They were all quiet, all listening. After a moment's pause, Goldberg went on:
"Now our friend down there, he knows a couple of Jews. He knows Solly Moskowitz the tailor; he knows Sam Daniels the boxer. He's proud to know Sam Daniels. He's won a few bob on him in the past; he bought him a drink once, and Sam Daniels remembered him after that and called him by his name whenever he saw him.
"But Solly Moskowitz and Sam Daniels - they're not rich and powerful. They're men like he is, men of the East End. He can't see how they came to have such power in the world that they can deny a job to six hundred dockers every day. And he can't work out why old Solly Moskowitz is as poor as he is, if he's so almighty powerful.
"And he thinks: old Fartbelly - is he Jewish, with the power that he's got? And the men who own the docks, sitting up there in the West End, with their cigars and fancy wines and pretty women - they're all Jewish, are they? The Members of Parliament and the lords and the lawyers and the judges - Jewish? No, course not. There's something wrong with what Softhands is saying, but our friend can't see his way through it.
"And here comes another pint, and another, and here's some more poison with it: burn down a Jewish house or two. Show them who's master in this country.
"But our friend down there - he's no master. What's happened down in Nightingale Lane by the docks has proved that if anything will. Who's master? Even old Fartbelly's not master. The real masters are the men you never see, except when they sweep past in their carriages and splash you with mud; they're masters, and we're not. Smashing windows and burning houses won't turn you into a master. Only a desperate man would think it could.
"So our friend's still not sure. But it's warm in the pub, and here's another pint, and - come a bit closer, says Softhands, I'll tell you something that's not for everyone's ears. . ."
Goldberg paused. They were caught now, they were his; when he dropped his voice and said come a bit closer, they'd all moved in a step, rapt, held.
And he saw that a policeman had appeared - two - four - five of them. Out of the corner of his eye he saw one of the Jews urgently explaining something, saw the policeman look along to him. . . Could he slip out through Solomons' place? Finish this first. . .
It all took less than a second. Back to the audience, back to the story.
"So our friend moves in close, brings his chair right up to the table. And Softhands leans across, looks over his shoulders, licks his lips.
"There's talk of murder, he says. Human sacrifice. You know what these Jews do? They kill Christian children. They mix their blood in the bread. It's been proved. . .
"And that's too much for our friend. Because if it's true, it's the most horrible filthy thing anyone could do. People who did that would deserve all they got. So that eases his mind a bit; he doesn't mind attacking Jews if that's what they get up to; it makes sense of it.
"So that's why he's here today. That's how he came to be standing out on a wet morning with a stick in his hand, about to smash down a baker's shop and ruin a man's business.
"Because everyone needs a reason to do wrong things. No one'd do 'em if they thought they were wrong. They think they're right, that's why they do 'em, isn't it?
"So our friend down there - I can see him, he knows I'm right - he's on the right line. But he's going in the wrong direction. Of course it's right to fight against people who sacrifice children. Of course it's right. But ask yourself this: who sacrificed your children, my friend? Who made sure you couldn't buy any medicine for your little daughter? Who refused to pass the law that would have made the landlord keep the drains in good repair, so your little boy had to catch typhoid and die?
"I'll tell you who did it. Every one of those rich men - the landlords - the factory-owners - the Members of Parliament - the judges - Lord This and the Earl of That and the Duke of Something Else - they're the ones who go in for human sacrifice. They're the real murderers. You can see their victims every day along Nightingale Lane and Cable Street--"
There was a growl from the crowd. Goldberg knew he had them, but something had interrupted, something was shoving the crowd aside - the policemen -
"All right, all right, break it up," came a loud commanding voice. "Move along there. That man - Goldberg - hold him. He's a wanted man. Goldberg! You're under arrest -"
Not yet, thought Goldberg.
He jumped down from the chair and, before the crowd had parted, he slipped through the door and into the bakery.
Harry Solomons slid the bolt home against the tumult outside.
