“I’ve heard of it,” said Jonathan, “It was designed by Sir Isaac Newton, I think.”
“So which one is it?”
“Don’t know. We could ask, I suppose.”
An elderly don happened to be cycling towards them, his academic gown fluttering gently behind him. Jonathan waved at the old gentleman who, graciously, dismounted and said, “Are you lost, young man?”
“I wonder if you might be able to help us?” said Jonathan, “We are looking for the Mathematical Bridge.”
“The Mathematical Bridge?” said the grey-haired man, in a tone of voice that could hardly have sounded more astonished if Jonathan had asked for the local bordello.
“It’s the one designed by Sir Isaac Newton,” Jonathan explained.
“Whoever told you that is a liar, sir,” said the old man, Sir Isaac Newton had much better things to do with his time than designing Cambridge college bridges. The Mathematical Bridge was designed by William Etheridge. It was built to mathematical principles, hence the name. But beyond that, it is of no great interest.” And with that the elderly man remounted his bicycle and continued on his way.
“Lot of help he was,” said Leila.
“Now we’ll never find it,” said Geoff sullenly, though in fact he neither cared whether they did or didn’t. His opinion was that the woman in the tea shop was bonkers and why anyone should pay the slightest bit of attention to what she said was beyond him.
In the end they decided to take a look at all the bridges they passed. Apart from the Bridge Of Sighs, there were only two that had features of any particular interest. There was a rather lovely stone bridge that spanned the river in three low arches and was bounded on either side by a balustrade decorated with fourteen stone balls one of which, curiously, had a quarter-segment missing. And then some way further on, there was a most curious wooden bridge made of stout, straight beams bolted together in such a way that the entire bridge formed an elegant arch.
“So which is the mathematical one?” asked Leila.
“Beats me,” said Jonathan.
And for the time being, they put the matter out of their heads. They carried on walking until they finally crossed the river once again and turned into Trumpington Street, heading back in the direction of St Dunstan’s College. They were just passing Little St Mary’s Church when a small, fat man wearing a red-and-white striped blazer and a straw boater came running towards them crying, “Follow me! Follow me! It’s about to start!”
The Precentor’s Punch
“I say, Horace, who’s your young friend?” – the elderly don’s voice oozed unctuously as his eyes locked onto Geoff like a homing missile to its target.
The room was packed with people, mostly undergraduates who, due to the redness of the eyes that was symptomatic of those who had recovered from the infection, tended to look even more dissolute than undergraduates usually looked. There were also a few dons, older men and one woman, whose red eyes were symptomatic of nothing more than over-indulgence in the punch that was being ladled from a huge silver bowl (which rested upon a bench far end of the room) into a succession of crystal goblets being held out for refills.
“Young friend, Cardew? Which young friend had you in mind?” replied the short, fat man wearing a red-and-white striped blazer and straw boater.
“Come, come, Horace. You know very well. The boy in the denim shirt, dark curly hair, sultry good looks. Where on earth did you find him, old man?”
“Oh, him! It was rather the other way about, I should say. I was strolling down Trumpington Street, minding my own business, when he positively leapt out at me. So naturally I invited him to the party.”
“Naturally. Curious though.”
“You speak in riddles, Cardew. To what are you referring when you say it is curious?”
“Don’t be a chump, Horace. You must have noticed.”
“How can I say whether or not I have noticed until you specify precisely what it is that I may, or may not, have noticed?”
“His eyes.”
“Green eyes. Rather attractive.”
“Quite. Not at all bloodshot, I should say. No sign of inflammation.”
“No.”
“Doesn’t that strike you as curious?”
“No.”
“Given his age.”
“I have not enquired into his age. It would seem impertinent.”
“What I mean to say, old man, is that it strikes me as curious.”
“Does it, indeed?”
“It does.”
