Free Crow Boy by Philip Caveney Page B

biddy?’
    â€˜That’s the Queen of England!’
    â€˜The Queen? I thought they had a King?’
    â€˜Not in the future! And see, it says there, Bank of England.’ He turned the note over. ‘And look here, beside this woman . . .’
    â€˜She’s even worse-looking than the other one!’
    â€˜That’s . . .’ Tom peered at the signature. ‘That’s Elizabeth Fry. But never mind who she is, look underneath, look at these dates. 1780 to 1845! There now, what more proof do you need? That’s her life from when she was born to when she died.’
    Cameron looked at him blankly. ‘And?’ he muttered.
    â€˜It’s only 1645!’ cried Tom. ‘She won’t be born for another hundred and thirty five years.’
    Cameron stared at him. ‘Tom, just because you’ve got some numbers on a scrap of paper, that doesn’t mean . . .’
    He broke off as a light came bobbing up the creaking staircase and Tom saw a figure in a long white nightgown carrying a lantern.
    â€˜Oh, now you’ve done it,’ said Cameron. ‘You’ve only gone and woken Morag. Now there’ll be hell to pay.’
    But Morag didn’t look angry. She looked frightened.
    â€˜You’re no’ supposed to be up here,’ Cameron told her. If Missie Grierson gets wind of it you’ll be in . . .’
    â€˜Never mind that,’ interrupted Morag. ‘You’ve got to come with me. It’s Alison. She’s really ill!’

    They followed the light of Morag’s lantern down the stairs to the second floor. Despite being summer it was chilly, so Tom put on his blazer over his nightshirt and pulled on his new red boots. Cameron donned his jacket too. Morag led them along a damp corridor to a paint-blistered wooden doorway and pushed it open. The room was bare, apart from one simple wooden bed. Alison was lying in it, gazing up at the ceiling and panting as though she’d just been running uphill. As Morag came closer with the lantern, Tom saw that the girl’s pale features shone beneath a sheen of sweat.
    â€˜When did this start?’ he asked nervously.
    â€˜She’s been feeling tired for a couple of days,’ said Morag. ‘And she was sick before she went to sleep, tonight. Then she woke me up with that gasping noise and she couldn’t seem to speak.’
    Tom nodded. He took the lantern from Morag and stepped closer, letting the light of it shine down on to Alison’s face. The girl stared up at him, her eyes wide with fright: the pupils shrunken down to tiny pin-pricks. But it wasn’t that which drew Tom’s attention. It was the red swelling that seemed to be bulging out from under one side of her jaw.
    He stepped back with a grunt. He knew exactly what it was; he’d read the descriptions when he’d done the research for the Eyam project and he’d seen the same thing on the waxwork of a child back in Mary King’s Close. A buboe: a sure sign of contagion.
    She had the plague.

Nine

    Tom stood there, looking down at Alison’s pale features and he felt a jolt of terror go through him. He told himself not to panic.
    â€˜We need to get out of here,’ he said quietly. ‘She has the plague.’
    â€˜No,’ said Morag. ‘No, she can’t have!’
    â€˜Trust me; she’s got all the signs. We need to isolate her, make sure that nobody else . . .’
    He broke off as the light of another lantern came into the room and he saw that it was Missie Grierson, dressed in a grubby ankle-length white nightgown, the unlit pipe still jutting from the corner of her mouth. ‘What’s all this commotion?’ she growled. ‘What are you boys doing down here? You know you’re not supposed . . .’ Her voice trailed off as she caught sight of the frail figure in the bed. ‘Merciful heaven,’ she said. She moved closer so she could see Alison’s face