out. But somehow, now I’ve taken charge, I know that ain’t gonna happen.
“Thank you, Cass,” Erin goes at last.
“Not a word about any flinder malarkey to him, yeah? Kid’s got enough spooky ideas as it is, and I don’t want him getting hurt, all right? But listen up, I swear to God, when this is over tonight, you tell me the whole shebang. Agreed?”
Peyto smiles. “Agreed.”
IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF LOOTERS
W ilbur shows up on the nose of ten minutes, and we all clamber into the back of the cart. By now I’ve figured what to say to my brother about the mission. His excited little face is hanging on my every word.
“Now, listen up. Peyto’s gone and dropped his cash bag on the job and we’re gonna get it back.”
Wilbur searches my eyes. “How come we don’t just get it tomorrow?”
“Cos it’s too risky! It’s everything they’ve got, and if we ain’t careful, some nosy gangmaster rooting about first thing’s gonna snaffle it up.”
He nods, but I can tell he’s seeing right through me and out the other side. Cos Peyto and Erin ain’t the sort to even have a cash bag. They’ve never grafted for money their whole lives. Still, Wilbur takes it on board, even gives me a cheesy grin.
So I gee up Sheba and we’re off. It’s a windy night with no clouds to spoil the moon. The stars swim and hoverwhen you squint at them, like the sparkles of coins at the bottom of our well. But I clock that Peyto and Erin ain’t interested in any of that. They spend the journey glued to Sheba’s swaying flanks, the flick of her tail, her wheezy progress along the north track. At one point, Erin reaches out and touches the old nag’s rump – just gently, like a kid does. Sometimes in the distance we can make out other villages – huddles of lamplight and the faint burble of people rabbiting. No one says a word. There’s something about this caper that makes me think it’s just a game – that we’ll only get as far as Blackfriars or one of the other bridges, and it’ll dawn on us that it’s nuts to go any farther.
For the last few hundred yards before the river, we leave Sheba and go on foot, away from the track and up onto one of the slag mounds. All along the dark reach of water, we can see the still-standing bridges picked out with searchlights. To the right, the remains of the old Millennium Walkway and Southwark. In front of us, the arches of Blackfriars. And to the left, as the river swings round, Waterloo. Even from here, I can make out the figures of Vlad sentries moving about near the busted railings of the bridge ahead.
“Ain’t no good. We’ll never get past them guards.”
“What about a boat or something?” goes Peyto.
“Nah, there ain’t no boats here. People ain’t allowed on the river this far up.”
“Maybe we could swim,” goes Erin.
I look at her like she’s lost it. “You seen the current? You’d be down to the dogs soon as you dipped your toe in. Anyhow, even if you was a decent swimmer, it’s way too cold. You wouldn’t last five minutes.”
“Just an idea,” she goes, all sulky.
“The tunnel,” whispers Wilbur. “You know – the Jubilee one.”
“Nah, it’s got to be flooded. The tunnel’s lower than the river –”
“No, the water’s drained away – not completely, but there’s like a gap near the roof.”
“What kind of cobblers is that, you spod? How can it drain away? There ain’t no tides no more with the Great Barrier holding the sea back.”
“It’s not a tide that does it. It’s the pumps – there’s loads of them on the north side dredging the old Underground tunnels. They run all day, but they work much harder at night when all the crushers are shut down.”
I look at him. “How on Earth d’you know all that?”
“Heard Gramps say once.”
He’s all shy then. Wilbur’s so quiet most of the time, you forget he’s there. But when people are yabbering, he never misses a trick.
“Makes no odds,” I go at last. “If it
“Thank you, Cass,” Erin goes at last.
“Not a word about any flinder malarkey to him, yeah? Kid’s got enough spooky ideas as it is, and I don’t want him getting hurt, all right? But listen up, I swear to God, when this is over tonight, you tell me the whole shebang. Agreed?”
Peyto smiles. “Agreed.”
IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF LOOTERS
W ilbur shows up on the nose of ten minutes, and we all clamber into the back of the cart. By now I’ve figured what to say to my brother about the mission. His excited little face is hanging on my every word.
“Now, listen up. Peyto’s gone and dropped his cash bag on the job and we’re gonna get it back.”
Wilbur searches my eyes. “How come we don’t just get it tomorrow?”
“Cos it’s too risky! It’s everything they’ve got, and if we ain’t careful, some nosy gangmaster rooting about first thing’s gonna snaffle it up.”
He nods, but I can tell he’s seeing right through me and out the other side. Cos Peyto and Erin ain’t the sort to even have a cash bag. They’ve never grafted for money their whole lives. Still, Wilbur takes it on board, even gives me a cheesy grin.
So I gee up Sheba and we’re off. It’s a windy night with no clouds to spoil the moon. The stars swim and hoverwhen you squint at them, like the sparkles of coins at the bottom of our well. But I clock that Peyto and Erin ain’t interested in any of that. They spend the journey glued to Sheba’s swaying flanks, the flick of her tail, her wheezy progress along the north track. At one point, Erin reaches out and touches the old nag’s rump – just gently, like a kid does. Sometimes in the distance we can make out other villages – huddles of lamplight and the faint burble of people rabbiting. No one says a word. There’s something about this caper that makes me think it’s just a game – that we’ll only get as far as Blackfriars or one of the other bridges, and it’ll dawn on us that it’s nuts to go any farther.
For the last few hundred yards before the river, we leave Sheba and go on foot, away from the track and up onto one of the slag mounds. All along the dark reach of water, we can see the still-standing bridges picked out with searchlights. To the right, the remains of the old Millennium Walkway and Southwark. In front of us, the arches of Blackfriars. And to the left, as the river swings round, Waterloo. Even from here, I can make out the figures of Vlad sentries moving about near the busted railings of the bridge ahead.
“Ain’t no good. We’ll never get past them guards.”
“What about a boat or something?” goes Peyto.
“Nah, there ain’t no boats here. People ain’t allowed on the river this far up.”
“Maybe we could swim,” goes Erin.
I look at her like she’s lost it. “You seen the current? You’d be down to the dogs soon as you dipped your toe in. Anyhow, even if you was a decent swimmer, it’s way too cold. You wouldn’t last five minutes.”
“Just an idea,” she goes, all sulky.
“The tunnel,” whispers Wilbur. “You know – the Jubilee one.”
“Nah, it’s got to be flooded. The tunnel’s lower than the river –”
“No, the water’s drained away – not completely, but there’s like a gap near the roof.”
“What kind of cobblers is that, you spod? How can it drain away? There ain’t no tides no more with the Great Barrier holding the sea back.”
“It’s not a tide that does it. It’s the pumps – there’s loads of them on the north side dredging the old Underground tunnels. They run all day, but they work much harder at night when all the crushers are shut down.”
I look at him. “How on Earth d’you know all that?”
“Heard Gramps say once.”
He’s all shy then. Wilbur’s so quiet most of the time, you forget he’s there. But when people are yabbering, he never misses a trick.
“Makes no odds,” I go at last. “If it
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