The relief when his outstretched hand clenched the chain was so enormous that for a moment he just hung on, too weak to move. But then he began to climb rapidly and was soon on top of the storm gate at Jack’s side.
Jack said nothing but began to climb the chain again, hand over hand, bare toes gripping the large loops. Now they were both well above the gate and scaling a stone wall. Here and there, more iron circles were set solidly into the wall and they used these as footholds as they swarmed up the rusty chain.
‘There’ll be a manhole, a hatch at the top of this,’ grunted Jack after a few minutes. ‘Somebody should be thinking of opening this gate soon, but with some luck we’ll get out first.’
Alfie did not answer. He needed all of his energy for the climb. Every bone in his body ached after the pummelling of the flood water. He had an awful fear in his mind that from sheer exhaustion and weakness the chain would slip from between his fingers and he would crash down into that terrible sewer again.
I’ll count to ten and then look up, he told himself. And then another ten, and then another ten.
And when the thirty was counted out, Alfie saw to his surprise that he was almost at the top.
‘Let’s get out of here as quick as we can,’ he said when he joined Jack at the little platform beside the hatch.
And together they pushed up the metal slab.
Alfie’s hand went to his shirt. He had carefully concealed the note dropped by Flash Harry there.
But all that remained was a sodden lump of pulp.
CHAPTER 12
SAMMY ALONE
Sammy missed Mutsy. Tom had grudgingly escorted him to the corner of Covent Garden but then had left him, taking Mutsy with him and muttering something about how hungry he was. Sammy was too worried about Alfie and Jack to feel hunger, but he understood how badly Tom wanted to earn some money for his breakfast.
‘It’s just such a good morning for Jack’s board on wheels,’ Tom had explained to him before they set out. ‘It’s been pouring all night. I bet the crossing at Piccadilly Circus is flooded. Jack and me have been practising. We put Mutsy on the board and I tow him across the road and this gets everyone looking – brings a crowd. Next I ask if anyone wants to cross the road without getting their feet wet. I help a lady to stand on the board and hold onto the handle in front and then I pull her across the street and let her step, nice and dry, onto the pavement on the other side. We’ve been waiting for a good, wet day to try it out and I don’t want to waste these floods. You’ll be all right on your own, won’t you, Sammy? I’ll come and pick you up when I’m finished – if you’re not there, I’ll look for you by St Martin’s church. You’re sure to find someone to take you there.’
Sammy would have preferred to go with Tom and Mutsy, but he realised that Tom did not want him distracting attention from his wheeled plank. However, he did not want to stay in the cellar alone so he nodded silently and allowed Tom to leave him beside the apple seller in Covent Garden market. He did his best to sing, but there was no thud of coins falling into the cap he had placed on the ground in front of him. His voice was high, pure and sweet, but it wasn’t a loud voice and Covent Garden was too noisy a place for his song to attract an audience. He needed someone to call attention to him, to walk up to people and ask them if they wanted to hear a song. Eventually Sammy fell silent and began to worry instead of sing.
It wasn’t like Alfie to stay out all night, thought Sammy. If only his brother hadn’t had the notion to go to Trafalgar Square. It would have been better if they had had Mutsy with them. Mutsy was a good guard and if anything had happened to Alfie and Jack, the dog would have saved them or come back to the cellar. Sammy’s mind turned to the time when he himself had been almost drowned and Mutsy, the hero, had brought Alfie to rescue him.
When he’d heard the church bells strike midnight last night, he had persuaded Tom to take the dog to Trafalgar Square, but Tom had returned with no news of the boys. Where were Alfie and Jack? Sammy had stayed awake for a long time, but eventually he had fallen asleep.
And when he woke the two older boys were still missing . . .
‘All right, sonny?’ Sammy’s thoughts were interrupted by a quavering voice, the words followed by a series of loud hiccups. Sammy smiled. He knew who this was. Mick had been a friend of his grandfather’s. Drinks like a fish, his grandfather used to say, but a heart of gold, he always added.
‘Look at the lovely smile on him!’ exclaimed Mick. He was drunk, but not too drunk, decided Sammy.
