The Borribles: Across the Dark Metropolis (2 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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Hanks unplugged the boiling kettle and poured its contents into the teapot.
‘We want midgets from all walks of life,’ said Sussworth. ‘We’ll train them and get them ready; we’ll tell them all about Borrible customs, everything. They’ll steal and live in broken houses like Borribles and they’ll know all the proverbs, just like Borribles. They will infiltrate, insinuate and penetrate.’
Hanks sucked at his tea and made a noise like water going down a drain in the middle of a storm. ‘Dwarfs don’t have pointed ears,’ he observed. ‘Borribles do.’ The sergeant smiled like a quicksand smiling at the sound of approaching footsteps; there was no answer to that.
Sussworth banged the desk and stamped the floor. ‘You can’t beat me,’ he said. ‘Honours at Hendon, that’s what I got. We’ll have special plastic ears fabricated, pointed, and we’ll clip them on.’
Hanks’s vast stomach rolled under his stained tunic like water in a balloon. ‘I don’t think that will work, sir. If a Borrible gets suspicious of one of your spies and pulls at his ears, why, then the lugholes would come off and bye-bye dwarfs. The Borribles would have their guts for garters.’ He handed the inspector a mugful of tea, hot, black and strong.
Sussworth sipped. ‘Difficulties,’ he said, ‘only exist to be overcome by minds like mine. If clips won’t achieve our purpose then we shall affix the ears with superglue; nothing gets that off, I can assure you, however a Borrible might pull at it.’
‘Superglue,’ said Hanks. ‘But them dwarfs’d never get the ears unstuck again. I can’t see them standing for that … I wouldn’t.’
‘You are not an impoverished midget,’ said Sussworth looking closely at his fingernails, ‘except in a metaphorical and figurative way, of course. Given enough cash, the human species can be induced to indulge in almost any activity. Everything has been and will be done for money.’
‘Not Borribles,’ said Hanks. He pursed his lips, peeved.
‘That has always been a problem,’ agreed Sussworth, ‘but the dwarfs we are intending to bribe are not Borribles. I shall train them to a peak of accomplishment, and furthermore I will have one in every market and when those Borribles move I shall know it before they do. We’ll have their ears clipped and they’ll have to grow up and old like the rest of us … and work too. As for that moth-eaten horse of theirs, it will end up as tinned chunks of steak for cats to eat. This time it’s curtains, Hanks, curtains.’ And the two police officers smirked and raised their tea mugs and clinked them together.
‘We’ll call it Operation Catsmeat,’ went on Sussworth, ‘that’s what we’ll call it,’ and he was so pleased with himself that he burst into an impromptu song on the spot. A jaunty little jig it was and the melody of it made the inspector strut and hop in the most energetic fashion.
‘It’s a catsmeat operation
With a limited objective—
Oh I’d like to tin the nation
But for now we’ll be selective.
 
‘Just the horse’ll do for starters,
And I’ll show you what my wit is
When I have the guts for garters
While its meat is feeding kitties.
 
‘It’s a catsmeat operation,
Starting small then growing bigger.
First the horse—and then my mission
I shall prosecute with vigour.
 
‘All the anti-social sinners
Who are ruining Great Britain
I’ll have processed into dinners,
Shiny tins for cats and kittens.
 
‘I’ll make catsmeat of the shirkers
And malingering midday drinkers,
Of the disobedient workers
And the independent thinkers.
 
‘I’ll make catsmeat of the steppers
Out of line, the by-law breakers,
And of all the social lepers
Who are punks and trouble-makers.
 