"God bless you, Mr Goldberg," he said. "Look - there's a man here - from Moishe Lipman, he says -"
In the warm, clean little front shop, fragrant with the smell of new bread, Goldberg looked round to see Mrs Solomons, and two - three - four children, all gazing at him with wide eyes, and a small man anxiously twisting his cap.
The clamour outside got louder as the police forced their way to the door. Moishe Lipman's man spoke quickly:
"Moishe and the other boys was arrested, Mr Goldberg. Someone spotted 'em - I don't know how it happened. But the house. . ." He clutched his head. "God, I can't describe it, Mr Goldberg -"
"What? What?"
"The whole house - it's collapsed - the one we was watching - it just fell into rubble in front of my eyes. . . It's just not there any more! Like as if a bloody bomb'd hit it. . ."
Goldberg was dazed. He shook his head to clear it. How could Sally have. . . Never mind that. Move. Get out.
"Come on," he said to the man. "Give me a hand."
"But Mr Goldberg -"
It was Mrs Solomons. The whole family was pressing around him, trying to thank him, blessing him, kissing him, and he wanted to sweep them out of the way and run with the last of his strength and find Sally, tell her Harriet was safe, tell her -
There was a hammering at the door.
"Open up! You've got a wanted man in there! Open this door or we'll smash it down!"
Solomons took his good arm and tugged him through into the back of the shop, while Mrs Solomons pretended to fumble at the bolt.
"All right - all right - hold on - I'll just find the key -"
"There's a gate in the wall," the baker told him hastily. "Here's the key - it leads into Cropper's Alley. You can duck through the yard of the Queen's Head and out into Brick Lane -"
But it was too late. A policeman stood framed in the back doorway as Solomons opened it.
"Gotcher," he said.
Goldberg turned to Moishe Lipman's man and said in Yiddish, "Telephone Kid Mendel. 4214. Tell the man what's happened." And in English to the policeman, "All right, constable, I'll come. I'm too tired to run. Don't pull my arm, please; it's had a bullet in it."
The baker picked up a couple of hot rolls and thrust them into Goldberg's pocket.
"That's all I can do, Mr Goldberg," he said. "God bless you."
The bolt of the front door slid back; the other policemen shoved their way in. Moishe Lipman's man watched as they led Goldberg out, and then heard a strange sound resounding down Holywell Street, a sound no one would have guessed at half an hour before: a hoarse and ragged cheer from the crowd, Jews and Gentiles alike, all united now in their sympathy for the outlaw captured.
He watched as the hero was led away and the crowd was dispersed by the other policemen, and went in search of a telephone.
Sally had no way of telling how much of the house had fallen. The lift which was holding them above the water had kept some of the rubble off them, too, but it was totally dark, and her only sensations were cold, and noise, and smell. The stench from the ancient sewers which emptied into the Blackbourne was foul, and getting worse.
The water was rising too. Already it was an inch or so deep on the floor of the lift. Sally crouched beside Ah Ling's head, trying to describe what was happening.
"Is there any light?" he said.
"No. Not a bit. Are you cold?"
"Yes. How many men came down the stairs?"
"
A footman. The butler, I think. But they were only there a moment before they fell in and then the light went out. I think the whole wall collapsed."
"It should have blocked the stream."
"It must be very deep. All that rain--"
Something crashed into the lift from above, shaking them both. Sally grabbed him for balance, and then heard a straining, creaking sound as the lift slowly tilted sideways. The cable! Sally thought - and then there was a bang as loud as a gunshot, and the floor plunged downwards.
It was only a foot or so, but it sent her sprawling, and then the water surging in knocked her off balance again as she tried to struggle up, and then she gave a little cry, for Ah Ling was under the water and couldn't move -
She found his shoulders, his head, and lifted him in a burst of strength, hauling his head out of the water, gasping, retching, choking. She cradled it on her knee.
When he'd recovered his breath and she'd wiped his face and eyes with her hand she said, "I'm going to try and help you sit up. Otherwise you'll die."
