below the embankment had been counting on.
It was not easy, especially with a burden to bear. But it was because of that unusual unwieldy cargo that to approach from any other direction would have attracted unwelcome attention. Had anyone been watching, which thankfully on such an evening with the fog building, squeezing the breath from the lungs and replacing it with foul air clogged with soot and colly, there was not, they might have seen a slight, nimble figure clamber over the embankment wall like some lithe-limbed river serpent and scurry for the darkness.
Of the darkness, there was more than enough. A mountain of shadow smothering the already impenetrable fog. A mountain of colossal, geometric proportions. A vast behemoth of dirty brown brick, an oblong devoid of other form or design save for the great tower that topped it, a huge ugly square-sided chimney that rose forever into the opaque hell of the heavens, belching from its uppermost orifice great toxic clouds of black fumes that the ambient atmosphere recognised as kin and embraced.
Close up, almost touching the brickwork, a sinister low hum could be heard emanating from the depths of its bulk, as if the great edifice itself were somehow alive. In reality the hum was nowhere near as loud as most east Londoners would have liked, nor as constant. Starved of the plentiful supplies of coal from the mines of Lancashire and North Wales for which it had been intended, and forced to operate on irregular deliveries aboard freighters from Stettin and Gdansk, the great turbines within provided less than adequate electricity for their half of the city. Bankside Power Station was a crippled giant.
But one hell of a blank canvas. With speed born of practice, and no little trepidation, the agile figure, invisible at the base of the brickwork, unpacked and unfolded thesemi-rigid card sheets from inside a large flatpack folder. From the backpack came a small, light aluminium ladder. The soft clunk it made when it hit the wall caused the figure to freeze an instant. Out in the fog, on the river, red and white lights glowed faint and a dull amorphous yellow glow moved in the murk swinging now this way, now that, like the single eye of a blind Cyclops. Then it passed.
Quick now. There was little time. But this was also no time to rush. The job required exactitude. No room for sloppiness. The pieces held in place, the outline only just visible now. A ghostly shape waiting to be given body. Adjust the facemask. Make sure the plastic welders’ goggles are sealed against the face. An accident could cause partial blindness. Another noise, a soft patter. Footsteps in the fog. Multiple. Drunks reeling home from the pub? Stopped. Muted voices. Too quiet for drunks. Silent now. A pair of lovers with nowhere to go seeking the solace of the flesh in the anonymity of the filthy night? Or a conscientious pair of beat policeman marking their territory rather than toasting their toes by the station paraffin heater? The last was most dangerous. But also least likely. The footsteps resumed. Approaching? No, retreating. Fading softly away.
Back to work. Time for the spray, Shake the can gently, wrapped in rags to mute the sound of the weight within stirring the paint. Spray. Not too close. Not too far. Even. Consistency was the key. Keep it even. Not too much, no drips, not even on the card. Then wait before peeling away. A few minutes, that was all. A few minutes standing there in the dark. Not daring to breathe in. Solvent fumes mixing with the murk, adding to the chemical cocktail in the air. They had thought long and hard about the methodology: the stencil. Quick, accurate and in theory, once the designwas made, the cut-outs completed, so easy anyone could do it.
Then quick again, easy does it, dismantling as important as assembling. Packing away. Eyes a-twinkle, heart-thumping, adrenalin pumping. Then slip away, out of the shadow and over the wall, bags slung over shoulder, the cargo as
It was not easy, especially with a burden to bear. But it was because of that unusual unwieldy cargo that to approach from any other direction would have attracted unwelcome attention. Had anyone been watching, which thankfully on such an evening with the fog building, squeezing the breath from the lungs and replacing it with foul air clogged with soot and colly, there was not, they might have seen a slight, nimble figure clamber over the embankment wall like some lithe-limbed river serpent and scurry for the darkness.
Of the darkness, there was more than enough. A mountain of shadow smothering the already impenetrable fog. A mountain of colossal, geometric proportions. A vast behemoth of dirty brown brick, an oblong devoid of other form or design save for the great tower that topped it, a huge ugly square-sided chimney that rose forever into the opaque hell of the heavens, belching from its uppermost orifice great toxic clouds of black fumes that the ambient atmosphere recognised as kin and embraced.
Close up, almost touching the brickwork, a sinister low hum could be heard emanating from the depths of its bulk, as if the great edifice itself were somehow alive. In reality the hum was nowhere near as loud as most east Londoners would have liked, nor as constant. Starved of the plentiful supplies of coal from the mines of Lancashire and North Wales for which it had been intended, and forced to operate on irregular deliveries aboard freighters from Stettin and Gdansk, the great turbines within provided less than adequate electricity for their half of the city. Bankside Power Station was a crippled giant.
But one hell of a blank canvas. With speed born of practice, and no little trepidation, the agile figure, invisible at the base of the brickwork, unpacked and unfolded thesemi-rigid card sheets from inside a large flatpack folder. From the backpack came a small, light aluminium ladder. The soft clunk it made when it hit the wall caused the figure to freeze an instant. Out in the fog, on the river, red and white lights glowed faint and a dull amorphous yellow glow moved in the murk swinging now this way, now that, like the single eye of a blind Cyclops. Then it passed.
Quick now. There was little time. But this was also no time to rush. The job required exactitude. No room for sloppiness. The pieces held in place, the outline only just visible now. A ghostly shape waiting to be given body. Adjust the facemask. Make sure the plastic welders’ goggles are sealed against the face. An accident could cause partial blindness. Another noise, a soft patter. Footsteps in the fog. Multiple. Drunks reeling home from the pub? Stopped. Muted voices. Too quiet for drunks. Silent now. A pair of lovers with nowhere to go seeking the solace of the flesh in the anonymity of the filthy night? Or a conscientious pair of beat policeman marking their territory rather than toasting their toes by the station paraffin heater? The last was most dangerous. But also least likely. The footsteps resumed. Approaching? No, retreating. Fading softly away.
Back to work. Time for the spray, Shake the can gently, wrapped in rags to mute the sound of the weight within stirring the paint. Spray. Not too close. Not too far. Even. Consistency was the key. Keep it even. Not too much, no drips, not even on the card. Then wait before peeling away. A few minutes, that was all. A few minutes standing there in the dark. Not daring to breathe in. Solvent fumes mixing with the murk, adding to the chemical cocktail in the air. They had thought long and hard about the methodology: the stencil. Quick, accurate and in theory, once the designwas made, the cut-outs completed, so easy anyone could do it.
Then quick again, easy does it, dismantling as important as assembling. Packing away. Eyes a-twinkle, heart-thumping, adrenalin pumping. Then slip away, out of the shadow and over the wall, bags slung over shoulder, the cargo as
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