With and Without, Within and Without

by Euan McAllen

  ‘Give this peasant some of my money?’

  ‘Yes. Is that a problem?’

  ‘No, Your Excellency, your most esteemed excellency. No problem.’

  Rigger was loving it, seeing a stuck-up monk suffering. He was in heaven.

  ‘If anyone deserves charity, a cripple deserves charity. Is that not so, brother?’

  ‘Of course Your Excellency.’

  Trapped, the monk led Rigger away and paid him off with a handful of coins.

  ‘There, enough. Now be gone. And I don’t want to see you back here for at least a month. Understood?’

  ‘Understood, sir. Thank you, sir. Thank you. I’ll be gone now.’

  Rigger, pleased with his bounty, walked out on a financial high, smiling and waving at the glum guards standing outside – now standing in the rain. He had food for the wife; money for himself. It was a free-for-all. Rigger was laughing all the way to the bank. His son, meanwhile, could carry on coughing as he carried on begging: until he started to really cough his guts up, Rigger didn’t give a damn.

  ***

  Adolphinus had noticed a chill in the air: he knew all too well that news and gossip spread like wildfire within the walls of the monastery. Playing suffering to perfection, he persuaded his chief to join him on a walkabout town; in a display of unity; to meet the townsfolk before he left. Bushcatti agreed: chief monks could not be seen to have a falling out; chief monks had to set the bar high – high enough that no one else could reach it.

  Bushcatti took with him his full complement of guards; Captain Mostrum on one side, his deputy on the other. Adolphinus made do with two Religious Observance officers. Neither for one moment thought such precautions were strictly necessary, but neither did they know that news of the salt tax hike had already escaped the confines of the monastery. (In that place, where little changed from day to day, from hour to hour, any change, any news, was devoured and distributed, analysed and amplified until all the juice had been sucked out of it).

  Bushcatti found walking down the hill easy, and as he had not yet attracted any attention, a pleasant experience. The exercise would do him good, he told himself. He had been putting on too much weight – even for a monk. As usual, his personal assistant Paminio lagged behind, attached as always to his, but not wishing to be part of this charade of connection and celebration with the common people. As usual, Deputy Dolgar watched his captain seeing how he performed his job; always on the lookout for tips, for the rules of play, for weakness.

  The two chiefs did not walk side by side: they maintained a gap; they did not exchange words. Each did his best to give passers-by what they wanted: a gracious, kindly smile; a friendly wave; the reassurance that God had not forgotten them, even if he had perhaps temporarily misplaced them. Word got around town, and a crowd gathered. It followed them. It stalked them. Dolgar became nervous. Mostrum didn’t care. Bushcatti began to feel hassled and wanted to get the exercise done with as fast as possible. For the first and last time during the walkabout, he spoke to Adolphinus.

  ‘I’m tired. This will be quick and short?’

  ‘Quick and short Your Excellency. This is the smallest circular route possible. Another street turn, and we start heading back up the hill.’

  ‘It better be. But that will mean I have to climb the hill?’

  ‘I’m afraid so.’

  ‘I want my carriage. Mostrum!’

  ‘Yes sir!’

  ‘Send a man back. I want my carriage.’

  ‘Yes, sir! Dolgar!’

  ‘Captain!’

  ‘Send a man back. Get the carriage!’

  ‘Right away, Captain!’

  Timothy was standing in a doorway, watching from the wings as the circus came down the street. He still carried his bag of sweets. He saw a cripple struggling to sit down – a young man with a begging bowl – and immediately recognised him. He had no money on him, only a bag of sweets, so he crossed the street and offered one to the cripple. Rigger Junior recognised him, smiled, and took two. No matter, thought Timothy, secretly amused. Grab what you can in life.

  Rigger and his wife were in the crowd, a crowd in which some were now cheering; some were now booing; some were now demanding that the Chief declare the tax rise to be a lie, a mistake, anything but not true. A gang of kids, old enough now to have attitude and balls – hairy balls – ran up to the rear guard and shouted their particular form of abuse, then ran away before the men could react and return much the same.

