The Borribles: Across the Dark Metropolis (10 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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‘Yes man,’ said Orococco, ‘right in it is right, and we’ve never been deeper in it than this.’
 
In the most comfortable sitting room of that government command post the DAC poured himself a large gin and tonic, lowered his elegant body into a soft armchair and dangled his leg over the arm of it, swinging his foot gently back and forth. He tilted his glass in celebration. ‘Have a drink, Sussworth, old boy,’ he said. ‘My God you deserve it. You’ve exceeded the PM’s wildest expectations.’
‘No, thank you, sir,’ said Sussworth, fidgeting with his tie. ‘I don’t drink, sir, ever sir. Certainly not whilst on duty.’
‘Whilst, eh?’ said the DAC raising an eyebrow. ‘Well sit down man,
you make the place look tidy.’ The DAC smirked at his own joke. He was in a good humour.
Sussworth crossed the room and perched himself on the edge of an armchair which was at least three times too big for him.
‘Wonderful place this, eh?’ said the DAC, sipping at his drink. ‘Such forethought and plannin’.’
‘Oh yes sir,’ said Sussworth, ‘the Medium Operandi has to be protected.’
‘Quite so, Sussworth, quite so.’
‘You know sir, in a way I would quite welcome this homocost. It would be a way of sweeping things clean sir, getting things in order. Less people to discipline; it would be a fresh start.’
The DAC sipped his drink again. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘rather. Now I’ve been discussin’ things with Whitehall and they want me to convey to you how pleased they are with the way things are goin’ …’
Sussworth edged even further forward on his chair. ‘Oh really, sir.’
‘Yes.’ The DAC waved a limp hand. ‘Furthermore they want you to hold the prisoners here for as long as you can. They want to see if this Borrible thing collapses under its own weight. Now that you’ve captured the ringleaders and this blessed horse it might be a good idea for you to slow down.’
Sussworth’s moustache drooped in disappointment. ‘May I ask who in Whitehall sir, respectfully?’
The DAC sat straighter in his chair. ‘Good Lord, Sussworth, go steady. It all comes under the Official Secrets Act. However I can tell you that the Treasury is very worried about the money we’re spendin’. They want us to hold fire … Now don’t look disappointed; it’s probably only a temporary measure … Whitehall is delighted really, and those other things we talked of the other day, well, it’s all on the boil.’
‘Boil, sir?’
‘Knighthoods, peerages and that, definitely in the offin’, maybe even hereditary, none of these short-term life jobs. Any children, Sussworth? No! Eh? Never mind, just as well.’
The DAC emptied his glass and got to his feet. ‘Keep up the good work. What have you done with that horse, eh?’
‘Sent it to Wandsworth, sir, for the time being. It’ll be on its way to the abattoir in a day or two.’
The DAC looked pleased. ‘Splendid, Sussworth. Didn’t like the way that horse kept poppin’ into the picture … Odd that. Keep in touch then, on the private line to Scotland Yard. By the way, there’ll be nothin’ in the newspapers, I’ve seen to that. Just an affray on Clapham Common; local roughs versus gypsies … drunk and disorderly.’
Sussworth got to his feet also and pulled a brown envelope from his pocket. ‘My confidential report, sir.’
The DAC reached for his alpaca overcoat; he looked quite shocked. ‘Good Lord, no,’ he said. ‘No written reports, not even secret ones. I don’t want to know how you do things, Sussworth, ever. It could be very embarrassin’ if things go awry. This Borrible business is all off the record. All I want to know about is success, success. Don’t let those children escape now. You’ll never make viscount if you do. Keep your wits about you, eh?’
Sussworth twisted his ankles and bent his knees in a movement that was halfway between a curtsy and a bow. ‘There’ll be no way they can escape from down here,’ he said, ‘no way. I’ve got the top entrance guarded.’
The DAC looked at the inspector with distaste and wriggled his fingers into gloves of grey kid. ‘No,’ he said, and crossed the room to step into the high speed VIP lift that would carry him back to the surface of the earth. The doors closed automatically and Sussworth disappeared from sight. The DAC breathed a sigh of relief. A few seconds later he emerged from a concealed exit by Clapham South Underground station and, turning his collar up against the rain, he walked the few yards to where his black Rolls-Royce waited in the darkness.
