Michael Gallagher's Blog - Posts Tagged "thames-tunnel"

Getting in was easy. The biggest key opened the main door. Once I was in, I locked it behind me and lit the candle I’d bought. I thought the turnstile might prove problematic, but for some reason the mechanism had been disengaged, and now it turned freely. By simple trial and error I found the key to the shaft, unlocked the door, and made my way down the stairs.

It was extraordinary the transformation that had taken place in little under an hour. Before the Thames Tunnel had seemed like a fairground; now, minus the gaslights, the organ, and the ebb and flow of the patrons, it felt more like an empty crypt. The only sound to be heard was the occasional pitter-patter of the river raining down from above.

I retraced my steps down the right-hand passage, keeping my wary eyes peeled. The marble counters had been cleared of their merchandise, so it was hard to gauge the distance I’d come. Ahead of me lay the coffee shop, its tables now bare. Though I had no idea where the rest of the tat had gone, I knew exactly where the coffee shop’s provisions were stored, for I’d kept a careful eye on the waiter every time he went to fetch more cakes.

I sent up a quick prayer to St. Quentin, patron saint of locksmiths, that one of my new-found keys would fit the storeroom door, for though there may be no swifter, slipperier pickpocket in all of London, I have to admit to a certain ham-fistedness when it comes to picking locks. I knew the theory, of course, but had always had a tough time putting it into practice.

I found the key on the fifth try, and felt the bolt slide back as the teeth engaged. Cautiously I prized open the door and took a look inside.

Running parallel with the tunnel, the room was narrow and long. It smelled overwhelmingly of coffee, and as I shone my candle around I spied a large cast-iron coffee grinder in the corner. Most of the space was taken up with shelving on which dozens of cakes—mainly Dundee cakes and Bakewell tarts—were stored. Further down there were bottles; fortified wines, by the looks of things.

Suddenly I heard a moan—a low muffled keening that originated at the far end of the room. I made my way towards it, and found Bertha trussed up like a chicken, with both his hands shackled to the wall. One side of his face had been beaten, so it was a bloodied, swollen eye that stared up at me in surprise.

“Octopus?” he said, once I’d fished out the filthy tea towel that was crammed in his mouth. “Wot the hell are you doing ’ere?”

“It looks as if I’m saving your hide,” I replied, glancing over my shoulder at the array of bottles.
“’Ere, where you going?” he demanded, when I left him to collect a few bits and pieces. I returned a moment later with a bottle of port and a knife.

“Careful with that,” he kept squawking, as I sawed through his ropes. “Oi! That’s my arm, that is!”

“Stop complaining! Here, take a swig of this.” I opened the bottle and held it to his lips. He drank noisily, guzzling the plummy, sweet liquid with obvious relish.

“Ooh, that feels better,” he sighed. “Now, how’s about getting me out of these?” He raised his shackled wrists to show me his handcuffs. Grimly I stared at the lock.

“Prepare yourself, Bertha. This may take me some time.”

It did, even when I’d found a nail to use as a pick. Back in the day, I really should have paid more attention to Billy the Shim when he tried to instruct me in the mysterious ways of locks. No slower, sloppier lock-pick in all of London hasn’t quite the same ring to it as my regular sobriquet, as true as it undoubtedly is.

Between Bertha’s many calls for further refreshment and my own frequent breaks to prevent my fingers cramping, I have no real idea how long it took me—but by the time I’d finally managed to spring the catch, my hands were aching, Bertha was paralytic, and the candle had burned to a stump.

“Here, Bertha, put your arm around my shoulder.”

I slipped a few choice items from the shelves into my jacket, and then, supporting him as best I could, we staggered to the door. But as it swung open I instinctively drew back.

Something was clearly wrong. The gaslights were lit, and one quick glance was all it took to establish that Bertha and I were no longer alone. When I say that there were young women on the counters, I mean they were literally seated on the counters. And parading back and forth in front of them, eager to sample their wares, were seedy, drooling men of all shapes and sizes—and of all ages and manner of dress, come to that.

Bertha began to giggle. “Looks like the night shift’s begun.”

“Night shift?”

“The Fair Maids of Wapping. ’Ospitality offered to gentry and sailors alike, every night except Sundays.” The words came out in intoxicated fits and starts. “Nice touch, that, about the Sundays—makes it look real proper. All Johnny’s idea.”

