Louise Welsh - Death is a Welcome Guest

Magnus whispered, ‘I’d like to ram that up your arse, wide side first.’

The drumming started soon after: two slow beats, followed by three swift ones.

BANG — BANG — bangbangbang — BANG — BANG — bangbangbang — BANG — BANG — bangbangbang.. .

Tanqueray House had proved a treasure trove. There were three drummers. One of them had a massive bass drum, the kind used to mark time in military parades, slung across his body. He hit the heavy beats. The other two were equipped with snare drums and rapped out swift ratatats . The rhythm was simple, but it took the men a while to master it and even once they were under way one or other of them would occasionally trip, throwing the rest out of sync and creating a racket of bangs; the sound of a body tumbling downstairs.

Magnus recalled Jacob saying that Father Wingate remembered the way things used to be done, before technology took over.

He muttered, ‘You got that right, Captain, trouble is, the old days were fucking brutal.’

People began to arrive. They came singly, in pairs and small groups. Many wore the stunned expression of drivers involved in a motorway pile-up. Most were dressed soberly, though there were a few dishevelled souls who looked as if they had not changed their clothes since the sweats began. There were more men than women and none of the women was alone. Magnus recalled Belle’s story about the gang she had seen during her escape from London and was not surprised that solitary females had kept away.

Magnus had rehearsed assembling the gun in his tent in the woods, but his fingers were clumsy and it took longer than it should have. The sun seemed to signal midday, but he had no way of knowing the exact time, or whether Malachy intended to start on schedule. He cursed himself for not thinking to get a watch.

There were about thirty people on the lawn, including Malachy’s crew. Judging by the number of cups set out on the trestle tables it was fewer than Father Wingate had hoped for, but it was more people than Magnus had seen since the sweats. He mopped his forehead, trained the gun sight on the platform and then leaned back and observed the crowd. People were beginning to mix and he felt a desperate urge to go down and join them. He watched the way clusters drifted cautiously together, the need for human contact overcoming fear of contamination, and wondered if they had really come to see a man die.

No one was visiting the refreshments tables yet, but Paul and a few more of Malachy’s men stood awkwardly on hand, ready to serve. One of them poured himself a generous cupful and took a sip. His face buckled with disgust. Magnus guessed that the brew was alcoholic, because the man raised the cup to his lips and knocked the contents back. He shuddered and offered some to Paul who shook his head. The man forced down a second glass. He grimaced and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

The drummers stuttered to an exhausted halt and the small crowd looked towards the stage. Magnus scanned the gathering for Father Wingate and Malachy, but they were gone; in the dungeon, he guessed, preparing Jeb for his ordeal. He scanned the crowd again, looking for Will and spotted instead a familiar slim figure crossing the lawn, hand in hand with a boy of around six years old.

Magnus grabbed the binoculars and focused the lens. Raisha turned her head as if she were searching the crowd for someone and he wondered if she was looking for him.

‘Fuck.’ He rocked back on his heels. ‘Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.’

Raisha crossed the lawn and fell into conversation with a short, slim youth in a cloth cap and tweed jacket. The youth crouched down to welcome the little boy. He tipped his cap back and Magnus saw his — her face. Belle was grinning as if the presence of the child had put the reason for the gathering from her mind.

‘Hello…’ Malachy had mounted the platform without Magnus noticing. Father Wingate stood thin and dignified by his side. Magnus had expected the priest to dress up in embroidered finery, but he had donned a simple white robe and black surplice. The effect was theatrically austere.

Malachy raised the megaphone to his mouth. ‘Hello, fellow survivors.’ There was a mumble of hellos from the crowd and Malachy nodded in acknowledgement. He looked sure and solid. ‘My name is Malachy Lynch. I’m not here to make a long speech. We have all suffered. We have lost the people most dear to us and our hopes and dreams have gone with them.’

Some heads were nodding. Malachy had a strong voice and Magnus wondered why he continued to use the loudhailer for such a small crowd, but then he saw him glance towards the perimeter and knew that he hoped there were other survivors lurking beyond the lawn, listening.

‘Our task is to honour those we have lost by building a new England, one they could be proud of.’ Malachy left a pause for people to contemplate the dead and the kind of world they might have wanted. ‘Law and order are at the heart of a civilised society. Without the rule of law all we have is chaos.’ More heads were nodding. ‘We are here today to take a step towards re-establishing justice. A few days ago Father Jacob Powe, a man who gave his life to peace and who, despite his own hard losses, was determined to build a community here, in the English countryside, was brutally shot in the back.’

Jacob had been shot in the head, his fine brain full of hopes, plans, pain and memories, blasted across the lawn.

Malachy paused again, leaving space for the crowd to react, but they had experienced too many outrages of their own to be easily shocked and stood in silence, waiting for him to continue.

‘The murderer is a man called Jeb Soames. Jeb Soames was a new member of Father Powe’s small community, a man who Father Powe had rescued from certain death, a man who he had sheltered and was nursing back to health.’

Raisha was standing with her back to the house, her hands resting lightly on the boy’s shoulders. She lifted a hand and stroked his hair. Magnus wanted to tell her to take the child away, before they brought Jeb to the stage.

Malachy’s voice was rising. ‘What Father Powe did not know was that Jeb Soames was a convicted killer, a man who had brutally murdered his wife and daughter and was serving life for the crime when the sweats gave him the chance to escape prison.’

Father Wingate was smiling beatifically. Magnus followed his gaze towards the refreshments tables and saw that more of Malachy’s men were helping themselves to the brew. A few of the crowd had joined them. The drinkers grimaced as the liquid passed their lips. On some other occasion their contortions might have been comic, but now they underlined how desperate people were to escape reality.

Malachy’s voice dropped. ‘Sometimes fate gives us a second chance. It took the deaths of millions, but Jeb Soames was given just such an opportunity. He used it to kill a good man in cold blood.’ Malachy raised his voice again. It reached across the lawn and out into the woods beyond. ‘I say that a man like Jeb Soames, a child-killer, a murderer, has no place here. Why should he live, when so many good people have died?’

Malachy’s men clapped loudly and one of them shouted, Hear, hear . A few heads in the crowd nodded and some people joined in the applause, but there were others who stood with their hands at their sides, or looked silently at their feet.

‘Our country has a long and proud history of democracy. This small community has decided to send out the message that murder will not be tolerated.’ Malachy’s men were clapping again. ‘If you agree that Jeb Soames should be executed for the murder of Father Jacob Powe, say Aye.’

AYE!

The shout was loud and masculine, but Magnus had the impression that not everyone had joined in.