‘Well, well. I must call for a chair to take me home,’ Woodburn said, heaving himself up from the bench with the help of his cane.
I rose and bowed. Lucky man, to come and go as he pleased.
He cleared his throat. ‘And will I see you at chapel on Sunday, sir?’
‘Naturally,’ I said, and watched as his face glowed with delight. I had not attended church in months, but there was no harm in keeping the chaplain on my side. ‘As a matter of fact, I studied divinity at Oxford…’
‘Indeed?’ Woodburn’s eyes shone, as I thought they might. ‘That was always a great dream of mine. Alas, the fees… But you did not take the cloth?’
I hung my head. ‘I’m afraid I was led astray.’ By myself.
‘Ah.’ Woodburn nodded his understanding. ‘Well – there is still hope for you, sir. The good Lord loves a prodigal son.’
Yes… and so do good-natured old chaplains. I’d hooked him with it; I could see it in his eyes. There is nothing more irresistible to an honest clergyman than a penitent sinner. Even more so a penitent student of divinity. He was doubtless already dreaming of long nights by the fire discussing the finer points of theology as he dragged my soul slowly but steadily from the brink of damnation. I almost felt guilty for deceiving him. Almost.
Woodburn clapped his hat to his head. ‘D’you know, I believe you have been brought here for a reason,’ he said, in a quiet, earnest voice. ‘God has plans for you, Mr Hawkins. I am sure of it.’
The chaplain left me frowning in suspicion at the darkening sky, grey clouds drifting slowly by. ‘Well, He can choose someone else,’ I muttered.
After my encounter with Mr Acton, I longed to retreat to some quiet spot to recover, but there were no private places in the Marshalsea; no escape from the curious gaze of others. I returned to Fleet’s bench by the Lodge and closed my eyes, reaching out beyond the prison walls, a bird released from its cage. It was a trick I had learned as a boy and I did it now without thinking. For a moment I was not sealed up in gaol – I was in Suffolk, running along the coast road towards Orford and the sea, the wind fresh and cold on my skin, the taste of salt in the air.
‘Mr Hawkins.’ I opened my eyes. A thin, pallid face loomed over me, cold blue eyes peering over a pair of spectacles. ‘Twenty pounds, ten shillings and sixpence?’
I blinked, not sure how I was expected to reply.
He pushed his spectacles up his nose with a long, bony finger. ‘Twenty pounds, ten shillings and sixpence is your debt, is it not?’
‘Well… yes. Thank you for reminding me, Mr…?’
‘John Grace.’
‘Ah!’ I jumped up. ‘Mr Acton’s clerk, of course. Do you have a room for me, sir?’
‘Head clerk to the head keeper. And chief steward,’ Grace replied and turned sharply on his heel.
I followed him across the Park, passing the main prison quarters nearest the Lodge. He was leading me towards the east wall – and the poorest lodgings.
We walked by the coffeehouse, where Acton had beaten Jack Carter just an hour before. Fresh spots of blood glistened on the cobbles. Grace walked through them.
‘You went to that Common boy’s aid,’ Grace called over his shoulder. He had a flat, empty way of speaking, as warm and human as a creaking door. ‘A waste of time and money.’
I glared at his back. ‘I doubt he’ll last the night.’
‘Indeed,’ he said, without a trace of interest. And then, ‘His mother owed five pounds, three shillings and fourpence. She’s dead.’
Grace had – no doubt with a good deal of pride and effort – managed to find me a bed in the meanest room in the filthiest ward in the worst building on the Master’s Side. The landings were filled with rubbish, full chamber pots still waiting to be collected by each door, fouling the air. As we passed one room I heard the familiar sound of a bed slamming against a wall, followed by a long, guttural grunt of release. Grace’s mouth tightened to a thin line. ‘O’Rourke. Nine pounds, twelve shillings.’ A final grunt. ‘And tuppence.’
‘We take our pleasures where we may, Mr Grace,’ I said, skirting round a pool of dried vomit on the top-floor landing.
‘As long as we pay for them, Mr Hawkins,’ he replied, pulling out a silk handkerchief and clamping it to his nose and mouth. He gestured to a door at the end of the corridor. ‘Your room,’ he said, his voice muffled through the cloth, then left without another word.
I thought this was a little odd, but I had already prepared myself for what lay behind the door. Sharing a small, close room with four or five other men would never be a pleasant experience but I had boarded at school and I knew what to expect. I needed a bed, and a place to be locked up for the night, but for the rest of the time I could always sit in the Park, or Mrs Bradshaw’s coffeehouse.
There was no answer to my knock so I opened the door slowly. A hideous, sour-sweet smell poured out into the corridor. Unwashed linen, shit, sweat… and underneath that something much worse. Meat. Decay – as bad as the Common Side. I gagged, the stink catching in my throat.
If I breathed through my mouth it was almost bearable. I would just find my bed and go; the next time I came up here I’d make sure I was too drunk to care about the stench.
As I stepped into the room something stirred in the furthest bed. It was hard to see through the gloom: the window was covered with a tattered, grime-smeared sheet and the candles were unlit. The hearth was cold. I made my way across, squeezing past three other beds covered in filthy linen. Teeming with lice, no doubt. I shuddered, and scratched at my skin.
When I reached the final bed I saw that a man lay curled on his side under a thin blanket, his face to the wall. As I edged closer he coughed and shook, phlegm rattling deep in his chest.
I stood over him for a moment, not certain what to do. Something was not right here – I could feel it in my bones. I cleared my throat to get his attention.
Slowly, painfully, like a figure in some fevered nightmare, he turned towards me. A thick, raw mass of oozing yellow pustules covered his face and spread down his neck across his body. His lips, his eyelids – every inch was infected.
Smallpox. I gave a jolt of terror and staggered back, flinging my arm up to cover my nose and mouth.
‘Please…’ He reached out his hand, delirious with pain and fever. ‘Who’s there? Oh, God, have pity, sir. Don’t leave me. Don’t leave me, I beg you…’
I fled the room, stumbling back along the corridor, down the stairs and out into the yard. I ran so fast that I almost collided with Grace, who was walking back to the Lodge with a firm tread and a straight back. I grabbed hold of his coat and spun him round to face me. ‘Smallpox! There’s a man… dying…’
Grace flinched and knocked my hand away. ‘Did you touch him?’
‘No.’ I thought of his hand, reaching out for mine. Oh God. ‘No, of course not.’
Grace straightened his coat. ‘Well, then, what of it, sir?’
‘What of it?’ I stared at him in horrified disbelief. Grace shrugged, indifferent, and began to turn away. I seized his jacket again, this time with both fists, and pulled him closer. He was a good head shorter than me, and very light. Hollow. ‘What of it? You must find me another room!’
Grace pursed his thin lips. ‘That is the room you have been given. It is the room you can afford.’
I let go of his coat. There was not a shred of fellow feeling in him. He would let me die in that room without a thought – without a flicker of conscience.