The Borribles: Across the Dark Metropolis (14 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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‘Run?’ said Knocker.
‘Yeah,’ answered Bisto, ‘we’ll have to move fast. We daren’t set out until after midnight. We’ve got to cut across to Clapham Road, then down to Wandsworth Road. Over the back of New Covent Garden and
across to the river at Nine Elms. You’ll need darkness to get over the Thames and we’ll need darkness to get back home. We’ll have to run. Well, what do you think?’
The Adventurers laughed with pleasure.
‘Bisto,’ said Chalotte, ‘not only is it the best plan we’ve got, it’s the only plan we’ve got.’
‘Okay,’ said Sherbet, ‘but when?’
Knocker raised an eyebrow. ‘Tomorrow night,’ he said.
‘Tomorrow,’ said Arfinch. ‘That’s soon.
‘We’ve been here three days,’ said Napoleon, ‘and tomorrow will make four.’
‘And every day is more dangerous for Sam,’ said Sydney.
‘Tomorrow night it is, then,’ said Bisto. ‘We’ll get the stuff tonight and begin making the rafts in the morning.’
 
It became known as the Great Raft Run from Brixton to Nine Elms, one of the most famous chapters in Borrible history. Some of the no-name Bumpers won their names that night; names like Rafto, Pallet and Sweetfeet. It was a real old-fashioned Borrible adventure.
Two large pallets had been taken to construct each raft, one pallet nailed and wired crossways on the top of another. To make them buoyant the insides were stuffed with white polystyrene boarding taken from old packing cases. Everyone was convinced they would float but in Brixton there was no way of testing them.
‘It’ll be fine,’ said Bisto. ‘It’s just a question of sink or swim.’
The raft run began at one o’clock the next morning. There stood the Adventurers dressed in new warm clothes and raincoats. They had new rucksacks on their back and packed inside them were all the provisions and equipment they needed. The Bumpers had done them proud.
The Bumpers themselves were only lightly dressed, wearing dark clothes and black running shoes. ‘Remember,’ said Bisto as he gave his final instructions to the Adventurers. ‘Half of your lot will spread out in front, running, then comes number one raft, then number two raft, then the rest of your lot. The standby raft team, when not carrying, will run on the wings, keeping watch. If things go wrong, dump the rafts, separate, get into the side streets and make your way back to Brixton. You’ll be safe here and we can always try again.’
And so the Great Raft Run set off, slowly at first, with the Borribles crossing the silence of Brixton Road in small groups, gliding like phantoms into the dark patches of the night. But once they had passed under the railway bridge and into the top of Ferndale Road they began to run like they’d never run before. Not once did they halt and luck was with them that night. They ran undiscovered, their hearts beating with a strange excitement and a confidence boon of the friendship they felt the one for the other; tribe for tribe, black for white, friend for friend. They were exultant—rulers, if only for an hour or two, of the huge sprawling beast of a city they lived in.
From Ferndale to Kimberley they went and on into Clitheroe. They slowed momentarily to cross Clapham Road, but raced on into Union and turned right at Larkhall Lane, cutting down Priory and Lansdowne until they crossed the Wandsworth Road and went into the gloom of Cowthorpe and the crescent of Crimsworth, and there they halted in an alley made from a dull brick and bounded on the northern side by a high wall where names and oaths were written in aerosol paint and chalk of many colours. Bisto leant against the wall, panting hard. ‘This is it,’ he said. ‘This is the back way into Covent Garden Market; once across it we’ll be on Nine Elms Lane, right by the river.’
The pallets had been fashioned so that they could also act as ladders. They were upended, leant against the wall, and one was placed on the side of the other. The slats of the rafts now became rungs and, taking it in turn, the Borribles climbed to the very top of the sheer brick cliff. Once there they sat astride and gripped the coping stones with their legs and pulled the two precious craft up to them with ropes specially brought for the purpose, lowering them down on the market side in the same manner. At the end of the operation the Borribles disappeared from the wall, dropping silently on all fours to the soft grass verge that lay below.
