“Quick, quick! Over here!” hissed Peter.
Hassan ran, bent double, to where Peter was crouched behind the concrete parapet at the edge of the river. Carefully, they both peered over the top. It was a cold but bright October evening and the sunset left impenetrable, black shadows in the inlet that they looked down into.
“I can’t see anything!” whined Hassan.
“Ssh! They’ll hear you.” Peter whispered.
At first he could only hear a slight rustling sound but as Hassan’s eyes became accustomed to the gloom he was at last able to make out what Peter was looking at. The tide was out and two shifty-looking men were on the sandy shingle digging a hole. They worked quickly. When the hole reached about three feet deep they threw in a heavy, dark box and piled the sand and gravel back on top. Smoothing it over roughly to cover it as best they could, the two men then jogged silently down to the water’s edge where a small boat was tied up. They jumped in and rowed out into the stream.
The men were more clearly visible now. There was still light in the sky and lights from the shore illuminated them faintly. Their boat was white and had a small outboard motor on it. When they reached the middle of the river they started the motor, which hardly made a sound at all, and powered quickly off downstream.
“What do you reckon?” asked Peter, excited.
“It’s got to be drugs.” Hassan was wide-eyed. “I’m going to catch it real bad if I don’t get home now.”
“Yeah, me an’ all.”
The two boys ran away from the river towards the Bermondsey Council blocks they called home. They lived in flats on the same open balcony a few doors apart. As they scooted up the stairs they excitedly speculated on what they’d seen.
“Nobody would bury drugs like that,” asserted Peter, “and look how heavy that box was. Drugs don’t weigh a lot like that. I reckon it’s treasure – gold coins!”
“Coins aren’t gold any more, Pete. Anyway, why bury it here?” asked Hassan, puzzled. “They might’ve got caught or seen like we saw ‘em. They must’ve pinched it from someone and got rid of it quick so the cops didn’t catch ‘em.”
“So let’s nick it from them!” suggested Peter. “Look, that ground next to the river is covered by water most of the time. Let’s go back at low tide tomorrow night and dig it up!”
“You’re crazy –”
“Hassan!”
The loud voice of Hassan’s dad interrupted them. They’d arrived near his door and his father had been looking over the balcony to the brightly lit paths below when he saw them coming towards him.
“Get inside! Where have you been?”
Hassan’s father spoke English well but, despite having lived in London most of his life, still had a strong accent. Only very rarely had Peter ever heard Hassan’s father speak his native language, a strange tongue that Hassan had said was called “Oodoo”. Hassan spoke hardly any.
“I knew you’d be with this boy. Go home, Peter!”
He pointed down the balcony to Peter’s flat. Hassan’s father grabbed Hassan’s arm and propelled him indoors. As the front door shut behind them he overheard “He’s a bad influence. Stay away from him –“.
Peter continued on towards his own door and let himself in with his key. His father was sitting in front of the television in his underwear and open dressing gown, as he always did since he’d been out of work. He turned and saw Peter.
“Get over here! Where the bloody hell’ve you been?!” he yelled at Peter and slapped him on the side of the head, bringing tears to his eyes. “Get to bed!”
He didn’t need telling twice. His mum followed him down the hall into the bedroom he shared with his three-year-old brother.
“Don’t worry, pet.” She dried his tears and hugged him. “He’s had a bad day. Get into your pyjamas now and get into bed and I’ll get you a drink of milk.”
The next day at school, Hassan and Peter met up at dinner time. After eating and playing football for a while they were relaxing underneath a tree.
“So, are you on for tonight?”
“I don’t know.” said Hassan. “Dad was really angry last night.”
“It has to be tonight. They may have picked it up at low tide this morning or they might not be back for days; who knows? We have to do it tonight!”
“What’re we going to dig with?”
Peter thought for a moment.
“I’ve got an idea. Let’s meet at the gates after school as normal. See you then!”
They separated to go to their classes. In the early years at school the two boys had been in the same class but now Hassan was a class further up than Peter.