  A girl in the crowd who had the hots for Dolgar – he had bought her drinks and showered praises on her in the tavern – approached and called out his name. He turned. She rushed forward, intending to kiss him. He pushed her away. No way. Not here and now. No way. He was on duty.

  The two chiefs reached the cripple sitting in the street. He was coughing, possibly to get attention, and holding out his bowl, looking for a treat. Adolphinus gave him one: he threw some coins his way, wishing to pre-empt his chief. Rigger Junior scrambled around on the ground to pick them up before any other scoundrel snatched them away. Good boy, thought his dad, as he came bursting out of the crowd and ran towards Bushcatti. He wanted the great man to meet his son. His son might be crippled, but he was still his first son and, at times like these, when there was a special audience, he was as proud as punch of him. Deep down, Rigger wanted his son to prosper, to hold his own. He wanted his son’s life to be as good as his – which wasn’t much. He wanted that god up there to fix his son’s curse: make his leg the right length, the right shape, able to kick a wife! He wanted so much it sometimes drove him mad, mad for want. He blamed the wife. She had failed him. She was broken inside – her parts were not working right. He, on the other hand, was good inside, of that he was sure.

  Mrs Rigger also ran forward, wishing to outrun her man. She wanted to thank the great man for his charity. She wanted to invite him into her home, to taste one of her pies, to meet her family. Perhaps he would bring a bottle of wine. Perhaps some cake? Bushcatti was spooked by both of them. Adolphinus was also spooked, but not by the Riggers. He had seen ex-novice Timothy in the crowd.

  Mrs Rigger got within handshake range before she was pushed away by Deputy Dolgar.

  ‘Get off me you stuck-up monk!’

  ‘I’m not a monk. I’m a soldier.’

  She didn’t hear him. She had moved on. Rigger laughed and took her place.

  ‘Thank the great man, my son, he wants to shake your hand.’

  ‘No, I don’t.’ Bushcatti was adamant about that.

  ‘Please shake his hand. He wants to thank you. Shake his hand.’

  ‘No. I said no. Now get out of my way.’

  ‘Shake my boy’s hand.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Shake my boy’s hand!’ shouted the wife, now by her husband’s side.

  ‘Get lost peasants!’ said Captain Mostrum. ‘You don’t talk to him like that, never!’

  Not good, thought his deputy.

  Rigger was not intimidated. ‘Shake his hand if you want to shut her up.’

  Mostrum pushed him away, repeatedly, while Rigger kept pushing back, and his riotous wife was held in check by Dolgar. The Riggers were on the warpath. They did not take to being insulted.

  ‘All the great man has to do is shake my son’s hand!’ shouted Rigger.

  ‘It’s a bad leg, not a bad hand!’ shouted his wife.

  ‘I said, get lost peasants!’

  Riggers’ mates were also insulted. One rule to bind them: if a best mate was insulted, they were all insulted. That was the rule.

  ‘He’s just a stuck-up monk! Thinks he’s better than us!’ shouted one.

  We are both better than you, thought Adolphinus. He’s better than you, thought Paminio.

  Captain Mostrum drew his sword. Not a wise move, thought Dol
gar. Automatically, the other guards drew theirs so reluctantly Dolgar drew his. By this time, Bushcatti had become frozen on the spot, and Adolphinus was enjoying every second of his discomfort, whilst being careful to display the opposite.

  ‘He’s fake!’ shouted someone in the crowd. ‘He can’t stand the sight of us!’

  ‘Or the smell!’ shouted another.

  ‘He’s put the salt tax up! I heard it, from a monk no less, and monks don’t lie!’

  ‘Not me!’ shouted Adolphinus.

  ‘Who else then!’

  Adolphinus could not answer: his chief was staring right at him. Unity at all times, there was no escaping it.

  ‘Give us bread!’ shouted Rigger’s wife.

  ‘Give us bread!’ shouted others.

  ‘We don’t have any bread,’ said Adolphinus loudly, trying not to demean himself by shouting back.

  A Chief Monk did not shout: it was beneath him. A Chief Monk should never need to shout.

  Paminio, distracted by the ugly faces and the ugly words, slipped in some mud and fell to the ground. Onlookers laughed and jeered. Even Captain Mostrum laughed.