The chauffeur was ready and opened a door; the DAC ducked into the car and settled into the soft cushions of the back seat. Then the chauffeur got behind the steering wheel, switched on the ignition and in a second the huge machine slid into the shapeless night, as silent as a cloud of poisonous gas.
 
In that same night and not so very far away the ruins of the circus glistened in the same rain that had fallen so briefly on the DAC. In the yellowness of their emergency lighting the people of Buffoni’s travelling
circus and fairground took stock and attempted to make good the terrible damage that had been done to them. It seemed hopeless. The big top was a wreck, torn and ripped, its guy ropes cut, its main pole leaning at a crazy angle, its canvas wet and heavy like the sails of a schooner gone aground.
The sideshows had fared no better; their boarding had been splintered, their tented walls unhooked from their moorings, their prizes trampled in the mud. Electric cables had been pulled from sockets and benches had been used as battering rams and lay everywhere in pieces. Lost clothing, hats, scarves and gloves littered the battleground and the ice cream wagon had been overturned, its contents—strawberry, coffee and vanilla—oozing into the mud.
The circus people felt they had been insulted to the depth of their being, brought down and belittled. And what was worse their clowns, all friends and relations, had been arrested and taken away. No amount of begging and pleading with Sussworth and Hanks had helped. The inspector would not even tell Signor Buffoni where the clowns were to be imprisoned and the circus owner had gone to his caravan and hidden his head in his hands.
But Ronaldo Buffoni was not a man easily overcome. For years he had travelled the roads of the world. He had been to India and America, to Australia and the Falkland Islands; many had been the tribulations he had been obliged to overcome. So, although he gave way to sorrow for a little while, ten minutes later he reappeared and gathered his people together in the acrobats’ tent—it was the only one left standing—and everyone present could see that Signor Buffoni was in a towering temper. He climbed on to the stage and addressed his audience with words that shook with passion; there was fire in his voice.
‘My family and friends,’ he began, ‘never have we been so insulted. We gave hospitality to some penniless travellers, wanderers like ourselves. We broke no law nor harmed anyone, and yet we were attacked and set upon by the so-called agents of law and order. Our circus and funfair is ruined, our livelihood gone. It will take us many weeks to put things back to where they were.’ Signor Buffoni stuck his hands into his pockets; his stomach sagged over his belt unhappily. He thought for a minute and then raised his head. ‘But we have survived worse than this, haven’t we?’
The circus people looked at one another and began to remember. ‘Yes,’ yelled several of them. ‘Not half.’
Signor Buffoni smiled. ‘Remember the New Delhi cricket riots; remember the typhoon in the Java Sea; remember the shipwreck on the Barrier Reef. What is the Battle of Clapham Common to us? A mere bagatelle.’
The circus people cheered, they slapped each other on the back.
Signor Buffoni clenched both his fists and shook them. ‘And so, my family and friends, we must get this show back on the road, now, as it is. Mend the timber, mend the canvas and mend the guy ropes. We will work through the night, we will glue it, hammer it, sew it and splice it.’
‘Yes,’ roared the circus people. ‘We’ll show ’em. They can’t shove us off the road as easy as that.’
‘Well said,’ shouted Signor Buffoni across the noise, ‘but let us not forget that they have imprisoned our clowns and our acrobats. We need our kith and kin, we want our friends to be free. There comes a time when even the law-abiding citizen is forced to break the law … and this is it. We must do something and we must do it now.’
The circus people were just about to cheer Signor Buffoni’s speech again when there was a movement at the tent flap and Wanda the monocyclist rode headlong through the opening, advanced five yards, retreated three, turned several circles, went into reverse and then jumped to the floor, catching the bike by the saddle as it fell. ‘Ta-ra,’ she shouted out of force of habit and bowed.
‘Neither the time nor the place,’ said the Fat Lady. ‘We’re trying to discuss ways and means, seriously.’