They were now in New Covent Garden, an enormous space full of bustle and business, particularly during the hours of darkness, for it is to Covent Garden that come the great pantechnicons from all over Europe, loaded to overflowing with fruit and vegetables. Here the lamps burn all night so that the great lorries may drive to the warehouse gates, selling and buying, loading and unloading.
For the Borribles it was a place full of danger but they crouched low and their luck stayed with them. It was so busy and crowded that a few kids, carrying what looked like two old pallets for firewood, were barely noticed, and when noticed at all, were completely ignored. The Borribles were glad; they kept to the edge of the adult activity and skirted the blazing lights. In less than a quarter of an hour they had crossed Covent Garden and emerged, undiscovered, on Nine Elms Lane. On the far side of this thoroughfare they saw an open gateway; passing through it they found themselves in a riverside yard which possessed its own wharf and, what is more, its own iron ladder set into the embankment and leading down to the surface of the water.
The River Thames in this part of London is infinite and evil. In the gloom of the early hours it looks like a black spirit sliding to hell, bearing on its back hapless lumps of rubbish like the souls of the lost and the damned. It moves with a steady surge of muscular power. Nothing can resist it, nothing can fight against it. The Thames is a stream that wants blood; it yearns to suck you down.
That night of the Great Raft Run was no exception. The rain held off but the air was cold and murderous like the blade of an axe, and though there was a moon stealing along behind low wet clouds, only occasionally did the glint of silver touch the water. All was dark, as dark as death. No sky, no skyline, no earth beneath the feet. It was the brink of the world.
But the Adventurers did not falter in their resolve and the confidence they had felt during the long run from Brixton bore them up. So too did the friendship of the Bumpers and, all working together, the Borribles lowered the rafts into the water and the strong smell of the Thames rose into their nostrils, robbing them of their breath. An old smell it was, brewed up from a mixture of toadstool, sewage, sump oil and factory waste.
And now the Adventurers clambered down the metal ladder for there was not a moment to be lost. The river was choppy and snapped at the rafts, but they were buoyant and rode high even when fully laden with their crews, though the tide tugged and heaved as if all the power of the turning world was there under the surface of the Thames, wishing. the voyagers ill. It was time to go.
The Adventurers looked up at the wharf, and the excitement that had sustained them that night died like the flame of a little candle; its place was taken by a melancholy as dark and as pernicious as the Thames itself, and because of it the Adventurers could not bring themselves to paddle, only drifting away from the embankment, lacking the courage to say goodbye. And for the same reason the Bumpers themselves said nothing and did not move.
At last Napoleon Boot broke the silence. ‘Come on,’ he said, and dropped the blade of his paddle into the darkness of the water. ‘I’m not scared of the river, and if we don’t get a move on the police patrols will find us out here in daylight.’
So the Adventurers left the bank, watching their friends until they were but one black with the black of the night and the Bumpers called goodbye from nowhere.
‘You take it easy,’ said Bisto in a whispered shout. ‘You make sure you come back to see us when it’s over … and make sure you damn’ well don’t get bloody well caught. You understand?’ And with a sob in his voice that he tried in vain to disguise, Bisto turned away and began the long run back to Brixton, tears blurring his sight, and his friends ran behind him and they exchanged not a single word during the whole long journey.
Inspector Sussworth’s mobile headquarters was parked in a narrow crescent somewhere between St Pancras Way and the Camden Road. It was a quiet street, ill frequented and little known. In the centre of the crescent was a scrubby and dusty garden where a few pale sprouts of withered grass struggled for life in a rancid and ungenerous soil. The garden was bordered by an iron fence which lurched in all directions at once, like a drunkard. Skirting the perimeter of this cul-de-sac was a line of tall thin houses, squashed one against the other in a tight jumble. Some of the houses had been abandoned, some were inhabited by
pensioners whose relatives no longer knew where they lived; their windows were lightless and their doors never opened to visitors.
