Death is a Welcome Guest: Plague Times Trilogy 2

by Louise Welsh

  The elderly priest was a slight, shrunken figure whose head seemed too large for his body, the way the heads of children or anorexics sometimes can. His hair was thin, but brushed over his forehead in a style that might once, when the hair had been thicker and darker, have been considered foppish. Father Wingate looked too slow to avoid a coffin for much longer, but he had been quick to offer his help. Magnus imagined him in the room along the passageway, murmuring prayers over the bed, trying to inveigle God into Jeb’s soul.

  ‘Maybe something happened to Henry.’ Injury tinged Belle’s voice, as if the sweats had been a mean trick played on her alone.

  ‘Maybe,’ Jacob agreed. He stared at his barely touched glass, his voice as calm as the liquid it held.

  Magnus wondered if the cleric had helped himself to something from the medicine cabinet when he had been dosing Jeb. There was a lifetime of whisky and pills still out there for the taking. If he got to Orkney and found it deserted he could drink himself to death on the supply in Stromness alone and if that did not work he could drink himself from house to house until he reached Kirkwall and beyond. He would take a man’s way out, unlike Hugh. His cousin had died a hysteric’s death. Stones in his pocket like some lady poet. I was much too far out all my life and not waving but drowning. They had learned that stupid poem at school, but Hugh had not been out of his depth. The inquest had reported that the water had barely reached his chest before he sank beneath it.

  Magnus must have muttered something out loud because Jacob and Belle stopped talking.

  ‘Are you okay?’ Jacob sounded smoothly unbothered, but then he had shot a man in the head without suffering any obvious ill effects. There was no reason why Magnus’s drunken ramblings should trouble him.

  ‘Aye.’ Magnus took another sip of malt. So many dead and still his cousin haunted him. ‘I’m okay.’

  Jacob had said there were six people staying at the house, but so far Magnus had only met Jacob, Father Wingate and Belle. Henry was accounted for by his absence, but that still left two more survivors. There were too few people left not to be curious about those who remained. He remembered the brown face of the woman he had glimpsed crouching in the ditch with the girl who might have been Belle.

  ‘What if Henry went the same way as Mel?’ the girl said.

  ‘Melody made her own decision. We should respect that.’

  ‘What happened to Melody?’ Something in the tone of Jacob’s voice had already told Magnus, but the words were out before he could bite them back.

  Jacob levelled his gaze at Magnus. His eyes were creased and tired-looking, but there was an alertness in them that suggested the cleric was not as relaxed as he appeared. He said, ‘Melody struggled with the fact that she was a survivor. She couldn’t understand why she had been allowed to live when everyone dear to her had died.’ Jacob tipped back his dram and downed it in one, swift gulp. ‘I’m afraid she killed herself.’

  ‘She hanged herself in the barn,’ Belle said, as if it were important to get the facts right. ‘Henry found her.’

  Jacob turned his gaze on Belle. ‘That may be one of the reasons Henry decided to leave us.’ He lifted his glass to his mouth, but it was empty and he set it down without bothering to refill it. ‘Henry found it hard even to look at the barn after he discovered poor Melody’s body. He made all sorts of detours to avoid the place.’

  ‘He promised me he would stay.’ Belle sounded tired.

  Magnus finished his dram. He rolled the empty glass between his palms and realised he was staring at the bottle the way a well-trained dog will stare at its bowl before being given permission to eat. He pulled himself to his feet.

  ‘I’d best get myself to bed.’

  ‘Take the bottle with you, if you’d like.’ Jacob slid the whisky towards him, but the moon was on the wane that night and the moment had passed.

  ‘Thanks, but I’ve a long drive tomorrow.’

  ‘You know your friend won’t be well enough to go with you?’

  Magnus nodded. ‘He was never going to go as far north as me anyway.’

  ‘Why does everyone go?’ Belle asked.

  The whine was back in her voice, but this time Magnus felt sorry for her. She was not far off a child, and the world was less fun than it used to be.

  ‘Other folk will come along.’

  Belle gave him a small smile. ‘At least your friend is staying.’

