A Very Unusual Pursuit (7 page)
And she went to demonstrate how important she really was.
‘Keep yer wits about you,’ Alfred murmured. ‘For I’m not easy in me mind, on account o’ the breeze.’
Birdie gave a nod. Though Alfred had used heavy bits of junk to weigh down his ring of rags, a strong gust of wind could easily ruffle it. And if that happened, the salt circle might be broken – in more than one place.
‘Bill says as how the wind’ll not freshen, but he ain’t no seafarer,’ Alfred continued quietly. ‘If we wait too long, and too much damp is in the air—’
‘We might have to stop,’ Birdie finished. She knew that their salt had to remain perfectly pure, unadulterated by water or dust or anything else that might weaken its magical properties.
‘A strong wind will carry yer voice away, as well as the salt. I told Bill that, but he’d not hear o’ waiting.’ With a glance at the three faces hanging above him, Alfred added in an undertone, ‘I warned him it’d cost another sixpence to bring us back tomorrow. He never so much as blinked.’
By this time Birdie was looking at the muddy patch in the centre of the circle. ‘No shoes for me,’ she said. ‘I’ll move quicker in this bog without shoes.’
‘But not so quick that you’ll slip and fall,’ Alfred warned her. ‘And you should raise those skirts, lass. We mustn’t take no chances.’
It was good advice. Birdie didn’t want her trailing hem to brush against a fold of cloth and dislodge the salt. So she tucked her skirt up into her waistband and took off her shoes – which she then gave to Miss Eames, at the top of the stairs.
‘I’d not leave me shoes alone for one minute,’ Birdie announced. ‘The rats’d take ’em, if no one else did.’
‘But what are you
doing
?’ Miss Eames demanded, in a voice that was much too loud.
Birdie put a finger to her lips. ‘I’m the bait,’ she muttered in reply. ‘I’ll draw the bogle into our trap.’ As Miss Eames blinked and frowned, Birdie softly said to Bill Crabbe, ‘Mr Bunce wants you down the street a portion, Mr Crabbe, on account o’ your coughing will afright the bogle.’
Bill scowled. ‘If ah cannot see thee work,’ he protested, ‘how will ah know tha’rt earning thy fee?’
‘Because
I’ll
be a-watching,’ Ned piped up. He turned to Birdie and asked, ‘How will you kill the bogle, once it’s bin caught?’
‘I’ll not kill nothing,’ Birdie said. ‘It’s Mr Bunce as does all that.’ She pointed to where Alfred was positioning himself near the sewer-pipe, weapon in hand. ‘He has Finn MacCool’s spear, see.’
‘
Finn MacCool’s spear
?’ Miss Eames’s expression changed, from mild distress to pure astonishment. ‘You mean the Poisonous Point that killed the fire-breathing Aillen at Tara, in the Irish legend?’
‘Umm . . . yes. That’s the one.’ Birdie had never heard of Aillen – or Tara. But she boldly laid claim to them anyway, having decided that Miss Eames probably knew more about ancient history than she did. ‘Ain’t no other weapon in the world could kill a bogle like this ’un.’
‘Must be worth a bob or two,’ Bill Crabbe remarked. Though there wasn’t a trace of calculation in his tone, Birdie glared at him fiercely.
‘That spear is poisoned,’ she hissed, ‘and needs an artful hand to ply it.’
Bill sniffed. Then he turned on his heel and began to trudge away, coughing as if he had a ball of glue lodged in his throat. Miss Eames, whose forehead was creased into lines of doubt and concern, suddenly said, ‘And where will
you
be, Birdie? In the centre of that circle?’
‘Yes.’
‘With your back to the bogle’s lair?’
Birdie was surprised. ‘Yes,’ she said again, wondering how Miss Eames had worked
that
out.
‘So you never even see any bogles?’ Before Birdie could explain that she always used a little mirror, Miss Eames continued, ‘This all seems rather dangerous, dear, even if . . . well . . .’ Miss Eames paused for a moment, catching herself on a thought that she apparently didn’t want to share. Then she changed tack. ‘You must get very frightened, at times like this.’
‘
Frightened?
’ Birdie drew herself up to her full height. ‘I ain’t
never
frightened!’
‘Yes, but—’
‘I’m a bogler’s girl!’
‘But a very young one, still. A child of your age – what are you, eight years old? To use an eight-year-old child as bait for a monster—’
‘I’m ten!’ Birdie snapped.