Sussworth’s caravan stood out clearly in the murk of its surroundings. It was painted in white gloss and the four police officers who drove the Range Rover, which pulled the caravan from place to place and guarded the inspector from harm, were under strict orders to wash the caravan once a day, sometimes twice if Sussworth thought it was dirty. In consequence it gleamed all over and the chrome trim on the wheels shone like four moons on a night of frost.
The caravan was a long one, very large and very stable with a balcony at each end so that Sussworth could easily speak to his men. Inside it was spotless. The carpet looked like it had never been trodden on, the walls never leant against and the windows never soiled by anything so vulgar as a glance travelling through them.
At one end of the caravan stood Sussworth’s desk and behind that a section had been walled off to provide the inspector with a bathroom and lavatory—for his use only. As at the SBG headquarters in Micklethewaite Road the caravan’s facilities were not to be sullied by any presence but the inspector’s. No other bum was allowed to lower its weight on to the plush-covered seat of the lavatory pan; no other body was permitted to wallow in the deep pink bath. This was Sussworth’s sanctum.
In the middle of the caravan was a comfortable sofa that unfolded to become a double bed, suitable for the inspector’s neat and fragile frame. Nearby, on a small table, was a computer terminal that could be plugged in to central criminal records. Beyond that, at the opposite end to Sussworth’s lavatory, was the kitchen area and a narrow bunk into which Sergeant Hanks was obliged to squeeze his lumpish body when he needed rest.
In the kitchen there was a stove, a sink and a table where the sergeant could brew his tea and concoct his favourite oily meals: breakfasts of fried bread, bacon, eggs and black pudding. Sergeant Hanks loved eating and the evidence was all too obvious; stains of yellow egg and white lard paraded across the broad bosom of his tunic like the badges of a hundred regiments. Next to eating he loved cooking, and police work had to fit neatly in between those two activities. At the very moment the Adventurers were launching their craft on the dangerous
waters of the Thames, Sergeant Hanks was prodding a slice of bacon in his frying pan and waiting for the kettle to boil. Inspector Sussworth sat at his desk, his fingers tapping, his feet clicking, pondering his predicament, impatient for his tea.
‘The trouble is,’ said Sussworth, ‘that since those villains broke out of custody at Clapham South, aided and abetted by those travellers and gypsies, we have lost contact and all knowledge of their whereabouts.’
The kettle boiled and Hanks poured the water into a large brown teapot.
‘You see,’ went on Sussworth, ‘the information received seems to indicate Brixton as their probable and likely destination, but we cannot verify these reports.’
‘Tricky,’ said Hanks, and poured a mugful of tea for his superior officer, black and strong, no milk, no sugar. ‘Brixton’s tricky. I mean we don’t want to stir ’em up in Brixton, that might be more trouble than it’s worth.’ Hanks hooked something juicy out of his nose, looked at it from every angle and then stuck it on the underside of the table where it joined the rest of his collection, now nicely crisp.
‘Yes,’ said Sussworth. ‘We can’t take chances in Brixton.’
Hanks burped. ‘What about the dwarfs? Have they brought in any news?’
Sussworth got to his feet, strutted to the kitchen, seized his mug of tea and sidestepped like a dancer back to his desk where he sat down. He took a deep sip. ‘Ah, tea, Hanks, perfect. Yes, the dwarfs. Now there’s an idea of mine that worked well.’ Sussworth’s moustache twitched in glee and trembled like a leaf on the end of a branch. ‘But you see, at Clapham South, those circus dwarfs who had done so superbly, they didn’t want to do any more, they desisted.’
‘Yes,’ said Hanks. He put two rashers of bacon on to a piece of thickly buttered bread and watched the butter melt. ‘Except two of them, they were keen to go on.’
