The Unquiet Heart Read online

  “That’s true,” I said. “We could be wasting our time tonight, but you’ll get paid for turning up. I agreed with Tommy Chandler that if nothing happens this time, you’ll still get a couple of quid each. The bonus – twenty a man – gets paid when – if – we nail these bastards and stop the thieving.”

  “Sounds fair enough to me,” chipped in Stan Berry. We all reckoned Stan’s mom had slept with a Jack Russell. He was five foot nothing, wiry, and kept his hair short and spiky. He couldn’t sit still on his scrawny arse for longer than two seconds. For the last twenty minutes he’d wriggled and twisted like he had fleas. But this was the guy who’d bailed out of his burning Lancaster over Cologne, spent six months in a German POW hospital before escaping on crutches through the lines to France, then Spain, and took the next seat on the next Lancaster to bomb the bastards again. For the crap food, he said.

  I would put these three men up against a gang ten times their strength and still bet my house on them. If I had a house. But it was important never to get all four of us in the same pub. Unless they were watering the beer.

  “Right. You all know your job. Midge takes one boat, Cyril takes the other. I’ll be with Midge, Stan goes with Cyril. And remember – no killing! This isn’t Jerry. Hear that, Cyril? No knives, no garrotting, and absolutely no guns.”

  “What if they’ve got ’em?” asked Cyril, disappointed.

  “Or there are ten of them,” chipped in Stan.

  “You’ve got surprise and experience on your side.”

  “You sound like my old sergeant major just before he sent us out against a Panzer unit,” said Cyril.

  “What happened?” asked Stan.

  “We lost,” said Cyril dryly.

  “Still, we’ve got these.” Midge picked up one of the pickaxe handles he’d brought and thwacked it into his hand with a ringing smack.

  “But try not to brain them, fellas, OK? We want to hand them over to the bobbies in one piece, everything in working order. If we can.”

  I stared each one in the eye till I got the look that said they understood.

  “There’s one other thing. We’ll have a passenger tonight. A reporter who wants a scoop. I’ll take personal responsibility. None of your names will show up.”

  “What the fuck, Danny? A passenger? This is no time for a fucking passenger,” said Midge.

  “I said it’s my responsibility. OK?”

  There were a few more grumbles but no serious objection. I wonder what they’d have said if I’d told them the reporter was a girl? One shock at a time.

  At eight o’clock I was walking along the cobbles towards the Anchor Tap, a pub in Horselydown Lane, the frontier to a run of narrow streets and warehouses just down river from Tower Bridge. The streets were empty; the warehouses shut for the day, and all the workers – draymen and lightermen – safely home with their feet up listening to the wireless and reading their paper. Sensible blokes. But they’d left their spoor on the air like a tribe that had just folded its tents: acrid fumes of coal fires from guttering braziers, the sharp stink of urine and dung from the Clydesdales, and ripe malt and hops from the Anchor Brewhouse. It set my senses alight and made me wish I was meeting this girl for a quiet drink instead of a gang for a midnight ruckus.

  I pushed though the swing doors, into the bar area and ducked into the little back room behind it. Four rough lads were throwing darts, another was sipping his pint and scanning the racing section, and a bargirl stood polishing her counter and dreaming of the first kiss from her beau when she got off work at ten.

  No Eve. Late, as usual. I turned to walk through to check the other rooms when the fella with a paper coughed. I turned. He was waving at me to join him. Then I saw the dark eyes below the brim of the flat cap and the slenderness of the hands holding the paper. I nearly burst out laughing. I signalled to her to follow me and went on ahead. One of the darts players gave me a funny look as though he’d spotted a rendezvous between homos.

  The Tap is a warren with a dozen boltholes downstairs and up. I took a seat in an empty room down the narrow corridor and waited. She appeared in the door clutching her paper and her pint. Smaller than your average bloke but no midget, she wore a scruffy pair of flannels, a jacket that must have come from a jumble sale of lads’ cast-offs and a creased blue shirt and tie. I guessed she’d bound her breasts to keep them flat. The boots looked like genuine labourer’s with hard toes and plenty of scuffs. Her face was scrubbed of make-up and showed off its strong lines. Her tangle of hair had been ruthlessly shoved under her cap. It bulged under the strain. In a weird way the look suited her, and I had a very odd fancy to grab this pretty lad and give him/her a sound kissing.

