class was about to restart and Elvis was desperate to get it back without causing a fuss. He was trying but failing to climb up onto the roof to get it when Alan appeared. Alan quickly wriggled up a post and onto the roof of the bike shed. Elvis's gratitude was mixed with embarrassment at not being able to get it for himself. He thanked Alan with a grimace. But Alan had been seen. Within seconds, Alan and Elvis were surrounded. A hand grabbed Elvis's crutch and tried to pull it away again. But Elvis wasn't alone anymore and he wasn't going to give it up without a fight. He tugged back. Alan tried to help but was pushed away and given a smack on his ear for his trouble. Elvis saw red. He was used to being picked on but this boy had come to his aid. He ripped his crutch free, pulled it back and swung it like a baseball bat. It crashed into the back of a boy's head and launched him face first into the bike racks.

Alan and Elvis finished that lunchtime battered and bruised. The next day they were hauled before the headmaster, after a parent complained about a vicious assault on her son in the bike sheds. The pair of them was given detention for a week. Elvis and Alan didn't mind, that helped seal their friendship and sent a message that they were no longer a pushover. Elvis's crutch wasn't stolen again, though the teasing continued for them both. But at least neither of them was alone now.

Elvis decided to invite Alan around to his house. Elvis had never brought a friend home before, and felt as nervous as if he'd been asking a girl out on a first date. Monica was excited too. She'd never quite managed to organise a sleep over or birthday party for her son. She'd often promised that one day, when he had some friends, she'd have a huge party. But the truth was that as a single parent in Bolton, she'd been ashamed of her grotty little flat and she hadn't been able to afford the parties that the other parents lavished on their kids. He did get rare invites to other children's birthdays, but for one reason or another, Monica never quite managed to get him there. But now, in London, things were different, and at last he was bringing someone home. Monica tidied the house, hid away the empty wine bottles and got rid of the dirty clothes. She'd heard Elvis talk about Alan before but she'd never met him. He sounded like a nice boy. Her little Elvis finally had a friend.

She was a little shocked when Alan turned out to be Asian. It wasn't, when she thought about it afterwards, that she had anything against people of Asian descent; she didn't. Rather that she had never spoken to one, not properly. Sure, she had spent most of her life living around people from India, Pakistan and Bangladesh, buying food from them, being driven on buses by them, and she couldn't begin to count how many eminent Asian doctors had advised her on Elvis's injuries over the years. But that was different. Conversation was always polite but limited to the necessary, to the price of her groceries, to why she had underpaid her bus fare or why Elvis needed another head scan. When she thought about it she'd never actually sat down and had a cup of coffee with anyone of a different skin tone, never had a joke or talked about last night's television. Not because she'd avoided it, rather it just didn't seem right – what could she possibly have in common with them to talk about? Now Alan was here, and it seemed that the most shocking thing about him was how disarmingly normal he was. He spoke with a London accent, wore normal clothes and seemed interested in exactly the same things as every other thirteen year old boy. So how was she supposed to treat him? She wasn't sure, so she decided to be careful and just wait and see. She wasn't about to jeopardise Elvis's one and only friend by saying the wrong thing.

Elvis and Alan became good friends. Alan was amongst the third generation of his family born in London and showed Elvis the ropes. He taught him how to ride the bus and tube, where to go to hang around in video arcades, which parts of town were safe and which to avoid. He helped him with his school work and listened with interest to Elvis's stories of life in Lancashire and his trips to hospital. Elvis talked about his operations, his physiotherapy and learning to walk. But he wouldn't talk about how it had all happened and Alan learnt not to ask.

Chapter 3

In retrospect, there were a few early clues that the 28 Monnington Street was unusual.

There was the white cat for example. He was never fed and never allowed in or out of the house but somehow he was always around the place, sleeping on the mantelpiece or warming himself by the fire. When asked, Morris just shrugged; he had no interest in animals.

Then there was the old electrician Monica called to fix some long-neglected wiring. When he discovered where he had come to work he began to tremble. It was only after Monica's pleadings that he agreed to stay, but on the strict understanding that he was never to be left alone in the house and he was to be gone before nightfall. When Elvis asked him why, the electrician shook his head. 'Not all that's come 'ere has left.' was all he would say.

Then there was the strange old woman they'd met one dark, wet November evening. Elvis had been reluctantly shopping with his mother. On the way home they called into the post office to collect a parcel that had been sat there for weeks. After giving her address and collecting the package Monica turned to leave. Before she could reach the door a wizened hand reached out and grabbed her by the arm. It belonged to an ancient looking woman, her face wrinkled as a crumpled tissue and punctuated by long spikey dark hairs. Her back arched like a wilted flower, forcing her to crane her neck to make eye contact.

'You want to be careful, my dear. Bad things have happened in that hoose.'

Monica recoiled.

'That place has an unhappy past. Ye'd de well te watch yer step.'

'I don't know what you're talking about.' replied Monica, trying to escape 'Please let go of my arm. I'm in a hurry.' She wriggled her arm free of the old woman's grip.

'When the time comes and ye need to know more, ye can find me o'er yonder. That's ma new place just there, the one wi' the black door.' She pointed a crooked finger towards an old red brick terrace across the street.

'Yes, fine.' replied Monica without looking at the house, 'See you again.' She grabbed Elvis by his coat sleeve and dragged him through the door.

'Aye, ye will. Have nay doobt.'

That night Monica decided she would quiz Morris about the old woman's remarks. She'd have a quiet word after Elvis was in bed, so as not to worry him. As usual though, the wine dented her discretion and turned up the volume. Elvis heard every word.

Morris was a sceptic. He explained that he didn't believe in ghosts or spirits but there was a story locally that this house was haunted. The story went that in the great Black Death of 1665 the house had been used as a hospital. Whatever treatment they'd given hadn't worked and everyone died. There were rumours that nowadays things flew from the walls and blood dripped from the ceiling. There was supposed to be a secret passage between the house and the old church across the road but nobody had ever found it. There were tales blood running down the wall, lights turning on and off and strange noises in the night. Having told the tale and created goose bumps on Monica's skin, Morris dismissed it all as a load of nonsense.

But Monica didn't really need his reassurance. These days she no longer waited for Morris to go to bed before she opened her wine, in fact most days she'd pulled her first cork long before he got home from work. By nine o' clock she wouldn't have noticed if headless horseman had been jumping up and down on the bed. As for Morris, if he ever had encountered a spirit in the hallway he would probably have done no more than apologise for getting in their way and offer to help carry their chains.

Elvis was more concerned. He lay awake under the covers for hours, listening to every creak and groan that the old house made and wondering about the old woman's warning. He decided to make a few enquiries of his own. He looked on the internet, and searched for his street, his address and its previous occupants. He found mention of an owner from the 1660's, a merchant called William Jarvis. But there was nothing about anyone else in the house and no reference to a hospital. There was plenty of talk of the plague and how it had devastated the area around Monnington Street, and then just a year later how the Great Fire had just about finished the job and destroyed all the local buildings. All that was except for Number 28 and the church across the street, both had somehow survived the flames.

Elvis went to the library where an elderly assistant showed him a large paper file bulging with copies of the parish death register from 1665. They were made up of columns of names, addresses, ages and causes of death. Name upon name had the word 'plague' written alongside. For his area alone there were hundreds, maybe thousands listed. He flicked through the pages. The writing was unclear, the letters a little strange. Elvis spent an hour going through them before deciding that this was hopeless. He picked up the fat folder, grabbed his crutch and headed back for the desk. But the folder slipped from his grip and exploded onto the floor, spewing sheets across the carpet. Elvis sighed, knelt down and began to gather them together. But then on one sheet he noticed a whole page with the same address listed against every name. He looked twice. Each line read '28 Monnington St.', and every entry ended with the word 'plague'. A shiver ran through Elvis. The names ran alphabetically from Brock to a large group recorded as 'Unknown', the age from newborn to 80 years. Elvis fumbled through the loose leaves of paper on the floor until he found the next page. The names continued for another whole side, all with the name 'unknown' and the same address, '28 Monnington St.' alongside. Elvis quickly folded the pages up into small squares and shoved them inside his jumper. He dropped the file back onto the library desk and hurried back out into the rain. So it was true, the house must have been a hospital after all. His heart pounded. Did this mean it really was haunted? He felt excitement and fear at the same time. He knew he wouldn't sleep tonight.

The bus pulled up a hundred yards from his house. Elvis climbed off and looked at the church across the road. Surely if they had died in his house then that's where their graves would be.

The weak afternoon light was beginning to fade as Elvis made his way into the graveyard. By the side of the church were the oldest tombstones, some dating back to the fifteenth century. Elvis walked between them trying to work out what they said. Many of the names and dates were worn away by years of rain and city grime but there was nothing that looked vaguely like 1665. A hand grasped his shoulder. Elvis jumped forward then swung around ready to defend himself.

'Hey, easy!' reassured the man in red and blue anorak, his dog collar visible beneath. 'I just came to see if I could help you find what you're looking for. What's this, a school project?'

'Em, yeh, kind of,' replied Elvis 'I'm just looking to see where all the plague bodies were buried.'

'Really? Well now, that's a funny thing. Here come with me.' The vicar led Elvis to other side of the church. 'It might be hard to believe now but this was a wealthy parish back in those days you know. Plague got here late and we think this church yard didn't see many victims. The only thing we have is this.' The vicar pointed to a small ornate stone building, about six feet square. It was shaped like a tiny stone temple. On the side were carved the words 'In memory of so many who perished close to here. May they one day find peace. 'We think this refers to the plague but we're not completely sure. It's not like anything else in the church yard.'

'Is there a grave for someone called Jarvis?' asked Elvis.

'Jarvis? No, we've got a Jackson and a whole litter of Johnsons, but no Jarvis.' replied the vicar. 'Why do you ask?'

'Just curious.'

'Where do you live young man? Are you from near here?'

'I live there, at number 28.' replied Elvis and pointed across the street.

The vicar fell quiet. He looked at his watch. 'Wow, it's ... er... nearly five o'clock already. Gosh, I've got a Scout do, I'd best be going. I'll see you again, son. What was your name?'

'Elvis' he had to shout as the vicar was already walking briskly back towards the church, 'Elvis Klatzmann.'

Like his mother, Elvis decided to ask Morris about the history of the house. He caught the bus and made his way to Morris's small shop. Elvis stood outside and peered in through the window. The shop was mostly filled with dated second hand televisions with an occasional newer model decorating the window. Morris had acquired some gaudy advertising signs when the car yard across the street went bankrupt, so the screens in the window bore slogans such as 'one previous owner', 'full service history' and 'fully optioned'. As Morris explained, selling was selling no matter what you had on offer. Between 'One day only sale' and 'Make me an offer', Elvis could see Morris busy at the rear of the shop fixing an old television. His tall elderly assistant was sweeping the floor behind the counter. Elvis entered the shop and pulled out the list he'd taken from the library. The assistant disappeared when he heard the little bell ring above the door. As always, every television was showing one of Morris's favourite John Wayne movies.

'Pash me ve scwewdwiver, Elvis' Morris spoke with a couple of small screws held tightly between his lips. Elvis did as he was asked and Morris got to work.

'Look what I found in the library.' Elvis held the list up in front of him.

Morris glanced up and then began to choke. He spluttered until he spat a screw onto the desk. He leant on the TV and caught his breath.

'Where did you find that?'

'The library' explained Elvis 'they've got all the old records. And look, our address is here, look, over and over. Our house must have been a hospital.'

'What were you doing asking questions in the library?' snarled Morris.

'I was just wondering, I'd heard these stories...'Elvis was surprised by Morris's reaction. He was usually so placid.

Morris grabbed the list from Elvis's hand. He ripped it apart and threw the fragments into the bin. He pointed a finger into Elvis's face. 'It's taken me many years to find a woman that's willing to come and share that house with me,' he growled 'and I'll not have some silly local gossip scare her away. You keep this to yourself, d'you hear?' He turned and stormed into the back office, slamming the door behind.

Elvis opened the bin. The paper was in dozens of pieces, but still, with a little work and a lot of sticky tape he could probably get it back together. He carefully placed the pieces in his pocket and left the shop.

Elvis decided not to tell Alan about his discoveries. It was bad enough having to use a crutch. He didn't want him thinking he was a nutter who believed in ghosts as well.

Chapter 4

The months past and no more was said about the stories. Then one day Morris announced there was to be a party. This was to be in lieu of the wedding celebration they never had. Their marriage had been hurried affair, coming just a few weeks after Monica and Elvis had moved from Bolton to London, both keen to make it official before the other could back out. There had been no time for invitations but Morris had promised a celebration at a later date to make up for it. Now, he was being true to his word and had invited his extended family to the house for a party. Monica, on the other hand, had no intention of letting her family know where she was living and had no London friends, so it was to be a one sided affair.

Monica and Elvis were nervous. Monica had been meaning to clean the house for days. Now it was the day of the party she was dashing around trying to quickly remove the worst of the mess and shouting at Elvis to help. Morris meanwhile continued to repair televisions in his shop. He promised he'd be home at least an hour before anyone arrived. Monica and Elvis put on their best clothes, Monica smoothed down her son's hair and they were as ready as they were going to be.

Elvis had been trying to picture Morris's family. All he really knew about Morris was that he mended televisions for a living, loved model trains and was Jewish. Not that he really said much about his faith; he made the odd comment to Monica about Elvis's lack of religion and his 'spiritual malnutrition' and there were a couple of ornaments that looked kind of Jewish, but that was about it. Morris didn't seem to ever visit the synagogue, Elvis had never seen anything resembling a Rabbi at the house and his voice didn't even sound Jewish. But Elvis had seen Jewish families in the movies and knew what to expect from the party. He knew there would be old men in black hats and long beards chanting from dusty, leather-clad books and women gossiping and telling him what he was doing wrong in his life. His biggest fear though was that they might try and force him to be Jewish. Ever since he'd heard they were coming he'd been waking in a cold sweat, a recurring nightmare where Monica and Morris held him down in a room full of people whilst a man in long black coat and hat performed circumcision with a pair of rusty scissors. And as Elvis didn't fully understand what circumcision meant, it was more than just a little skin that was snipped off each time.

Two o'clock arrived and so did the guests. Morris was still at the shop.

Monica was flustered. She stood behind the settee and flapped at Elvis to answer the door. 'Wait, wait! Come back here.' She pulled Elvis back, licked her hand and smoothed down his hair again. 'Be polite, say please and thank you.'

Elvis opened the door. There was nobody in Orthodox dress, no old books, but there was a long black beard. The facial hair belonged to a man dressed in a worn leather jacket, oily jeans and big black boots, his straggly hair and beard poking out from under his paratrooper helmet. Behind him a woman in matching outfit was struggling to climb out of a motorbike side-car. It must be a mistake. But just as Elvis was about to ask what he wanted, a horn tooted and into the drive came a 1950's Rolls Royce, followed by a battered, green Land Rover and a Volkswagen Kombi van. The doors opened and people flooded out. They were all shapes and sizes, young and old. Their attire ranged from nun's habits to crisp pin-striped suits to dirty blue overalls.

'Oh shit!' thought Elvis 'We're supposed to be in fancy dress!'

A shiny new Subaru Imprezza tried to squeeze into the drive too but there was no room. He blasted his poly-tone horn but nobody was paying attention, they were all pouring past Elvis into the house. The Subaru driver screamed his engine and drove his gold alloy wheels on to the edge of the garden and squeezed in alongside the VW. An ageing overweight man in a long black overcoat and balding head had to almost climb into the bush to get out. He swore and kicked the Kombi on his way to the house.

'Good afternoon.' Elvis said, with his best manners 'I'm really sorry I didn't know this was fancy dress. Who are you supposed to be?'

'Is that supposed to be funny? I don't like cheeky brats!' the man growled, then dropped his overcoat into Elvis's arms and marched into the house.

More vehicles arrived, a battered transit van, then an ice cream truck and a large silver Audi.

Morris's family weren't as Monica or Elvis had expected. They chattered to each other excitedly, they ate and drank everything that they could lay a hand on and within minutes the house was in chaos. Children ran and screamed from room to room, people sang and danced, tunes flowed from harmonicas and fiddles. They played cards on the floor and rolled dice for money. It made Monica's head spin. She took a large tumbler and a bottle of white wine and sat in the living room. She seemed to be invisible, so why not? Finally Morris returned home. He was engulfed with hugs and embraces and the music and dancing became even more vibrant.

Elvis took around some nibbles and snacks but no sooner had he offered the plate to the first few people and it was empty again. After half a dozen attempts he decided to let people help themselves. He sat at the end of a settee and chewed on a sandwich. A woman's hand gripped his wrist.

'I hope you said grace young man!'

Elvis looked to his right. The hand belonged to a freckle-faced nun who was was frowning sternly at him.

'God expects manners!'

Elvis looked around. There were people eating and drinking all around him, children throwing food at each other and half cleared plates and glasses crammed onto every available surface, but nobody giving up prayers in thanks.

'Come, we'll say grace together.' She fell to her knees and clasped her hands together before her chest.

Elvis looked on with some embarrassment.

'Come on boy'. The nun grabbed his arm and pulled Elvis down onto his knees alongside her. 'Dear God, for what this child of yours is about to receive, please make him eternally grateful, amen.' She turned to Elvis 'Now you eat, boy. Perhaps if you prayed more often then God might see fit to fix that cripple leg of yours.'

Elvis put the sandwich down. His appetite was gone.

'Eat it. Waste is a sin boy! There's people starving in Africa you know.'

Elvis wanted to ask how finishing his sandwich in London would help the starving in Africa, but he thought better of it. 'It needs... some salt' he explained. 'I'll go get some.'

Elvis went to the kitchen, dodging past rampaging children and a man working up a frenzy on his fiddle. He dropped his plate on the table and headed for the stairs. He'd had enough of this bedlam; it was time to go hide somewhere quiet. He headed for his bedroom, only to find it occupied by a group of seven and eight year old girls. They took one look at him and burst into fits of giggles. Elvis snatched his iPod from his desk and headed for the attic. He eased open the wooden hatch and was about to throw it open when he spied a circle of people sitting in the middle of the floor. They were sat on old boxes, crates and paint cans. The only person standing was the large man who'd arrived in the Subaru. He was sweating, red faced and clearly agitated.

'We will not fail, not this time!' he snarled. 'William, you've got to be more careful!'

A woman in motorbike leathers made a fake coughing sound and nodded towards Elvis. The conversation ceased and all heads span around to look at him. Elvis dropped the cover back down and started back down the stairs.

Morris chased after him. 'Elvis, wait! Come back!' he called down the stairs. 'Come meet my family!'

Morris introduced everyone in the circle in turn. There were eight of them in total, including Morris and his elderly assistant from the shop. He prefixed each name with 'your Aunt X' or your 'your Uncle Y' but somehow it didn't seem like meeting new family. Each person in the circle nodded, a couple shook hands. At the end of the introductions there was silence. They seemed to be looking at him as if he were a farm beast at auction.

''E don't look very strong. What's 'e like at carryin'?' asked an overweight woman in a purple ball gown.

Morris grimaced. 'Times have changed, there's not much carrying to be done here.'

'But 'e's lame. What you get a lame one for?' she went on.

Morris scowled at the woman.

The red faced man from the Subaru nudged her in the back with his knee and she went quiet. 'It's getting late... Morris.' he pointed out. 'Very nice to meet the young boy but we must get on.'

'Yes, of course.' said Morris. 'Elvis, go check on your mother and the other guests for me. Offer round a few snacks, there's a good boy.'

'But I've already...'

'Thank you young man.' The man from the Subaru walked across and held open the hatch.

Elvis made his way back downstairs.

By ten to midnight, Monica was snoring on the settee with two drained wine bottles at her side. Children lay sleeping across the floor and the dance music had slowed to a quiet drone on the harmonica. Morris announced the end of the party and parents carried their sleeping children back out to the vehicles. Elvis found the heavy black overcoat and returned it to the man from the Subaru. He took the coat without acknowledgement. He was busy saying goodbye to Morris.

'Now you won't forget, will you? I must be able to rely on you.'

'Yes, of course you can Bishop.' reassured Morris, 'Of course you can.'

The next day, after much paracetamol, Monica asked Morris how he came to have such a disparate family.

Morris shrugged. 'Free spirits Monica, they do what they want.'

'But they don't even look like you, or each other come to that. And why aren't they Jewish? How's that? Were you adopted?'

'You know you can't tell just by looking Monica.'

'Well, no... I suppose not.'

'What about those men dressed with the big white sheets and cloths on their heads? Were they Jewish?' asked Elvis.

Morris just smiled.

'And what about the nuns?' Elvis continued.

'No, Morris is right' interrupted Monica 'they were probably Jewish nuns. We shouldn't make assumptions Elvis.'

Morris smiled again. 'Those TV's won't fix themselves.' He picked up his coat and left.

Chapter 5

It was a warm day and Elvis had been doing the unthinkable. Whilst Morris and Monica were sitting in their small back garden, sipping tea and wine respectively, Elvis had sneaked upstairs to secretly play with Morris's vintage Hornby train set. Elvis wasn't quite sure how it had happened, maybe an electrical fault, maybe a jammed motor, but whatever the cause, the bottom line was that the Flying Scotsman became stuck in a paper-mache tunnel and caught fire. By the time Elvis had doused the flames with his lime cordial and extracted the train from the disaster site, the fake hill looked like an erupted volcano and the Flying Scotsman was clearly never to fly again. Elvis was distraught. It would have been better to have been found drunk in the bedroom smoking weed than this. His forlorn attempts at fixing the mess were cut short when Morris came back into the house and smelt smoke. The crime could not be hidden. After many tears, all from Morris, Elvis was grounded for a month, would never receive pocket money again and would spend every weekend trying to help Morris find a new Flying Scotsman at the awful model train fairs.

Elvis went to the attic for a sulk. It was a dark and dingy place lit by a window at one end and an inadequate skylight in one side of the roof. It was divided into what had once been servants' living quarters by huge, crooked oak beams. Elvis sat under the eaves by the skylight and drew pictures in the thick dust on the floor. He picked up his crutch, banged it against the roof and watched the tiny particles swirl in the sunlight beneath the window. His crutch slipped from his grip and crashed to the floor. A small floorboard somersaulted into the air and landed a foot away, exposing a small hole. Elvis crawled forward to investigate. Hidden inside the space was a tiny wooden canon, a few lead balls and a cloth. Elvis reached in and pulled them out. The cloth was grubby and worn but Elvis could feel that it was wrapped around something heavy. The material crumbled away between his fingers and revealed a sparkling red stone. Elvis held the jewel aloft. It was like a fat, rose-coloured diamond; it seemed to suck in the sunlight from the window above and return it a thousand fold, emitting rays of crimson light that set the whole attic aglow. It slipped from Elvis's hand and plopped straight into his glass of cordial. Elvis plucked it out, wiped it on his trousers and swigged down the rest of his drink. What was it doing here? Was it valuable? It had to be, it was huge.

A strange odour flooded Elvis's nostrils; sweet but pungent, it was somewhere between French cheese and old fish. There was a sound, a muffled cough from behind the beams. Elvis froze; wasn't he alone in attic? He peered into the gloom towards the source of the noise. There was no window or skylight at that end of the attic and all he could see was shadows. There was another soft cough followed by 'Shhh'. Elvis jumped to his feet and scrambled for the exit. Without stopping to look back, he slipped through the hatch and skidded back down the steep rickety wooden staircase. He hurried back onto the landing, slammed the door shut and paused to catch his breath. He was still clutching the red jewel. Elvis brushed away last the last remaining fragments of decayed cloth from the gem then pushed it deep into his pocket.

The next few nights Elvis lay awake staring at the ceiling. The house always creaked and groaned, he had eventually become used to that, but this was different. It sounded like footsteps, coughs, sneezes, soft laughter, crying. Some nights it would go for hours and seemed to be talking to him, teasing him. Elvis would pull the duvet over his head and try and ignore it. He'd put on his iPod and drown out the sounds. But whenever he removed the head phones to check, the noises were still there.

Eventually he decided that he would have to pluck up the courage and investigate. He made a plan. On Saturday morning whilst Morris was at his shop and his mother was sleeping off Friday night, he'd go back into the attic.

Elvis was awoken on Saturday morning by the wind screaming around the house and rain lashing violently against his bedroom window. Monica had also been disturbed by the storm, and for once had ventured out early to the supermarket bemoaning her headache and lack of sleep.

This was Elvis's chance. He gritted his teeth, clutched his torch and slowly made his way up the attic stairs until he reached the wooden hatch. He paused to listen before going any further. All he could hear was wind and rain. He climbed the last steps and began to ease open the heavy wooden cover. Something brushed against his leg.; Elvis jumped, the hatch slammed shut and Elvis scrambled at the wall to avoid slipping back down the staircase. He looked down; the white cat was weaving affectionately between his legs. Elvis bent down and picked him up. The cat rubbed against his chest and purred.

'OK kitty,' whispered Elvis 'you check it out first.'

He eased the hatch open a few inches and pushed the cat inside. It darted away and disappeared from sight. Elvis took a deep breath. 'Time to stop being so scared' he scolded himself. He threw the hatch back and poked his head through. With the heavy clouds outside, it was even more gloomy than usual. He switched on his torch and shone it into the shadows; there was nothing but the usual piles of dusty old junk. He crept up into the attic and stood on the edge of the stairs, scanning the room with his light. There was nobody to be seen, even the cat had vanished. Elvis walked slowly and quietly to the far end of the room. He checked for the missing floorboard where he'd found the hidden stone, but all of the boards were back in place. Probably Morris tidying, he thought. He worked his way around the attic, shining his light into every hidden nook and cranny, until finally he was satisfied that he was alone. It must have been wind that he'd heard, or his imagination, or mice, or... something. He turned off his torch and went back to where he'd found the little hiding hole. He lifted up the board but the space was empty. He looked around to see if he'd left the toy cannon and shot on the floor in his hurry to leave, but all he found were his own doodlings in the dust. But then that same pungent odour soured his nostrils. Elvis felt uneasy. Well, at least he'd done what he'd planned he thought, he'd checked the attic and it was empty. It was time to go back down. He climbed to his feet and headed for the exit.

But in his way stood a toddler in a grimy grey pinafore dress, her face pale and her eyes red. Her exposed arms and legs were peppered in sores. She was clutching the white cat. Elvis dropped the torch; it broke on the floor. The girl began to cry.

Monica's carrier bag split. Cans of baked beans and tomato soup rolled off the pavement and splashed into a puddle the size of a duck-pond. She swore under her breath and knelt down to fish them out. A bus stormed by and raised a small tidal wave; Monica was drenched. A group of boys standing in the bus shelter sniggered. Monica snatched the rest of her shopping and marched away, trying to look as composed as she could with her hair plastered to her head, a wet leaf stuck to her cheek and her shopping cradled in her arms. She cursed Morris for not fixing the wipers on their old Austin Allegro.

Monica finally arrived home and dumped the shopping inside the front door. It could stay there until she'd had a hot bath and put on some dry clothes.

'Elvis, are you there? Elvis, start running me a bath, sweetie.'

There was no answer.

She hung her wet coat on the edge of the kitchen door and called up the stairs again. 'Elvis. Elvis! What are you doing? God, why do I never get any help in this place?'

Elvis hadn't heard her. He was still open-mouthed and statuesque, staring at the little girl.

'Alice! Alice, come here.' The words were hissed from behind a pile of old boxes.

Very slowly, Elvis crouched down and picked up his torch. The lens had shattered but when he slid the button forwards, the bulb still glowed. He aimed the feeble light towards the source of the voice. Standing alongside the boxes was Mary, her face pale, her skin mottled with sores, her dress torn and stained. Behind her peeked the anxious face of Samuel. Alice dropped the cat and ran to join her siblings.

Elvis felt every muscle in his body go limp. A warm wet feeling ran down his leg and a puddle appeared at his feet. The torch fell from his hand and his weight slumped onto his wobbling crutch. The world went black.

At first the voices were distant, dream-like.

''E pissed 'imself! I ain't never seen no one 'is age piss 'imself before!'

'Shut up Sam. 'E'll 'ear ya. 'E can't 'elp it. We probably scared him.'

'What you reckon 'e done to 'is leg.'

'Dunno. Prob'ly done it at work.'

'Should we give 'im some potion?'

'Yeh, 'cause that was so bloody good, wasn't it?'

Samuel began to cough. 'I still don't feel right Mary.' He sat on a crate and rubbed at his swollen neck.

Alice had found Elvis's iPod and was swinging around the headphones.

Elvis's vision began to return. He saw the hazy outline of Mary knelt alongside him and her brother just behind.

'Look Sam, 'e's wakin' up.'

The faces and their sores became clearer. Elvis gasped. He sat up and began to push himself away towards the staircase.

'What you doin'? Don't go! We need your 'elp.' pleaded Mary.

But Elvis was shuffling quickly towards the hatch.

'Where you goin'? Wait!' begged Samuel.

Elvis was having none of it. As Samuel reached out to stop him, Elvis threw himself over the edge backwards and tumbled down the stairs until he crashed into the landing door.

'Elvis! Elvis! What are you doing?' shouted Monica from the bath.

'I... I slipped!' Elvis groaned. He was bruised and sore. He had blood coming from a cut in his right eyebrow. He looked up at the attic hatch. Samuel's pot-marked face appeared over the edge.

'You alright mate?'

Elvis dragged himself to his feet. He lurched through the door to the landing and slammed it shut. He staggered to his bedroom, sat on the edge of his bed and tried to work out what had just happened. He looked at himself in his mirror; his face was bloodied from a large split above his right eye. He looked down at his trousers, they were soaked. He needed to change before his mother found him. He stood up and reached for his draw. He felt dizzy and feint. He took the stone and hid it deep inside his underwear draw.

The bedroom door opened and his mother's head appeared. 'Elvis, are you OK? Elvie? Oh my God Elvis! What have you done?'

A couple of hours later, Monica and a bandaged-up Elvis were sitting with Doctor McKendrick. A young medical student by the name of Henry was sat alongside the doctor. Henry was in his fifth year of study. He spoke with a strong Yorkshire accent and bore a tiny yellow Leeds United badge on his blue tie, but his tall lean stature and ebony black skin gave clue to his Sudanese origins. Doctor McKendrick was quizzing him and Henry was struggling.

'Look Henry, try and put it all together. He had a funny smell, saw strange things, blacked out, incontinent. What does all that sound like?'

'I didn't see strange things, they were real!' protested Elvis. 'Mum, tell them!'

'Shh Elvis. I went up there after to get your crutch. There was nothing there.' she hissed.

'Mum!'

'Psychosis?' suggested Henry 'Schizophrenia?'

'No, no, no! Don't they teach you anything? It's epilepsy for heaven's sake! He's describing a fit.' The doctor shook his head. 'He had a head injury as a baby, yes? That'll be the cause.'

'Oh.' said Henry, trying not to look surprised.

'What?' said Monica. 'He hasn't got ...that.'

'Has he ever had fits before?'

'No, and...he hasn't had one now... has he?'

'Mum, it was real. I saw them!'

'Look Misses Klatzmann. It's not the end of the world. There are lots of good medicines out there that can probably stop this from happening again. We just need to organise a few tests to make sure. He'll be fine. Lots of children have seizures.'

'But, I don't understand...' began Monica.

'Don't worry. Just come back and see me as soon as these tests are done.' He smiled reassuringly as he thrust some forms into Monica's hand then turned to his computer. 'He'll be fine.' he repeated.

Monica was stunned. This was yet another problem for her to worry about.

Elvis felt no better. He pictured himself writhing on the ground at school in wet pants with the whole class stood around laughing.

Monica joined the queue at the desk to book the next appointment. Henry approached her and put a hand on her shoulder. He was a good foot and a half taller than Monica.

'Hey, don't worry, we can sort this.' he assured her.

Monica backed away.

'Do you know what to do if he has another seizure?'

Monica shook her head.

'OK, come with me.' He led them to a quiet corner of the waiting room and sat them down. He pulled out some photocopied first aid leaflets. 'Look, it's not hard. This is called the recovery position.' Henry ran through what do several times until he was satisfied that she'd grasped the idea. He explained how epilepsy can cause strange sights and smells before a seizure and how this whole thing could be traced back to the car crash.

Doctor McKendrick appeared from his room. 'Henry. Where's Henry? There you are! Come see this man's rash. It's a corker! You tell me what it is.'

Henry jumped to his feet. 'Take care little man.' he gave Elvis a firm shake of the hand 'Hey, think yourself lucky that I wasn't right!' he laughed. He held out a hand to Monica. She shook his fingertips. 'I'll see you both again soon, eh?' and he disappeared after the doctor.

Twenty minutes later they were back on the bus. Monica watched Elvis closely for signs that he might be about to do it again. What if he did have another fit and she had forgotten what to do? What if nobody was there? What if he was in the bath? What if he died because she got it wrong? Endless scenarios ran through her head. And all this because she hadn't fastened him into the car properly all those years ago. She held back the tears.

'Don't tell anyone.' grumbled Elvis.

'What dear?' asked Monica coming out of her daydream.

'I said don't tell a single person. I don't want anybody to know.'

'OK sweetie.' promised Monica, 'I won't tell anyone, I promise. Except the school, they'll have to know.'

'Not the school! Especially not the school!' shouted Elvis.

Other passengers turned their heads.

Elvis's cheeks went red. 'Do not tell the school!' he hissed then moved to another seat.

Back home Monica was unsure what to do with her son. Doctor McKendrick had just said to keep an eye on him, but the first thing that Elvis had done when they arrived home was to go into his bedroom and lock the door.

Monica stood outside his room. 'Well, at least shout me if you start seeing funny things or smelling cheese Elvie. Before you have another one of those turns and wet yourself.'

Elvis gritted his teeth and said nothing. He lay down on the bed and stared at the ceiling. It had all been so real. How could he have imagined all of that? But after Henry explained things, it started making sense. Elvis reached for his iPod and then remembered it was in the attic. He'd seen that little girl swinging it around. It had been so clear. And his phone? That must be up there too. Well, if it was all in his head he could just go back up and get them.

Elvis peeped onto the landing. Monica had given up and gone back downstairs to listen to more of Dr Phil's advice. Elvis crept back up the attic staircase. The hatch was still open. Elvis peered in over the edge again. There was no smell now, no children, just his broken torch and his iPod lying in the middle of the floor near to a small wet patch. Elvis edged his way carefully inside. 'This is in my head' he kept saying to himself but his heart was pumping and his knees were shaky. He kept his focus firmly on the floor and avoided looking into the shadows. He knelt down and shoved his i-Pod into his pocket. He looked for his phone but it was nowhere to be seen.

There was a scratching noise. A feeling of dread came over Elvis, his muscles felt limp again and he wanted to vomit. 'No, this is all in my head.'

He grabbed the torch and slid forward the button. He had his eyes closed as he pointed it towards the source of the noise. He peeped reluctantly from one eye. There was a rat; a fat, black, long-tailed rat sitting on a beam, his red eyes glinting back in the torch light. Elvis had never seen a rat in the house before and up until now would have been appalled. But on this occasion he smiled at the ugly rodent before it dashed away and disappeared under the eaves.

Elvis headed back downstairs. So Henry was right. It had all been in his head, and all to do with that crash years earlier. Was it better to see ghosts or have fits? Elvis wasn't sure. He lay on his bed, put his ear plugs in and flicked through the music on his i-Pod. As usual, his curtains were drawn and his clothes were scattered across the floor. The only light inside the room came from the screen on Elvis's iPod, and a soft red glow emanating from his underwear draw.

That evening, when Morris returned home from his television shop, Monica told him all about Elvis's seizure and how frightened she was about him having more, and about the tests he had to have, and the bus trip, and the medical student, and the recovery position and lots more. Morris continued to chew his food and pretended not to be reading his model railway magazine. Elvis came downstairs and joined them in the basement kitchen.

'Sorry to hear you weren't well today Elvis.' said Morris through mashed potato and gravy, still looking at his magazine.

Elvis forced a smile.

'It might never happen again. Don't worry about it.' he added dismissively.

'Don't worry about it! They said my brain's damaged, I pissed my pants and Mum's going to tell the school!' shouted Elvis. 'How can I not worry about it?'

'You probably just had a turn,' continued Morris 'these things happen.'

'But they were all so real.' replied Elvis.

'Who was so real?' asked Morris, taking his eyes away from the used model train advertisements for the first time.

'The kids in the attic, the smell, the sores. Everything.'

'What kids? What sores? You didn't say anything about children Monica.' Morris put his knife and fork down. They had his full attention now. 'What did they look like?'

'He just imagined them Morris, they weren't real!' scoffed Monica.

'Shush Monica!' snapped Morris 'Elvis, what did they look like?'

'Don't you shush me Morris Klatzmann! That's my son you're talking to!'

'Yes, fine, I'm sorry Monica. Elvis, what did they look like?'

Elvis was surprised by Morris's interest; after all, these children were just a creation of his damaged brain. Still, it was nice that someone seemed to be taking him seriously. Elvis carefully described what he'd seen, the ages, the clothes, the sores, the smells.

Morris listened intently until Elvis had finished. Then he jumped up and grabbed his coat. 'I've got to go out. I might be late.'

'But you've only just got in!' protested Monica 'We need to talk about this!'

But Morris was gone.

Over the next week or two, Elvis underwent his medical tests. He had a brain scan and blood samples. His head was wired up for an EEG, an electrical test to check the wiring in his brain, the technician explained. He hadn't been back up to the attic. He'd heard noises at night, but now he knew that there were rats up there he tried to satisfy himself with the logical explanation. He had to forget what he'd seen, no matter how vivid, and try and get back to normal. He still hadn't found his mobile 'phone. He felt sure it was in the attic somewhere and he would go back up very soon to get it. But not just yet.

Chapter 6

It was two am and Elvis was sleeping. He awoke suddenly. His eyes flashed around the room. Something had disturbed him. It was dark and quiet. He sniffed; the smell was back, not as strong as before but it unmistakeably the same ripe cheese odour that he'd smelt in the attic. Did that mean he was about to have a fit? He climbed out of bed, turned on the reading lamp and inspected himself in the mirror. He looked normal enough. Was this a dream? He left the reading light on and lay back on his bed. There was something hard under his shoulder. Elvis reached underneath and pulled out his mobile phone. Had it been there all along? Surely he would have felt it. He looked at it closely; there was a small crack across the screen and, he lifted it to his nose and sniffed; it reeked of cheese. Elvis lay awake, wide-eyed and heart racing. Was this all in his head? Would he wake up tomorrow and there would be no phone and no smell? He lay for what felt like hours, watching the door and the curtains and wondering. Finally he fell asleep again.

It was a warm, sticky night and Elvis tossed and turned. He kicked off his covers and rolled over. It wouldn't be long before Morris came in and woke him before leaving for work. Elvis snoozed again until he felt something touch his shoulder. Surely it wasn't time already. He groaned and opened one eye. The toddler from the attic stood before him. Still half asleep, Elvis paid no heed. He rolled over and pulled the sheet back over himself. Just a few more minutes of sleep, please.

'Alice! Alice! Come out of there!' the voice was whispered from the landing.

