‘Which one of you did it?’ he yelled in a fury at his ward mates, spraying spittle in the air. ‘Which one of you bastards murdered him?’
He laid the body out in the yard just a few paces away. Harry Mitchell. My stomach lurched. He’d been stabbed through the heart, his eyes fixed in a final moment of horror. I stared at his white, lifeless face and the walls began to press in, squeezing closer and closer. Trim kneeled down and put a hand on my shoulder. ‘Breathe,’ he whispered. ‘Just breathe.’
‘This is your fault, boy.’
I looked up at Anderson, looming over me, his face flushed red with anger. And I knew he was right. Mitchell had offered to help me – for a price – and now he was dead. ‘I’m sorry.’
Anderson spat at my feet. ‘I swear if you ever come over here again, they’ll be pulling your body out into the yard. Do you understand?’
Wills was walking down the line of bodies. He reached Mitchell, studied the gaping wound in the dead man’s chest, the twist of pain on his lips, the long trail of blood stretching back towards the ward entrance. He scratched his jaw. ‘Gaol fever,’ he announced. ‘There’s family in the Borough will pay for him. Sling him in the Strong Room with the rest.’
Up in Trim’s room, Kitty was building up the fire. As I stumbled into the room she gave a cry and ran towards me.
‘Wait outside, Kitty,’ Trim ordered, pushing her out of the door as the porters began to arrive, pouring bucketfuls of steaming hot water into the iron tub set by the hearth. ‘I’ll bring you his clothes in a moment. You must have them burned at once, do you understand?’
With Kitty gone Trim bustled Charles away to work on the fire then stripped off my damp, infested clothes. I stood, staring at nothing, dazed with horror. I could still smell the stench of the corpses on my skin, as if it had leeched into every pore. ‘I smell of death,’ I said. The room began to spin. Trim grabbed me and lowered me gently into the bath. I shuddered, the heat stinging my wounds. He poured bowl after bowl of water over me, scouring my skin clean, washing away the filth and the lice. When he was satisfied he rubbed fresh balm into my cuts and bruises and dressed them. Then he wrapped me in a clean banyan, threw a blanket over my shoulders and settled me down by the hearth.
‘Will you eat?’ he asked, softly.
I shook my head, staring into the fire.
He touched my shoulder. ‘Then I’ll leave you to rest. Take good care of him, Mr Buckley. He needs peace and quiet.’
Charles nodded, brow furrowed. ‘I’m so sorry, Tom,’ he whispered, when Trim had left. ‘I never meant to put you in danger like this.’
I sighed, and held up my hand. I didn’t blame Charles. But I was too tired, too broken by what had happened to respond. So we sat in silence for a while, watching the flames dance and flicker, and the warmth came back to my bones, though the night still clung to me somehow. I wished I could walk through the fire and scorch it from my skin.
‘Tom, forgive me. I must leave you now,’ Charles said, breaking my thoughts. ‘I have a sermon to give in an hour. I will speak with Acton before I leave,’ he added, clenching his fists tight.
I waited until the door closed then rose and dragged myself over to the bed. The sheets were fresh, and smelled of lavender. I pulled the blankets over me and tucked my knees into my chest, fingers touching the cross at my throat. For a second I heard Fleet’s voice in the room below. And then Charles, much louder. ‘Have you not done enough? Stay away from him, damn you.’
I closed my eyes and fell into a deep sleep.
I woke to the sound of Jenings ringing a bell and calling out for afternoon service. I felt weak as a newborn lamb, and my head was pounding, but unlike poor Mitchell I was alive. I should go to chapel and thank God for it. I inched myself from the bed, trembling with the effort. Trim had left a change of clothes folded neatly on a chair; I dressed slowly in front of the mirror, shivering now that the fire had died. New bruises bloomed across my chest and stomach and my lip was split. Worst of all was my throat, scraped raw from the collar with deep gouges where it had bit hard in the night. It was swollen, too, and mottled with bruises from Acton’s choking grip.
I covered it carefully with a fresh linen cravat, staring at the stranger in the mirror as I wound the linen round and round. The night had changed me. I was older, somehow, and harder. Some part of what I had seen had been trapped in my eyes, like a fly in amber.
The Park was almost deserted when I stepped out of the door and turned towards the chapel. By habit I glanced over at Fleet’s bench and there he was. He sprang up when he saw me and waved his red velvet cap. I turned away and headed up to the chapel, knowing he wouldn’t follow me. Fleet was many things, but he was not a hypocrite.
The same could not be said for Cross. There he sat, second pew from the front, head bowed, the very picture of a good Christian. John Grace sat next to him, back straight and narrow. Head clerk and head turnkey – my God, there wasn’t a priest in the land who could wash their souls clean. The service had already begun, so I slipped on to a bench at the back. Catherine Roberts was seated in the front pew with Mary Acton, while Henry squirmed on Kitty’s lap a few rows behind them. Trim was there, sitting with Mack and Gilbert Hand. Jenings, standing to one side of the altar, had transformed from nightwatchman to church warden; he glanced up as I entered and smiled with relief to see me alive. Only Acton and Gilbourne were missing.
I closed my eyes as the old familiar words of worship passed over me. It was soothing to hear them again. I had not attended a full service since the day my stepbrother had spoken out against me in church. Church was no longer a place of comfort and peace – it was the place where I had been betrayed and humiliated. Where my father had lost faith in me for ever.
I couldn’t take in much of the service; my mind kept wandering back over the wall to the other side of the prison. I stared at my unchained hands, clasped in prayer, and thought of those bundles of rags, discarded like rubbish on the Strong Room floor. My head began to pound, as though the weight of the iron cap had returned, pressing down upon my skull. I rubbed the sweat from my brow and took a deep breath, steadying myself again.
‘Some call this prison a hell on earth,’ Woodburn said sternly, gazing out at his congregation. ‘But that is not so! Remember the prodigal son. Only when he had lost everything, when he was a poor, wretched beggar, walking naked upon the earth, did his blood cool, his sinful lusts abate. And only then did he repent, and find salvation with the Lord.’ He paused, smiled benevolently. ‘And so are you poor debtors stripped of your luxuries here in this prison; stripped of the distractions and temptations that lead men straight into the fiery embrace of the devil. The countless cruelties you endure in this wretched place; the violent punishing of your bodies; these will be the saving of your souls, in the great and terrible day of the Lord!’ He paused, loosening his white neckerchief a little to relieve the bulging flesh beneath. ‘Pain,’ he continued and caught my eye. ‘Pain is remedy. Pain is the lesson God sends us to bring us back to the path of the righteous.’ He held up his hands. ‘Rejoice then, in this holy gift you have been given! Rejoice in the pain! Rejoice in the humiliation! And praise God that he has brought you here to suffer and to repent on earth, and so find your path to heaven. Amen.’
The congregation coughed and muttered their amens back.