Tom, the caretaker at the block where Peter and Hassan lived, was a long-time local council employee. He always felt weary these days and was idling through his last couple of years before retirement. Arthritis spreading in his joints added to his weariness and sometimes he felt much older than he really was. Now confronted by these two wide-eyed boys, one of them a Paki, he was suspicious but beyond caring.
“For a school project, you say?”
“Yes, Tom. Remember last year we planted trees to help save the environment? This year we’ll be planting them in memory of the people in Bosnia.” Peter earnestly explained.
“And for all the slaughtered Muslims.” added Hassan.
Tom looked from one to the other and asked:
“You’ll get them back to me tomorrow afternoon straight after school?”
“Yeah, as soon as we get home. You can trust us. Besides you know our dads.”
Tom laughed.
“Yes, I know them: a minicab driver and a redundant storeman. Real trustworthy!”
He led them over to the tool storage room next to a row of dilapidated garages. He pulled out a large ring of keys and unlocked the padlock and the Yale lock on the steel door.
“Stay out here.”
He rummaged around in the store and emerged a moment later with two spades.
“Can you handle these?” he asked. The spades were only a couple of inches shorter than the boys.
“Have you got anything smaller?” asked Peter. The spades were heavy, steel-handled trench diggers. “What about the ones we had last year?”
Tom sighed.
“That handy little gardening spade got ‘arf-inched a few months ago when I turned my back for two bloody minutes.”
He went back inside and pulled out a small, folding, military entrenching tool.
“There’s this,” he said, “and this.”
He produced a small wooden-handled shovel, a little longer and heavier than the trench digger.
“How does this work?” asked Hassan holding up the folding shovel.
“Give it ‘ere. You see, you unscrew this me’al collar on the ‘andle and the shovel folds out like this or if you put it ‘arfway you can fold down this little pickaxe head on the other side, then you tigh’en the collar to ‘old it in place.”
Hassan was fascinated.
“Hey, that’s great and it’s really light.”
“Yeah, but it won’t dig through much. The shovel’ll be more useful.”
Peter could lift the shovel without difficulty. He was bigger and stronger than Hassan.
“Thanks, Tom.”
The two kids walked off with the precious implements.
“Remember, I want ‘em back tomorrow!” Tom called after them. Peter waved and nodded.
Once they’d turned the corner they changed direction down towards the river.
“Let’s see if the tide’s out yet,” said Peter and he picked up speed as best he could carrying the shovel. Hassan jogged alongside.
“It’s too early, Pete. Slow down! The water level won’t be down enough yet.”
They negotiated Jamaica Road with their equipment and walked towards the inlet where they’d seen the “treasure” buried. Sure enough, there were still a few feet of water sloshing around in it.
“So what now?” asked Hassan.
“We have to hide these tools,” replied Peter.
They walked through the side streets full of old warehouses, some renovated into flats and some still derelict. There was a lot of building work going on. The streets were a maze of cars and skips and building material. The area was completely forbidden to them by their parents and thus was even more utterly fascinating to the boys. They finally came to a derelict warehouse whose developer had gone bust in the recession like so many others.
They hid the shovels behind some concrete blocks overgrown with weeds that looked like they hadn’t moved in years.
“We’d better get home for tea,” said Peter.
They started the trek back home.
“I’ll meet you at the bottom of our stairs at seven. That’s two hours from now.”
“Dad won’t let me out,” complained Hassan.
“You’ll have to sneak out somehow. Tell him you’re going to see Rashid.”
Rashid was Hassan’s older, married brother, who lived nearby.
“Okay but he’ll ring Rashid.”
“Then go see Rashid and get him to ring your dad first and tell him you’re there. Then come and meet me.”
This sounded almost like a foolproof plan to Hassan. Rashid was easier going and they got on very well.
Peter’s father was in a rage.
“The bloody DSS! Those smarmy bastards don’t know what it’s like. They’ve got me applying for labourer’s jobs and shelf stackers. I was in charge of a whole despatch warehouse until they brought in those bloody computerised stock pickers.”