“Then, in that we must differ. Ah, Sir Francis, I hadn’t noticed you there. Do have some of this delicious Precentor’s Punch,” and with that the short man in the striped blazer (Horace Pethelwaite, director of studies in mathematics) wandered off to engage in a different conversation with a different college fellow.
The fact of the matter was that Horace Pethelwaite rarely found the conversation of Professor Cardew Dobermann, senior lecturer in Jacobean Literature, much to his taste; the man was vulgar, his conversation was steeped in insinuation and peppered with double-entendres. Probably something to do with all those ghastly Jacobean tragedies. When one came into contact with such vile filth on a daily basis, it could hardly be wondered at if one’s mind were not to a degree poisoned by it.
“Hello, old chap, haven’t seen you around before? Just come up have you?”
“What?”
“Come up. To Cambridge. Matriculated. Though, come to think of it, this is hardly the time of year for matriculation.”
“Don’t know what you’re on about mate.” Geoff took an instant dislike to Professor Cardew Dobermann, much as he might have taken an instant dislike to a rearing cobra with dripping fangs.
“Is this bloke bothering you, Geoff?” Leila approached from the direction of the punch bowl. She was holding two goblets containing a liquid of a luminous orange hue in which bits of unidentifiable fruits drifted.
“Not really. I was just about to start ignoring him when you arrived.”
“Oooh, quite an acid tongue the boy has,” oozed Professor Cardew Dobermann approvingly.
Geoff took a glass and gulped down a mouthful of punch. He gave the professor a glare that was meant to indicate that the conversation was terminated but the glare was intercepted by Jonathan who, at that moment, staggered towards them holding a plate of vol-au-vents which he had recently acquired – “I think I’ve discovered something interesting about the Mathematical Bridge,” he said.
“The Mathematical Bridge?” whined Professor Cardew Dobermann, “What on earth could there be of interest in that old wreck?”
Jonathan handed the vol-au-vents to Leila (who promptly began eating them), and extended a hand to the professor – “Jonathan Richards. Pleased to meet you.”
Geoff groaned.
“Cardew Dobermann, the pleasure is all mine. Now do tell, what on earth have you found to interest you in the Mathematical Bridge?”
“Well, I happened to be talking to that lady over there,” Jonathan nodded towards a tall woman whose long grey-hair was tied back in a tight and unflattering bun.
“Ah, Marietta. Doctor Minnerson, I should say. A chemist. Odd people, chemists, I’ve always found.”
“Well, anyway, she said that the Mathematical Bridge is a fake. A replica. Not at all the Mathematical Bridge that it purports to be.”
“So it is,” agreed Professor Cardew Dobermann, “Built in the middle of the 18th century, rebuilt in the middle of the 19th century. Replaced completely some time in the early 20th century. Like much you’ll see in Cambridge, not at all what it seems.”
“Ladies and gentlemen!” – a penetratingly nasal voice that could only be High Anglican, cut through the babble of chatter and the room fell silent. Standing on a small dais at the far end of the Hall was an ecclesiastical gentleman wearing a black shirt and a white dog-collar.
“Thank you all so much for attending our celebration…”
“What exactly are we celebr
ating?” Jonathan whispered to Professor Dobermann.
The Professor gave him a look of astonishment. “Oh, don’t you know? It’s the anniversary of the beatification of St Teresa of Avila.”
“Ah,” said Jonathan. It was all he could think of saying.
The gentleman in the ecclesiastical outfit, who was the college chaplain, was still speaking: “…and I am pleased to announce that we have been able to arrange, at great expense, a performance from the world-famous contralto, Dame Bara Clutt!”
The room rang to the sound of applause and cheering as, from behind a red velvet curtain at the back of the dais emerged an extremely tall and striking figure whose voluptuous form had been squeezed, with some difficulty one might surmise, into the elaborately flounced dress of a Spanish gypsy girl. When the applause subsided, a tape-recording of an orchestra playing the opening bars of the ‘Habanera’ from the opera ‘Carmen’ could be heard. Dame Bara hugged her arms around her ample bosom and prepared to give vent. When she finally did give vent it was with considerable volume, albeit in the baritone register.