‘Every dissident defaulter,
Be he Borrible or not,
I shall apprehend and alter—
I’ll make catsmeat of the lot!’
At the end of this song Hanks grinned and wagged his head it astonishment. ‘Wonderful, sir,’ he said, ‘absolutely wonderful.’ He grinned again and poured tea into his mouth.
As he did so a squall of rain rattled against the walls of the house and Sussworth scuttled to the window. He attempted to peer out into the night but it was as dark as dark in the street and the light from a nearby lamp post hardly fell as far as the pavement.
Sussworth danced with glee. ‘Look at that cold rain,’ he crowed. ‘I wouldn’t want to be a Borrible in a broken-down old house right now, Hanks, not right now or ever.’
Hanks laughed. ‘Winter’s coming,’ he said, ‘a long hard winter.’
‘It will be for the Borribles,’ said Sussworth, his moustache moving from side to side like a windscreen wiper. ‘A long hard winter for Borribles. I’ll drink another cup of tea to that.’
‘Certainly, sir,’ said the sergeant, and he propelled his huge body across the room in the direction of the kettle.
 
 
Bingo Borrible pulled his woollen hat down over his ears, turned up the collar of his combat jacket and heaved himself up to the top of the railway embankment. The wind was vicious; the rain stung his face like nails from a catapult. He twisted his head to look behind him. ‘Come on, Stonks,’ he said. ‘There’s a couple of trucks in the siding.’
There was a scrabbling noise from below and out of the stormy swirling of the dark rain the head of Stonks appeared. Stonks was big for a Borrible and with a face that was slow to let you know what it was thinking. For all that he was well liked by those who knew him; trusted to the death and as strong as a man. Behind Stonks came Twilight, the Bangladeshi from Whitechapel.
‘Well damn me,’ he said. ‘After that summer, this winter; I need a new raincoat.’
‘First thing to do,’ interrupted Bingo, ‘is to find some food for Sam. He only had a couple of carrots this morning.’
‘You think there’s anything in those trucks?’ asked Stonks. He looked behind and below towards the sparse lighting of Battersea High Street. ‘It’s a bit exposed up here.’
‘Don’t worry,’ answered Bingo. ‘Someone told me there was a load of cattle cake knocking about. I’ll go over to the trucks while you keep watch.’
Bingo eased himself over the edge of the embankment and, keeping low, crossed the tracks and went towards the goods siding. Soon Stonks and Twilight had lost sight of their companion, but after a minute or two they heard his call and went to join him.
‘What’s in there?’ asked Stonks. He stood by one of the huge wagon wheels, Twilight beside him.
‘Not sure, exactly,’ said Bingo. His voice came from inside the truck and his words were ripped apart by the wind. ‘There’s some stuff in plastic sacks. I had a quick glim with me torch and it seems to be some sort of animal grub.’
‘Throw one down,’ said Stonks. ‘I’ll carry it back to the factory.’
‘And another,’ added Twilight. ‘That’ll keep Sam going for a few days.’
As the second sack hit the ground there was a loud cry from below
them on the far side of the railway line. ‘Stay where you are,’ roared a man’s voice, ‘you’re under arrest.’
‘Railway police,’ said Twilight. ‘Come on, Bingo, out of that truck.’ The Bangladeshi pulled a catapult from his belt, loaded it and fired a shot in the general direction of the shouts. He fired another shot and the voice was raised again. Others joined it.
‘You can’t get away, we’ve got men on both sides of the track.’
Bingo jumped to the ground. ‘They’re lying,’ he said, ‘otherwise they wouldn’t have told us. Come on, into the High Street.’
‘What about this cattle cake?’ asked Stonks, steadfast as ever. ‘The horse is hungry.’
‘We can’t take it now,’ said Twilight, ‘it’ll slow us down.’
Stonks stooped and picked up a sack and threw it over his shoulder. ‘I’ll give it a try,’ he said.
That was the end of that discussion. The three Borribles turned and ran, stumbling in the dark down their side of the embankment. At the bottom they were brought up against the back wall of the yards that ran behind the shops of Battersea High Street. Bingo had been right; there were no police lying in ambush there. They stood still for a moment listening. The voices were above them now, up by the trucks.
‘Over we go,’ said Bingo. He joined his hands to make a step and, placing a foot on it, Twilight levered himself to the top of the wail. As soon as he was there Stonks and Bingo slung the sack up to him and Twilight guided it over to the far side where it landed with a gentle thud. Stonks then climbed the wall in his turn, stretched out an arm and pulled Bingo up next to him.
