The Borribles: Across the Dark Metropolis (12 page)

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Authors: Michael de Larrabeiti

Tags: #Juvenile Fiction, #Fantasy & Magic

BOOK: The Borribles: Across the Dark Metropolis
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‘Okay, Honky,’ said Bingo’s guard. ‘Follow me.’
It was difficult for Bingo to negotiate the entrance, especially with his arms tied behind his back, but he managed it eventually and found himself in a narrow corridor. That was all he could tell; it was pitch black in there and his captors, though close, were invisible.
One by one the prisoners were gathered together with their guards, and as soon as all were present more orders were given.
‘Okay,’ said the voice again. ‘You’ll go upstairs now. I’ll switch on one torch … but don’t try nothing.’
The Adventurers followed the light to the end of the corridor and began to climb some bare wooden stairs. Up they went and on what seemed to be the top floor of the building the stairs widened into an extensive landing with doors leading right and left. Here the prisoners were taken into a room and made to squat in a row, on the floor, their backs against a wall.
The torch beam flickered here and there over the darkness as people came and went and the Borribles waited. Bingo heard people stalking in a language he could not understand. He tested the strength of his
bonds but they would not shift an inch. Then, without warning, the lights went on.
Now Bingo could see the whole line of his captive friends. They were still together but all of them bore marks of the struggle. Napoleon had a cut over one eye and blood ran down his face. Stonks was covered in traces of market filth where he had rolled on the ground fighting, and Scooter had a black eye.
Bingo next looked at the people who had set the ambush. There were about fifteen in the room, half of them girls. Outside on the landing, Bingo could see many more people staring. They were without exception black, and as far as Bingo could tell, all of them were Borribles.
The Adventurers continued to wait and wonder. Then there was a movement at the door and the Borrible who had spoken to Bingo in the dark came into the room followed by some of his henchmen. He wore an enormous bulging cap, and it drooped to one side of his head; on the other side dreadlocks hung down to his shoulders. The cap was black velvet but the rest of his clothes were in bright and shiny colours: orange trousers with blue leg-warmers over, a plastic jacket of green and a mauve jumper under that. His lips were big and expressive, powerful and generous; his strong teeth protruded slightly. He looked cheerful and when he saw the prisoners he laughed delightedly and slapped hands with his friends. There were about thirty people in the room now and the only whites were among the Adventurers.
Bingo glanced at Knocker and Knocker licked his lips. ‘We don’t want any trouble,’ he said, ‘we didn’t come looking for it.’
Black-Hat dropped his smile and prodded Knocker in the chest with his foot, hard. ‘You can’t give us none, Honky, we’ve got you tied up. You’re trespassin’ on our manor … you’re the one in trouble.’
Chalotte jeered at Black-Hat: ‘Don’t be so bloody stupid,’ she said. ‘We’re Borribles, just the same as you are.’
Before the Brixton Borrible could answer Orococco scrambled to his feet and began to speak, but not in a way the Adventurers had ever heard him speak before. He was using a West Indian dialect which the blacks only spoke among themselves and Black-Hat and all his friends listened to every word, not interrupting once, though they turned to stare occasionally at the captives, sometimes looking serious, sometimes smiling and shaking their heads.
Knocker tried to understand what was being said but all he could manage was to pick out two or three expressions; Rumbledom for one, Sam the horse, Inspector Sussworth and SBG. Orococco was telling most of the story and it took a long while; towards the end of it he reverted to English and looking Black-Hat straight in the eye he said, ‘And that’s the truth of it, all of it. And you can look at our ears, man, if you want. Knocker Burnthand is there. If you don’t believe the story look at his hands, burnt across the palms they are, and his back too if you look at it. I tell you all we want is a few days’ rest, some food, and we’ll be on the road. You see we just want to get that horse away from Sussworth, that’s all, and then go on home. Borrible should help Borrible you know, especially if they are on the run, and we’re on the run all right.’
Black-Hat looked at his friends and after the shortest of silences they began to laugh, lightly at first and then louder and louder, slapping their hands all over again. What had been a dangerous situation had now become a highly amusing one.
‘My name is Bisto,’ said Black-Hat, shouting over the noise, and with a long finger he pushed aside his dreadlocks to reveal a pointed ear, a Borrible ear, one that showed great intelligence and cunning. When this was done he drew a knife and, first inspecting the ears of each and every captive in turn, he cut the ropes that bound them and welcomed them to Brixton.
Orococco, his hands free, rubbed his arms to renew the circulation and introduced each Adventurer, telling of their names and their boroughs.
‘I’m a Totter from Tooting,’ he explained. ‘Twilight’s from Spitalfields, Chalotte’s from Whitechapel, Vulge from Stepney, Torrey’s from Hoxton, Sid’s from Neasden, that’s Ninch and Scooter from the circus … and we’ve even got a Wendle.’
‘A Wendle,’ said Bisto, his eyes widening with interest. ‘Which one?’
‘Me,’ said Napoleon Boot, screwing his face up tight to make his hard face look even harder. He looked small against Bisto.
Bisto screamed with laughter and pointed Napoleon out to some of his friends. ‘Hey,’ he yelled, ‘this here’s a Wendle. Well, I dunno. I was
always told they was the most frightening animals on earth, but you ain’t no taller than four-pennyworth of coppers. I’ve seen more meat on a butcher’s pencil.’
Napoleon was not a bit put down. ‘You watch it, Marmite,’ he said, the old truculent sneer on his face. ‘You come up the Wendle with me in a boat, that’s all, across the mudflats and we’ll see how tough you are then.’
Bisto laughed again. ‘Marmite,’ he screamed and tears of mirth stood in his eyes. ‘That’s the best insult I’ve ever heard, that’s wonderful,’ and he put his long arm round Napoleon and shook him affectionately and was so amused that Napoleon could no longer be angry or even pretend to be.
 