  Magnus heard the brightening note in the girl’s voice. He wondered if he should tell them where he had met Jeb, but it occurred to him that Christian charity might not extend to caring for a sex offender and he decided to sleep on the decision.

  ‘You’ve got a captive audience there, but I’d leave him alone if I were you. He’s a grumpy old git.’

  ‘Belle might cheer him up.’ Jacob was leaning back in his chair, his half-shut eyes trained on the girl. He looked and sounded like a pimp. Magnus wondered again if the man was really a soldier-priest. It was a new world. Perhaps everyone could be whatever they declared themselves, for a while at least.

  ‘Trust me.’ Magnus got to his feet, the floor pitched and he realised he had drunk more than he meant to. ‘Jeb’s used to being on his own. He prefers it.’

  He took a candle to guide his way and closed the kitchen door gently behind him, leaving the pair of them still sitting silently in the dim light of the kitchen.

  Belle had already shown Magnus the room where he would sleep. It was on the second floor, small and musty-smelling, but it had a bed equipped with a mattress and bedclothes. After nights spent on a bedroll on the ground it looked like luxury. Belle had lingered by the door, and Magnus had considered reaching towards her, taking her hand in his and seeing where things led, but her wrists were as thin as a child’s and the thought of her fragile body beneath his had made him feel squeamish.

  Magnus paused on the first-floor landing, wondering if he should make his way to Jeb’s room and warn him to ignore the girl, unless he wanted his cover blown. The prospect of meeting Father Wingate gave him the creeps. His mother was an active Kirk member, but Magnus had never completely trusted ministers and their ilk. He had been a pallbearer at his father’s funeral for his mother’s sake, but had spent the day of Hugh’s cremation driving his motorbike full speed to the far side of the island. There had been a moment on the Churchill Barriers when he had felt the urge to turn his wheels towards the water and plunge the bike, with him still on it, down into the depths among the wrecks of the German fleet, but it was only a moment and it passed. His Aunty Gwen had forgiven him for not attending, but Magnus was never sure that she forgave him for being alive when her own boy was dead, and he had avoided their house from then on, though it had been a second home to him.

  He had been staring at the stair carpet without seeing it; now its pattern came into focus, an abstract arrangement of reds, greens and dulled yellows that coalesced into a sharp goatee-chinned devil’s face, repeated over and over. Magnus closed his eyes and opened them again, forcing himself to unsee the image. It was a trick of the mind, like the faces he had conjured in the woodchip that papered his bedroom walls as a child.

  He leaned against the banister for support as he climbed the stairs to his room. How could Father Wingate and Jacob Powe hold on to their faith in the face of so much death? What kind of god was it they worshipped? He pushed open the door to the room. The candle cast a thin pool of light over the worn carpet, the rose-sprigged wallpaper, the rumpled counterpane. The bedcovers shifted and Magnus saw the woman who had hidden in the ditch beside Belle at the sound of their motorbikes. Her long hair was spread across her shoulders, her expression was grave.

  He said stupidly, ‘Are you Melody?’

  ‘No,’ the woman said. ‘Melody’s dead.’

  She drew back the sheets making space for him and he saw the curve of her breasts, her dark nipples.

  Magnus whispered, ‘I don’t know you,’ and thought what a ridiculous thing it was to say.

  She said, ‘I n
eed to be with someone tonight. My thoughts are too loud in my head.’

  Magnus could feel himself hardening, all his thoughts beginning to flee. He touched the doorjamb with his fingertips.

  ‘You’re grieving.’

  ‘We’re all grieving. The least we can do is comfort each other.’

  Magnus stepped into the room and set the candle on the bedside table. His body threw dark shadows against the bedroom walls as he started to pull off his clothes.

  Twenty-Four

  Her name was Raisha and she had been a pharmacist in a large branch of Boots. She had also been married with two small boys. Her husband had died first, followed by her younger son, then the elder. She had had a mother, two brothers and a sister, none of whom survived. Those of her husband’s relatives she had been able to seek out were also victims of the sweats.

