Paul Lawrence - The Sweet Smell of Decay

‘Davy!’ I clenched my fists and struggled to unfreeze my brain. ‘You said that part of Shrewsbury’s plan was that all record of my involvement in the case was to be lost with my demise.’

Now they both stood looking at me, the judge curiously, Davy like I had just realised something he had known for some time. He nodded.

‘So what has Shrewsbury done with my father? He could tell of the letter!’

Dowling put an arm about my shoulder and squeezed me gently. ‘We still haven’t found him, Harry, but we’re still looking.’

They found my father a week later lying on his back in a watery hollow deep in Byddle Wood. He had been knifed in the guts and struck on the back of the head so hard that pieces of his skull were missing. They found the men that did it too, one of them Robert Burton. Both were tried and hung inside two days. I didn’t go to watch it, but went to Newgate to see the cruel face of my tormentor. When I saw him he was pale and lost, still not come to terms with his fate. He wouldn’t talk to me nor meet my eye, just sat in the corner of his cell with his wrists and ankles manacled, contemplating his poor fortune. Not so intelligent, after all. Shrewsbury was nowhere to be found, naturally — on his way to Holland no doubt.

Soon after it was all over I found myself pushing open the little wooden gate that marked the entry into the graveyard of All Hallows. Negotiating a route through the stones, I headed off the path into the long, wet grass towards the shade of a strangely shaped oak tree, its roots thick and twisted, its lowest branches reaching down to the ground where a child might climb upon it. Its canopy spread far and wide, offering shade to the fifty or more dead souls that lay there. To the far side, north and east, a small plot had been cleared anew and two short, square stones stood there, glistening in the morning sun. On one was carved the name of my father, on the other the name of Richard Joyce. An unlikely pair.

Death comes to all, I know. My father was very put out when they executed Charles I and gave short thrift to those that sought permission for regicide in the Holy Book. Me myself, I don’t really see what the Holy Book has to do with anything. The King’s head was so big they couldn’t get him out of the stables — that was his problem. Death comes to us all in one form or another, sooner or later.

When I was small we came here often as a family. This had been my tree. We stopped coming as my father’s preferences had become more and more extreme. It was like he had stopped thinking for himself and let others define a strict doctrine by which he would live his life. I laid a hand upon the top of my father’s stone. Just a chunk of granite underneath which lay a pile of bones. Yet it gave me some consolation.

I could not help but wonder whether I might have done things differently. I had spent so much time wishing that the whole affair would be finished early and cursing my father for involving me in it. And I had put off going to Cocksmouth until it was too late. And Joyce. I reckon he was probably a good man, a man that deserved better. God knows he wasn’t the only man in London that had met with a poor fate, but he had surely not deserved to end up with his head stuck on a pole for all to mock at, with the birds feeding on his eyes and sharpening their claws on his scalp. It was me that asked that they take down his head and restore it to the rest of his body. What remained of it. They had done it inside a day. That he died bravely and now lay with some dignity — that gave me some consolation too.

‘Good afternoon, Harry Lytle,’ a voice piped clearly in my ear, making me jump so violently that I could not help but fart. I looked up into a familiar, old face.

‘You remember me, then?’ I stood up and straightened my clothes. I felt like an overdressed child.

‘Of course.’ He looked down at the stone then back at me. ‘Why did you ask that they bury them here, and under this tree?’

I turned away from him and towards the stones. ‘This is the only church I know and I knew you would sanction it.’ Which was the truth; I did not spend much time considering it. ‘The tree is the best place to be in this graveyard, the rest of it is lonely and forsaken.’

‘Not by me,’ the rector protested, appearing to be offended, though I knew he was not.

‘Aye, true, but you are too old to visit every grave often.’

The rector laughed. What was I doing here talking to a man of God, I asked myself. When was the last time I gained solace from one of these strange creatures? I regarded closely his lined forehead, his closely cropped white hair. He was just a man.

‘This was not your father’s church recently,’ he gently pointed out.

‘Aye, but it was his church for longest, and I had no appetite to bury him elsewhere.’

The rector grunted. ‘Everyone has been talking about you, Harry. You behaved with great courage and fortitude. You performed great deeds in the eyes of the Lord.’

‘You think so?’

‘You do not?’

I shrugged. It seemed to me it had little enough to do with the Lord. An affair of men.

‘I invite you to come to this church more often, Harry,’ the rector said softly. ‘In accordance with the King’s law, thou knowst.’ He grinned.

‘Would you have me fined?’

He waved a hand. ‘I would have you come of your own free will, Harry. You might come when ye visit your father and Richard Joyce.’

‘They are both dead,’ I reminded him.

The rector grimaced and clicked his tongue. He regarded me out the corner of his eye like I was sent to test him. ‘You have a clean soul, Harry, though perhaps you do not believe it yourself.’

It wasn’t a conversation I wanted to have. I sighed and bid him walk with me back to the street. I had learnt how evil some men could be. It wasn’t ‘News from Ipswich’ but it was news to me. Hypocrisy and conceit I had lived with all my life, cold-hearted murderous intent was new. I had known of its existence, but not made its acquaintance.

The rector stopped at the gate. ‘This is a place you might come to share those thoughts, Harry.’

‘Aye.’ I stopped too and shook his hand. Perhaps. Perhaps not.

The air was particularly bad in the kitchen. I had thrown open all the windows before I left, but it hadn’t made much difference. I had thought to scrub and mop things, but I didn’t really know how, so I just sat there a while and relaxed, enjoying the feeling of the day washing past me. The door flew open and crashed against the wall.

‘What do you think you’re doing?’ Jane stormed into the kitchen with her coat on and carrying a small bag, breathing in the air and pulling a face.

‘I’m sitting here minding my own business. What are you doing?’ I did my best to ignore her.

‘You’re sitting there on your fat arse feeling pleased with yourself is what you’re doing. What the devil is that God-awful stink? The whole house smells like the butcher’s armpit, but this room smells like his crotch.’ She rushed to her cupboard full of cleaning materials, mops, beazoms and polish.

‘There’s a reason for that.’ I leant back and watched her.

‘Aye, no doubt. And what might that be?’ Her muffled voice echoed from inside the closet.

I mulled it over a while, wondered whether I was cruel enough to tell her about the heads. Aye, I decided, I was.