‘I’m having no luck this morning, Mick,’ he said. ‘Would you be able to take me over to Trafalgar Square? I do better there, usually.’
‘Anything in the world that you want, just ask Mick MacClancy!’ The words were slurred but they were accompanied by a warm hug of Sammy’s shoulders. ‘And I’ll stay with you too,’ went on Mick. ‘I’ll have a bit of a snooze if I can and you wake me up when you want to go home. There’s some sun for a change and it will do my old bones a lot of good. That’s the trouble with me, Sammy, my bones. If it wasn’t for my bones I’d never touch a drop of drink.’
Sammy nodded, holding back a smile, and groped with his hand to attach himself to Mick’s sleeve. If he did well at St Martin’s church he would give the old man the price of a drink, he decided. He turned his face upwards, thinking that the sun wouldn’t last too long. There was a stillness and a moistness in the air that told him the fog would soon return, but he said nothing to Mick as they trudged through the crowded wet streets, just listened smilingly to the chatter about the old days in Ireland and the markets where the boys’ grandfather had played his fiddle.
‘Hey, you! You with the blinkers!’ The man’s voice was sharp and Mick came to an abrupt halt.
Sammy turned his face towards the speaker. ‘Blinkers’ was a slang term for blind eyes and he was used to boys shouting it at him. Not adults though, usually, and this voice sounded aggressive. Beneath his fingers he felt Mick’s arm tense. He hoped that the old man would not suddenly depart, leaving him alone with this harsh-voiced man.
‘Live in a cellar in Bow Street – that’s right, ain’t it?’
‘That’s right.’ Sammy kept his voice steady. Mick shuffled his feet uneasily.
‘Got a couple of brothers. Two lads with dark hair?’
Sammy nodded again. There was a certain sound from this man’s voice, a sound that only someone with Sammy’s gifts could interpret. Just as a sighted person could read faces and watch gestures, Sammy could pick up the stink of fear, anger, aggression and evil – what his grandfather called scenting the smell of wolf.
This man is ready to attack, he thought, and he exercised all his skill to make sure that no hesitation or worry sounded in his voice.
‘They’re gone into the country with one of them market gardeners,’ he said carelessly. ‘Got a few days’ work picking Brussels sprouts for Covent Garden costermongers. Was you wanting them for a job? Be back early next week.’
‘And who’s looking after you then? You left on your own?’ The man’s voice was sharp with suspicion.
‘Naw.’ Sammy had a keen ear and knew that he sounded unconcerned. ‘Young Tom – he’s the youngest of us – he’s looking after me and Mick here.’ He turned his blind eyes towards the old man.
There was a moment’s silence. The man with the harsh voice would be looking at Sammy, staring at him, trying to make up his mind whether the boy was telling the truth. One of the advantages of being blind, thought Sammy with an inward chuckle, was that his face would be hard to read. He had often heard Alfie say to Tom, ‘You’d better tell the truth! I can see it in your eyes when you don’t.’
And then Sammy stiffened. By the sound of it, the man was fumbling in his pocket. Sammy could hear the sound, but also he could smell something. It was the same smell that you got from matches, but this was stronger. Sammy immediately knew what it was. He had passed that factory often and Alfie had explained to him about bullets and how they worked in guns.
The man smelt of gunpowder.
And he probably had a loaded pistol in his pocket.
CHAPTER 13
DEMONS FROM HELL
It was a long time since Sammy had yearned to be able to see like other people. His grandfather had gently talked him out of thinking like that and had diverted his attention to clever ways of knowing what was happening around him. Nevertheless, after his wakeful night of worrying about Alfie and Jack, Sammy felt unsure and useless.
If only he could see what Mick and the man with the pistol were doing! Would Mick betray him? Sadly, he felt that the old man was not to be trusted.
Sammy’s mind went to Alfie. This man must be part of Flash Harry’s mob. They’d cared enough about that bit of paper with the clock drawing to chase Alfie halfway across London. He’d given them the slip, but now they were hoping that Sammy would lead them to his brother. Sammy stood very still and said nothing and hoped that his face betrayed nothing.
