A city never sleeps, so they say. From New York to Nairobi, Sydney, Moscow and Kathmandu, there’s not a second in this day and age when the streets are entirely deserted. London is no exception. This living, breathing British capital doesn’t slow down when the moon and the stars shine bright. Indeed, a quarter at its very heart is beating to the rhythm of a celebration right now. For Chinatown tonight has lit up for this, the tail end of the Year of the Snake. And when midnight strikes in just a moment, the Year of the Horse will emerge.
Here in the narrow streets of this oriental enclave, crowds of revellers have gathered to mark the Chinese New Year. A parade has reached its peak, with the last of the paper dragon troupes filing into the market square. Whistles and cymbals are sounding off, cameras flashing everywhere, and now the countdown begins.
Ten . . . nine . . . eight . . . seven . . . six . . .
Stationed at strategic points across the quarter’s rooftops, several groups of marshals prepare to mark the hour. From their vantage point, they can see Big Ben just a mile south-west. There’s the great clock tower, presiding over the mist that has rolled in from the river. It’s a special sight, like so many aspects of this city, but now is not the time for the marshals to stand around. For each group is in charge of an arsenal of fireworks, and it’s time to light the touchpapers.
five . . . four . . . three . . . two . . . one . . .
At the stroke of midnight, this city that never sleeps will be host to a wondrous sight. The crowds in Chinatown look up and gasp as the first volley of rockets spread into the sky. They explode in a cascade of light, just as a second round race higher, followed by another. Within seconds, all manner of dazzling blooms are lighting up the night sky. The spectacle is precisely what these revellers expected to see, and what a marvellous sight it is to behold.
Through the eyes of a band of young street urchins, however, this moment is not one to admire. It’s a window of opportunity to work as a team on the take. You can see them now. They comb through a crowd in which every single head is tipped back to enjoy the show. With each flash and flicker of light, you can see nimble hands darting into pockets and handbags, picking out wallets and purses, slipping off rings, bracelets and watches. Only one of their number hangs back in the shadows of an alley, discreetly pressing his finger into one lughole. He might’ve gone unnoticed, had he not been sporting the kind of pantaloons, bandanna and blousy shirt last seen on a cut-throat pirate. He’s also wearing a pair of rollerblades, which you don’t often see on a figure more at home on the high seas. The combo certainly screams for attention, as does the voice that crackles into the earpiece he’s wearing.
“Move in, soldier!” the command crackles down the wire. “C’mon! There are tangos to your right just begging to be targeted. The entire family are watching the fireworks. You can fleece them no problem.”
“The name is Billy,” the boy replies petulantly, seemingly talking to himself out there. Come closer, however, and it’s clear that he’s speaking into a small mouthpiece attached to a headset. He’s also sporting two fine strokes of downy hair on his top lip, which further makes him out to look like some kind of trainee swashbuckler on wheels. “It’s Billy No-Beard, as well you know.”
“Soldier, you’ll be Billy No-Mates if this insubordination continues!”
“And they’re not tangos. They’re tourists. Guys, I thought we’d agreed to drop the military jargon while we’re training up the new recruits? They get confused. To the untrained ear, out in the field, they’re likely to misunderstand what the code means. Only yesterday one of the girls genuinely thought you were asking her to target a traffic warden. Now, you can’t blame her for following orders, but you really should’ve kept a closer eye on her. Those wardens are trained not to tolerate any funny business from the general public, after all. The poor girl made one attempt to pinch a sheet of tickets from his pad, only to find herself involved in the kind of roadside drama that slows traffic.” A round of fireworks scream into the sky as he speaks, which forces him to pause while the crowd show their delight. Billy flattens his lips, and screws the piece into his ear a little tighter. He knows the boy behind the voice in his ear is watching him at this very moment, thanks to a sneaky video feed from the network of traffic control cameras studded around the city centre, and so he pulls a face at one for their benefit.
“Careful, soldier. You’re at risk of cracking our screens here.”
Billy mugs at the camera one more time, and mutters sourly into his mouthpiece. It was OK for them, tucked away in the warm with banks of monitoring screens to keep them posted on proceedings. On the streets, it was cold, a little bit damp, and eating into those hours he reserved for fine food and song. In truth, Billy preferred barking orders to obeying them. It was fine for him to pepper every command with military jargon; coming from others, it just didn’t sound right. Then again, everyone deserved a turn in the command seat. Tonight just happened not to be his night.
Billy draws breath to tussle with them about the appropriate use of code words one more time, only to be struck by another thought entirely. “Guys,” he says, pinching the mouthpiece between his thumb and forefingers. He narrows his eyes, checks out the square. “Where are the new recruits? I can only see the regulars at work. What’s the view from the cameras?”
His request is met with a muffled groan. “Soldier, quit stalling. This is not an exercise. Repeat, this is not an exercise. Target your tangos immediately! We don’t have much time left!”
The boy in the bandanna swears he isn’t playing games, and then decides not to waste his breath any further. The new recruits will just have to look out for themselves, he thinks. As for the use of technical terms on a training mission, Billy makes a mental note to raise it later at the debriefing session. He rolls his shoulders, and scans the crowd for the tourists assigned to him. There they are on the corner, sporting the kind of brightly coloured backpacks that always marked out visitors to this city. Billy moves out into the square, ignoring the flashes and crashes from the fireworks overhead. He flexes his fingers on approaching them, spots a zipper half open on one of the bags, and wishes someone would advise these people about the importance of keeping a lower profile.
“This is Billy to the Bridge,” he mutters, one of just a handful of young street punks paying no attention to all the rockets reaching for the stars. “It’s a shame the newbies have made themselves scarce. They’re gonna miss a masterclass in picking pockets.”