  Raisha told him all this as dawn stretched golden into the small bedroom. The birds were chorusing the arrival of the new day. Their songs seemed to stretch further and higher, as if there were more space for them in the new, unpeopled world.

  Raisha said, ‘I waited for the sweats to take me too, and when it didn’t I went to one of the quarantine centres where I was sure to catch it. I worked there until there was no one left to help and then I started to walk. I didn’t have the courage to kill myself, but I was sure that if I kept on walking I would die eventually. Every meal I took, every drink of water was a betrayal of my family. I knew I should die, but I kept on going.’

  ‘And now?’ Magnus asked. He had not told her about his own family and his hopes that they might still be alive.

  Raisha was curled in the crook of his arm. The tears that had slid down her face as she recounted her story had dried.

  ‘I keep on going. Father Wingate says that God has saved me for a purpose.’

  ‘Do you believe that?’

  ‘No, because that would mean He had a purpose in killing so many people. But Father Wingate is a nice old man who believes we can make a better world and so I keep my thoughts to myself.’

  They had made love twice in the night. Magnus had put his arms around her by the glow of the candle, but Raisha had leaned over and blown out the flame before she allowed him to kiss her. Magnus wondered if she had been thinking of her husband and imagining that he was him.

  ‘I think about them all the time,’ she said, as if she had read his mind. ‘Thinking about them keeps them alive. But sometimes it hurts too much and I need to shut out the memories. Her hand slipped beneath the covers and her smooth fingers began caressing his body. Raisha put her face to his and kissed him. He kissed her back and when she drew him to her, Magnus tried not to mind that she closed her eyes.

  It was afternoon by the time they got out of bed. Raisha slid from beneath the sheets and dressed quickly with her back to him. She gave Magnus a smile before she left the room, but did not say where she was going or if they would see each other again. Magnus lay there for a while staring at the ceiling. The plaster was old and crisscrossed with thread lines. He saw a man’s face in the cracks, a disjointed dog, a shape that might have been the outline of Australia. He had never been there. Never would now. Were there still people left alive on the other side of the world? Perhaps there was a man like him, way down under, lying somewhere in bed, his limbs heavy from sex, wondering about the future.

  Magnus heard the sound of activity in the kitchen and hesitated before he entered. The man at the stove was tall and young with thick blond hair and a profile that would guarantee him an audition for a Boris Karloff biopic. It was an ugly, dignified face not made for smiles. The man took a pot of coffee from the burner, poured two cups and handed one to Magnus without asking.

  ‘Your friend’s awake.’ His voice was a surprise. It was soft with a faint accent Magnus could not place: Scandinavian or perhaps German.

  ‘Thanks.’ He took the cup and held out his free hand. ‘I’m Magnus.’ He wondered where the man had been while he and Jacob had struggled to carry Jeb into the house.

  ‘I know. Father Wingate told me.’ The man was dressed in muddy jeans and a soiled sweater and Magnus guessed he had been working outside. He looked at Magnus’s hand as if he were uncertain of what he was meant to do and then shook it. ‘I’m Will.’

  ‘Been here long?’ Magnus asked.

  Will shrugged as if to say, what did it matter, and raised his cup to his mouth.

  ‘He was asking for you.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Your friend. Father Wingate said to tell you that your friend wanted to see you.’

  Will topped up his own cup with coffee from the pot. He turned off the stove and went out into the garden, closing the door softly behind him.

  At first he thought that Jeb was sleeping, but then his eyes opened and Magnus saw the weighing stare he had grown to know.

  ‘I thought you’d be on your way.’ He was back to the man Magnus had met in prison, the solitary inmate, bitter and self-reliant.

  The room they had put Jeb in faced on to a kitchen garden. Magnus could see Will in the garden below, digging one of the beds. He was putting his back into the task, shifting soil as if his life depended on it. It was harvest, not sowing time. Magnus wondered if the task was therapeutic, or if Will knew nothing about the order of the seasons. There was a chair by the edge of the bed. Magnus sat on it.

  ‘I will be soon. Someone said you wanted to see me.’

  ‘They were lying.’

  ‘It was the priest.’

