After a time, I stopped and, facing directly away from this wall, went forward a few paces. The ground sloped away to water. I stumbled against a stone and found my feet sinking into mud. Then the ground rose again and I came up against another wall. I knew then that I was in a much wider sewer, and my spirits rose.
It was now nearly four. If I did not reach the entrance soon, darkness would have fallen. I knew it would be folly to attempt to get out into the Thames, presuming that that was where the sewer led, in the dark. And I had no desire to spend the night in the place. Where I had fallen and slept there had been hardly any rats. But here there seemed to be thousands of them. The sound of their movement was everywhere, like the soughing of a wind up the sewer.
Soon I encountered slimy weed on the wall along which I was feeling my way, then my feet began to slither and squelch on a thin layer of mud, which extended close up to the wall. I knew then that I must be nearing the Thames, and a new fear assailed me. Until that moment I had had no thought of what the exit of the sewer into the river would be like. I had just been intent on reaching that exit – nothing else. The mud got deeper until it was pulling at my sodden shoes. Then I found I was floundering through a few inches of water. I had a sudden awful fear that the sewer might come out into the river underwater. Or supposing the water came right up the sewer at high tide? Should I be able to find my way back faster than the water flowed up the culvert? It was an unpleasant thought. But I went doggedly on, encouraged by the cool air on my face, which could now be described as almost a breeze.
Soon I was in nearly a foot of water. I glanced at my watch. It was nearly a quarter to five. And then I noticed a peculiar thing. That friendly little face was not as bright as it had been. I peered closely at the watch. But there was no doubt about it. The luminosity was dulled. I stared around me in the darkness. Was it my imagination, or had it lightened? Was there a tinge of grey in the inky blackness?
I stumbled hurriedly on, the wall curving away to the right. Soon I was left in no doubt at all. The darkness was lifting. Ahead of me I could begin to make out vaguely the bend of the sewer. A little farther and the darkness had become definitely grey. Soon I could see the walls, all weedgrown and slimy. And then the sewer itself took shape – a sixteen-foot-wide arched culvert made of great stone blocks, beneath which a sheet of water stretched from wall to wall.
The relief of seeing daylight filtering through into that disused tunnel! I went forward at an increased rate, my hunger and thirst and weariness forgotten in my joy at the sight of that grey light. The sewer bore away to the left, and as I rounded the bend, the water now over my knees, I saw the actual opening into the river. There before me was an arch of daylight that almost hurt my eyes. And across that arched sewer exit was a lattice-work of iron bars, like a portcullis.
It was the last straw. I think I should have burst into tears if I had not been so buoyed up by the sight of that grey half-circle of daylight. Beyond it, I could see some sort of wharf. The great wooden piles were wrapped in green weed, and around them the river slopped. There was a wooden ladder, too, its rungs rotting, but giving promise of a way to safety, if only I could get through those iron bars. They reached right to the arched roof of the sewer. But there was a cross-bar near the water level. I could stand on that and perhaps by shouting I should be able to attract attention to my plight.
I went forward resolutely. The iron grille was only about fifty yards from me. The water rose to my waist. It was bitterly cold and there was a scum of oil floating on its dark surface. At each step my feet sank deeper into mud. I had soon lost both my shoes, but I did not mind, for it lightened my feet. When the water was up to my chest, I launched out, using a long sweeping breast stroke and ducking my head at each thrust of my arms. I made good pace and I was within a few yards of the bars before my muscles had grown tired with the weight of my waterlogged clothes.
Four more strokes and I was clutching the bar near the centre. But the cross-bar, which from a distance of fifty yards had seemed so near the water level, was over three feet above my head. In my exhausted condition, I knew I could never draw myself up to it. I looked back, The darkness of that tunnel, full of inky water, appalled me. I could not face the prospect of going back. Besides, I was doubtful whether I could make it.