Elvis sat bolt upright, now fully alert. He turned to look but the child was gone. His door that he'd been watching with suspicion for hours was now wide open. Elvis slid out of bed and spied nervously onto the landing. The white cat was disappearing through the attic door but otherwise it was deserted. Had he been disturbed by the cat? Had he dreamt the little girl? Elvis crept out onto the landing clutching his damaged torch. He tip-toed to the attic door. He hesitated before pushing it open and craning a head inside. He flicked on his torch. It picked out the white cat looking back down at him through the open hatch before it disappeared into the attic. Elvis crept up the stairs until his head and shoulders poked through the opening. Outside dawn was struggling to penetrate heavy clouds and just a feeble grey light managed to struggle in through skylight. Elvis shone his torch into the shadows again. There was no sign of the toddler, but the attic looked different. There were blankets lying in the middle of the floor, boxes seemed to have been moved. Who would have done that? Morris was always talking about sorting out the attic, thought Elvis, perhaps he'd been up here. Then he noticed marks on the floor, white lines. He crept up another step to investigate. They were chalk lines drawn on the old dark oak boards. In amongst zigzag scribble was a roughly drawn oval figure with offset eyes and mouth and wiggly lines for arms and legs. It was unmistakably a child's clumsy drawing. Broken chalks lay alongside. Elvis felt himself go weak again. His head began to spin. He eased back down a step. He wished he'd stayed in bed. There was a rustling noise from the side of the attic. Elvis nervously pointed his torch. His hand was trembling. The rustling came again, then a tower of old paint cans toppled and crashed across the floorboards. A rat darted out; the cat hurtled after it, scraping at the boards for grip as he flew past. The cans rumbled across the floor. Elvis had seen enough. He scrambled back down the stairs. A can rolled over the edge and clattered down the stairs behind him. Elvis hurried back onto the landing, slammed the attic door shut. He stopped to catch his breath and listen for noise from Monica or Morris. The house was silent. Elvis headed back into his bedroom. He carefully closed his door and pushed the stiff brass bolt tightly into the locked position. He shook the door handle to make sure it was definitely locked. Maybe Henry was right and this was all in his head, but he still felt better with his door locked. He took a deep breath then turned to put his torch back on his desk. But there, huddled together in front of his curtains stood the bedraggled figures of Mary, Samuel and Alice.

Elvis opened his mouth to scream but nothing came out. He turned and pulled at the door handle, forgetting he'd just locked it. He scrambled at the small brass bolt.

'Please Sir, don't go.' pleaded Mary 'We aint gonna 'urt you.'

'We brought you back that... thing.' added Samuel pointing towards the mobile phone. 'Sorry it got a bit... busted.'

Elvis finally managed to slide open the bolt but Mary stepped in front of him.

'We need 'elp sir, please.' said Mary.

Elvis backed away. 'They're just in my head. They're just in my head. 'He mumbled to himself. He screwed his eyes tight shut and said it again. He reopened them but the three children were still in his bedroom. They looked so real, so alive.

'Please listen to us Sir. We don't mean no 'arm. We don't know what's 'appenin'.'

'You're not... you're not real. You're not real.' stammered Elvis, backing away towards the corner of his bedroom.

'We lived 'ere too, this is our 'ome.'

'No, I'm dreaming this, you're not real! You're not real!'

Samuel stepped forward and booted Elvis on the shin. 'What 'bout that? Is that real?'

'Ow!' The pain certainly felt real enough.

'Samuel!' snapped Mary 'Stop it! I'm sorry sir, we don't mean no 'arm.' reassured Mary, scowling at her brother. 'We just wanted some 'elp.'

'But... but why would you need help from me?' asked Elvis, rubbing his shin and wondering if he should really be conversing with these figments of his imagination.

'Why d'you think?' said Samuel showing Elvis the sores on his arms. 'Idiot.'

Elvis recoiled. He had never seen such ugly boils before.

'Samuel!' Mary barked again. 'I'm sorry Sir. 'E don't mean it.'

'How did you... get here?' asked Elvis.

'We dunno. One minute we was sick, lying on a bed in 'ere, in this very room and next minute we saw you in the attic. How did you get 'ere?'

'This ain't heaven, is it?' asked Samuel.

Elvis snorted. 'Well, if it is, there's sure going to be a lot of disappointed people.'

'Good, 'cause I still feel like shit.'

'What's wrong with you? Why've you got all those... sores?' asked Elvis

Mary and Samuel looked at each other, surprised. 'Well, plague of course. You must 'ave seen it!'

'Plague! There's no plague! Not been for hundreds of years!'

'What?' said Mary.

'Plague, no one gets plague in England any more. That's just in history books; there hasn't been plague for yonks. How can it be plague?'

'But it's everywhere. Half of London's got it.'

'No.' said Elvis. 'Half of London had it, but that was a long long time ago.'

'No, it's everywhere, in every street. Go 'ave a look. I saw it... just days ago. '

'Days ago? What are you talking about? What are... when are you... from?'

'What?' Samuel asked with contorted face.

'When were you born? What year?'

They looked blankly back at him.

'Don't you know?' Elvis paused to think. 'Hang on!' He grabbed a large history book from his shelf. 'Who's the king?'

'Oh, that's easy.' replied Samuel 'That's Charlie, the second one. 'E's back!'

'Charles the second...' Elvis ran his finger down the timeline of English history. 'Charles II. Bloody hell! It says here 1660-1685. That's like, nearly... four hundred years ago!'

'What?' exclaimed Mary 'Four hundred years! You're kiddin' me. That can't be right.'

Elvis looked again in the book. The next entry was 'The Great Plague of London. 1665.' He looked back at the children. They looked so normal, except for the sores, the old clothes and the bad smell, but not like he'd imagined ghosts. They weren't translucent, no white sheets. Was this some sort of practical joke? Was this still just in his head?

'So you're telling me that you died of plague, here, in this house?'

'Well' replied Mary 'all we know is we laid down feelin' sick, and now this.'

'Are there more of you? How many had plague here?'

'Well, yeh there was us, an' Mum an'...Oh crumbs, Samuel, the carriage house! There was all of them in the carriage house! Mister Shipton an' Brock and all them others. We need to go look an' see what's happened!'

Mary sprung to her feet, pushed past Elvis and marched onto the stairs.

'Wait' hissed Elvis 'where are you going? You can't go down there!'

But she was already halfway down the stairs. Elvis and Samuel hurried after her, Alice shuffled downstairs behind them on her bottom. They finally caught up with Mary in the basement kitchen. Everything had changed so much from how Mary and Samuel had remembered, including the back door, now covered with a bewildering array of deadlocks and chains. Mary rattled the door.

'Where are you going?' asked Elvis, unsure if it was better to let her escape or try keep her locked in the house.

'The carriage 'ouse, there was loads o' people in it. I got to see.' explained Mary, tugging on the safety chain.

'What carriage house?' Asked Elvis, as he helped Mary undo the latches, locks and bolts and then threw open the back door.

Outside, the sky had lightened a little and a fine drizzle was drifting in the air. Mary and Samuel gasped. Where the wooden carriage house had once been, there was now a small ugly concrete-slab garage. The rear garden that had been filled with fruit trees and vegetable plots was now a small square lawn bordered by overgrown shrubs with a washing line through the centre. A wood panelled fence stood at the far side of a bitumen drive. Sitting on the ground against the fence was a woman with babe in arms, feeding her child. She had a blanket pulled across her body to protect the baby from the damp and was wearing a grimy grey head scarf.

'Oh shit!' said Elvis 'Who the hell is that?'

Mary and Samuel dashed across the drive and helped the woman to her feet. They recognised her from the crowd that had once fought for the potion. She too had boils and sores.

Elvis checked through the garage door windows for more. There was the old blue Austin Allegro and the usual clutter but nothing else. 'Are you expecting any more?'

But Mary and Samuel had already taken the woman and her baby back inside the kitchen.

'Hey just a minute!' Elvis dashed after them.

Inside the kitchen the woman was slipping off the wet blanket and tucking her emptied breast back inside her clothes. Alice was just making it to the bottom of the stairs.

'What are you doing?' asked Elvis 'She can't come in here!'

'She's got a baby, it's rainin'.' said Mary, 'What else we gonna' do?'

From above came the ringing of Morris's wind-up alarm clock.

'Oh crap!' groaned Elvis. 'You can't stay here!'

'What d'you mean can't stay here?' protested Samuel 'It's rainin' out there! Anyway, this is our 'ouse and we was here before you was!'

A loud clatter sounded from upstairs as the alarm clock danced off the bedside table.

'Oh no, he'll be down here in a minute. Oh crap, crap, crap!' Elvis ran his hand through his hair. 'Quick then, you'll have to go back and hide in the attic.'

He led them all quietly back up through the house. As they passed the bathroom they could here Morris singing western songs in the shower. Elvis opened the attic door and gestured for them all to head up to the top of the house. Elvis followed them up the stairs. What was he going to do with them all?

In the shadows at the far end of the attic stood a dazed looking woman. She was dressed in the same old-fashioned pinafore dress as the others with an apron over the top. Samuel squinted into the gloom before recognition dawned.

'Mum! Mum!' He charged at her and almost knocked her off her feet with his embrace.

'Samuel! My darling! It really is you!' she squeezed him tightly. 'Where's Mary? And Alice?'

Alice ran to her mother and wrapped her short arms around her leg. Mary hesitated. Her last real conversation with her mother was not a happy one. Elizabeth reached out an arm towards her older daughter and dragged her in tightly. Tears flowed down Elizabeth's cheeks. 'My darlings, I thought we'd never... But... how di we get here? What's going on?'

They sat together on the floor of the attic and tried to make sense of the situation. Mary and Elizabeth explained to Elvis about the rise of plague through London and how it had finally arrived at their door. Samuel told Elvis the story of the stone, and how so many people had desperately come in search of its healing powers only to get sick. Elvis would like to have given them a quick update on everything that had happened since 1665 but history wasn't a strong point. He settled instead for explaining the date and some of the things that he had learnt from watching the Discovery Channel. He told them that if they'd had modern medicines back in 1665 then everyone could have been cured. Elizabeth's attention jumped between the conversation and the world outside of the attic window. The familiar houses were gone and had been replaced by large ugly blocks; there were strange horseless carriages speeding along the street, and scariest of all were the huge great things hurtling across the sky. She cowered from the window as one roared overhead.

'So if we got some of this new medicine you're talking 'bout, we could all get well again?' asked Samuel.

'Well, yeh, I guess so.' said Elvis.

'Good, so go get us some.' replied Samuel.

'It's not that easy' warned Elvis 'you've got to get medicine from doctors.'

'Do that then.'

'No, it's not that simple. You've got to be sick first.'

'I am sick.'

'Yes, I know you are. But I can hardly book you an appointment with my doctor, can I? What am I gonna say: here's Samuel, he's three hundred and something years old and he's got plague?'

'Well then you fake it, or tell 'em your family's all got plague an' you need some potion. It can't be that hard.'

'You don't understand. Nobody gets plague any more. And I'd need enough for six of you. That's loads'

'And for Dad.' suggested Mary. 'Maybe he might come.'

'Yeh, and all the rest of 'em too.' added Samuel.

'Rest? What do you mean rest? How many are there? Are more coming?' asked Elvis getting increasingly anxious. 'There's no room for any more.'

'There's lots of room up 'ere.' reassured Samuel.

'No! This isn't a big attic. I'd never explain this to Morris.' Elvis went on. 'How many people were actually here back then? How many more might turn up?'

'I dunno. Maybe another five or six...' started Mary

'That's a lot.' replied Elvis 'We'll have to keep everyone quiet for now and I'll try and work out what to do. Another five or six people is going to make this attic very full.'

'No' interrupted Mary 'Not five or six people, I was going to say another five or six dozen.'

'What! I can't...'

'Elvis! Elvis! Time to get up!' It was Morris. 'Come on, your mother's taking you to the doctor.'

Elvis stood up and made his way to the hatch. 'Please, just keep quiet. I'll see if I can find out about medicine and then... well I guess we'll see. Just keep quiet.'

Elvis slipped back into his bedroom to change out of his pyjamas. This couldn't be a dream now. He was wide awake, he hadn't blacked out and, he checked his pants, they were bone dry. This had to be real even if nobody else would believe him. He went down to the kitchen for breakfast. Morris was just about to leave for work.

'Early start this morning, Elvis.' commented Morris.

Elvis continued pouring his Coco Pops.

'Funny smell on the landing this morning, Elvis.' Morris went on. 'Did you notice?'

'No, I didn't smell anything.' replied Elvis.

'Might be rats in the attic. I'd better get up there tonight and give it a good going over.' He grabbed his blue canvas jacket and left.

Chapter 7

Doctor McKendrick was running late again and Elvis was bored. The only magazines in the waiting room were old copies of Woman's Weekly and Good Housekeeping. Doctor McKendrick finally called for Elvis. Henry was sat with him again and smiled warmly at Elvis as they sat down. Before the doctor could start to speak the door burst open and the receptionist put her head inside the room.

'Doctor, the nurse wants you right now! Misses Roebuck's collapsed.'

The doctor sighed and grabbed his stethoscope. Today was never going to run to time. 'I won't be long... hopefully.' he grumbled as he disappeared after the receptionist.

Monica looked uncomfortably at Henry and then studied the pattern on the carpet.

'How you feeling Elvis?' asked Henry. 'No more turns?'

'Em, no' said Elvis 'I don't think so.'

'That's good.' Henry nodded at the magazine on Elvis's lap. 'You like a bit of Woman's Weekly, eh?' he asked with a smirk.

'Oh no, I just... there was nothing else out there. I wasn't interested...'

'Hey, I'm only teasin'. I know it's all crap out there. Trouble is if they put any decent stuff out there it gets nicked straight away - an' it's the receptionists that take 'em!' he added with a snigger.

Elvis smirked back.

The door opened and Doctor McKendrick walked back in. 'False alarm, yet again.' He slumped back into his swivel leatherette chair. 'Now where were we? Oh yes, Elvis, your results.'

Elvis bit his lip in anticipation. He had come to the conclusion that he hadn't imagined everything, but he still wasn't expecting good news. He knew his body was damaged and the last thing he really wanted checking was his brain.

'Now it's good news Elvis. The CT didn't show anything new, the EEG was normal and the blood tests were fine.'

'Oh good. So he hasn't got epilepsy then doctor.' said Monica.

'Oh yes, it's definitely epilepsy. But the tests were all good.'

'But, if the tests were all clear, how is it epilepsy?'

'Oh, it's like that sometimes.' explained Doctor McKendrick

'So what's the point of the tests?' asked Elvis feeling confused.

'Don't be cheeky Elvis.' scolded his mother.

'We won't start any medication for now though, seeing as the tests were clear. We'll wait until the next one.'

'Oh dear, will there be a next one?' asked Monica.

'No, hopefully not. But if he does have another we can give him some drugs to stop them. Anyway, I'm running very late now so if there's no more questions...'

'How do you treat plague?' asked Elvis, trying to make it sound as natural as asking the time.

'When will he have the next one?' asked Monica.

'We don't know Misses. Klatzmann.' he answered with a hint of impatience in his voice. 'And what was that Elvis? Did you say how do I treat ...plague?'

'Yes' replied Elvis, 'it's... for school, a project.'

'Oh, I see. Well, I don't treat plague Elvis. It's been gone from this country for a long long time. But I know we could treat it now with antibiotics.'

'Good' said Elvis, pulling out a pencil and piece of paper. 'Which one would you use and how much do you give them?'

'Gosh that's a very detailed project you're doing there Elvis. I'm afraid I wouldn't know precisely. I'd have to look it up.' He turned to Henry. 'Do they still have plague where you come from Henry?'

'No, I don't think there's been plague in Leeds for a long time.'

'No, I meant... oh, it doesn't matter. Anyway, I'd love to help but there's a whole waiting room full of people out there Elvis and I need to get on. Come back and see me in a month and we'll see how you're going.'

Elvis was deflated. He'd have to try and get information from somewhere else.

'I could 'elp you Elvis. We can go look it up together if you like.' said Henry.

'Yes, yes. Good idea.' enthused Doctor McKendrick. If he could lose Henry for an hour he would have a chance of making up some time. 'Why don't you go and do a little research together. Then you could give me an update on plague too Henry. I'd like that.'

Elvis and Monica followed Henry back out to the waiting room. Monica wasn't going to sit and listen to a load of boring talk about school projects. A little shopping would be a more productive use of her time. She arranged to meet Elvis back at the surgery in an hour and headed for the arcade.

Elvis and Henry sat in an empty consulting room and poured over medical texts and the computer. Henry printed off some information, the medicines, what dose and how long to give them.

'So, if say, tomorrow, there was a little outbreak of plague not far from here,' postulated Elvis 'how would those people get their medicine?'

'Outbreak of plague? In London?' Henry laughed 'Hey if there were plague in London tomorrow, the shit would hit the fan big time. There'd be public health people crawling all over the place like flies. They'd sort out the medicines, don't you worry.'

'But, are these easy medicines to get?' asked Elvis, 'If you needed them, that is?'

'Oh yeh. One of those on that list I take for me acne every day.'

'So I can buy that from the chemist... if someone needed it.'

'Yeh, with a prescription. Every chemist would 'ave it.'

'A prescription?'

'Yeh, a prescription. You'd have to have a prescription from a doctor to get it from the chemist.' The phone rang. 'Ok, I'll be out in just a tick.' He turned back to Elvis. 'Look, my wife's 'ere to go for lunch so we'll 'ave to wrap it up for now. Your Mum's due back any'ow.' He picked up a small leather satchel and began rustling through it. 'But before you go, I've got somethin' for you.' Finally he found what he was looking for and pulled out a piece A4 paper covered with a patchwork of pictures and names.

' 'Ere, Elvis, look. I did you this, thought you might find it interestin'.' He passed the piece of paper to Elvis. 'What do you think all those people 'ave got in common?'

Elvis looked at the pictures and names. They were in three groups. The first was a collection of historical characters including Julius Caesar, Napoleon, Socrates and Joan of Arc, then there were some modern day faces he recognised such as Danny Glover and Martin Kemp, and finally a row of writers and sports stars that he'd never heard of.

'Any ideas?' asked Henry.

Elvis looked at him blankly and shrugged.

'Pretty impressive group, eh?'

Elvis didn't have a clue what he was talking about.

'They've all got epilepsy.' explained Henry. 'Every one of 'em! D'you reckon Socrates was stupid? What about that Napoleon. He didn't do too badly if you ask me. If you can have epilepsy and take over most of Europe then it can't be that big a deal now, can it? An' back then they couldn't even treat it!' Henry smiled and climbed to his feet. 'Come on, mate. Let's get goin'.'

They both walked out towards reception. At the desk stood a woman in long dress and hijab headscarf. She shared Henry's ebony skin. Her pregnant belly bulged under the long dress. 'This is my wife, Nya.' announced Henry. 'Nya, this is me little mate, Elvis.'

'Pleased to meet you Elvis.' She stretched out her slender fingers and gently shook hands with Elvis. 'He's not been boring you with stories of Leeds has he?'

Elvis shook his head.

Behind them, at the reception desk, a conversation was getting heated. A man in his late twenties was sweating and agitated, pacing up and down before the counter.

'I've been 'ere a fucking hour an' 'alf already! All I need is a fucking prescription! How 'ard is that?' He banged his fist on the counter. The receptionist jumped.

'Hey,' Henry intervened, 'no need to get upset.'

'Look, I'm sorry.' said the receptionist 'I can only tell you what he's saying. I can't do your prescription.' She edged further back on her chair. She nervously fingered the panic button under the desk.

'Well ring 'im again. Just bloody tell 'im that I'm not goin' anywhere without that prescription.' He turned to Henry 'And you mind your own friggin' business!'

The receptionist picked up the phone. 'I know Doctor McKendrick...Yes, I know you're running very late.... but he's most insistent... Ok, I'll tell him.' The receptionist replaced the handset and swallowed hard before looking up at the man. 'The doctor says he can't see you now. He says if you want a prescription you'll have to come back to the emergency surgery at five thirty.'

'Fucking bastard!' He pulled back his arm and slammed his fist into the wall at the side of the desk. The plaster board crumbled and his hand disappeared inside.

The receptionist hit the panic button.

'That's it!' shouted Henry 'Get out!' He grabbed the man's arm and tried to pull him away from the desk.

'Get your filthy black hands off me!' The man shook free from Henry's grip; then turned and rammed both of his fists into Henry's chest, shoving him violently backwards. Nya tried to move out of his path but caught her foot on the chair leg and stumbled. Elvis reached out to catch her but she was already falling and too heavy for him to hold. Her pregnant belly struck the corner of the coffee table as she tumbled to the floor. Elvis finished on the carpet alongside her.

'Ha! Look at you! Serves you right, you fucking terrorists! Why don't you both piss off back where you came from!'

Henry raised his fist ready to land a punch.

'Henry' shouted Nya from the floor 'leave him. He's not worth it. Henry! Please, for me!'

'Elvis! Elvis! What the hell's going on?' screamed Monica as she appeared in the surgery door. She ran to her son.

The man laughed. He barged Monica out of the way, kicked over a leaflet stand and disappeared back onto the street.

Doctor McKendrick put his head out of his door. 'Is everything OK?'

Monica swept Elvis to his feet and pulled him towards the exit.

'Mum, stop it!' protested Elvis, looking back at Henry kneeling on the floor by Nya.

Monica was in no mood to hang around. She dragged Elvis out of the door and off towards the bus stop.

Back home, Monica went straight to the fridge and poured a glass of wine. Her hand was still shaking. The phone rang. It was Doctor McKendrick. He'd rung to apologise for what had happened in the surgery and check that Monica and Elvis were both unhurt. 'Henry's young and inexperienced,' he explained 'you have to learn how to handle people like that. I'm sure he'll have learnt a lot from the experience. I'm sure it won't happen again. And anyway, I'm glad to hear you were both OK. So I'll see you again in a month's time.'

'Em, yes, a month.' replied Monica, wondering if she really wanted to go back there again. 'And everyone else was OK? That girl on the floor, she was alright?'

'Oh that was Henry's wife. She was a bit sore. I sent her off to the hospital to have a bit of a check up on the baby. I'm sure she'll be fine.'

Elvis meanwhile had slipped upstairs to check what was happening in the attic. At least he had a starting point. He knew what medicine he needed. He just didn't have a clue how to get it.

He pushed open the hatch and was met with the sound of excited chatter. It came from Le Clerc, stood at the window and peering out at the new view of London. 'Let's get out there and have a look! Come on, it's a whole new world! Look at those... carriage things. And those buildings! Look how tall they are. And... what the hell are those people wearing? What ever happened to style?'

Alongside Le Clerc stood his teenage greasy assistant. He was desperately trying to peep over Le Clerc's shoulder to glimpse the exciting new world. Another new couple was sitting on wooden crates. Elizabeth and her family were gathered in their old servant quarters in one of the attic partitions. The mother who'd been sitting out in the rain was feeding her baby again. The attic was looking rather full.

Le Clerc threw out his arms to meet Elvis. 'This must be the boy I've heard so much about! The boy with all of the answers! We've got to talk! There are so many things we could do together. Come on, you must take me outside and show me this new world.'

Elvis looked at his sores and shrank away. He looked around the room and shook his head. 'This isn't good. We've got to get you lot out of here.'

'Exactly!' said Le Clerc. 'Show me the new London.'

'No!' hissed Elvis 'I mean we've got to find somewhere else to hide you until I can work out what the hell I'm supposed to do with you all!'

Elizabeth put Alice down and approached Elvis. 'Could you find any? Did you get some medicine?'

'No' replied Elvis 'Not yet, but I do know what we need now.'

'Fine!' agreed Le Clerc 'We'll wait until you get some medicine and fix up these spots, and then together, you and me, we'll hit the town!'

Elvis decided he'd have to move them. But where to? The only place he could think of was at the rear of the church across the road where there was an unused hall. It was an ugly 1950's concrete block that had been meant for demolition for some years, just as soon as the church could afford to clean up the mess. Meantime it was being used to house donations for the annual jumble sale. It wasn't ideal but at least it would be somewhere safe for now.

'Please, keep together and keep quiet.' pleaded Elvis as he led them down the stairs. Monica was into her third glass of wine and starting to relax. She put Oprah on the television and her feet on the settee. She deserved a little relaxation after what she'd been through. Elvis tip-toed down the staircase into the hall. He gestured everyone to be quiet and pointed towards the stairs to the basement kitchen. But Samuel was curious about the noises and the laughter emanating from the living room. Through the crack in the door he caught a glimpse of the bright lights of Oprah. He nudged the door open a little more. His mouth hit the floor. A magical square box with moving talking people inside. What witchcraft was this?

'Elvish, is that you sweetie?'

Samuel didn't move. He was hypnotised by the people with the strange accents talking in the box.

Elvis heard his mother and spotted Samuel stood at the door. He dashed back down the hallway, grabbed his arm and pointed him towards the kitchen stairs. 'Yes Mum, only me.'

'What you doing sweetie? Come help me work this remote control? I can't get it to work.'

'Mum! I'm busy.' replied Elvis and pointed again impatiently towards the basement door. Samuel was now inspecting the vacuum cleaner.

'Busy doin' wha' Elvie?'

Elvis silently stamped his foot and pointed again for Samuel to head downstairs. Finally he disappeared down the steps. Elvis marched into the living room and snatched the control from his mother's hand.

'Elvie, be careful sweetie!'

'There's a switch on the side here that changes it from TV to DVD. Look. All you need to do is slide it forward. And don't call me Elvie. Or sweetie. OK?'

'OK. But no one can hear us, sweetie.'

Elvis gritted is teeth. 'I'm going outside for a bit.'

Monica didn't hear him. She was busy flicking through the channels looking for Doctor Phil. He was on around this time, she was sure.

Elvis followed the group down the steps. He'd need to get them across the road and into the old hall as quickly as possible. In the kitchen he found Samuel with his head inside the oven, Le Clerc pressing buttons on the food mixer and his assistant Thomas opening cupboards and pulling out the strange cans and packets. Alice was charging around with a brush banging into chairs and table legs. Mary was sat on Elvis's favourite stool. She felt unwell again, nauseated and feverish and not helped by the memory of Fran lying on the floor of this same kitchen.

'Oh shit!' said Elvis 'Put all that down! Come on, we've got to get out of here before Morris gets back.'

Elvis opened the kitchen door and peeped out to make sure nobody was looking. It was all clear. He waved them all through. 'Keep out of sight, if you can.' he urged. He waited until the last one was out and quietly closed the kitchen door.

''Ere, do you know what the 'ell is goin' on?' The voice was deep and gruff. Elvis span around to be confronted by a huge man with unkempt beard and huge belly behind a dirty apron. It was the inn keeper.

'Oh no!' said Elvis 'Not another one!'

'Not another what?'

'Oh, don't worry about it. Just follow the rest of them.'

The group had gathered at the gate and were staring in wonderment at the street, the vehicles speeding by without horses, the bright lights, the strangely dressed pedestrians. Elvis waited for a lull in the traffic and then opened the gate and waved them through. He led them quickly across the road and towards the church. It was unusual for the street to be so quiet at this time of the day; he'd been lucky for once. But then a double-decker bus pulled up outside the church, opened its doors and discharged a mass of bodies onto the pavement ahead of them.

'Oh no,' grumbled Elvis 'just look down and say nothing. Let me speak if we have to.'

The pavement was narrow and they were going to have to squeeze their way through the crowd. But as they approached and people saw the sores and smelt the odours, they pushed and jostled to get away from them, stepping into the road and against the bus to get away. This wasn't the attention that Elvis was looking for. He had to try and think of an explanation quickly. He remembered an old movie he'd seen with his mother recently. He'd watched it because his mother told him it starred Indiana Jones but that wasn't quite right. It had modern day people who dressed in old clothes.

'Excuse me, coming through!' shouted Elvis. 'They're just Hamish people, from America. Just here for a visit. Coming through.'

Samuel meantime was admiring the bus. How on earth could these things work? It had to be magic. He put a hand onto the shiny stainless steel pole at the back corner and looked at his reflection. He climbed up to look at the strange people crammed inside. Then there was a 'ding ding', the bus jolted and then began to move. Samuel screamed. Elvis was at the front of the line and heard the shout. Samuel was hanging off the back step, one hand still clinging onto the pole. Elvis reached out, grabbed his arm and yanked him off the bus as it gathered pace. The two of them landed together on the pavement amidst the crowd of people. Samuel had an excited grin across his face.

Elizabeth was less impressed. 'Samuel, get up. What were you told?' she hissed. 'Get up right now.'

'Bloody freaks.' muttered someone 'I've seen them people on TV. They're even worse in real life.'

Elvis hurriedly led the group around the back of the church, watching carefully to ensure there was no sign of the vicar. The hall was made of plain concrete slabs with a series of high windows running along the top of the wall for ventilation. The double wood and glass doors bore a large crucifix on each window. The doors were firmly secured with chain and padlock.

'You said there was no plague no more.' said Samuel.

'That's right.' said Elvis 'It's long gone.'

'Well what's that?' Samuel pointed at the crucifixes decorating the doors. 'I ain't bein' locked back up in no plague 'ouse again!'

'No, there is no plague. This is a church hall, that's all. Just somewhere to stay.' explained Elvis. He rattled the door handles. 'Trouble is though, it's locked.'

'Here' said Le Clerc. 'I'm a dab hand at these things.' He pulled a pin from his pocket and began to pick at the lock. It was tougher than he'd expected.

'Watch out.' said the inn keeper and barged Le Clerc out of the way. He grabbed hold of one of the door handles and ripped it out of the soft, decaying wood.

'Who needs brains when you got muscle?' Le Clerc slapped him on the back.

The hall comprised a small glass foyer, followed by a single main room with a small kitchen and toilet at the far end. The far wall was lined with stacks of yellow plastic chairs, the other with wooden tables, each one piled high with clothes, blankets, toys and brick-a-brack, sorted into categories ready for the annual autumn jumble sale.

'This the best I can do.' said Elvis. 'I'll have to get back home before I'm missed.'

'What are we supposed to do 'ere?' asked the inn-keeper.

'Just... just make yourself at home.' suggested Elvis. 'I'll be back.'

Elvis slipped back out of the hall and closed the door. He peeked around to check it was clear. Nobody was in sight. He walked quickly around the side of the church and found the vicar in the middle of the path talking to an elderly female parishioner. Elvis hesitated. His instinct was to turn and run but he knew he'd be spotted. He'd just have to try and act casually, make out he'd been in the churchyard working on his project. He kept his gaze on the gate ahead and walked quickly past them both. In truth he didn't just feel anxious; he had a headache and felt sick. He was becoming hot and feverish and felt a little feint. The vicar lost concentration on the conversation but that didn't slow the old woman. She continued on about the state of the churchyard and the amount of litter and the vandalism to the headstones. It was all an utter disgrace. They needed security cameras and a guard with dogs. The vicar hadn't heard her though. He was eyeing Elvis with suspicion. What was this boy from number 28 doing in his churchyard again?

As Elvis walked out of the church gate, the shiny blue Subaru from the party was pulling out of his drive. The poly-tone horn sounded, the tyres screeched and it roared into traffic, forcing cars to skid to a halt to avoid collision.

Elvis checked around the garage again before heading indoors. As he climbed the stairs he heard shouting from the living room. Morris was trying to take Monica's second bottle of white wine away and was facing angry resistance. Elvis's heart sank. He hurried to get away from the noise. Most of the shouting was coming from his mother. As Elvis crossed the landing, there was a sharp 'slap' from downstairs, followed by the front door slamming, then silence. Elvis listened for a moment then kept on upwards. He'd wanted to check the attic before Morris got up there to look for rats. It seemed further than ever. He was getting dizzy and short of breath. By the time he finally made it to the top he felt as if he'd climbed Everest. He slumped onto the edge of the top step and looked around to see if anyone had appeared. But what met his eye was the sight of ripped up floor boards, emptied crates and upturned boxes. The whole attic looked to have been torn apart. Morris must have already done his search for rodents thought Elvis. He'd been very thorough.

Elvis slid back downstairs on his bottom. He stumbled his way back to his bedroom. He remembered the stone he'd hidden in his underwear draw and the stories he'd been told about it. He pulled open the draw. The stone was gone. He pulled all of the pants out and dropped them onto the floor but there was nothing but his boxer shorts and the unopened Y-fronts that Morris had given him last Christmas. Elvis began to feel worse. He started to cough and felt as if his head was going to burst. He lay on the bed and closed his eyes.

Chapter 8

The beeping noises grew louder until they dragged Elvis back into consciousness once more. He tried to pull the covers over his head to shut them out but his hands and arms seemed to be tied to something. There was a mask over his mouth and nose. He opened an eye. He was surrounded by machines with dancing green lines and changing numbers, all pinging away merrily. He was hooked up to drips and monitors and probes.

'Elvie! You're awake!' squealed Monica. She jumped up to hug him but then looked at all of the wires and tubes and thought better of it. 'Oh thank heavens!'

'Where's this? How did I get here?' Elvis began coughing.

'Elvis, I'm so sorry I wasn't there when you got sick. But it won't happen again, I promise. Things are going to change. '

'Did I have a seizure?'

'No sweetie, not a seizure. You've had a nasty chest infection that gave you blood poisoning. We're waiting for more test results. I'd gone out but Morris found you. He called for the ambulance.'

'I remember shouting. You were fighting. I heard a slap.'

'I know,' said Monica meekly 'I've said sorry to Morris. I've promised I'll never hit him again. Anyway, what's important now is getting you better. You need to rest.'

'No I can't. The hall, the church hall. I can't stay here. I've got to get back home.'

'No Elvis, you don't know what you're saying. You have to rest now, sweetie. You just lie where you are. I'll call for the doctor.'

Elvis decided he'd get up, remove all of the tubes and wires and make his own way home. But his head felt heavy, his eyelids sagged and refused to stay parted. He plunged back into a heavy sleep.

In the church hall Elizabeth and the innkeeper had been getting organised. They'd made beds from the blankets and had rearranged tables and chairs. They found some food in the kitchen and Samuel had discovered how to work the taps. They had sifted through the selection of clothes on the tables with floods of laughter. The strange styles and patterns, the T-shirts printed with pictures and strange slogans; how could people wear these things and keep a straight face? It was odd not having a chimney in the building but they'd deduced that modern people mustn't mind a bit of smoke, so they built a small fire in one corner of the hall and opened a window above. They found the frozen hot dogs and burgers in the amazing ice chest and threw them on the fire. They took turns at standing on the piles of chairs and spying out of the high windows and watching the modern world outside. They also kept a keen eye out for anybody else appearing at Number 28. A couple of times a night, Samuel, and anyone he could persuade to go with him, would sneak across the road and check for new arrivals. Samuel loved it. And what was fascinating through the window by day, became exhilarating up close at night. The bright street lights, the shop signs down the road, the strange carriages with blinding lights on the front and little red fires on the back. And best of all, if he was lucky, he'd see a carriage come screaming past with flashing blue lights on top, wailing like a banshee. Each time they made the trip, they found a few more lost souls and retrieved them back to the hall. As a result, the church hall was getting full. But they were also getting sicker. Rather than improving, the sores seemed to be getting worse, the fevers returning and they were getting weaker. The place was beginning to feel like the carriage house all over again. And where was the boy, Elvis? He'd promised to come back for them. If he wasn't back soon, they'd have to head out into this frightening new world and seek medicine for themselves.

Night returned and Samuel talked the innkeeper into going back across the road to look for more arrivals. Maybe this time he'd find his father. Mary lay on the floor on a bed of blankets and stared up at the stars. How had they all come to reappear like this, so many years later? Why weren't the streets filled with more people like them? Thousands and thousands of people had died of plague in London so what made them special? She recalled the last few weeks before she'd become sick. She remembered how fond she'd been of Nick from next door and how she was going to try and smuggle him into the house. She also recalled how he'd deceived her, how he'd sat in the carriage house when he must have known he was sick and then had given her a kiss on the cheek. What a Judas! How could she have fallen for his lies? It was a good job he wasn't here now because she'd let him know exactly what she thought. She'd slap him across the face in front of everyone and when they asked why she'd tell them. Everyone would know how he had brought plague into the carriage house and into Number 28. It was all down to Nick. And to think she'd brought him the stupid potion. She'd gone out of her way to give him his own supply of the useless medicine! She laughed to herself. How could they all have fallen for such a stupid old story? How could they really believe that a stone could stop them getting sick? But then a realisation hit her. She sat upright and looked at the people sharing the hall. That was it! That was what made them different. That was why the streets of modern day London weren't flooded with refugees from 1665. Everyone in this room had taken the potion. It was obvious. Her mother, Alice, Samuel, the innkeeper, Le Clerc, Thomas and everyone here had drunk the potion. It might not have kept them alive back then, but for some reason it was bringing them back now. That meant there would be more people to come. Lot's more people. That meant Nick could be on his way. Her pulse quickened. She'd have the chance to say those things that she'd been planning. And her father, he should be coming too. Her mother had sent potion to him with Brock. Mary heard distant voices approaching, brisk footsteps on the flag-stoned path. Perhaps this was Nick, and maybe her father. She wrapped the blanket around herself and climbed onto a chair to peek through the window. The voices were getting louder and sounded agitated.

'Och noo, Ah still dinna understand whit ye sayin'.'

'Shh!' replied the innkeeper 'You're makin' too much racket. Someone's gonna 'ear us and chuck us out. Wait until we get inside.'

The doors to the hall opened and Madadh McDonald marched inside in all of his kilted tartan glory, followed by Samuel and the innkeeper.

'Where's Cormag. Is he here?' asked Madadh.

Le Clerc jumped to his feet. 'Mister MacDonald! My friend, how good to see you again! Hey, what d'you think? Big new world, eh? Lots of opportunity!'

Madadh ignored him. 'Hey, is there a nay a wee bit o' scran to be had here?' He walked past Le Clerc to inspect the pan sat on dying embers. 'An where's tha' Cormag?' he asked again, shoving food into his mouth.

Elizabeth slipped her arm from under Alice's sleeping body and quietly pulled Samuel to one side. 'Did you see your father, Samuel?' she whispered 'Was he there?'

Samuel shook his head. 'But Mum, every time we go there's more people. I'll go back in a few minutes and check. I'll hide in the bushes and wait!'

'Mum, it's the stone!' hissed Mary.

'What's the stone?'

'The stone! That's what everyone has got in common! Everyone here has drunk potion made from the stone!'

Elizabeth looked around the room. Mary was right. That was the common thread. It was obvious now.

'Did Dad drink it?'

'Yes, I think so,' replied Elizabeth 'I sent him some with Mister Brock.'

'Did you see him? Did you see him drink it?' demanded Samuel.

'Well, no, not me. But Mister Brock said he did, so, I'm sure that'll be right. Is Mister Brock here?'

'No, not yet. I'll go and have another look.'

'No, Samuel, wait!'

But Samuel was already disappearing out of the door.

'Mary, darling, please would you go and keep an eye on him?'

Mary ran across the churchyard after her brother, following him across the deserted street. It was now 3 am and much to Samuel's disappointment, only the very occasional vehicle sped by. Mary and Samuel circled the garage but found nobody. They hid in the gap between the garage and fence and waited.

Forty minutes went by and nobody appeared. They were getting cold.

'Why don't we wait inside this little house?' suggested Samuel 'It's got to be warmer in there.'

They went to the front of the garage and tried to open it. It was locked. Samuel rattled the wooden doors but they weren't going to open. He found a small trowel on the ground and tried prising the doors apart. After five minutes, it was clear that the lock was too strong.

'Leave it Sammy.' said Mary 'It ain't gonna budge and someone's gonna 'ear ya an' come lookin'.'

'No. I can do it! You watch!' grunted Samuel, hanging off the trowel. 'It's comin'...any minute.'

'You're wasting your time Sammy. Someone's gonna see us.'

