Elephants and Castles

by John Patrick

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, tu
cked 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