For the moment there was silence and he was almost relieved when that silence was broken.
‘Here you! Old man! Come over here. I want a word with you.’ The voice of the man with the pistol was clipped and full of authority. Mick immediately pulled his arm away. Sammy stood very still and strained his ears, hearing Mick suck in his breath sharply. The two men had gone a little distance and their whispers were very low. Broken bits of sentences came to him. ‘I have to get hold of that boy . . . I’ll find you . . . I’ll be keeping an eye on you . . .’ And then the clink of money in the man’s pocket and an exclamation of dismay from Mick.
‘Not now,’ said the man, a teasing note of amusement in his voice. ‘I only pay when goods are delivered. That young Alfie is as slippery as an eel, but if you’re right he’ll come quick enough once he knows that I have his brother.’
There was a mutter from Mick and then the mobster broke in, anger making his voice louder than before, ‘No, you old fool! If I drag that blind boy kicking and screaming through Covent Garden market, then half the stallholders will be after me. No, you go along with him to Trafalgar Square, let him sing his song and then bring him over to the archway. I’ll be waiting for you there and I’ll take him off your hands.’
Then he turned and Sammy heard his iron-tipped heels clanking down the street.
‘Where are the other boys then, Sammy?’ Mick’s tone was almost casual as they made their way along through the crowds, but his voice shook and there was an underlying note of anxiety – and of guilt.
Mick, thought Sammy, would betray Alfie or himself for the price of a drink or two. He would not be able to help himself. Never trust a man who drinks, the boys’ grandfather used to say. You might think that he likes you, wouldn’t let you down, but only drink really matters to him.
‘Well, Alfie and Jack went off on a job picking Brussels sprouts for the market gardener, like I said,’ said Sammy, pleased to hear how innocent his voice sounded, ‘and Tom has taken his board on wheels up to Piccadilly Circus.’ Tom would be doing well, he thought, as he and Mick splashed through ankle-high water as they crossed a road. No lady would want to risk ruining her dress in water like that.
‘This where you want to go? This is the church,’ said Mick, coming to a halt.
It was cold here by St Martin’s. There was no sun on the west-facing steps at this hour of the morning.
There were not many people around the church, either – Sammy could sense that. Alfie knew all the times of the services and always had his brother in position when pious ladies and gentlemen were coming out of church. Without Alfie, Sammy felt himself lost. He knew that it was morning, but he didn’t know whether the church service had finished or whether the folk were still inside the building. There were no sounds of music or of praying voices either.
Sammy felt like being near to lots of people and staying there for as long as possible. The danger, thought Sammy, used to facing up to unpleasant facts, was to Alfie as well as to himself. If Mick handed him over to the man with the pistol, then neither his life nor Alfie’s was going to be a very long one.
‘Let’s go over by the fountain,’ he said to Mick. ‘Should be nice and sunny there.’
‘Lots of people around, too,’ commented Mick in a carefree way – almost as though he had nothing on his mind but to get plenty of customers for Sammy. ‘Let’s go past the post office. They often put old squashed-up cardboard in that basket outside the door. I’ll pick out two nice thick pieces for us to sit on. Bad for the bones, Sammy my boy, sitting on cold, wet pavements! There’s puddles everywhere after that flood last night.’ He took a lot of care in steering Sammy through the crowd, stopping to fumble noisily in the post-office basket and triumphantly cracking the pieces of cardboard in Sammy’s ear in order to show how dry they were. Perhaps his drunken mind had already forgotten the instructions from the mobster.
‘You sit down in the sun and I’ll stand,’ said Sammy when he heard the splashing of the fountain close beside him. He would sing better standing up and he wasn’t tired. There were plenty of people around – not in a hurry, either – just chattering about the raid on the post office.
The usual hymns would not do for this crowd, decided Sammy, and he began to sing the song about the highwayman Dick Turpin, his daring raids and his black mare.
‘My bonny, black Bess!’ As Sammy’s voice rose up high and clear he could sense the crowd moving in his direction and soon coins were thudding into the cap between his feet on the ground. By the time he had sung the rollicking melody three times, his throat was dry. He bent down, fumbled in the cap, sorted through the pennies, thruppenny pieces, groats and sixpences and then handed Mick two of the large, round pennies.
