Читать книгу Robin Hood Yard - Mark Sanderson - Страница 7

The bomb was in place. For the umpteenth time he checked his pocket watch. Two more minutes …

The Lord Mayor’s coach – a fantasia in red and gold – emerged from Prince’s Street by the Bank of England and turned, groaning on its leather straps, towards Poultry. The Lord Mayor, leaning out of the window, doffed his cocked hat to the dignitaries assembled under the portico of his new home, the Mansion House. The ostrich feathers on his hat rippled in the chilly breeze.

The cheering crowds that packed the pavements did nothing to scare the horses. Pairs of mounted policemen protected the coach at the front and rear. The floats that followed were also mainly drawn by horses, whereas others relied on another form of horsepower. It was one of these that stalled. The actors portraying Sir Francis Drake and his fellow bowlers staggered as the truck coughed then lurched to a stop.

The theme of this year’s show was physical health. Everywhere banners proclaimed FITNESS WINS! Dancers, boxers, golfers and rowers continued to demonstrate their moves.

The plaster of Paris mountain being climbed by the alpinists started to emit smoke. Johnny watched in disbelief. No one climbed an active volcano.

The army jeeps and wagons of the auxiliary fire brigade rolled on. They were on parade, not on duty.

As soon as a gap appeared in the procession, Johnny pushed through the crowd lining the route and crossed Cheapside.

He weaved his way through a maze of penny-farthings, unseating a couple of the riders. Their companions, cursing loudly, wobbled precariously but somehow remained upright and continued to pedal. Some of the spectators started to boo.

A few members of a marching band, distracted, fell out of step. The loss of rhythm was accompanied by an unscored clash of cymbals. The catcalls got louder.

One of the police outriders craned his neck to see the cause of the commotion. Calling to his colleagues, he turned his mount around and headed towards Johnny.

The Lord Mayor, arm aching from waving to his devoted citizens, stuck his head out of the left side of the coach. Below him, on a painted panel, Mars, god of the City of London – and not, as many assumed, Mammon – pointed to a scroll held by Truth. What was going on?

A ginger-haired man was being dragged to his feet by two policemen. He seemed to be unconscious.

Beyond them, outside St Mary-le-Bow, a float was engulfed in flames …