by Gareth Clegg
Simmons headed down second at Molly’s instruction. She had stopped to lock the padlock, and with a clang of metal on stone, it closed behind them.
Halfway down, the wall changed from rough rock to broken brickwork, and stepping down the final few rungs, he recognised the familiar arched walls of the sewers.
Light from the arc-lamp played across the tunnel roof as Bazalgette surveyed the area. “It looks like they dug down to intersect with this part of the sewer,” he said, still looking at the entry point as Molly descended into the beam.
“Do you mind not staring right up my skirt?” she asked.
The light pulled away to illuminate a section of tunnel to their left, but even as darkness fell around Bazalgette, Simmons saw the glowing crimson on his face.
“I’m ever so sorry,” he blurted. “I was just admiring the view.”
“Really?”
“Of the sewer roof. Where the tunnels break into—”
Amusing as it was, Simmons decided he couldn’t let his friend flounder any further in this deep water. “I think you should quit while you’re ahead.”
“While I’m ahead?”
“Yes, you know? Move on, onto subjects new.”
“I suppose that would be prudent.”
Molly stepped down from the ladder with a splash. “Oh, doesn’t that top it all?” she complained. “If it isn’t young men trying to look up your skirt with torches, it’s wet feet.”
Bazalgette turned to face her. “It was an accident. I am terribly sorry.”
“It’s all right, dearie. If you’d just asked, I’d have shown you for a shilling.”
“Wha—” Bazalgette stammered, he stuttered making a series of croaks and clicks in his throat before turning and moving forward covering some distance to be alone with his embarrassment.
Simmons looked at Molly, and they shared the joke at poor Bazalgette’s expense. “Well, Mr Simmons, that were a funny do. But the same goes for you if you’ve got a spare shilling.” She winked at him and sauntered down the tunnel after the diminishing light.
Simmons swallowed. Did she mean? No, that was just another joke, at my expense this time. Wasn’t it?
Bazalgette hardly said a word, especially when Molly was near. He’d mentioned they were heading southeast and should be close to an outflow to the Thames soon if they continued at their current pace. He busied himself, adding extra details to his notebook.
Simmons checked his watch. He flicked the casing, which clicked open as faithfully as ever. It was approaching ten o’clock.
Molly looked at her map, counting to herself. “It’s two junctions further on the left.” She pointed to continue down the central tunnel, rather than taking the smaller tributary and continued their slow and steady pace through the ankle-deep sludge. It was hard going, and Simmons could feel the ache growing in his leg. As the others continued, he took the opportunity for another swig from his flask—for medicinal purposes.
They moved across to the wall and clambered onto a narrow ledge. It was less than a foot wide, but was a welcome relief for aching muscles, and removed the threat of getting their boots filled with water.
“Not far now,” Molly said, looking up from her map. “Another two turns, and we should be there.”
With spirits lightened, they made good time, and following the arching bend of the smaller sewer, saw a sizeable grilled gateway across the width of the tunnel, barring their progress.
The sewage level had risen and now lapped at the edge of the walkway, about waist deep Simmons guessed. It had picked up speed a little too, dirty grey froth bubbling up where it pushed through the gate.
“So, what next?” Simmons asked, “is there some secret lever that opens it?”
“Hardly,” came the tired reply from their guide. “But I have the magic key.”
She pulled the chain from inside her coat and rattled through several keys in the bright light from Bazalgette’s lamp.
“There she is.” Molly pushed a small key to the top of the metal chain that kept the tangle of jangling objects clasped together.
“There’s a lock on a grille at the base of the gate, low enough to be concealed, even at the lowest tide mark. You’ll need to open it and push yourselves through.”
Simmons looked at her as if she were mad. “What? You want us to go under that?” he said, pointing at the dark churning water.
“Well, unless you have a better plan?”
“No, it’s fine,” Bazalgette said. “We best undress, we can pass the clothes through the bars, so at least we’ll have something dry on the other side.”