  “You look like a docker. Quite a pretty one, mind.”

  “Was that a compliment?”

  “For what we’re up to, yes.”

  “What do I have to do?”

  “Nothing. You are here purely as a spectator. If things get messy, stay clear. Whatever you do, keep out of the lads’ way.”

  She nodded and looked suitably serious, yet there was a glint of mischief in those interesting eyes that made me wonder if she really understood what I’d got her into. I tried to put it across.

  “If things go pear-shaped, you have to be prepared to dump the jacket and the boots, and swim for it. And this is no sweet-smelling lido; this is the Thames. More turds than fishes. Do you understand?”

  “I don’t intend to drink it.”

  I sat back. Either she was a bloody good actress or she didn’t realise what a thoroughly stupid idea this was. And how likely it was to go horribly wrong.

  We left the pub at nine. Once we’d gone beyond the pool of yellow light from the pub, darkness gathered round us like a silent crowd. These were warehouses, not residential streets; no need for the lamplighter to string his fire from hissing globes. The four- and five-storey brick buildings loured above us. Overhead, cranes and walkways linked the river-fronted warehouses with the rear ones. You could unload your ship and shift your load to storage through rat-runs in the sky. In the day it was full of shouts and crashing doors and creaking hand carts. Now, it was eerily quiet, and I didn’t enjoy the claustrophobic narrowness of the streets. Our boots rang out on the cobbles and echoed round the maze of alleyways.

  We came to Shad Thames, the eastern boundary of this enclave. I held her back in the shadows and peered across the road into the gloomy arches of St Andrew’s Wharf. I checked my watch; the luminous dial glowed green. Nine-fifteen exactly. I looked again across the road. A light blinked twice then stopped for a count of five. Twice again, and we crossed the road and penetrated the gloom. Hands guided us forward and I could smell the salt. As my eyes adjusted I could see the three shadows grinning at me.

  “All set?” I asked, not whispering but keeping my voice low.

  “Set, skipper.” I recognised Midge’s voice then his face as we emerged into a pool of moonlight. We stood on the wharf side looking down on the gathering waters of St Saviour’s Dock. Below me, moored by rope to the wharf, were two boats, each with a two-stroke outboard motor. Big Cyril had done well. To our left the dock widened into the grey-glistening Thames in the Pool of London. Across the other side among the darkened crenulations, stood Tommy Chandler’s warehouse.

  I turned to the men and indicated Eve. “This is the reporter I told you about.”

  “Does he have a name?” asked Stan, his inquisitive eyes running all over Eve.

  I saw Eve’s eyes widen as she realised I hadn’t told them.

  “Fellas? Just to set the record straight. It’s not a he. This is Eve Copeland, ace reporter on the Daily Trumpet.”

  “Fuck’s sake, Danny!” said Stan, more offended by Eve being taller than him than by her sex, I suspected. He was echoed by the others.

  “Enough! I said I’d handle this. She’s…”

  Eve interrupted me. “I’m just along for the ride. I promise you, I won’t get in the way. And if things work out the way Danny says, you’ll
all be front-page heroes.”

  The men grumbled but were softened by her attitude, or the promise of stardom. I called them back to business.

  “How’s the tide running, Cyril?” This was his specialty. I hoped he wasn’t having flashbacks to the Dieppe raid. But as far as I could see he was enjoying it. Just like old times.

  “We’re at the last half hour of high tide, Danny. The current’s running like a greyhound. It’d have us all down at Richmond in two shakes if we went out now. But I’m assuming Jerry will have thought of that too. If they’re coming out to play tonight.”

  “Jerry?”

  “Habit. Sorry.”

  “Is the Clever Girl berthed?”

  “She’s alongside. You can see her prow if you walk five yards.”

  I did. I could see the sharp outline of her forward half across the water. Tommy told me she was a three thousand tonner, one funnel job. She took up three-quarters of the mooring in front of the warehouse.

