And yes, there was something peculiar about this darkness. It was a darkness born out of bloodshed. A darkness with a vile and sordid history. The vehicle had been impounded because of its involvement in a previous case. It was the means by which that queer-killer had distributed the exsanguinated corpses of renters around London.
He put his eye to the peephole, so that his vision could escape for a moment from these grim associations. But the prospect that greeted him was scarcely more cheery. Bereft, that was the word that came to mind. Bereft of light, and hope. Among the dark, soot-blackened buildings, most with boarded-up windows, the German barbershop was a curious anomaly. It was not surprising that it had caught Inchball’s eye. Admittedly it was at the end of the alley nearest the Strand, just in from the arched passageway that communicated with that thoroughfare. The passageway itself was reasonably well-maintained; it appeared to have received its last coat of whitewash within living memory. The shop could be seen as part of that world, looking out on to the Strand, turning a blind eye to the dilapidation and despair that lay two paces along.
Macadam’s faith in human progress was momentarily shaken. The existence of these houses at the beginning of the twentieth century outraged him. How could people live like this? His outrage settled into an easy disgust.
For reasons of his own, he was more troubled by the effect the alley seemed to have on light. It sucked it up. It was not an excessively bright day to begin with. But what light there was drained away into the porous fabric of that starved and stricken turning. There was a very real possibility that the operation would end in failure.
To make matters worse, he had only been given a single two-hundred-foot-long roll of film to play with, some of which he had already used in the tests he had conducted the previous day. He had not yet been able to see any of the results of the tests, in the first place because the film had not come back from the processor’s, and secondly because there was still no projector to view it on. He couldn’t be sure that he was pointing the camera in exactly the right direction. He was far from certain that there was enough light to effect a successful exposure. There was the very real possibility that he would run all the film he had through the camera without capturing a single decent image.
As yet he had not once given the handle a turn. There had simply been no movement worth recording. A mange-ridden dog had cocked its leg and relieved itself in a doorway. In the same doorway, soon afterwards, a pile of rags had stirred and shifted, revealing itself to be a human being, now presumably one soaked in dog urine.
How could people live like this?
Behind him, crouched against the other side of the van, Inchball sighed and stretched. Macadam felt the van rock on its suspension. ‘Steady!’ hissed Macadam between his teeth.
‘Well!’ came Inchball’s barely voiced justification.
‘Sshh!’
Suddenly there was movement outside. Macadam’s hand tensed on the handle, but still he held back from cranking it. A diminutive figure had peeled itself away from another doorway and stepped out into the gloom. A child, a grubby-faced girl, lifted her head slowly, as if it was immeasurably heavy, and looked around. Her expression was resentful and at the same time confused, as if she did not understand how she came to be here. She eyed the van suspiciously. Formerly, it had been a baker’s van, and the advertising was still painted on the outside. A look of cunning settled over the girl’s features. She glanced furtively up and down the alley, before pulling her shawl over her head.
Then she stepped out and approached the van, causing Macadam to lose sight of her as she went to the back. The rear door handle began to rattle and pivot.
Macadam turned in Inchball’s direction and held his finger tensely over his lips. In the darkness, he could not make out Inchball’s expression, but he could sense his partner’s stiffening.
Naturally, Macadam had taken the precaution of securing the door. But the little would-be thief was persistent. Soon, more children emerged from different doorways and joined her. A lively and surprisingly foul-mouthed discussion broke out.
‘Ge’ a fuckin’ brick and smash the fuckin’ window,’ one piping voice suggested. The rear door had a window that had been blacked out and painted over.
‘My ol’ man’s got a fuckin’ crowbar. We can fuckin’ crack it open.’
‘Wha’ the fuckin’ ’ell is it?’
‘It’s a fuckin’ baker’s van, innit?’
‘’Ow you know that?’
‘I can fuckin’ read, carn I?’
‘Who taugh’ you ’a fuckin’ read? You fuckin’ cun’.’
The van began to rock. The handle on the rear door rattled even more violently than before. Macadam closed his eyes and shook his head, willing the awful creatures to go away. This was a circumstance he had not foreseen. His face tightened into a grimace of despair.
He felt one of Inchball’s fingers prod him in the side. He could make out the other man’s dim silhouette. His arms seemed to be raised in a questioning gesture. Macadam shrugged his response.
Their options were limited. They could sit still and hope that the brats lost interest and went away. Or they could make their presence known and hope to drive them away.
The rocking motion of the van accelerated. For a moment, it seemed possible that the gang might be capable of upturning it.
Macadam risked putting his eye to the peephole again. A small boy with an enraged expression – as if he were personally affronted by the van’s refusal to open up and deliver its bounty – was prowling along its side. Suddenly, he stopped in his steps and glared up directly into Macadam’s eye.
There was no doubt about it. He had been seen.
‘’Ere, you,’ said the boy to one of his companions, an older, lankier version of himself. ‘Gi’ us a fuckin’ piggy back.’
‘You wha’?’
‘You fuckin’ ’eard me. You wan’ some of that fuckin’ bread, don’ ya?’
The other boy scowled but did as he was directed. Despite his smaller stature, the first boy seemed to exercise some authority over the group. Macadam thought he recognized his voice as that of the child who could read.
Now the boy’s angry face was level with the peephole. He leaned in and put his own eye to the hole, so that he was eyeball to eyeball with Macadam. Then he leaned away and, before Macadam realized what was happening, stuck his forefinger through the hole straight into Macadam’s eye.
Macadam cried out, and recoiled from the attack, falling back into Inchball, whose reaction was characteristically profane. The boy started to laugh. His laughter was an ugly, jagged sound, every bit as angry as his expression.
‘Wha’ is it? Wha’ the fuck is it?’ demanded one of his fellows.
‘There’s some dirty geezer in here. Some dirty fuckin’ peepin’ Tom.’
Macadam groaned.
Someone banged on the side of the van. Presumably the boy. Immediately, the rest of the gang joined in.
Uncharacteristically, Macadam cursed under his breath. It felt as though they were trapped inside a kettle drum.
All at once, the drumming stopped.
An accented man’s voice addressed them. ‘What is going on, you children?’
‘A German!’ whispered Inchball. He pushed Macadam out of the way to peer out of the peephole.
‘There’s some fuckin’ geezer in there.’
‘I see. Here. Money for you all. Now leave. I will sort this. You children go and play now.’
Whatever largesse the German had bestowed was met with approval. ‘Ta, mister. You’re alrigh’, you are! A proper gent.’