‘The fuckin’ grate is two feet from us – prepare yourselves, you thieving girls.’
The six behind him slow down, and when Finn gives the signal of his raised hand in the shadows, they come to a dead stop.
Finn shuts the slide on the bullseye lantern that protrudes from the buckle on his belt. Not a ray escapes and they are plunged into a hellish black. His ear is tuned to overhead footfall, but no restless walkers, no drunken brawlers darken the grate. He opens the slide to emit a glow that shines out full strength, chasing the dark away. The men carry on. Their torsos lean forward with the weight of their treasures but their feet cling and sink into the sticky excrement of man and animal, until at last, their legs pull free and they are released. Disgruntled, they trudge forward once more, burdened by their heavy sacks. Three more grates hinder their progress before they approach the concealed exit.
Their watcher kneels by the exit listening for signs of his investment to rise from lower London. And here they are! Gasping for fresh air and so covered in filth that he almost loses his digesting pork chops there on the spot. He will never grow accustomed to it, and this is the reason Finn allows him to be the lookout. He relieves them of the first load until a chain forms and within minutes the cart is loaded, covered, and on its way to the apothecary’s cellar, where there is access to another tunnel passage.
Owen Mockett is upstairs in his bed, exhausted from the evening’s romp with his wife. This is his pact with Finn: Mockett gives access to the river, receives his share of the plunder, and if anything should go wrong he remains the simple apothecary who knows nothing.
The men scatter, having shed their grimy clothes for some poor washerwoman to deal with in the morning. Finn stops at a pump to rinse his hands with what remains of the day’s water, then quickly runs his shoes through the last trickling drops. His eyes dart, looking out for strange followers who may be spies. His gang is intentionally few in number, hardly a gang at all. He courts no competition with the larger gangs who would rather slice each other’s throats than negotiate territory. Nevertheless, he’d be a fool not to be wary.
He struggles with an urge to visit Madam Liesel’s; the German runs the best bawdy house this side of the river. He is instantly aroused with the memory of Anna from Bavaria and that special thing she does to his member that tempts him back tonight. But he feels filthy and smells worse and Madam Liesel would never allow him near her house in this state.
The eastern edge of London never really slumbers. Candlelight suffuses a random spread of front rooms down the streets. He hopes his wife’s little puppet is heating the water for his bath. It’s been three years now since Clovis plucked Willa from the orphan asylum. Christ, what a quivering mass of nerves the girl was.
The heat of the bakehouse interrupts his thoughts and his stomach grumbles as he walks through its steamy door. He reaches into his jacket for a small pack of tobacco for Carson and a measure of lace for the baker’s wife.
‘All right there, Carson?’
With outstretched blistered arms the baker presents his offering with a lukewarm greeting. In the early hours of the morning the basket full of warm bread is company to two large meat pies and one of Carson’s special cakes made with the sugar Finn traded with him last week.
Across the street the shadow of a man in a dark-brown suit is drawn on the cobblestones from the dull glow of a single street lamp. The outline of his tired, black topper elongates as he turns away when Finn leaves the bakehouse. The dark-brown suit moves on. The baker spits after Finn’s departure.
The thrill of Finn’s rich booty and the heady satisfaction of a smooth run are wearing off, leaving him tired and hungry. The shutters of his front windows are closed but he can just make out a strip of light in the joins. He gives the signal of four raps in quick succession followed by a pause and one single knock.
The hour is three in the morning but no one is asleep in the Fowler household. On the evenings when Finn makes a run they call his time away ‘the dark hours’. Never knowing if he’ll be snatched by the paws of the newly formed Metropolitan Police – how bloody inconvenient of them – or meet his end at the hands of violence, those who depend on his risky occupation anxiously await his safe return.
Willa opens the door and stands well back. Her master reeks this morning. She has saved enough water for a good wash and he follows her straight to the kitchen where under her watchful eye the water simmers in a big pot over the fire.
Clovis appears and stands quietly in the frame of the door. She motions for Willa to leave them. As a precaution she still wears her day dress during the dark hours when Finn is away in the event there’s call for a swift departure. Her hair is unpinned and falls down in thick waves to settle on a fabric of midnight-blue.
‘All is well?’
‘If Jonesy is back, then yes.’ He pours a pitcher of water over his head savouring its journey down his body to the stone floor.
‘He has returned. Everything is safe with Mockett.’
‘What is that?’ He
