‘We take our pleasures where we may, Mr Grace,’ I said, skirting round a pool of dried vomit on the top-floor landing.
‘As long as we pay for them, Mr Hawkins,’ he replied, pulling out a silk handkerchief and clamping it to his nose and mouth. He gestured to a door at the end of the corridor. ‘Your room,’ he said, his voice muffled through the cloth, then left without another word.
I thought this was a little odd, but I had already prepared myself for what lay behind the door. Sharing a small, close room with four or five other men would never be a pleasant experience but I had boarded at school and I knew what to expect. I needed a bed, and a place to be locked up for the night, but for the rest of the time I could always sit in the Park, or Mrs Bradshaw’s coffeehouse.
There was no answer to my knock so I opened the door slowly. A hideous, sour-sweet smell poured out into the corridor. Unwashed linen, shit, sweat… and underneath that something much worse. Meat. Decay – as bad as the Common Side. I gagged, the stink catching in my throat.
If I breathed through my mouth it was almost bearable. I would just find my bed and go; the next time I came up here I’d make sure I was too drunk to care about the stench.
As I stepped into the room something stirred in the furthest bed. It was hard to see through the gloom: the window was covered with a tattered, grime-smeared sheet and the candles were unlit. The hearth was cold. I made my way across, squeezing past three other beds covered in filthy linen. Teeming with lice, no doubt. I shuddered, and scratched at my skin.
When I reached the final bed I saw that a man lay curled on his side under a thin blanket, his face to the wall. As I edged closer he coughed and shook, phlegm rattling deep in his chest.
I stood over him for a moment, not certain what to do. Something was not right here – I could feel it in my bones. I cleared my throat to get his attention.
Slowly, painfully, like a figure in some fevered nightmare, he turned towards me. A thick, raw mass of oozing yellow pustules covered his face and spread down his neck across his body. His lips, his eyelids – every inch was infected.
Smallpox. I gave a jolt of terror and staggered back, flinging my arm up to cover my nose and mouth.
‘Please…’ He reached out his hand, delirious with pain and fever. ‘Who’s there? Oh, God, have pity, sir. Don’t leave me. Don’t leave me, I beg you…’
