Death in the Air

There is blood all over the pit. The smell is horrific: animal sweat and fear and urine. At least a hundred dead rats lie in gruesome poses, some still quivering. A white bull terrier, covered with blotches of scarlet blood and terrible wounds, shivers on its haunches at the other end, eyeing him, trying to get to its feet, but falling back. Rats are smarter than dogs. He remembers his father telling him that. They are like the crows, hated by others for the way they look, but brilliant in their own way. Perhaps it is fitting that Sherlock should die amongst them. He begins smoothing out his clothing and combing his hair with his fingers.

Then he hears a sound up above.

There is a row of windows in the roof of the building on this floor, probably placed there to provide ventilation for what once was a very close, smelly working area. Bad air causes diseases; good air heals.

The sound doesn’t seem like anything to pay attention to at first. It is barely audible, like a leaf brushing against the glass surface. When Sherlock looks up he can’t even tell which window it is coming from – they are all grimy and opaque, brown like the surface of the Thames.

But then something miraculous happens. Like a moment from one of his dreams…. A window opens.

Someone, or some thing, has lifted it from the outside and propped it ajar. These windows were likely designed to be pushed wide with long poles from down on the floor, here inside.

Then a figure steps through.

It grips the frame and lets its legs hang down. Then it swings and flies just under the ceiling like a bird! Catching a beam, it swings again and flies to another, until it reaches the wall. There, it descends down the crisscrossing iron supports bars like a spider. Finally it lands on the floor, alighting without a sound.

Sherlock stares at the figure. Slowly it emerges out of the shadows at the far end and comes into the light.

The Swallow!

One of his hands is to his lips, cautioning Sherlock to remain absolutely silent, and the other is motioning for him to advance quietly toward him. The bull terrier is too wounded to make a sound. In seconds, the two boys are scaling the wall, the taller one clinging to the acrobat’s back. The building has thick support beams that are suspended across the building about six feet from the peak of the roof. The Swallow mounts one and makes his way along it like Blondin with a passenger on his back. Sherlock closes his eyes. Slowly, they near the window. It isn’t far away from the beam, but the acrobat will have to lean to reach it. He reaches out … and grips the window’s frame, keeping his feet on his “high wire.”

“Hold on,” he whispers.

The Swallow steps off the beam.

For an instant, they hang over the rat pit far below, the trapeze star’s legs swinging in the air. Sherlock’s pulse races and he closes his eyes again, clinging tightly. He understands that his job is to simply hold on. Any sudden movement from him, a jerk or an adjustment, will send them to the floor. He must depend on The Swallow’s expertise … and it is monumental.

The acrobat proceeds to perform a feat of strength that any strongman on any stage in London would be proud of – he lifts both his own body weight and Sherlock’s slowly up to the open window, chinning himself. But from there, he must somehow get the two of them through to the outside.

“Hang on, I have to let go for a second,” he says quietly.

What? thinks Sherlock. But he must trust the other boy. He remains perfectly still.

The Swallow releases one hand for an instant. They begin plummeting. He thrusts the same arm up and gets his elbow through the opening and onto the roof. But he can’t hold on to the tiles.

They start sliding back!

The Swallow then makes a desperate move. He releases the other hand and reaches up with that elbow too. For an instant their heads are through the opening and Sherlock can smell the river in the outside air. He grabs at the tiles and gets a grip, lessening The Swallow’s load.

Together they lift themselves through the opening and onto the roof.

The Swallow puts a finger to his lips again. He closes the window gently and motions for Sherlock to follow him and move the way he does. So off they go on the steep roof, on their hands and knees, heading for the river- side of the building. There, The Swallow indicates a wooden drainage pipe and within minutes both boys are on the ground, running along Rotherhithe Street, back toward central London.

Nothing is said before they reach the Thames Tunnel. The Swallow is running so hard that Sherlock can barely keep up. At the tunnel, the acrobat jimmies the lock, just like the Brixton Gang’s boy had done the night before, and they enter the rotunda and descend the stairs into the underground.

“How did you know I was there? Why did you help me?”

Their footsteps are echoing downward.

“Ain’t you the one who says folks should deal with one question at a time?” says The Swallow, his smile barely evident as they walk into the gloom at the southern end of the corridor, heading toward the pitch black of the center.

“How did you know?” repeats Sherlock.

“I’ve been following you.”

Now Holmes knows why he sensed someone trailing him last night, and near the warehouses this evening.

“You’re a right square bloke, Master ’olmes,” continues The Swallow, his voice echoing along the cylindrical passageway, “treated me right. I intend to be on the square myself, forever. I was worried about you. I knew you wouldn’t stop at just knowing ’ow the crime ’appened. I knew you’d go after … I knew you were a lunatic!”

They both laugh.

“I ’ad information about where the Brixton Gang was ’oled up, but I wouldn’t tell anyone on me own, of course … thieves’ honor … and saving me own neck!”

They laugh again.

“I didn’t see you until I was near the warehouses tonight,” remarks Sherlock.

“That’s because I weren’t following you until then. The night before I picked you up near your guvna’s ’ome, got to worrying when I saw who you was following, and really worried when ’e handed you off to that snake who helps ’em. Tonight, I just lay in wait in Rotherhithe, and sure enough, you comes along. I got up on the roof and watched. When they brought you in, I made me move. I won’t betray me old mates but I won’t let ’em kill a young man such as yourself, either.”

They are in pitch dark now.

“Yes you will,” proclaims Sherlock.

His words sound up and down the tunnel. The Swallow has stopped walking. The two boys can’t see each other.

“I beg your pardon, Master ’olmes?”

“You will betray them.”

There is silence for a moment.

“No, sir, I won’t.”

“I need your help, Johnny. I need you to stand up and be as brave as you are on the flying trapeze.”

“I am brave, sir, but I’m not stupid. In the amusement industry, we don’t do what we do to die. We do it to thrill others and, most importantly, to make a living. It isn’t about doing dangerous things, it’s about doing safe things that look dangerous.”

“You shall help me capture that gang!” insists Sherlock, his voice rising and resounding in the passage, “If you don’t, they will kill more people, innocent people, and keep robbing others.”

Sherlock needs that reward. And he’ll do anything to get it.

“We’re all thieves, Master ’olmes, in a manner of speaking. We’re all evil: unfair to each other, mean-spirited. I’m sure you is no angel. In fact, I know you ain’t.”

It is a comment that angers Sherlock Holmes, perhaps because it is correct.

“That is an excuse!” he snaps. “That’s what crooks and murderers say to justify what they do. I won’t accept it! And I won’t accept you not helping me. Come with me!”

“Where?”

“To Scotland Yard.”