“Johnny?”

“You remember Johnny!”

I shook my head.

“Nah, ’course you do, Octopus. Johnny Knight. Goes by the name Johnny Full Moon these days—Johnny Full-Moon-Every-Bleedin’ Knight.”

“Johnny Knight’s running things now?”

Bertha nodded.

Oh, I remembered Johnny, all right. We’d risen up through the ranks together—me because of my skills; Johnny because he took risks…lunatic risks—hence the reference to the full moon, I imagined. Even when I eventually came to outrank him, I was always wary of Johnny, for Johnny Knight wasn’t just some mad risk-taker, he also had a nasty vicious streak. What, I wondered, had become of Ned, the man who’d been in charge when I was around?

“Bertha, listen; this is important! Will Johnny be here tonight?”

“Might be. Wot day’s it?”

“It’s a Tuesday.”

“Then, nah, nah, he won’t be. Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays, they’re market days, see. He’ll be at the Bucket of Blood, overseeing ’is fights.”

“But these girls…they all work for Johnny?” They’d be bound to notice a fourteen-year-old boy and a man in a dress in their midst. The question was, what would they do about it?

As if reading my thoughts, Bertha pulled his shawl across the lower half of his face and steered me rather drunkenly into the tunnel.

“Concentrate, Octopus!” he whispered in my ear. “You’re an omi and I’m a palone,” by which he meant that I was a man and he was a woman. “Wot’s more natural than a young omi like yourself desiring my company for the evening? We’re just taking little walk together, see, to find some place a bit more private? Who could object to that?”

His plan seemed to be working. We’d made it all the way to the shaft before anyone clocked that something was amiss. The girl I’d requested a receipt from, the one with the auburn tresses, spotted me and began raising all hell.

“What’s he doing down here?” she shrieked, pointing in my direction. But the client she was with wasn’t having it; he clearly had other things on his mind. He grabbed her wrists, forced himself on top of her, and started smothering her cries with his kisses. The more she protested the more passionate he became. As quickly as I could—which was not quickly at all—I bundled Bertha up the stairs.

I had no idea what I would find at the top, but I prayed that it wouldn’t be the chap whose keys I had lifted. It wasn’t. It was some oily-haired toad-of-a-man, who, according to Bertha’s overly-loud whisperings, ran the ticket booth in the Rotherhithe shaft.

Now I had the problem of what I was going to do with Bertha, who’d begun to nod in and out of consciousness. I needed him to answer my questions, so I needed him sober and awake. My only option, it seemed, was to take Bertha home with me. As foolish and risky as this proposition appeared, I felt I had no other choice.

Reeling under his weight, I propelled him back towards the main road. I had very little money left, and doubted that any cabbies in this neck of the woods would recognize me as Mr. Bruff’s office boy and offer to take my fare on account. But I had a plan. First I had to find a cab—easier said than done—then I had to convince the driver to take us back to the Cally Road, a distance of some few miles, in exchange for a bottle of port. In the end I had to throw in a Dundee cake as well, to sweeten what was already a very good deal.

“Oh, Octopus, Octopus!” moaned Bertha, as Julius helped me to lower him on to my bed-roll an hour or so later.

“Why is he calling you that?” asked Julius, his eyes fixed nervously on Bertha. “And why is he wearing a dress?”

“Perhaps he’s in disguise,” I suggested, hoping that this might satisfy his curiosity.

“It’s not a very good disguise, Octavius.”

Looking down at the large, clumsy figure with the battered face, I could only agree. “No, it isn’t, is it? The truth is, Julius, Bertha thinks he’s a woman.”

“But he’s not a woman.”

“No, I know he’s not. But just try to understand that he thinks he is.”

My brother took a moment to consider this. “I’ll try. I’m not sure it will work, though,” he added, as Bertha started to snore.

“Hungry?” I asked, as I produced a second Dundee cake from my jacket.

“Starved!”

I cut two massive wedges and his smile became animated once more. As we ate, I quizzed him about the ‘panic word’ I had drilled into him from a very early age. With Bertha in our midst, my former life was now too close for comfort.

“Do you mean ‘Unnecessary’?” he said, his smile fading fast. “I don’t have to write it again, do I?”

“No, no,” I reassured him, remembering every bungled attempt that had featured too many c’s, and not enough n’s or s’s. “I just want to be sure that you’re clear about what you’re to do if I ever use that word in your hearing.”