Taking care not to let go and drop his head under the water, she manoeuvred herself into a kneeling position behind him and tried to push upwards. Everything was against her: his clothes were waterlogged, the floor was angled the wrong way so that his head was lower than his feet, her own arms were shaking so much with cold and effort that she could scarcely hold him. She got his shoulders up and his head lolled sideways, and in trying to hold that she lost her grip on his shoulders. She tried again, but she pushed his head too sharply forward and felt his neck jerk desperately: he couldn't breathe. She rested, cradling his head once more on her lap, holding it tenderly, like a mother.
The water was up to his chin. And it seemed to be coming in faster.
"Is the lift on solid ground?" he said. "Not still suspended?"
"The cable's broken. It must be resting on something, but I don't know how solid it is. I'd have to let you go to find out."
"It's getting deeper."
"I'm resting my arms. In a minute I'll try to lift you again."
She felt him sigh. He was utterly still; she supposed he couldn't even shiver.
"In the village in China where my grandfather was born," he said, "they used to fetch water from a well. It was a little outside the village down a path through the bamboo. It wasn't the only water, because there was a stream as well, but the stream water was no good because of the paper-works above the village. So every day the people would be going up and down the path bringing buckets of water to their homes.
"One day a little boy ran up to the village screaming. There's a tiger in the well! he said. All the village people came running with sticks, ropes, anything that came to hand. They crowded around the top of the well to look, and sure enough, there was a tiger. It was a large well, with a little stone platform part way down, and the tiger was crouched on that, and it couldn't get up.
"They didn't know what to do. While it was there, they couldn't get any water, because the tiger was angered by the buckets and smashed them down off their ropes. And if they killed it, it would fall into the well and pollute the water; and, in any case, they had no means of killing it. And they certainly couldn't get it out alive."
He paused. Sally lifted his head a little higher.
"What did they do?" she said.
"They prayed to the gods, of course. The gods sent rain - lots of rain. The well filled up, and the tiger was drowned. Then they could pull its body out, and the well was safe again."
"I see."
"I was reminded of the story by our present circumstances."
"Which of us is the tiger?"
He didn't answer.
She sat there, shivering, wondering if she had the strength to lift him again. If she managed to prop him against the side of the lift, the upper part of his body would be clear of the water. She'd have to do something.
"Take a deep breath," she said. "I'm going to make another effort. I'll have to let your face go under for a moment and get a grip."
He nodded, breathed in, nodded again. She found her balance, let his collar go, got a grip on the shoulders of his coat and heaved upwards. It might have been his buoyancy in the water, but he was easier to lift this time; one heave and he was upright.
But then something happened inside him. His great frame convulsed as if someone had caught him in a mighty fist and squeezed, and then he retched and gasped. A hideous deep sound halfway between a groan and a sob came from him. His head fell sideways.
She held him there propped up part way, off-balance, her heart thumping. She felt around for his face. Her fingers touched his open eyes, and he didn't blink.
She snatched her hand away with horror. An instant later she controlled herself. He was dead; so. . . She found his face again and closed his eyes. Then she tried to lower him gently into the water, but he slipped from her grasp and fell in with a clumsy splash.
She shook the water off her hands and brushed them together automatically, and then sighed so deeply that it turned into a yawn, which felt as if it would never stop.
She put her hand out to feel for the side of the lift, and it met the iron grille of the door, twisted and crumpled but firm enough to hold on to. She stood up.
The floor of the lift was tilted towards the gap in the floor where the water was coming in. The weight of the rubble falling down the shaft, which had caused the cable to snap, had driven it down on to solid ground; at least, it felt solid, and it didn't rock when Sally moved about, clinging to the wall, trying to avoid treading on the body.
At the shallowest part - the back - the water was already up to her knees. At the open front it was near the top of her thighs. She clung to the door and felt around outside, trying to find a solid spot, but as she leant out, the lift creaked and swayed forward, and rubble fell heavily somewhere above and behind her.
