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Authors: Michael de Larrabeiti

Tags: #Juvenile Fiction, #Fantasy & Magic

The Borribles: Across the Dark Metropolis (27 page)

BOOK: The Borribles: Across the Dark Metropolis
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The horses neighed and galloped on, thrusting the commuters deeper into the doorways, leading the escape into Camden Town itself,
and the sheep and pigs and cows followed on without hesitation. Into the entrance of the Underground station they went, cutting a swathe through the evening travellers, breaking down telephone boxes and demolishing the ticket collector’s cubicle. Then they wheeled and skidded from the exit, as in a chariot race, changing direction into Chalk Farm Road, hastening north, past the market.
The market stalls were lucky. Most of them were positioned down one side of the road and only three or four were knocked over. Nothing could have suited the Borribles better and as they raced along they bent and scooped up handfuls of fruit; enough food to get them through a week.
‘Fruit of the barrow,’ yelled Knocker.
‘Fruit of the barrow,’ yelled the Conkers.
Gradually the market was left behind and the Borribles slowed their pace a little and took stock of their situation. The course they were following would soon take them on over the canal bridge and away in the direction of the LMR goods depot, which lay to the west behind the old locomotive shed that people called the Roundhouse. To the east the side streets were dark and empty, although the main thoroughfare, Chalk Farm Road itself, was still crammed with cars which could not move an inch because of the great traffic jam at Camden Town.
But at least the hubbub of the stampede had grown less, and eventually it disappeared altogether as the animals out-distanced the Borribles and began to climb Haverstock Hill on the road to Hampstead Heath. So Sydney drew rein and Sam the horse eased to a walk and then stopped, and the Adventurers and the Conkers gathered together, recovering their breath, and began to discuss their plight, quickly and urgently. They had to. Once the way was clear the SBG would be on their heels, of that there was no doubt.
Chalotte glanced up and down the road. ‘We can’t stay here long,’ she said to Bingo, who stood by the horse’s head. ‘It’s too open. Too many people.’ -
The whole band of Borribles was now gathered together on the corner of Ferdinand Street, leaning into the shadows, trying to look inconspicuous, but that was impossible—there were too many of them. Adults were stopping on the far side of the road, wondering. People
were staring out of shops. They would be only too eager to tell the SBG what they had seen.
Knocker pushed into the centre of the group, Swish and Treld at his elbow; the rain had plastered their hair to their skulls, the bright dyes had run and were staining their faces.
If we stay here,’ said Knocker, ‘we’ll be caught, sure as fish is fried.’
Swish held up a hand. ‘Take it easy,’ she said. ‘I’ve got it all worked out. Us Conkers will carry on up to Hampstead. I reckon most of the horses went that way and we’ll soon catch up with ’em. As soon as we do we’ll split into groups and every group will take a horse and head off in different directions. That way there’ll be so many reports going into the SBG about kids and horses old Sussworth won’t know his arse from his elbow.’
Chalotte cocked her leg over Sam’s back and slid to the ground. ‘That’s great, but what about us?’ she asked. ‘We got away and everything but now we must get off the streets, and lively too.’
Treld wiped her nose with the back of her hand. She looked like a savage with the blood on her face. ‘We thought o’ that,’ she said. ‘We’ll go up the road as far as the Roundhouse. There’s a goods depot behind there and a big bit of wasteland. Part of it is a scrapyard, enormous. There’s some Borribles in there, Scrappers they’re called. You can hide with them.’
‘Why don’t we just run for it?’ suggested Twilight. ‘Get as far away from here as we can?’
‘Because,’ said Swish, ‘we’ll be doing your running for you. Can’t you see, Sussworth will have every copper in London looking for you tonight and all next week. The best thing is for him to be chasing different horses all over London. That’ll give you a chance of creeping through to Neasden. It ain’t far now, you know … Swiss Cottage, Kilburn and Dollis Hill and that’s it.’
‘We’ve
almost
done it,’ cried Sydney, and she leant along Sam’s neck and patted it firmly.
‘“If almost was everything fruit would grow on lamp posts,” ’ said Napoleon, quoting from the
Proverbs,
and he spat on the ground.
‘Yes,’ said Knocker, ‘“and a Borrible who lets the grass grow under his feet will soon have it growing over his head.” ’
Nothing could be added to that and before the eyes of the curious
passers-by the Borribles continued their run up to Chalk Farm and Sam galloped with them. When they arrived in front of the Roundhouse the Conkers formed a huge mob across the pavement, blocking it and forcing adults to cross to the other side of the road. Behind the cover of this screen the adventurers levered open an iron gate in the wall at the side of the building, and disappeared from view. At the last minute, as the gate closed, Chalotte remembered something. She halted and grasped the bars with her two hands and pulled her face close to the opening. Swish and Treld waited there, sad but smiling; beyond them were crowded scores of their companions, on the lookout.
