Death in the Air (24 page)

IN WITH THE RATS

B
ut they don’t kill him, at least not yet. He knows, however, that his time is nearly up. Why hadn’t he accepted Bell’s offer of learning fighting techniques? While it may not have enabled him to capture these villains, he might have at least gotten away. If he comes out of this alive, he must ask the old man to teach him. But that seems beside the point – he doubts he will ever see his dear friend again.

The dark-dressed boy’s appearance is clear now. He’s a lad not much older than Sherlock, similar to him in many ways – black-haired, an attempt at respectability in his frayed black coat and hounds-tooth waistcoat. But he isn’t as well turned out as Sherlock. His hair is unkempt, his teeth are dark yellow, almost brown, and there is a vacant, violent look in his eyes. The other four men have the appearance of modern-day pirates. Two have knives tucked into belt buckles, another has a patch over an eye, and he sees glints of gold in their mouths. All keep their hair unusually long, wear loose flannel shirts that were once white, unbuttoned well down their chests, trousers of bright colors, and sport flat straw hats on their heads. And yet,
somehow they are ordinary too, much like any other desperate folk you might see on the street, with appearances that can melt into a crowd.

The two younger gang members, mere youths beside their accomplices, seize Sherlock and roughly haul him up the ladder. On the top floor they pick him up and pitch him head-first into the bloody rat pit. He nearly lands on his face, just getting his hands up in time. He is terrified almost beyond control. He wonders if he will soil his pants. He wants to cry. He wants to throw up. He needs his mother, his father, Sigerson Bell, even Inspector Lestrade. Why hadn’t he at least told the apothecary exactly where he was going? Because … he wasn’t supposed to draw close. The old man didn’t expect him to be in this sort of fatal danger. His recklessness, his
chutzpah
(as the his father calls it) has put him in this situation, like a condemned Fagin in Newgate Prison waiting for the jailers to take him out to the scaffold to be hanged by his neck.

“You shall be disposed of,” says one of the two older thieves, better spoken than the others, perhaps the brains behind the gang.

Sherlock wonders how they will do it.

“But we have a few inquiries to make of you first,” says the other adult. He speaks well too. It is obvious that these two run things. The others – two strong lads – are the thugs.

“We have been aware of you since last night and have had your movements observed,” says the first gang member with a glance at the dark-dressed boy. “We must discover what else you know.”

“Before we carve you up and feed you to the fishies!” barks one of the thugs.

Sherlock wants to know just one thing before that happens.
Was it Malefactor who betrayed him?
But he can’t bring himself to ask. He doesn’t want to say anything that might make them hurt him even sooner than they plan.

“Crowley Sticks, go downstairs with Brim.”

The two young ones descend the ladder with the dark-dressed boy on command – discipline seems to be a strength of this group – leaving the two older men to examine Sherlock. They can see that he is trembling and it makes them smile.

“We shall be discussing matters downstairs and then we shall arise and discuss similar matters with you. Killer will watch you. This room is sealed from the inside. Don’t try anything. Should you attempt an escape, we shall discover it and commence with your fate instantly.”

The first one turns to go.

“Make yourself at home,” says the other.

They both descend and the room is quiet. Sherlock hears them talking down below. His mind reels. What is in store for him? Will they cut off parts of his body, kill him slowly, and make him tell everything he knows as they bring him painfully to his death … over many hours … or days? He wanted to fight evil. Well, evil is here, in this building, and it isn’t what he imagined – it’s far worse – and it has him at its mercy.

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.”

They start walking again, their boots trudging on the hard corridor floor, not saying anything. Soon they emerge into the lighter area and the end of the tunnel appears ahead.

“I ain’t goin’ with you, Master ’olmes,” says The Swallow clearly. “And you can’t make me. I can get away from you and you know it.”

And with that he is off like a dart fired through the passageway. Sherlock is after him instantly. He
must
catch him! He can’t be sure that the police will believe his story on his own – with this famous young star by his side, with the respect he commands, it would be a cinch.

But it is breathtaking how quickly The Swallow gets away. His long strides on the staircases seem to take him upward a-half-dozen paces at a time. By the time Sherlock gets up into the rotunda on the north side, the other boy has disappeared into the dark city.

Sherlock feels like falling down on the muddy foot pavement and crying. The Brixton Gang is sitting there in that Rotherhithe warehouse, ready at any second to ascend to the upper floor, find that he is gone, and flee. And what can he do about it? The clock is ticking.

In times of desperation, he sometimes thinks of his mother. “You have much to do in life” he remembers her saying, her last words before she died. They are seared into his mind.