Lies Sleeping (Peter Grant, #7)(48)

‘We’re not happy about you going down alone,’ said Allison, a small, wiry white woman in her thirties who claimed she had her job on account of her small size. ‘Things can get tight further up,’ she’d said. ‘They needed someone who can fit into the two foot pipes.’

At least she couldn’t fault my gear, which I’d updated, at my own expense, since my last visit to the sewers. This included an eye-watering yellow PV oversuit, a wetsuit, boots, gloves, eye protectors and a gas detector – because these days canaries are not allowed.

‘I’m not going to do anything stupid,’ I said as she used a metal lever to pry open the rectangular manhole cover.

I was going down a side access because, unlike the lifting shafts that run down the centre of the street, they lead to a vestibule with its own built-in ladder.

‘That’s not what I heard,’ muttered Allison.

I pretended not to have heard that as I helped her set up the public safety barrier around the open manhole. Once I was down she passed me the jet wash gun and fed the hose down behind me as I moved into the drain proper.

At this point in her course the Tyburn is actually a bricked up canal. Like many of her sisters she was swallowed up by the city, first serving as an open sewer and then buried out of sight. About four metres across and three metres high, she’s relatively clean but there’s no getting away from the smell of old shit mixed in with the disturbingly meaty scent of old fat. Which was worse in that this far downstream it’s pervasive rather than overpowering – sneaking up on you in waves when you least expect it.

Once I’d found a suitable spot I went back to the manhole and had Allison pass down the rest of my gear.

‘Are you sure you don’t want me down there with you?’ she asked.

‘If I’m not back up in two hours, come and look for me,’ I said.

Allison made a sour face, but nodded.

First I used the water jet to scour the brickwork, good solid nineteenth-century London brick I noticed, with superior mortaring. Then I got out the bleach and my mum’s cordless scrubber and went over it again. Then I got a brush and scrubbed like mad for an hour. In the end I had a section of tunnel that was, possibly, marginally cleaner than the rest.

Still, I thought, it’s the thought that counts – literally.

Then, being careful to get the measurements right, I used a masonry drill to install brackets so that I could mount the plaque. I’d had it made up specially on a ‘break glass in case of spiritual emergency’ basis the year before and it read:



ìya wa, òrìsà wa,

ìya wa, tí ó ní olá

ìya wa, tí ó ní ewà

ìya wa títí láilái.



Which basically translated as Our mother deity of bounty and beauty. Because if you’re going to propitiate your actual original orisa, it’s go hard or go home.

To avoid additional DIY, the plaque came with its own shelf upon which I placed a couple of vanilla scented candles I’d nicked out of Beverley’s bathroom – one at each end. As my most valuable offering I hung one of my two genuine World War Two army surplus battle staffs between the candles. These had been a gift from Hugh Oswald, one of the few surviving veterans of the final battle at Ettersberg.

I took a moment to check my handiwork.

Then I pulled the cork on the 1964 burgundy and, after taking a sip to make sure it wasn’t corked or something, poured a generous measure into what passed for water flowing down the central trough.

‘O great Goddess of the River Tyburn, spirit of the Hanging Tree – I call on thee.’

I splashed some more in – not too much; I didn’t know how long I was going to have to keep this up.

‘O Lady of the Parliaments – I call on thee.’

Splash.

‘O Warden of the Palace – I call on thee.’

Double splash.

‘O Queen of Mayfair – I call on thee.’

‘If you pour any more of that on the floor,’ said a voice behind me. ‘I will not be responsible for the consequences.’

I turned to find the Goddess of the River Tyburn standing behind me with her hands on her hips. She was wearing a black neoprene wetsuit with TYR on the chest. Her hair was carefully wrapped in a matching bathing cap, but her feet were bare.

‘And “thee” is the singular informal,’ she said. ‘You shouldn’t use words when you don’t know what they mean.’

She held out a hand.

‘Give it here,’ she said, and I handed over the bottle.

She sniffed it and sighed, and with that sigh the stink of the sewer was blown away by a fresh breeze from the chalky hills of Hampstead.

‘The 64 Romanee.’ She gave me a reproachful look. ‘This is so totally wasted on you.’

‘That’s why it’s a gift,’ I said.

Lady Ty took a sip from the bottle and swirled it around her mouth a bit before swallowing.

‘You have no appreciation of its value,’ she said, and paused to take a good solid swig. ‘So it doesn’t count as a gift.’ She waved the bottle in the general direction of the plaque. ‘And that borders on the ironic. If not openly mocking.’

‘Not intentionally,’ I said.