Wanda dismissed the Fat Lady with a wave of the hand. ‘You can’t discuss ways and means if you don’t know the way to the means,’ she announced mysteriously.
‘Well tell us your story,’ said Signor Buffoni, ‘and we shall listen.’
Wanda was happy now that she had the undivided attention of her colleagues. She cleared her throat. ‘As you know,’ she said, ‘I am no hero but I am no dope, either. I decided the fighting was not for me and took myself off to the quiet of my caravan and watched the fracas from the window, and some fracas it was and I have seen plenty. When it was all over I see the guardians of law and order loading our clowns and our acrobats into one of their meat wagons like sides of beef. This
is not right, I say to myself, so I mount my one-wheeler, slip into a dark-coloured raincoat, wind a scarf around most of my face and set off at a fast rate in the wake of the fuzz.’
‘Where did they go?’ said Marco, flexing his muscles. ‘I’m going to beat them coppers into the ground like tent pegs.’
Wanda held up her hand, palm outwards, demanding patience.
‘They are not far, my friends and cousins. But a few yards up this South Circular Road is a strange angular building with a wire fence round it. My guess is that it serves as some kind of long-term lock-up not known to the general public. A secret jail whose hours of visiting are few and not advertised in the morning newspapers.’
‘Thinks like that don’t happen,’ said the Fat Lady. ‘How can you tell it is a prison?’
Wanda placed a hand on her hip and sneered. ‘Because, chubby-cheeks, for the simple reason I actually see our uniformed friends bending sticks on the heads of our compatriots and pushing them into the aforementioned hoosegow and turning a large key in a small apeture known to all as a lock. For me this is enough. Our chums are inside and maybe will stay there for ever, or until they are deceased which will be quite long enough, for them.’
‘Hmm,’ said the Sword-Swallower, ‘it might be a private entrance to the Underground railway system.’
Wanda shook her head emphatically. ‘Since when do the peelers take prisoners to prison by public transport?’
‘Well, what are we waiting for?’ asked the Fat Lady. ‘To the rescue.’
There were shouts of approval from everyone present but Wanda raised her hand again. ‘We will need to be cautious,’ she said. ‘Something like thirty or forty officers of the law went down into the ground with the prisoners, and there are six others on guard outside by the inspector’s caravan. A little while later, for I continued to keep my eye on things from behind a tree, a Roller with a chauffeur appeared and from this chariot a toff emerged and he too went below. I fear that something nasty is being cooked up in a kitchen about which we know nothing, and we do not even know what is on the menu.’
‘Then,’ said Marco, ‘the sooner we get our clowns and acrobats out of there the better it will be.’
‘Not half,’ shouted Vispa the ventriloquist, and he was so excited
that he made his voice come from behind everyone and they all turned around to see who was coming and there was confusion and pandemonium.
‘Wait a minute, wait a minute,’ called Signor Buffoni. ‘If we do this—’
‘If,’ shouted his audience. ‘Not if … when.’
‘When we do this,’ continued Signor Buffoni, ‘we must first think of the safety of the circus. Let the greater number of us remain behind and load up as quickly as they can all the broken bits, everything … Then, when we’ve rescued our mates we’ll be ready to move and take the circus with us, and instead of going on to Brockwell Park, as planned, we’ll go back to Hackney and mend everything there. If we move quickly enough we’ll be back home and off the streets before the policemen know we’ve gone.’
There were cheers of agreement at the end of this speech and the circus people left the tent immediately and began to organize themselves; one large group being chosen to get the circus ready for the road, and a smaller one, a kind of commando, being given the responsibility of rescuing their colleagues, the clowns.
‘What we must do,’ said Signor Buffoni, who had once been in the army although nobody was quite sure which one, ‘what we must do is make sure we have a line of retreat. We do not want the police following us back to Hackney; we need a couple of hours’ start at least.’ And with no more discussion than that the small band of intrepid travellers took leave of their friends and relatives and made off across the dark and silent grass of the common, flitting from tree to tree, heading straight for Clapham South, led there by Wanda on her monocycle.

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