It was Edward Rose’s idea to take the taxi. The centre of London was thick with crowds gathered to cheer the royal family, and the streets along the procession route had been closed to all traffic.
“If a London cabbie can’t get us close,” he told them, “no one can.”
They had pooled their money and Travis was carrying it. He had no idea how many pounds he had in his hands, but he hoped it would be enough.
Five of them went: Nish and Edward Rose with their helmets, Sam and Sarah and Travis. A full load for a London cab.
The first two taxis parked on the corner of Nutford Place, just outside the hotel, refused to go anywhere near the impossible traffic of central London on the day of a royal parade. The third, however, was intrigued. He was smoking a cigarette when the kids came to his window, and Edward Rose handled the negotiations.
“A hundred quid if you can get us there in twenty minutes or less,” Edward Rose said.
The man blew smoke in Edward Rose’s face. Travis didn’t like the look of the driver and wanted to move on, but Edward Rose stood his ground.
“A hundred quid,” he repeated.
“You ain’t got that kind of cash, sonny,” the man said.
Travis held out his hand. He had no idea if he was holding a hundred pounds, or two hundred, or fifty – he didn’t even know what a quid was.
The driver grabbed his cigarette and tossed it into the road. “Let’s go!”
They piled into the back of the cab, three of them stuffing themselves into the comfortable rear seat, Travis and Sarah pulling out foldaway seats facing backwards. All strapped themselves in with seatbelts.
Travis was glad he was firmly buckled up, and equally glad he couldn’t see. The cabbie drove like a madman. He squealed around corners, flew through red lights, darted down alleys so narrow Travis was convinced the paint was going to be raked off on both sides, tore the wrong way up one-way streets, and almost flew down the bigger roads when he could find an opening.
The twisting and turning was beginning to make them sick. Nish had gone completely white, a colour rarely seen in his big tomato of a face.
Sam was hanging on for life to Edward Rose’s arm – though Travis had the strangest feeling she’d have the same grip on his arm if they were stopped dead in a traffic jam.
Edward Rose called out the landmarks as they hurtled through London toward the Tower.
“Gower Street, good … there’s Lincoln’s Inn Field … Newgate … St. Paul’s Cathedral … We’re almost there, gang.”
“I’m almost gonna hurl …,” Nish said, now beginning to turn a little green.
“Hang on,” Edward Rose said, laughing. “Only a couple more minutes.”
The traffic was snarling. The police were turning back cars. Barriers were up everywhere. The crowds were thronging toward the river and the Tower to get as close a look as possible at the royal procession.
“Close as I can get yer, mate,” the cabbie said. “I count twenty minutes.”
“Good enough,” said Edward Rose.
“One hundred quid, please,” the man said, lighting a new cigarette.
Edward Rose helped Travis count it out. There was plenty. They jostled out of the cab, Edward Rose turning to thrust the money in at the man.
“There’s your money,” Edward Rose said. “But don’t spend it all on cigarettes – your smoking will kill you faster than your driving will.”
“Ah, get lost,” said the cabbie, wrenching his cab in reverse and pulling away.
“Charming!” Edward Rose said. “But he did his job. We’re here.”
They had to push their way through. A lot of the people, especially the ones who had begun lining up at dawn, resented what they took to be pushy kids trying to make their way closer to the front. They were cursed and called names, but they didn’t dare stop. They apologized as much as possible, though it didn’t always work. One red-faced gentleman even took a swing at Nish, who crouched in the nick of time and duck-walked through a row of tall men just in front.
“There’s security!” Sam called back to them. “It’s just ahead.”
There were barriers ahead to keep people back from the entrance to the Tower, and the crowd was standing six deep behind it.
“We have no choice,” said Travis. “We’ll have to barrel through.”
They dropped their shoulders and began pushing harder, trying to apologize to everyone at the same time. The ruckus caught the attention of the police, who were gathered in a circle around several motorcycles and a horse-mounted police officer, quietly talking while they waited for the procession to begin.
The police hadn’t expected a scene like this. The royal party still hadn’t left Westminster Pier and it would be quite a while yet before the procession reached the Tower. A huge policeman with a curling moustache grabbed Nish by the scruff of his neck and hauled him bodily out of the crowd.
Nish’s helmet slipped from his hand and went skittering across the road. Several people in the crowd laughed.
Travis was grabbed by another policeman and Edward Rose by a woman officer. The two girls broke through and over the barrier and stood, waiting.
“We need to see someone in security,” said Edward Rose.
“You’re looking at him, boy,” said the policeman holding him by his arm. “Talk.”
“We think someone took explosives into the Tower last night. We were part of the group that stayed over. We think someone tricked us.”
The bobbies looked at each other.
“Was there kids here last night?” the one with the curling moustache asked.
“Yes,” said the woman officer. “Some group from Canada, I think.”
“That’s us!” Sam and Sarah yelled at the same time. “We need to see someone who can check these helmets.”
“For what?” said the cop holding Travis.
“Plastique explosives,” said Travis.
Suddenly, he had everyone’s attention. The moustachioed bobby let Nish drop onto the pavement and all went quiet. Even those in the crowd who had been shouting at them went quiet.
“Where?” the policewoman asked.
“In the helmets,” said Edward Rose.
“In the helmets?” the large policeman said, looking at Nish’s dropped helmet as if it might go off.
“Not now,” said Travis. “Someone used the helmets to sneak the plastique into the Tower and then removed it once they were inside. We think there might be residue.”
The policewoman understood immediately. “You youngsters come with me.”
The woman police officer led them past more barriers, more crowds, and more police to a security base outside the main entrance. Travis sighed with relief. The explosives detector was still there.
The policewoman explained quickly. Men in plainclothes moved in and took the helmets from the two boys, and a technician took out the plastic wand with a small cloth wrapped around its tip, which she traced all over the inside of Edward Rose’s helmet.
She removed the cloth, placed it in the machine, and pushed several buttons. The machine closed on the cloth, whirred, and lights flashed.
“Maybe,” she said. “But it’s not a very strong reading.”
She took Nish’s helmet and performed the same procedure.
The machine whirred and stopped. A red light came on and stayed on.
The technician looked up, fear in her eyes.
“I have a reading for plastique,” she said.