Carl could find no point of reference in this tumult; for here the trees were but buddyspike stalks rooted in the gaps between buildings, and the flocks of flying rats that wheeled about the roofs of the towering Shelters were as flies to the ordure of burgerkine. The bobbing waterfowl divided by ferry prows; the smoke streamers blowing from scores of chimneystacks on the riverbank; the turbine propellers flashing bigwatt; the hundreds of little pedalos plying from shore to shore; then, when the breeze slacked, a stench — sharp, bitter, unnatural — welled up and stung Carl's eyes.
Antonë called over the runs that pertained to the unfolding view — but this dismayed Carl still more, for, while some of the streets were lined with semis, others were but muddy sloughs edged by yok kerbstones, with a few wooden uprights in place of gaffs yet to be built. Still more were but Holloways gouged in the earth by the passage of the multitude. Then, as the Trophy Room entered Wapping Reach and the Bermondsey Hills closed in on the southern shore, so the city began to clot, its roads tangling, its streets narrowing, the gaffs — painted bright reds, blues, greens and yellows, their gable ends resplendent with golden wheels — climbed atop each other, three, four and even five storeys high.
Carl could now see the people — so many of them — and, as the ferry passed by the end of a street, it was as if a log had been rolled over to reveal a multitude of scuttlebugs hurrying about their business: lawds and luvvies lolling in their cabs, a pair of jeejees between the shafts; getters in rickshaws; the middling sort in minicabs; carrot-crunchers on top of coaches piled high with sacks of wheatie, veg and other comestibles. Chuggers, decaux pasters and squeegee merchants darted hither and thither in the roadway; and everywhere there were gangs of skinny urchins that, startled from their nefarious activities by a seeseeteevee man brandishing a staff, seemed to dance like midges above a puddle, before alighting once more.
As the Trophy Room pulled under Tower Bridge and into the pool of London, Carl saw above the roofs the plunging rim of a mighty Wheel that rode over it all. The glass windows of the cars attached to this awe-inspiring contraption coruscated as if each were a miniature foglamp. It revolves once each tariff, Antonë observed, powered by the Thames. It is in the shape of the Knowledge and it can be viewed from any street in London — truly it is the very mill of the city, its orrery and engine.
The press of ferries increased until bowsprits were passing within a hand's breadth of hulls. The pilot stood stock still at the wheel, crying out commands to which the crew responded with wiry alacrity, trimming the sails so there was but a tiny noserag of canvas straining on the mizzen. The pilot brought the ferry in unerringly, until, with a final flurry of orders, she slid into the slopping basin of St Katharine's Dock.
Hawsers whipped from the shore and crashed on to the deck. The gangplank went down and a posse of coloured dockers scampered up it.
— It's time we bade farewell to the gaffer, Böm said; the harbour master will come aboard soon enough.
— Where to, guv? Carl asked. Where are we goin'?
— A boozer in Stepney known as the Öl Glöb. From the lettuce I received this tariff when the bargees took Tyga, it would appear that my Lawyer of Blunt is disposed to assist us. We are to lie low there for at least the next blob — then he will contact us. He or his mates.
The duo made their way through the fetid lanes beside the Clink and into the precincts of Borough Market. Stepping into Southwark Street, Böm was taken by surprise by the press of traffic. He wondered if there had always been this mad jam of van, truck, car and lorry. For in the decade he'd been away the number of vehicles on the road seemed to have doubled. A veritable river of shit and piss ran down the gutters and the foul cries of the chavs rent the air. Standard sellers and decaux pasters were abroad — and the blizzard of A4 was equally diverting to the returnee. Even in the fastness of Ham, Böm had learned of this printing explosion — the multiplication of presses throughout the cities of Ing until there was a prontaprint on every high street. Still, it was a shock to discover that the cockneys, when not engaged in abusing each other, were to be seen with their ratty features blotted out by phonics.
Ware2, guv? the rickshaw dad snapped. He wore a dirty singlet and tight shorts. His back flesh was flayed, and he had a prodigious goitre. All his muscle was in his rigid arms, which held the shafts, and his splayed legs, which seemed to belong to some better-fed and cared-for creature. The famished eyes that met Carl's spoke of no favours received or tendered, a two-tariff day every day, fighting with elbow and knout to wrest a living from the London streets.
The Öl Glöb, Stepney, Böm commanded him as they clambered in, and the dad reared back before throwing his entire meagre weight forward on the ball of one foot. The rickshaw lurched, teetered and rolled into the rumbling cavalcade.
Despite all his looming fears of the city and their fate within its walls, the young Hamster was gripped by the smooth motion of the first wheeled vehicle that he had ever ridden in, and his fancy flew, seeing himself in the not-long-distant future as a mighty Lawd, drawn through the streets in his elegant limmo; a Taffy on the roof, four pairs of jeejees in the shafts and magnificently liveried fonies poised on the bumper.
Although it took the rickshaw a long time to cross London Bridge and trundle through the City, at least they did not suffer the thousand buffets of those who went on foot. The toffs had no fear of the hugger-mugger, preceded as they were by fonies, their staffs raised to smite the riffraff, their didduloodoo cries warning that a getter, a Driver or a Lawd was approaching. What a sight these exalted personages were! The getters wore flowing pinstripe robes, the trains dragging a full metre behind them, and their lobbs were mirror-shiny.
If this was not sufficient to dazzle the little Hamster, there were also the many likenesses of the Supreme Driver himself. Dave was everywhere. Along the span of the Bridge in niches, and occupying plinths and columns in the City, were many stone and irony statues: Dave standing, Dave sitting, Dave driving, his massive arms held out in front of him. He was depicted in His humble raiment of plain leather jacket, jeans and trainers. His cap was tilted back on his pitted forehead. On Ham there had been no such representations, save for the engraving of Dave on the tattered frontispiece of the sole copy of the Book; yet these effigies bore the same bulging, all-seeing eyes, the same full and judgemental lips, the prominent nose like the prow of a capsized pedalo.
All along Leadenhall the gable ends of the gaffs were wooden plaques carved in the semblance of Dave's features, while below them dangled the guild signs: the twisted spine of the Chiropractors, the flaming torch of the letric lighters, the hair-styling wand of the barbers — vivid reminders that even here, in the very citadel of the PCO, the toyist still held sway. As the rickshaw jolted through Aldgate, Carl shrank down in the seat, for above the massive lintel of the gate, impaled on a palisade of spikes, were the rotting heads of traitors. He turned back and saw a kite making a stately circle over the very highest buildings of the City. The bird was etched for a moment against the tetrahedral spire of the NatWest Tower before soaring still higher and disappearing into a glowing cynosure rent in the grey-brown smog.
In the Öl Glöb the floorboards were scattered with booze-sodden rushes, and letrics burned with a guttering flame. Coming in through the door, Carl paused and sniffed the smoky interior. Moto oil, he muttered, and Antonë said, Yes, yes, you'll find it in widespread use here.