Flashing blue lights entered the street. Samuel loved these, he knew they belonged to those really fast vehicles that fly past making that scary wailing sound. 'Hey Mary, quick! Come see 'ow these things go!' He threw down the trowel, grabbed his sister's arm and they dashed to the front hedge to watch. They knelt down and pushed their heads through the bushes. The lights raced up the street on top of a white police car. The car screeched to a halt right in front of them. The doors opened and two uniformed officers climbed out.

'I'm tellin' ya I had a flush an' that beats four of anythin'. Even four aces.' said one of them.

'Nah, bullshit mate. Four aces is best you can get. If he 'ad four aces then you should 'ave give 'im the money.'

'When did you last play poker? Bet it was in bloody primary school. You need...'

The radio crackled to life. 'Tango Charlie three. Advise your current location. Over.'

'Just a minute Dave. Roger, this is Tango Charlie Three. We've arrived at 28 Monnington Street. It looks all quiet. We're going to have a closer look. Over. ...An' any'ow. I was only playin' 'gainst Eric. I wouldn't care what I 'ad, I'd still take his bloody money.'

'Yeh, fair point. But you're still a cheat.'

Mary grabbed Samuel's arm and pulled him away from the hedge. She didn't understand why these people were here but she sensed that they weren't going to be friendly. She led Samuel quickly around the back of the garage. Samuel stepped on a shovel that had been left on the path. It flicked into the air before clattering back down onto the concrete.

'I'm no cheat Dave, I'm tellin' ya...Hey, did you 'ere that?' They both switched on their torches and directed the beams over the hedge.

The radio crackled again. 'Tango Charlie Three. Is your location clear? Over.'

'This is Tango Charlie Three. Negative. Looks like intruders at the premises. We're investigating now. Over'. He clipped his radio back into place and nodded towards the garage. The two policemen followed their torch beams into the garden of Number 28.

Mary and Samuel hid behind a couple of large plastic wheelie bins at the rear of the garage. As they crouched, Samuel spotted a lost-looking figure stood a few yards away by the fence. He tugged Mary's arm and pointed. It was Brock. Mary dashed over, grabbed his arm and tried to pull him into hiding with her.

Brock pulled back. 'Hey what you playin' at? Is that... Mary? Is that you Mary?'

'Shh!' ordered Mary then dragged him down behind the bins.

'What are we doing?' asked Brock crouching alongside her.

'Please be quiet. They'll hear us.' whispered Mary.

'Who'll hear us?'

The torch beams scoured the back garden, lighting up the panelled fence and darting between overgrown bushes and shrubs.

'OK we can see you clearly. Come out now.' ordered Dave. 'Come on, out! Right now! You don't want us to have to come over there, I'm tellin' ya!'

Mary and Samuel crouched lower.

'Come on. There's no point hidin'. We can see ya clear as day.'

Mary knew she was beaten. She tapped Samuel on the shoulder and they stood up behind the bins. Brock copied.

But the policemen had their torches focussed on a bush ten yards away. Through the patchy foliage, the torches had lit up blue, green and red tartan. Dave turned his torch towards the back of the garage.

'Shit, there's more of 'em, look!'

Cormag charged out of the bush and dashed for freedom. The nearest policeman dived and tackled him to the ground.

Spotting their chance, Mary and Samuel decided to run for it too. They dashed out from behind the bins and sprinted for the road. But Brock remained motionless, staring vacantly ahead. Dave ran at Brock fumbling for his handcuffs, but before he could reach him his mate called out.

'For God's sake Dave. Give me a bloody hand!' He was struggling to overpower Cormag and was now just hanging on to an ankle.

'You stay right where you bloody are!' Dave bawled at Brock before running and diving on top of Cormag.

Mary ran back, grabbed Brock's arm and dragged him up the drive. 'Come on, we've got to get out of 'ere!'

'Why? What's going on?'

'I'll explain after. Come on!'

But as Brock and Mary approached the front gate another car screamed up the road, siren wailing, lights flashing. Samuel stood and watched in admiration.

'Oh shit Sam! Quick, back 'ere.' She tugged her brother back and looked for somewhere else to hide. The only place left was behind a large flowering bush at the front of the house. She dragged Samuel and Brock into the space between the shrub and the wall. They squeezed in together, but it provided only scant cover.

'They're gonna find us Sam!' whispered Mary.

'Who's gonna find us?' asked Brock.

Two more policeman charged down the drive and dropped on top of Cormag. This time he was beaten. They rolled him onto his face and cuffed him.

'What is this, bloody Halloween? What's he dressed like that for?'

'Dunno but he stinks! And look at those sores! Yuck!'

'Hey, you're lucky, you didn't have to wrestle with the bastard; it's true what they say about what's under their kilts!' He shuddered and then tapped Cormag with the toe of a shiny black boot. 'What the hell are you doin' 'ere anyhow?'

'Ah dinnee ken whit ye bletherin 'boot ye wee pudgetie sassenach bastart!'

'What is 'e on about?'

'Dunno, he's probably pissed. But lookin' at them sores I reckon you'd best take 'im up the 'ospital to get him checked Dave. Make sure it's nothin' we can catch. We'll 'ave a look around an' see what else we can find. Did you say there were more of 'em?'

Samuel shuffled along the wall further behind the bush. Under his feet and through a carpet of old fallen leaves he felt the rungs of a large, rusty iron grid. He scraped at the decaying debris with his foot. The grid was a good two and a half feet across.

''Ere, Mary, look at this?'

He bent down and tried to lift the cover but it was firmly stuck into place. The torch beams were now flitting around the garden again, jumping between shadowy corners and under bushes and trees.

'If we can open it we can 'ide down there!'

Brock barged Samuel out of the way.

'Let me try.' He pushed his fingers between the metal bars and with a grunt he hoisted the metal grill up from the hole.

'Quick!' hissed Mary, 'Jump in.'

Samuel jumped down and landed on soft squelchy ground. Beneath the narrow grid the space opened up, it was around five feet deep, dark, dank and musty. The ground was covered in years of fallen leaves and the walls were composed of crumbly old brick. Brock sat on the edge of the hole and slipped his legs inside. Samuel pressed himself against the wall to make room, but as Brock tried to slide his bulky body through the hole he became wedged at the waist, his legs left dangling a couple of feet in the air. Torch lights were getting closer. Mary pressed down on his shoulders but he was tightly stuck.

In the house Monica slept on; but Morris had heard the commotion. He pulled on his old woollen dressing gown and slippers. He parted the curtains and was met by the sight of two police cars parked outside his house and torches flashing around his garden. He tied his dressing gown belt into a bow and headed downstairs.

Dave and his mate were trying to push Cormag into the police car but Cormag wasn't keen. What was this strange thing with flashing lights and a talking box inside? Cormag wriggled and tried to wrestle free from the grip of the two policemen but all he managed to do was fall onto the pavement. Dave and his mate were losing patience. They grabbed Cormag's cuffed arms, lifted him up and threw him like a sack into the back of the car.

'What's going on officer?' Morris asked the policeman searching near his back door.

'Oh hello Sir. Sorry to disturb you. You got some intruders hangin' around. We had a call. I think they might have been trying to break into your garage. Have you got something valuable in there?'

'Well, yes. A classic car. An Austin Allegro, thirteen hundred.' explained Morris. 'Did you catch anyone?'

'Oh just some drunken old smelly Scottish bloke, dressed in a kilt, would you believe?'

'In a kilt? Where? Where is he?'

'They're just about to take him away. He's in the patrol car there Sir.'

Morris dashed along the drive being careful not to lose his slippers in his haste. As he got to the gate the car was just pulling away. On the back seat he could see Cormag's contorted face, shouting and writhing.

Behind the bush Brock was still stuck. Mary's pushing hadn't worked. She leant against the wall and stood on his shoulders but still he didn't budge. Inside the drain Samuel was feeling his way around. There was an opening leading away from the house. He crawled into it. At least he was away from Brock's swinging legs. Mary meantime was now jumping on Brock's shoulders trying to squeeze him through the gap. The torch lights darted across the front of the house and around the bush. Mary jumped with all her might, Brock wriggled and writhed and finally he dropped through the hole. Mary fell after him and landed on his head.

'Shit that hurt!' moaned Brock.

'Quiet' hissed Mary. 'Quick, pull the cover back over.'

Brock stood up and poked his head out of the drain. He found the iron cover and dragged it back into place.

The noise had been heard by Morris and the two remaining policemen.

'You go back inside Sir. We'll check this out.'

'No' replied Morris calmly 'this is my house and I want to see what's going on.'

'Sir, I'm instructing you to please go back in doors. For your own safety.'

'This is my garden, my house, my Austin Allegro. I'll get my torch and come look with you.'

The policeman looked at each other and sighed. They shone their lights in the direction of the noise. It seemed to have come from around the bush at the front of the house. Morris reappeared with a large red plastic torch. They all converged around the bush and shone their torches through the leaves and branches.

'Hey, look at this.' said one of the officers shining his torch at the large grid. He pushed his way behind the bush and shone his light down the hole. 'It's a bloody big drain. Someone could 'ide down there!'

He knelt down and placed his torch against the iron bars. All that was visible was dirt and old leaves.

'That's just a grid mate. Come on. I reckon they've legged it by now.' He tapped his friend on the elbow. 'Hey, let's have a look at his 'classic' Austin Allegro!' he added with a snigger.

Samuel led Mary and Brock deeper into the dark, smelly drain. Ahead he could see a soft yellow glow and perhaps a way out. It was tight squeeze for Brock and he had to wriggle along on his belly at times to get through. Eventually they reached the source of the light, a small hole in the roof of the tunnel. Samuel stood on tip toe and peeked through the opening. He was looking out on the road from a kerbside grid, no more than a foot wide and offering no escape route. They kept going. Eventually they came to a dead end. It was pitch black. They felt around and worked out they were in a small chamber about six feet wide. The walls were crumbly brick and mortar with thick roots dangling from above. There seemed to be no way out. They didn't dare go back for fear of being found by the police. They decided to stay where they were for the night see what morning might bring.

Chapter 9

In hospital, Elvis had woken again. Some of the tubes and wires had been removed and he could move a little more freely. At the desk he could see Henry, chatting to one of the young doctors and pointing at a brown folder before they both turned to look at Elvis.

Spotting he was awake, Henry came across. 'Elvis, me little mate! What the bloody 'ell 'ave you bin playin' at?'

'Do they know what's wrong with me Henry?'

'You had a nasty pneumonia and probable septicaemia, you know, blood poisonin'. It's gettin' better with the antibiotics though. You were a very sick man when you came in 'ere you know.'

'But why did I get pneumonia?'

'Well that's a good question Elvis, and they don't know the answer yet. But the main thing is you're gettin' better.'

'You're not sick are you Henry? You haven't caught it off me?'

'Na mate, I'm fine. I need to be too. I got a new baby.' he added with a grin.

'Oh Nya! She had the baby?'

Henry nodded. 'Remember last time I saw you, when that dick..., sorry, when that man was mouthin' off and she fell over. Remember? You helped her? Well, anyhow, that night she went into labour. It was a bit early, but there was no stopping 'im comin' out.'

'Him? It's a boy.'

Henry nodded with a grin.

'What you called him?'

'Abit. Nya chose it.' he explained 'She said it suits him because he's a bit early there's only a little bit of him.'

'Are they OK Henry?'

'Well, he's on a machine to help him breathe Elvis. He's getting antibiotics like you. Nya's with him all the time, she won't leave him.' Tears welled in his eyes. 'We're doing a lot of praying.' he added with a forced smile.

Elvis didn't know what to say. Perhaps if he'd been stronger, able to hold Nya, perhaps she wouldn't have fallen, perhaps she wouldn't have had the baby so early. Why was he always so weak?

'Anyway, look at you Elvis. You're proof that miracles can 'appen. I looked at you when you came in 'ere three days ago an' I was worried that you might not...'

'Three days ago! I've been here three days! Crap! I've got to go!' Elvis sat up and began to pull away the wires and leads.

'Elvis, what you doin' mate? You can't go 'ome, you're still sick!'

'Elvis, stop it!' ordered Monica walking into the room. 'Is this your doing Henry?'

'Me? No. I'm telling him to stay Misses Klatzmann!'

Elvis staggered to his feet.

Monica grabbed hold of her son's arm and tried to drag him back to bed. 'You're sick Elvis. You need to be in bed. You don't know what you're doing!'

Elvis tried to pull his arm away but Monica wasn't having it. She wrapped her arms around his body and fell with him onto the bed.

'Elvis, uncool mate!' said Henry 'You don't wrestle with your mother! Come on! If you settle y'self down...'

But before he could finish his sentence a small herd of doctors and nurses entered the room.

'Next is Elvis Klatzmann,' announced a doctor who looked like he should still have been at high school, 'a thirteen year old boy who presented with pneumonia and septic shock. Now afebrile and ...'

'What on earth are you doing?' asked the ageing consultant looking at Elvis and his mother over the top of his spectacles. 'You can stop that right now young man and get back in bed.'

Monica jumped up and straightened her clothes.

'I've got to go home.' explained Elvis as he ripped off the last of the heart monitor stickers from his chest.

'I will tell you when you can go home Master Klatzmann.'

Elvis paid no heed. He stood back up, opened his locker and started searching for his clothes. Henry leant forward and said something quietly in Elvis's ear. Elvis looked back at him and thought for a moment and then sat back on the bed. Henry turned to the consultant.

'Doctor Wishman, can I have a quick word please. In private.'

'Hello Henry. Yes, so long as it's quick. I've a big ward round to do here. Stay right where you are Elvis.'

The two of them disappeared into the corridor for a couple of minutes and then returned.

'Yes, as I say Henry, I'll need to satisfy myself first.' said Doctor Wishman as they approached the bed again. He picked up Elvis's observation chart and scrutinised it. He nodded and hooked it back over the end of the bed. 'Lift up your shirt please Elvis.'

Elvis frowned, but Henry nodded his approval so Elvis obliged. Doctor Wishman carefully examined his chest, rechecked his pulse and blood pressure and looked again at the observation chart.

'Well, it wasn't what I had in mind young man, but as you have made a lot of improvement, and as Henry here has promised me he will call on you every day for the next week and report back to me, I guess I can let you go home with some strict conditions.'

'Are you sure about that doctor?' asked Monica. 'I don't want him home if he's going to do something strange!'

'What conditions?' asked Elvis.

'That you take your tablets until they're all gone, that you promise me that if Henry tells you that you need to come back to the hospital then you come back immediately, and most important of all is that your mother is in agreement. Is that clear?'

Elvis nodded then turned to his mother. 'Mum, I've got to go home, please!'

'Misses. Klatzmann, can I have a quiet word?' Doctor Wishman took Monica out to the corridor.

'Doctor I'm really not sure about this.'

'Misses Klatzmann, I would rather have him here a little longer too but I know what they can be like at this age. After watching him fighting with you on the bed, I'm sure it's better to let you take him home under supervision and with all the right tablets than have him run off when we're not looking. He really is over the worst now anyway.'

'But you still don't know what was wrong with him!'

'We know enough and we know he's getting better. And anyway, Henry will keep a close eye for me.'

'But Henry? He's not qualified.'

'I know Henry well. He's a sound student and he wouldn't be afraid to speak up if he was concerned. I'm sure Henry would do a fine job. I trust him.'

'But doctor, can't you just tell him he has to stay?'

'Yes, I could Misses Klatzmann, I could do that. In fact two years ago I had a thirteen year old girl on this ward who fought to go home just like your son. I made her stay. Then later that night, when the staff were busy, she slipped out of the ward and ran away.'

'So? Didn't you find her?'

'Yes, the police did, three days later. She was floating upside down in the Thames. I don't want to be melodramatic Misses Klatzmann but I vowed that day never to let that happen in this hospital again. Your son is out of danger. With Henry keeping an eye for me I'm sure he'll be fine. Bring him back to see me on Friday. Call me any time if you're worried. OK?'

In the tunnel Samuel, Mary and Brock had spent several uncomfortable hours failing to sleep on the hard floor. Morning had brought a feeble light that leaked in through cracks in the stone ceiling above. They found themselves in a small circular chamber with walls largely hidden by thick roots and rope-like vines of ivy invading from above. A rusty iron ladder was attached to one wall. Samuel climbed the rungs. The ladder creaked and swayed until he reached the top. Above his head was a square flagstone. Samuel pushed on it but it was too heavy to move.

'Come on you,' said Brock 'let me try.'

Brock reached up and plucked Samuel from the ladder before climbing up himself. With Brock's weight, the ladder swayed wildly, sending mortar tumbling through the ivy. Brock pushed on the flagstone. It was heavy and wedged tightly into place. It couldn't have moved for many a year. Brock held firmly onto the ladder, bent his neck and heaved with his shoulders. Dirt and mortar tumbled into the chamber and the flagstone reluctantly lifted away. The three of them climbed out and into another small room, this time formed of large marble blocks. It had no windows, but light burst in through small holes in the roof and around the decaying wooden door. Brock grabbed the iron handle on the inside of the heavy old door and dragged it open a few inches. They peeped out through the gap. They were across the road in the churchyard.

'I told you!' said Samuel 'I told you there was a tunnel to the church!'

Brock pulled the door open a little more and the three of them slipped out and made their way quickly back into the hall.

'Mary! Samuel! Where've you been? I've been worried sick! You shouldn't stay out so long. Who knows what might happen!'

'Yeh Mum, of course. Don't forget we 'ave been dead for three hundred years!' pointed out Samuel.

Elizabeth turned to Brock. 'Mister Brock. It's so good to see you again! Have you seen James?'

Brock shook his head.

'Never mind, he had the potion so he should be here soon. You gave him potion, didn't you? You told me you gave him the potion?'

Brock looked at the floor.

Back home again, Elvis climbed to the attic. The floorboards were still up and the boxes and crates turned over, but there was nobody with boils or sores, no one dressed in old clothes. Elvis walked to the attic window and peered out. The church yard across the road was deserted. He could see the back corner of the concrete hall. It looked the same as ever, except for white smoke coming from the side windows.

'Oh crap!' thought Elvis 'They've set the place on fire!'

Elvis charged downstairs. He had to get across the road and see what was happening and put out the fire before anyone saw it.

As he reached the foot of the stairs though, he found his mother talking to someone through the front door. 'OK Alan, but don't be too long. I don't want him tired out. He's been very sick.' Monica turned around to call Elvis. 'Oh you're there sweetie. Look, Alan's just been to the hospital to see you and they sent him here. Isn't that nice? Now I've told him he can't be too long, you need to rest.'

Alan presented Elvis with a brown paper bag containing chocolate and a computer magazine. Monica went into the living room to listen to more words of wisdom from Doctor Phil.

'You feelin' better Elvis?' asked Alan 'I thought you'd still be in hospital. What was wrong with you?'

'Pneumonia.' explained Elvis brusquely. 'Alan, I need your help. I need to show you something. I need to know if you can see it too. I need to know I'm not going nuts. But you've got to promise me that you won't tell anyone, no matter what. You promise?'

'What you talkin' about? Nuts? I thought you had pneumonia.'

'Promise me, please.'

'OK, OK. What d'you want to show me?'

'Here, hang onto this.' Elvis fumbled in his pocket then passed his friend a surgical mask. 'I nicked these from the hospital.'

'What the... Why are you giving me this?'

'You'll see why in a minute... hopefully.'

The pair of them slipped down the kitchen stairs then out of the house.

'If your Mum thinks I've taken you out she'll kill me!' moaned Alan.

'Don't worry, she'll never know.'

They crossed the road and rounded the back of the church.

'Oh shit, look at that smoke! What are they doing? Put your mask on Alan.'

Alan humoured Elvis and tied the green paper mask across his face. Elvis opened the outer glass door to the hall and showed Alan into the small foyer.

'Right' thought Elvis 'this is where I find out if I'm completely insane.' He opened the wooden door into the main hall. Many more people had arrived since Elvis had last been there. The room was full, the smell stronger and the air heavy with smoke. There were people lying on the floor, sitting on tables and chairs, a few were sat around a small fire in the corner cooking. Everyone was dressed with clothes straight out of an historical movie and everyone bore the marks of plague.

Alan stood open-mouthed and speechless. Le Clerc came to greet them. Elvis walked straight past him and towards the fire .

'You can't do that in here!' He grabbed a jug of water and doused the flames. A cloud of steam hissed from the embers. His actions were met with shouts of disapproval.

Alan turned around and stumbled back out of the hall.

'Hey, wait!' cried Elvis.

Le Clerc stepped into Elvis's path. 'Have you got that medicine? We need the medicine. Where have you been? We haven't seen you for days. We can't stay in here for ever!'

Others began to gather, asking the same questions. But Elvis needed to catch up with his friend. He pushed them out of the way.

'I'll be back with your medicine.' he promised and he dashed after Alan.

'What do you mean you didn't give him the potion?' Elizabeth was still finding it hard to accept what Brock had told her. 'You promised me that you'd given it to him. You told me you'd seen him drink it! How can you lie to me like that?'

'I did it to protect you Elizabeth. I didn't want to hurt you.'

'Hurt me? You lied Mister Brock. You lied to protect yourself and hide your own... laziness. Don't try and say you did it to protect me! If you'd done what you'd promised then James would be here now.'

'I'm sorry Elizabeth. It wasn't like that I promise.'

'Your promises don't seem to be worth very much Mister Brock, do they?'

'Elizabeth, I tried to find him, I tried to give him the potion. He was my friend. I looked for James for hours, in every yard and back alley I could think of. But he wasn't anywhere. I only gave up when I felt sure there was no hope for him. I'm sorry, I know that was wrong, but I couldn't bear to see you hurt. That was the only reason I lied. Can't you forgive me for that?'

'No... Well... I don't know Mister Brock, I really don't know.'

'I can keep you safe now. You need someone to protect you and your family. This is a strange place. James would want that, I'm sure.' He placed a hand on her arm.

'You assume too much, Mister Brock.' Elizabeth shrugged off his grip and walked away.

Elvis chased after Alan. 'You saw them! You really saw them!'

'What's going on Elvis?' asked Alan. 'This is fucking weird, man. I don't like it.'

Footsteps approached. Alan turned around. It was Samuel. He'd sneaked back across the road and found somebody else, a young woman in long pinafore dress and bonnet, her face mottled and peppered with sores like the rest. Samuel smiled and nodded as he walked past.

'Elvis, I don't know what you're up to here but I don't want any part in it. I'm going home. I'll see you when you're back at school.'

'Alan, no. I need your help. Please don't go!'

The door to the hall opened again and Le Clerc stepped out. He'd found himself some clothes to blend in with modern dress. If Elvis wasn't going to get him his medicine, he'd go and find some for himself. He wore a red flower-patterned shirt, some black vinyl trousers and a pair of brown cowboy boots. He turned his collar up and surveyed the scene around him.

'Oh shit!' moaned Elvis 'Wait Alan, I'll be right back.'

Elvis ushered Le Clerc back into the hall.

Alan had no intention of waiting around. He took his chance and walked briskly to the bus stop.

Inside the hall Elvis was mobbed. Patience was running out and people wanted the new wondrous medicine. Elvis explained how he'd been sick and in hospital and that was why he hadn't been back, but his explanation only strengthened their desire for treatment.

'You had medicine and it worked!' shouted Le Clerc. 'How much does it cost? How much can you get? We need it now!'

'Alright!' shouted Elvis. 'I'll get you the medicine.'

'When? When will you get it?'

'Tonight, I'll try tonight.'

'And where's Cormag?' asked Madadh 'I need ma brother.

'He was taken.' explained Mary.

'Teken by who?' demanded Madadh, clutching at his dirk.

'By men in strange clothes in a talkin' carriage with blue lights. They said they were takin' 'im to 'ospital.'

'Reet, A'll I'll be away te get 'im free then. Ye laddie, where'd I find this 'ospital place?'

'No, slow down!' said Elvis 'I'll find him, don't worry. He'll be safe in hospital.' Elvis backed up towards the exit. 'Please, wait here, everybody! I'll be back with your medicine! I promise' Elvis pushed his way outside and closed the door firmly. He paused and took a deep breath. He had to find a way to get the medicine he'd promised. But how? Outside he found Mary, sitting on the ground with her back leant against the blackened sandstone blocks that formed the church.

'Oh no!' cried Elvis 'You can't stay out here! You'll be seen. Please, back inside now.'

Mary kept her face pointed to the floor and said nothing.

'Come on, for heaven's sake get inside before someone comes!' Elvis leant down and put a hand under Mary's arm to try and help her up. Mary smacked it away.

'Leave me alone. Who cares if we're seen anyway?'

'I'll get the medicine for you and your family' reassured Elvis. 'I'll find a way and then you'll all be well.'

'And what then? We all live 'ere, 'iding in this little 'ouse f'rever? Is that it? Is that yer great plan?'

'At least all of your family are here. At least you're together and safe.'

Mary said nothing.

'Doesn't that mean something to you? What's wrong with you people for heaven's sake?'

'Not all me family's 'ere. Me Dad's not come.'

'Well people are still arriving all of the time. He'll probably be here any minute.'

'No. I worked it out. Everyone what's come back drank the potion, you know, like we told ya 'bout. That's what done it, the potion. But 'e never 'ad none. We thought 'e 'ad, we thought that Brock 'ad give 'im some but 'e lied. 'E never 'ad none so 'e won't be comin' back, not never.'

'Oh' said Elvis softly. He sat on the ground alongside Mary. She shuffled a little away from him. 'Well, maybe he never got sick and never needed it. Maybe he stayed well and lived to a grand old age.'

'I doubt it.'

'But he might have.'

'Yeh an' 'e might 'ave laid a golden egg and an' lived with the pixies.'

'I guess we'll never know if he got plague. Unless...'

'Unless what?'

'I've got an idea. Come with me.'

Chapter 10

Doctor Platini stood with his intern at the doorway and peered through the glass at Cormag. He was lying in a hospital bed with one wrist handcuffed to the frame. He was shouting something towards the window, but through the sound-proof glass his ranting was muted to a series of demonic facial contortions. A bored policeman sat outside a door that was adorned with a series of warning signs; 'Isolation', 'Authorised Entry Only' 'Strict barrier nursing' and 'Infection risk'.

'Gosh, it's amazing what people pick up living rough.' said Doctor Platini 'He really is very confused. He's talking absolute nonsense! He's covered with boils, he's got fever and thirst, obviously some sort of toxic confusional state.'

'What do you think the diagnosis is?' asked his young colleague.

'Oh probably some sort of skin sepsis that's out of control because of living on the street. For the moment we'll just keep going with the I.V. antibiotics and wait for the path results. We'll give him a little sedation, at least then we can treat him properly. Pass me his drug chart.' Doctor Platini scribbled away on the card and then looked up at his junior. 'You know, if I didn't know better, I'd think that he might...' He shook his head. 'No, but that would be crazy.'

'What?' asked his intern 'What would you think?'

'Well, you'd think he might have ...plague. But that's crazy. There hasn't been a case of plague in London in a hundred years. No, I'm just being silly. When are the infectious disease people coming to see him? We'll see what they think. Oh, and nurse, after he's sedated, see if you can give him a bit of a wash.'

Elvis peered at the road from behind the gravestones. It was busy with traffic and the pavements streamed with pedestrians. Elvis looked at Mary in her old dress and sores. Behind the boils and buboes her bright blue eyes still sparkled and shone, but everything else about her was going to draw attention. It was too risky to just walk across the street again. But how else could he get her there?

Mary sensed his uncertainty. 'We can go through the tunnel.' she suggested.

'Tunnel, what tunnel?'

'Didn't you know neither? We found it last night. Comes from the 'ouse. 'Ere, I'll show ya. 'Ave you got one of them lights?'

Mary led Elvis to the small stone tomb.

'We can't go in there!' said Elvis. 'That's full of dead bodies and ...shit.'

'So what?' said Mary ' You don't mean you're afraid of ghosts now do you?' she added with a smirk.

Between the two of them they managed to shove open the heavy door. Inside the flagstone was still pushed to one side exposing the dark opening.

Elvis pulled out a small LED torch attached to his penknife and shone it down the hole. 'You don't want to go down there!'

'Why not? Come on. Don't be chicken!' Mary sat on the edge of the opening and prepared to climb down. She paused. 'I'm sorry Elvis, is it 'cause of your bad leg? I din't mean noffin' by that.'

Elvis shook his head. 'No, that's OK.' he dropped the crutch past Mary into the hole. 'I suppose if we have to. Go on, hurry up. We ain't got all day.'

Elvis gritted his teeth. The tunnel was dark and smelly. In places the roof was low and he had to crawl to get through. Elvis hated confined spaces. He tried to keep his mind focussed on just moving slowly and steadily forwards, to slow his breathing and racing heart and try to forget where he was. Rats scurried away from them as they made their way under the road. Finally they arrived beneath the iron grid behind the bush at the front of Number 28. Elvis used his crutch to reach up and push the grid to one side. He gave Mary a leg up and she climbed out before leaning back into the hole to pull Elvis up. Elvis peered out from under the bush. The road was busy but everyone was too concerned with their own business to bother about what was happening in his garden. They slipped around the side of the house and into the kitchen.

Morris had left the radio on. The lunchtime news was being read. 'Reports are coming in of a cluster of cases of an unidentified severe illness in Central and North London. Public health authorities are urgently investigating the outbreak to see if they can establish a link between the cases and identify the cause. They expect to have more information in the next twenty-four hours. Meantime anybody in London experiencing fever, skin rashes or chest symptoms are advised to stay at home and contact their doctor for advice.'

Elvis cringed. Surely this couldn't be anything to do with his people in the church hall? He had an awful feeling in the pit of his stomach that it very much did.

Mary and Elvis crept through the house into Elvis's bedroom. Elvis pulled a plastic box from under his bed and tipped it upside down. He scattered the copies of his X Box magazines, old birthday cards and school projects either side until he found the copies of the 1665 death registers that he'd meticulously repaired with sticky tape.

Mary picked one up and looked at it. 'What's this?'

'Don't you recognise it? It's a list of people who died from back in your time. Look, it's got 28 Monnington Street listed all down the side here. See if you know any names.'

Mary looked at it blankly.

'Oh, sorry,' said Elvis 'Here, let me have a look. What was your surname?'

'Young. I'm Mary Young. An' Alice an' Samuel an' Elizabeth an' James. All Young.'

Elvis began to scan down the list of names listed from 28 Monnington Street. At first he could see no mention of anyone called Young. Then finally, at the bottom of the page he found them.

'Look here, at the very end.'

The handwriting was ornate and a little difficult but there was no mistaking what it said. Elvis read it aloud.

'28th August 1665. Elizabeth Young 28 years, Plague. Mary Young 13 years, Plague. Samuel Young 12 years, Plague. Alice Young 2 years, Plague.' But there was no mention of James.

'See!' said Elvis. 'He must have survived. He must never have got plague so that's why he's not come back. He probably lived a long and happy life. So it doesn't matter that he didn't get the potion.'

'Hmm' said Mary 'what if he just died somewhere else, or they didn't know who he was?'

'Well...' said Elvis. 'oh hang on, there's another page here.' He picked up the last sheet and began to read it.

'Oh'. He read quietly from the top line; 'James Young 29 years, Plague.' He placed the paper softly back onto the bed.

Mary turned her head away.

Elvis was unsure what he should do, so he settled for a clumsy pat on the shoulder. 'Perhaps he got some of that stuff from someone else. Perhaps he'll appear any minute.'

Mary shook her head. 'There was nobody else.'

'Elvis! Elvis! Are you up there?' shouted his mother. 'Elvis!'

'Oh crap!' said Elvis. 'Quick, hide. Under here.'

Elvis lifted the overhanging sheet and Mary squeezed under the bed behind old shoes and outgrown toys. Elvis pushed the box behind her and then opened the bedroom door.

'What Mum...' Elvis's words were cut short. Morris was stood right outside his room.

'Hello Elvis' said Morris 'may I come in?' He eased his way past Elvis into the bedroom. He sat down on the bed, making the soft springs sag towards Mary. She squeezed further back towards the wall.

'I'm pleased to see you're well again, Elvis.' said Morris. 'Come; sit on the bed here next to me.'

Elvis sat at the edge of the bed, well away from Morris.

'I'm sorry I didn't get a chance to see you in hospital Elvis. You left sooner than I'd expected. Have they worked out what was the matter with you?'

'Pneumonia they said.' explained Elvis.

'Oh, pneumonia,' Morris nodded knowingly 'I see. Elvis, remember when you had those seizures, when you saw those children, remember?'

Elvis nodded

'Did any of them tell you their names, at all?'

'No' said Elvis 'why would they do that? They're just in my head.'

Mary strained to listen to Morris's soft voice. She felt sure she recognised it. The accent was maybe a little different, but she was sure she'd heard those tones before.

'No matter.' said Morris 'Did they show you anything unusual? Did you find anything up in the attic?'

'Like what?'

'Oh anything, I don't know, maybe books or toys or maybe...I don't know, a jewel?'

Mary was tormented by Morris's voice. She racked her brains and thought and thought. Where had she heard it before?

'A jewel? Why would I find a jewel?'

'Oh no reason. Just wondered.'

Monica's shrill voice sounded up the staircase again. 'Elvis! Elvis! Henry's here to see you. Come down Elvis!'

Elvis seized his chance. 'I'd better go downstairs.' He jumped up and held the door open for Morris to leave.

'Look Elvis,' Morris whispered before he left, 'there may be some strange things happening around here. Things that you wouldn't understand. Things that could get you into trouble if you're not careful. If you see anything unusual, if you find anything, you be sure to tell me.'

Elvis nodded. He followed Morris out of the bedroom, carefully closed the door and went downstairs. Henry was waiting in the living room.

'Hey up Elvis. How you doin'?' He held a plastic carrier bag. 'How d'you like my doctor's case. Pretty smart eh?' He reached in and pulled out a stethoscope and a slender glass tube. ' 'Ave you ever seen one of these rectal thermometers Elvis?'

'Rectal? What the...? You are not doing that to me!'

Henry laughed. 'Just kiddin'. Come on; take your shirt off mate.'

Upstairs Morris peeked over the bannister and satisfied himself that Elvis was busy. He quietly opened the door to Elvis's bedroom and sneaked back inside.

'Well' announced Henry 'everything is looking pretty good to me. Chest clear, temp's good, blood pressure OK. I reckon you're fitter than me, mate.'

Elvis replaced his T-shirt. 'How's Abit going Henry.'

Henry thought for a moment. 'He's battlin' hard thanks Elvis. He's a tough little cookie.'

In the bedroom, Morris quickly searched through Elvis's draws and cupboards. He couldn't find what he was looking for. Mary kept herself pushed up against the wall under the bed. Morris searched through Elvis's school bag. Still nothing. Perhaps there was something under the bed. He knelt down. The box of papers was protruding out from under the sheet. Morris pulled it out and lifted off the lid. He found the old death registers repaired by sticky tape. He looked at the words 28 Monnington Street appearing line after line. He gritted his teeth and put them back in the box and closed the lid. He stretched an arm under the bed to see what else he could find. Mary tried to edge further away from his outstretched fingers but there was nowhere else to go. She sucked in her belly and held her breath as Morris's hand foraged around in front of her.

The bedroom door burst open and Elvis walked in, followed closely by Henry.

Morris jumped to his feet. 'Elvis, I dropped my... key. Just found it! This must be Henry I keep hearing about. How nice to meet you.' He reached out a hand and shook firmly with Henry.

'Very nice to meet you Sir' said Henry. 'Your lad here is quite something.'

Elvis turned to Henry feeling rather surprised. He couldn't remember the last time anybody had said anything good about him. He felt a warm glow inside.

'Yes, I guess so' said Morris. 'Anyway, I'd best keep going. No rest for the wicked.'

'So Elvis,' asked Henry after Morris had left 'what did you want to show me?'

'Promise me this is our secret. You won't tell anyone else.'

'OK Elvis, whatever you say.'

'No matter how shocked you are.'

'Come on Elvis, you ain't gonna shock me mate.' Henry's mobile rang. 'Just a tick Elvis.' He glanced at the screen. 'It's Nya, I've got to take this.'

Elvis crouched down and put his head under the bed. He waved to Mary to come out. She shook her head defiantly.

'When did they notice?' There was an urgency in Henry's voice in contrast to his usual relaxed tone. 'What do they think's happenin'? ... Shit. OK Nya, I'll be there in twen'y minutes tops... Hey come on, don't cry. He's our boy, he's a fighter. He'll be right Nya, I promise.' Henry shoved his 'phone back in his pocket. 'Sorry Elvis, I gotta go mate. Show me tomorrow hey?' Henry hurried out of the bedroom and after a quick word of reassurance to Monica he was gone.

Mary crawled out from under the bed.

'Why wouldn't you come out? He might have been able to help us!'

'I didn't know who he was. I was scared he might be... someone else.'

'Someone else? You don't know anybody else Mary! Not from...now. For God's sake!'

Mary sat on the bed and dropped her head into her hands. 'I'm sorry Elvis. I was mixed up, after you showed me that list. I was a bit scared, that's all. I din't mean no 'arm.'

Elvis's tone softened. 'No, it's OK. I should have...thought...' he fumbled for the words. 'We'll... we'll get some medicine Mary, I'll find a way.'

Mary kept her face pointed towards her knees.

'And we'll find a way to get your father back. I promise.'

In the hall Madadh could wait no longer. 'I'm gonna fin' Cormag.' he announced.

'Wait' said Le Clerc 'If you go like that they'll spot you a mile off. Here, grab some clothes from these piles, that way we'll both blend in.'

'Both? Whit ye on 'boot? I dinna wan' ye slowin' me doon.'

'No Madadh, think about it. We can look out for each other and then, after we find Cormag, who knows? And anyway, can you read? Have you thought how you're going to find this hospital?'

Madadh thought about it. 'Aye, well if ye git in ma way, A'll be le'in' ye behind. Dinna fa'get that, reet?'

'We'll be a good team, the pair of us together Madadh, never fear.'

Madadh prodded at the piles of clothes. 'Whit the hell am I s'posed te de wi' all this shite?'

'Here, look at these.' Le Clerc handed Madadh a dog-eared old copy of 'Hello' magazine. 'Have a look in that, you'll get the idea.'

Madadh had a glance at the pictures and then huffed and threw the magazine on the floor. Le Clerc flicked through another copy until he found a double page spread on Elton John. The style met with his approval. On the table was a box with odds and ends, old purses, brioches and sunglasses. Le Clerc found himself a pair a white-rimmed plastic sunglasses with lens like saucers. He compared them with the picture. 'Perfect' he thought. 'I'll be invisible.'

Madadh searched through the clothes until he found something he found acceptable. He was loathed to lose the kilt but at least there was a pair of tartan trousers; that would be the next best thing. They were a little short, rather flared at the bottom but the colours weren't too far away from the MacDonald tartan. He found a jumper, a little tight on his broad muscular physique, but he approved of the large red star on the front and the way his bushy ginger chest hair bulged through the v-neck. Le Clerc threw him an old pair of black and white canvas baseball boots and they were all set to go.

Elvis saw Mary into the tunnel in front of the house.

'I'll come back tonight. I'll find a way, I swear.' He held her hand as she climbed down into the drain. 'I'm sorry about your father Mary.'

Mary managed a weak smile.

'Here, Mary, take one of these.' Elvis unscrewed the top from the bottle of capsules he'd been given at the hospital. He took one out and passed it to Mary. She eyed it sceptically.

'Trust me Mary, just swallow it.'

'Alright, if you promise it's safe.'

'I promise you Mary. It'll help make you well. Take it, please.'

'Well... only 'cause you say so.' Mary choked down the capsule.