“Now, dear, calm down.” Wearily, his wife tried to put her arms around his shoulders. He stank of beer. He pushed her away roughly.
“They humiliate you every time you go in there. You have to wait for ages and the place is always full of blacks sponging off the system. Where the hell do you think you’re going?” he yelled at Peter, who was trying to avoid his father’s anger and sneak out to meet Hassan.
“Out.” said Peter.
“Out with that bloody Paki kid again? Stay away from them. It’s these bloody Asians that come in and take the jobs for slave wages that’s putting people out of work.”
He pointed at Peter.
“You know, son, we once had strong unions that supported the working man but the bloody coloureds come over and take jobs at half the union rate and the real English can’t get work. The government has destroyed the unions.”
He lunged at Peter, who ducked under his arm and ran for the door. He was outside in a flash and running down the balcony towards the stairs.
“Don’t bother bloody well coming back!” his father yelled after him.
At the bottom of the stairs Hassan was waiting.
“I heard your dad. Did he get you?”
“Nah! I was too quick. This time.”
It was dusk and getting cold. They walked quickly up and across the Jamaica Road, along to the inlet and peered over the wall at the side of the road. The water was gone.
“Great! Let’s get the tools,” said Peter.
They walked up a poorly lit side street to the warehouse where they’d left the shovels and retrieved them from behind the concrete blocks. They continued on to the Thames itself and turned right towards the inlet. At the corner where they’d watched the mysterious burial the night before they looked down to the river. The water was still up to the mouth of the inlet but the site of the buried box was uncovered. There was no sign of anyone except for some lights on in flats on the other side of the inlet.
“How are we going to get down there?” asked Hassan.
It was at least twenty feet down to the shingle.
Peter looked up and down the short inlet and then across at the flats.
“Over there!” He pointed. “There’s a couple of row boats on the sand and a ladder down from the pavement next to those flats.”
Hassan saw the metal ladder that had been built into the supports on the other side.
The two boys retraced their steps back to the main road, around the end of the inlet and then up the other side. Eventually they found the footpath alongside the flats.
“Keep quiet. We don’t want anybody to catch us here,” whispered Peter.
They sneaked along the footpath, looking over the edge every so often until they found the steel ladder.
“Now how are we going to carry these down?” mused Peter as he looked over.
“Easy!” smiled Hassan. “Just drop ‘em over the edge.”
He leaned over and dropped the entrenching tool. It smacked into the shingle with a quiet thud. Peter dropped the larger shovel. He wasn’t so lucky. The metal blade struck a large stone and made a loud metallic clang. They held their breath waiting for someone to notice. However, there was only the soft noise of the Thames and the sound of cars in the distance. In one of the flats they could hear music.
“Let’s go!” said Peter.
He climbed over the edge, onto the ladder and quickly and quietly climbed down to the bottom. Hassan followed, a little more hesitant.
It was very dark now. Hassan pulled out a small torch.
“I didn’t even think of that,” said Peter.
“I borrowed it from Rashid.”
“You didn’t tell him about this, did you?”
“No, but if I’m not back by nine he’s going to come looking for me.”
They found the shovels and moved over to where the box had been buried.
“Are you sure it was here?” asked Hassan.
“Yes. It was next to this pillar two up from where that boat was tied up.”
“I hope no-one moved the boat.”
There was a slight mound next to the pillar and the two boys started shovelling out the sand and gravel. It was harder work than they thought. The ground was wet and stony and the shingle proved difficult to shovel. Sweating heavily they pressed on until finally they had cleared out enough spoil to strike the box with one of the shovels.
“That’s it!” whooped Hassan.
They cleared the last bits of gravel from the top of the box with their bare hands and shone the torch onto it. It was wooden with iron bands.
“It looks really old,” said Peter, fascinated.
They cleared around the sides until they could get at the handles and Peter hauled on one in a vain attempt to pull it out of the hole.