“What?” Simmons said again, a little more concern in his tone.
“Oh, what a great idea,” Molly said. She rubbed her hands together, a wicked grin spreading across her face. “Shall I hold the lamp this time?”
Bazalgette stripped down to his cream-coloured long johns.
“Aren’t they coming off as well?” Molly asked.
He ignored her and slipped into the water which rushed around him above his waist. “It’s not too bad,” he said through chattering teeth. “Once you get used to it.”
Molly passed him the key-chain. “You be careful with that. I’ll bloody kill you if you lose it. The padlock is down near the bottom of the grille which hinges along its top edge. It’s two feet square.”
Bazalgette moved to the gate and knelt in the flow, the water rising towards his neck. He extended his hand below the waterline and fiddled for a few minutes. “It’s tricky, not being able to see the lock and all. Just a minute, got it.” He retrieved the padlock and clipped the arm around one bar of the gate, holding it in place above the rushing water.
“Right,” he said. “I’ll try to get my shoulders through, if they fit, it will be a doddle for the rest of me.”
“Good luck,” Simmons said while his friend took a series of long deep breaths. He continued his breathing, signalling to Simmons with a raised thumb. Then ducked below the dark surface.
Simmons could hear nothing beyond the gurgle and splashes around the gate, then a mop of black hair surfaced on the far side. “Are you all right?”
Bazalgette wiped the water from his face. “Yes, but I wouldn’t advise you open your eyes in this stuff.”
Simmons grimaced. “Fine, let’s get this gear through the bars and move on.”
Bazalgette crossed to the walkway, and between them, they moved all their equipment except the canvas bag he’d brought, containing the arc-rifle. “It won’t fit through, will it?”
“No,” Simmons said, “the barrel is far too thick. Is the bag waterproof?”
Bazalgette sighed. “I fear we’re about to find out. Let’s get it through as quickly as possible.”
It was an easier job than either of them had thought. Simmons carried it on his shoulder to the side of the gate, while Bazalgette waited on the other, holding the grille open with one hand. On the count of three, Simmons shoved the bag under the water and launched it forward. It was submerged for only a second or two before it broke the surface. Bazalgette lifted it into the air, drips beading and dropping back into the frothing stream around him.
Simmons made his way through the grille with much less trouble than he had feared. He had never felt comfortable swimming, even when in clean water. This was more akin to slithering along the bottom of an enormous filthy bathtub, and his relief to break the surface without drowning was palpable.
Bazalgette locked the grill before crossing to the walkway. He used his undershirt to rub himself dry, then discarded the discoloured and soaked long johns, and Simmons followed his lead.
Molly roared with laughter at their half-naked attempts to evade the roving arc-lamp beam, and she seemed sad to relinquish it. She lit her oil lamp, shedding a pale glow compared to the light from Bazalgette’s electrical device. “This is where our paths go their separate ways, my dears. I’ll be heading back to my cosy fire.”
“Where do we go from here?” Simmons asked.
“Follow the stream for another hundred yards, and it opens into an outflow to the Thames. Someone will meet you there.”
“Thank you for your help, Molly,” Simmons said.
“Oh, don’t thank me. You already paid good for this, and thanks for my generous tip.”
“Tip?” Simmons said.
“Yes, I definitely got my two shillings worth,” she said with that same wicked smile. “Possibly even two-and-six.” She winked then turned, cackling, and headed off into the darkness, leaving both Simmons and Bazalgette lost for words.
A dull red glow grew in intensity as they approached the exit tunnel. They both reached for their respirators, but as they had assumed, there was little fog, just a light swirl of vapours on the surface of the dark waters beyond. The familiar shape of a patchwork wooden boat with a square tarpaulin tent at the stern came into view as the rounded the last bend. “Well, bless me if it ain’t Mister Simmons and Mister Bazalgette.”
“Isaac, you old dog. I didn’t know you worked for the black market.”