  “When’s the best time – if you were planning to nick the goods?” I asked.

  “In an hour the tide will hit high water mark. That’s when there’s calm, when the water balances,” said Cyril showing us with his hands.

  “How long does it last?”

  “Ten, fifteen minutes.”

  “When’s the next high tide?”

  “Three a m. That’s the one I’m betting on,” said Midge. “Dead time.”

  “You could be right. But we need to be prepared for either. We’ll take turns watching. The rest of us settle down. This could be a long night.”

  Midge took lookout first, sitting out at the end of the walkway in the shadow of a thick pile, gazing across the swollen river. Eve and I sat with our backs to the wharf wall. The wood warmed up under us and as there was no breeze, the evening air felt mild. We shared a cigarette, cupping the glow, and kept our thoughts to ourselves. Mine dwelt on other nights waiting for action. The weapon drops in France, with the wood-burning Gazogene truck parked in the wood. The quiet breathing of the Maquis around me, ready to chase the crates of ammo and guns swooping down out of the night sky. Or before that, under a desert night flooded with stars, waiting for the roar of the guns to split the dawn. Back further, to a past that belonged to someone else; waiting for the daybreak of my finals at Glasgow. Head buzzing with swotting and lack of sleep, terrified of failure.

  Was it fear that cramped my guts now? Or excitement? I felt the heat of Eve’s body and despite her lack of make-up and perfume, could smell her skin above the coarser smell from her borrowed clothes. I thought about putting my arm round her, but instead found my head slowly tipping forward, and I was asleep.

  “Danny! Skipper!” Someone was hissing at me.

  I woke fast, not remembering where I was. Then it returned. Eve was already awake beside me, and might not have slept at all. We got stiffly to our feet. Midge was standing over us.

  “There’s movement by Clever Girl. It’s quarter to three. Tide’s up and river’s flat.” Midge told me. Stan stood beside him. I looked along the boardwalk. Cyril crouched behind one of the big wood piers, staring out across the black water. Our two boats sat quietly in the water of the dock about three feet below us.

  “Let’s go.”

  I whistled and saw Cyril turn and slip back into the shadows, then reappear a moment later by our side. Midge was already in one boat, Stan in the other. I got in to Midge’s and helped Eve down. Through her hands I could feel her shaking but her face was charged with excitement, not fear. Each of the men pulled out a dark balaclava and pulled it on. I took out another and gave it to Eve. Without hesitation she tugged it over her head till all I could see were two dark eyes gleaming out of the big white pools. She grinned and I saw her teeth. Suddenly we were five anonymous men up to no good.

  I gave the signal and we started up the little outboard motors. It took a couple of tugs and a bit of priming but both spluttered into life. The noise seemed loud enough to raise Old Father Thames himself, but it would dissipate when we were out of the narrow dock and into the main river. There was always noise at night anyway. River folk didn’t work nine to five.

  Stan’s boat led the way and we edged out to the mouth of the inlet. Then we stopped while I took a good hard look across the water. The Pool of London is three or four hundred yards wide at this point and deep enough to take the Queen Mary. A quarter moon dipped in and out of clouds, and it was hard to pick out any shapes against the black wharfs. But I could see the outline of Clever Girl clearly, and just downstream from her, a smaller craft, long and flat. A barge. It hadn’t been there earlier. For a second I caught sight of a man walking along the gunnels and then dropping out of sight. The wheelhouse was empty. I peered above him at the warehouse wall. All the doors were firmly shut except for one. Directly above the barge. A figure appeared in the doorway and looked down.

  We stuck to the south bank for a hundred yards upstream until we were nearly under Tower Bridge. Then we cut straight across the river slicing through great eddies and whorls of hesitant water. If we weren’t about to go into battle it would have been a romantic trip. When we reached the north bank we cut the engines and found ourselves almost stationary as the tide made up its mind which way to run. We now had the bulk of Clever Girl between us and the robbers.