Sussworth took another sip of tea. ‘That is correct, Hanks, and I cannot comprehend why we have heard nothing from them. We should have had a message, a sign, a communication.’
‘Perhaps they’ve had their throats cut,’ said Hanks. He placed another piece of bread on the bacon to make a sandwich. ‘I mean if the
Borribles found out that they were spies, them dwarfs, well, they wouldn’t last long, would they?’
Sussworth tapped his fingers on the table and looked stern. ‘They wouldn’t, Hanks, they wouldn’t. Nooch and Scinter, whatever their names were, could well be lying dead in a drain at this very moment. But we knew that was a risk we would have to take; those Borribles will stick at nothing to maintain their so-called independence.’
‘They won’t, sir, they won’t.’
‘And that horse, that is a definite flea in the ointment between me and the DAC. I’d like to get rid of it right away, but the DAC won’t have it. Got to hang on to the horse, for the time being, at least.’
‘Make good steaks, horses do,’ said Hanks, and he sat on the kitchen table and shoved half his sandwich into his mouth.
Sussworth’s eyes went cloudy and his moustache quivered in ecstasy. ‘I have a dream, Hanks, a golden vision of the future. I see it clear. I have captured those Borribles, every one. I starve them for a few days and then I serve them up some delicious stew, really delicious and tasty. They gobble it down, and then, as I clip their ears I tell them they have just eaten their favourite horse, Sam. Isn’t that wonderful, Hanks? I’d give up my knighthood for that, I would really.’
Hanks guffawed, and half-masticated bread and bacon splattered down his tunic. ‘Oh brilliant, sir, brilliant. You deserve to be commissioner.’
Sussworth raised his mug of tea in a toast. ‘I shall be one day, Hanks, I shall be, but only if we can run these vagabonds to earth and deal with them once and for all. Double the rewards, Hanks. Those malingerers will have read the notice on the gates of Wandsworth Prison by now … We can expect them to reappear at any moment.’
‘We’ll get them,’ said Hanks. He cuddled his stomach with both arms as he enjoyed the sensation of the bacon sandwich arriving in it. He lit the gas and dropped four more rashers into his frying pan.
Sussworth got to his feet and crossed the caravan to stare into a gilt-framed mirror. He put his face close to the glass and gazed at himself, giving his moustache just the gentlest of twitches. ‘We’ll get them this time, Hanks, but we’d better hurry. If we don’t we’ll be back on the
beat with Chief Superintendent Birdlime telling us what to do, just imagine that.’
Hanks prodded his bacon with a fork. ‘I can’t sir,’ he said. ‘I really can’t.’
 
The Adventurers were adrift on a wide and silent sea. To them it was vast, as vast as an ocean. As they floated into the centre of the river the current surged stronger, picking them up and thrusting them along, swirling the rafts round and round, making the Borribles feel sick, forcing them to cling on for all they were worth.
‘I want to get off,’ said Ninch. ‘This is dangerous.’
‘Shut yer neck and start paddling,’ said Napoleon. ‘It’s only water.’
The other Borribles said not a word. None of them liked water much, especially when it was cold and they were only a few inches above it, sitting on frail pieces of timber. Luckily for them Napoleon was an exception. He was a Wendle and had been raised along the lower reaches of the River Wandle. He knew about boats and tides. It took more than a river to frighten him.
‘Right,’ he said, lowering his voice to a whisper, ‘the first thing you have to do is take your orders from me and the second is to stop talking. For all we know the SBG may have a boat out, they might be just a few yards away, listening. Next, rope the two rafts together so we don’t get separated, and every one of you must use your own bit of rope to tie yourself to the raft. If you fall off in this we won’t be able to come back for you, even if we could see you … The current’s far too strong.’