“Any port in a storm, as they say, Mister Simmons. Now get yourselves aboard, we’ve got a fair way to go to where you are staying tonight.”
26
“If I’d known it was you two, I might have found a better safe house,” Isaac said as he leaned on the tiller. “What’s the rush to be out here by the old sewer gate? You fallen out with the Black Guard?”
Simmons smiled. “Something like that. How far is it to this place?”
“It’s a fair trek, are you planning on heading back to Josiah? Cos if you are, it might be as well to sod the safe house and get you to the observatory instead.”
Simmons looked towards Bazalgette, who nodded. “Greenwich it is then, Isaac, full steam ahead.”
Isaac turned to Bazalgette. “Don’t he know this is a diesel engine?”
“No, he’ll probably ask you to hoist sail if we’re not moving soon.”
Simmons walked to the prow, letting them enjoy their little joke. It felt good to hear humour from Bazalgette.
They cut through the dark waters under the steady thrum of the motor. Even though the fog was more like thin red steam rising from the surface, they all wore full fog-gear.
The rain bounced from the deck, and myriads of droplets danced on the Thames. The splashes evoked strange patterns on the river as circular ripples expanded and merged. It created a weird soundscape as drops struck wood and water, the sounds muffled and distorted by their protective fog masks.
Searchlights from the north bank reached into the darkness from the city walls. It was nothing for them to worry about, most scanned the streets hoping to capture those breaking curfew. Their jaunt along the Thames was likely to go unnoticed by anyone.
As they passed under Tower Bridge, a cough from the stern and the whine of motors struggling to continue their rotations signalled the engine failing. It spat twice then fell silent.
“Oh, that’s bloody typical,” Isaac said, emerging from his tarp. He grabbed a pole and thrust it towards Simmons. “Here, take this and make sure we don’t hit anything.”
“What’s wrong?” Simmons asked before Isaac headed back to the stern.
“A blockage or shitty fuel. I’ll have a look.” With that, he disappeared to start his repairs.
The vessel found a large patch of overgrown red weed that clung to one of the bridge stanchions and halted. Its rise and fall made it seem like the alien plant was gently rocking them to sleep before crawling aboard to strangle them in the dark.
The rain continued unabated though the bridge sheltered them from most of it. Curtains of water fell a few feet ahead of them where it drained from the edge of the road. The mesmerising waterfall split and shifted in its relentless thundering drop into the depths.
It took Simmons back to the first raindrops appearing on the windows, signalling the start of the monsoons. The small drops twisting their way down the pane, joining with fellows to plummet out of sight. A prelude of what was to come with the deluge of rain that turned dusty earth into torrential rivers of mud.
He looked up at the sharp pop and rumble of the engine bursting into life for a few seconds, then fading. More discussion followed from the stern before another series of cracks and splutters reverberated under the bridge. Hell, they must have heard that the other side of Whitechapel. Simmons hoped the rise in the fog-level over the last half-hour helped in masking the sound.
The engine continued to sputter and cough for a while, before changing in tone, returning to a throaty but stable growl. Simmons leant on the pole, forcing them from the support, and away from the thickest of the weed.
As they breached the sheets of cascading water, Simmons held his hat and pulled his coat tight. He only just kept his footing as the deluge sluiced over him, bouncing from the deck with a heavy thrum. He turned and watched with fascination as the waterfall proceeded back along the vessel’s length.
“Bazalgette, Isaac, look out,” he called, but it was too late as the torrent beat down onto the canvas cover at the stern.
Above the noise of water striking wood and tarp, there came a new sound, something between a shout and a squeal as the downpour caught his comrades unaware. Two figures appeared from the gloom, drenched and with hair plastered to their skulls between the straps of fog masks which looked somewhat off-kilter.
As much as he tried to keep his face straight, an exterior of professional calm and order, he failed miserably. He burst into peals of laughter. Even the seals of his respirator couldn’t contain his mirth. A fact made clear by the dirty looks he got from both Isaac and Bazalgette.