'I'd better go. I'll get more though Mary, lots more, enough for everyone.' promised Elvis, though doubting the words again as they passed between his lips.

Elvis went back to his room. He lay on his bed and stared aimlessly at the ceiling. He had dozens of seventeenth century plague refugees now staying across the road, reports on the radio of what were probably more plague cases in London, and it was only a matter of time before his test results came in. He felt pretty sure what they were going to say. The shit would hit the fan then. What on earth could he do? Who could he turn to? A thought entered his head. No, it was silly. But then what other options did he have?

Mary rounded the church on her way back to the hall. Outside the door, two boys wrestled on the ground. Mary looked twice. It was Fran's boys: Matthew was sitting on top of Isaac, a knee on each arm and mercilessly rubbing his ears. William ran around them in circles like an excited puppy.

'Hey, Mary!' shouted Isaac 'Ow! Stop it!'

'No, not 'til you say it! What are ya?' demanded Matthew, then turned his head and casually added 'Hi Mary.'

'Get off!'

'Not 'til you say it!'

'Alright, I'm a fat little piggy!'

Matthew gave Isaac a triumphant swipe across the head and rolled off.

Mary sighed and carried on into the crowded hall. The boys tumbled in behind her.

'Wow! Look at all these people!' gasped Isaac.

'I want Mum!' moaned William.

'Is she in 'ere?' asked Matthew, his gaze flicking between the countless faces.

'I ain't seen her.' Mary answered uncomfortably, a vision of Fran's end filling her head.

Elizabeth spotted Fran's sons and waved them across. 'Boys, you made it!' Alice was falling asleep in her arms as she spoke.

'I want Mum!' squealed William.

'How did all these people get here?' asked Matthew.

'The stone!' Samuel hop-scotched over legs on the floor to join them. 'It was the stone! I told you all it was magic!'

'What? How's it done that?'

'Everyone here 'as drank the potion 'fore they got plague an' then died!'

'Did your Mum drink it?' asked Elizabeth, gently rocking Alice.

'Yeh, I saw her!' shouted Isaac. 'She brought some back from your 'ouse. I saw 'er!'

'Yeh, but she didn't die of plague, did she?' said Mary under her breath.

Elizabeth scowled her disapproval.

'We'll find her.' Matthew grabbed William's hand and pulled him along behind him. 'She's gotta be here somewhere. Stop whingin'.'

Mary went to the kitchen and poured herself a cup of water.

'Hello Mary.'

Mary spat the water back into the sink. She knew Nick's voice immediately. She had promised herself that if she saw him she'd give him a slap across the face and humiliate him for tricking her and making her sick. She was going to let everyone know that he'd hidden himself in the carriage house knowing he was carrying disease; they would hear of his deceit. She turned nervously to face him. He bore the sores and marks of the sickness but she could feel herself slipping back into his deep chestnut eyes and her anger melting. She coyly wiped the water from her chin.

'I owe you an apology I think Mary. I don't remember too much at the end, but I don't think I was very nice.'

'Oh no, you were fine.' Mary cursed herself as the words slid from her tongue.

'I didn't know what I was doing, Mary. I'm sorry. You won't ...tell anyone, will you?'

Mary shook her head.

'Thanks Mary, you're the best. You know that don't you?' He turned his attention to the bustling room. 'Have you got any sort of clue what's going on here?'

Chapter 11

Elvis stood with his back to the post office and looked at the row of terraced houses across the street. He vividly remembered the deeply wrinkled face of the stooped old woman. Why did she say 'When the time comes and you want to know more'? Does she know something about what was going on? Well, there was nothing to lose. She said that her house was the one with the black door. Most of the houses in the row had been modernised, some with fake stone facades, others with shiny white PVC windows and doors. Satellite dishes all pointed in the same direction along the street. But there was just one house that looked untouched since the day it was built. It stood in the middle of the row, with black door and peeling paint. The curtains were drawn and smoke puffed from a precarious chimney. That was the house.

Elvis tapped on the creaky iron knocker then stepped back. The house remained silent. After a minute he stepped up again and repeated the knock. He looked up at the curtains across the bedroom window; did someone just peep between them? No matter. He waited again. Still nobody came. He would try one last time and if there was still no answer he'd give up and go home. He gave two hard raps on the door, and as he pulled the knocker back for a third, the door squeaked open.

'For heaven's sake, laddie. Are ye trying to wake the deed?' The old woman stood with back arched and neck twisted.

'No, I'm sorry; I didn't think anyone was in.'

'Well if ye thought naybody was in, why where ye botherin' te knock in the first place?' Before Elvis had time to think of an answer she pulled the door open wide. 'For heaven's sake Elvis, get inside boy. You're late.' She held the door open and impatiently waved him through.

The door opened into a grim little living room. A half-light came from a crack in the curtains and a blackened kettle hissed over an open fire. There was just a wooden rocking chair and a small square table for furniture, else the room was bare.

'Have a seat noo boy. We hav'nay much time.'

Madadh and Le Clerc set off down the High Street in search of the hospital and Cormag. The city was a bewildering jumble of lights and sounds, of fast moving vehicles, and shop windows crammed with the strangest of goods. They couldn't help but stare at the weird looking people walking past, at their bizarre clothes, the wires hanging from their ears and the shockingly exposed summer flesh. And people stared at them too. It wasn't just what they wore; their sores and rashes made people stand back and give them a wide berth.

As they ventured further, the street became busier. A man in front of them stopped and pulled a noisy little box from his pocket and then began to talk into it. Le Clerc was stunned. He prodded Madadh and pointed at the man. Madadh leant forward to have a closer look. The man began to walk away but Madadh's curiosity wasn't satisfied. What was this strange device? He followed closely until they all came to a halt at a pedestrian crossing. Madadh leant forward again and strained to see. His bushy red hair tickled the back of the man's neck.

The man turned around with a scowl. 'What are you...' He saw Madadh's wild red hair and beard, his ugly boils and the bushy chest hair escaping from his jumper. His words dried up.

''Whit's tha'?' asked Madadh pointing at the mobile 'Who ye bletherin' te? Hoo's tha' wor' then?' Madadh reached forward for the 'phone to have a closer look.

The man was not about to argue. He thrust the 'phone into Madadh's hand and then turned to run. He dashed into the road, straight in front of an oncoming taxi. There was a screech of tyres, the taxi swerved and the man jumped out of the cab's way; though sadly only into the path of a large white Transit van. He was thumped to the ground.

Bystanders rushed to help.

Madadh was struggling to work out what to do with the 'phone. Eventually he gave up and pushed his way through the on-lookers. 'Thanks ma'e, I was jus' af'er a wee gander.' He placed the phone on top of the injured man's abdomen. A crowd was rapidly gathering.

Le Clerc tugged on Madadh's arm. 'I think we should go.'

Madadh looked at the faces around him. Attention was jumping between the moaning, prostrate pedestrian and Madadh himself. Along the street two policemen were urgently pushing their way through the crowds. An ambulance siren wailed and flashing blue lights were rushing up the street. Madadh was fascinated by the noise and the sights. He stood motionless, hypnotised, ignoring Le Clerc's tugs. The police arrived and began taking details from the two drivers whilst the paramedics scooped the injured man from the road.

A policeman approached Madadh. 'I understand you're with the injured party, Sir. Look, I know this is upsetting for you so I won't hold you up. We'll speak to you properly when they've got him settled. You're going with him, I take it?'

Madadh was still in a trance, staring at the flashing lights of the ambulance.

'Where are they taking him?' asked Le Clerc.

'The hospital of course. Where else?'

'The hospital! That's where we're going!'

'Good! Why don't you see if you hitch a ride in the ambulance with him and we'll catch up with you there?' The policeman turned and shouted 'Hoi, hang on, there's family here.'

'Hurry up, we need to go!' shouted a paramedic from the back of the van.

'Go on, quickly boys, jump in.' The policeman tapped Madadh on the shoulder. 'And while you're there' he whispered 'see a doctor about those sores.'

Le Clerc eagerly jumped into the back of the ambulance and was guided into a seat. The doors began to close behind him. Madadh ripped them back open.

'Sorry mate. We can only carry one family member in here.' The ambulance man began to pull the door closed again.

Madadh tore them back apart. 'Whit ye dein'. Bide a wee, A'm comin' an' all!' He threw a fearsome glare at the ambulance man and climbed into the back of the van.

'He's not looking good.' said his colleague. GCS is falling, he's going to need intubating if we don't leave right now. Let's go!'

The paramedic sighed and closed the doors behind Madadh. The siren began to howl again and the ambulance lurched forward throwing Madadh against the back door.

Le Clerc and Madadh looked in wonderment at the machines, at the pedestrian fastened to the stretcher, at the rigid neck collar, the plastic tubes hanging from his arm and the wires from his chest.

'So what relation is he to you blokes?' asked the paramedic as he pulled back the man's eye lids and shone the torch at his pupils.

'What relation? Oh, er, brother' said Le Clerc 'Yeh, he's my brother.'

'What's his name?'

'His name?'

'Yes, what's his name?'

'Oh, em...' Le Clerc looked around for inspiration. 'Ivy. Yes, his name is Ivy.'

'Ivy? That's an usual name for a bloke,' he said, fiddling with a beeping machine. Especially for someone who looks... kind of Japanese. Not much like you fellas.'

Le Clerc smiled.

'What's his surname?'

'Surname?'

'Yeh, he's your brother, you must know his surname, for heaven's sake!'

'Oh, yes, of course I do.' Le Clerc looked back at the labels on the cupboard doors. 'His name is Ivy... Ivy Fluids.'

The paramedic eyed him sceptically. 'Nah mate, you're taking the Mickey. He's never Ivy Fluids.'

'Le Clerc could sense his cover was blown. 'My good man. How dare you question my testimony whilst my brother lies hurt before you? Have you no heart?' He lowered his white rimmed sunglasses and gave the ambulance man a piercing glare.

'Is he tekin' the piss?' growled Madadh, attempting to climb to his feet as the ambulance lurched.

'No, not a problem.' said the paramedic, with a jolly tone. 'If you say he's Ivy Fluids then he's Ivy Fluids.' He'd been in the job too long to argue with a couple of odd-balls in the back of his vehicle.

A moment later the ambulance jerked to a halt outside the emergency department. The paramedic jumped up and gladly threw open the doors. In a moment they'd whisked their patient outside and were heading towards the emergency department.

'Follow us guys' ordered the ambulance man and then turned to his patient. 'Stay with us Ivy. We're at the hospital. Can you hear me Ivy?'

Le Clerc and Madadh waited until the paramedics had disappeared.

'Reet,' declared Madadh 'this must be the place. Let's go find Cormag.'

'How do you know my name?' asked Elvis, sipping on a strong cup of sweet tea.

'Och, I know many things. Ye'd be surprised boy. Now d'ye have the stoon?'

'The stone?'

'Aye, the stoon! The red stoon, the Mother Lee stoon! What other stoons d'ye have?'

'Oh yeh, I saw that.'

'Well, I gathered that boy, but d'ye still have it?'

'No.'

'Noo! What d'ye mean noo? We need that stoon for heaven's sake! How can we do it without it?'

'Do what?'

'Don't act any stupider than you have to boy. I've seen the news; I know what's going on. I've waited many a long year for this. But we need te hurry. If we're going te get those people back whence they came and stop the whole of London going down with this awful disease again. We'll need that stoon. You're going te be a very busy boy.'

'But I don't understand. What am I supposed to do?'

'They're noo making you bairns any brighter these days, are they? I'm sure even you have worked oot that stoon has some special qualities.'

'Well, yes, but I'm not really sure...'

Mother Munro sighed. 'Look, many years ago, a lot of people drank a potion from that stoon, a potion that was supposed to keep them safe from the plague. Those people were staying at your hoose at the time. An' I think I'd be reet in saying that those are the same people that ye'd be hiding noo Elvis.'

Elvis nodded. 'Yeh, but if the potion was supposed to keep them safe, then the stone obviously doesn't work, does it?'

'Dinna be smug boy!' she snapped. 'This was noo ordinary illness. Even the stoon couldn'e keep them safe from this disease, so it did the next best thing.'

'What, let them die?'

'Noo, ye wee idiot, it's brought them back te a new age, an age when they can be cured. It's brought them back to you so that you can get them medicine and make them well. Then they can return home. They're all dependant on your ingenuity and your courage young Elvis.'

'Me? Courage?' Elvis scoffed. 'Why don't you find someone big and fearless instead of me?'

'Fearless, laddie? Did you hear me say fearless?'

'Well, you said...'

"Och if you've noo fear Elvis then you're noo courageous, you're just plain stupid. Ye have to be scared before ye can be brave.' The old woman shrugged. 'Anyway, you chose to live in that hoose.'

'I didn't choose! And anyway, how on earth can they return home? That's hundreds of years ago.'

'The stoon, boy! That's why we need the stoon! And ye'll need te get every last one of them back to where they came from. Whatever happens, they mustn't stay here. If ye fail, there'll be more and more of them from across the ages, every one of them sicker than the last 'til this city is filled again with the foul stench of the Black Death. But before ye can send them back, first ye must make them well. Ye'll need to find enough of your newfangled medicine to cure them before their journey.'

'How do I do that?'

'I don't know. This is your world Elvis. Ye need to find the medicine. When ye've done that, I'll help ye send them all home.'

'OK. Well, say I could do that, what about if, just supposing, you wanted to cure someone who hadn't taken the medicine back then? Someone who just got sick and died of plague. How could you do that?'

'That's a silly question Elvis. Most all of London didn't take the potion! We canna make them all well!'

'No I don't mean that. There's a girl...'

'Och, a girl. I might have known. Aren't ye a bit young for that kind of thing laddie?'

'No, not like that! No, she's come back, with her brother and sister and mother. But her father didn't take the medicine so he's not here. Mary said...'

'Mary, did ye say? Noo... Mary Young?'

Elvis nodded.

'Och the wee girl? She's back!'

'You know her?'

'I did, a long time ago.'

'Is there some way we can help her father? He never took it so he's not come back.'

'Aye, well, she was a fine girl. She helped me, she did. Well, I suppose it might just be possible, just might. It'd be dangerous, and ye'd have te hurry boy, because when they find oot what's wrong with ye, one half of London will be crawling all over ye and the other half will be running the other way. Time is the key. Ye need to go find the stoon and get that medicine. Do whatever ye need to do, ye hear me, whatever it takes. You've only got one chance.'

'But...how do you know all this? You can't be old enough...'

The old woman smiled. 'I'm a lot older than ye think.'

'But how could you be?'

'Look laddie, there's many a thing you don't need to know right now. Time is fading fast. You need to be on ya way. But beware, there's others oot there who want the stoon for their own ends. Watch ye back now.'

'But I still don't...'

'I'll see ye tomorrow. I'll meet ye at the back of the old church, that's where they are I'd guess?'

Elvis nodded again.

'Aye well I'll meet ye there when the clock chimes midnight.'

'But...'

'No time for buts. Find that stoon, and tell that wee girl Mary to make plenty o' potion, lots and lots. She'll know what I mean. That newfangled medicine is your job. I canna help ye there. Noo, on your way boy, ye've lots t'do.'

Le Clerc and Madadh headed towards the main doors of the hospital.

On the front steps a woman stood under a bright light and before a television camera, talking to a microphone. 'One wing of the hospital is now sealed off whilst doctors investigate the cause of the outbreak. So far fourteen cases of the mystery illness have been identified with more people coming forward by the hour. Three people remain dangerously ill in intensive care.'

Madadh and Le Clerc wandered closer to have a look. They stood behind the TV reporter and gawked at the dazzling white light. Le Clerc dropped the sunglasses from his forehead and onto his face.

The cameraman turned off the light and aimed his camera to the floor. 'You've got two clowns behind you Brittney.'

The woman turned around. Le Clerc and Madadh smiled and were about to ask about the light but the woman spoke first. 'You two fruitcakes better fuck off right now or I'll have the pair of you locked up. D'you hear?'

'Yeh, go on, before I do something I regret.' snarled the cameraman.

Madadh was all for showing the man the meaning of regret, but Le Clerc knew better. 'Let's go' he said, stepping in front of Madadh, 'We should find Cormag.'

The woman composed herself again. 'OK, from the top Quentin... As the mystery outbreak continues, panic grips the people of London...'

Chapter 12

'Don't look surprised' hissed Le Clerc, 'whatever happens, just act natural.'

Two huge glass doors glided apart as Madadh and Le Clerc approached the hospital's main entrance. Inside they were met by an elderly man with a badge that said 'Geoffrey. Your Hospital Volunteer.'

'Hello' said Geoffrey 'Can I help you gentlemen? You look a bit lost.'

'Are ye the bastar' tha's holdin' ma bruther preezoner?'

'Hold on a minute Sir, sorry.' Geoffrey produced a whistling hearing aid from the side of his head and fiddled with it until the noise stopped. He pushed it back into his ear. 'Let's try that again now, shall we?'

Le Clerc tapped Madadh on the arm. 'Shhh. Let me try.' He turned to Geoffrey. 'Good afternoon Sir. We're looking for my friend's brother. We think he may have been inadvertently detained here. His name is Cormag. Do you know where we might find him?'

'No' said Geoffrey 'but I know someone who does.' He shuffled towards a row of desks at the edge of the corridor. Behind them sat three women busily talking into headphones and typing into computers. 'These ladies can help you. I'll be over here if you need me.'

'Yes, can I help?' asked one of the women curtly.

'Aye, ye best ha'!' replied Madadh 'Whit ha' ye dun wi' Cormag?'

'I'm sorry?'

'Aye, well it's a wee bit late for bein' sorry lass, bu' if ye tell me where ye're hauldin' 'im, we'll leave wi'out causin' nae trooble!'

'I don't understand Sir.'

'Let me help. Hello my good lady,' said Le Clerc lifting his sunglasses onto his head 'we need to find my friend's brother. We think there's been a terrible mix-up and he might accidentally have been... imprisoned, somewhere in this establishment.'

'What's his name?' she asked, raising her eyebrows to the woman alongside.

'Cormag. Cormag MacDonald.' growled Madadh.

She tapped on her keyboard. 'No' she said. 'There's no one by that name in this hospital.'

'Wha'?' said Madadh 'How are ye sae sure?'

'I've just searched the whole hospital. There's nobody of that name here?'

'Searched? Ye have'ne got off yer fat arse woman! How the hell can ye ha' searched the whole place?'

'Sir, if you're going to get rude I'll have security remove you.'

'Remove me! Aye well le' the bastar's try!'

The woman nodded to her colleague who began mumbling into her headset.

Geoffrey shuffled back over and spoke to Le Clerc. 'There's a man on ward 3C who talks just like your friend there. I don't think they know who he is. Perhaps that's the man.'

'Can you take us there?'

'Of course I can Sir.'

'Someone to see you.' announced Misses Singh as she opened the door and allowed Elvis into Alan's bedroom. Alan kept his gaze fixed on his computer. Elvis sat on the edge of his bed.

'I don't want anything to do with it.' said Alan, as he shot an alien.

'No, I don't either,' said Elvis 'I didn't ask for any of this, it just happened. I don't know why I was picked on.'

'Well, whatever the reason is, I say you just walk away from it all. Pretend it never happened.'

'I can't Alan. They were in my house. I found them and that sort of makes them my responsibility. And now there's loads of 'em, and they're sick. The only way I can get rid of them is to give them medicine to make them better and then they can leave.'

'So what's that got to do with me?' said Alan, now driving a moon buggy.

'I thought you could help. Your Dad used to be a chemist.'

'Yeh, used to be.' Alan leant to one side to dodge a missile.

'I bet the code on the burglar alarm is still the same. I bet the keys haven't changed.'

Alan put his controller down. 'No way Elvis! There's no way I'm going to help you break into my Dad's old shop.'

'We wouldn't take any money or anything. Just the antibiotics we need, that's all.'

'You want me to help you break in to my Dad's old pharmacy to steal drugs?'

'Yes.'

'I think it's time you left Elvis.'

'No! Look, I don't know why this has happened Alan. All I know is that if we don't get rid of these people then the whole of London's going to get sick, everyone'll catch it. You're my only hope.'

'You said yourself they can cure it now so what's the big deal? Just tell then to go to hospital.'

'I looked it up. It's not like that. If it spreads people will get sick so fast that they won't have time to get medicine. They'll die before they get to hospital. It's already starting! It could be you Alan, or your family.'

'Yeh, well thanks for taking me to see them all then, that's real great. Anyway, why don't you just call someone, get a doctor to come see them.'

'Oh yeh, I can just hear that 'phone call. Please can the doctor come and visit fifty seventeenth century people with plague hiding in a church hall. That's gonna work! Look Alan, if we can just get some medicine we can fix them all up and send them home. You can take it too.'

Alan turned back to his game. 'It's not happening Elvis. Did you want anything else?'

Elvis walked to the bedroom window. 'Have a look down there.'

Alan frowned then followed Elvis to the window that looked over the back yard.

'See, down there, behind the shed.'

Stood alongside the small wooden shed was a group of four people including a woman clutching a baby to her chest. Their dated clothing and scarred skin gave them away.

'You bastard!' shouted Alan. 'You brought them here!'

'No' explained Elvis. 'They followed me here. They're desperate. Please Alan, you've got to help before there's thousands of them!'

Alan sat back on the bed and thought. 'Alright. I'll help on one condition. If we get caught you take the full rap. It was your idea and you blackmailed me into doing it, OK?'

Elvis nodded.

'I mean it. You will be in serious shit.'

Geoffrey pointed to a door with a policeman sat outside. 'I think he's in that one.' he said. 'He must be in some trouble though,' he added in a concerned tone, 'being guarded like that.'

'Oh not Cormag' said Le Clerc 'He's a nice boy. Probably just a mistake. Thank you for your trouble Sir.'

'Oh that's fine. Here, I'll go and speak to them for you.'

'No Sir, that will be all thank you.'

Geoffrey started to walk towards the policeman but Madadh stepped in front of him and blocked his way. Geoffrey was staring straight into Madadh's bushy chest hair.

'Oh, oh. Alright. I guess I'll... be going then.' He turned and shuffled away.

'Hmm' muttered Le Clerc, 'we need a way to get past that guard.'

'That's nae a problem.' replied Madadh and pulled out his dirk. 'I'll slit the bastar' fro' ear te ear!'

'Hmm, good...but probably not subtle enough.' Le Clerc pushed the knife back down out of sight. 'I've got an idea. Just play along.'

Le Clerc walked back a few yards along the corridor out of sight, ruffled his hair and pulled out his shirt tails. 'Right, now follow me.' He sprinted back into the ward and up to the policeman guarding Cormag. 'Sir, Sir' he panted 'I bring you grave news.'

'What?' said the policeman, looking up from the mobile 'phone game that he was pretending not to play.

'One of your fellows, a man dressed in the same guard attire as yourself, lies on the ground outside the front of this establishment whilst ruffians beat him terribly. He is in need of your urgent assistance Sir!'

'What the hell are you on about?

'Your friend. They're beating him Sir! On the steps!'

'Shit!' The policeman jumped up and spied through the door at Cormag. He was handcuffed to the bed-head and fast asleep.

'Don't worry Sir, we'll keep guard on this rogue whilst you assist your friend.'

'OK' said the policeman 'I'll be back in two minutes.' and he sprinted down the corridor. 'Don't let anyone in!'

'Right!' shouted Le Clerc then turned to Madadh. 'Let's get him out of here, quickly.'

Ten minutes later the policeman returned. 'Where's those two clowns who were 'ere before?' he asked the nursing sister.

'I didn't see anyone.' she replied, pushing a drip trolley up the ward.

The policeman peeped through the small window. 'Oh bugger!' He threw open the door. The head of the bed was missing along with Cormag. He grabbed his radio. This was going to take some explaining.'

It was tricky getting down the fire escape with Cormag still handcuffed to the bed-head, but after slips and stumbles, and with Madadh and Le Clerc at either end of the steel rectangle, they finally made it to the bottom. They pushed open the fire doors and emerged into the bright sunlight yards away from the frantic emergency department. Ambulances were queueing with lights flashing, waiting for their turn to unload their cargo. Nurses and doctors charged in and out of the hospital doors checking on patients as they were rushed inside. Police were unrolling plastic tape to keep back TV news crews. In the distance more sirens howled.

'This way' said Le Clerc. 'I reckon we came down this street. Now just act normal.' He pulled his sunglasses back down on to his face.

Elvis searched his room from top to bottom. He looked all over the house but he couldn't find the stone anywhere. Perhaps his mother had found it and put it somewhere 'safe'. He went to the living room. It was time for Oprah so she should be sitting down sipping on a glass of wine. But the TV was silent and the room empty. He checked the kitchen but that was empty too. She must have gone for a lie down; she often did if she had her first glass a little early. But even the bedroom was deserted. He looked out of the window. Was that really his mother on all fours weeding in the garden? To Elvis that was about as natural as seeing the Queen mud-wrestling. He went outside to investigate.

'What are you doing Mum? Have you lost something?'

'No Elvie, I'm just doing a little gardening.' she replied as if she did it all the time.

'But you...don't.'

'Don't what sweetie?'

'Don't garden. I've never seen you garden.'

Monica smiled. 'This year this garden will bloom, you watch Elvis. You won't know the place.'

'I've lost something Mum. A stone, a red stone. It belongs to someone and I have to give it back.'

'What sort? Like a painted stone?'

'No, like a jewel, a shiny red jewel.'

'Ooh, that sounds nice. Who does that belong to? Is it a girl?'

'No, it's ...nobody you know. Have you seen it Mum?'

'Sorry Elvie. Pass me those clippers sweetie.'

Elvis passed the pruners and went back inside. Where on earth could it be? He'd have to ask Mary; perhaps she might have seen it.

Elvis went back to the hall. It was busier and noisier than ever; made worse by Matthew and Isaac chasing each other around the room, hopping over legs and barging people out of the way. It wasn't going to be possible to keep everyone hidden for much longer. If it kept on like this then he'd either need to find a bigger place else confess what he'd been up to.

Elvis spotted Mary stood by the kitchen talking to someone. He picked his way through the bodies on the floor.

Nick whispered into Mary's ear. She giggled and then poked him in the chest. Elvis felt a tide of jealousy rise in his chest. He turned away. He'd ask somebody else. There was Elizabeth. He'd talk to her instead.

'No I'm sorry Elvis, I've not seen it. Mary, come here.' Elizabeth shouted. 'Have you seen the stone? The red stone?'

Mary picked her way through the bodies to join them. 'Hello Elvis. Elvis come meet Nick.' she urged.

'No, I need the stone.' said Elvis.

Mary pulled Nick alongside her. 'Elvis, meet Nick.'

Nick put out a hand and Elvis reluctantly shook it.

'Why do you use that stick? You got a bad leg?'

'No, it's a fashion statement.' replied Elvis caustically.

'Oh, I see. Very nice.' sniggered Nick.

Mary tried not to join in, but a giggle escaped.

'Where's that stone then?' asked Elvis impatiently. It seemed Mary was the same was everyone else after all.

'I'm guessin' it might be over there, with guess who?' She pointed at her younger brother.

Elvis marched towards Samuel. 'Have you got the stone? Did you take it?'

'What, this?' asked Samuel, plucking it from his pocket.

'You thieving little...' Elvis lunged and tried to grab it. Samuel pulled his hand away. 'You stole that! That was in my draw!'

'I 'ad it a long time before you did!'

'Give it!' Elvis grabbed Samuel's arm and wrestled for the stone.

Elizabeth shouted.

Samuel pushed Elvis away. Elvis stumbled backwards and fell onto the floor. A circle of faces formed around him.

Nick laughed loudly.

It was just like being back at school again. Elvis climbed to his feet and stomped out of the door. He fought back the tears. Alan was right. Why did he bother? He should just leave them all to rot!

Madadh, Cormag and Le Clerc had to fight their their way along the busy streets. It was difficult enough with the bulky hospital bed-head, but as if that didn't draw enough attention, Cormag's green hospital-issue night gown kept parting at the back and exposing his hairy ginger backside. Fortunately the throngs of people on the street assumed they were on a charity fund raiser, or simply chose to ignore them, in that big city sort of way.

London looked nothing like the place the three of them had known.

'A dinne reckon we came doon this rood.' Madadh shouted.

'Sure, we did... I think.' replied Le Clerc. He turned around and checked the buildings around them. 'Or did we?' A policeman's helmet bobbed towards them. 'Let's try down here.' he suggested and led the bed-head off the street.

They turned down a side alley, and then down another and another before appearing on another busy street that looked exactly the same as the last.

'We'll obtain assistance.' declared Le Clerc. He stepped in front of a passer-by and blocked his path. 'My good sir, I believe we are lost. Perhaps you might offer...'

But the man pushed Le Clerc to one side and hurried on his way. Le Clerc turned to another, a man in a dark suit carrying a briefcase. The man looked at Le Clerc with a fearful glance, clutched his case to his body and hurried on by. He had no more luck with the next person and then was told 'Piss off wierdo!' by a pair of teenagers.

'Ne'er worry!' said Madadh 'Let's try aroond here.' He led them around another corner. The tall grey concrete hospital block stood before them again. 'Och noo, we're reet back here agin!'

A few yards further along the same street Geoffrey was arguing with a traffic warden. 'But I'm a volunteer at the hospital! Where am I supposed to park? I can't afford the multi-storey! If you give me that ticket I won't be able to eat for days. You can't do that!'

The warden smiled wryly, pulled out his ticket and tucked it under the wiper blade. 'If it's still 'ere in ten minutes I'll 'ave it clamped. An' then you won't eat for a fortnight!' He chuckled and walked away.

Geoffrey pulled his leg back and kicked the tyre of his Austin Princess. The tap on the wheel caused no harm to the car but his arthritic hip seared with pain and Geoffrey grabbed the faded roof of his car to avoid falling.

Madadh dropped the bed-head and came to Geoffrey's aid. 'Are ye alreet auld ma'?'

'I will be in a minute.' replied Geoffrey. 'Thank you.' He composed himself before turning around to face Madadh. 'No thanks to that bastard. But thank you, it's nice to see that there's still some kindness left in this world.'

'You want me to sor' him oot for ye?' Madadh placed a hand on his waist over where his dirk lay hidden.

'No, no.' said Geoffrey. 'Nice thought, but no.' He looked at Cormag still attached to the bed-head. 'Looks like you might need some help though.'

Across the road the hospital was becoming frantic. Crowds were jostling to get through the emergency department doors and guards fought to keep order. Police cars and motorbikes blocked the road and ushered screeching ambulances towards the emergency doors. News crews, bright lights and cameras looked on.

'I think you'd best get in.' suggested Geoffrey, holding open the creaky back door of the old car 'You'd best be away from here.'

Cormag, Madadh and the bed-head squeezed onto the back seat. Le Clerc sat in the front and caressed the sea of mustard-coloured plastic and worn velour. He was awestruck. With considerable effort and grunting, Geoffrey climbed behind the steering wheel. He pushed the keys into the ignition and the old Princess roared into life, at the third attempt. With a cloud of grey smoke, the old car lurched into the road, forcing a little silver Smartcar to slam on the breaks and blast on the horn. Geoffrey continued regardless, and kept to a safe if somewhat jerky twenty miles an hour. Cormag and Madadh slid down out of view on the back seat.

Le Clerc was fascinated by the car, the noise, the flickering needles and dials on the dashboard. He stroked the faded rug-like piece of carpet on top of the dashboard.

'She's a beauty isn't she?' said Geoffrey approvingly.

'She's fantastic!' enthused Le Clerc.

'Can ye tek us back te the church auld ma'?' asked Madadh.

'Church? Of course I can, but I think before we do anything, we should separate your friend from his bed.'

'Aye, that's true enough.' agreed Cormag before shuffling uncomfortably in his seat. Madadh was staring open-mouthed at his face. 'Och will ye stop tha' Madadh, wha's wrong wi' ye, man?'

'Cormag, they're nearly gone. The sores, they're nearly gone!'

'Is tha' reet' asked Cormag, stroking his chin.

'Whit 'boot me?' asked Madadh excitedly. 'Hoo do A look?'

Cormag inspected Madadh's face closely. 'Like shite Madadh.'

Thirty minutes later they pulled up outside Geoffrey's ground floor maisonette. 'Quickly now' urged Geoffrey 'there's a lot of busy-bodies around here!'

They followed in line behind his slow shuffle up to the front door. Curtains twitched, doors opened just a little. Geoffrey finally mastered his stiff lock and ushered them all inside.

The living room was stacked with towels, sheets and linen, all with the words 'Central London Hospitals' and 'NHS' emblazoned across them. There were towers of toilet rolls and paper towels, stacks of catering size cans of soup and diced fruit.

Madadh picked up a giant can of Roma tomatoes and scrutinised it.

Geoffrey looked on with a little embarrassment. 'Just a little business on the side.' he explained. 'My pension doesn't stretch very far. I knew you boys would understand.' He shuffled across to the crammed sideboard. 'Me and my son Norman, we were a team. He worked in the kitchen at the hospital.' Geoffrey picked up a small, framed photograph of a red faced man holding a pint of beer and ruefully ran his fingers across the image. 'He had a heart attack three months ago. Never came back out. It was the hospital's fault. Their pizza killed him. He used to bring four home every night. They caused his heart attack, I know they did. I should sue them. But then what's the use? I'd be dead before I saw the money.'

Geoffrey disappeared into the kitchen and returned with a black canvas bag. 'Now where are they?' He pulled out pliers, crow bars, spanners. 'Ah, here it is!' He hauled out a pair of yellow-handled bolt cutters and handed them to Madadh. 'Here, you can do the rest.'

Elvis was back in his bedroom. He was seething. All the trouble he'd gone to, all of the risks he'd taken and this was how they thank him. He hated going to school, hated the snide comments, the teasing. But at least at home he had an escape, at least until now. If that was how they were going to be then he'd leave them in the hall and forget about them. He switched on his X-box and stared blankly at the screen.

The bedroom door creaked open. Mary crept inside followed by Samuel.

Elvis jumped to his feet. 'What the... How the hell did you get in here?' He peeped onto the landing to ensure that they hadn't been seen, then quickly closed the door.

'We came through the tunnel.' explained Samuel sheepishly.

'Well you can go back through it. I'm not interested any more.'

'We came to say sorry.' said Mary softly. 'Both of us. Sam should 'ave give you back the stone when you wann'ed it an' 'e shouldn'a took it in the first place, should you Sam?'

Samuel shook his head contritely.

'Go on Sam, 'and it over.' Mary nodded to her brother.

Samuel shoved his hand in his pocket and pulled out the sparkling red stone and held it out to Elvis. 'Sorry' he mumbled, almost inaudibly.

'An' I'm sorry I laughed.' added Mary quietly. 'I didn't mean nothin'. I was just nervous, an' it ...sort of come out.'

'I doesn't matter.' replied Elvis unconvincingly, staring at the television screen. 'I don't care.'

Samuel was still holding out the gem to Elvis.

'Please take it.' said Mary. 'We didn't mean you no 'arm. You don't know how much this whole thing scrambles up your 'ead.' She smiled hopefully at Elvis, her bright blue eyes sparkling either side of her wrinkled, pot-marked nose. 'Please Elvis, you been real kind to us.' She sat on the bed alongside him and added softly 'We need you Elvis. Please.'

Elvis was taken aback. No one had ever actually needed his help before. Sure his Mum often asked for it and sometimes she received a little, but you couldn't actually say that she needed his help. Perhaps they hadn't meant to be so mean to him after all.

'OK, I suppose.' Elvis reached out and took the stone from Samuel.

Mary grabbed his hand and squeezed it. 'Thanks Elvis. You're tops. Do you know where you can get that new medicine?'

'I think so.' replied Elvis.

There was a quick rap on the bedroom door and Alan walked in. 'Holy shit! What are those two doing here? They aren't coming with us! No way!' Alan stood back against the wall, keeping himself as far away as possible.

'No.' replied Elvis. 'They're just going.'

'Are you gettin' the stuff now?' asked Samuel eagerly. 'We could come 'elp ya, couldn't we Mary?'

'No way!' replied Alan flatly. 'If they're coming then I'm going home. I'll see you some other time Elvis.' He reached for the door handle.

'No!' Elvis jumped to his feet. 'They're not coming! Alan, wait. It's just the two of us, I promise.'

'Come on Samuel, I think it's time we were going.' Mary walked to the door and held it open for her younger brother.

'I'm sorry Mary.' said Elvis 'It's just that...'

'That's fine' Mary replied. 'No need to explain.'

'But we could help!' protested Samuel.

Elvis took the stone and pushed it into Mary's hand. 'You keep this. You have to start making potion, lots and lots of potion Mary. You understand?'

'Why? What about that new stuff you're getting'?'

Elvis looked at Alan who was eyeing him with suspicion. 'There's no time to explain Mary. Just do it, please.'

'Alright' said Mary 'if you say so.' She turned and grabbed her brother and shoved him through the door. 'You keep quiet on them stairs.' Before leaving she turned back to Elvis then paused.

'What's the matter?' asked Elvis.

'Nothin'. I just wanna says thanks... and one day, when I ain't got these spots no more, I'll give you the biggest hug you ever 'ad!' She smiled coyly then slipped out of the door.

Elvis felt his cheeks glow red.

'You shouldn't have those freaks in your house.' Alan grumbled.

'Freaks! They're not freaks! What d'you call them that for?' Elvis found himself shouting.

'Hey, calm down! I didn't mean it like that.' replied Alan defensively. 'I just mean that it's OK for you, you've had that disease, you're still taking the tablets. I just don't want to get sick, that's all.'

'You won't.' replied Elvis curtly. 'Tonight we'll have stacks of that medicine and then you'll be safe.

Chapter 13

Now that Cormag was detached from the bed frame, Geoffrey took the three of them on a tour of all of the old churches that he could think of. He didn't need a street map. He knew every road and back alley for miles around. Cormag was dressed in Geoffrey's son's old clothes. By the time his son had his heart attack he had become bloated by beer, pizza and Coke, so the bright yellow shell suit was very much on the baggy side, but at least it was better than the gaping hospital gown.

They juddered and lurched through the streets for hours, but Madadh, Cormag and Le Clerc didn't recognise any of the old churches.

'Are you sure you don't know the name of the street?' asked Geoffrey.

'Och, we should knoo this!' groaned Madadh. 'We came searchin' for that hoose!'

'Aye, that street, 'tis on the tip of ma tongue.' said Cormag, and then noticed Madadh staring at him again. 'Ya dein' it again Madadh. Stop starin' at me for God's sake!'

Madadh reached out and stroked a finger across his cheek. Cormag smacked it away. 'What's wrong whit ye? Ha' ye turned sof'?'

'No Cormag. It's ya face, it's...perfect!'

'What?'

'Ye skin, feel it! It's like a wee bairn's arse!'

Cormag stroked his fingertips across his cheek. It was true. There wasn't a blemish.

'Monnington Street!' announced Le Clerc. 'That's the road, Monnington Street!'

'Oh, why didn't you say boys? We're just around the corner. Hold on tight now!' The three of them grabbed hold of their seats whilst Geoffrey chugged a slow U-turn, mounted a kerb and headed off to Monnington Street.

In the hall Mary and Samuel pulled plastic buckets from the cupboard and lined them up on the table. Mary completed the ritual with the stone and turned water into potion.

Brock looked on bemused. 'What are you doing young Mary? That stuff was useless.'

'I don't know. Elvis just told me to make lots so that's what I'm doing.'

