Paul Lawrence - Hearts of Darkness

Josselin stood by the front door, peering through a crack out onto the lane. ‘Here they come,’ he exclaimed, eyes wide.

Voices shouted, loud and frightened. I watched up the lane as Josselin looked down. Neighbours emerged upon the street, slow and cautious, staring at Farynor’s house next door, terror masking their drawn, lined faces. One man stood twitching, like he yearned to fight the fire with bare fists but knew not where to start. His wife bent over double like she tried to swallow herself whole. Children watched between his legs and round her skirts, open-mouthed and fascinated.

A burly man pushed through the gathering crowd. ‘Anyone seen Thomas Farynor?’ he shouted.

The wall against which I leant burnt into my back. The flames crackled loud, smoke rolling through the hole in the wall. We could not stay long. Josselin had the same idea, for he stood straight and opened the door wider afore sliding out into the night.

‘Follow him,’ I cried, almost tripping over my feet in my haste to stop him escaping, but the crowd was thick, and I felt suddenly exposed. Every man knew every man on London’s streets, and we were clearly not soldiers. But every man watched transfixed as the front of Farynor’s house disappeared behind a wall of flame. The fire crept outwards, beckoning, stroking, testing, and the wind blew stronger than it had all day, stretching the flames, bestowing upon them an unholy strength. The top of the house opposite almost touched the top of the Farynor house, and already the fire reached out, charring the old wood.

I heard heavy boots and more shouting. The first soldiers arrived, as open-mouthed as the children, muskets dragging in the dirt. ‘Who has left that house?’ demanded one, searching the faces of those about him.

‘No one,’ shrilled a thin woman, hands clasped to her breast. ‘They have two children. What if they are inside?’ She turned to the soldier, reaching out. ‘You must go inside.’

‘Not I,’ he snorted. ‘The Farynors left their house this afternoon, leaving three guests inside.’ He crashed his gun against the ground in an attempt to win the crowd’s attention. ‘Who saw anyone leave that house?’

The house opposite burst into flame, creating a fiery arch above our heads like some celestial sign. Dowling stayed apart, white head clearly visible off to my right. I cursed myself for not chasing after Josselin the moment he vanished. He talked of making his way to the bridge to catch a boat, in which case he had run in the wrong direction, for the river was down the hill, not up. Meantime the crowd pushed backwards as the heat intensified, heaving against a forward swell, as more and more people came to watch. With so many people crammed into such a small space I reckoned I could talk to Dowling discreetly enough, and I edged sideways.

I stretched up to reach his ear. ‘What say we go to the river?’

He stooped to listen. ‘He won’t go to the river, not now. The wharves will be packed, all the boats pressed.’

‘Aye,’ I reflected. ‘So he’ll walk the City wall looking for unguarded gates, or …’ I watched the soldiers pushing the crowd further back. ‘What’s more likely now?’ I thought aloud. ‘That Josselin escapes the City to find Arlington at Whitehall, or Arlington comes to the City?’

Dowling’s face folded into a study of intense concentration.

‘Josselin will wait,’ he concluded. ‘He’ll wait close by, close to Duke’s Place.’

I looked around. ‘Withypoll will come. We need somewhere safe to watch.’

‘If Arlington comes, he’ll come by boat,’ said Dowling. ‘That’s where Josselin will go. Not to catch a boat, but to wait for Arlington.’

I tugged at his sleeve. ‘Come on, then,’ I said. ‘We’ll go round by Fish Street Hill.’

‘Stand aside for the Mayor!’ a voice cried from behind. A determined little band of soldiers pushed forwards, pikes lowered, jaws jutting. One man dawdled and was spiked in the arse. They marched steady, resolute and determined.

The crowd squeezed us backwards against the wall. A portly gentleman strode at the middle of the group, soldiers surrounding him on all sides. He struggled to keep pace, determined at the same time to keep his back straight and chin raised. He perspired heavily, a stout fellow unused to exercise. His burgundy coat flowed behind, periwig perched happily on his head. Sir Thomas Bludworth, Mayor of London and pompous windbag.

A tall fellow with wild yellow hair and blackened face stepped forward to meet him. ‘We must pull down the neighbouring houses immediately,’ he declared.

Bludworth visibly recoiled as if slapped across the face. ‘We cannot pull them down else we must pay for them. Put out the fire.’

‘It burns too fierce,’ the soldier protested. ‘The wind is too high. If we pull the houses down now, we can stop the fire. Leave it and it will spread.’

The Mayor stabbed the soldier in the chest with his forefinger. ‘Extinguish the fire.’ He scanned the crowd quickly, gauging the intent

of those that listened. His eyes settled upon a granite-faced woman watching with arms folded, mouth drawn in an angry line. ‘Why, this old maid might piss it out.’

The soldier made no attempt to hide his contempt, mouth curled in a great sneer. He watched as Bludworth straightened his jacket and eyed the towering blaze as if it was but a small bonfire.

Bludworth waggled a finger. ‘I am going home to bed. Tell me when it’s done.’ He pivoted on his heel and returned the way he came, his escort accompanying him. I spotted Josselin staring from atop the hill.

‘Come on,’ I yelled, pushing after Bludworth’s entourage. Josselin vanished. The crowd surged in upon us once more as it continued to swell and swarm. More soldiers barged their way through Bludworth’s wake, angry and frustrated. There were simply too many people for any man to find another.

We fought our way to the crossroads at Eastcheap from where we could see all the way down the hill to the bridge and beyond. Fish Street Hill was packed from wall to wall, two great streams pushing against each other, creating currents running north and south; one current streaming up the hill to approach Red Rose Lane from the north, the other streaming south to approach from the water. No sign of Josselin.

The wind blew hard from east to west. If they left the house to burn, the fire would spread rapidly west. We stepped into the throng and were swept away towards the riverbank.

A tall, orange flame climbed high above the rooftops, thin and strangely still, lurching left with every gust of wind, then regaining its poise, elegant. Men rushed hither and thither. Soldiers shouted instruction to other soldiers, to citizens and boatmen, but with little

evidence of organisation. A long line of coatless citizens passed a slow chain of leather buckets from the river to the bottom of Red Rose Lane, a feeble effort, far too little water to make any impact on the fire we saw. The bells of Magnus Martyr began to peal, stutteringly, a call to the whole City.

We walked up and down the riverside, about the towering wall of the Fishmonger’s Hall and the back of Magnus Martyr, searching for Josselin. Then the fire exploded, silencing the whole crowd, who crouched as one, as though fearing the sky would fall upon their heads. Fire leapt from Red Rose Lane to Fish Street Hill, engulfing Star Inn. The crowd cried out ‘Fire, Fire!’ The wind fanned the flames further, carrying burning embers up into the sky where they flew south, over the river. And still no one appeared to be doing anything.

I kicked my heel and watched frustrated as soldiers continued to fling their arms in the air and shout obscenities at each other. If they didn’t start pulling houses down soon, the whole City would catch fire. Star Inn was ablaze within just a few minutes, all three storeys engulfed in fire. The flames reached out and lapped against St Margaret’s.