The Cunning House Richard Marggraf Turley The rat crept along the wall of the burying ground in Portugal Street, where stinks and other odours of the dead were given off, before doubling back the length of Clare Market. Past the disreputable tavern with its ramshackle bays. The July air was even more unsustaining than usual, and he was no longer at his best … He gazed down at the silky patches showing through his coat. Still nimble enough, though. Filling his shallow lungs, he darted across the street for no other reason than to prove he still could, aware he’d needlessly drawn the eyes of a huddle of men cutting for guineas on the pavement, then slipped into the alleys and dark passages fanning out between Vere Street and Stanhope Street, the shortest way down to the river. Someone not far away was making a poor imitation of a blackbird’s call. On the Strand, Rat-man judged it safe to rear on two feet. He stepped into a shadowy doorwell to catch his wind. Above him, Venus and Mars were bright specks; he imagined the chill between planets, that unbearable space. But a body in motion was a body not yet cold – and there was work to do. The latest intelligence from France spoke of a munition so potent, wherever a man stood when it ignited was the centre; of grenades packed with chemicals that rendered soldiers irresistible to each other. It had always been the Frenchies. He remembered handing General Wolfe his gloves at Quebec after a day of clinging to rocks. Long ago now. France, a nation of barley and buckwheat eaters, moustachioed fawns and stinky women. He set off again, ducking at the corner of Somerset House into an ill-lit passage strewn with ashes and oyster shells. Above him, chandeliers flamed in a high gallery. Then he was on the river bank, pattering over loose pyramids of burnt clay tiles. The unfinished bridge towered ahead, its cunning interfrictions of iron and granite reaching out from either side of the river towards a deafeningly dark hole. Rat-man’s sharp eyes found the tiny entrance to the service tunnel. He flipped open his watch. He was early. He walked to the second shuttered pier, scaling the scaffolding with spry, connected movements. The bridge was unmetalled, and without sides, a set of makeshift railings all that prevented workmen plunging into the oily water. He peered over the edge, feeling the cold air rise. A great hoy shouldered up the watercourse. There had been talk of turning the river into one vast wet dock with sliding vanes and wickets, capable of accommodating the new copper-hulled behemoths. But the plans raised spectres of French ships-of-the-line sailing up the Thames, pontoons of enemy dinghies, landing boats tethered at the foot of Parliament stairs. Movement below. A shadow was creeping along the bank. Alone, as instructed. A clatter of debris … a muffled curse. Rat-man smiled. This would be easy. His foot connected with something that glinted blackly against the freshly ashlared stones. Blunt and metallic, short-handled. Just the job. He picked up the hammer, swung it
in a scything arc as if intending to dislodge an offending nodule of granite from some otherwise perfectly rectangular block, then slipped it into one of his deep coat pockets. He scurried down the scaffolding, jumped off at the footings, and trailed the shadow into the service tunnel. A familiar sour smell of urine coiled into his nostrils. A few hops, and the darkness was complete. Someone coughed up ahead. Whispered his name. One of his names. Rat-man felt his way along the masonry, which came smooth and humid beneath his palms.