Elizabeth was sitting playing with Alice and trying to keep her mind from her fever. Alice was bored and grumpy; whatever Elizabeth did to amuse her was wrong. Alice stood up and stumbled away behind the row of wooden tables. A moment later she was crying again. Elizabeth sighed and followed after her. Behind the tables and out of sight sat two more new-comers. They had slipped in unnoticed in the night. The woman was dressed in the remnants of a once fine white lace dress, now grubby and torn, her blonde hair knotted and wild. Alongside Annabel Collins sat Wooldridge looking as composed as ever, his dark suit and shiny boots looked as if he they were brand new that morning. He had only a few scabs and sores around his neck and face. Annabel was humming quietly to herself and rocking gently to and fro. Elizabeth froze like a rabbit in headlights. Wooldridge eyed her coldly. He didn't move. Elizabeth edged forward before seizing hold of her crying daughter and running back out from behind the table. She ran to Brock.

'She's here! And him! They're' back, behind the table!' gasped Elizabeth holding onto his arm.

'Who's here?' demanded Brock his eyes searching the room for a hostile face.

From behind the piles of jumble on the tables, Wooldridge rose silently to his feet. Annabel stood up alongside, anxious and bewildered.

'It's you!' shouted the inn-keeper. 'What the bloody 'ell are you doin' 'ere?'

Brock pulled Elizabeth behind his huge frame. 'Leave this to me. I'll see you're safe.' Flanked by the inn-keeper, he stormed forward.

Wooldridge stepped in front of Annabel and drew his knife.

Just as they were about to clash, the door burst open. An ebullient Madadh flew into the room followed by Cormag and Le Clerc. Geoffrey stood in the doorway and peered nervously inside.

'Look ye all, Cormag's back!' announced Madadh with one arm in the air. 'We rescued the wee lad!' He gave Cormag a patronising rub on his head.

Cormag pushed his hand away. 'Aye, well A was just 'boot te break oot when ye came. An' anyways, ye took yer time ye lazy bastar'!' He spotted Mary's potion. 'Och, a drink, tha's wha' A need!'

'No that's potion! Don't drink that!' shouted Mary.

But too late. Cormag already had the bucket to his mouth, gulping down the water and spilling half of it down the front of his yellow shell suit.

Geoffrey tapped Le Clerc on the shoulder. 'I think it's time I left.' he whispered, and then added 'Would you like to come out for a drive in the Princess some time? There's not many that appreciate the old girl like you do. And now my boy's gone, I've a lot of spare time on my hands.'

'I'd love too!' replied Le Clerc. 'When, tonight? What about tonight?'

'Oh, that soon.' replied Geoffrey. 'Well, I was going to watch ...' He stopped and thought for a moment then smiled. He didn't get many chances to get out any more and he'd never met anyone who shared his passion for the old car. What the heck! He'd miss Emmerdale tonight and watch the repeat tomorrow. 'OK, I'll come back later, around eight o'clock.' He looked past Le Clerc at Cormag nearing Wooldridge with knife drawn. 'I'd best be off!' He shuffled quickly away from the hall.

Cormag slammed the empty bucket on the table and let out a satisfied belch. 'Och, I'm the better 'o' that!' Then his expression soured. He recognised Wooldridge and Annabel stood in the corner. The inn-keeper and Brock were stood a few feet away like two snarling dogs.

'I've a wee matter to settle wi' ye, y'English bastar'!' Cormag drew his dirk.

Wooldridge raised his slender blade in readiness.

Cormag lunged with his dagger. Wooldridge kept one arm firmly wrapped around Annabel, and with the other thrust his blade towards the oncoming attack.

But in a flash, Cormag was gone. Not dead, just gone. All that remained was a pile of yellow nylon shell sitting on two white Nike sports shoes. Wooldridge pulled back his blade in disbelief. He looked at his knife and then at the pile of clothes on the floor.

'Whi'...whit ye done te Cormag?' roared Madadh.

'I...I don't know.' stammered Wooldridge.

Madadh picked up the clothes and began to rummage through them. 'Cormag, whi' ye playin' at? Where are ye?'

Brock returned to stand at Elizabeth's side. 'Are you alright?'

Elizabeth nodded.

'And the children?'

'We're all fine, thank you Mister Brock.' Alice was hugging her leg. Elizabeth gave the top of her scalp an affectionate rub. 'Thank you for your concern. I do appreciate it.'

Brock smiled warmly. 'I can do more for you.' replied Brock quietly 'Lots more. I know you're grieving for James, I am too. But a woman needs protecting in this world. And her family. Let me do that for you Elizabeth. James would want to see you safe.' He placed a hand on her waist. Elizabeth allowed it to rest there. 'Just say the word Elizabeth, and I'll be there.'

From amongst the crowd Mary watched in horror. She still hoped to see her father return but she realised that the chances were becoming less with every hour that passed. The flow of people from across the road had just about stopped. There had to be a way to bring her father back, surely.

Madadh searched for Cormag for hours. He searched under tables, through piles of jumble, in kitchen cupboards and in the toilet and when he didn't find him he started again. The day was getting late but he hadn't given up hope.

Later that evening, Alan reluctantly returned with Elvis to arrange the trip to the pharmacy. They were still arguing about how best to go about it.

'No!' snapped Alan 'I'm not taking any of those freaks with us.' He stood outside the church hall with hands on hips in the soft glow of the late evening sun.

'But you said yourself, we need someone to keep watch!' argued Elvis, reaching for the door handle.

'You go in there and ask one of them, then I'm not gonna help you Elvis. They'll just draw attention. How can we walk the streets with them with us for God's sake?'

Elvis took his hand away from the door. 'But what if we need some help? What if...' Elvis fell silent. Shuffling footsteps were approaching. 'Shhh' Elvis pressed a finger against his lips.

Geoffrey rounded the corner. 'Good evening gentleman.' he said as he slipped off his white leather driving gloves and tucked them into the top of his cream slacks. 'Beautiful day for a drive.' He tapped firmly on the glass door.

Alan shot a horrified glance towards Elvis and started to back away from the door. Elvis tried stepping in front of Geoffrey and ushering him away.

'There's no one in there.' he explained. 'This place hasn't been used for years.'

'I've come for my friend.' explained Geoffrey and leant around Elvis and tapped again. 'We're going for a drive in my car.'

In the hall Le Clerc was waiting impatiently. He heard the knock and came dashing outside followed by a small crowd.

Brock, Elizabeth and the inn-keeper had agreed an unspoken uncomfortable truce with Wooldridge. As they followed Le Clerc through the door Brock positioned himself alongside Elizabeth, his chest puffed out and shoulders back. Inside, Madadh was still searching for Cormag.

'Geoffrey, you made it!' shouted Le Cler excitedly.

'Geoffrey? You know him?' asked Elvis.

'Oh no!' groaned Alan. 'Get those freaks back out of sight for God's sake!'

'So you must be the boy with the medicine.' said Wooldridge. 'Where is it?'

'What? I haven't got it yet.' said Elvis. 'We're going to get it now, hopefully.'

'Hopefully?' said Brock. 'What do you mean hopefully?'

'I mean it might not be that easy, that's all. I'm taking some big risks for you lot, I hope you realise that.'

'I will provide assistance.' said Wooldridge decisively.

'Right, then I'm coming too.' declared Brock.

'An' me!' shouted Samuel. Elizabeth grabbed the back of his shirt and pulled him back.

'We can't walk through the streets with them!' groaned Alan. 'Everyone's gonna notice us! I'm going home.'

'Walk?' said Geoffrey. 'Why walk when we travel in style?' He dangled the keys to Austin Princess in the air.

Twenty minutes later they were stuttering along the High Street. Le Clerc sat in the front alongside Geoffrey. He was like a three year old, eagerly asking questions about the switches and dials and the gear stick and anything else that caught his eye. The radio was his favourite; he happily dialled between channels until he accidentally pushed the Perry Como cassette inside the machine. When 'And I love you so...' came droning from the speakers, Alan drew the line. He leant forward from the back seat and switched it off.

'For God's sake, let's just get this over with.' Alan groaned, crammed into the back with Elvis Brock and Wooldridge. 'It's there, past the pedestrian crossing. Look, that one, with the big plastic thing in the window. ' Alan was pointing at a chemist shop, the front window consumed by a giant red nose, the words 'Say no to hay fever!' in green across it. 'There's a little road just past it where you can park.'

Geoffrey pulled to a halt in the narrow alleyway.

'You wait here with your carriage.' ordered Wooldridge.

'I'll keep the engine running. It's been a long time since me and the old girl got up to mischief!' said Geoffrey, fondly tapping the dashboard. 'If you hear me toot twice, it means we've got to go fast!'

Elvis, Alan Brock and Wooldridge tumbled out of the car and headed for the rear of the pharmacy. Alan produced a set of spare keys and began undoing the dead locks on the reinforced back door. He fumbled through the bunch finding the key for each lock in turn until finally he'd undone them all.

Geoffrey pulled up alongside the back door with Le Clerc, the engine of his Princess growling, ready for a quick escape.

Alan nervously pushed open the rear pharmacy door. The burglar alarm began to beep.

'You go and find that stuff and be quick.' said Alan 'I'll switch this thing off .'

Elvis hurried along the short corridor into the shop and pulled a plastic carrier bag from his pocket. There were rows upon rows of immaculate white shelves stocked with small pill packets and plastic containers, liquids and creams. He checked his list. Doxycycline. Where was that? He followed along the shelf. Drugs were stacked alphabetically. He found the sticker on the shelf and swept everything above it in his carrier bag. The alarm was still beeping, the noises were getting faster and louder.

'The code's not working!' shouted Alan. 'He must have changed the bloody number! Shit! Hurry!'

Wooldridge was walking around the shop in fascination. He was picking up bottles of perfume, boxes of tissues, packets of nappies and feeling them, shaking and sniffing them. Brock walked two steps behind. He paid no interest to the goods on the shelves. His focus was on Wooldridge.

An ear bursting siren sounded. Wooldridge dropped the bottle of Gaviscon onto the floor. Thick chalky liquid oozed over the carpet. Blue lights began to flash on the front wall of the shop. Alan burst in from the back corridor.

'I can't do it! Elvis, come on! We've got to get out.'

'Cipro...flox' mouthed Elvis before throwing a load more boxes into his carrier bag.

'Elvis!' shouted Alan grabbing his arm, 'We've got to go!'

Outside, passers by were peering through the door. In the alleyway Geoffrey sounded his horn twice.

'Elvis!'

'Just one more.' said Elvis shrugging free from of Alan's grip. 'Co-trim...'

'Now Elvis!'

'Here it is.' The carrier bag was overflowing.

'You two! Out now!' Alan bawled at Wooldridge and Brock.

Geoffrey had his head out of the car window. 'Time to go boys!'

They dived into the back of the waiting Princess. Geoffrey slammed it into first gear, the engine roared, the car lurched forward and then stalled.

'Sorry.' said Geoffrey 'It's been a long time.' He turned the key again. The car coughed and spluttered but didn't start. Geoffrey tried again. More splutters but still the engine failed.

'Don't worry.' reassured Geoffrey. 'It often does this.' He tried again. This time the big old engine fired up. Geoffrey put his foot to the floor and the car hopped and jumped out of the alley and back onto the main street.

'Did you get what you needed?' asked Geoffrey.

'Most of it, I think.' replied Elvis, looking at the bewildering array of different bottles and boxes in his bag.

'Get down!' ordered Geoffrey.

'What?' replied Wooldridge.

'Down, hide, now! Quick!'

Ahead two police cars were hurrying down the road, blue lights flashing.

Elvis, Alan, Brock and Wooldridge struggled to squeeze down out of sight on the back seat.

Geoffrey smiled and waved as he passed the cars. 'I think we're in the clear. You can get back up if you like.' Geoffrey kept one eye on his rear-view mirror. 'Oh-oh. I spoke too soon.'

One of the patrol cars did a quick u-turn and then charged back up the street towards them.

'Hold tight!' warned Geoffrey. He pushed his right foot to the floor. The old Princess accelerated up the street but it was no match for the police car; it was gaining ground quickly. Geoffrey swerved into an alley way. The old car roared up the narrow passage, mirrors scraping against the brick walls either side.

'Oh dear' moaned Geoffrey. 'That's going to be an expensive trip to Halford's'.

The police car screeched into the lane behind them, close enough now for Geoffrey to see the two grinning faces in the front seats. Ahead was the back of a pub. A fire door opened and a man staggered out carrying a tower of empty crates. Geoffrey stuck his head out of the window and pointed back at the chasing police car.

'Geoffrey!' shouted the man 'What you up to, y'old rogue?'

As soon as the Princess had passed, the man allowed the pile of crates to topple across the alleyway. The police car smashed into the plastic crates before skidding to a halt.

'Wow! Why did he do that?' asked Alan.

'That's Norman. We've kept him in frozen chips and cling peaches for years.' explained Geoffrey. 'There's not a towel in that place that hasn't got 'NHS' on it.' he added with a little pride.

Norman was now arguing about the cost of his broken crates.

'You gotta be bloody joking!' growled the officer as he hurled a crate over the wall. 'I've a good mind to shove one of your bloody crates...'

The radio crackled.

The policeman snatched the handset from the dashboard. 'Roger, he's just turned south onto Cook Street. We will be in pursuit again in one minute.' He turned back to Norman. 'Don't be surprised if you get a little visit next week!' he hissed and booted another crate down the alley.

Geoffrey's experience as a getaway driver had taught him not to be complacent. He weaved in and out of the back streets before turning back onto the main road again. But minutes later, there was another blue flashing light ahead.

'I think we may have to hide away a minute boys.' Geoffrey swerved into a multi-storey arcade car park. It was beginning to get dark outside and the car park was gloomy. He squealed up a couple of levels and found an empty space. Elvis jumped out and peered over the concrete wall. Below, the police car was screeching into the car park.

'It's coming in!' shouted Elvis.

The police car began to crawl along the rows of parked cars.

'What we gonna do?' whinged Alan. 'There's no other way out! If I get caught I'm dead! I'm tellin' them that you made me do it Elvis. I never wanted to do this in the first place! You promised you'd take the rap.'

'We wait.' said Geoffrey calmly. 'We wait until he gets to this floor and then when he's around the far side we drive out.'

'No way!' said Alan. 'I'm gone. I'm not staying here.'He climbed over Brock's lap and out of the car. 'I'm sorry Elvis but I don't know anything about this.'

The police car rolled quietly onto their level. They all slid down so that just Geoffrey's eyes peeped out.

'Wait for it.' whispered Geoffrey.

The police car was sent away from them by the one-way system. Geoffrey bided his time then flicked on the headlights and roared the car into life. It lurched out of the parking bay and back into the spiral exit road. The policemen spotted his dash. They switched on the blue light and squealed after him. Their path was blocked by late night shoppers with trolleys and parents with pushchairs. The driver turned on his siren. A shocked child ran then fell, grazing her knee. She sat on the ground and screamed.

The policeman lowered his window and turned off the siren. 'Can you move her for God's sake? Can't you see we're in a hurry?'

The child's father was unimpressed. He stomped up to the police car and slammed his fist on the roof. 'What the hell do you think you're doing? That's police violence that is!' he shouted pointing at his crying daughter.

'I'll show you some police violence if you don't get out the fucking way!'

'I'm getting your number. You ain't gettin' away with this!'

Geoffrey took his chance and escaped back on to the street. But it wasn't long before the police car was back on his tail. Geoffrey swerved into side roads, the old car rolling like a yacht in a storm, he criss-crossed car parks, doubled back on himself, but there was no escape, the police car was still in tow.

'Hold on, I've got an idea.' mumbled Geoffrey.

Ahead football stadium floodlights stood out against the dimming sky. The streets were lined with parked cars; subdued roars and applause echoed through the side streets. Ahead, two middle-aged minibus drivers sat on up-turned milk-crates playing cards, just as they did every second Saturday afternoon throughout the season. As Geoffrey roared closer, he blasted his horn. The men looked up from their game. Geoffrey reached an arm out the window, pointing behind then gesturing in a circling motion. The men looked at Geoffrey, the ensuing police car and then headed for their vehicles. The police car meantime was gaining. Geoffrey pulled a sharp left, then shortly after another. A second police car joined the chase, siren wailing. They were getting closer. Geoffrey turned left again.

'We're going round in circles! We were here two minutes ago!' shouted Elvis. 'They're right behind us.'

'That's the idea!' Geoffrey seemed to be enjoying himself.

The chasing police car raced alongside them, the driver pointing angrily to pull over. Geoffrey kept his focus straight ahead. A white minibus lurched out into the road in front, blocking one lane. The policeman stamped on his breaks, screeching the car to a halt in a cloud of smoke. Geoffrey roared on by. Another mini-bus reversed out blocking the other half of the road. The second police car screeched to a halt. The policeman put his head out the window and bawled at them to move. The minibus drivers both got out of their vehicles and lifted their respective bonnets and began fiddling with the engines.

'What the fuck you both doing?' roared the policeman. 'You can't both be broken down. Move it! Now!'

'Yeh, what's the chances, eh?' smirked one of the drivers.

The policeman jumped out of his vehicle and slammed shut the bonnet of the nearest minibus. A crowd of departing football fans was gathering at the roadside. The policeman turned and shoved the driver back towards his cab; he fell to the ground. The crowd gasped. The driver rolled onto his back holding his knee. The crowd booed. The policeman waved them away impatiently but then noticed lines of mobile 'phone cameras pointing towards him. He crouched down.

'If you don't shift your arse in thirty seconds you're going to the fucking nick!' he hissed. 'Do I make myself clear?'

But by now Geoffrey was away, down a side road and lost into a sea of cars on a busy dual-carriageway.

'How did that happen?' asked Elvis.

'Norman's friends,' explained Geoffrey. 'Nice boys.'

Half an hour later Geoffrey dropped them all back at the church. 'Now take it from me.' he warned with an excited glint in his eye. 'Lie low tonight. The police will be looking for us.' He changed back the licence plates over before heading for home.

Elvis tiptoed up to his bedroom. He poured the bag of medicines onto his rug. There was an endless variety of brands and strengths, tablets, capsules and liquids. Where could he begin? He shoved them under his bed and climbed under the covers. He'd need his sleep. It was going to be a big day tomorrow he thought to himself.

He had no idea just how big it was going to be.

Chapter 14

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 crack 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 workin!'

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 bemusement. '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 you 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 for 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.'

Chapter 15

Elvis surveyed the room. As he'd asked, it was in near darkness with just a feint flickering light from a couple of candles.

'Is she here yet? The old woman?' he asked urgently.

'There's no one come, but you.' replied Mary.

Elvis pulled out his phone and checked the time. 00.18. 'Shit! She's late.' He looked anxiously through the door at the frantic activity across the road. 'She'll never get through all of that.' he mumbled.

Mary placed a hand on his arm. 'Give her time.' she reassured him softly. 'She's old.'

Elvis tapped his hand nervously against his crutch and kept watching through the glass doors.

A shadow was approached on the path. It was too big to be the old woman. 'Quick! Blow out those candles!' hissed Elvis.

The room went black. Wooldridge and Madadh pulled their knives. Brock moved close to Elizabeth, put his hand around her waste and brought her in close. A torch beam shone into the porch. Elvis stood motionless. The beam scanned the porch and then through the open doors into the hall. The light became closer, stronger, and then the bearer entered the doorway. The beam picked out a frightened face, a mother sat holding her sleeping child.

Madadh seized the intruder in a crushing hug. The light fell to the floor. Wooldridge pushed his blade to the man's throat. Elvis dived on the torch. He picked it up and aimed it at a terrified face, an anorak and a dog collar.

More footsteps entered the hall.

'Och, noo this is a fine state of affairs I find ye all in, noo, isn't it.' said Mother Munro, limping in through the door. 'Put the man doon for heaven's sake Madadh?'

Alan followed the old woman several steps behind.

'Identify yourself man!' ordered Wooldridge.

'I'm...I'm the vicar. This is my church.'

'It's true, he is.' said Elvis, unsure if that made him safe.

'Leave the man alone!' ordered the inn-keeper. 'This man's been bringing us food.' He pulled Wooldridge's hand away. 'Without him we'd have starved.'

Madadh released him. The vicar checked his neck was still intact.

'Is that true?' asked Elvis.

The vicar nodded. 'Man can't live on jumble alone, Elvis.'

'I didn't think...'

'Don't worry. Look, you haven't got much time Elvis. They're going to be here any minute looking for you. I came to tell you that I'll keep them at bay as long as I can. I'll try and distract them, tell them they can't come round here. Sanctity of the church, hallowed ground, that sort of stuff. But you'll have to be quick. It won't last for long.'

'But why...?'

'There's no time for that now Elvis. Just do what you have to do.'

Three navy blue Transit vans screeched to a halt outside of Morris's shop. Men charged out, armed to the teeth, gas masks on. The first two sledge-hammered the front door and they all poured inside.

John Wayne looked on from a dozen TV screens. 'In this kind of war' he growled 'you've got to believe in what you're fighting for.'

They charged through the shop into the back office. It was empty. They charged upstairs to a locked door. They smashed their way in.

Inside was a room with bare floorboards and a couple of worn, red leather chairs. The walls were covered in maps of Britain, new and old. They were dotted with pins and streaked by dozens of string lines running from Edinburgh to London, to Oxford and Shrewsbury, Lincoln, York and elsewhere. There were portraits of faces on the wall with scribblings on each. On a table in the middle of the room were piles of paper. They were newspaper cuttings from ten, twenty, fifty, a hundred years ago and more. There were sketches and drawings, maps, hand written parchment scrolls and pages and pages of names.

'Wow, look at this!' A soldier aloft a copy of 'The Daily Courant' from 1789. A story was circled at the bottom of the page but the print was too faded to read.

'What the hell are you doing in here!' shouted an officer through the doorway. 'Get out, all of you! And you, you're not going to find the boy by reading those, you idiot!'. He pulled the pieces of paper from the soldier's hand and threw them back on the table. 'Find that bloody kid for God's sake!' He ushered them back out of room then went to the window. At the back of the house a blue Subaru switched on its headlights and screeched away. The officer pulled the curtains shut.

'So?' asked Elvis impatiently.

'So what?' asked Mother Munro, finding a chair to rest her tired body.

'So what do we do now? How do we get rid... how do we get them all home? You said you knew!'

'I do boy, I do. Stay calm for heaven's sake! We've no time for bein' flustered! Have you given all of them some of your newfangled tablets?'

'Yes! Yes!'

'Well, noo. It's not difficult. The potion brought them here so they could get well again. Once they've had their medicine then the potion will take them all back home.'

'Right...' said Elvis, unsure exactly what she meant. 'So... what do we do?'

'What do you think boy? Oh my good Lord! Where were ye when they were handing oot the brains laddie? Give them all some potion for heaven's sake! If ye've given them the reet medicine then the potion will de the rest.'

'Oh, I see!'

'Good. Soo what on earth are ye waitin' fer? Start handing oot the potion!'

Mary grabbed a bucket of potion and stood ready with a cup. The other faces in the room eyed one another nervously in the candlelight. They'd seen what had happened to Cormag. Nobody was keen to be first.

'Och fer heaven's sake. They'll be here in a minute an' then none o' ye's will get home. If ye stay here, ye'll all be dead before the month's oot! Him!' she pointed a wizened old finger at the inn-keeper. 'If it'll work on him it'll work on anyone! Give him a cup.'

Mary scooped a cup of potion from a bucket and handed it to the inn-keeper. He looked at it nervously.

'What are ye, a man or a moose? Drink it! Drink it noo!'

Outside the helicopter lights were spreading their search. Beams scoured across the churchyard, lighting the room through the high windows.

The inn-keeper reluctantly gulped down his potion and then waited for something to happen. Nothing did.

'Next.' barked the old woman.

'But it didn't work!' protested Elvis.

'Next!' she shouted again.

Mary scooped another cup and took it to Brock.

'No, I'll wait so we can all go together. I'll make sure your mother is safe.' He smiled at Elizabeth.

'Drink it!' ordered Mother Munro. 'Drink it!'

'Get on with it man!' barked Wooldridge.

'No I'd rather...' but Mary held the cup to his mouth and tipped. He swallowed a couple of mouthfuls then spluttered. 'I said no!' he roared and smacked the cup from Mary's hand.

'Next!'

'But why when it's not working?' asked Elvis.

'Is it not?' Mother Munro pointed to where the inn keeper had stood. His clothes formed a pile on the floor.

'Can we chose when we arrive?' asked Samuel excitedly, ' I wanna come out at Christmas!'

'Don't be stupid boy! Of course you can't chose! This isn't one of your silly Hollywood moving picture thingies. This is real life fer heaven's sake! You'll come out where you died, when you died and be happy wi' it. Come out at Christmas! I ask ye!'

Brock approached Elizabeth. 'I want to stay with you, look after you. We should go together. You go next. Drink the potion, quick.' He placed a hand in Elizabeth's back and pushed her towards Mary.

'No, not yet.' said Mary. 'Elvis, you said you could get Dad back here, now. You said she'd know. Mum you have to wait.'

'She? She? Are ye referring to me young Mary?'

Brock seized the cup from Mary's hand. 'Here, drink it, quickly.' He raised the cup to Elizabeth's mouth.

Alice pulled on her mother's skirt and started to cry.

Elizabeth looked down to her daughter. 'Wait darlin'. Give Mummy a minute.' As she spoke the cup landed at her feet and splashed water across Alice. A pile of clothes fell to the floor where Brock had stood.

'Och, noo isn't that a shame. Pity we couldn'e 'a' sent him somewhere else. Next. Come on noo. Or de y'all want to die in this terrible place?'

The rest began to gather around the buckets of potion and started helping themselves, parents giving it to children, young handing cups to the old and frail. Shipton made his way to the table. Mother Munro nodded to Madadh. Madadh strode up and removed the cup from his hand.

'Ye'll wait 'til yer told.'

Shipton wasn't going to argue with Madadh. He went back and sat quietly against the wall.

The room was thinning out.

Elvis pulled the repaired old death register from his pocket. He held a candle alongside. 'Look Mary! Look! The names, they're disappearing!'

Mary ran to see. It was true, the list of plague victims was less than half of its previous size, another name disappearing from the page as they looked on.

'Would they really all have been dead by the end of the month?' asked Elvis. 'If we hadn't sent them home now.'

'Och, I wouldn'e think soo.' said Mother Munro 'But I had te say something te get them movin'! Anyway, time's gettin' on. I guess ye'll be wanting to get back an' save this young maiden's father. Am I reet?'

Elvis nodded.

'It's a dangerous job, you know that? I canna guarantee ye'll come back .'

'But why the boy?' asked Elizabeth. 'James is my husband. If anyone should do this, it's me.'

'Aye, a noble thought, but with only one flaw. By the time ye get back home, he'll likely be already cold in the groond. Corpses generally don't take kindly te a drink, potion or no potion. It's the wee boy or nay one.'

'Are ye sure 'boot this Muther?' asked Madadh. 'What if he doesn'e mek it back? What if the stoon's lost. Whit'll happen te ye then?'

'No Madadh, I'm not sure aboot this. But that wee girl did her best fer me when I needed her and I think I owe her and her kin this chance.' She turned back to Elvis. 'Ye'll need te see that he drinks the potion before his death. And whatever else happens boy, ye must bring that stoon back with ye. D'ye understand?'

Elvis nodded again. 'But where do I find him.'

'The tower of St. Paul's, the cathedral.' said Elizabeth, 'Mister Brock said he was there, at the highest spot.'

'What, on top of the dome? I can't get up there!'

'That's the new cathedral boy. There'll be nay dome where you're gooing. Just look for the biggest building ye can find. That'll be the one. And remember, if ye fail to bring that stoon back, it'll be more than just me and the wee girl's father that'll be doomed.' She turned to Madadh. 'Noo then, there's one more thing we'll be needing. Madadh, if ye'd be so kind.'

Madadh marched to the side of the hall, grabbed Shipton by his shirt and dragged him before the old woman.

'I think ye have another thing that belongs te us Mister Scroggs.'

'No, I don't know what you're talking about. I ain't got nothin'!'

The helicopter searchlights lit up the porch and the side windows of the hall again.

'We don't have time for this. Madadh, have a look please.'

Madadh tore open Shipton's shirt. A heavy iron key hung on a string around his neck. Madadh yanked it free and handed it to the old woman.

'Aye, that's the one.' she said approvingly 'Most kind of ye t' take care o' it for us. Feel free to drink the potion noo Mister Scroggs.'

Shipton hissed his disapproval. He grabbed a cup of potion, swigged it down then hurled the empty cup across the room. In seconds he too was gone.

Elvis peered out of the front of the hall. He could see the vicar, stood at the gate to the churchyard remonstrating with men in gas-masks and overalls, the torches flicking between his face and the graves and church behind him.

'Reet boy. The time is noo. Listen to me carefully. Ye'll drink the potion wi' this key in yer hand and the stoon sittin' by yer heart.' She pushed the stone into the breast pocket of his tee shirt. 'Guard them both with yer life. If ye loose them ye'll noo be coming back, d'ye hear?'

Elvis gulped. 'Yes, with my life.' he repeated.

'And ye'll need a new name.'

'A name? I've got a name.'

'Noo boy, a name that doesn'e draw attention to ye. Ye canna be walkin' aroond sayin' 'helloo, ma name is Elvis'. They'll think your cuckoo.'

'Why?'

The old woman sighed. 'Elvis wasn'e a very popular name in the seventeenth century, boy.'

'It's not exactly all the rage in the twenty-first.' pointed out Alan.

'Ye'll need something like John or Samuel or Edward. Something simple that'll blend in. Choose something laddie, quickly noo.'

'Em...what about Tom?'

'Aye, Thomas is good enough. Thomas what?

'Cruise' replied Elvis. 'I'll be Thomas Cruise.'

'Cruise? Aye well, if that makes ye happy. Noo when ye get there, ye find the girl's father. Gi' the man the pootion then ye come straight back. No detours, no nipping doon te have a gander at the sights, d'ye hear?'

'But how do I get back?'

'When the jobs done, go back te the very spot the stoon first took ye, and ye de the same thing again. Make sure ye dinna lose them or ye'll noo be back at all. Noo hurry boy. Time is fading.' She handed him a cup of potion and thrust the key into his hand. 'God speed boy. God speed.'

Elvis did as he was told and gulped down the potion. 'But...hang on. What does he look like? What if he's not at the church?'

A white blur flashed in front of them. It was the white cat. It jumped onto a table and leapt into Elvis's arms.

'Och noo! Get that cat!' shouted the old woman.

But too late; the pair were gone.

'So what happens if he loses the stone and can't get back?' asked Alan 'Does that mean he lives the rest of his life back then ,whenever it was?'

'Och, noo, don't be silly boy.' replied Mother Munro 'That would ne'er happen.'

'Oh, good!' replied Alan.

'Noo, he'd die.'

Chapter 16

The colours and shapes swirled until they made Elvis want to vomit. He could feel the cat's claws piercing the skin of his forearms and a gentle breeze ruffling his hair. Eventually, the spinning slowed and the blur formed into recognisable shapes. He was standing at the highest point of the old St Paul's Cathedral, leaning against a small stone pillar and without a stitch on his body. His feet were poking out over the edge of the tower and there was only the warm summer air between his toes and the church roof a hundred feet below. Crows cawed around him, pigeons flapped. Elvis threw his arms around the pillar and hugged the rough stone with all his strength. He turned his head back slowly, nervously to look out across the city. Ahead, the London he knew was gone. There were no tower blocks, no London Eye, no Houses of Parliament. In their place was a sea of cramped clay-tiled and thatch roofs, with church spires and the occasional stone tower poking out. From between the low buildings emerged columns of gently drifting smoke feeding a dense grey blanket that smothered the city. Beyond the houses meandered the river, crammed with dozens of stationary boats.

Suddenly the tower shook to the clang of giant church bells. Elvis jumped, the cat screeched and tore up his chest and around his neck. Elvis's feet started to slip over the edge. Rubble tumbled past his toes towards the church roof below. Elvis hurled himself backwards, landing on the fragile timber roof of the old tower.He might have escaped falling from the ege, but the old planks provided no safe refuge. The lead cover had long since been stolen, exposing the timber beneath to the cruel English weather. The wood was now warped and rotten; it creaked beneath Elvis's body like pond ice in the thaw. The key and stone had slipped from his grasp and skidded a few feet away. Elvis lay flat on his back. He stretched out an arm; the board beneath cracked and split. Elvis froze. He strained to look. A gap had appeared by his shoulder; it was as big as his head. Through the hole he could just make out ant-sized people wandering on the stone floor far below. He edged away and stretched his fingers as far as they would reach towards the key and stone. The wood creaked beneath him again. He slid his bottom a little further and reached out. His index finger just made it to the sparkling stone. He dragged it in, seized it and then clasped it gratefully between his teeth. The key was just a little further. He edged again, shoulders first then legs in turn, an inch at a time. It was getting closer, almost in reach. The wood groaned again but he was nearly there. He pushed a little further. The wood split with a crack like gunfire. A timber beneath him broke in two and tumbled away into the tower. Elvis threw his arms at a huge wooden beam. He dug his fingernails like claws into the rough timber and clung on for his life as the wood tumbled away into the darkness. The key was still sitting on the boards, the planks now broken and loose. A disturbed pigeon settled back onto the wall behind Elvis. The cat spotted it. He pounced forward and tried to spring from the loose timber. The wood fell away. Elvis threw out a desperate hand, the other clawing at the beam for grip, his nails tearing from the flesh, splinters piercing his skin. But to no avail; the cat and the key plummeted through the hole and were gone.

Elvis had to get the key back. He knew without it there could be no return home. He crawled gingerly along the beam towards a small opening in the centre of the tower. He peered inside. A worn stone staircase spiralled down out of sight. Elvis started a slow climb down, clinging to the wall for support. Finally he reached ground level and an arched doorway that opened into the huge stone chamber. He spied around the corner. A handful of people were scattered around the few pews that remained. Nobody seemed to be aware of anything other than their own conversations with God. Elvis needed some sort of clothes and a stick or crutch. A wooden door was open near the foot of the stairs. Elvis crept over and strained a head around the stone frame. Nobody was inside. Leaning against a wall was a wooden staff, the sort of thing Bo Peep held in his old nursery rhyme book. That would be perfect. On the floor was a pile of grubby white altar sheets. He wrapped one around his body like a toga. Now he must find the key. He walked back out into the main chamber of the cathedral and looked up at the roof of the tower. The hole he'd made looked no more that a speck of light from this distance. He looked down at where it would have landed. His heart sank. The floor was strewn with piles of rubble and broken timbers. But there was no choice, he had to find it.

The vicar ran back into the church hall. 'Is he back yet? Are you finished?' he asked urgently.

Mother Munro shook her head. 'Noo yet, vicar.'

'I don't know how much longer I can keep fobbing them off.'

'But even if he does make it back,' pointed out Alan 'we've still got all of this bloody plague here. London's full of it now thanks to you lot. You'll all be gone, but I'll still be here and stuck up shit street. Thanks a bundle!'

'Och ye stupid boy. Can ye noo see? Everybody oot there that's caught plague, caught it from these people here!'

'Yeh, so what?'

'Well if they're noo here, their plague won't be either. It'll be gone back te whence it came!'

'You mean...'

'Aye, when we send them all back, we send away their diseases too. It'll be over, all of it.'

'I really can't hold them for long.' warned the vicar. 'That commander bloke is jumping up and down out there. They're trying to wake the Bishop to get permission to search every part of the church. If they can't find him, they'll just get a warrant. Either way, they'll be in here within the hour, at best.'

'I get the message vicar. We'll be as quick as we can. Noo what aboot ye Mister Le Clerc? Have ye had the potion?'

'No, not yet, I thought...I thought I'd see you all safe first.'

'Very noble. And you, Reverend Singer?'

Singer shook his head. 'This is the work of the devil. I'll not partake of his brew.'

'Ye canna stay here, Reverend, you knoo that?'

Singer said nothing. If he was to drink it, he'd do it in his own time, when no one was watching. The dignity of the church would be maintained.

'Shouldn't he be back by now?' asked Mary.

'Aye, maybe. But we can de nothin but wait noo girl.'

A searchlight scanned the porch again. The vicar looked nervously outside.

'Shit, they're back again.' He hurried towards the door. 'For heaven's sake, you'll have to be quick!'

Elvis scoured the rubble for his precious key. The old iron was going to be near impossible to find amongst all of this debris. And what of the cat? He surely had to be dead. He lifted stones and tossed broken timbers out of the way. Eyes were looking up from prayer, irritated at the disturbance. Elvis paid no heed, he kept on searching. He pulled away a timber and exposed the cat's grubby white tail poking out from under debris. He knelt down and pulled another splintered plank out of the way. The cat's frightened white face peered back out from a hole.

'It's OK mate.' Elvis crouched down and gently stroked the cat's head.

'You boy! What do you think you are you doing?' The booming voice echoed around the cathedral.

Elvis looked up. An elderly church orderly was hurrying over the rubble towards him. Church-goers stood behind him, scowling their disapproval. Elvis scrambled to stand but his staff slipped on the debris and he fell back alongside the cat. He struggled to get to his feet but the old man was upon him. He reached down a hand and seized Elvis by his shoulder.

'Get to your feet boy!'

The cat squeezed out from his hole. He tore up Elvis's arm, onto his shoulders and jumped at the old man, hissing and spitting. He attached himself to the man's face, clawing and tearing at his flesh. The orderly tumbled backwards, desperately trying to detach the beast from his face.

Elvis grabbed his staff and scrambled over the debris towards a huge hole in the cathedral wall. The cat finally released the man's head and darted past Elvis and out through the wall.

'You boy! Stop!' called the old man. 'Come back here!'

Elvis hurried between mounds of dirt and stinking burial pits. As he left the churchyard the white cat was waiting on the wall. Elvis grabbed him, tucked him under one arm and hurried away from the cathedral.

There was little activity on the streets, just countless small fires that filled the air with acrid smoke that burnt the eyes and throat. The few passers-by looked at Elvis's strange attire with suspicion and crossed the street to avoid him. Elvis had no time to worry about his appearance. He had to try and find Mary's father and work out how to get back. As James hadn't been at the cathedral, he decided to head for Monnington Street and try there instead. He had taken his bearings from his view of the river from the tower. He knew roughly which way to head but at now ground level and without any familiar landmarks, it wasn't so easy. He wondered about stopping and asking someone for directions but that was probably too risky. He rounded a corner; this street was different, it was a little busier and crammed with shops, each with a wooden sign hanging above the door and stalls at the road side selling scant offerings for sale. Elvis kept his head down and walked quickly, tapping his staff on the hard sun-baked dirt, the white cat still under his arm.

He came to a halt outside an inn. It was hot and the roads were confusing. He looked around for something he might recognise, a church spire, a statue but there was nothing.

'Are you a wizard?' A small boy looked at him admiringly.

Elvis hesitated. Perhaps this boy would know how to find Monnington Street. 'Yes, I am. I'm a ...white wizard from the north. A good one, you know, like that Gandalf. I come in search of Monnington Street.'

The boy looked skywards and then took a couple of steps back.

'Don't be afraid little boy. I mean you no harm. Do you know how I get to Monnington...' Before Elvis could finish his sentence warm liquid drenched his head and ran down his face, soaking his white sheet. The boy burst into laughter. It was the contents of someone's chamber pot. It smelled foul.

'You ain't so white now!' chuckled the boy.

