But the other boy isn’t interested in fancy maneuvers. He is a street person, a hardened criminal who has learned from experience how to react instantly in desperate situations. He knows to stay in close to his opponent.
“What ’ave we ’ere?”
He steps forward as Sherlock steps back, seizing the hand with the hunting crop and twisting it violently, almost snapping the bone.
“Ahhh!”
Sherlock shrieks in pain and drops his weapon. In the blink of an eye, he feels a deep sting across one of his thighs and then another, making him buckle and drop to the floor. He raises his arms to protect his face and looks up at his enemy. The other boy has the hunting crop in his hand and has stepped back; four grimy, blood-splattered men are standing beside him, forming a semi-circle around Sherlock Holmes.
“We’ve been expecting you,” growls one of them with a horrible grin.
All that is going through Sherlock’s mind is: The Brixton Gang kills people, without thinking twice.
IN WITH THE RATS
But 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.”