York Sketch

 

I have written a sketch inspired by my trip to York last year, see: https://hpanwo-tv.blogspot.com/2022/05/york.html. It is an idea that came to me very suddenly and I wrote the whole thing within about two hours. It comes across as an extract from a much longer piece of prose, but it actually is not. That being said, I may end up adapting it at some point. Either way, I had great fun writing it.
 
Lewis stopped. He stood at the end of Cromwell Road and looked up at Baile Hill. The squat grey stone tower jutted modestly out into the street, more cuddlesome and less imposing that its fellow structures. He shifted his case over to his other shoulder. Despite its lack of weight, it felt heavy. He looked at the ducks and geese chattering as they paddled on the Ouse, and he took comfort in the innocuous natural vista. The evening sun cast glowing shadows deep into the dark water, tinted green by weeds. The summer trees were upholstered with foliage. He put a call through to Mallory. The man picked up immediately. "Lewis? How's it going?"
    "Are we on the encrypted line?"
    "As always."
    He paused. "I'm going to do it, this evening."
    "You can't now! It's Sunday!"
    "Not where I'm standing."
    Mallory chuckled. "Sorry, mate. Forgot the time zones... Are you sure? You know this is a hundred percent voluntary..."
    "McGreig must be stopped! It's now or never."
    "Not true, we'll have other chances. Don't sacrifice yourself, Lewis!"
    "There's no time, Maz! If not me, who? If not now, when?"
    Mallory sighed. "Alright, Lew... Just play it cool if you get nicked. You know the lines."
    Lewis briefly put his hand through one of the arrow slits as he entered the turret. He closed one eye and squinted, imagining himself as one of the city's defenders; which he actually was, he reminded himself; although in the modern age, not medieval. Times move on, the world has superficially changed so much, yet some things remain the same. The cycle of history is an uncorrupted file. He walked up the steps to the City Wall and paused again. Even on a mission of such urgency, he couldn't help but be moved every time he looked out over the rooftops of York. It was like looking down from a godlike position, as if the city had created the very means to know itself through divine eyes. Walking along the flagstone pathway behind the battlements always felt precarious. The bottom parts of the battlement outer wall felt too low to stop one falling off, but there was no inner wall at all for most of the walkway. There was just a sheer drop of eight to ten feet down onto earthen slopes covered in thick stinging nettles. He felt the urge to crouch for stability every time he had to pass somebody coming the other way because they forced him to walk closer to either one of those precipices. He descended to cross over Lendal Bridge and briefly entered the Museum Gardens. Lewis was aware that he was driven by many subconscious urges that he didn't necessarily understand and that one of the tasks of his egoic mind was continuously to unpick the riddles his subconscious constantly tried to bamboozle him with. He decided that deep down he was worried that he would never be able to enjoy the lush beauty of the gardens again. The Minster loomed over the skyline. Even after a millennium it still dominated the vista of York. "Look upon my works and despair." Lewis mumbled to himself as he did every time he beheld the Minster. He felt tears budding in his eyes. He blinked and turned his gaze away.
    He returned to the wall as the crowd began to gather. He didn't want to stand out by arriving up there early. To them he must have looked like a student, dressed as he was in denims, with uncut blonde hair and small spectacles. The case he was carrying was made of hard corrugated plastic reinforced by a steel frame. It looked as if it contained some kind of musical instrument, or at least that's what he hoped people would think. The sun was a crimson haze between the trees and as the twilight deepened; floodlights were switched on in the Memorial Gardens. The laundered white marquees has been pitched several hours ago and suited servants circulated carrying boxes of supplies for the party that was about to begin. A motorcade of Rolls Royces pulled up and people emerged, men in black tie and women in sumptuous dresses. Gold Rolexes and bracelets glinted at every wrist, diamonds shone out from necks and earlobes. Lewis had no idea who these people were. He was only interested in one of the guests, the guest of honour, and he knew who that was only too well. The man arrived escorted by the Lord Mayor of York in his tarmac-crushing limousine. The Lord Mayor circled his guest as they walked up to the Gardens, talking to him in a manner that skilfully combined informality with sycophancy. The guest looked straight ahead of himself as he walked, seeming unimpressed by his companion. The short rotund man waddled with confidence, unashamed of his huge belly. His hair was brown and stuck out of the sides of his head like un-styled cinnamon buns. His beard, by contrast was immaculately sculpted into lines and patches on various parts of his face. Lewis frowned, hardly believing that he was so close to the bane of his life. James Harold McGreig. Lewis felt his teeth grind. He had given up on the idea losing his hate. He had really become very tired of those life coaches who keep saying things like "let go of your hatred!" "Hate only destroys!" Lewis had come to accept that hate is a natural and healthy human emotion. It is a good man's involuntary reaction to evil. If he could not hate then he would be incapable of loving. Hate does not have to be destructive, it can sometimes be creative. He hoped that it would be tonight.
