The Body in the Fog (7 page)

‘Alfie!’ the shout came again and this time he located it, looking upwards. Jack was on top of the storm gate, clinging on. He was pointing to the side of the gate, and it took Alfie
a few moments to make out rusty chains hanging down. The gate must be raised and lowered with these chains. Alfie was reluctant to let go of his safe hold on the broken plank, but what Jack had
done, he could do. Clenching his teeth and keeping his courage up with thoughts of Sammy and Mutsy waiting for him, he launched himself into the seething water, kicking his legs frantically and
clawing with his arms.

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 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

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.