The cat jumped from Elvis's arms and darted across the street. He ran up a couple of steps and through a crack in an open door and disappeared into a house. Elvis followed. He gently pushed the door open and craned his neck inside. The cat was running up the stairs. The house was deserted. Elvis slipped inside. He found a jug of water and wiped away the fetid liquid from around his face. Now he needed clothes; he'd just find a few simple things to borrow and be gone. The walls of the room were draped with black and purple cloth adorned with silver stars and moons. There was a bed in one corner and a wooden table and sideboard at the far end. The house was Shipton's. Elvis found a pair of trousers. They were far too long in the leg and too wide in the waist, but there was no time to be fussy. He rolled up the legs and tied a short rope for a belt. He picked up a shirt from the floor. It was made of a rough fibrous cloth and covered in grime. It stank of sweat and on close inspection, Elvis could see insects crawling between the fibres. Elvis shuddered and threw it back to the floor. He grabbed a purple and gold astrology tapestry from the wall and pulled it around his body like a cape. The fibre was rough and uncomfortable. Perhaps there might better clothes upstairs. He climbed to the one upstairs room. It was stuffed with crates and boxes.

The front door creaked below. Footsteps entered. There were voices, familiar sounding voices. Banging and crashing followed, the sound of draws being pulled out and thrown onto the ground, of breaking crockery. Elvis crept onto the landing and peeped through the bannister. He could see the legs of two men and furniture turning over, bottles and jugs flying across the room.

A third man appeared at the door, a burly man with hands on hips and anger on his face. 'What the hell is going on?' he boomed. Then his anger collapsed. 'Oh, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry Your Grace, and you Sir. I didn't realise...'

Elvis edged back out of sight.

'Oh Mister Blackburn. How good to see you.'

The voice, Elvis shuddered. It couldn't be, it made no sense. He crawled on his belly and squeezed his head through the banister to try and see.

'Please close the door behind you.'

Blackburn closed the door and turned around. Elvis strained a little further. It was him! The man from the party, the grumpy man who'd arrived in the flashy Subaru. But how could that be? Perhaps it was his double, his ancestor. The other man walked around the bottom of the stairs with his back to Elvis, until he stood directly behind Blackburn.

'Have you... lost somethin' Bishop?' Blackburn asked timidly. 'Perhaps I can help you.' He edged backwards but his way was blocked. 'I thought both you fine gen'lemen 'ad left, for the country. People said...'

'People say all kinds of things.' interrupted the Bishop. 'We're looking for a stone, a bright red stone. And a little whisper told me that your tenant, Shipton, might know where it is.'

'Shipton, you mean Scroggs. That scumbag. I don't...I don't even speak to 'im, Sir. 'Cept when I'm tryin' to get me rent off him. I wouldn't 'ave a clue where he might 'ave put it.'

'Well in that case you're really not much use to us Mister Blackburn, are you?'

The Bishop nodded towards his accomplice. Blackburn span around.

The cat knocked over a box in the upstairs room. Elvis recoiled again out of sight.

'I said we have no use for him like this.' The Bishop repeated impatiently.

'Wait! Your Grace if you give me a chance maybe I could...'

But the chance never came. With a dull thud, Blackburn hit the floor.

Elvis crept forward again and spied through the bannister posts.

'Sometimes I wonder about your commitment Mister Jarvis! Now help me hide him.' snapped the Bishop. 'In there.' He pointed to a small door under the stairs. 'Then we find that bloody stone, even if I have to rip this place apart!'

The two of them dragged the heavy body towards the cupboard. Elvis knew he had to get out before they came searching upstairs. As they sweated and toiled over Blackburn's huge weight, Elvis began to creep down the staircase. He edged down on his bottom, one step at a time. Finally he was on the last step. The huffing and puffing continued behind him. Elvis gritted his teeth and rose silently to his feet. There was no point trying to run, with his leg he was sure to be caught. He crept towards the door, not daring to look back. He reached the opening to the street. He pulled his purple tapestry tightly over his shoulders and with staff in hand he descended the steps onto the road. He stopped for one last peek through the window. They were still struggling, trying to shove the bulky corpse into the cupboard. The Bishop was sweating and becoming ever more irate. The other man that the Bishop had called Jarvis, still had his back to Elvis. He stopped and turned to wipe his brow. He looked straight at the window, straight at Elvis. Elvis's heart stopped. It couldn't be! But there could be no doubt. He was looking at the face of his stepfather, Morris. William Jarvis and Morris Klatzmann were the same person.

Elvis staggered away from the window, bumping into pedestrians in his haste. Was that really Morris? How was it possible? Had he seen Elvis and recognised his face at the window? He wasn't going to wait to find out. He hurried along the street with no idea where he was going; he turned down side streets and back alleys, zig-zagging, not caring where he went so long as he wouldn't be found. He walked and walked until he became exhausted, drained, sleepy. Finally he could go no further. He sat under a craggy oak tree and rested his tired legs. How was he going to find Mary's father? He didn't have a clue what he looked like. And what about the key. He had no time to rest. He had to get up and go on searching. But his eyelids began to sag, his head droop.

'What potion's you got mate?'

'What?' asked Elvis, struggling to keep his eyelids apart.

'What magic you got? You must 'ave something. You are a wizard or somefin'.' asked a young woman.

'No. No magic. No potions...' Elvis's words were becoming slurred. The cat reappeared and snuggled into his lap. Elvis collapsed into a heavy sleep.

Commander Stafford wasn't going to wait for any official approval. He would search every last bit of the church whether the vicar liked it or not . No boy was going to make a monkey out of him, and this was terrorism they were dealing with, after all, so his authority was limitless. He took his torch and began searching the churchyard. He checked around the tombs and gravestones, inside the church, in the vestry and between the pews. Finally, he wandered around the back of the old building and found the concrete church hall. He gently pushed the door open and followed his torch beam through the small porch and into the main room. Inside was strangely quiet, the only sound was a gentle rhythmical squeak. Stafford flashed his torch around the room in search of the source of the noise. The light found the cadaverous figure of Mother Munro, gently swaying to and fro in her rocking chair. Something smashed to Stafford's left. He flicked the torch sideways. A broken mirror lay on the floor in front of a table loaded with old household junk. A plastic kettle slid from the table and bounced across the floor. Stafford chased it with his torch and found Alan's frightened, wide-eyed face looking back at him from between the table legs. Stafford fumbled at his pocket for his gun. He pulled it out and aimed it Alan, and then swung it back towards the creaking rocking chair. But his view of the old woman was blocked; instead he found himself staring straight at bushy, ginger chest hair erupting from the top of a v-neck jumper. He raised the torch light upwards. Madadh MacDonald's fiery red beard and blazing eyes bore down on him. Stafford froze. Madadh pulled the pistol from his hand.

Chapter 17

Elvis was awoken by the cat affectionately digging his claws into his lap. It was dark. He had no idea of how long he had slept. Carts rumbled past laden with corpses. He was leant against a wall, Saint Paul's Cathedral stood again before him. Was this where he'd rested? Perhaps this was for the best he thought. Perhaps he could sit here and wait, see if he could spot somebody that might be James.

He watched as the carts trundled past, as the sky turned from black to blue and the stars faded and died. Then he saw someone emerge from the cathedral. A dishevelled looking man with a grubby blanket wrapped around him. Maybe that was James. Elvis jumped to his feet and headed after him. He was a hundred yards or more away and walking quickly. Elvis walked as fast as he could but the figure disappeared into the streets around the cathedral. Elvis followed his path. He rounded a corner. He could see the man disappearing into an alley. He had to catch him. He hobbled as fast as he could, his bare feet blistering and bleeding on the rough ground. He followed him through a small passageway. The man was now stood with his back to Elvis, arguing with a woman. All he had to do was explain who he was and give him some potion. How hard could that be? Elvis dashed to the man and grabbed him by the shoulder.

'James! I'm am so glad I caught you!'

The man span around and punched Elvis on the nose, knocking him from his feet.

'James? Who the bloody 'ell is James? Little urchin! Go on, bugger off!' He gave Elvis a kick and turned his attention back to the woman. 'Now come on darlin', you know I can't afford that much. I never pay that much.'

Elvis crawled away, blood dripping from his nose. The white cat ran past him and on up the alley. Elvis stumbled back to his feet and followed. He rounded another corner. It opened into a small ornate square. A fight seemed to be going on in the middle of the square alongside a fountain. A man wrapped in a filthy blanket staggered away whilst another in uniform stood gloating, cupping handfuls of water and splashing them onto his face. A wooden stool stood near to Elvis. Alongside it was food wrapped in a cloth and a small bottle. Elvis grabbed the bottle and tucked it under his cape. Could this man who was hurrying away be James? With the bottle hidden, Elvis set off in pursuit.

'An' you can keep away an' all!' shouted the uniformed man as he splashed water onto his neck. 'This ain't for the likes of you!'

With the bottle still hidden beneath his cape, Elvis ran through the ritual with the stone and the water as Samuel had shown him. It seemed ridiculous, but then so was walking through seventeenth century London. He scurried after the man. Perhaps he should try a different approach this time.

'Sir! Sir!' Elvis shouted. 'Wait.'

The man turned and looked suspiciously at Elvis's cape and staff. 'What do you want? If you want to ridicule go ahead. I'm past caring.' He turned to walk on.

'No, no. I saw you trying to get a drink. Here. I have some. You can share it.' Elvis held out the bottle.

'Why would you want to share with me?' James asked sceptically. 'I'm a searcher.'

'That's OK, I don't care.'

The man took the bottle and gulped it down.

'And what's your name sir?' asked Elvis.

'My name, why do you need my name?'

'I'd just like to know who I helped today.'

The man shrugged. 'Young, James Young.'

Elvis smiled. 'Frickin' awesome!' he shouted. That had been easy! All he had to do now was find that key and go home.

Samuel ran in through the church hall door screaming in excitement. 'He's back! He's back!' then rushed outside again. A moment later he walked back in through the door pulling a very dazed looking James in behind him.

Mary screamed and ran and threw her arms around her father. Elizabeth stood speechless, tears rolled down her cheeks.

James squeezed Mary tightly before releasing her and approaching his wife.

'James, I never thought I'd see you again.' Her words came out as a whisper. She threw her arms over his shoulders and pulled him in. She buried her face into his shoulder. 'I thought you were gone... forever.'

'But, but I saw you. You were... dead.' James stuttered. 'How can this ...?'

Elizabeth placed a finger across James lips. 'Who cares? We're together, we're all together.'

Samuel was still bouncing up and down with excitement. Mary brought a small packet of tablets and pushed two of them into her father's hand.

'Quick, swallow these.'

'What? Why?

'Don't ask my darling, just swallow them, please.' urged Elizabeth. 'We'll tell you everything.'

James choked them down.

'Noo we just need that boy back and we'll be done.' said Mother Munro with obvious satisfaction.

The vicar reappeared in the hall. 'They're here!' He hissed. 'They couldn't find the Bishop so they woke up a judge. They're searching the vestry right now! They'll be in here next. You're times run out. You need to get away from here right now!'

'Quick then child! The potion!' Mother Munro pointed to the buckets on the table. Mary handed out the cups again, first to Alice, then her mother, Samuel and James. They gulped it down together. In seconds they were gone.

'Come Mister Le Clerc, Reverend Singer, ye must drink it too.' ordered Mother Munro. 'And ye girl, drink up.'

The Reverend looked at the cup of water in his hand and swished it around as Mary drank her potion.

Alan had a small torch and was examining the patched up piece of paper that formed the old death register. 'What was it Elvis called himself?'

'I believe it was Thomas.' replied the old woman. 'Thomas Cruso... or Cruton or something. Och, my memory isn'e what it was.'

'Look.' Alan pointed his torch at the list. Near to the top of the page was a new entry. 'Thomas Cruise. Executed, Witchcraft.'

'Oh dear. That's noo good.' said Mother Munro. 'Not good at all.'

'No' screeched Mary 'let me...' Before she could finish her sentence, she too was gone.

Alan turned to Mother Munro. 'How can we change this? How do we get him back?'

'We canna laddie. What's done is done. He knew there were risks.'

'You sent him to his death and that's all you can say?' bawled Alan. 'He knew there were risks!'

''He's no the only one who's paid a price.'

Outside torches were working their way across the graveyard, searching step by step and heading towards the hall.

'So what the hell do we do now?' asked Alan.

'Do? There's nothing to do. Ye'll go to jail, and as fer me, well, it's best t' noo even think aboot it.'

Satisfied with his work, Elvis hurried back towards the cathedral. He'd just find the key, get back to the top of the tower and be gone. Everything would be back to normal again.

It was mid-afternoon. The sun was hot, the flies were frantic and the smell was appalling. The cathedral was deserted but for a few in silent prayer. Elvis quickly made his way back to the piles of debris and began methodically searching. It had to be here somewhere. He searched under stones and timbers, through piles of rubble and garbage but found nothing.

'Is this, by chance, what you seek?' Elvis turned. The Bishop stood behind him holding aloft the iron key. Half a dozen guards stood around him swords hanging by their sides. Behind them stood the old church orderly, his face covered in scratch and claw marks.

Elvis tried to scramble over the rubble to escape once again.

'Seize him!' roared the Bishop.

This time, Elvis had no chance. The guards charged over the debris and grabbed him. They dragged him back before the Bishop.

'How dare you come to the house of God dressed in the clothes of Satan?' he boomed. 'And then you thieve from the vestry. And look!' The Bishop grasped Elvis's wrist and prised the stone from his fingers. 'Look at the evil trinkets he holds!'

'No! Give me that back!' Elvis lunged forward but the guards pulled him back.

The Bishop laughed coldly. 'I don't think so.' He looked thoughtfully at Elvis. 'Do I know you boy? You look familiar. What's your name?'

Elvis hesitated. 'Cruise. Thomas Cruise.'

In the shadows at the bottom of the tower stairs, Brock looked on silently.

'Does anyone here know this boy?' the Bishop went on. 'Will anyone speak up for him?'

The Bishop looked at the faces in turn. If there were accomplices here then he'd have them too. But nobody stepped forward.

The Bishop leant over, his nose almost touching Elvis's face. 'I do know you boy.' he whispered, 'You and the stone have escaped me for the very last time.'

He turned and almost skipped away, the stone and key clasped firmly in either hand. 'Lock him up! Trial Monday, execution Tuesday.'

Chapter 18

Elvis was thrown into a dank and gloomy underground cell. The only light came from the feint flicker of a candle that struggled to find its way under the heavy wooden door. Water trickled down the algae-covered walls, rats scurried over sodden straw on the stone floor. Elvis had no idea of day or night. He slept when he could. Stale bread and foul tasting water were occasionally pushed through the door.

His questions such as 'What day is it?', 'What time is it?' were met with 'Your a wizard, you tell me!' or 'Any time you want it to be.' Elvis gave up asking.

It felt like he'd been there for weeks when finally a key rattled in the lock and the heavy door squeaked open. Was this it? Was this the day he'd lose the attachment to his head?

Mary was shoved into the cell.

'You two can die together!'

The door was shut.

Mary hung her head.

'Mary! Is that really you? How...why are you here?'

'I wanted to help you Elvis.' she spoke softly without looking up. 'After I drunk the potion an' came back, I 'eard 'bout them lockin' you up. I thought, maybe I could find you an'... make up a story or somethin' to get you out. But soon as they 'eard me say your name they grabbed me an ' locked me in shackles. I'm sorry Elvis, I'm real sorry.'

Elvis bowed his head. 'I think they're going to kill me.'

'I know.' she said quietly. 'They're gonna try us together, for witchcraft.'

'Try us?' said Elvis 'Try us! That must mean there's going to be a trial so then I can tell them the truth! I can prove we're innocent!'

'Prove?' laughed Mary incredulously 'How are you going to prove anything? They won't let us speak! We're already dead, Elvis.'

'Can't we get a lawyer or something?'

Mary just looked at him and shook her head. 'I don't know what one o' them is, but whatever it is, we ain't gettin' one.'

Elvis sat down against the wall and dropped his head into his hands. 'You shouldn't be here Mary. They got me, they didn't need to catch you too.'

Mary sat alongside him. 'Don't cry Elvis. It's done now.'

'I'm not crying.' growled Elvis, wiping angrily at his tears. 'It's this place.'

Mary put her hand under his chin and turned his head to face her. She wiped away a tear with her finger. 'You didn't need to come back here and do this for me, Elvis. I know that. You're the bravest person I ever met.' She leant forward and kissed him gently on the mouth.

For just a fleeting moment, all of Elvis's anguish was gone. He was drifting high above London. The pain of his blistered feet, the aching of his battered body, the hurt of being locked up centuries from home evaporated.

'Thank you Elvis.'

They huddled together in the dark and damp. They told each other stories to pass the hours. Elvis amazed her with tales of space travel and submarines, of robots and world wars. He told her of how he'd come to be injured as a baby and of his life at school. Mary told him of her existence as a servant girl, of shivering in the servant quarters in the attic, of working like a slave for just enough to eat. She told him of her dream to one day escape from poverty and be the lady of the house. That silly dream that was now over.

Eventually the time came and the door opened. Half a dozen guards marched inside. Mary turned to Elvis again and squeezed him with all of her might.

They were prised apart and dragged from the cell.

Back in the church hall Alan was hiding under a pile of jumble. Mother Munro sat quietly in a rocking chair and swayed gently back and forth.

On the table, the death list lay under a flickering candle. A new name appeared. 'Mary Young Executed, 12 August 1665, Witchcraft.'

Reverend Singer watched the police as they scoured the graveyard. He shook his head as they poured into the church, as they pulled open ancient tombs to look inside. He swigged back his cup of potion. In a moment he too was gone.

Chapter 19

Mary and Elvis were thrown into the dock. They were shackled together in irons. An audience of the religious and the curious wandered in and took their seats in the courthouse. Plague or not, they weren't going to miss a trial for witchcraft. Elvis noticed Brock amongst them.

'Mary, it's him, what's his name!' he whispered.

'Who?' she hissed.

'That man, at the back, right side.'

Mary looked through the faces. She met Brock's gaze. He smiled and nodded.

'He must planning something!' whispered Elvis. 'Maybe he'll get us out!'

'Silence!' roared the guard and smashed his baton on the wooden bar before them.

In a room behind the bench, the Reverend Singer was helping the Bishop try on the judge's robes and wig. Jarvis was less keen.

'Not a bad fit Jarvis. What do you think? Come on, you try some.'

'This is not a circus, Bishop.' growled Judge Collins. 'And I still don't understand what was so important that you had to drag me back all the way from the country. It had better be worth it.'

'Oh this is worth it Judge. You'll see.'

'This is most irregular, you know that.' he went on. 'Everyone has the right to trial by jury, even street urchins. And especially for the death sentence.'

'These are not normal times Judge. All the good folk have headed for the country. We tried but we just couldn't find enough sound men for the job.'

'Hmm, is that a fact?' mused the judge.

'The record will show that you selected a Bishop and a respected businessman to sit with you.'

'I selected? I don't recall selecting anyone.'

'A panel of three good men, Judge. That'll be more than enough to satisfy anyone. You shouldn't worry so much!'

'Let's get this over with so I can get back out of this filthy city.' grumbled Judge Collins.

The Bishop gave him an unwelcome pat on the back and then turned to Jarvis.

'Come on man, put these on. Look the part.' The Bishop pushed the bright red robes into Jarvis's hands.

Jarvis quietly placed them back on the table. 'This might have to be done Bishop, but I'll take no pleasure in it. These plain clothes will suffice.'

'Please yourself. Now where's that evidence. Singer, make sure these don't leave your sight.' He picked up the key and stone and thrust them into Singer's hands. 'Bring these out when you're told. And make sure you keep them safe, do you hear me?'

Singer nodded.

The judge opened the door to the court and swept inside.

The Bishop hesitated. He turned and spoke with Singer in hushed voice. 'When the moment's right, I'll call you to give evidence. Make sure it's good.'

'Me? Evidence? To be honest, I don't really know anything about these two.'

'Honest? Who said anything about honest? Make something up, man! Tell us how you saw them sacrificing goats or eating bibles or something. Use your imagination! Just make it sound good. You know the sort of thing.' He adjusted his wig in the mirror. 'Right Mister Jarvis, lets send those children to meet their maker!'

The Bishop and Jarvis marched into the court room and took their places alongside Judge Collins at the bench. Wooldridge was back standing behind his master, the judge, wearing an immaculate crisp dark suit. He kept his icy cold gaze focussed firmly ahead and ignored Mary and Elvis. The other court officials filed in after them.

The Judge waved them all to sit and then smashed his hammer on the desk. 'Order! This is the extraordinary case of the King versus Mary Young and Thomas Cruise. I understand from the good Bishop that due to the disaster that befalls this city, no jury could be found. Today therefore, we three will sit in judgement The two individuals before us stand accused of witchcraft, a crime that carries the penalty of death. How do you both plead?'

'Not guilty!' shouted Elvis.

Mary said nothing.

'How do you plead girl?'

'Say not guilty!' hissed Elvis 'Say it!'

Mary felt paralysed. Her mouth was dry, her vision hazy.

The Bishop jumped to his feet. 'She won't plead! That means she's guilty. Enter 'guilty' in the record!'

'Thank you good Bishop,' Judge Collins growled, 'please remember that this is my court of law. Please take your seat again.' He turned back to Mary 'Now girl, your plea.'

'Not guilty.' shouted Elvis. 'She said not guilty.'

'I must hear it from her mouth. Your plea girl, else I will convict you!'

'Not guilty.' whispered Mary.

'I can't hear you. What is your plea?' bellowed the judge.

'Guilty! She's guilty!' screamed the Bishop.

'Not...' stammered Mary then took a deep breath and tried again. 'Not guilty!' she shouted unconvincingly.

The judge eyed Mary and Elvis sceptically. 'Hmm, fine. In that case we go on.'

'Oh, whatever!' moaned the Bishop. 'The fact is that this boy was found in the cathedral, dressed as a wizard, carrying trinkets - stolen, evil trinkets! I have a witness who saw them both committing terrible terrible acts, evil rituals too foul for me to describe. '

The audience gasped.

In the back room Reverend Singer slipped outside into the yard. A young boy by the name of Alfred was sat on a rock waiting. Singer called him over and whispered into his ear. He handed him a small package and waved him on his way.

A head poked out of the door. 'Reverend, they'll be wanting you in a minute.'

Inside the court the Bishop continued his tirade. 'I don't know why we're even having this trial! These urchins have guilt oozing from every pore! Is there one person, just one person in this court who has a single good word to say for them?'

Mary and Elvis looked expectantly towards Brock. He didn't move.

'Just one person to vouch for them, to plead for their lives, to save them from execution?'

'Bishop!' hissed the judge. 'They've not been found guilty yet! Sit down!'

'Will nobody speak up for them?' he continued, unabashed.

Brock rose to his feet. Elvis nudged Mary and nodded towards the back of the court. Brock stood and stared directly at them both. He smiled, then left the court room.

'Where's he going?' whispered Elvis.

'Just as I thought!' roared the Bishop.

Singer entered the court.

'Ah, the good Reverend! Perfect timing! Please take the stand.' The Bishop turned to the judge. 'Wait until you hear this!'

Mary's heart sank. She remembered how he'd caught them trying to sell the trinkets on the steps of the market hall, how Samuel had dropped tarot cards onto the ground around him and how he'd scalded them before they'd fled. This would seal their fate.

Singer took his place in the witness stand.

'Ladies and gentlemen this is one of my finest clergymen,' announced the Bishop 'a man of sound reputation and honour. A man... of God! A man who's word is beyond reproach. Please Reverend, please tell us all what you saw.'

Singer cleared his throat. In a loud clear voice he announced: 'They're not guilty. I am. I am the one who committed this witchcraft.'

'What?' roared the Bishop. 'What are you saying man?'

'These children are innocent.' shouted Singer ' I'm the guilty one! Set them free!'

The audience jumped to their feet and started hurling abuse and anything else they could find at the the Reverend.

'Strike that from the record!' shouted the Bishop. 'Ignore him! He's lost his mind!'

'I am the witch! I stole the trinkets!' screamed Singer.

There was uproar. People poured from the public gallery and surged towards Singer. The guards fought to keep them back.

The Bishop ran from his seat and grabbed Singer by his throat. 'What are you doing man? Are you trying to destroy me?'

Judge Collins rose to his feet. 'Order! Order in this court!' he bellowed and smashed his mallet into the desk. 'Release those children! Guards, arrest the Reverend!'

Wooldridge slipped around the back of the bench. He crouched down behind Mary and Elvis and unlocked the shackles. 'Get away from here, quickly.' He handed Elvis his ornate black cane. 'Go on! Go!'

The judge slammed his hammer on the table again. 'We have our witch!' He shouted. 'By the power of this extraordinary court and that of his Majesty, Charles the Second, I sentence you to death by hanging!'

'No!' screamed the Bishop. 'It's not him that's supposed to die!'

Singer held his hands out and allowed the cuffs to be fastened.

Mary and Elvis hurried from the court house. As they left they ran into Brock on the court steps.

'Mary! I was... just coming back to help you!'

Mary placed both hands into his chest and shoved him back down the steps. They rushed past him and into the street. They passed a bright red carriage, parked a few yards along from the court. Inside Annabel Collins sat silently, gazing blankly straight ahead. Elvis and Mary hurried by.

The Bishop chased after Singer as he was led away. 'Wait! Stop! Where are they Singer? Where's my stone, and the key?'

Singer didn't reply.

The Bishop grabbed him and screamed in his face. 'Where are they?' He frisked his pockets.

Singer remained silent.

'You didn't...?'

Singer smiled and then turned to be led away. He was taken around the back of the court and led up a dark stone staircase. Halfway to the top was a window crossed with iron bars. Singer paused to look out. He saw Alfred racing away from the court, a package under one arm. Singer smiled, for the last time.

Mary led Elvis along back streets weaving this way and that until she was confident that nobody was following them. Eventually they came out by the Thames. A thick, eye-watering smog sat on the river. In the centre, the boats were still. The usually busy wharf was deserted. Mary led Elvis down a steep ramp and onto a wooden jetty. They sat at the edge of the glassy water and Elvis caught his breath.

'I've failed.' said Elvis, still panting. 'I promised I'd take the stone back. Mum's gonna be locked up, everyone's going to get sick. It's my fault.'

'It's not your fault. I asked you to do it. An' any'ow, you did save my father.'

'And lost my mother, and half of London.' pointed out Elvis.

'You can come live with us. Mister Jarvis would... Oh no. Mister Jarvis wouldn't, would he? Well, we could run away, to the country, just the two of us. Once all this plague stuff is over and the roads is open again. We'll just 'ave to 'ide 'til then.'

On the top of the wharf, Alfred arrived puffing and sweating. He rested with hands on hips for a moment then began running along the waterfront, searching behind walls and between buildings.

'That Bishop, he'd hunt us down.' said Elvis. 'He'd find us.'

'No, we could find places he'd never look.'

Elvis sat back and leant against a thick oak timber. Mary shuffled along and leant against him.

'Did you see his face, the Bishop, when Singer said he was a witch?' chuckled Mary. 'I thought he was gonna throw a fit!'

'Yeh, but why did he do that?' asked Elvis. 'He didn't have to.'

'Don't know.' Mary shrugged. Then she looked down at the river. A small dinghy was moored alongside the jetty. 'A boat! We could escape on a boat! You an' me, we could row upstream, away from London.'

'D'you know how hard it is to row one of those things. It'd take us weeks to get anywhere!'

'It can't be that 'ard! I've seen 'em do it. You just shove them planks in the water and pull back an' forth. That's easy!'

A head poked over the side of the wharf. 'That's where you're 'idin'!'

'Shit they've found us!' shouted Mary. 'Quick , we'll have to jump in that boat!' She dashed to the edge of the jetty and started unravelling the rope. 'Come on Elvis!'

Elvis dragged himself back to his feet. He was exhausted. A small boy came charging down the ramp clutching a package. Elvis stood before Mary and raised the cane above his head in readiness. Alfred skidded to a halt.

'What's the matta? I aint done noffin'!' Alfred shielded his face with an arm.

Mary looked behind him. 'Is you on yer own?'

'Yeh, I just gotta give yer this!' He cowered as he held out the parcel.

Elvis took it from his hands then carefully unwrapped it. Inside, the red stone glistened alongside the rusty iron key.

'What? How did you get this?' Elvis's face beamed.

'It was the Rev'rend. 'E said I 'ad to give it ya.' replied Alfred, edging back up the ramp.

'Look Mary! He's brought them both! We've got what we need!'

Alfred took his chance and sprinted away.

'Good.' Mary said quietly.

'I just need to get back up to the top of the cathedral.' replied Elvis, his voice softening.

'You could... still stay here you know.' Mary suggested, looking ruefully towards the key and stone.

Elvis stroked the jewel in his palm. Eventually he spoke. 'I can't Mary. I wish I could, but I can't leave things how they are. I don't want to be responsible.'

'We should go then, now. Before the Bishop comes lookin'.'

Elvis dropped back against the wooden beam. 'Soon. I need to rest Mary. I'm not used to this.'

'No Elvis, we can't rest 'ere! The Bishop's gonna be lookin' everywhere for us. He'll arrest us again an' this time 'e'll 'ang us for sure.' Mary grabbed Elvis by the wrist and tried to pull him to his feet.

'Five minutes. Just give me five minutes Mary.' Elvis stayed put.

From above came the sound of horses hooves accompanied by shouts. Mary ran half way up the ramp and peeked over the edge of the wharf. Two men on horseback were directing footsoldiers to search. She ran back down to Elvis.

'They're right 'ere! They're gonna find us!' She looked back to the small dinghy. 'Elvis, in the boat. It's the only way. Please Elvis. For me!'

Elvis reluctantly got back to his feet and they climbed together into the small dinghy.

'Lie down Elvis, hide. They're gonna be lookin' fer two of us. I'll row.'

Elvis crouched into the floor of the boat as Mary threw a grubby tarpaulin over him. She pushed the boat out from its mooring and began to wrestle with the oars. They were long and awkward. She drifted out into the river, floating out into view of the searching soldiers. She finally got the first oar into its housing and began to wrestle with the second.

'What you doin'?' whispered Elvis 'We're not moving!'

'I...can't ...get...the oar in!' growled Mary.

Elvis peeped his head out. He grabbed the second oar and helped drop it into its support. On the shore, he could see Alfred being held against a wall, a hand around his throat. He was pointing towards where they'd been hidden. More soldiers were arriving onto the wharf.

'Row Mary! Row!'

Mary finally had both oars in place. She'd never done this before but it looked so simple. She leant back and rowed with all of her might. One oar dug deep into the water, the other skimmed the surface and slipped from her grip. She lunged after it and saved it from landing in the Thames. The boat span a gentle circle. She glanced up at the wharf. Several soldiers were now running towards their hiding place.

'What's happening?' hissed Elvis.

'Nothin'. It's just ...a bit...'arder than I thought.'

Mary tried again. She dug the oars deep into the water and pulled with all of her might. This time both oars got good purchase and the boat moved swiftly, but in the wrong direction, back towards the jetty.

The soldiers were running down the ramp to the waterfront.

Elvis peeped his head out again. 'What the...? Why are we going back?'

'I can't do it Elvis!'

Elvis rose from his hiding spot and sat alongside her. 'Here, you grab that one. Just copy me. And when I say so, row like hell.'

Brock's finger pointed them out across the river. A soldier raised his musket and took aim. There was a loud crack and then a shot whistled over their heads.

'What are you doin'?' shouted Brock, knocking the gun down. 'The Bishop said he wanted them alive!'

An officer on horseback looked over the top of the wharf. 'You lot! Get in that other boat, now!' he shouted pointing at a small sailing vessel moored further along the jetty. 'Get after them!'

The sound of lead hissing by gave extra power to Mary and Elvis's rowing. They managed to coordinate their oars and and began to row down river. Behind them, they could see the soldiers climbing into the small sail boat and casting off in chase. They hauled up the sail, but there was no air to be had and the boat sat still on the water.

'Row you idiots!' shouted the officer from the shore.

They pulled out the oars and gave chase. The troops on the bank surged along the wharf but their path was blocked by the rows of warehouses. They forced away from the river and back into the streets.

Elvis and Mary were tiring quickly. Their faces ran with sweat, their muscles were burning and their rowing becoming erratic.

'There!' shouted Mary pointing to a jetty by a warehouse. 'Let's land there!'

They collided with the jetty and jumped off. The soldiers had gained momentum and were gaining on them quickly.

Elvis was struggling. His legs ached, he was gasping for air.

'Elvis, hurry!' Mary turned and grabbed his arm and pulled him along the wooden boards and into the back of the deserted warehouse. Inside the building was a maze of paths between towers of crates, sacks and barrels. They weaved their way through towards the front of the building.

Elvis stopped again. 'Wait Mary. I can't go on.' he puffed then sat on a sack of grain. 'Give me a minute.'

Mary pulled open a small door at the front of the building and peeped out. Directly in front was a junction in the road with a narrow lane running straight ahead. In the distance loomed the large angular bulk of St. Paul's Cathedral.

'Elvis, we're nearly there! I can see it. Please try!' She wrapped her arms around him and hauled him to his feet. 'We can do it Elvis, me and you together.'

Elvis knew she was right. He had to go on. He took a deep breath and followed her to the door. But as Mary pulled on the iron handle, a clatter of hooves echoed along the street. She slammed it shut.

'You three, search up there. The rest of you come with me!' The hooves clattered on by.

Mary waited a moment then sneaked another look. Soldiers were walking up the street towards Saint Paul's, but now their officer was out of sight, their urgency had gone. They removed helmets and strolled casually in the heat. Mary cursed. She looked in either direction along the side of the warehouse. There were half a dozen militia in either direction. A horse and cart was rumbling along the cobbles towards the warehouse.

'We can't get out this way Elvis, there's lots of 'em. We'll 'ave to go back 'ow we came in.'

But shouts were coming from the rear of the warehouse as the troops struggled to land their boat at the jetty.

Elvis pulled Mary back. 'We can't go that way! They're out there! We'll have to go through that door!'

''Ave you looked? There's soldiers bloody everywhere! We can't get that way! We're trapped!'

The rattle of hooves and wheels on cobbles grew louder.

Footsteps thumped up the wooden jetty behind.

'We gotta get out of here!' shouted Elvis. He pushed past Mary and threw open the door. The horse and cart was pulled up directly in front. The driver looked down on him. He was an elderly man, his face scratched and scarred. Elvis recognised him from the cathedral and turned to run back into the warehouse.

'Stop! Don't go back there boy! You'll be caught!' the old man barked as he hurried down from the cart 'Get into the back of this! Quick, it's your only hope.'

'Why would I?' started Elvis.

'Don't ask!' he snapped 'There's no time. In the back, now!'

He ushered them around the side of the cart. It bore a large, roughly painted red cross on the side. The old man kept a close watch on the troops as Mary and Elvis climbed aboard. There were piles of filth-ridden brown blankets in the back.

'Roll yourselves up in one of those. Quick!'

Mary and Elvis each lay on a blanket and the old man helped to wrap them like mummies. The blankets reeked of bad meat.

'And don't move. No matter what happens, don't move.' He climbed onto the front of the cart once more and cracked the whip. The horse trundled on towards Saint Paul's. The old man pulled a blanket around his shoulders and over his head. He kept his eyes down as they rumbled past a pair of soldiers. The troops stood well back.

Inside the blankets it was hot and airless. Elvis was gasping. It was claustrophobic. His heart pounded. He had to stay still but his urge was to scream and fight to escape from the tightly wrapped, foul cloth.

'You, old man!' shouted one of the soldiers. The driver ignored him.

'You! Stop!' He ran before the horse and brought it to a halt. 'Don't ignore me y'old fool! Not if you know what's good for you.'

'What's that? My hearing isn't what is was, sir.' grumbled the old man. He pulled down the blanket exposing his scratched and bloodied face. The soldier cringed.

'What are you doing out at this time? You know you shouldn't be doing this in the day. What you got in there?'

'Two fine young men sir. Died in their home last night. Their mother couldn't bear to be parted 'til this morning.'

The soldier walked around the back of the cart, careful to stay at arms length and with a hand across his face to block out the smell. Flies crawled over the cart and the blankets. He pulled out his sword and poked at Mary's blanket. She remained motionless. Elvis was struggling to slow his panting breath. He could feel sweat soaking his back and face. His heart felt like it would explode in chest. He couldn't keep this up, he had to get out.

The soldier poked his sword into Elvis's back. Elvis twitched. He could feel the panic building inside him. The soldier looked closely. Did that blanket really just move? He wasn't sure but he wasn't game to touch it himself.

'Driver, get down 'ere. Unwrap 'em, now.' he snapped.

'Yes sir, if you're sure sir. But they're not a pretty sight.'

'Just do it!'

The old man climbed slowly down from the cart and shuffled reluctantly towards the back of the cart.

'Hurry up for God's sake, I ain't got all day!'

'Are you sure you...'

'Just shut up and get on with it, 'fore I lose my patience!'

The old church warden placed a hand on Elvis's blanket and began to slowly unwrap him.

'Come on, 'urry it up!'

'Oi, you lot!' A shout came from the front door of the warehouse. 'They're hidin' in 'ere, we saw 'em. Get over 'ere an' 'elp us find 'em.'

'Just a minute.' replied the solider. 'Hurry up old man!'

'Get 'ere right now! 'Fore they bloody run off again.'

'Fine! You wait 'ere old man! You 'ear me? Don't move an inch 'til I get back!'

The soldiers hurried to the warehouse. The warden waited until they'd disappeared from sight then climbed onto his cart and whipped his horse back into life. The cart rumbled on again. Elvis wriggled, shook and rolled himself out of the blanket. He lay on his back with his mouth gaping and drank in the cool air. The cart finally pulled up at the front of the the cathedral. The old man helped them down.

'Who are you?' asked Elvis 'Why are you helping us?'

'You've more friends than you know young man. Now hurry. They won't be fooled for long.'

Mary and Elvis raced into the cathedral.

'Wait, we need water!' said Elvis.

'Here.' The old man scooped a cup of holy water from the entrance. 'Now go!'

They climbed up the dark stone stairs trying not to spill the water. Finally daylight started to appear again. Shouts and thumping footsteps echoed up the staircase from below. They climbed out onto the cathedral roof.

'There!' Elvis pointed to the wall at the edge of the tower. 'She said it had to be the same spot where I arrived.'

They tip-toed carefully over the beams, past broken planks and then gingerly onto the edge of the tower on all fours. With wobbling knees, they carefully helped each other to their feet. Elvis stood against the same small stone column as before. Way below they could see more soldiers running towards the cathedral. With a shaking hand, Elvis performed the ritual to convert the water into potion. The shouts from the stairway were getting louder. Elvis held the key and stone in one hand, and the cup of potion in the other.

'The stone!' said Elvis. It has to be next to my heart. That's what she said!'

' 'Ere, give it me.' Mary took it from his hand and clasped it to Elvis's chest. As she leant forward, her foot slipped on loose stone and sent mortar tumbling down the side of the tower. 'Bloody 'ell!' she shouted and dived forward and hugged onto Elvis's shoulders.

Elvis wobbled, the water sloshed over the side of the cup. Mary checked she still had the stone. Elvis steadied himself against the stone column and swallowed hard.

'Sorry.' whispered Mary.

Elvis's hand shook more than ever. He checked the cup. There was still an inch or so left in the bottom. 'OK, this is it Mary.'

She pressed the stone firmly to his heart.

Elvis raised the cup to his lips then paused. 'I'll miss you, Mary. I'll...I'll... miss you a lot.'

Mary smiled. 'Drink it, Elvis.'A tear escaped on to her cheek. 'I'll write you. Every week I'll write you, I promise.'

'But you can't..write.'

'I'll learn. I will. I'll put it in a box. I'll hide it where only you can find it.'

