The Green Apprentice

'Wassa matter?' Van Dyck grumbled softly. 'Ain't yer got the bottle?' He shook the rope ladder, making Lincoln's knuckles whiten on the next rung. 'You're shaking like a leaf!' He shivered the ladder again and smirked into the darkness.

'Pack it in, numpty!' Lincoln's snarl was more a squeak. He went up another rung, one foot, next foot. 'I ain't bottling out. I just needed to catch me breath.' One hand, next hand. One foot, next foot.

'Get a move on. We ain't got all night.' Van Dyck hissed. He made as if to rattle the ladder again. Then froze. A flash of light, reflecting off the quadrangle's walls. 'Rozzers!' That put a rocket under Lincoln, who scuttled up the last few feet to tumble over the parapet and haul up the ladder as swiftly and as quietly as he could. Below, Van Dyck had already scarpered, skulking in the bushes under Professor Hookers' window. The beam from the copper's torch played across it, shattering into random beams as it reflected from the rung, diamond shaped panes held in place by strips of lead. Lincoln held his breath. The policeman strolled on, not noticing the man sized lump curled up in a deep shadow. A few heart thumps and the lump unfurled and scuttled across a patch of lawn. Lincoln dropped the ladder, breathing more easily as Van Dyck's head, body, then feet came over the parapet, followed by the ladder.

'That were easy.' Van Dyck unhooked the grapple they had used to haul up the ladder. 'Right. We nip along there.' He flapped a hand, indicating a narrow walkway between the knee-high parapet and the steep pitch of the college roof. 'Round the Jack and up the gravy.'

'Wot?' Lincoln was not ready to nip along a slippery lead-lined gutter next to a low wall and a thirty foot drop on to medieval flagstones.

'Jack Horner, corner.' Van Dyck sighed. 'Gravy stain, drain.' He tapped sharply on his apprentice's forehead. 'Get with the program, matey!' Lincoln rubbed his brow, hoping it was not sweaty. 'Why had he let himself to be talked into this? It was daft. No. Fore and aft. And dangerous. And being caught did not bear thinking about. 'I'll take this,' Van Dyck slapped the ladder, 'you take the backpack.' He was wriggling out of the straps. 'Don't go breaking it.' He passed the awkward thing and was gone, half running, bent double, towards the - Jack Horner -.

That short distance taught Lincoln the meaning of 'heart in the mouth'. He also learned that you do not need to exert yourself to soak your shirt with sweat. As he rounded the corner, he saw a faint silver light behind the spire of St Mark's. The moon was rising, they were running out of time.

'Dish and spoon.' He muttered. He had thought it an affectation to use Cockney rhyming slang, but it did take his mind off a long drop and broken bones. 'Sticks and stones.' It ended in a sharp intake of breath. The drain was a long, black, pipe, dropping down from the conical roof of Bishop Tower and disappearing through a hole in the parapet. Van Dyck was doing a Spider-Man impression half way up, climbing as if it were a rope. At the top, a gargoyle grimaced as Van Dyck's arm wrapped around its neck so he could heave himself onto the gutter around the roof. Squirming upright, he turned to lean backwards, toes just poking over the drop. He gave a thumbs-up and beckoned Lincoln.

Lincoln did not know the Cockney for nightmare. It was probably terror. The drainpipe was a gritty, slippery tube of ancient iron that felt as if were crumbling under his touch. His arms were being yanked out their sockets. His thighs were on fire. His shins screamed. He did not dare to hug the ugly gargoyle. He did not dare not to. He had to. It was a blur of straining muscles and scrabbling for safety. Then, suddenly, he was leaning, face forward on sleek, smooth slates. Above him the roof pitched steeply to a veridian bronze spike. The objective.

The roof was actually constructed of eight triangular panels, inset between decorative cast iron beams. It was going to be tricky. If he slipped... Don't even think about it. He rubbed his palms dry on his trousers. Worse, how was he going to get the backpack open at the top?

'Right, me old mucker.' Van Dyck was grinning. Oddly, his brow was beaded and shiny. 'There's a bit of line in the top of the pack. Tie the end to your belt then you can pull it up when you get there.' The grin widened. 'Off you pop.'

'Off you bleedin' pop.' Lincoln grated. 'As if...' He grabbed the highest lump he could reach and began to shin up the beam. It was not as bad as the drainpipe had been. 'Just bleedin' awful.' He kept that under his breath. What there was left of it. It became easier the higher he climbed. He could reach the beam to the left and, at the top, he could wrap his arm around the apex. Pulling the pack up was a matter of one hand and teeth. Thankfully it did not snag. Looping the shoulder strap over his arm, he wrestled open the pack and drew out the chamber pot. With a sigh of triumph, he inverted it over the bronze spike.

Success blasted away the pain.

He was still brimming when he slid down to join Van Dyck, who was idly whistling as he admired the view over the university colleges. Then the adrenalin failed. Where was the energy for the descent?

'This way.' Van Dyck was shuffling around the tower. 'There's an access hatch on the other side. We can take the stairs down. The rest of the College Climbers are waiting to go to the pub.'

Lincoln's reply was unprintable. Even in Cockney.

999 words.