For the next few minutes, everyone stood gazing in enthralled astonishment at a truly remarkable interpretation of Bizet’s Carmen. At the end of the aria, Dame Bara clasped a hand over her heart and bowed her head in modest appreciation of the adulation of the assembled masses. She then launched into a full-throated rendition of Violetta’s final aria from ‘La Traviata’. Supposedly, Violetta is frail and on the point of death but the way Dame Bara belted it out, it sounded as though Violetta would have been ready to leap out of her chaise-longue, take a quick run around the block, sink a few pints of beer down the pub and round off the evening with a fish and chip supper before finally shuffling off this mortal coil.
At one of the more plangent moments in the aria, Horace Pethelwaite could be heard muttering quite loudly, “Everyone here is quite, quite mad.” Then he moved closer to Jonathan and whispered, “It is quite possible that you, your friends and I are the only truly sane people left in Cambridge.” He smiled before adding – “And I’m not entirely sure about me…”
Radio True Britain
“They talk about reconstruction. They talk about a cure. They say they are working in our interests. They say they are rebuilding Britain. None of it’s true. Ask yourselves, where did the pathogen come from? Did it suddenly arise? A natural mutation? Did it cross from one species to another, from bat to pangolin, from monkey to man? Was it unleashed upon us by a hostile country? Or was it created in a laboratory? Are we all one huge experiment? And if so, in whose interest was that experiment? Who benefits most? The Russians? Chinese? Iranians? Koreans? Americans? Or could the source be closer to home. Creating an army of slaves to serve the new empire?
“You are listening to Radio True Britain. And now it’s time for the All 80s Radio Show hosted by everyone’s favourite DJ, the legendary Peter Quinn!”
They were lounging around in Jonathan’s room. They did a lot of lounging around. There wasn’t much else to do. They read books, they played cards, they talked, they listened to the radio. World channels wafted in and out on the short band. The BBC was still broadcasting repeats of old shows with occasional ‘news bulletins’ that claimed the Government was back in charge, high-level meetings were taking place between America and ‘our European friends’, the production of essential goods, services and foods was expected to return to ‘close to normal’ levels within the year. It was lies, all lies. Blatant propaganda that contained not a single grain of truth. So they listened to Radio True Britain on the medium wave. They didn’t know who was broadcasting on that station but whoever it was didn’t just spout the official line. It was the voice of reason. The voice of resistance.
“…and there we heard The Mobiles with their haunting hit, ‘Drowning in Berlin’. And now, another great ’80s classic, Bad Manners with the dance-floor favourite, ‘Lip Up fatty’…”
“Jonathan, why do you listen to that?” Leila said.
“What?”
“That radio station. It’s depressing.”
“OK. I’ll turn it off.”
“Play your guitar.”
“Now?”
“Of course, now.”
Jonathan switched off the radio and went to get the guitar from its case in the corner of his room. He sat on the bed and started tuning it. “What do you want me to play?”
“’I’m A Believer’,” Geoff said.
Jonathan smiled. “The old Monkees song? I didn’t think you’d have heard of it.”
“My dad used to play it. My sister, Greta…she liked it.”
Geoff looked sad whenever he mentioned his sister. He didn’t know what had happened to her. When he’d left his family, she was showing all the symptoms that they would later realise were typical of those people who had been infected. It hardly bore thinking about what had become of her since.
So Jonathan played the guitar. And when he played the song, it didn’t sound happy and upbeat like the Monkees’ version. It sounded sad and melancholic. Because that’s how Jonathan felt. That’s how they all felt.
The Pardoner’s Tale
“They are not real.”
Leila and Jonathan were strolling along the Backs, on the riverbank behind the colleges. There were a few people punting. Some others sat on the grass reading books.
“It’s all pretend. Nothing is what it seems.”