  ‘Idiot!’

  The guards laughed: when their captain laughed, they nearly always laughed. It was almost automatic. Deputy Dolgar winched. This was not good for the image of his chief. That said, the rising tension temporarily stalled. Bushcatti looked at his man, furious, for Paminio was now the target for his foul mood. It had to offload.

  ‘Paminio, you are embarrassing me. Get up and pull yourself together, man. Why do I employ you?’

  Because I’m good at my job, thought an equally furious Paminio. And I work long hours. He got up, furious with himself and with those watching him, and tried to wipe away the dirt from his expensive jacket.

  A stone hit Bushcatti. He was outraged. A sign from God!

  ‘Enough! Enough of this nonsense! We go! Mostrum we go!’

  ‘Yes, sir!’

  The big, fat chief of all chief monks did a 180-degree turn and retreated as fast as his legs could carry him. Adolphinus did likewise, only faster. Stones flew. One hit Adolphinus on the back. Another hit Bushcatti again, this time on the back of the head. Luckily, it was a small one. His guards closed in tight around him while their captain and deputy kept looking around; seeking out the closest threat, the worse danger points. Mostrum wanted to kill a peasant – anyone would do – just to make a point. Just look at me and I will kill you, he thought. Make no mistake! A good kill would make him feel so much better.

  During the growing mayhem, Rigger Junior, the trigger for the crowd to turn nasty, became forgotten. He limped away in the opposite direction from the disturbance, sucking on a sweet. His parents, on the other hand, would not let go: they wanted an apology, and followed the chiefs back up the hill, while others were happy to disperse, for the show was as much as over.

  Dolgar caught sight of a pickpocket at work, a boy, and could not resist making an arrest – and some money. He grabbed the boy and confiscated all his spoils, sending him packing with a warning which he had no intention of honouring. Rigger saw it happen and after checking his pockets rounded on the man, unafraid of his sword. He had his money. The little shit had stolen his money, and now this big shit had stolen it. Rigger demanded his money back, or else.

  ‘Or else what?’ said Dolgar. ‘Just fuck off, or feel my sword.’

  Rigger was not one to give up when it came to matters of money: he chased after Bushcatti – the once-great man, a man now discredited – demanding he do something.

  ‘That soldier of yours – that one there – he’s a thief! He has my money! My money!’

  Bushcatti pretended not to hear him, preoccupied as he was with the approaching carriage. Salvation: his legs were hurting; he was sweating like a pig; he felt his power slipping away. This walkabout – this great idea of that Adolphinus – had been a disaster.

  Rigger stood rigid, astounded, his way blocked by a seething Captain Mostrum: the fat man had simply ignored him! Where was the justice in this world? His wife drew up beside him, panting, out of breath. Her cheeks were flaming red – red like her buttocks after a spanking session with her man. (He may not be good at sex, but he knew how to titillate.)

  ‘What’s wrong with you now? Give it up.’

  ‘Fuck off, bitch.’

  ‘No, you fuck off.’

  ‘He took all my money!’

  ‘You haven’t got any money!’

  Later, the truth would unfold, and the Riggers would have a blazing row, and she would hit him hard and refuse to cook his dinner, and he would sulk off for a drink or two with his mates.

  The carriage drew to a halt, and Bushcatti clambered in, followed by his captain. Two guards jumped on to the back of the carriage as it pulled away. The rest of the party was left to make their own way home. Paminio was furious. Adolphinus was beyond furious. The remaining guards, their swords put away now, thought it hilarious. Later, Adolphinus received a dressing down, and afterward, hiding in his office and licking his wounds, he called for his SRO. He had to give as good as he had just got.

  A distressed monk found Ingel wandering the monastery gardens: he was digesting the report he had just received about the fiasco. Amateurs, he thought.

  ‘How is he?’ he asked.

  ‘Not good,’ said the monk.

  Ingel waved him away. ‘Keep that to yourself. It’s a difficult time. I don’t want gossip. Understood?’

  The monk understood: when the SRO said ‘understood?’ you understood.