Twenty yards beyond the grille the water slopped tantalisingly against the lower rungs of the ladder to the wharf. I thought if I clung to the bars for a time, the incoming tide might lift me to the cross bar. But then, out beyond the green timbers of the wharf, I saw a barge drifting slowly downstream, and I knew then that the tide was still on the ebb. The centre of the river was whipped into brown waves by the tide and the wind, and beyond was a drab line of wharves and cranes. How homely and safe they seemed! I had many times looked at such a scene from the security of London Bridge, and I longed to be back there, treading its firm pavements.
My left hand suddenly slipped on the rust-coated bar. I quickly took a fresh grip. The cold was beginning to tell on me. Soon my hands would be numb and I should have to let go and attempt to get back into the sewer. And perhaps I should never have the strength to swim out to the grille again. I had to do something. I began to shout. I shouted till my throat was rough. My calls echoed back at me from the sewer. The big stone archway rang with my cries. But no one came. I began to scream. The panic feeling of a drowning man had seized me. But it was Saturday. No one was about. And when no one came or answered, blank despair suddenly fell upon me. I was suddenly silent, clutching the cold bars with my hands and looking out upon the river with my chin just above the water. And with my silence, came a mental calm, and I knew that I must either go back or find a means of going forward. And whichever I did, I should have to do it quickly.
There was only one possible chance of going forward. I took a deep breath, shut my mouth and then, with my hands on the bars, pushed myself under the water. It seemed a long way that I went down, and all the time my feet were against the bars. My lungs felt as though they would burst. But one more thrust of my arms and my feet were no longer touching the bars. I felt about, but there were no bars where my feet were. Another thrust and they sank into the mud. I let go my hold of the bars and struggled to the surface, where I gulped in fresh air in great mouthfuls.
I rested for a moment, clutching the bars again. I reckoned there was a gap of about two feet, or perhaps a little more, between the end of the bars and mud. But it was a long dive and there was the mud. I had an awful fear of being caught in that mud. And then there might be spikes sticking out on the other side, which would prevent me from rising.
It was a long time before I could pluck up the necessary courage. But with every minute I was getting colder. And so, suddenly, like a diver taking his first plunge of the year, I took a deep breath and began thrusting myself down hand over hand. It was done before I had time to think about it. In no time, it seemed, my feet were clear of the bars. I thrust myself sideways, pulling my body down with my hands, like a monkey crawling across the face of his cage. I felt the pointed end of a bar. The water was singing in my ears. I thrust myself farther down. I felt my body press against mud that yielded and bubbled unpleasantly. I had the point of a bar in the palm of my hand. I thrust myself under it. For a moment my foot became entangled with the points of the bars. My lungs now felt as though they must burst my chest apart. I wrenched my foot clear, and in the same movement, thrust myself upwards, letting go my hold on the bars.
I thought I should never reach the surface. But I did, and as I panted for breath, I found the tide carrying me slowly towards the wharf. It was perhaps as well, for I was very weak now. But I had sense enough to realise that the tide might grow stronger and sweep me past the ladder if I did not fend for myself. I summoned my last remaining energy, and with a few desperate strokes, reached the ladder and hung there, gasping and half crying.
I never thought a ladder twenty feet high could seem so far. My clothes, sodden with water, added to my weight, and my exhaus
ted muscles, now relaxed in the relief of safety, would scarcely pull me from one rung to the next.
CHAPTER EIGHT
IN WAPPING
When I hauled myself up on to that wharf I was met by the full force of a bitter east wind. My skin was blue and I was shivering from cold and exhaustion. That wind seemed to blow right through my sodden clothes direct on to my naked flesh. I looked around me. Behind, across a huddle of cranes and masts and funnels, I saw the misty outline of Tower Bridge. Ahead stretched the river, bending away to the Lower Pool, the brown waters flecked with little tufts of white as the wind whipped chilly at the wave caps. The wharf was deserted.