“I’m meant to run, Octavius. Run as fast as I possibly can.”

I smiled. “And what are you supposed to do then?”

“Hide myself until night falls, then make my way back here.”
“And then?”
“Well, if you’re not here, or it’s not safe, or you don’t return by morning, I’m meant to go to Gray’s Inn Square and present myself to your employer, Mr. Bruff.”

“And if anyone tries to stop you from entering the building?”

“I dash past them—whoever they are. I run up the stairs and find Mr. Bruff’s office, which is halfway along the corridor. I knock respectfully—unless I’m being chased, in which case I rush in.”

“And what do you tell Mr. Bruff?”

“I tell him that I am your brother Julius, and that something bad has happened to you. If he doesn’t believe I’m your brother, I tell him to look at my eyes, for they should be proof enough.”

I beamed at him. “Here, I have a present for you,” I said, and handed over the pencil.

“Oh, thank you, Octavius! I love it! What does it say?”

“It says ‘Souvenir of the Thames Tunnel’”

“Does that mean we have to do a word tonight?” He glanced uneasily at Bertha.

“No, it’s late. You should get some sleep.”

Julius collected his bed-roll and laid it out as far away from Bertha as he could manage. I briefly considered falling asleep in my chair, but then thought better of it. I fetched my winter coat off the peg, spread it out like a rug in front of the door, and stretched out on top of it. If Bertha woke before me, there was no way he was getting out of here without waking me first.

In the event, I needn’t have worried, for it was Julius who woke me when he was leaving for work. Bertha was also awake. He sat slumped over the table, cradling his head in his hands. He glanced up at me as I joined him, and let out a mournful groan.

“’E’s got your ogles” he said, gingerly tracing the cut on his cheek with the tip of his finger. “Is ’e your brother, then? If he ain’t, he ought to be. ’E’s like this tiny, little you. Oh, gawd, me head bleedin’ hurts!”

“Who did this to you, Bertha?”

“That omi…the one wot calls himself ‘The Client’.”

“What on earth did you do to make him beat you and chain you up?”

“I don’t know, do I? Johnny sent me to give him a message. I give him his message—and everything’s sweet—then all of a sudden he turns round and whacks me in the face!”

“What message, Bertha?”

“Well, you know, just what you told me…how it’s really the old lady wot’s got the duggairiotype now. And I says, ‘It must be a damned good likeness, to go to this much trouble getting it back.’ Next thing you know, he whacks me in the eek!” Bertha sniffed. “They’re not always bona likenesses, see, and I know that for a fact. You remember Pan-faced Dora? The palone with the mole, wot she claimed was a beauty spot?”

I was forced to admit that I did. There’d been a cruel, heartless saying about Dora’s beauty spot, how it was in fact the only spot of beauty that Dora possessed.

“Well, each week Dora would put a little something aside from her earnings, and, when she’d saved up enough, she and ’er girlfriend went and got their pictures took. When she showed it to me, I couldn’t believe me ogles. Dora’s mole had upped and moved itself over to the other cheek! Never told her, mind. It would have had her spitting nails.”

“Bertha, I need you to be honest with me…it really wasn’t you who put the daguerreotype in the old lady’s handbag?”

Bertha sighed and shook his head. “Of course it wasn’t, Octopus. I was the one wot was meant to lift it, see? But I never got the chance. The mark must’ve ditched it in the old girl’s bag, so, when it came down to it, she never had it on ’er.”

“The mark?”

“The girl—the one we was meant to follow. The feelie palone wot was carrying the duggairiotype round with her.”

“Girl? What girl?”

He tutted. “The one wot works as a lady’s maid. She was the one that the Client hired us to lift it from.”

Lady’s maid? Surely he couldn’t be talking about Miss Penelope? No, it was unthinkable. And yet, when I did think about it, it was the only way that this thing made sense.

Though I still couldn’t quite bring myself to believe it fully, I was sure of one thing. Bertha was telling me the truth.

Gooseberry continues next Friday, August 1st.
Copyright Michael Gallagher 2014.
You can follow Michael’s musings on the foolhardiness of this project. Just click on this link to his blog: Writing Gooseberry, but be warned, as this week’s post reflects on the process of writing, it contains spoilers.

So what did you think? Did you love it, or hate it? Did you find any typos or continuity errors? Please let me know—use the comment box below.