As he walked the last stretch up the turnpike, the reality of the arrest list gnawed this high mood to tatters of pessimism. Suppose Sarah-Kelly asked him directly whether he had committed atrocities? What on earth would he say? He could not lie into her eyes any more than he could admit the truth. It would be impossible to make her understand the pressure to conform inside the closed society of a barge crew. Equally, it would be useless to ask her forgiveness.
He could only hope she never asked.
*
The turnpike north of Ladbroke fort ascended a mild grade, along the left side of which ran a wall of earth and brick about ten feet high. It was topped by a dense thatch of gorse, wild roses and other natural thorny deterrents. This was the frontier of North Kensington basin. In itself, it was not an especially difficult obstacle for a trained, strong young man like Lawrence to overcome. It was what lay beyond that was dangerous. From comments made by Sarah-Kelly, he knew the communal areas of the basin were patrolled by volunteers from the barging families working in a shift system. To minimise the risk, he needed to get as close as he could to the Newman business before going over the frontier.
Long ago in that previous world of freedom in Oban, Sarah-Kelly had sketched him a map of the location of her family home, just as he had provided her one showing the location of his father’s house within Bloomsbury district. That was in the last days, when he had suspected some kind of backlash was coming—he was thinking in terms of an abrupt transfer—in which respect he was correct, if rather optimistic concerning the conditions. Sarah-Kelly’s map remained clear enough in memory. The Newman business lay adjacent the south-west corner—virtually opposite where he currently was. To reach the section of frontier adjacent the business, he would have to make his way along the Strip, the open area that had been gleaned to provide building materials for the Grande Enceinte. The Strip ran along the back of North Kensington basin, providing a separation of about a quarter mile from the Grande Enceinte.
It was a dangerous place in darkness. The earth vanished—only a crazy grab at a branch spared him a broken leg (or worse) falling into the maw of a cellar hidden by shadows. He hit his shin and sat muttering curses. Cold sweat oozed as he pondered upon how doomed he would have been at the bottom of that hole with a broken leg. Caution slowed him further after that.
About a hundred yards from the south-west corner of the basin frontier, he took off the bow, quiver and knapsack. He hid the bow and quiver in a thicket and used the knapsack as a seat. The risk now was of falling asleep and waking up in daylight. What alarmed him was jolting awake without having any recollection of being drowsy, to see the moon had leaped hours across the sky. The piercing cold kept him awake in the end. He shivered uncontrollably, standing and walking up and down a beat of grass, gloved hands stuffed under his armpits. It was impatience rather than the glow of dawn that drove him to get started.
The frontier wall had been built by the apathetic hands of Night and Fog gangs, the bricks laid without mortar to form two parallel walls about eight feet apart at the top, gradually widening together towards the base rather like two dams laid back-to-back. The trench thus formed between them was filled with rubble and earth. That was the usual way these frontier walls were built. It was not especially difficult to ascend the rough, slightly canted brick face, the really obnoxious deterrence was the turmoil of thorns a couple of yards thick on top.
The only protection he could devise for his eyes was the sling shot. He bound it about his head. He had no shield for his face. He took off the knapsack and tied it to the laces of his left boot. Getting through the prickly thatch atop the wall meant patient feeling and cutting with the pliers, crawling in, feeling and cutting some more, wincing at gorse swipes across the neck and thorns tearing down his cheeks. The heavy Value System gloves were fortunately excellent for gripping and pushing aside the tangle. It was impossible to move in silence with scores of thorns scraping the canvas overalls at any one time. All he could do was shift a bit, pause, shift a bit more, wait for a gust and move. He curved to the left so that when he reached the inside edge he was almost side-on and could lower his legs to drop into grass. After removing the sling shot and putting the knapsack back on, he crouched, gathering the scene. It was getting light. A thick grey screen of first dawn was growing and he could hear work had already started; boots tramped about, someone grumbled and yelled for Stephen you dickhead. A few yards off, a pale roadway ran parallel with the frontier. On the far side of it were the backs of warehouses. The Newmans owned one of the larger businesses of the basin. It occupied the south-west corner position, a favoured location as the corner had been dug out to form a kind of private harbour for them.
Lawrence moved on all fours, pausing to look about and listen. He noticed there were alleys running between the businesses, presumably to provide access around all sides of the properties as well as to separate rivals. He kept in the shadow of the frontier wall, soon finding he was approaching the south-west corner of the frontier where the wall cut north at a right angle. The business now to his right must be the Newman’s. It presented a warehouse backside about two storeys high. Following the road around
