The Two Confessions by John Whitbourn (good books to read for adults .TXT) 📕

question,’ he mused aloud, in bitter tones. ‘Whereshall I start?’

‘Eh?’The cabman's interest in his human cargo had naturally dulled as the years wentby, but he thought this one had the makings of a decent tavern-tale. It meriteda little effort. ‘I don't catch y'drift, sir.’

‘Youasked what I object to in Babylondon. Well, take your pick - select asteeple: I'm told there's a church for each day of the year!’

Ithardly needed checking but they both looked. The evening-sunlit domes of StPaul's and St Guy's (sometimes still called Westminster Abbey) were only thecentre of a great circle of spires, towers and steeples extending right to theCity walls. Even the one breach in same, at London Bridge Station, was soblessed. A few constructions competed for size; some factory chimneys, the'Parliament' and Royal Palace, the 'Exchange' and golden cupola of theGuildhall, pierced the smoke level; but in reality they knew their place. Ifany should still presume to challenge the supremacy of the spiritual there wasthe black bulk of the Papal Westminster Citadel to correct them. Watt's 'TheDefeat of Mammon' monument in the 'square mile', and St Peter's Column,recently restored, looming over Lepanto Square, made the same point in lessintimidating manner. Lessons had been written in stone.

‘More,probably,’ agreed the cabby, harsh suspicion now entering his voice.

‘Idare say,’ the young man continued. ‘And so there's fair reason for spitting onthe place, if no other. And that's a happy choice of words! It's because ofthose places I'm spat out of London - and every-bloody-thing else. Iwish a lightning bolt on each and every one!’

Thecabman's voice became low and level. Preoccupied, his passenger didn't registerthe change.

‘Areyou expelled? Carrying a dicta, am I?’

Theman shook his head.

‘No,don't fret, you haven't broken canon law in 'aiding' me. I'm not underinterdict or excommunicate. They dealt with me by 'administrative order'.’

‘Ohaye...?’

‘Mindyou, one feels much the same as the other.’

Thecabby thought a while before responding: a departure amongst his swift-witted type,which should have swung alarum bells in itself. He twitched fretfully at thehorses' reins.

‘What'syour grievance, mister?’ he then asked, slow and deliberate. ‘Are youapostate?’

Hispassenger turned again and shrugged.

‘Itold you: I'm not full 'bell, book and candle' if that's your worry.I've to go and 'pause and reflect'. Only right now it's not having theeffect they had in mind. 'Blessed are the poor' is it? Not in my bookthey're not, and if their book says diff-…. Hey! What are you doing?’

Thecrash of a trunk down from the coach roof interrupted his bitter speech. Hisgear was being off-loaded with minimum respect.

‘Bloodyobvious I should have thought,’ said the cabman.

‘Hangfire - you can't dump me here!’

Thecabby's laugh was malicious.

‘Ohno? Bide and watch me. And don't think to interfere or you'll be earless aswell as apostate.’

Toillustrate the point he slid out just the hilt of the concealed cutlass.

Theyoung man was furious – and also worried. But for the moment fury was foremost.

‘I'ddidn't say I was apost-....’

‘Turk,Jew, Druid or atheist may ride with I and welcome,’ interrupted the cabby.‘Drunks and fornicators I carry likewise - but not a turncoat: not at anyprice. I'm true Church me.’

Hisnow ex-client dashed to stand in the road. He oughtn't to have been sosurprised. For time out of mind, courtesy of Mother Church, St Christopher'sCab Guild had had the monopoly on London short-hauls: something to do withGod's wish for full employment and similar nonsenses. Accordingly, cabbiescould be prickly-pious.

‘Cityof London law says you must accept any fare!’

Againthere was that laugh.

‘Andhow will you go to law after I've driven over you? Eh? A flat, dead, litigantwith ruts in him? I don’t think so. Clear the way or cop eight hoofs and fourcoach wheels!’

Hewas as good as his threat and whipped the team round and then forward. Only anundignified scramble to the roadside prevented a none too accidental accident.

‘Thinkagain, footslogger!’ shouted the cabby as he passed, not even deigning to lookat the person he'd recently called 'sir'. ‘Consider well as you treadthe road to Hell!’

Andthen he was away, back down to his smoggy City.

Therewas silence, free even of birdsong, there being an absence of trees for them toroost in. All means of concealment were kept cleared well back from majorthoroughfares.

TheGreat West Road was indeed like the path to perdition, being wide and easygoing and yet joyless. The best the spring day could do failed to sweeten itsfeatures. Abandoned, the traveller looked about and, though trying hard, couldfind no encouragement in the sere surroundings. Ditched just two miles out of Babylondon- maybe less if that much detail could still be seen looking back - a long sloglay ahead. His destination, the fortified grimness of Heath Row Coach Park,straddled the twelfth milestone west. Worse still, he expected only coldcomfort there: a maelstrom of transients and the sharks that preyed upon them.

Forthe most fleeting of moments he wished to just... lay down, to struggle nomore, and peacefully find reunion with the dust. Then he recalled that dust wasall he was, whatever all the others purported to believe, and that onlydarkness followed the final closing of the eyes. Being, however tedious, wasbetter than un-being. He had to keep faith with that.

Andtherefore he had to eat what was put before him, feigning enjoyment of thepresent's tasteless offerings. The only way to the years ahead lay across HeathRow, all other routes being closed to him. Accordingly, its joys must besampled and whining only served to poison the slog.

Hereset his face into the belligerent smirk it was easiest with - andstraightaway felt better for it. 'Down but not out,' he repeated tohimself, 'down but not out!’ That was the only manly attitude to takeand he repented of any other, however momentarily maintained. Half carrying andhalf dragging the heavy trunk, and keeping a wary lookout for footpads, heresumed his journey.

Therewas the chance, albeit a poor one, of a late-running 'longrider coach'at the Park or, second best, shelter at Colnbrook or one of the other hamletswhich dotted the Waste. Failing that, one of the weird solitaries who chosethis place as home might - after due inspection and reward - give refuge intheir barricaded cottage. Push-come-to-shove he could even sit