  Ingel strolled into his chief’s office, expecting a storm. He was not disappointed. His chief looked both broken and defiant at the same time. His chief looked both raging and ridiculous. Why you angry with me? thought Ingel. I had nothing to do with this.

  ‘You know what happened, I take it. You always know.’

  ‘I did advise against it. It needed planning. Crowd barriers should have been put in place. The usual friendly faces should have been planted. But you chose to ignore my advice.’

  Ingel, seeing the need to build bridges, promised to arrest the troublemakers. He promised no more trouble. But Adolphinus was not hearing him. Right now, Adolphinus could not cope with his SRO talking back, and in such an oh- so-fucking-righteous-way. His eyes began to glaze over like he was slipping into a dream, or sinking into the abyss. Ingel became worried: the face of Brother Fargo suddenly entered his mind and, try as he might, he could not get the thought of that mad monk out of his mind. Fargo had a reach beyond the physical, beyond the ordinary – even for a man of God.

  ‘Are you alright? Shall I get you something? Shall I fetch a nurse?’

  ‘I’m not getting his job.’

  Ingel did not look surprised. ‘Thought it might be that. Sorry.’

  ‘Sorry? You’re really sorry?’

  ‘Yes, of course, I am. Means, of course, I don’t get your job.’

  Now Adolphinus could not bear to look at his SRO. He waved him away, then stopped him at the door; erupting a second time, his guilt having evaporated. The old Adolphinus was back, if only briefly.

  ‘That disgraced novice, Timothy, why was he not moved? Why was he not moved! I ordered it! Your job is to carry out my orders!’

  Ingel held on to the door handle and reorganised his thoughts.

  ‘Timothy? He was moved. I checked. She confirmed she had him under lock and key.’

  Miuccia, thought Adolphinus. The thought of her could still sting.

  ‘Ingel, you know she can lie. She’s your sister. You know she can lie.’

  Ingel decided to bluff it. He could only take so much vitriol from his chief in one day.

  ‘She did not lie to me, not about this.’

  Adolphinus stared at his man: his man held firm. Ingel stared back: he knew he w
as his master’s equal. It was a standoff; a standoff between a man of God and a man of secrets. Adolphinus was the first to cave in. He waved his monster of a man away.

  ‘Leave me alone. I’m tired. Very tired. This has been an awful day for me.’

  Awful day? thought Ingel. You don’t know what awful is. He left smartly, saying nothing more, suddenly wanting to be alone – just him and his crow Craccus. Upon his return, Craccus greeted him with a squawk. Ingel responded by flicking his cage with such force that the crow thought it was an earthquake.

  ***

  While there was commotion in town Fiodor made a visit to the hospital, where all was calm and under control. He was not sick: he had business there, which meant that about once a fortnight he had to suffer the Chief Accountant. The man always had something to complain about. The man was always penny-pinching. Fiodor had two women with him: his laundry women. They did the laundry for the hospital on a regular basis. The hospital paid him. He paid the women. (He did not tell them how much he got paid for providing the service.) The three of them arrived by horse and cart, whereupon the women rushed off to deliver clean laundry and take away dirty laundry and used bottles. The cart carried crates of such bottles, washed for reuse. Unlike the weekly laundry service, bottle recycling was provided fortnightly. As was his habit, Fiodor unloaded the crates at the storeroom before going to see the Chief Accountant – his customer, his arsehole.

  As usual, the man sat slumped at his desk. As usual, the man was not happy. As usual, the man – fat, bald, and with a nervous twitch – kept scratching at his skin here and there, like he was chasing a midge. The man never looked well and was a poor advert for the hospital. Always in a hurry to get on to the next thing, he waved Fiodor into the chair opposite and came straight to the point. He did not have time or the inclination for niceties. This was business. Fiodor asked how he had been since they had last met, but the question was ignored: it had no place in the fast, hectic world of hospital financial management.

  Contractual obligations were not being met. ‘How so?’ asked Fiodor, pretending to be alarmed, pretending to care. The Chief Accountant explained: staff had run out of clean linen two days ago. The Senior Ward Sister had been giving him a hard time. This was not the first time.