Wretched with cold, I crossed the uneven planks, leaving a trail of water behind me. At the back of the wharf rose the grimy mass of the warehouse. The air was full of the smell of malt and cinnamon and sacks; a queer, musty, but exciting conglomeration of scents. The entrances to the warehouse were barred with worn wooden doors. The place looked like some old barracks. But between it and the next warehouse were steps leading up from the river. By climbing down over some old barrels, I reached these steps. They led up to a narrow street lined with warehouses on the river side. On the other side, the buildings were much lower, mainly shops and lodging houses. During working hours it would be fantastically congested with lorries and carts, but now it was quiet and practically deserted. A dirty cast-iron street sign told me that this was Wapping High Street. Anything less like a high street I have never seen. But I found a little eating place called Alf’s Dining Rooms and went in. There was no one there. But at the tinkle of a door bell an old woman came out from the back quarters. When she saw me, she stopped and stared, her mouth agape. I am not surprised. I must have presented a sorry spectacle, standing there, the water dripping from my clothes, which stank ruthlessly in the warmth of that eating-house.
My teeth chattering, I explained to her that I had fallen into the river. I was too dulled by cold and fatigue to tell her my wants. I did not even tell her that I had any money. ‘It’s a cold day for falling in the river,’ was all she said, and led me through into the kitchen at the back. She shooed a big full-bosomed girl from her pastry-making and sent her upstairs for blankets. Then she told me to strip. I was too far gone to feel any sense of discomfort at her presence. In front of the blazing range I stood and towelled myself down. The warmth and the friction soon restored my circulation.
In the midst of this an old man dressed in a seaman’s cap and jersey came in. He stopped at the sight of me, standing nude before the fire. Then he took the pipe out of his mouth and spat in the coal bucket. ‘’Ullo, ma,’ he said. ‘See yer’ve got company, like.’
I hastened to explain. But he held up his hand. ‘Now why bother to explain,’ he said. ‘Nobody explains things around ’ere, see. They just ’appens. You fell in the river. Orl right. But what I says is the river ’as acquired a fruitier scent than when I last smelt it. So you keep yer explanations to them as wants ’em, me lad.’
There was nothing I could say to that. If I told him the truth, he would never believe me. And if I made up a lie, he wouldn’t believe that either. We just left it at that. I wrapped myself in the blankets that the girl had brought down and, sitting like an Indian in front of the fire, I ran through my sodden garments, removing anything of value that remained in the pockets. Fortunately my wallet was still there. In it were three wet pound notes. And I found two half-crowns and several coppers in the pocket of my trousers.
I looked across at the old man, who had sat himself down on a chair. ‘Have you got any clothes you’d be willing to sell me?’ I asked. I pointed to the pound notes in the wallet. ‘I expect they’ll dry all right, won’t they?’
‘Blimey!’ he said. ‘Where did yer get those?’ Then he picked himself up. ‘Orl right, me lad. Never mind where they comes from. They’ll dry out orl right. But if it’s orl the same to you, I’ll take those two halfcrowns. And in exchange you can ’ave a pair of my old trousers and a sweater.’
He disappeared upstairs. The old woman came and picked up my clothes. ‘You’d better throw those away,’ I said. ‘They’re in a filthy state.’
I saw her gnarled hands fingering the cloth. ‘Throw them away!’ she said. ‘Not likely I won’t. It’ll all come out in the wash. I can see you ’aven’t ’ad anything to do with children.’
And with that, she disappeared with the clothes, leaving me alone with the girl, who had returned to her pastry. I had been conscious of her eyes on me ever since she had returned to find me standing in front of the fire with nothing but a towel round me. ‘You do look funny in that blanket,’ was her opening line.
It was not the best she could have chosen, for I was already conscious enough of my appearance. I looked at her. Her figure was big and clumsy, and she had dark rather sullen features. Beneath her tousled hair was a rather fine pair of brown eyes. She was smiling at me. ‘Tell me wot reely ’appened,’ she said. ‘Did yer get much?’