Once they had been accepted the Adventurers were made to feel very welcome; they felt they had come home. They were fed and clothes were brought for them to choose from. They were given raincoats, sou’westers and also catapults and maps, in fact all the supplies they would need to continue their great trek to Neasden.
They were given the run of Brixton too. ‘Don’t you worry about the old SBG, man,’ Bisto had explained with a generous wave of his arm. ‘They don’t like coming down here. Wander about where you like; my house is your house.’
The rooms above the market were high and large and it seemed that they had been deserted for years, their windows dark and dirty; only the ground floor being used as shops and warehouses. Adults rarely climbed the stairs, and if they did the Brixton Bumpers, as the West Indian Borribles were called, would simply move from house to house through openings they had made in the dividing walls. The whole three storeys of the long curving Victorian terrace was a honeycomb of rooms and passages, a delight to live in and easy to escape from. There must have been scores of Borribles living there, if not hundreds, and the place had been comfortably furnished too. There were cheerful pictures drawn on the walls; the floorboards were covered in carpets that had been rescued from rubbish dumps and there were old sofas and mattresses, more than were needed. There were dozens of orange boxes as well, standing in corners and brimming over with
books and magazines, all of them saved from dustbins and rubbish heaps. It was a Borrible paradise.
Bisto and his band of mates occupied two rooms in this terrace of houses, up on the third floor of Electric Avenue. They were good Borribles, the Bumpers, and some of the friendships made between them and the Adventurers were to last a Borrible lifetime. There was Arfinch, Sherbet and Peelo, they were the girls; as well as Three-Wheels, Butterfly, Tosheroon and Smoky; and every one of them had offered to share their hideout with the Adventurers for however long they wanted to stay.
There was no doubt that the Adventurers did need to rest. Most of the time they were in Brixton they spent indoors, lazing on the mattresses, recovering from their exhaustion. Half sleeping they could hear the sounds of the great crowds in the streets below; thousands of people tramping in and out the shops, wandering round the stalls, and through it all the voices of the costermongers shouting their wares. These were the sounds that made the Adventurers feel very much at home, safe and comfortable.
They did other things of course—swapping stories and telling one another how they had won their names—and they went out on to the streets of Brixton as well, with Bisto and his friends, to be amazed and delighted at the movement and colour they found there.
It was very enjoyable, perhaps too enjoyable. Had there not been the problem of Sam, the Adventurers might have stayed in Brixton for ever. As it was that wouldn’t do. A day slipped by, then two, then three. Sydney began to worry about the fate of the horse and reminded her friends of it. The Adventurers, thanks to the kindness of the Bumpers, now had everything they needed for the road; there was no excuse for delay. The only thing they didn’t have was a plan. Was Sam still in Wandsworth Prison, or was he already as dead as Sussworth had promised he would be, already minced in shiny tins of catsmeat in some supermarket?
There was much discussion about the problem, and the Bumpers, who had been told in great detail about the Great Rumble Hunt and everything that had happened since, were asked for their advice. It was Arfinch who came up with the best suggestion of all.
