They were in a sloop anchored in the Thames, somewhere off Chiswick. The small room was crowded – Robert, Pot-belly, New-boots and the woman. The messenger had been left on the river bank. A boy was there too, but he took up scarcely any room, curled in a corner. There were only two chairs. The woman planted herself in one of them and Pot-belly took the other, leaving Robert and New-boots squatting on the floor. Only a little daylight came through the porthole. A brown bottle stood on a rough table with a circle of cloudy glasses round it, and the smell of whisky filled the warm, overbreathed air. Pot-belly stood up and filled four glasses.
‘To craftsmen.’
But the toast seemed to be directed to the other object on the table – a wooden lion much more finely carved than the one that had been destroyed in the explosion, varnished so that the golden colour of the oak shone. Robert said nothing and drank about half an inch of the whisky. It was raw stuff, burning into a stomach that had had no food in it for some time. He coughed.
‘Is it getting to you?’ Pot-belly said, sounding almost sympathetic.
Robert nodded.
‘We let the scarf go off in the carriage by mistake so you’ll have to do without it. There’s probably a dish-clout somewhere.’ He looked at the woman, who said nothing.
‘When are we doing it?’
‘Now. Just like last time, only whatever you do, don’t light the slow match yet. We’ll see to that later. We’ve put the stuff in the hold so you can do it in there. You pour it into the bottle like the last time and put it in our friend here.’ He patted the lion on the head. ‘Pity it’s got to go. There’s some nice workmanship in that.’ He sounded genuinely regretful.
‘When do I see Liberty?’ It had become an incantation, although he didn’t expect to see her again.
‘You will afterwards, don’t worry.’ Pot-belly patted Robert’s arm. It was as reassuring as the slap on a cow’s rump by an assistant in an abattoir.
Soon after that, Pot-belly took him back down to the hold, carrying a lamp that he lodged at a safe distance in the corner. Robert carried the lion. It was surprisingly heavy. The light of the lamp played on it, casting a shadow of its snarling head on the wall of the hold. The box and an empty bottle were standing in the middle of the floor.
‘Just like last time,’ Pot-belly repeated. Any offer of a dish-clout seemed to have been forgotten.
‘The fumes will be worse than out in the open,’ Robert said.
He watched the indecision on Pot-belly’s face and the slow victory of caution.
‘I’ll wait just outside the door,’ Pot-belly said. ‘Give a tap on it when you’re finished.’
On his own, Robert moved slowly and carefully. He took the full bottle of liquid out of the carrying case, poured it very carefully into the other glass bottle then placed it inside the lion. He tapped on the door. Pot-belly opened it and came one step inside.
‘Are you done?’
Robert nodded.
‘Leave it there for the while. You can pick it up when the rowing boat comes.’ He moved a step closer, looked at the lion and then the empty bottle. ‘Be enough, will it?’
‘You saw what happened last time.’
Pot-belly nodded. ‘Wonderful stuff. You wouldn’t think that much would do any harm, would you? Still, we saw what we saw.’
He picked up the lantern and led the way back to the living quarters. New-boots had poured himself another glass of whisky but the woman sat as upright as a statue, with her nearly full glass beside her. Robert sat down again on the floor with his back against the timbers that divided the living quarters from the hold, and let himself drift into a sleep. He woke to find that the other two men had gone, and heard noises from the deck. They must have pulled up the anchor because the sloop was moving slowly downriver. The woman was watching him.
‘You saw her, didn’t you?’ he said. ‘You saw Liberty.’
He didn’t know why, but something in those cold eyes made him shiver as if a memory had come back to him, only it was somehow Liberty’s memory, not his own. He felt that his mind was slipping away and he had to hold on to it. The woman didn’t move or speak. Soon afterwards, Pot-belly came down from the deck. They were moving more rapidly now – either the pull of the tide was stronger or they’d managed to hoist a sail. Pot-belly sat in the vacant chair, looking down at Robert with an expression that might almost have been taken for kindness. Robert’s exposure to the danger of the explosive seemed to have given him more status in Pot-belly’s view, or perhaps he was simply the sacrificial animal. The man seemed both tired and keyed-up.
‘Feeling bad?’ he said.
Robert nodded.
‘Not long now. We’ll be anchoring again before long, then here’s what happens. The rowing boat will come and we’ll get into it. You’ll be carrying the lion. On shore, we’ll be met by someone. We stay with that person and do what he says – exactly what he says. If you make any attempt to talk to anybody, you know what will happen to her. You do know, don’t you? Say it.’
‘I know what will happen to her.’ He could say it calmly.
‘Good. Just maybe there’ll be something out of it for you afterwards. Plenty for everybody – diamonds by the sackful like dried peas. You’re making history, you should be proud. This is the biggest thing of its kind, ever. Biggest ever.’
His voice washed over Robert. Not long afterwards, Pot-belly went up on deck again, and the anchor must have gone down because the sloop was almost stationary, only shifting as the tide pulled at it. Not long afterwards, something bumped against the side and Pot-belly came back down to the cabin.
‘Boat’s here. Go and get it.’
He stood at the door to the hold while Robert went in and carefully picked up the lion. Pot-belly ushered him out on to the deck, and the morning light hit him so that he had to screw up his eyes. He opened them and saw on the north bank of the river, quite close, huge wooden stakes and platforms, a whole system of wharves. Behind them was a new grey tower, not completely built. Even as he watched, a Union Jack broke out on it, then another.
‘Parliament,’ he said. ‘That’s Parliament.’
Pot-belly gestured downwards towards the rowing boat. Robert clutched the lion to his chest with his left hand and arm, and used his right hand to let himself down the rope ladder and into the boat. Pot-belly and New-boots gave him plenty of time to settle before following him down, then sat as far from him as the small space in the rowing boat would allow. Pot-belly’s face was glazed with sweat. The rower pushed off with an oar and turned towards the wharves.