‘Hang on a mo’,’ said Chalotte. ‘We won’t see you again.’
Swish ducked her head, strangely shy. ‘Oh, not for a while,’ she said, ‘but when all this dies down, you’ll go home this way and we’ll see yer. We’d better.’
Treld placed her hand over Chalotte’s. ‘Swish is right,’ she said. ‘Don’t be down. You make sure you get Sam to Neasden and don’t get caught. You just think of us charging about London with hundreds of horses and poor old Sussworth not knowing whether he’s a copper or a cowboy. That’ll make you laugh.’
Chalotte nodded, her spirits low. Hours of excitement, exhilaration and danger, and now nothing except an anticlimax and the emptiness and finality of a parting from new but trusted friends. She tried to put a brave face on it and quoted a Borrible proverb. ‘Well,’ she sighed, ‘“there’s no meeting without leaving.” ’ A whistle sounded from behind her.
‘Go on,’ said Treld. ‘Just remember how it will go down in Borrible history, eh? “The Great Slaughterhouse Rescue of Sam the Horse.” I tell you, Camden Town’s never seen anything like it.’
‘Nor have I,’ said Chalotte, and with a melancholy smile she turned and went to catch up with her friends. ‘Oh, Swish and Treld and all you Conkers,’ she called as she walked away, ‘don’t you dare get caught, any of you, ever.’
After the battle at the abattoir and the headlong flight down Camden Road it was strangely quiet behind the Roundhouse. Not a single sound came from the streets and there was not a light to be seen anywhere, save for a distant shining along some railway lines towards Primrose Will. It felt odd too, for the Adventurers, to be without the company of the Conkers suddenly. They had been good mates, good Borribles.
But the Adventurers could not allow themselves to dwell on the past, and they advanced with resolution over a rough and unpaved ground, made soggy by the heavy winter rains. Orococco and Twilight were scouting ahead, trying to find the high corrugated iron fence that Swish had told them marked the boundary of the scrapyard, and Sydney led Sam close to the curving brick wall of the Roundhouse while Stonks held a shaded torch to show the way. The rest of the Adventures followed behind.
It was almost impossible for the fugitives to believe that they were still in London. The black night made them feel weightless, cut off from everything. There was nothing to reach out for and touch, nothing to see.
‘It’s a bit spooky, ain’t it?’ said Torreycanyon. ‘Like floating through the sky.’
‘It’ll be worse the other side,’ said Knocker. ‘Between here and Swiss Cottage the streets get very posh, nowhere to lie low. We need to get right over to Kilburn; it’ll be better there.’
As the column approached the railway line a Borrible whistle floated over from the far side. Twilight sprang from the ground.
‘That was Coco,’ he said. ‘He sent me over to tell you we’ve got to cross the line and the scrapyard’s between this line and another one further on. It’s a kind of big square of wasteland. He says there’s no one about.’
One by one and taking infinite care the Borribles stepped over the rails. When they were sure that everything on the far side was safe Sydney led the horse forward. Here, on the far side of the track, the ground became even soggier, almost like a swamp, and it was impossible to move silently. Every pace they took made a loud squelching noise and the horse made more sound than all the Borribles put together. Knocker swore at the lack of silence, but there was nothing to be done.
After travelling a hundred yards or so they saw, or rather sensed, a huge fence rising up in front of them; guessing it was there only because it was slightly darker than the night sky. A train went by on a distant line. Doors slammed in a station away to the west and Orococco came out of the darkness and grinned.
‘This scrapyard goes on for miles,’ he said. ‘I ain’t seen anybody yet but that don’t mean they ain’t here.’
‘It certainly don’t,’ said an unknown voice, and the Adventurers crouched and made themselves small against the ground, drawing their catapults.
‘Catapults, eh?’ said the same unknown voice. ‘Don’t bother. First you’re surrounded, second we knew you were coming; them Conkers told us.’
‘We’re Borribles,’ said Chalotte, ‘on the run. Are you the Scrappers?’
‘Yeah, we’re the Scrappers,’ said the voice, ‘and we know who you are. I expect every Borrible in London knows a bit about you by now.’