“Boy, it’s heavy! It won’t budge.”
With both of them pulling on one handle they were able to lift it until it stood on one end, still in the hole. Peter jumped into the hole and put his hands under the bottom edge whilst Hassan stood at the top and pulled with all his might on the uppermost handle. With a great deal of effort they were at last able to get it out of the hole and sitting upside down. They heaved on it and rolled it over.
The two boys sat down on the box bathed in sweat and exhausted.
“It isn’t that big a box,” said Hassan, “but it weighs a ton. What’s in it?”
“Let’s see if we can get it open,” said Peter.
They stood up and found the iron hasp on the front. It was secured with a simple iron pin, which they pushed out by banging on it with a shovel. Peter opened the hasp and then pulled open the lid and let it fall back on the sand. Hassan shone his torch inside.
“Incredible!”
“Wow!”
The box was full of gold coins and jewellery.
“I told you it was treasure! These are gold coins!” said Peter triumphantly.
At that moment a gruff voice yelled out.
“Quick! Somebody’s dug up the box!”
Peter and Hassan turned as two black shapes ran towards them from the river. While they were concentrating on the box, the two men who had buried it had returned. They were on them in a second. One grabbed Peter but Hassan turned off his torch and ducked out of the way unseen.
“I thought I saw two. Where’s the other one?”
“I can’t see a damn thing!”
Peter was struggling in the powerful grip of the first man.
“Let me go! Let me go!” he yelled.
“Keep quiet or we’ll have every cop in London down here.”
He put a hand over Peter’s mouth. Hassan saw the other man looking the wrong way and ran back towards Peter and the first man. He picked up the folding shovel and swung it hard at the man’s leg. There was a loud ding sound as the blade bounced off his kneecap.
“Jesus Christ!”
At the same moment Peter bit the man’s hand hard.
“Ow! You little bastards!”
He hopped around then tripped over the box and fell onto the shingle releasing Peter. The second man grabbed Hassan.
“Help, Peter! Help!”
Peter jumped up, tackled the man’s leg and tried to trip him over. The boys were yelling and screaming and at last the second man fell on his back.
“Shit!” he cried out. “My back! You’ve done in my back!”
He still held on tightly to Hassan’s arm. Peter stood over him kicking him as hard as he could. The first man had recovered. He found the larger shovel and raised it over his shoulder, aimed directly at Peter’s head. At that moment a powerful torch illuminated him from head to toe.
“Stop! Police!”
He blinked in the light. A second later a searchlight from a police boat out on the river lit the whole area in hard, white light.
In Tooley Street Police Station the wet and muddy boys were given some dry coveralls and wrapped in blankets. As they sipped tomato soup, a rather hard-looking sergeant stood over them.
“You were lucky, boys. Those men are known to be violent. That box you dug up was stolen from a museum yesterday. The men were surprised in the middle of the burglary and gave a guard a thumping, then escaped on the river. We caught them later on downstream but there was no box and nothing to connect them with the job. So we let them go, intending to follow them, but we lost them. If it wasn’t for the racket you created they might have got away with that box.”
“So we don’t get to keep the treasure?” inquired Peter.
“We found it.” said Hassan.
The sergeant smiled.
“No. I’m afraid not. But there may be a reward.”
Peter’s mother and Rashid were led in. Hassan had had the forethought to give the police his brother’s name and number.
“Well, you’ve had an exciting night,” said Rashid smiling. “I don’t think that we’d better tell dad that you and Peter have been picked up by the police. Are they free to go?”
“Yes. You’ll need to bring them back here tomorrow so we can get full statements from them. They’ve been roughed up a bit but they aren’t injured. We’ll let them have a night’s rest.”
As Peter and Hassan went out ahead of Peter’s mother and Rashid, Hassan sighed disappointedly.
“All that work and we don’t get to keep anything!”
“Oh yeah?” said Peter mischievously. He nudged Hassan’s hand with his. Hassan looked down. Peter opened his tightly clenched fist to reveal two shiny, gold coins.