When he finally pulled himself together, he stood before the two drowned rats. “I’m sorry chaps. I tried to warn you, but what with the masks and the fog, it seemed a forlorn task.”
Their stares could have killed men at twenty paces. As he was close to that distance, he thought better of finishing the sentence with ‘but at least we’re underway again’.
With the fuel situation resolved, they arrived in Greenwich close to midnight. A plume of steam mixed with thick smoke from the engine where Isaac and Bazalgette had dried off, having spent the final leg of their voyage huddled by the stove.
As the boat headed inland towards the south bank, Simmons recognised familiar outlines in a few of the larger structures. The Queen’s House and the Naval Academy Barracks stood out. Both were now under the ownership of the Red Hands.
Isaac steered them between half-submerged ruins and sunken remains as they made a slow approach to the landing point. “I’ll drop you two gents here again if that’s all right?”
Simmons strode to the rear of the vessel. “Fine. Thank you, Isaac,” he said, giving the old man a wave.
“A pleasure, Mr Simmons.”
Isaac took Bazalgette by the arm and shook his hand. “Are you sure you’ve never worked on a diesel engine before?”
“No. It was the first time, but a thoroughly enjoyable experience. I must look further into this Diesel fellow’s work.”
“Well, she’s purring like a kitten now, thanks to your help.”
“It was nothing,” Bazalgette replied. “As you said, it was mainly poor fuel that clogged the injectors and not enough air through the intake to compress for combustion.”
“Yes, but your idea of a filter on the feed lines. That’s inspired. Let me know if you get anywhere with it. I’ll be happy to test it for you.”
“I will do. Take care, Isaac.”
“You too, Nathaniel.”
Bazalgette stepped down from the boat to join Simmons. As they crossed to drier land, the engine growled behind them as Isaac backed out into deeper water.
“You two seemed to get along well,” Simmons said as they trudged up the hill towards the observatory.
“Yes, I never realised Isaac was a mechanic. And that diesel engine is something to behold.”
The downpour eased to gentle rain, but the ground, still soaked from earlier, made footing treacherous. Th
ey each slipped several times before reaching the stone pathway which led the last hundred yards to the building. Two pinpricks of light issued from upstairs rooms. Other than that the place looked abandoned to the night.
They passed the meridian line and the strange twenty-four-hour clock face, and arrived at the wooden gate, locked up tight.
“There’s a bell on that side,” Bazalgette said as he pointed to the left of the wall.
“How do you know that?”
“I saw it when we were here last time, behind the guards we spoke to. It might be our best option to raise attention.”
Simmons nodded his agreement as Bazalgette walked over to inspect it. The man continued to amaze Simmons with his off-hand comments and recollection of minute details. Bazalgette pulled the chain, and a harsh clang echoed through the darkness. A flock of crows made their views clear with loud caws from the roofline, flying toward the nearby trees in the hope of a more peaceful roost for the evening.
They waited for a while with no sign that anyone, other than the birds, had heard their signal. Bazalgette rang it again. A crack of light spilt from a doorway in the main building. It opened further owing a back-lit figure with a rifle in hand.
“Enough with the bloody bell already. Who the hell are you, and what are you up to coming here at this time of night?”
“Simmons and Bazalgette, we’re working for Josiah. We need to discuss our findings with him,” Simmons said.
“Old Tick-Tock himself, eh?” said the man approaching the gate. There was a sharp clack as a wooden viewing panel slid open. A pair of beady eyes peered through before pulling back with a hand shielding them from the bright glow from the arc-lamp.
“Bloody Hell. What you got there, a bloody lighthouse?”
Bazalgette reduced the brightness. “Sorry, but if you hadn’t noticed it is pitch black out here.”
“Nearly bloody blinded me.”
“This is all very pleasant,” Simmons said, “but are you going to open up or not?”