The Not-so-greatful Dead by Nigel Roth

No Man’s Land, the legendary London burial ground of 17th century plague victims, is no longer a legend.

Excavations for unwieldy and potentially useless rail links uncovered the site, and with it the possibility of an even better scientific understanding of the origin of the plague’s nasty bacterium, yersinia pestis, another piece of the macabre Black Death puzzle.

There is, however, one piece of that puzzle we’ll never know.

We know that the plague swept through neighborhoods with lightning speed, we know victims were covered in horrendous boils and sores, and decayed rapidly each day, and we know that those who perished were thrown as quickly as possible onto death carts as they trundled along on their macabre tour.

What we don’t know is how many people were heaved onto that wagon with breath still in their lungs, and blood muddling through their wretched bodies, whimpering for rescue or begging in silent prayer for a rapid demise.

We’re suffering a huge pandemic at the moment, and, with the exception of the US where no-one is sick at all anymore, we’re all sharply aware of how close we are to that metaphorical death cart.

Just as prostitution is the oldest profession, coming back to life is the oldest trick.