  ‘They’re the biggest liars of all.’ Jeb straightened himself awkwardly in the bed, grimacing against the pain. ‘The old one or the killer?’

  There was a slurred edge to his speech and Magnus guessed Jeb was still medicated. ‘The old one.’

  ‘That figures. That old bastard’s having the time of his life.’

  The room smelled of dampness, sweat and detergent, as if it had only now been pressed back into use after a long period of neglect. Jeb pulled back the bed sheet. He was wearing a T-shirt and boxer shorts and Magnus saw the damaged leg bandaged tight to a splint.

  ‘How is it?’

  ‘How do you think?’ Jeb held on to his ribs and leaned down to touch the bandages. ‘Fucking sore. Christ knows what that bastard did to it while I was comatose.’

  Magnus forced a grin. ‘Maybe you should check your arse for love bites.’

  He had helped to hold Jeb down while Jacob had pressed the bones of the broken leg into place as best he could and strapped them to the makeshift splint. Jeb had ground his teeth, groaning and muttering like a corpse fighting against resurrection. The cleric-captain had been grim-faced and efficient and Magnus guessed that this was not the first time he had performed triage. He said, ‘You don’t remember any of it?’

  Through the window Belle was walking across the garden to where Will was still digging. They looked strange together, the large ugly man and the slight blonde girl; like different species. Will kept his eyes trained on the ground until Belle touched his arm. Something about the way he moved his head told Magnus the man had heard her coming and was impatient at the interruption. Will listened to what she had to say and resumed his task. Belle lingered for a moment, as if expecting him to give a response, then walked away. When she was gone Will stopped digging and leaned on his spade, staring down at the earth. Something about the way he stood reminded Magnus of the way his mother had been after his father’s death; her silences, the half-finished tasks.

  Jeb said, ‘I remember the crash, that fucker coming towards us with the machete and Jacob blowing his head off, then nothing much until I woke up with Old Father Time snoring on the chair beside me.’ He touched his bandaged leg. ‘Jacob reckons we should slap some plaster of Paris on it. He’s on the hunt for some now, but in the meantime …’ He shook his head. ‘I’m fucked.’

  There was a cross on the wall above the bed, a skinny Jesus pinned like a fly on a dissecting board. Magnus gave it a glance and said, ‘I haven’t told anyone where we met.’
>
  Jeb touched his bandages again, as if to check that his leg was still painful. He grimaced and looked at Magnus, his expression wary.

  ‘Why would you?’

  ‘There are girls here. Young girls.’

  Magnus shifted the chair back from the bed, though he knew Jeb was in no condition to reach him from where he lay.

  ‘Christ.’ Jeb closed his eyes. ‘You seriously think I’m a danger to them?’

  ‘All I know is where we met.’

  ‘Where we met. You were there too, remember?’

  There was a sound on the stair outside. Jeb’s eyes met Magnus’s and he stopped mid-sentence. The door opened and Belle put her head into the room. She had tied her hair into sleek gold plaits and looked like a pretty supermarket assistant dressed up to promote Edam cheese. She said, ‘Jacob has asked us all to assemble in the ballroom.’

  Jeb pulled up the bed sheet, covering his leg, the borrowed boxer shorts. ‘Did he say if he’d found any plaster of Paris?’

  Belle stepped into the room. ‘No, just that he wanted us all to assemble.’

  Jeb looked away. ‘You’ll have to count me out.’

  Magnus felt his face glowing. He wondered if Belle had overheard any of their conversation. Her foot kicked the back of his chair, though whether it was deliberate or because the room was small, Magnus could not tell.

  She said, ‘How about you? You’ve got both of your legs.’

  It was in his mind to say that he was leaving, but the man had saved his life and it might also be a chance to say goodbye to Raisha.

  ‘Sure, I’ll be there.’

  The girl looked at Jeb. ‘How long will you be stuck like that?’

  ‘I don’t know. If Jacob gets some plaster on it I might be hobbling around soon.’

  ‘You’re going to be bloody bored stuck in here.’

  Magnus said, ‘Don’t worry about Long John Silver. He’s used to being on his own.’