At that I laughed. ‘Nothing, I’m afraid,’ I said. ‘You see, I raided a big City Bank, and they caught me and shoved me in the vaults. But I broke out into a sewer. I’ve been chased all day through the sewers by four big men in top hats. They all had beards, too,’ I added as an afterthought.
‘Ooh, I don’t believe yer. Yer teasing.’ And she laughed, a husky, rich sound. ‘’Ere, that blanket’s slippin’ orf yer. Wait a minute. I’ll tuck yer up.’
But, as she was wiping the flour off her hands, the old woman came back and she returned sullenly to her pastry. I was not sorry, for a great lethargy was stealing over me, and I was not in the mood to cope with such a wench. A few minutes later the old man came down with trousers, a tattered old vest, a thick blue woollen jersey and a pair of socks carefully darned. He watched over me as I put them on. The jersey was a little on the high side, but who was I to complain, having come straight from the sewers?
The problem of footwear still remained. But the old man, who, now I was clad in his cast-offs, seemed to take a fatherly interest in me, said he knew of a good second-hand clothes dealer in Wapping High. So, a little later, when the notes in my wallet had dried, I entrusted him with one to go and buy me a pair of shoes, size nine, and some sort of a coat. I told him to see to it that there was enough left over to buy himself some tobacco. But I had to assure him repeatedly that the note was genuine before he would agree to run the errand. In the meantime I had a wash and a meal of cold meat and bread and pickles. With it I was given some of the strongest tea I have ever tasted from a big black pot on the hob. It was bitter with tannin, yet I drank three cups, and liked it.
When the old man returned, he brought with him a pair of black boots, ex-service, I guessed, and a tattered old coat of dark-blue serge. He evidently noticed my surprise when he proffered me boots instead of shoes, for he said, ‘Boots is what you’d be wearing in them clothes. Besides, they were reel cheap – only five bob the pair. And you was quite correct – them notes was orl right.’
I was loath to leave the warmth of the fire. But I had much to do. So I thanked them for their kindness and went out into Wapping High Street. My immediate need was a call box. I made my way west along the narrow street. It was still practically deserted, the gaunt grimy faces of the warehouse barred and lifeless. Only round the pubs was there any sign of life. I crossed the bridge over the Hermitage entrance to London Docks and, skirting the blank castlelike walls of St Katherine Docks, I made my way to Tower Hill, where I found a call box. I was thankful to go inside and shut the door. My tattered coat and woollen jersey seemed no protection against the biting wind, and I was deathly tired. I lifted the receiver, inserted two pennies and dialled Whitehall 1212. I was put straight through to Crisham.
‘Is that you, Kilmartin?’ His voice was terse and I was surprised at his use of my surname.
‘Listen, Desmond,’ I said, ‘do you know who controls Calboyds? Is it Baron Marburg?’
‘Well, what of it?’ he demanded. ‘I suppose he has been over-quoting for
the sale of diesel engines to the Government?’
‘So they’ve sent you that statement accusing Terstall of over-quoting for gun turrets, have they?’ I asked.
‘Yes. Who signed that statement?’
‘I did,’ I said. ‘But I was forced to. Their idea was to make me sign a number of absurd statements, so that when, after my death, you were handed my original statement, which dealt with Calboyds, you wouldn’t believe a word of it.’
‘Look here,’ he said, ‘did you ring me up yesterday?’
‘Yes, of course I did. Why?’
‘And on the previous day?’
‘Yes – why?’
‘You said you were coming along to see me yesterday.’
‘Yes, but I couldn’t. I went straight from that call box to the Wendover Hotel. I wanted to frighten Cappock – he’s one of the big Calboyd shareholders – into an admission. But they were waiting for me there. They packed me up in a deed-box and took me along to Marburg’s Bank in Threadneedle Street.’
‘Who is they?’
‘Max Sedel for one. He’s the fellow at whose house John Burston is supposed to have got drunk enough to drive himself over the cliffs at Beachy Head. Actually he was murdered by Sedel. Sedel, for your information, is a Nazi agent.’
The Trojan Horse Page 15
