At the Dying of the Year
“His legs buckled at he tried to stand, and for a moment he was forced to hold on to someone’s arm. The man handed him the jug and he drank deep, swilling the ale around his mouth before spitting out the taste of the pit.
‘Bad,’ was the only thing the man said.
Rob didn’t reply. He didn’t own the words for what he’d seen. ‘Send someone for Mr Brogden, the coroner,’ he said, his voice little more than a hoarse croak. ‘I’ll bring some men to take the bodies out.’ He marched purposefully up Kirkgat...e, trying to clear the thoughts and images from his head. For all he knew there were more children down there, hidden by the darkness. He ran a hand through his hair, the stink of the dead clinging fast to his clothes.
The Constable looked up from the desk when the door opened, suddenly alert as he saw Lister’s expression.
‘Christ, lad, what is it? I thought you’d gone home.’ He poured a cup of ale and passed it over. ‘Drink that.’ Rob sat, trying to steady the mug in his hand, framing how to tell what he’d witnessed.MoreLess
‘Bad,’ was the only thing the man said.
Rob didn’t reply. He didn’t own the words for what he’d seen. ‘Send someone for Mr Brogden, the coroner,’ he said, his voice little more than a hoarse croak. ‘I’ll bring some men to take the bodies out.’ He marched purposefully up Kirkgat...e, trying to clear the thoughts and images from his head. For all he knew there were more children down there, hidden by the darkness. He ran a hand through his hair, the stink of the dead clinging fast to his clothes.
The Constable looked up from the desk when the door opened, suddenly alert as he saw Lister’s expression.
‘Christ, lad, what is it? I thought you’d gone home.’ He poured a cup of ale and passed it over. ‘Drink that.’ Rob sat, trying to steady the mug in his hand, framing how to tell what he’d witnessed.MoreLess
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