‘Get yourself a drink, Mick,’ he said. ‘I’ll be all right here until you come back.’
Mick took a while to come back. Sammy leaned against the edge of the fountain, his cap firmly between his feet, and his fingers beating out the rhythm of flying horse hoofs on the marble surround of the fountain as he sang. The crowd was around him still and by now they were joining in the chorus.
When Mick arrived he joined in too. His voice had been made husky by alcohol, but he had the remnants of a singer about him and the crowd, now in a very good mood, applauded.
Perhaps Tom and Mutsy will come soon, thought Sammy. The sun had gone. He could feel the damp mist on his face and the raw, cold, sulphur-smelling stink of a London fog returning after a brief few hours of respite. Alfie never allowed him to do too much singing in the fog in case it spoilt his voice, but now his only safety lay in continuing to sing and continuing to attract people. Soon they would all be going away to get out of the fog and then the danger would come.
So Sammy sang every song that he could remember.
And the fog began to get worse.
‘Here you are, old fellow, drink that beer. It’s sour, and it’s flat, but you won’t mind that, will you?’ The man handing Mick the beer sounded drunk himself. Probably just a passer-by who had had too much to drink, thought Sammy. The voice was not familiar and the accent was not that of a Londoner. Mick gabbled out his thanks and Sammy could hear him gulping down beer at breakneck speed as though he feared it would be snatched away from him. Sammy cheered inwardly. It sounded as if it was a good pint or even more. Mick would definitely be drunk after that – especially as he was drinking so quickly. He could hear the man’s tongue searching around for the last drops and then the clatter of the pewter mug as it fell from his grasp.
Just let him lie down and go to sleep, prayed Sammy. He sensed that the last of the people listening to him had moved away. Now he was alone with Mick.
But the drink seemed to have given Mick courage instead of making him sleepy. His hand closed over Sammy’s arm in a vice-like grip.
‘Let’s go,’ he said and he began to drag the boy along the pavement.
‘We’re going in the wrong direction, Mick.’ Sammy had a great sense of direction and knew that Mick was not taking him back towards St Martin’s church and Bow S
treet, but to the opposite side of the square. He tried to keep his voice untroubled, but the grip on his arm was hurting him.
Mick didn’t bother replying, just tugged harder. Sammy tried to resist. ‘Don’t, you’re hurting me!’ he shouted as loudly as he could. And then ‘Help me, someone!’ But even as the words were spoken he heard how muffled his voice sounded. The fog was getting thicker by the moment and there was no one left hanging around the fountains to hear him.
Mick, like Sammy’s grandfather, had been brought up on a farm, and the muscles developed by digging and carrying heavy loads from an early age had stayed with him despite his age and the drink. He was far too strong for Sammy, who was dragged along unmercifully with his arm almost pulled out from its socket. Sammy shouted once more and then screamed, but his scream seemed to die away into the thickness of the mist.
And then he was released so suddenly that he fell to the ground.
There was a moment’s silence. Then a great wail came from Mick.
‘O merciful God in Heaven! My soul will go to hell. I’ve seen it. An apparition! It’s in the Holy Book! The dead shall rise! Look! Look over there towards Whitehall! The dead are rising! Just under the devil’s black horse! Old Jemmy is coming up from hell again. He’s coming to get me! He’s going to take me down there with him!’
CHAPTER 14
FLASH HARRY LOOKS FOR ALFIE
‘Drunken fool,’ muttered Alfie, pulling the lid of the manhole cover back down and then opening it again just a crack.
‘C’mon, Jack,’ he said after a moment, ‘it’s all right – it was just old Mick and he’s scarpered. The fool will have forgotten all about us before he’s gone fifty yards.’ Cautiously, Alfie raised the iron cover a little higher and thrust his head out. There seemed to be no one else near. The fog was so thick that he could hardly see a hand in front of his nose. It was worth the risk. Rapidly he slid out and lay on the pavement. Jack followed and lay beside him for a moment. Both were out of breath.
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