For a while all three of them sat on the wall and held their breath; listening as the shouts and whistles of the police diminished in the distance; listening to make sure that no one lay in wait for them below. They sat with patience, not moving, not speaking. They were used to it; in that kind of darkness you never knew who was near, ready to get you. And while they waited the smell of the back yard rose in their nostrils: cats’ pee and concrete, mildew and dead dog.
When ten minutes had passed and the whole area was quiet again the three Borribles slipped off the wall and Stonks hoisted the sack of
cattle feed on to his shoulder. ‘It’s all right,’ he said. ‘We can get back to the factory now.’
The factory was at the end of Battersea High Street near the junction with Vicarage Crescent, and by keeping to the shadows and climbing over back walls the Borribles arrived without further trouble. To the side of the factory, lying between it and the railway embankment, was a piece of wasteland littered with rubbish and debris. The Borribles crossed this and came to a large door made from wide and heavy planks.
Bingo halted here and gave the Borrible knock: one long, two short, one long, scraping his knuckles. After a moment the door eased open on freshly oiled hinges and a white smudge appeared in the dark. It was the face of Sydney. ‘Well,’ she said.
‘Bingo, Twilight and Stonks,’ said Bingo.
Sydney grunted and opened the door just enough for the three Borribles to enter. As soon as they had done so she closed it again. It was darker in than out.
She asked, ‘Did you get anything?’
Stonks patted the sack on his shoulder. ‘Half hundredweight of cattle cake,’ he said. ‘That should do it.’
‘Good,’ said Sydney. ‘Go and feed him then.’ And they heard her step to the nearest window to resume her watch.
The three Borribles moved away in the blackness, their feet quite accustomed to the uneven floor and its covering of rubble. When they reached the end of the building they went through a hatch in a wall, round a corner and then down a wide ramp which led to a deep cellar.
This cellar was their home. The factory had lain empty for years now and was really too large and draughty for Borribles. Borribles normally prefer small rooms because they are easier to keep warm, easier to furnish. This time the Adventurers had not had a great deal of choice. On their return from Wandsworth some two months before, escaping from Inspector Sussworth and the SBG, they had been obliged to take cover forthwith and also to find a place big enough to hide Sam the horse in. The factory had fitted their bill exactly.
At the bottom of the ramp the Borribles doubled back on themselves and walked to the far end of the cellar, where a solitary electric
bulb dangled from a frayed length of flex and gave a weak light. There, in a large space hollowed out under the highest part of the ramp, Stonks threw down the sack and, kneeling beside it, drew his knife and slit the plastic open.
‘Looks all right,’ he said. ‘Come on, Sam, try this.’
A small undistinguished horse, half brown half black as if it didn’t really know what colour it wanted to be, stirred in a corner of the cellar and miserably shook its head. This was Sam.
He came forward and dropped his nose into the open sack and chewed upon what lay there. He did not like the taste of it and after only the smallest of samples he blew through his nostrils and backed away.
‘Oh, Sam,’ said Twilight, anxiety making one of his eyebrows twitch up his forehead, ‘you’ve got to eat; you’re not looking well at all.’
Bingo lifted a bucket of clean water. He swirled it round so that it made a sloshing noise. ‘Perhaps he’s thirsty,’ he said.
As Bingo spoke another light was switched on and showed two or three bunks to one side of the cellar and three or four mattresses on the floor as well. Under the archway of the ramp the Borribles had made a kind of rough sitting room with two or three wrecked armchairs, their stuffings and springs visible. There was also a long table made from scaffolding planks supported on saw-horses. Stools had been improvised from orange boxes and barrels. Dirty blankets and torn cushions gave what little comfort there was.
Bingo looked up as the light came on. Faces appeared from the shadows. Knocker threw his blanket back and rose, fully dressed, from his bed on the floor. He came to stand with the others, close to Sam.

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