‘There’s a bloke,’ she said as they were eating on the third afternoon of the Adventurers’ stay. ‘He lives down Rattray Road someplace. He’s a friend of mine. He ran away from some telecommunications family. Anyway, he’s a whizz-kid. He’s the one who keeps us in front of the Woollies. He lives in a cellar and he’s dug through to the telephone cable … He’s plugged into the whole world, he hears everything.’
‘That’s right,’ said Sherbet. ‘If anyone knows what the SBG have done with your horse, Stovepipe’s yer man.’
‘Can we go and see him?’ asked Chalotte. ‘Would he mind?’
Arfinch opened her mouth wide and laughed. She was a broad-shouldered girl with a big flat face full of life. ‘No, he won’t mind, as long as you’re with me.’
Later that evening Arfinch and Sherbet took Knocker, Chalotte and Vulge to Rattray Road. The two black Borribles were obviously well known in their area and numbers of people spoke to them as they walked by. There were many Borribles too who leant from the windows of their squats to wave a cheery greeting or to invite them into the house. The two Bumper girls returned these greetings with laughs and waves of the hand. ‘See you on the way back, man,’ they shouted. ‘We’re going to a place where they got real music.’
Their destination was not far. On the corner of Rattray and Saltoun Road was a beaten-up old Borrible house, with half its roof missing and its windows and doors boarded over. Arfinch led the way to the rear of the house and rapped with her knuckles on the wooden shuttering which covered a back window level with the ground.
The shutter was in fact on hinges and swung open immediately. A black face appeared with a green Borrible hat pulled well down over the ears. This Borrible had a narrow and intent face and his eyes were set well apart, glinting behind wire-rimmed spectacles.
‘Ah, Arfinch,’ he said. He smiled and then wiped the smile from his face in the same second. He looked at the white Borribles. ‘What’s this?’ he asked. ‘What’s this lot doing down here?’
‘Take it easy, Stovepipe,’ said Arfinch. ‘They’re Borribles and they’re on the run from the SBG.’
‘Ah,’ said Stovepipe again. He stared for a moment at the three Adventurers.
‘Yeah, now let me see. This will be Knocker; this will be Sydney, no, Chalotte, and this little nipper with the limp, that’s got to be Vulge.’
Knocker threw a quick glance at Chalotte and Vulge and dropped his hand to where his catapault was. This was uncanny. If this fellow Stovepipe knew so much then something was wrong; he must be working for the Woollies.
Sherbet laughed to see Knocker and his two companions turn so pale and then Stovepipe’s intense face broke into a grin. ‘Don’t be worried,’ he said. ‘I’ve been plugged into the SBG headquarters for the last few days and they ain’t been talking about nothing else but you and your friends. I’ve heard your description so many times I could recognize you in the dark, and all the others.’
‘Can we come in?’ asked Arfinch. ‘We want to talk.’
Stovepipe nodded and stepped back from the window. Arfinch led the way over the sill and down a wooden stepladder. In a moment the Borribles were out of sight of the street and the shutter was closed behind them.
They were in a dark room which had been dug out below the ground floor of the abandoned house. It was lit entirely by electric light and the Adventurers could see that the room was crammed with radio equipment, telephones, tape recorders and computers.
‘Where’s all this come from?’ asked Chalotte.
Stovepipe switched on a kettle and emptied a teapot into the sink. ‘It’s bits and pieces I’ve put together,’ he said. ‘I built most of it from stuff that’s thrown away; a little bit’s nicked of course.’ He pulled some folding chairs out from underneath his bed and invited everyone to take a seat. ‘Anyway, what do you want?’

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