Brock emerged from the stairway panting. 'Stop!' he gasped. 'Don't do it. You drink that and I'll have her tried for witchcraft and burnt at the stake. Believe me I mean it.'

Elvis hesitated.

'All I want is that stone and key. Then I promise she'll be safe. You have my word.' He crept carefully along a beam towards them.

Elvis took the cup away from his mouth.

'No Elvis drink it!' ordered Mary.

'Do you want her to burn at the stake?'asked Brock. 'Do you want to live with that forever?'

'Drink it Elvis!'

'Knowing you could have stopped it? Do you?'

'Why are you doing this?' Mary screeched at Brock.

'All I wanted was to be a part of your family, Mary, that's all. To have back what was stolen from me. You betrayed me Mary. You turned against me.'

'You lied! You tricked us!'

'It wasn't like that Mary.' Brock continued to carefully pick his way over the beams. 'I loved you, I loved all of you. I could have been different Mary. But it doesn't matter now. Just step away from the wall. Hand me the key and the stone and you both walk free.'

'Drink it!' Mary grabbed the cup and thrust it up to Elvis's lips. Water spilt down his neck and into his mouth.

'No!' Brock lunged forward and onto the decaying planks. They cracked and split beneath him, the timber tumbling away into the tower. Brock hurled himself towards the wall by Mary's feet and scrambled desperately to hold onto the crumbling masonry, half of his body now below the broken floor. His fingers clawed desperately at the stone.

'Mary. Help me! Please!' he begged.

Mary looked back at him with contempt.

'I never meant you harm. I promise you! Please Mary, help me.'

Mary reached for Elvis's stick. She remembered vividly how Wooldridge had used it on her and nearly cut her throat. She clasped the head of the cane and pulled the hidden blade from within.

'Mary! What are you doing?' screamed Brock. 'There's soldiers coming. You can't escape. They'll arrest you again. This time you won't get away. They'll kill you Mary. I can save you.'

Mary crouched down alongside him. She held the point of the blade above his scrambling left hand.

'No Mary! Don't be stupid. Save yourself!' Brock swung his legs and tried to climb from the hole but he had slipped too far.

'Help him!' shouted Elvis. 'We'll give him the stone!' He tried to reach an arm past Mary towards Brock.

But Mary didn't move. She raised the blade. The stone was crumbling under Brock's fingers. Mary plunged the knife down, but before it touched flesh, Brock's grip was lost and the hand was gone. Brock disappeared through the roof and into the depths of the tower.

Mary rose to her feet and turned back to Elvis. Footsteps were nearing the top of the tower stairs.

'We have to do this Elvis, right now.'

'Mary, they're going to arrest you. I can't leave you here.'

'It's alright Elvis.' She smiled weakly. 'You need to go back.' Her eyes filled again. She reached out the stone and held it against Elvis's heart.

Two soldiers emerged onto the roof of the tower.

'No Mary. I can't...'

'Shhh.' She silenced him with a finger across his lip.

Elvis closed his eyes. He placed his hand softly on top of Mary's hand in the centre of his chest. He leant forward to press his lips against hers; but before they could touch, he was gone.

For a moment, Elvis was lost again

'Your clothes are on the table there, laddie. You might want to put them on.' said Mother Munro.

Elvis looked down. He was stood naked, clutching the key in one hand and the stone in the other, back in the church hall again. Alan was hidden under piles of old bedding beneath a table. He lifted the edge of the blanket and peeped out.

'Well done boy.' said Mother Munro. 'Ye did a fine job.'

Elvis pulled on his clothes in silence and then slumped on the chair.

'Why the sullen face boy. Ye did what was asked o' ye. Ye should be happy.'

'No. I left her there. Mary. They were going to arrest her and try her again. They'll kill her.'

'Och, girl troubles is it? I should ha' guessed. It would ne'er have worked oot laddie.'

'I should have been brave. I should have stayed.'

'An' what good would that ha' done anyone? Noo come on, stop sulkin' noo. We need t'find a wee hidin' place for that stoon an' key, before the boys oot there come lookin' fer it.'

'What would they care about it?'

'More than ye think, noo hurry up boy!'

Elvis looked around for a hiding place for the stone. He found a box filled with cheap plastic jewellery and fake jewels and pushed the stone to the bottom. He hung the key on a nail by the fire escape and then dropped back onto the chair. Why hadn't he been brave and stayed with Mary?

Beams of light danced around the porch, the crunch of boots grew louder on the path outside. Seconds later, half a dozen men charged into the hall. Torch-lights and gun barrels flashed around the room.

'On the floor, now!' The words were bellowed.

Mother Munro continued to rock in her chair. Alan pulled the blanket back over his head. Within seconds the room was filled with soldiers in gas-masks. Fluorescent tube lights flickered into life above them. Alan was dragged out from under the table. In the corner of the room a mound covered with a white sheet rocked from side to side accompanied by desperate groans. A soldier marched across and tugged the sheet away. Underneath was a figure in a white crumply bio-protective suit tied to a plastic chair, his head covered in a brown paper bag. The soldier removed the bag. Inside was Commander Stafford, his face purple with rage, his mouth stuffed with a crimson sock.

'He got terribly annoying.' explained Mother Munro.

Untied and still coughing fluff from his throat, Stafford jumped to his feet. 'You bastards!' he roared. 'I'm going to see that you're locked away in the filthiest, grimmest prison in the whole bloody country! You can't even begin to imagine how bad it's going to be!'

Chapter 20

Elvis was back in a jail cell. This time there was a mattress on the floor and a stainless steel toilet in the corner. Elvis didn't sleep. It wasn't the uncomfortable cell, he'd been in worse than this, he thought to himself. It wasn't the fear of what was going to happen to him. All he could think of was Mary, of how she would have been arrested and taken back to court. How they would have tried her again and then burnt her as a witch as Brock had said. He tried not to think about it but the images just kept re-appearing in his head. Why hadn't he just given the key and the stone to Brock and then the pair of them could have walked free. He could have lived out his days back then with Mary. Instead he'd forever have the guilt of his cowardice weighing on his shoulders.

Every hour or so they'd come into the cell and drag him to another room for questioning. They'd try scaring him, making threats and then promises, blackmailing him over what they might do to him or his mother if he didn't talk. They wanted to know how he'd got hold of the plague bacteria, who'd helped him, how he'd stored it and sent it around, how he'd met Alan, and most of all they seemed obsessed with Morris. But what could Elvis say? If he tried telling them the truth they'd just laugh or think him a liar. So he kept quiet and they got angrier and angrier.

They threw him back into his cell again. There was no window and he had no idea of time. He finally drifted off to a troubled sleep.

The cell door opened again. Elvis braced himself ready to be dragged back to his feet and along the corridor. Nobody came in.

A news reader's voice echoed along the concrete walls. '...and anger is mounting at what's being called the biggest cock-up in the history of British policing. The so-called terrorist plot to release plague into London was never real! The mass evacuation, the huge panic was all for nothing!'

Elvis walked to the door to listen.

'...the Leader of the Opposition is demanding the resignation of the Prime Minister and the question everyone's asking is 'how did the hospitals and the doctors got it so wrong?'. How did all these positive tests for plague suddenly disappear overnight? The dozen or so suspected terrorists who've been held in police stations across London are being released without charge this morning and people are being allowed to return to their homes. Police say they still wish to locate a Morris Klatzmann...'

Elvis put his head around the door. The corridor was empty. Did this mean he was free to go? Another head poked around the next door along. It was a girl with shoulder length brown hair. Perhaps he could ask her. The head turned to look at him. It was Amelia Edwards, his classmate and until recently at least, the girl of Elvis's dreams. She was wearing the same blue pyjama-style prison clothes as him. Elvis shrunk back inside the door and cringed. His crush on Amelia must have led them to arrest her too. He'd have to go and apologise. But what could he say? Perhaps he might just sneak past and say nothing, pretend he hadn't seen her. He gritted his teeth and walked through the door. As he stepped into the corridor, Amelia Edwards' palm slapped him hard across the face. Before he could think of anything to say, she turned on her heels and marched away.

Elvis followed, his cheek still smarting, through the steel-bar doors to a man standing behind a counter. The man thrust a pen into Elvis's hand and pointed where to sign. He shoved his crutch and a small pile of clothes into his chest and nodded at a changing cubicle.

Two minutes later Elvis was stood outside the back door to the police station. A soft drizzle floated on the early morning air, barely enough to darken the pavement. Amelia Edwards was climbing into the back of a large black BMW. Shouting came from the open door before it was slammed shut and the car screeched away.

'Aboot time laddie. Noo come on, we've got things to de!'

Elvis cringed. He turned his head to the voice. The crooked figure of Mother Munro was stood behind him, a black woollen shawl pulled tightly under her chin.

'No.' said Elvis, more weary than defiant. 'No more. I'm finished with all of this. Whatever needs to be done, you'll just have to do it alone.'

'Ye canna stop noo boy. The job's only half done. There's a friend o' yours come in his carriage te take ye back hoom, an' then we can finish the work we started.'

A car horn tooted. It was Geoffrey in his old Austin Princess. He put a hand out of the window and waved.

Elvis shook his head. 'I'm finished. I want nothing to do with you any more, or your mad ideas. Just leave me alone.'

Elvis walked away, leaving the old woman stood on the pavement.

'Noo Elvis, ye dinna understand! Ye canna stop noo! Ye just canna!'

A few hundred yards ahead was a queue of yawning early morning workers at a bus stop. Elvis could catch the bus home and get away from these people. He hurried towards them.

'Elvis, please, listen te me boy. Ye've got te stop and listen.' The old car was crawling along the gutter at walking pace alongside him. Mother Munro had her head out of a rear window. 'If we dinne de this, it'll ne'er be over. It'll...'

Her words lost under a wailing siren. A flashing police car pulled up behind Geoffrey's Princess. Two eager policemen jumped out.

'Are these people annoying you son?'

Elvis looked at the aging figures sat in the car. 'Not any more.' he replied and walked on.

'Shit! Are you sure?'

Elvis shook his head as he trudged away.

'Well, we'll take some details anyhow.'

Elvis took his seat on the bus. He stared vacantly through the steamy windows. He didn't notice the street cleaners sweeping up last night's chip papers, or the milkmen dashing with bottles from house to house, or the newsagents bringing in fat bales of newspapers carrying the stunning news of the terrorist fiasco. He didn't see Geoffrey getting animated with the policemen and then getting handcuffed across the bonnet of his car. All he could see was Mary, standing on top of the cathedral tower. He closed his eyes. He was exhausted after the sleepless night. He began to drift away. Then in a flash he was back, standing on top of the tower, the warm breeze stroking his face, Mary's hand pressed to his chest. He could feel her finger gently pressed to his lips, her frightened eyes gazing deep into his. This time their lips touched, soft and warm. Then he was gone, deserting her, leaving her to the mercy of the troops and the Bishop. He watched as they dragged her down the stone staircase and threw her back into the dingy prison cell. He sat in the courtroom and watched the sham trial, saw her ridiculed, tormented, convicted, and then burnt. Elvis awoke with a start. The drizzle still fell outside. The wipers were still squeaking back and forth. His stop was approaching.

Number 28 Monnington Street had that morning-after feel. Workmen were busy clearing away lights and generators, winding up security tape and extension cables and packing away equipment. A trail of people were quietly walking in and out of the house carrying out boxes and papers.

Monica was in the living room. She was surrounded by piles of papers and boxes left from the night before. A couple of lap top computers were open on the coffee table. She'd found a box of cigarettes and was struggling to connect one to a trembling match. Elvis slammed the front door shut.

Monica dropped the match onto the carpet. 'Shit! Shit!' she squealed and stamped it out.

Elvis hadn't seen her smoke openly in years. He should tell her to stop but he was too weary. He just shook his head.

'Elvis, sweetheart! You're OK!' She ran and engulfed him with her arms. 'You are OK aren't you?'

'Yes Mum, I'm fine.' answered Elvis, easing out of the bear hug. 'Are you angry Mum?'

'Not with you sweetie. Not with you.'

'I'm sorry.'

'Shush. Your little friend is upstairs, what's his name?'

'Alan'

'You know, the dark boy.' she added with a whisper.

As Elvis only had one friend, the extra description wasn't really needed. Elvis chewed on his lip. How was Alan going to react? What had the police done to him? Perhaps Elvis could play it down and make out is was all just an exciting adventure.

As Elvis reached his bedroom, Alan was letting himself out, a handful of computer games and DVDs tucked under his arm.

'Hi Elvis.' stammered Alan, avoiding eye contact. 'I just came to get these.' He pointed a finger at the boxes of discs.

'No problem. Some night, eh?' he added weakly.

Alan said nothing. He shoved the discs further under his arm and went to walk past Elvis.

'Did they keep you up all night too?' asked Elvis.

Alan nodded. 'And they arrested my parents. Dad says I'm not allowed to talk to you any more. They'd go nuts if they knew I was here now. I'll have to go.'

'They'll get over it.' reassured Elvis. 'It's all finished now. I'll see you at school.'

'No.' Alan shook his head. 'We're moving. Some place called Preston. My Dad's going to join my uncle in a business. They've already started packing.'

'Oh, I see. Well, maybe you... could call in... when you're back?'

'We won't be back Elvis. And don't come round. My Dad would kill you.' Alan pushed past and disappeared quickly down the stairs.

Monica had her cigarette lit. She puffed hard and drew in the smoke. It had been a few years and it tasted awful. She coughed, her head span. What was she doing? Why was she letting them get to her like this? She had to be stronger. She hauled open the living room window and threw the cigarette out, followed by the packet and the ashtray. Alan stepped back as the red tin disc flew past. It was followed by a large box of files that burst apart at his feet. Then came another, followed by a lap top computer that smashed on the gravel.

'Oi, you leave that stuff alone!' A man in blue overalls stood in the hall way frowning.

Monica tossed another brown folder through the window and then marched to the hall. She took the workman by his arm, opened the the front door and shoved him down the steps with all of her might. 'Get out!' she screamed 'Get out of my house!' She grabbed his tool box from the floor and threw it after him. She was shaking and now she really felt like a cigarette. She slammed the door behind him and burst into tears. Elvis sat at the top of the stairs and watched quietly. After everything he'd been through, all he'd managed to achieve was a night in jail, the loss of his only friend, turning his Mum into a nervous wreck and losing probably the only girl that would ever like him.

Chapter 21

Monica spent the next few days trying to put her life back into some sort of order. The whole plague fiasco might have been dismissed in the press, but the neighbours seemed to feel differently. The usual London cold shoulder became positively icy, with an extra chill provided by several threatening letters. But Monica was determined not to crumble. She emptied the remaining wine bottles down the sink. She found the pack of cigarettes from the front garden and chopped them to pieces before she had time to smoke them.

The police made a few calls, ostensibly to apologise and check she was well, but the conversation always turned to Morris. He still hadn't been seen since they were arrested. His shop was empty and the Austin Allegro was missing from the garage. Their questions just made Monica realise how little she really knew about her husband, how he'd managed to avoid telling her details of his past life, and how she'd never bothered to ask.

Elvis spent the time trying to investigate what had happened to Mary. He went back to the library, he searched the internet and anywhere else he could think of. There was no reference to Mary Young. He remembered what she'd said about writing to him. He searched for letters or books. He scoured the attic, searched his room and the rest of the house, he looked up the chimneys, dug holes in the garden. He found nothing. But then why would he? He'd deserted her and left her to die. It just confirmed what he'd thought.

He searched the gravestones across the road. One by one he read the inscriptions, scraping off the moss and centuries of dirt and grime to read the carved words. He found no reference to Mary Young.

'Can't find what you're looking for?' asked a voice in the churchyard. Elvis turned around. It was the young vicar, his anorak collar turned up against the drizzle.

Elvis shook his head.

'You did a fine job young Elvis, saving all of those people.'

'No I didn't.' replied Elvis quietly. 'I ran away.'

'You did what you had to. You stopped another disaster in this city.'

Elvis felt the emotion building in his chest. He wanted to let it out with a scream, a cry. He turned his head away.

'Come on inside.' said the vicar. 'Come have a cup of tea.'

'But I don't understand. Why did you help us?' asked Elvis, taking the sweet tea from the vicar. 'Shouldn't you have called the police or something?'

The vicar laughed. 'You know I nearly did, when I first saw you hanging around the back of my church. Imagine what your local bobby would have said if he'd found that lot in the church hall!'

'But, don't you wonder where they came from? Doesn't it bother you?'

The vicar sipped on his tea. His mood darkened. 'I know where they came from Elvis. I know all too well. They weren't the first and sure as anything they won't be the last. And every time they come they bring more trouble. This was the worst yet.'

'What do you mean they weren't the first?'

'Look.' He got to his feet and pulled an old leather-clad book from the shelf. He blew off the dust and placed it with a heavy thud on the table. He carefully laid open the rigid pages. 'For centuries they've been coming, just in ones and twos usually. Look, here.' he pointed at ornate inked handwriting.

June 5th 1703. Two male apparitions seen at 28 Monnington Street, later at the church. Carried marks of The Black Death.

April 10th, 1741, one female apparition, at 28 Monnington Street. Later seen at the church.

'And look here. 1769, 1783, 1812, 1843, 1899, 1927, 1942, 1966. And they always seem to appear at 28 Monnington Street first.'

'But why?'

The vicar carefully turned the page. He showed Elvis a double spread of sketches, photographs and drawings. They were all of the same man, some just head and shoulders, some full body drawings in a suit and even holding a cane. He wore various period clothes but his face looked the same in every picture.

'Why, that's Morris!' exclaimed Elvis.

'Yes, I know. But look at the dates.'

The first sketch bore the words 'Mister W Jarvis of 28 Monnington Street, 1662' the next Mister Henry Thompson, 28 Monnington Street, 1748' then 'Mister Eric Stevens, 28 Monnington Street 1794'. And so it went on with different names and dates under images of the same man. Clipped to the page were several photographs, some were faded old black and white pictures, a couple were Polaroids and there was one modern colour shot with Elvis stood alongside his step-father. Each one bore a different date, a different name but the very same face.

'He tries to disguise himself. Changes his name, his looks. He's had lots of people stay there over the years and says they're family. He's even saying he's Jewish now to throw people off. But he's never moved from that house.'

'I don't understand.'

The vicar lifted the page over. 'And this man. Do you recognise him?' He showed Elvis a detailed coloured drawing of a Bishop, stood before an altar in full religious dress. Underneath it read 'The Bishop of Southwark 1508.' There was no mistaking the arrogant man from the Subaru.

'But what's it all mean?'

'Elvis! Elvis!' Monica's voice echoed through the church and into the vestry.

The vicar quickly closed the book. 'It means this has to stop Elvis. You must end it, else you'll never be safe. None of us will.'

Monica put a head around the doorway. 'Elvis! There you are! I've been searching everywhere for you. What are you doing over here?'

'Sorry Misses Klatzmann,' said the vicar, jumping to his feet 'It's my fault. We were having a cup of tea.'

'Well there's someone come to the house to see you Elvis.'

Elvis looked towards the vicar.

'Come on Elvis, he's waiting.' urged his mother.

The vicar reached out a hand to shake with Elvis. 'Listen to the old woman.' he whispered as he pressed something hard into Elvis's palm. Elvis looked down, He was holding the red stone. 'Good luck.'

'Elvis! How you goin' mate?' asked Henry, clasping Elvis's hand firmly.

Elvis shook his hand warmly in return. He'd thought about trying to track Henry down and find out what had happened, but he'd been too nervous about the prospects of bad news. Now he was here, it was good to feel the warmth in his greeting again.

'I'm fine.' replied Elvis 'really good.' he added, feeding from Henry's aura. 'How's Abit?' The moment the words came from his mouth, he wished they hadn't

Henry's expression changed. He tried in vain to mask the sorrow. 'He didn't make it.' he said softly.

'I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.' Elvis couldn't hold back the tears. He dropped into the chair and covered his face with his hands.

Henry sat alongside. 'Oi, stop it!' he ordered. 'What you sorry for? Stop it! Stop blamin' yourself for everythin' that friggin' happens within a mile, you bloody idiot!'

'But, if I'd...'

'If? If nothin'! It's happened and we can't change that. Nothin' you did caused it.'

'How's Nya?'

'Sad, angry. She's gone to stay with her parents for a bit.'

'Is she coming back?'

'Yeh, I think so. After it happened and all the shit that went after, she wanted us to move back to Sudan.'

'Sudan! You going?'

'Are you kiddin'? Neither of us have ever bin further than Cornwall! I wouldn't have the first clue how to live over there!'

'Good.'

'Look, Elvis, I still don't know what really happened over there in that church hall, or who all those people were. I guess, I just really came to say be careful. Keep away from all that stuff. OK?'

Elvis nodded.

'An' if it happens again, lots of sick people with plague or some other deadly disease, an' you need 'elp...'

'Yes?'

'Don't bloody ring me, you 'ear?' Henry laughed and gave Elvis a playful rub on the head.

Monica took the chance to sneak up to the bedroom for a lie on the bed. Since the arrests she spent most nights looking at the ceiling and most days longing for rest. She kicked off her shoes and lay her head on the pillow. The crisp cool cotton felt soothing under her neck. She closed her eyes.

'Good day.' said a croaky old voice.

Monica screamed and fell off the bed. Did she dream the voice, was she going mad?

'Ye must be Monica.'

No the voice was real. Monica peered over the side of the bed. Sitting on the small armchair in the corner of the room was the little old woman. Monica recognised her wizened hairy features from the post office.

'What the hell are you doing here?'

Elvis heard the scream. He hurried up the stairs and threw open the bedroom door.

'Helloo Elvis. A'm glad te see ye're well.'

'Oh no, it's you again.' groaned Elvis.

'You know her!' exclaimed Monica. 'What's she doing here?'

'Och dinna be angry wi' the boy, madam. It's no his fault.'

'What's not his fault? Who the hell are you?'

'Aye, well there in lies a tale.' Mother Munro took a deep breath and settled into her chair ready for a good story.

Elvis groaned.

'Ma name is Munro. Tis a strange tale I have te tell ye and this may be the first time I've told it as it really is. 'Twas my grandfather, that once brave and handsome knight, he was the one that brought that precious stoon back from the Crusades te Scotland all those years ago. 'Twas he that committed the grievous sin of splitting the stoon in two and the Mother Lee Stoon was born. From that day on the stoon turned good men bad and caused misery and murder where so ever it went. When ma grandfather realised what he'd done it was too late. The damage was done and the stoon had already been stolen and hidden away. He spent the rest o' his days trying to find it and fix what he'd done. He'd hear stories and rumours of its where'boots. He'd ride day and night withoot rest te find it, but whene'er he got there it was too late and the stoon had moved on. Finally, when he lay on his deathbed, a sad and bitter old man, he made me take an oath. He made me swear ne'er te rest until I'd foond that gem and made it one again. When I made that promise all those centuries ago, I didn'e realise he meant that I could never rest, not ever, not until I fixed that stoon. I've been searchin' e'er since, from the Highland glens te the slums o' this city and everywhere in-between. I've come close, aye, more than once I've come close. Close enough te touch the stone, te see its strange red glow, and feel its magic. But never any more than that.'

'But I thought it was supposed to be good, to make people well again.' pointed out Elvis.

'It has many poowers boy, but they're only as good as the hand that holds it. It has great strength and it's true, it can heal the sick, but the great Black Death was tee much for even the stoon. So it did the next best thing, and ever since, those who drank o' the potion all those years ago have been coming back from time to time in search of a cure. Usually just in ones and twos, numbers small enough fer them te hide the truth away. But o' course, if ye sweep things under the carpet fer long enough, sooner or later you're gonne trip o'er the rug. Ye'd think the church of all people would know that. And this this time young Elvis, ye brought them back in numbers soo great that there was noo hiding them all away.'

'I brought them back? What do you mean, I brought them back? I don't see how this is my fault!'

'Noo, I dare say you don't. But dinne trouble yer feeble mind wi' small details boy. Suffice te say that this time, at least, there's many has been fixed and have returned te their old lives as if nothing e'er happened. But fer me, the hunt goes on.'

'Why don't you just give it up then?' asked Monica. 'What use is it to you anyway?'

'Ye did ne listen. Until I find that stoon and make it one again, I canna die. That's what use it is te me. If I dinne find it, I'll be forever a tired old woman, searching the streets of this God-awful city.'

'But what about Morris and the Bishop?' asked Elvis.

'Aye well, through the ages there's them who drunk of the potion te get well, and then there's them that's used it te barter their soul for eternal life. But they know that when that stoon is one again, their bargain is over and their time on this earth is done. They'll stop at nothin' te make sure that ne'er happens. The Bishop of Southwark is one such man. But there are others, many others. That's why they chase this stoon.'

'And Morris?'

'Aye. Morris Klatzmann or William Jarvis or whatever else he chooses te call hi'self. He's another.'

'But what's wrong with them wanting to live forever? Everyone wants to do that... except for you maybe.'

'Aye, that might be soo Elvis. But their existence comes at a price. 'Tis a life for a life. Every time they live through another generation, they must steal the breath of another pour soul so that they can go on.'

'What, you mean they ...kill someone?' asked Monica.

'Aye, in a manner o speakin'. There's many a wife an' child that's lived in this hoose over the years. Not many have seen all o' the days they should.'

Monica pulled her cardigan in tightly against the sudden chill.

'So does that mean... you have to kill people too?' Elvis asked hesitantly, edging towards his mother.

'Och noo boy! If it had been that easy fer me, I'd ha' bin gone long agoo.'

'So you're saying Morris had us here so he could...' Monica couldn't end her sentence.

'You wouldn'e ha' bin the first. An' this is why I need the boy's help, one last time. We must end this terrible thing, once an' fer all. Ye must come wi' me an' make this stoon one again. De ye still have it Elvis.'

Elvis pulled the sparkling gem from his pocket and held it aloft. The walls of the bedroom glowed red.

'He won't be going anywhere without me.' snapped Monica.

'More hands te the pump. That'll be fine.'

'But where is the rest of the stone. Is it nearby?'

'Och noo. 'Tis back hoom, in Scotland, in Lanark. It's been in safe hands for generations, waiting for this time te come.'

'Scotland!' said Monica. 'How can we get to Scotland? Morris has the car and I am not going on the bus.'

'Och, ne'er fear woman. Our carriage awaits!' She nodded towards the window. Across the road Geoffrey was parked in his Austin Princess. 'All I have t'do is send a wee message te ma good friend in Lanark te meet me wi' the rest o' the stoon and we can be on our way.'

'A message?' said Elvis 'What you going to do? Light a fire? Send a pidgeon?'

'He's noo very bright is he?' said Mother Munro sympathetically to Monica. 'Noo boy, I'll send an SMS. He'll meet us tonight, at midnight.'

'Tonight! Where?' demanded Monica.

'At the top of the Tower of Hallbar.'

Chapter 22

Geoffrey's old car was unaccustomed to long journeys and demanded frequent stops to top up with water. Geoffrey wasn't any better, his old bladder needed just as many breaks to let water out. So between the two of them, they made stuttering progress north up the motorway, one service station at a time. Finally they crossed the border from England into Scotland and Geoffrey pulled into Gretna Green Services to use the toilet again. The trip had been slow and tedious, made worse by the old woman's long, meandering stories interspersed with loud snoring. Elvis gratefully escaped the car and wandered into the shop to flick through the magazines.

Outside, a rusty old car spluttered to a halt at the petrol pumps, followed closely by a growling Subaru. Morris climbed out of his Austin Allegro and lifted the bonnet. His face disappeared into a cloud of steam.

'We should dump that piece of rubbish right here!' shouted the Bishop. 'You'd be quicker on a horse, man!'

'I'll just get some oil and water and she'll be good as new again.' reassured Morris.

Elvis replaced the magazine on the rack and wandered aimlessly around the shop. He picked up a crystal hedgehog and held it up to the light. It was rather dull compared to his red stone. He picked up a porcelain thimble and squinted at a tiny painting of Gretna on its side.

'Are you going to buy that?' snapped a shop assistant.

'Oh... em, no.'

'Why are you touching it then?'

'Well, I was... interested.' stammered Elvis.

'So you do want to buy it?'

'Em, well, maybe...'

'It's five pounds.'

'I'm not sure I've got enough.'

'Give it here! Messing up my displays.'

As the woman attempted to snatch the thimble back from his hand, Elvis's jaw fell open. Through the window, he saw Morris, quenching the Allegro's engine with a watering can. Behind him, the Bishop in his long coat was marching around the car with hands on hips, kicking the tyres with contempt. The thimble fell from Elvis's hand and smashed on the floor.

'Now you will have to buy it!'

Elvis didn't hear the woman. He turned quickly to leave. The shop assistant grabbed his arm and pulled him back.

'You're not going anywhere! Five pounds, or I call security.'

'What? But I haven't got...'

'Five pounds. Where's your parents?'

'Just a minute.' Elvis searched through his pockets, keeping one eye on the window. He saw Morris replace the radiator cap then head towards the shop. Elvis fumbled quickly through his pockets until he found enough coins. 'Here.' He tipped the change into her hands.

'No, you got to pay at the till.'

Elvis didn't have time to join the queue. He headed straight for the exit. But before he got close, the door swung open and Morris wandered inside. Elvis dived behind the magazine racks.

'Where would I find the lubricant?' Morris asked.

The shop assistant was still pushing Elvis's coins into her pocket. 'Lubricant? You mean oil? Over there.' She nodded brusquely towards shelves of car accessories.

Elvis crept around the magazine racks towards the exit. The door opened again and this time the Bishop strutted inside. Elvis span around, picked up a copy of Good Hair Monthly and peeped over the top.

The Bishop began browsing the toiletry shelves near to the door, blocking Elvis's escape. Morris meanwhile was paying for his litre of oil, and outside, Monica was strolling up the pavement in the direction of the shop.

Elvis had to get out and stop her before she was seen. But how could he get past the Bishop?

The shop manager approached him again and scowled.

'Interested in hair now, are we?'

'Em, no. I was just.... looking at that man, the one there in the black coat.'

'Why? What about him?'

'I just saw him hide some things in his coat. He's a shoplifter.' Elvis whispered the words.

'Nobody steals from my shop!' bawled the woman. She strode up to the Bishop and seized his arm. 'Mavis get Trev in here now! We have a shoplifter.'

'What the hell are you doing woman?' roared the Bishop. 'Get your hands off me!'

The Bishop shoved her away and she staggered back into a display stand loaded with sunglasses. The stand toppled over, glasses crashed across the tiled floor and the shop assistant landed on top.

'Security to the shop please.' the anxious voice crackled over the loudspeaker. 'Security to the shop. Code black! Make it quick Trev!'

'Oi, what's your bloody game?' A truck driver stepped in and poked a finger into the Bishop's chest.

A middle-aged burly security guard charged in through the door. 'What's goin' on!'

'He attacked me!' screeched the shop assistant, climbing off the broken stand. 'He's a thief.'

Elvis placed Good Hair Monthly back on the rack and slipped out of the shop. On the pavement, outside Monica was examining a poster-sized map of Britain and trying to work out how far they had left to travel.

'Mum, quick, we've got to go!'

'What was going on in there Elvis?'

'He's here! Morris, in the shop, and that other man! We've got to go!'

They hurried back to the car. Geoffrey and Mother Munro were waiting.

'We'll have te hurry then.' said Mother Munro after Elvis had explained. 'I thought we might have had a little bit more time than this. Those two and their kind will stop at nothing te get control of this stoon. And I mean nothing. We canna let them catch us. Mister Geoffrey, we'd best be takin' the quiet roods, away fro' the traffic. An' remember, no matter what else happens, tha' stoon must be at the Toower of Hallbar at midnight.'

They sneaked around the rear of the service station and onto the back roads. Elvis took the job of map reading. It was a slow and winding journey. Darkness fell. The feeble headlights of the old Princess struggled to penetrate the blackness ahead. Soon after dark they were lost and Geoffrey needed to pee again. He pulled the car into a lay-by and disappeared into some bushes. Elvis took the map around the front of the car and held it before the headlights.

Two more sets of lights appeared in the wall of darkness behind them.

'Put oot the lights! Quick!' barked Mother Munro.

'What's the matter? They'd never find us here.' said Monica. 'Would they?'

'Dinna under-estimate them Monica. Their eyes are everywhere. Noo put them oot, please.'

Monica leant forward, twisted the light switch and the lay-by fell back into darkness. Behind them, the cars were approaching quickly, their lights stripping back the curtain of night from the fields and hedgerows.

'This will be them all reet.' said the old woman. 'Elvis, make sure you hang onto that stoon. Mister Geoffrey, will ye be much longer?'

'Hide Elvis, quick!' shouted Monica.

Elvis dived into a bush. He'd stay hidden until the cars had gone by.

But they didn't pass. Instead there was a screech of tyres as the first vehicle came to a halt, the engine growling softly. The second chugged in behind, rattled a little then fell quiet. Elvis pushed himself deeper into the undergrowth.

The Bishop climbed from his Subaru, slammed the door and marched to the back of the Princess. He booted the rear bumper.

'Game's over. Get out!' he shouted.

Geoffrey was appalled. He wanted to knock the man's block off but he knew that his old bones weren't up to that. Instead he shuffled out from the bushes to confront the man who'd dared to kick his pride and joy. He was met by the figure of a man in an ankle-length trench-coat, silhouetted against the dazzling headlights.

'Who the hell do you think you are?' Geoffrey shouted bravely, shielding his eyes.

'I am the Bishop of Southwark.' he growled. 'And you have something that belongs to me. Jarvis! Get round here.'

Geoffrey reached inside the car door and pulled out a tyre iron. He tried to raise it over his head but his shoulders were stiff and slow. The Bishop pulled the iron from Geoffrey's hand and shook his head with contempt. He placed a hand in the old man's chest and pushed him into a bed of nettles.

'Rest of you. Out of the car. Now!' He crashed the tyre iron onto the car roof.

'No!' howled Geoffrey.

Monica and Mother Munro climbed out and stood at the side of the vehicle.

'Come on Jarvis. Where are you man? Search them! Find my stone!'

Morris slowly appeared from the car's headlights.

'Morris?' said Monica 'Is that really you?'

Morris started searching them, without looking at his wife.

'Morris. How can you do this? How could you lie like that to me? Didn't I ever mean anything to you? Anything at all?'

'Shut up!' snapped the Bishop. 'Come on man. Find the damned stone!'

Morris continued searching in silence.

Elvis crawled out of the bush. He crept unseen into the driving seat of the Subaru. He'd often driven an Imprezza around city roads and even rally circuits; but that was on his X-box. Surely it wouldn't be that different in a real one. The engine was still running. He just had to press his foot on the brake and slide the gear stick into drive. He pressed his left foot down as hard as he could and tugged the gear shift until the D lit up. He was ready. He gripped the steering wheel tightly with both hands, swallowed hard, then lifted his left foot and rammed his right all the way to the floor.

The engine screamed like a wounded pig, gravel flew like missiles from from the tyres and the car hurtled forwards, lurching from side to side. Elvis wrestled with the steering wheel. The Bishop dived into a bush. The Subaru tore off the door of the Princess and sent it cartwheeling away into the ditch. Elvis pulled the wheel hard right, the car screeched onto the road, snaked several times and then streaked away into the night.

'Elvis! No!' screamed Monica.

'Oh my poor Princess!' shouted Geoffrey.

'You little bastard!' roared the Bishop. 'Jarvis! Jarvis! In that car now!' The Bishop raced to the Allegro and jumped in. 'Get this piece of junk moving!'

'Turn left in three miles.' the GPS advised Elvis coldly.

Elvis was struggling. One headlight was knocked out, and to make it worse, the seat was so far back he had to slide down beneath the steering wheel to reach the pedals. Elvis fumbled under the seat in search of a handle to move the chair.

'You are over the speed limit.' pointed out the GPS.

Elvis found the lever. He pulled it up, the seat lurched forwards, the car lunged sideways and Elvis found himself smashing through a hedgerow and skidding into a field.

'Come on, go faster!' ordered the Bishop.

'This is it! My foots on the floor.' replied Morris.

Monica jumped into the driving seat of Geoffrey's Princess and turned on the ignition. 'Get in!' she barked.

'What are you doing?' shouted Geoffrey. 'She's broken.'

'Get in or I'll leave you here!'

Mother Munro was already in the front passenger seat. Geoffrey climbed reluctantly into the back. Monica planted her foot to the floor and they chugged out of the lay-by.

Elvis was stuck. He rammed the car back and forth into reverse and drive but barbed wire and fence poles were tangled under the car. He rammed it into reverse again and planted his right foot to the floor. The engine screamed and the front bumper tore away. 'Yes!' Elvis roared triumphantly. He slammed the car back into drive and skidded back through the hedge and onto the road. Morris and the Bishop were now only yards behind.

'That's him!' squealed the Bishop 'Catch him!'

'In five hundred yards, turn left.' said the GPS.

Elvis squinted into the darkness. He couldn't see any road signs, just tree trunks flying past and disappearing back into the darkness.

'In one hundred yards turn left.'

There was a gravel road into the forest. That must be it. Elvis stamped on the breaks and pulled the steering wheel hard left. He tugged on the handbrake just as on his X-box. The tyres squealed, the car slid towards the ditch, the wheels scrambled for grip. Elvis planted his foot back on the accelerator and the car roared away into the forest.

Morris indicated left, slowed down and turned carefully onto the gravel.

'Faster for God's sake!' roared the Bishop.

Monica, Mother Munro and Geoffrey were a mile or two behind. They'd lost sight of the chasing cars.

'Where is this place?' asked Monica. 'Have you ever been here before?'

'Aye, I have dear, a long time ago and that was in daylight. Things looked very different. I've not been here since they did the extension. A lot can change.'

'When was that?'

'Och, sometime in the fifteen hundreds I think, I forget noo.'

'Look a sign. What did you say it was called.'

'The Toower of Hallbar.'

There was a large road sign advertising accommodation under the tower's name. Monica pulled off into a single track lane leading through forest. Eventually they came to a small car park containing a spotless Audi SUV. Ahead the tower stretched up towards the stars, the pale craggy stone lit up by the moonlight.

'What hour is it?' demanded Mother Munro.

'Ten to twelve.'

'Come on, we'd best get ready.'

'But where's Elvis? He should be here?' said Monica.

'Och, we can only hope that lad o' yers finds his way. We have te trust the boy noo.'

They walked along a path through thick shrubs. A bush rustled alongside Monica. She walked a little faster. A man appeared from the darkness, dressed in kilt and sporran, claymore in hand. Monica screamed.

'Brodie! Ye made it!' Mother Munro threw her arms around him, her tiny limbs barely making it halfway around his bulky frame. 'An' ye dressed fer the occasion.'

'Aye, A did. What d'ye think?' He did a quick twirl.

'Very dashin' Brodie. Ye look quite the lady's man. D'ye no think so Monica?'

'Do you mind telling me what the hell's going on?'

'Brodie's brought the Lee Penny, the other part. Is that no right, Brodie.'

'A have Muther.' Brodie replied, slapping his sporran. 'A have.'

'Good, come on then, we'd best keep on.'

The Tower of Hallbar was a daunting block of stone that looked to have been torn from a medieval castle and dropped into the midst of the forest. There was one very solid looking door at the top of a wooden staircase and then an occasional slit between the stone blocks that sufficed for windows. Higher up the builders had felt confident enough to be a little more generous and a soft yellow light shone from a larger window near to the top.