Perkins had approached from behind. They heard his voice before they saw him. The voice sounded different. It was no longer, the insane, ranting voice they’d heard when Perkins had been standing at the gates of St Dunstan’s College. It was now a softly-spoken, cultured voice.
“Why are you following us?” Leila asked.
“You are different. You came to Cambridge of your own volition. You were neither here before. Nor were you brought here. I was here before. Most of the others were brought.”
Perkins looked just as insane as he had looked on the previous occasion. His long, straw-coloured hair billowed around his craggy face. His Inverness Cape gave him the appearance of one of the more eccentric characters from the novels of Charles Dickens. He walked with the aid of a knobbly wooden staff which he leant upon with the dissolute and villainous air of a modern-day Long John Silver.
“Look,” said Jonathan, “If you’re trying to flog your religious relics and trinkets, you are wasting your time. We are atheists.”
“So am I,” said Perkins the Pardoner, “You don’t have to be religious in order to be a conduit for the dread power of God Almighty.”
“Ah…” – Jonathan felt there might be some flaw in the logic of that statement but at that moment he could not work out what it was.
“Would you care for a mint?” The Pardoner pulled open his cape and, from the pockets sewn into the lining, he produced two paper bags, “I have Polo mints or mint humbugs. I recommend the humbugs.”
Jonathan declined the offer but Leila accepted a humbug with enthusiasm.
“The other boy. He is not with you today?”
“Geoff?” said Leila, “No. He’s having a kip back in his room. So’s the dog.”
“Ah, you have a dog? I am very fond of dogs. Dogs, alas, are not fond of me. They tend to bite me.”
“You haven’t answered my question,” said Jonathan, “Why are you following us?”
“To warn you.”
“About what?”
“This place. It is not what it seems. You should flee. At your earlier possible opportunity. Assuming that escape is even possible. Maybe it isn’t, maybe it is already too late…”
“I don’t follow,” Leila said, “What precisely is it that isn’t what it seems?”
“Everything.”
“For example?”
“The students. They are not the same students who were here before the great catastrophe. Those students are dead. Those you see here now were brought here. I have seen it with mine own eyes.”
Jonathan nearly laughed. He managed to disguise it as
a cough. “Well, thank you for warning us. We’ll certainly have to think about what you’ve said.”
“You won’t,” said Perkins the Pardoner, “You will dismiss it as the ravings of a lunatic. You think I am mad. So you will ignore me. But I am telling you the truth. One day you will know that.”
And off he walked, whistling merrily to himself.
We Gotta Get Out Of This Place
“We’ll have to go away some time, I suppose.”
“Hmmmm?” Geoff wasn’t paying attention. He was lying on the settee in Jonathan’s room. He was reading a book: James Bond, ‘From Russia With Love’. The junior porter, Sam Parker, had loaned it to him.
“I said we’ll have to get out of here.”
“Why?”
“What d’you mean ‘why’?”
“Why d’you want to go? We got it pretty cushy here. Food, booze, nice rooms. They’ve even got the electric working. We can make tea, make coffee whenever we feel like it.”
“That’s not the point,” snapped Jonathan.
“Hmmm…” Geoff turned a page. The book he was reading was clearly more interesting than listening to Jonathan rambling on.
“You agree with me, don’t you?” – Jonathan walked across the room to where Leila was sitting at a desk filing her fingernails into sharp points.
“Agree with what?”
“That we should get out of here.”
Leila shrugged. “Where is there to go to?”
“Anywhere.”
“Anywhere? There isn’t anywhere. Nowhere anyone would want to go.”
Jonathan glanced through the window. A gardener was mowing the grass in the quad. It would take him a couple of days to finish the job. It was a big quad, there was a lot of grass and there was just one gardener.
“Well, we can’t stay here.”
“Why not?”
“There’s something strange about Cambridge. Like Perkins the Pardoner said. Something not quite right.”
The Exodus Plague | Book 2 | Imprisoned Page 7