‘
Ten
?’ From the shock in Miss Eames’s voice, it was clear that she had been misled by Birdie’s delicate bones and small stature. Birdie understood this at once.
‘I may be little,’ she retorted, ‘but I’m quick and I’m strong! Ain’t no bogle never got the better o’ me!’
By now Alfred was beckoning to her furiously, so she scampered back downstairs before Miss Eames could delay her with further questions. Though she
was
feeling a little scared, Birdie had no intention of showing it. Despite the fact that she had to pick her way barefoot through an obstacle course of half-submerged splinters, she managed to toss a carefree grin at her audience. And as she removed her little hand-mirror from its pocket, she used it to tease Ned, flashing sunlight into his eyes so that he had to shield them from the glare.
Now that she was close to it, the sewer-pipe looked bigger than she had expected. It was nearly as tall as she was, and darker than a chimney. But she turned her back on it without a moment’s hesitation, keeping her chin up and her shoulders back. Then, mindful of the doubts expressed by Miss Eames, she chose a song as brave as a war-cry.
Silvy, Silvy, all on one day
She dressed herself in man’s array,
A sword and pistol by her side.
To meet her true love, away she did ride.
Framed in her hand-mirror, the pipe yawned like a great, wet mouth. Alfred lurked to one side of it, holding his salt and his spear. A trickle of muck had worn a channel down to the water, but this shallow ditch didn’t pass through the magic circle. Alfred had been careful to place his trap to the east of the ditch, where no discharge would threaten his precious salt.
Conscious that she was being observed by at least four pairs of eyes, Birdie tried to concentrate on the ones that weren’t human. She watched for a glint in the darkness behind her as she sang.
And as she were riding over the plain.
She met her true love and bid him stand.
‘Yer gold and silver, kind sir,’ she said,
‘Or else this moment yer life I’ll have.
’
Still nothing stirred in the depths of the pipe. The sun beat down. The water slapped and gurgled. The boats and barges ploughed past Birdie in both directions, while distant masts swayed gently, like treetops. But Birdie didn’t even glance up from her mirror. She stood shifting from foot to foot, making sure to loosen the mud that was sucking at their soles.
Though she could feel an intermittant breeze grazing her cheek, she tried not to worry that it was carrying her voice in the wrong direction. She could hear enough of the hobblers’ shouts and ships’ bells to know that somewhere in the sewer, hidden away like a snake in a burrow, the bogle must be listening to snatches of her song, even if it couldn’t make out every word.
Oh, when she’d robbed him of all his store,
She says, ‘Kind sir, there’s one thing more,
A golden ring which I know you have;
Deliver it, yer sweet life to save.
’
There was a stench in the air, as fitful as the breeze. At first it made Birdie anxious. She knew that bogles often stank like a tanner’s privy, and she was filled with dread every time the horrible stink assaulted her nostrils. Gradually, however, she realised that the river itself was what smelled so bad. Its evil breath was almost choking her.
But still she managed to sing.
‘
The golden ring a token is;
My life I’ll lose, the ring I’ll save!’
Being tender-hearted just like a dove,
She rode away from her true love.
Birdie was trying not to worry about the river in front of her, even though she couldn’t swim. Then, as she paused to draw breath, she noticed something. The muck dribbling out of the pipe was changing colour, from greenish-brown to pitch-black.
She tensed every muscle, struggling to keep her voice steady.
Next morning in the garden green,
Just like true lovers they was seen.
He spied his watch hanging by her clothes,
Which made him blush just like a rose.
The black tide of sewage was like a carpet unrolling in front of the bogle, which started to emerge from the pipe very slowly and haltingly. It was as if a huge wad of sludge and hair had been dislodged from the sewers, and was now oozing its way down to the Thames, pushed along by a trickle of foul water. Only as it approached Birdie did the big, formless dollop begin to unfurl, sprouting limbs like tentacles.
Birdie, however, stood fast and kept singing – even when she heard someone shriek in the distance.
‘
What makes you blush, you silly thing?
I thought to have had yer golden ring!
’
Twas I as robbed you on the plain
So here’s yer watch and gold again!
’
Birdie had learned to keep her eyes firmly fixed on Alfred, so she didn’t really get a good look at the thing that was creeping towards her. She saw that it was black, with half a dozen limbs, but she couldn’t tell if it was furred or scaly, thanks to the thick layer of slime that coated its misshapen form. It moved as silently as a snail, while Alfred remained motionless.
Come on
, she thought.
What are you waiting for?