The Borribles lost no time in doing what Napoleon had told them and when they were ready he spoke again. ‘Now remember,’ he began, ‘a raft isn’t a boat. No front, no back, it’s just a square. Get it steady and keep paddling. The tide’s in our favour and we’ll be going at a fair lick, so keep your heads … If you panic you’ll just send us round and round in circles. Be specially quiet going under the bridges. There’ll be coppers on every one, I reckon, but with this dark, even if they’re looking straight down they won’t see us … But if they hear us, they’ll switch their floodlights on.’
‘Someone should count the bridges,’ said Knocker, ‘so we don’t go too far. Who knows ’em best?’
‘I do,’ said Vulge. ‘Bridges is my hobby.’
‘We’ve got to get off between Blackfriars and Southwark,’ said Knocker. ‘At Queenhithe Dock, that’s what the map said.’
‘All right,’ said Vulge, ‘that makes six bridges, if you count Hungerford. Leave it to me, the first is Vauxhall.’
‘Okay, that’ll do,’ said Napoleon. ‘No more talking. Except for my orders and emergencies it’s quiet all the way.’
And that was how it was. Once the two rafts were steady, one towed behind the other, they settled into the grip of the current and the crews, paddling with long regular strokes, kept them on a straight course. There in the middle of the river it was all darkness and the lights of the city seemed many miles away. The Adventurers swayed forward and back, digging the paddles deep into nothingness. Spray from the curling waves fell upon them and they were soon soaked to the skin but not one of them was cold; they were toiling too hard for that and their own sweat kept them warm.
And it was darker than blindness on the river, darker than the end of an underground cavern and yet, after travelling for half an hour, a broad shape, even blacker than the water, loomed over the Adventurers. The river writhed and twisted and huge powerful ropes of it came together and were forced between solid stone columns and the water rose like a torrent escaping from the sluices of a dam. A massive wave arched slowly, higher and higher. It hesitated for a second, become motionless and then broke, crashing down against a mighty pillar that soared up and up, into the very roof of the night.
‘Vauxhall Bridge,’ came Vulge’s voice.
Now the rafts burst into slack water; they began to spin, to go out of control. ‘Keep paddling, you fairies,’ shouted Napoleon, ‘or we’ll be dragged back in, and you’ll drown. Keep paddling.’
And the Borribles did, for all they were worth, until at last, the sweat pouring into their eyes, they passed away from the danger of the first bridge and were able to journey on in silence. They drew breath, their heartbeats slowed and they regained their composure while Napoleon knelt at the front of the leading raft, still paddling as he stared into the gloom, his body swaying gracefully, his face beautiful with excitement. He loved the river.
Sydney, who was next to the Wendle, felt a shiver go down her spine. In spite of all they had been through together Napoleon could
still affect her in that manner. He was an odd one, always testing himself against himself at every opportunity.
‘What are you looking for?’ she asked him.
Napoleon did not turn his head nor did he stop paddling. ‘Boats,’ he answered. ‘If we meet a bunch of barges we’ll have to get out of the way sharpish. In this temperature you don’t live long in the water, just a few minutes.’
On downriver they went, flying through the bridges on the curling waves, paddling all the time, obeying Napoleon’s commands on the instant, through Lambeth and Westminster and Hungerford, until eventually they swept under the spectral arch that was the white bridge of Waterloo.
‘We’re nearly there,’ said Vulge, but as he looked towards Blackfriars he saw a great light blazing up the river, heading straight for the two rafts.
‘The fuzz,’ said Orococco. ‘Must be a police patrol.
‘Worse,’ said Napoleon. ‘That’s a tug with about twenty barges lashed behind. Coming as fast as a train, straight up the middle. Paddle like the clappers for the north side, we’ve got to get out of the way.’
That was easier said than done. The river had them in the grip of a giant and it bore then irresistibly towards the advancing tug. The Borribles could hear the noise of engines now and bright light began to dazzle their eyes, so long accustomed to the dark. In front of the boat and pushed back by it, churned and tumbled the bow wave; dirty yellow, grinning, splitting the river open and laying bare a deep trough more than large enough to swallow up the tiny rafts and those who rode upon them.

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