  We took up oars, Midge in my boat and Stan in the other, and slid downstream. As we came round the hull of Clever Girl we kept our heads low. No one on the barge was looking our way and we eased ourselves between the two boats and hooked our ropes round the chain of Clever Girl. We were directly under the squat prow of the barge. I stood up, feeling my boat rock beneath me. I inched my head up above the bulwark and peered over.

  The hold of the barge stood two feet proud from the deck. It took up most of the deck space. At the stern was the empty wheelhouse. The tarpaulin that covered the hold was rolled right back. One man stood on the gunnels beside the hold, next to the wall of the warehouse. Ten feet above him the door gaped open. A knotted rope dangled from the arm of the pulley that jutted out above the door. There was no one else in sight. I guessed there was at least one man inside the building, probably two, and they were off looting.

  Sure enough I heard the sound of wheels, and suddenly one of Tommy Chandler’s handcarts came into view. A big bale of silk sat in it. Two men were pushing it. I ducked down as they came to the edge. I waited until I heard the sound of exertions and then the thump as the bale hit the hold. We felt the impact through the hull. I waited again till I heard the sound of the cart retreating then risked another look. The doorway was empty; they’d gone to refill. The man on the barge was gazing into the hold. He turned and stared up at the open door, waiting for the next batch.

  I pointed at Midge’s boat and raised two fingers. Midge nodded, tapped Cyril and the pair of them stood up. I waved, and they slithered over the top, like eels. Their empty boat slopped and bumped against the barge. I peeked over the bulwark again. They were crawling round both sides of the hold. One, I couldn’t tell which, got to the end of the side nearest me, and waited for the other to make his way round two sides. The nearest suddenly pulled off his balaclava, got to his feet and walked smartly towards the man.

  “Got a light, mate?” said Midge.

  The man whirled round. His expression was a treat: somewhere between terror and confusion. Exactly what Midge wanted. The man looked up at the door and back at Midge who was now within three yards of him. He didn’t know whether to call a warning or reach for his matches. That’s when the shadow behind him filled out and the club tapped him neatly behind the ear. He fell with a thump. Cyril bent over to make sure he didn’t tumble into the water or the hold. They dragged him over to the main deck and tied and gagged him.

  I found Eve standing beside me, peering over the side at the action. She turned to me and grinned through the cut-out mouth of her woollen mask. I grinned back but raised my hands with palms open towards her and signed for her to sit down and stay where she was. The grin left
her. But she nodded and sat down, leaving our boat trembling in the water. I picked up my cudgel, stuffed it into my belt and pulled myself up on to the barge. Stan was right with me. We had to move fast.

  We slunk round the lip of the hold. Midge was already monkeying up the rope. Cyril held the end steady, then when Midge was level with the open door he swung him backwards and forwards twice. The second time, Midge grabbed the opening and pulled himself in. Stan shinned up after him and I followed. I felt the rope burning my hands, and my lungs were panting as I was pulled in through the open door. But my arms felt good and strong; my workouts at Les’s gym were paying off.

  Cyril was already on his way up. He did a bad pantomime of Tarzan swinging on his liana. I reached out and dragged him in before he started to beat his chest. We freed our cudgels from our belts and tiptoed into the darkness of the warehouse.

  I heard the cart trundling nearer. We settled into the dark, against the wall and part-hidden by wood pillars. We waited. Gradually shapes took on definition as my eyes adjusted. The big room seemed to stretch forever into the blackness, with beams in serried ranks. The cart was coming from our left but I couldn’t make it out yet.

  Suddenly there was a noise from the right. It was the same sound of wheels creaking. We were facing two teams. I should have waited longer to see what was happening before sending us over the top. I tried to be positive. Maybe it was just the two of them, with one man per cart? Maybe they would roll over and not fight. We still had surprise. I couldn’t contact the others now but I knew they would have heard and understood. I saw small waves from each of them.

  The cart from the left took shape, and I could see two heads pushing it. Damn! Turning, I was in time to see the one from the right come into view. I signalled to Midge and Cyril to take the left one; Stan and I would attack the right. We waited and waited, until both carts were within twenty paces. Surely they would see us? Closer, closer, then I acted. I gave a great roar and ran at the right hand truck. My voice was echoed by three others as the lads went in.