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Persuasion #1: Julian showed Ashton the list of casualties from Mallory’s yellowing but intact Bill of Mortality. “Look at the paper. It’s from 1665. Why is it still in such good condition?”
“That’s your proof? How the hell should I know?”
“Because,” Julian said, “the paper is only a year old, not four hundred years old.”
Apoplexie 1
Burned in his bed by a candle 1
Canker 1
Cough 2
Fright 3
Grief 3
Killed by a fall from a Bellfry 1
Lethargy 1
Suddenly 1
Timpany 1
Plague 7165
“What’s timpany?” Ashton said.
“That’s your question?”
“How does one die suddenly?”
“That’s your question?”
“How does one die of grief, I wonder.”
“To paraphrase John Green,” Julian said, uncle of nieces besotted with Hazel and Augustus, “slowly, and all at once.”
Persuasion #2: Julian took Ashton to the Silver Cross, off Craig’s Court on lit-up Whitehall. It was a Friday night. They ate. They drank. They read the plaque on the wall. “THE SILVER CROSS HAS BEEN THE SITE OF A PUBLIC HOUSE SINCE THE 17TH CENTURY AND WAS EVEN THE SITE OF A LICENSED BROTHEL.”
Persuasion #3: Julian tried to hand Ashton his breeches and tunic.
“You got them in a costume store,” Ashton said, pulling his arms behind his back.
Persuasion #4: The Elizabethan gold coin.
“It’s fake,” Ashton said.
“Do you want to know how much one of these fake coins is worth today?”
“Fine, but it’ll prove nothing.”
Julian showed him the online collector’s currency markets. An Elizabeth I gold sovereign in fairly good condition, not mint condition, was selling for £50,000. “And there were 48 more.”
“So you say.” Ashton fake-shrugged. “Yours isn’t real. And even if it is real, so what? You found it on the street.”
“I found fifty thousand quid on the street. That sounds normal to you.”
“Jules, we left normal back at Tequila Cantina’s when you showed me a ring for a chick whose mother you’d never met.”
Persuasion #5: The pièce de résistance. Julian took Ashton to St. Giles at Cripplegate. He would unveil for his friend the ultimate proof—the gold in the wall. They went to a hardware store, purchased a hammer, a chisel, a bucket, a trowel, and some mortar.
“You know,” Ashton said, pointing to the supplies in Julian’s hands, “when someone is sick and you entertain him in his sickness, you become an accomplice in his disorder.”
“Let’s see what you say after I show you a leather purse full of ancient gold coins hidden in the London Wall.”
“After, I’ll be visiting you in jail,” said Ashton, “because it’s against the law to deface a historical monument. Douchebaggery most foul. Vandalism in the first degree. In Singapore you’d get fifty lashes.”
Ashton kept watch on a bench by the church, while across the narrow canal, over a hanging bridge, Julian spent the afternoon walking up and down the same fifty feet, feeling the remains of the crumbling Roman wall with his hands. When he reached the end near the circular turret, he’d turn around and creep back, inch by inch searching for the Kentish ragstone spackled by an amateur mason. Sometimes Ashton was on his phone, but mostly, he sat and watched Julian.
Hours passed. Julian, exhausted and sore from walking bent at the waist, collapsed next to Ashton. “I don’t understand why I can’t find it. It was so easy. Down the hill, in a straight line from the nave’s last window, three feet off the ground. It doesn’t make sense.”
“Yes, that’s the part that doesn’t make sense.” Ashton shook his head. “Just for a second, step out of your skin and think about how you appear to me. Hunched over for the last two hours, pacing up and down the same stretch of wall, mumbling to yourself.”
“You think I’m nuts.” It wasn’t a question.
“Yes, Julian. Mentally ill.” Ashton wasn’t smiling.
“You think I’m obsessing over a girl and you’re afraid that eventually that obsession is going to drive me insane.”
“Eventually? And not a girl. A coin.”
Persuasion #6: One Sunday Julian took Ashton to Greenwich. To show him the telescope, to introduce him to the guard.
“Hello, Sweeney. This is my friend, Ashton.”
“Hello, Ashton,” Sweeney said, turning to Julian. “And who are you?”
“The guy who threw up a few months ago,” Julian said. “You had to call me an ambulance, remember?”
“I don’t remember the ambulance, but so many people pass this way, mate, and I’m terrible with faces, sorry. Me memory’s really the pits. One time, there was a bloke who appeared in my Transit Room nekkid! I have no idea how he got through security with his junk hanging out.”
“Maybe it was so small they didn’t notice,” Ashton said to Sweeney, and to Julian he said, “Naked?!”
“Don’t know what that guy is on about,” said Julian.
He and Ashton stood for a few minutes in front of the well, the stairs, the railing, the glossy Transit Circle. They looked up at the gray sky through the retracted roof. Julian told Ashton about noon and infinite meridians and the blue halo opening to another dimension. They visited the gift shop, walked around the soaked gardens, stood on the stone plaza with the panorama of London laid out before them, today glum and obscured, the oaks heavy with rain, the river in a mist.
Ashton didn’t speak on the train back home.