'Och, look hoo huge it is, now!' declared Mother Munro. 'It's like one o' yer big city buildings.' She pulled out the rusty old iron key from her pocket. She tried pushing it into the lock but it wouldn't fit. She tried again. 'Och the barstards! They've gone changed the lock!'

'Here Muther, le' me hulp.' Brodie raised his claymore over his head.

'Wait' said Geoffrey. 'No need for that.' He produced a large bunch of master keys and began trying each in turn. After several tries the lock clicked and turned and the door was open.

'That was good planning, Mister Geoffrey, bringin' those keys 'specially for us.' smiled the old woman.

'Oh yeh, 'specially, that's right.'

Elvis was tearing through the forest. The road had turned into a track and it was becoming ever more difficult to make out with one headlight. Was that a bend ahead? Elvis leant forward and squinted into the gloom. Suddenly a huge stag appeared from nowhere. It stood tall and noble, its antlers shining like lightening bolts in the headlight. Elvis stamped on the brakes. The wheels locked on and off and the car started to skid. Elvis fought the steering wheel for control. He lost and the car span. Elvis pressed the brake pedal with all his might. He closed his eyes and hoped. The car whirled and lurched before coming to a halt with a mighty thump. Elvis opened his eyes. Outside his window was a wall of cut logs towering over the car. It was the end of the track. The stag snorted, hopped over a high wire fence and faded into the night.

Elvis turned the car around and screeched back in the direction he had just come.

'Route recalculation.' said the GPS without remorse.

The Austin Allegro headlights flickered through the trees. They were getting closer. Elvis squeezed the steering wheel tightly into his sweating palms. There would barely be room for both of them to pass on the narrow track. It was going to be a battle of wills. Elvis kept his foot down as far as he dared, he tried to keep the car to the left but the ground was soft and kept trying to pull him into the ditch. The Allegro headlights appeared around a corner straight ahead. In a flash they were side-by-side, wing mirrors smashing together. Then Elvis was past; the Allegro was in his rear view mirror. But the Subaru's left wheels were in soft ground, tugging the car from the road. Elvis pulled back on the steering, the car lurched out of the ditch but he'd pulled the wheel too far. He skidded sideways; the car began to lift. It flew up into the air and crashed onto its roof. It rolled over and over before finally coming to rest, upside down.

Morris skidded to a halt. They were a couple of hundred yards from the smashed Subaru but the track was too narrow to turn around. The Bishop cursed. They jumped from the Allegro and hurried back towards Elvis on foot.

Elvis's head was hurting. Blood ran into his eyes and blurred his vision; but he could still make out the silhouetted figures of two men hurrying towards him. He had to get out. He released the seatbelt and fell into a heap on the underside of the car roof. He throbbed everywhere. He wriggled out of the smashed window on his belly and crawled off the track and into the forest. He tried to hurry but under the trees the forest was almost pitch black; the ground was strewn with fallen branches and he stumbled and fell repeatedly. Eventually he came across a crater ripped from the earth by the roots of a falling tree. He fell into the hole and hid. The wind hissed in the pines overhead.

Morris and the Bishop arrived at the broken car. Morris knelt down and gazed through the smashed windows.

'Turn left in three hundred yards.' the GPS went on.

'He's not here.'

'Check the car. He might have dropped the stone inside.' ordered the Bishop.

'You check the damned car.' snapped Morris. He turned and peered into the black forest. How far could Elvis escape on foot through that? How badly was he hurt?

'I can't find it.' growled the Bishop. 'We've got to find that boy. He must still have it. You go that side, I'll search over here.'

They both began to try and pick their way through the trees in the darkness. The Bishop howled repeatedly as he tripped over rocks and walked into branches. Morris wasn't doing any better.

Elvis pulled himself further under the roots of the fallen tree. His head was still bleeding and he was finding more sore spots by the minute. Morris was just a few yards away but in the pitch black, Elvis was invisible. Then there was a familiar burping ring tone. Elvis was receiving a text message. His pocket lit up. He threw a hand over his trousers to try and hide it but it was too late. Morris had seen him. Elvis tried to scramble out from his hiding hole but the dirt was soft and loose. Morris dived into the hole and grabbed Elvis's leg.

'Get off me you freak! Get off!'

'Shut up!' snapped Morris. 'Are you hurt?'

'What's happening over there?' shouted the Bishop over the wind. 'Do you see him?'

Elvis desperately clawed at the bank to escape but all he was getting was handfuls of loose earth.

'Wait Elvis!' hissed Morris.

But Elvis wasn't going to be tricked. He grabbed a handful of the powdery dirt and hurled it into his stepfather's face. Morris was blinded, his eyes burnt. He released his grip. Elvis scrambled up the bank and tried to run, lurching from tree to tree.

The Bishop stood on the edge of the track and squinted into the darkness. 'Jarvis! Where are you man? Have you got the little bastard?'

Morris was still scraping the dirt from his eyes.

Elvis was struggling through the trees; he paused to wipe the blood from his eyes again. Ahead there looked to be a clearing, maybe a light.

'Ow! Blast these trees!' howled the Bishop.

Elvis looked back. The Bishop had retrieved his keys from the car, complete with a little key ring torch. It was some distance behind but the torch was heading towards Elvis.

It seemed to take an eternity but finally Elvis came to the end of the forest. He was at a small car park. In front of him the Princess was parked alongside a shiny four-wheel drive. Further ahead, the tower stood tall against the moonlit sky. Elvis checked behind. In the distance were car headlights, lots of car headlights, all seemingly heading in his direction. He pulled the stone from his pocket, still wrapped tightly in his white handkerchief. He shoved it down his underpants for safe keeping, grabbed a fallen branch as a walking stick and emerged from the cover of the trees.

Monica, Mother Munro, Geoffrey and Brodie were ascending the tower. It wasn't how Mother Munro had remembered. The bare stone walls were now beautifully painted and decorated with fine artwork, the rough wooden floorboards were buried under a deep layer of soft carpet, and lavish curtains hid the iron bars on the windows. Only the bare stone stairs were as she remembered. Each level was comprised of a single room with two doors, one to a staircase up, and another to the way down. They climbed to an upstairs bedroom. The walls were soft lemon and a nightlight glowed in one corner. A young couple slept peacefully under a puffed eiderdown

Mother Munro picked up a jar of pot-pouri. 'Och, what ha' they done wi' the place?' she complained. 'It's lik a fairy brothel.'

'Ye dinne like it?' asked Brodie taking the jar from her hand and placing it back in the table. 'A think it's quite nice.'

'Och dinna tell me Brodie that ye had a hand in this... this...' Mother Munro and Brodie carried on up the stairs towards the next level whilst the old woman continued to groan.

Monica was anxiously peered around a curtain for signs of her boy. 'Come on Elvis, hurry up.' she muttered.

Geoffrey had an eye the woman's handbag on the dressing table. With one finger, he gently opened it and looked inside.

'Get off that you thieving old bastard!' A young man in his twenties stood holding a vase, pointing it at Geoffrey's face. 'How the hell did you get in here?'

'Oh, look. We're sorry.' explained Monica returning from behind the curtain. 'We don't mean any harm.'

The man jumped and pointed the vase at each of them in turn. 'Get out before I smash the pair of you!' he roared. 'Don't think I won't do it!'

His girlfriend sat up in bed and pulled the duvet to her chin.

'No. it's not how it looks.' Monica went on. 'We're not here to steal anything.'

'Yeh, course not! And I'm gonna believe that. You'd better get out now before I do something you regret.'

'Go on Quentin!' urged his girlfriend from behind the pink duvet cover. 'Show them your Tai Kwando!'

'I will! I'll do it!'

'Och dinne talk daft, ye silly Sassenach!' said Brodie, returning from the staircase, one hand resting on his claymore. He strolled up to the wilting young man and pulled the vase from his hand. 'Ye'll be hittin' naybody.'

'I'm s..sorry.' Quentin quivered. 'Here, take my wallet. And the car keys. It's yours.' he said as he backed towards the bed.

'Quentin!' snapped his girlfriend.

'We're no here for yer loot yer silly man. Ye can keep all o' that.'

'What?'

'We haven'e come te rob yer, man! Go if ye want te and take it with ye!' Brodie nodded towards the door.

Quentin didn't need telling twice. He grabbed his clothes and began frantically pulling them on.

'Quentin!'

'You can bloody stay if you want to, Zara.' He hissed as he hopped up and down getting into his trousers. 'But I'm getting the fuck out of this place!'

Zara was unimpressed. She silently pulled on her clothes and shoved their possessions into matching leather bags.

Elvis was creeping around the foot of the tower trying to work out how to get in. The wind was howling now and laced with a piercing rain. Behind him, the car headlights were getting closer. He'd have to hurry. As he rounded the back of the tower, he spotted a wooden staircase leading up twelve feet or so to a heavy wooden door. This had to be it. He hurried towards them. As he neared the bottom step, a boot emerged from the shrubs and kicked away his walking stick. Elvis fell to the floor. He looked up and saw the Bishop's face smirking back at him.

'You came close young man, very close.'

'There's no need to hurt the boy.' said Morris, helping Elvis back to his feet.

'I think you'd best have a look out here.' Geoffrey held back the curtain. From their vantage point they could see dozens of cars arriving in the car park, passengers pouring out and a queue of traffic waiting their turn. 'There must be hundreds of 'em. An' who's that by the stairs?'

'Elvis!' squealed Monica. 'They've got my Elvis!'

As they watched, flaming torches burst into life and the crowd gathered weapons, baseball bats, pick axe handles, shovels, and then marched towards the foot of the tower.

''Tis no more than I expected.' grumbled Mother Munro.

'What?' screeched Monica. 'You expected this?'

'Brodie, would ye be so kind as to check that the door is secure?'

'Aye Muther.'

'No, leave it!' screeched Monica. 'Elvis is out there! You can't lock him out. We have to help him!'

'We canna de much fer him now Monica. Ye'll have to place yer trust in the wee boy's wits.'

Brodie hurried down the dark stone staircase.

Quentin and Zara had put one foot outside and now were dashing back in. Quentin slammed the door and hurriedly fastened the iron bolts.

Brodie picked up a thick wooden plank and placed it across the door.

'It's...it's like some sort of witch-hunt out there! There's crazy people everywhere! Loads of them!' Quentin shook. 'What are we going to do?'

'That door's held fer many a century. I'm sure one more night won't trouble it.' reassured Brodie.

'Give it to me boy. The stone, the Mother Lee Stone. Give it to me now.' ordered the Bishop.

The mob gathered around the Bishop and Elvis, their torches burning horizontally in the raging wind. Clubs and cricket bats were perched on shoulders.

'I haven't got it. The... the old woman has it.'

'You're lying boy! You're lying! Jarvis, search him!'

'Don't mess with him.' Morris whispered as he frisked Elvis, 'Don't die for the sake of a stupid stone.'

Elvis scowled.

Morris found nothing. 'He's telling the truth. He doesn't have it.'

'Right! Smash down that damned door!' roared the Bishop.

A pine log was carried up the wooden staircase and a dozen men began ramming it rhythmically into the door. The timbers creaked and groaned, bending a little more with each blow.

'Harder!' roared the Bishop. 'Hit it harder!'

Inside the tower Quentin and Zara stood on the stairs nervously watching the old door. Zara dialled 999 repeatedly on her mobile but there was no reception inside the thick stone walls.

Monica marched to the door. 'Elvis is out there, we can't leave him! We have to help him.'

'Wait dear.' said Mother Munro, putting a hand on her shoulder. 'You'll noo help the boy like that. As long as they're trying to get in here then they haven't got what they want. Until they do, they'll noo hurt him. We have te have faith in the boy Monica.'

The banging on the door stopped.

'Hello, Mother Munro. Is that really you inside there?'

'Aye, 'tis me sure enough, Bishop.'

'It's been many a long year since we spoke.'

'Aye, though not long enough in my book.'

'I see your wit didn't die with your looks old woman.'

'It's time this was over Bishop. We both know this can't goo on forever.'

'Can't? Who says it can't? It's gone on for the best part of a thousand years already and that's just the beginning. Look at us woman! Look out here and see how strong we are! It'll never end! We'll grow more in number, we'll grow stronger. You mark my words!'

'It's an evil thing you do Bishop. You of all people should know that.'

'Don't lecture me old woman. I've come for the stone. This door can't hold forever. If I have to, I'll smash at it all night until it crumbles. And when it does, you'll have hundreds of angry people to deal with. And they won't all be as reasonable as me!'

Zara grabbed Quentin's arm and gave a silent scream.

'This toower has held up te bigger men than ye o'er the years, Bishop.'

'Is that right? Well I do have another bartering chip old woman.' The Bishop nodded and Morris dragged Elvis up the stairs to the door.

'Get off me you murderer!'

'Elvis, sweetie! Is that you? Are you OK?' shouted Monica, pressing her face to the door.

'Now the boy tells me that you have the stone in there.' shouted the Bishop. 'Is that correct?'

'We haven't...'

Mother Munro slapped her crooked fingers across Monica's mouth and cut her words short. 'I told ye te trust your wee lad.' she whispered.

'Do you have the stone?' shouted the Bishop.

'What if we have?' replied Mother Munro.

'We'll trade you the boy for the stone. I think that's fair.'

'That's a hard bargain.' replied Mother Munro, keeping her fingers over Monica's mouth.

'Well, you may be right, but then you're not in much of a position to barter now, are you? If you don't agree, we'll just knock the door down and take it anyway. And I'd hate say what would happen if I turned the poor boy over to this unhappy crowd of people out here.'

'I want my son!' demanded Monica.

'What say you let me and Jarvis in, and we sit down like the civilised people we are and talk this over?'

'No!' shouted Quentin 'Don't let anyone in! Wait 'til morning, 'til someone finds us and calls the police.'

Mother Munro nodded at Brodie. He lifted the plank from the back of the door and slid each bolt open in turn.

'No! Don't open it!' screamed Quentin.

Brodie paid no heed. He opened the door just far enough for one person to enter at a time. The Bishop grabbed Elvis by his ear and dragged him inside. Morris followed sheepishly.

Monica ran towards her son. The Bishop pulled out a knife and held it to his throat. 'Get back woman.' he snarled. 'The deal's not done yet.' He turned his attention back to Mother Munro. 'How nice to see you again Misses Munro. I think the last time we met was at this very place. You're looking very...old.'

'There's no need for niceties Bishop. Noo release the boy, if ye please.'

'No, I don't please. In fact, I won't be pleased until I have the stone in my hand. And the Lee Penny too I would think.'

'I don't have it.'

'Don't play with me woman. I'm in no mood for your games. Where is it?'

'Upstairs, both of them, at the top of the tower.'

The Bishop let out a sigh like the air brakes on a truck. 'Right, then we'll just have to go upstairs and get them, won't we?'

Mother Munro stood to one side to let him past.

'Oh no, old woman, I don't think so. You'll be going first.'

Mother Munro smiled then began to climb the stairs.

'And the rest of you. Go on, all of you.' He threw Elvis towards Morris. 'Jarvis, you take him up with you.'

Morris grabbed Elvis by his shirt and dragged him onto the stairs behind the rest. Brodie went to follow. The Bishop stepped in his path.

'Not you. You wait outside.'

'No, that wasn'e the deal. I stay with the auld woman.'

'Deal? There is no deal!' The Bishop walked to the door and undid the bolts. 'Either you step outside or I open this door and call everyone in. Then see what happens to your precious old woman! The choice is yours.'

Brodie looked up the stairs. They were already disappearing onto the next level. He had little choice. He reluctantly pushed past the Bishop to stand outside the door, claymore in hand, facing the mob. The Bishop locked the door behind him then followed up the stairs.

They reached the second floor. Mother Munro pushed open the door and they all filed through and up onto the next flight of stairs. Morris tugged Elvis back by his shirt and waited a moment until the rest had disappeared. He darted back to the door to the downward flight, slammed it shut and slid the bolt across.

'Quick Elvis. Help me!'

'What are you doing?'

Morris picked up the end of a bed and dragged it towards the door.

'Just help me! Quickly!'

Between them they pushed the bed across the door.

'I don't get it?' said Elvis. 'What is this, some kind of trick?'

'No Elvis, this is no trick. Not this time.' He picked up a chair over and placed it on top of the bed. 'I've had enough Elvis. Enough lies, enough deceit. I don't want to do it any more. I've wanted to stop for a long time.' He put a hand on Elvis's shoulder. 'I'm sorry Elvis. Just go up there and do whatever you have to do, to end this for all of us. I'll slow him down here as long as I can.'

The door latch rattled. The Bishop began banging on the bedroom door. 'Jarvis! Jarvis! What's going on? Open this door right now!'

'Go Elvis, now!'

Elvis headed for the stairs to the next level.

'Elvis. Do one last thing for me.'

'What?'

'Please, look after...'

His sentence was cut short by the cracking of wood as the Bishop's shoulder slammed into the door. 'Open this damn door!'

'Look after..."

The door splintered again.

"... my train-set.'

'Your train-set!'

'It's yours, all of it. And Elvis, tell your mother... I'm sorry.'

Elvis hurried to the top of the tower.

'Have ye got the stoon, boy?' asked Mother Munro.

'I have.' Elvis shoved his hand down the front of his underpants and pulled out the warm stone.

'Och, ye've really noo class, boy, have ye? Poot it on the table, quickly noo. An' where's Brodie?'

'The Bishop threw him out. He's locked outside.'

'Locked him out! He's got the Lee Penny fer heaven's sake! We canna de it withoot the Lee Penny!'

The Bishop realised that he wasn't going to get through the door alone. He ran down the stairs jumping three steps at a time. He pulled back the bolts and threw open the door. 'To the top of the tower!' he roared to the mob. 'Smash down the doors!' They poured in like water through a breached hull. They charged up the stairs and began to hack and smash at the bedroom door.

'We're lost.' said Mother Munro. 'Without the Lee Penny this all comes to naught.'

'Is this what your looking for?' asked Geoffrey, sheepishly dangling the blood red pendant.

'Och yer darlin' man! Where did ye get tha'? Did Brodie give it te ye?'

'Yeh, that's right. He... gave it me.'

'Quick, ye boy, barricade that door!' she snapped at Quentin. 'Reet noo, put the two stones on the table.

Footsteps raced up the stairs. Quentin pushed armchairs and a coffee table to the door. The banging started again.

'Open up!' bellowed the Bishop. The wood began to crack. A sledgehammer splintered through the wood. 'Don't touch those stones!'

'Elvis. If ye'd be sae kind.' said Mother Munro. 'Yer a brave wee lad. A think ye deserve the honour.'

'But what's going to happen to you?'

'When the stones touch, it'll turn back the clock fer everyone who's been in its spell. It'll turn it back 'til it canna be turned noo more.'

The door was crumbling. With a crack it split in two and fell from the frame.

'Elvis! Now!'

'Stop!' screamed the Bishop, charging towards the table.

Elvis pressed the stones together. In an instant they were scorching hot, too hot to hold. The room filled with a ferocious, blinding, orange light.

Gradually, the light faded and vision returned.

Elvis looked down. The stone had fused into one. It was in the form of a red stone heart.

'No!' howled the Bishop. He picked up the stone and banged it against the table. He pulled out his knife and tried cutting it in two; but his knife made no mark on the gem. At the doorway, Morris looked on. He smiled at Elvis and nodded silent approval.

'Goodbye Elvis. An' thank ye.' Mother Munro began to change. Her wrinkles were flattening, the spiky dark hairs on her chin retreated. In seconds, she was a beautiful, clear-skinned young woman again, her broad smile revealing perfect white teeth. Then she became shorter, younger; she was a child of ten or twelve years, younger even than Elvis. Her shawl draped on the ground. Fear was appearing on her face now. At the doorway the same thing was happening to the mob, and to Morris and the Bishop. They were getting smaller and younger, some now no more than toddlers. Elvis turned back to Mother Munro. On the floor, in the black shawl, lay a baby, arms and legs kicking. She began to cry. Elvis crouched down and cradled her in his arms, wrapping the shawl around her. She closed her eyes.

Monica pulled back the curtain. The same fate had befallen the crowd outside. Five-year-olds chased each other around the path, babies cried and toddlers stumbled and fell.

Elvis looked down at the baby in his arms. She'd gone. He was left holding an empty woollen shawl.

Monica, Geoffrey and Elvis climbed back down the tower, picking a route around sleeping babies and the outstretched arms of toddlers. They ignored the cries and kept on going. Outside were dozens and dozens more infants. The weather had calmed and many had fallen asleep amidst their oversized clothes, others sat quietly. They tip-toed between them. Quentin and Zara followed them outside.

'What are you doing?' Zara asked. 'You can't just leave them here. They're babies!'

'They won't be for much longer.' pointed out Elvis.

'No, I can't do it.' Zara took out her mobile. Outside of the tower walls the 'phone reception was back. She dialled 999.

Chapter 23

Elvis, Monica and Geoffrey were back in the Princess and on the main road heading south. The annoying chatter and snoring of Mother Munro had gone but the missing car door made the trip cold, windy and even slower than on the way up.

Geoffrey turned on the radio to drown out the noise of the rushing air.

'Astonishing news is coming in of the bizarre disappearance of hundreds of prominent people all over the UK. The list is so long it's hard to know where to start - judges, barristers, aristocracy, clergy, businessmen and celebrities. So far police have been unable to establish any sort of link between them. The palace is fiercely denying the loss of the entire royal family. The prime minister is set to give a news conference any minute but there are rumours that they haven't been able to find him. We'll bring you more news the second it comes in. On a lighter note, police were called to a hoax at a small remote castle early this morning. A caller reported dozens of abandoned babies. When emergency services got there, they didn't find any babies but did confiscate a small amount of cannabis. A couple are helping police with their enquiries. Meantime on with the music and we'll bring you more very soon.'

Glen Campbell burst into 'Rhinestone Cowboy'.

'I love this!' shouted Geoffrey over the screaming wind. He turned the volume up as loud as it would go and howled along.

Chapter 24

Morris, of course, never did return to Monnington Street. Some weeks after his disappearance, an elderly lawyer produced faded documents claiming to prove his identity. They weren't wonderfully convincing to the police but amongst them was a will that left everything to 'The Lady of the House.' It didn't specify the name of this 'Lady' and Monica wondered how many other women it could have applied to over the years. The police grumbled about how they should be seizing the assets of criminals, but as their evidence had melted away and in the absence of any challenge, the will was accepted and the house and shop were hers. Even the old Allegro made it home on the back of a pick-up truck.

Geoffrey managed to fix up his precious Austin Princess. He searched scrap yards for a new door, and with the enthusiastic help of his new housemate, an eccentric Mister Le Clerc, brought the old car back to its immaculate best. The two of them frequented the vintage car rallies together and even started a small market stall selling whatever items happened to come their way, cash only.

Elvis returned to school. The whole terrorist scare and scandal that followed had earned him a little street cred at least. He wasn't sure if that was why the bullying had stopped or whether they were worried that the police might have been right after all and maybe he had a direct line to al-Qaeda. Either way, school life was more comfortable even if it was no more interesting. He managed to locate Alan on Facebook and they talked often, though kept strictly secret from Mister and Misses Singh.

Henry appeared occasionally, much to Elvis's delight, and updated him on Nya's new pregnancy, the progress of Leeds United and the stress of his impending exams that he hadn't studied for. He'd managed to persuade Nya to stay put in England, for the moment at least.

The young vicar across the street called in to say good-bye. He'd decided to have a break from the church and pursue his football career instead. Last Elvis heard, he'd reached the lofty heights of left wing for Leyton Orient reserves.

But Elvis wasn't happy. He moped around the house. He still searched the internet and the library for any missing leads that might explain what had happened to Mary. But he found nothing. As time went on, he began to doubt his recollection. Had he imagined the whole thing? Had Mary ever even existed?

A year rushed by. It was summer again and Monica was lying in the garden studying for her Open University examination. The history of popular music might not be a real subject to some, but to Monica it was a perfect next step to who knows where. She sipped on her white wine spritzer. She allowed herself one bottle a week. It worked well. Monica was in charge of the wine now, not the reverse. The sun was hot and burning her shoulders. She pulled the umbrella around her back. The sun-bed collapsed and landed on the cat's tail. It screeched, tore out and darted behind the overgrown bush at the front of the house.

'Elvis. Be a dear and make sure the cat's OK. Thanks sweetie'

Elvis sighed. 'Don't call me sweetie.' he grumbled then squeezed behind the bush. The cat crept further in. Elvis pushed the branches out of the way. He hadn't been back here since the night it all happened. He remembered the grid, the tunnel. He scraped at the dead leaves and dirt under his feet. They were still there, the old iron bars and the dark hole beneath. The ground moved a little. Elvis grabbed at the bush for support. The grid gave way and disappeared into the drain. Elvis seized hold of a branch but it was too thin. It snapped in his hands and he fell through the hole and onto the soft mud below.

'Elvis? Are you OK sweetie?'

'Yes Mum, I'm fine.'

Elvis picked up the frightened cat and dropped him outside the hole. He reached his hands onto the side of the drain to pull himself up. He hauled up his weight and scrambled for a foothold with his good leg. He found a space for his toes and pushed himself up. But the brick slipped from under his foot and fell out. Elvis landed back on the dirt with a hefty thud. He picked the brick up angrily. But before he hurled it away he noticed something etched into the clay face. He scraped away the dirt and squinted to read it in the gloom. It was capital letters. It read 'MY EK'.

His heart began to pound. He stood back up and peered into the hole it had left behind. It was too dark to see anything. He reached a hand inside and felt around. It was damp and grimy inside the space. At the back of the hole Elvis's fingers felt something different, a rectangular block covered in cloth. Elvis pulled it out. It was a piece of cracked old leather wrapped around something. Elvis quickly tore away the decaying hide. Inside was a long rusty metal box. Elvis reached up and placed it carefully on the ground outside of the tunnel. He clambered out of the hole and dashed around the side of the house.

'Elvis. Where's the cat? Is he OK?'

'He's fine Mum.' shouted Elvis and disappeared inside.

Elvis sat on his bed and tried to open the tin. It was rusty and stiff. He took his penknife and gently prised off the lid. Inside was a small, crudely carved wooden figure with 'Sam' burnt into the base. There was a small black book. Elvis carefully lifted it out and placed it on his desk. With a trembling hand he lifted the front cover.

16 October 1665

Dearest Elvis

How are you? Did you get back all right? Did they lock you up again? I can't sleep for worrying. I hope so much that one day you find this book. You know, it's a bit strange writing a letter to someone not even born yet! Sam made you a present. Don't laugh cause it took him ages to carve it. He says you better like it - it's supposed to be a soldier. I told him it looks more like a pig.

Remember that day Elvis, that last day when we stood on the tower together? I wish you could have stayed to see them soldiers' faces. When they saw you disappear they got scared. They thought I'd done witchcraft! Then they saw the hole that Brock had gone through and they thought I'd done it to him too – that's when then they got real scared! They ran down the stairs screaming witch, witch! When I got to the bottom they all ran and hid. That old bloke was still there. He showed me a way out and I ran til I got home.

We've been waiting for Mister Jarvis to come back. Most of the rich folk who went away have sent someone back to check on their houses and pay bills but nobody has heard from Mister Jarvis (or Miss P). I told Mum and Dad about him being in the courthouse, but they think he's still out in the country and will come back one day. The neighbours are starting to say that he's dead. At least it means we still got the house to ourselves for now.

Fran's boys live here most of the time too. They drive me nuts. Sam says they're our servants but they can't be cos they do no work.

How do you like my writing? No, just kidding. Me and Sam are doing some work for Mister Wiseman in his shop and when it's quiet he writes for me. He doesn't believe what I told him about you but he likes a good story. He's going to teach me to write one day.

I'll never forget how brave you were Elvis. I wish things were different and you'd stayed here with me. When I close my eyes I still see you sitting here next to me, laughing and joking. I'll always think of you.

all my love

Mary.

At the bottom of the page a lock of hair was glued to the paper. Elvis caressed it gently with his fingertips, careful not to dislodge the fragile strands. A tear ran along his nose and dripped onto the yellowed paper.

He carefully turned the page.

26 November 1665

Dearest Elvis

Sorry it's been so long between writing. Mister Wiseman is so busy he hardly has any time left to help me. All his workmen are gone. Nobody has heard from Mister Jarvis still. He has a warehouse full of stuff on the river and they say he hasn't paid them for it. They're going to send someone out to the country to find him. Everyone says he's died of plague.

The city is still real quiet. Houses and shops are boarded up and some whole streets have got no one in them. I don't like to go out after dark.

Remember Nick from next door? His uncle has thrown him out for being lazy. He comes begging for food some days. I feel real sorry for him.

Alice is sick again. Dad thinks its consumption. Mum sits with her all night. We're scared for her.

Take care Elvis. I hope life is treating you well. Do you ever think of me?

All my love

Mary

4 December 1665

Alice's funeral was today. It rained and rained. We had to travel miles to find somewhere to bury her. Dad made a small coffin from wood and painted it black. Mum hasn't spoke since she died. She just sits in the front window of the house and stares across at the church all day. Her face looks like snow. Dad says her heart is broke in two. He asked me to pack away Alice's toys and clothes but I couldn't do it. I've come to the shop to get away.

I can't write no more today.

my love

Mary

29 December 1665

My Dearest Elvis

Amazing news! They never found Mister Jarvis so the people with the warehouse went to the court and they said he's dead. An old man turned up at the court with some papers. He brought a will from Mister Jarvis. It said that he left everything he owned to the 'Lady of the House' but didn't give her a name. They said he used to have a wife but she's been dead for years. Miss P always thought she was the lady but no one knows where she is (shame!). So that just left Mum. Everyone in the court laughed when the old man said about Mum getting everything. People said it should go to the King or the church and that a servant could never be a lady. But then the judge got real angry - remember that same one that we saw in court when they said we was witches? He banged his hammer so hard he nearly broke the table! He told them all be quiet and that the will stands and Mum gets his stuff. He said great wrongs had been done that must be put right! Turns out the warehouse is packed full of tea and cotton and Mister Jarvis had two houses in the country as well! It makes my head spin just thinking about it!

Mum says they could keep it all if she could just have Alice back for one day. Dad says I can start real lessons with a tutor soon if he can find one, and Sam too, though he doesn't seem very keen.

I'd best go. Mister Wiseman says he's lots of jobs for me to do before I get too posh to speak to him! I told him I'll still keep coming back, even when I am posh!

I think of you a lot Elvis. I wish there was some way I could see you again, hear your voice.

Take care

all my love

Mary

2 February 1666

My Dearest Elvis.

It was my birthday yesterday. We got up early and took the carriage to one of the country houses. It took hours and hours to get there. It was beautiful except it smelt like cow poo. Everywhere was covered in snow and there was a frozen duck pond. The caretaker tried teaching me and Sam to skate but we weren't very good.

I'm having classes from my tutor Mister Sharpe now. He says I'm a quick learner and I should be able to write my own letters soon. He's not so sure about Sam. Dad tried getting him to teach Isaac, William and Matthew too but Mister Wallace said if he had to keep teaching them, he'd leave. Dad's got them learning how to look after the horse and stables now instead. I still come to see Mister Wiseman. He says he going to start charging me money for writing these letters!

Judge Collins calls. He's been helping Dad to sell the stuff from the warehouse. Wooldridge comes with him - do you remember him? He still scares me. Annabel, the judge's daughter, she never comes. Some people say she's in an asylum for mad folk, but I don't reckon the old judge could ever do that.

It's snowing again outside. It's icy cold and the river is still froze.

Take care

All my love

Mary.

The next page was stained and the words only partly illegible.

3 April 1666

............................................................................................. I don't want to live out there! It's all hay stacks and smelly barn yards!

Dad's given Nick a job. He felt sorry for him. He's thinking he might train him to help run the business. He...........

Me and Sam went to the river today. So many houses and shops are still boarded and there were beggars everywhere. We had to fight them off and run! Beggars have broken into some houses and are living in them. I don't think we'll go there again for a while.

My writing is getting better. I promise next time I'll write you.

I hope you are well dear Elvis.

All my love

Mary.

6 June 1666

Dearest Elvis,

This time I write my own letter. Im sorry if there are mistakes.

Mum found Nick steeling from the house last week. Dad was out so she sacked him and made him leave. Nick got really angry and tried to hit Mum. She whacked him with an iron poker from the fire then Dad came back and Nick ran off. We haven't seen him since.

Dad has bought a big warehouse and shop with Judge Collins. It was real cheap cos the owners died in the plague. He's put Fran's boys in there to work and carry stuff around. I'm glad cos at least it gets them away from here!

My lessons are good. I didn't know the world was so big! I asked my tutor if he thought we would ever fly. He said only if God chose to make us grow wings. I was dying to tell him about those flying carriages you showed me but he'd just think I was mad.

I have to go. Mum wants us to take tea with some new friends she's made. She's made Sam promise he'll behave but I'm not sure I believe him!

Take care Elvis.

Thinking of you

love Mary

15 August 1666

Dearest Elvis

Life is so busy now. My tutor says me and Sam should study from 7am until 6pm to catch up because we have so much to learn. Sam told Dad he's just trying to get more money from him so Dad said no.

Isaac set fire to the warehouse last week. It was huge and it took a whole day to put it out. Dad said it was lucky it didn't set fire to whole city. The Judge says he wants Fran's boys out of there but Dad says he'll give them one more chance.

Dad had a man come to the house and engrave my portrait into the wood on the side of the staircase. He said he wants everyone in the future to know how beautiful I am. It makes me look like a proper lady! Sam says he could have done the same thing much cheaper. Is my face still there now? I tell myself it is and imagine staring at you all those years ahead.

The city is busy again now. Most of the closed up shops are open again and selling stuff and the streets are full. There's still lots of boarded up houses though and I wonder what will ever become of them. Mum took me to the city today and bought me a dress. It's beautiful with long white lace and fancy sleeves. I wish you could see it. We're having a big party here on Sunday in two weeks when I'll wear it. Mum wanted me to have this awful old thing but I said no. The party will be huge. I can't wait! I'll write you again after that.

Thinking of you always

all my love

Mary.

Elvis turned the page again. It was blank. He carefully turned over every sheet, each one yellowed and brittle, but he found no more writing.

Perhaps there was another book he'd missed. He dashed back down the stairs. His mother's study group were arriving as he charged out of the front door. They were a mix of young and old, men and women. They wore turbans, sunglasses and pork pie hats.

'Elvis! What's the hurry?' shouted his mother.

Elvis squashed himself behind the bush and dropped back into the tunnel. He shoved his hand deep into the hole again. It was definitely empty. He scratched and pushed and pulled at other bricks but there was nothing else that was loose.

He climbed back out and returned to the house again. The study group had assembled in the living room and 'LA Woman' was now rattling the downstairs windows. Why had the letters suddenly stopped? Had she found herself a man? Had she got sick and died, like Alice? Why would she write for nearly a year and then stop? He remembered how she'd written about an engraving on the wood panel at the side of the staircase and went to look. There were no wood panels these days, just plaster and wallpaper. Elvis took out his penknife and dug a small hole through the pink rose-pattern paper. It was dark beneath. He slid his knife deeper under the layer of plaster and levered it back. A large fragment crumbled away and exposed a dark oak panel. Elvis pushed his fingers into the space under the plaster and pulled. A huge chunk tumbled to the floor and an oak panel saw daylight for the first time in centuries. Elvis pulled away more and more, huge chunks tumbling to the floor as the hall filled with a cloud of white dust.

The living room door opened.

'Elvis! What are you doing?' Monica charged up the hall and pulled him away. 'What is wrong with you?'

'Look at the wood!' said Elvis, reaching out to pull away another chunk.

'You promised me you'd behave!' she hissed.

Elvis looked at the half dozen people now stood in the hall clutching books and notepads and cringed. She was right, he had promised to be quiet. He looked back at the wooden panels. His last handful of plaster had exposed an arch of intertwined vines carved into the wood.

'Look!' he pointed and ripped off another huge chunk.

'Stop it!' Monica grabbed his arm.

'No Mum. Look!' He pulled off another slab. Underneath was a precisely carved face, a girl's face. It was unmistakeable. It was Mary. Elvis dusted the plaster delicately away from the carving before gently running a finger over her cheek and lips.

'It's just a picture Elvis for heaven's sake. You'll have to clean this up.' she added, pointing at the mess.

'Yes Mum.' said Elvis, still transfixed by the portrait.

'Who is that Elvis?' Monica leant forward and wiped the dust away from a small inscription beneath the image. She squinted as she tried to make out the ornate letters. 'Mary Young.... Lady of the House. August...August 16...66, I think it says. Who's she?'

'A girl... a girl I used to know Mum.'

'That's her Elvis, isn't it? She's the one?'

Elvis nodded. 'I found a book Mum. She wrote to me for nearly a year then nothing. Why would she do that?'

Monica placed an arm on her son's shoulder. 'Who knows Elvis? Many things can happen to a girl.'

Elvis ran a finger over Mary's cheek again,

'Maybe there's more clues under there.' Monica squeezed her fingers behind the plaster and pulled away a slab as big as her head. Elvis joined in and the cloud of dust quickly consumed the entire hallway.

'Is the study group over Monica?' Half a dozen bemused faces were watching them from the living room door.

'Oh I'm sorry. I got carried away. I'll be right...' Monica hesitated as she looked back at her son. His hair and face were ghostly white with plaster dust, his attention transfixed by the carved image. Elvis pulled his sleeve down and gently cleaned Mary's face again. 'Yes, you're right.' Monica's tone was decisive. 'The group's over this week. I'm sorry.'

'Emergency decorating?' asked a man, pulling on his brown leather jacket.

'No. I...we have to find something. Next week, same time?'

The group gathered together their notepads and laptops and drifted out of the front door. Two of them remained behind, an older man with neck decorated in bird tattoos and an ear cluttered with rings and studs, and a short, dark-skinned woman in long dress and hijab. The pair wandered curiously through the cloud of dust to investigate.

'You lost something, darl?' the man asked in an Australian drawl.

'I'm sorry about the group today. I didn't mean...'

'Nah, na worries. You wanna bit a help 'ere?'

'Well, I'm not sure...;

Before she could finish her sentence he had his jacket off and his fingers behind the plaster, pulling chunks away.

'What are we looking for?' asked the woman, crouched on all fours attacking the lower wall.

'Something... well anything...' explained Monica, 'anything like that.' she pointed at the image of Mary watching them.

'Like this?' The woman pulled her head-dress back from the rubble and with the other hand pointed to a crudely carved stick man with a large, balloon-shaped, grinning face. Beneath it was scratched 'Lord Sam, 1666 '.

Elvis looked at it and smiled. 'Yes, like that.'

They continued to attack the side of the hall stairs until the wallpaper and plaster lay entirely on the carpet. Then they began searching the rest of the house. Eventually their two guests made their apologies and left; but as night fell, Elvis and Monica were still looking. They tore house apart that night, ripping up floorboards, making holes in walls, pulling out cupboards. They were still laughing and telling stories as another dawn broke over 28 Monnington Street.

They didn't find any more images of Mary, no more letters or notebooks. Monica did finally take the chance to tell Elvis her story, the truth of how she'd run away from a miserable home and into the arms of the first person to show her affection. Of how Elvis had been a surprise that had brought her and Elvis's father together before splitting them apart. She told him of the accident and her awful, stomach-wrenching guilt when the police told her of how she'd failed to fasten Elvis into the car properly, a guilt that kept her awake night after night and was only calmed by ever more white wine. She told him of the lonely, poverty-stricken years as a single parent in Bolton and why she took the risk of chasing an internet romance. She didn't quite manage to apologise for the years of blaming Elvis.

Not in so many words at least, but Elvis could read between the lines.

###