She froze. The lift held. If it fell forward, she thought, she'd be trapped under it for good.
Gingerly, delicately, she shifted her weight backwards and into the lift again. She'd felt nothing underfoot but the swift-flowing water - and now the lift was at an even steeper angle.
Centre of gravity, she thought. Get it down so you don't pull the lift even further out. She lowered herself to a crouching position, up to her breast in the water, and once again felt around for a foothold outside.
Then something soft and massive began to press against her from behind. . .
Ah Ling's body, sliding down on her.
She screamed.
The terror caught her off-balance, and the extra weight was too much for her strength. Her hand slipped off the grille and she fell, scrabbling for the edge of the floor, finding it, and being swept off like a fly as Ah Ling's body slid down, down, and down, and then fell with her into the flood.
In a dusty room over a stable in Lambeth, Harriet sat chewing a crust of bread while her guardians toasted some kippers over a smoky fire. They'd ditched the carriage and the horse somewhere in Vauxhall. Liam was bitter about letting them go, but he saw the force of Bill's argument.
"We gotta look after the kid first. That's what we done it all for. All right, we might get a quid or two for the nag, but so what? We can always get a nag - there's thousands. If we lose the kid, though, that's it, innit?"
So they'd come to one of the many squalid dens they used (one step ahead of the law or the landlord each time) and laid Bridie, still unconscious, on a heap of sacking in the corner, planted Harriet beside her with some bread one of the boys found in his pocket, and set about cooking the kippers which had been hidden there since their last visit three days before.
Two things were concerning the gang. The first was finding a safer place than a succession of kips and hideouts for Harriet to stay in, and the second was Bridie. It was a long time for her to be unconscious, tough as she was. There'd come a time soon when they'd have to find help for her. Maybe they should have done already. Maybe she'd die.
Harriet sat stolidly beside her and stared with
interest. This lady was asleep, but the men weren't. They were making some breakfast. There was a nice horsy smell in the sacks, like the stable at home. And the breakfast smelled like Mrs Perkins's breakfast sometimes did.
Then she noticed that the lady's eyes were open and gazing at her. She'd woken up. Politely Harriet held out her crust for the lady to share. The lady didn't take it, but a slow awakening smile filled her eyes from inside, and she reached out to stroke Harriet's tangled hair.
"She's awake!" said someone.
They were around her in a moment.
"Devil, Bridie, but you scared us," said Liam. "We thought you was about to stick your spoon in the wall."
"Not bloody likely," said Bridie.
"Buddy likely," said Harriet, agreeing. She liked this lady. She especially admired the way she spoke: a warm growl like a big cat. She tried it again. "Bloody likely."
"It's not bloody likely, colleen. Hush - what's that?"
A shouting below, and then a thunderous banging on the trapdoor.
"Get out of it! Go on, scram, you vermin! I'll set the dog on yer!"
Terrifying growls accompanied the voice. Groaning, the gang collected its half-cooked kippers, helped Bridie to stand, hoisted Harriet into someone's arms, and opened the trapdoor.
"All right, mister," Liam called down. "We'll go. Hold the dog back."
"Hurry up then," said the owner.
They scrambled down the ladder and out through the stables into the dawn light, Bridie staggering a little, Liam chewing a kipper.
The owner of the stables watched them go with narrowed eyes. Was that a child they were carting about? Yes, it was.
"Here -" he called, starting after them, but they heard him, saw the dog and fled.
Bloody nuisance, he thought. For he had a conscience, and he'd heard of baby-stealing. Some poor woman would wake up this morning to find her baby missing. Couldn't have that. He locked the gate and set off with the dog to find a policeman.
So when Con and Tony arrived two minutes later, having done the rounds of half a dozen kips already, there was no one there.
"Man, I'm done," said Tony, as they climbed the ladder. "It won't matter if we take a wee nap, now will it? We'll find 'em soon enough."