    This would not be easy. He was surrounded by fellow onlookers, they were almost touching his shoulders and there were a few of them stacked up behind him. He just banked on them panicking once it all started.
    The crowd had gathered in front of the podium awaiting their mentor. McGreig approached the podium, pausing every few steps to build up the tension. He knew how to manipulate an audience. He accepted a shot of single malt from a waiting servant with a silver tray. He was quite content to let the audience and TV cameras see this action; it was just another part of "Wee Jimmy" McGreig's" individuality.
    Lewis looked furtively to one side and then the other. There was a row of police bodyguards below in the Memorial Gardens, but only two on that segment of the City Wall; one at each end of the crowd. McGreig finally stepped up to the podium. A hoot of feedback cleared as the microphone was switched on. As per his normal manner, he had insisted on speaking first, refusing the Lord Mayor's offer to introduce him. Amazingly, just before he spoke, he made the salute of his organization with his left hand; first and second finger extended, ring and little finger crossed. He did it covertly, almost hidden by the podium. Lewis had to stop himself gasping aloud at the arrogance of the man, and then felt an added motive of satisfaction over what was to happen next.
    "Ladies and gentlemen." began McGreig in his educated Edinburgh tones. "People of York. Thank you for inviting me here." He said these words in such a low voice that it was almost a mutter. As usual, he expressed no emotion and kept his gaze downwards at the podium, even though he had no written notes. "This is my first visit to York since being elected First Minister of Scotland; however, I have been here a few times before then..."
    The waiting was over. Lewis had felt strangely relaxed during these last few minutes. He felt as if he were being carried along by a warm, cosy tide. What took place next was of no consequence really. He calmly removed the case from his shoulder and opened it. He took out the carbon shafted bow and pressed it against the flagstone to loop the string. Already he could hear some curious murmuring from the people standing beside him, but none of them sounded alarmed. He grasped one of the four tungsten tipped arrows and stood up. Now a few people exclaimed in concern as he fitted the arrow to the bow and took aim. Nobody below the Wall reacted; they couldn't hear the people near him. He didn't even look to see if the police were doing anything. Lewis pulled back the string and glanced down the shaft of the arrow at his target. This was exactly as he had always imagined it would be. Playing this moment over and over again in his mind for months, following the news that McGreig would be visiting York in the summer. He shut one eye. McGreig was oblivious, still rapping to his adoring posse. Mallory had been right when he told Lewis that "the Loomies have lost the sense of being stared at." The string bit into Lewis fingers. He lifted the bow slightly to account for the range. There was no wind and McGreig was stationary, so there was no need for lead. He released it and felt the orgasmic recoil as the arrow departed the bow and began its brief voyage to its target. It was forty or fifty yards, but the bow was powerful and the arrow hard. He heard people around him scream with alarm at the very same moment he saw McGreig falter and collapse at the podium. A second later everybody was screaming, both on the wall and below in the Memorial Gardens. People were pouring off the Wall like lemmings, jumping, braving nettle stings and rolling down the grass embankments to the street inside the Wall. Lewis was the only person in the vicinity who remained calm. Down at the podium, a huge crowd of helpers surrounded the fallen McGreig and Lewis couldn't see what was going on. An emergency vehicle siren sounded in the distance. The two policemen minding the Wall had vanished, but two others appeared at the southern end, running towards him. They had drawn pistols from their holsters and as they reached Lewis they levelled them at him. "Drop your weapon! Drop it now!" one of them yelled. Lewis smiled in a genial manner as he slowly held the bow out at arms length and tossed it away. The policemen put away their guns and lunged at him like a pair of wrestlers. Lewis grunted as the wind was knocked out of him. He fell to the stone floor under the weight of the two police officers. He was rolled onto his front and the men wrenched his arms behind his back. Handcuffs closed on his wrist. "I'm arresting you on suspicion of attempted murder!" one of them shouted. "You do not have to say anything. But it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence."
    Lewis chuckled. "Only attempted murder? Is he still alive then?"
    "Come on, sonny! On your feet!" They craned him up into a standing position, almost dislocating his shoulders.
    "Take off these handcuffs and de-arrest me!" Lewis shouted back. "Do it now!"
    The policemen scowled. "What!? What are you talking about?"
    Lewis stared at them hard, shuttling his glare from one of them to the other. "Bylaw 323 of 1297; defence of the city from possible attacks by the army of William Wallace! It's on the statute books; check it if you don't believe me."
    The policemen guffawed with a mixture of disbelief and amusement.
    "I can lawfully shoot and kill a Scottish person in this city, including one outside these Walls so long as I am on the Wall and my weapon is a bow and arrow."
    There was a volcanic pause. Nobody moved or spoke. One of the officers broke it. "A likely story, lad. Come on, let's sort it out down the station!"