Then she realised that the bogle still hadn’t entered their trap, though its long arms were already reaching for her. And she suddenly wondered: just how long
were
those arms? Were they long enough to pull her out of the magic circle?
She had to swallow before launching into the next verse.
‘
I did intend and it was to know
If you was me one true love, or no.
For if you’d gave me that ring,’ she said,
‘I’d have pulled the trigger and shot you
—’
‘Now!’ Alfred cried, lunging. Birdie jumped out of the circle and bolted.
By the time she felt safe enough to look back, the bogle was already dead.
It was melting into the mud like fat in a pan. As the hummock of black slime sank lower and lower, its edges expanded, swamping the ring of salt and forming little pools of stuff that reminded Birdie of creosote, or coal tar. Some of this oily liquid soaked into the ground. Some of it poured down the sewer-channel, into the river.
Within half a minute there was nothing left of the bogle except a black stain, a faint sizzling noise, and a lingering smell of burnt rubber and rotten eggs.
‘
Oi! Bunce! Are you finished?
’ Ned shouted. ‘
For yer friend is taken bad, up here!’
Startled, Birdie glanced towards the quayside – where Miss Eames had fainted dead away.
‘It was real!’ Miss Eames squawked, the instant she woke up again. ‘The monster! It exists!’
She was lying on the ground, next to her overturned basket. Her head was pillowed in Ned’s lap. Though her hat had fallen off, Ned had picked it up and was fanning her with it.
Birdie knelt close by, collecting all the coins and books and handkerchiefs that had spilled out onto the pavement.
‘That’s right, miss,’ she said, then called to Alfred, who was still gathering up his equipment. ‘
You got any brandy, Mr Bunce?’
‘
I
got gin,’ Bill offered. He had rushed to help Miss Eames. ‘It’s for my cough, like.’
‘You can’t give gin to a
lady
,’ Birdie growled.
But Miss Eames was already struggling to sit up. Raising her head, she croaked, ‘I saw it! I saw the beast!’
‘Yes, but it’s dead now, miss,’ Birdie assured her soothingly, before rounding on all the strangers who had gathered to stare. ‘Ain’t you got nothing better to do than gawp like dead fish, you pack o’ shirksters?’
‘It was
there
! It was
real
!’ Miss Eames quavered. ‘I never thought – I didn’t believe – oh, Birdie, how
dreadful!’
‘Here.’ Alfred had reached her side, at long last, and was trying to thrust his flask of brandy under her nose. ‘Take a sip o’ this, why don’t you?’
‘No, no.’ She waved it aside as she struggled to her feet. ‘I’m perfectly well. It was the shock.
Please
don’t make a fuss.’
‘Got any smelling salts on you, miss?’ said Birdie. ‘Only I can’t find none in yer basket.’
‘Birdie, I have never fainted before in my life,’ Miss Eames declared. Though her voice was still wobbly, it was gaining strength. She was also standing on her own two feet again – with Bill Crabbe’s assistance. ‘I don’t carry smelling salts because I don’t generally require them.’
‘Is there a respectable place hereabouts where she can lay?’ Alfred asked Bill, who frowned and said, ‘Not that ah know of. The Jolly Tar’s a lushery, if ever there was one.’
‘We can’t take her to a public house.’ Alfred directed a baleful look at the dock labourers and watermen hovering in their vicinity. ‘Not around here.’
‘I am
perfectly well
,’ Miss Eames insisted. ‘All I need to do is sit on that step for a few minutes.’ She lurched towards the stone stairs that led down to the river, shaking off Bill Crabbe as she retrieved her hat. Birdie followed her. While Alfred buttonholed the tosher, demanding his fee, Birdie joined Miss Eames on the top step, settling down beside her with the basket and a couple of shrewd questions.
‘Did you not believe us, miss? Did you think me and Mr Bunce was running a racket?’
‘Oh, no, Birdie, not
you
,’ Miss Eames replied. ‘I know you’re an honest girl, and a brave one.’
‘But you thought he were flamming me,’ Birdie insisted. ‘Ain’t that so?’
Miss Eames shook her head. ‘Not exactly,’ she said, reaching for her handkerchief. ‘Mr Bunce has a living to make. I never doubted his beliefs. I simply wondered if he might be exaggerating his own abilities . . .’ She broke off, then wiped her eyes and blew her nose. ‘Oh dear, oh dear, what a frightful thing. Remarkable, of course – quite extraordinary – but how horrible, all the same!’