Pestilence by Ken McClure Read Free Book Online Page A

pocket.
    “Excuse me, I wonder if you can tell me the time?” said Saracen.
    The man turned his wrist and replied, “It’s twelve thirty.”
    “Thank you,” said Saracen, desperately trying to think of a way of continuing the conversation. “You didn’t get that tan in this country, I’ll bet,” he smiled.
    The man looked up and seemed to pause for a long time before saying, “I’ve lived in Africa for twenty years.”
    “Really? That is interesting,” said Saracen, taking the man’s reply as a cue to sit down. “So you are back here on holiday then?”
    “My wife and I came back here to retire.”
    “It’s a nice place,” said Saracen.
    The man did not reply.
    Saracen took the plunge. He said softly, “Something is troubling you. I know it’s none of my business but, for what it’s worth, I’m a doctor. Can I help?”
    The man looked up sharply at the word Doctor and snorted, “Doctor! I need doctors like I need smallpox!”
    Despite the sentiment Saracen was glad to see that he had kindled some spark in the man. “I’m sorry.” he said, “You’ve had some kind of bad experience?”
    “Bad experience? Myra is dead for Christ’s sake!” The man broke down and started sobbing silently as he covered his face with his hands.
    Saracen put his hand on the man’s shoulder but did not say anything and, in a few moments the man had recovered his composure. He blew his nose and said, “I’m sorry, that was unforgivable. Please accept my apologies.” He dabbed hurriedly at his eyes with a large handkerchief.
    “There’s nothing to apologise for,” replied Saracen. “I’m going to have lunch down at the Ship Inn. Join me?”
    The man hesitated then agreed. He stood up and held out his hand. “I’m Timothy Archer.”
    “James Saracen.”
     
    The two men walked down the winding cliff path making small talk about the weather until they reached the Inn that nestled at the foot of the cliff at the east end of the town. A model of a three-masted schooner was fixed to the wall above a doorway that was so low that they both had to duck their heads to enter. They stepped into the warm, calm air of the bar and immediately became aware of the wind burn on their faces.
    “What’ll it be gentlemen?” asked the landlord.
    Saracen ordered whisky and turned to his companion. “And…”
    Archer looked along the gantry and asked, “Do you have Jack Daniels?”
    “Should do.” The landlord ran his finger through the air from left to right. “Yes, there we go.” He kicked a small foot stool along the floor and stood on it to reach up to a very dusty bottle and bring it down with a grunt.
    They picked up their drinks and Saracen picked up a menu from the bar counter and took it with them to a table where they could look out at the sea. After a few minutes a girl, summoned up by the landlord, came across to the table to take their order and wrote it down on her pad with a very blunt pencil.
    Saracen waited until Archer had finished most of his drink before suggesting that he might like to talk about what was troubling him.
    “Frankly, I wouldn’t know where to begin.”
    “I’m in no hurry,” said Saracen. “How about you?”
    Archer threw back what was left of his drink and looked to the landlord. He stabbed two fingers at the empty glasses on the table without saying anything.
    Saracen noted the gesture. Archer had been in Africa a long time and it showed. The landlord brought over the drinks and Archer began to speak.
    “Twenty years ago Myra, my wife, and I sold up here and went to live in Rhodesia…Zimbabwe as-it-now-is.”
    Saracen noticed the edge in Archer’s voice.
    “It was a big step for us. We had known each other since we were kids and neither of us had ever been abroad before, not even on holiday. We had both grown up here in Skelmore but we wanted more out of life than forty years in the mill and a two up two down in Station Road.
    Africa was a big adventure but it worked out for