‘We need somewhere to hide,’ said Knocker. ‘Only a few hours, then we’ll be on our way.’
Two silhouettes moved at the top of the fence. Knocker had an impression of heads and shoulders. There was a sound of people jumping, then the sound of a sheet of corrugated iron being lifted and let fall. Knocker felt someone near him, someone he didn’t know. He tensed.
‘Take it easy,’ said the voice that had already spoken. ‘Just follow us along by the fence a bit. There’s a bigger gap along there, we’ll be able to get the horse in, and don’t get any ideas about trying yer catapults. You can’t see us but we’re all here.’
The Adventurers did exactly as they were told, following the sound of Sam as he plodded along, over his fetlocks in mud.
‘Why is it so muddy?’ asked Stonks. ‘It’s nearly up to my throat.’
‘Wait till you get inside,’ said the Scrapper. ‘Mud is a way of life here. They chum it up with machines and lorries. You can swim in it. Have to.’
The noise of walking stopped and another sheet of fencing was pulled back, swinging on hinges, and Sam was taken into the scrapyard. The Adventurers kept close to him.
‘Welcome,’ said the Scrapper, ‘to the largest scrapyard in the world.’
The Adventurers soon discovered that their new companion had not been exaggerating about the mud. Inside the fence it was indeed much worse, and walking was more like wading and the wading released a long imprisoned smell into the air: a stale smell of grease and garbage, all touched over with a whiff of mouldy carpet.
Orococco whistled to himself. ‘This must be one of the great niffs of London,’ he said, ‘but at least it ain’t raining.’ As he said it the rain began to fall once more, diluting the mud and making it deeper.
The Adventurers trudged on. They were desperately weary now and could only lift their feet with great effort. It was only a few hours since they had left the warehouse and marched to attack the abattoir, yet it seemed like longer—days, weeks. How far away Battersea was. How far Brixton. A lifetime ago.
But although they were weary they were happy. They had recaptured Sam, they were still all together and at last they could see where they were going. At strategic corners electric lights had been set up, rigged on overhead cables by the mechanics who worked in the scrapyard and left burning from dusk till dawn for the benefit of the nightwatchman; a nightwatchman who spent all his nights curled round a hot-water bottle in his wooden shed.
‘He never gives us any trouble,’ said the Scrapper. ‘Never.’ He swept an arm out to indicate his vast domain. ‘It’s like us having our own city here,’ he continued, and there was pride in his voice. The Adventurers had to agree with him. The scrapyard certainly was an extraordinary place, laid out like a town but constructed entirely from the ruins of old cars and lorries.
The vehicles, many hundreds of them, all smashed and ruined, were
heaped five or six high, one on top of the other, and piled side by side, each pile leaning against the next for support. It was a tidy yard and seemed to stretch on for ever and ever. The Adventurers, once inside, could not see or even guess where it ended. What was obvious was that the Scrapper knew his way round this labyrinth like an ordinary Borrible would his own home town, notwithstanding the scores of streets and the skyscrapers of cars that towered up and out of sight and into the rain.
The most solid of the wrecks had been turned into Borrible houses with sacks or carpets hanging at the windows to keep out the weather and keep in the warmth. In the highest cars were the lookouts, and as the column of Adventurers slogged by, warning whistles sounded out in the dark, echoing like catcalls across the roofs of metal.
At last the Scrapper brought the Adventurers to a dead end which led back to the iron fence. This street was so tall and narrow that here the cars had collapsed against each other on the fifth or sixth level to form a sinister-looking tunnel.
Napoleon Boot halted and grabbed the Scrapper by the arm. ‘I don’t like this,’ he said. ‘“It’s a dead end and dead ends tend to get you dead, in the end.” That’s a proverb.’
The Scrapper sneered and pointed. ‘This is the safest place in the yard,’ he said. ‘That’s why we’ve given it to you to sleep in. Believe you me, we don’t want the Woollies to find you … Wouldn’t do us any good.’
Napoleon looked where the Scrapper pointed and saw in the gloom—for the nearest light was some distance away—that at the end of the tunnel, parked sideways on, was the remains of a double-decker London bus.
‘You see,’ went on the Scrapper, ‘it looks rough enough from the outside, but inside we’ve made it very comfortable, and if you have to get away in a hurry, there’s an escape hatch at the back which comes out right opposite a hole in the fence. You could be away at the first sign of danger.’
Napoleon fingered his catapult. ‘Okay,’ he said, but he didn’t sound too sure.
Knocker was nervous too. He glanced upwards and saw that a dozen or so Scrappers were on guard above him, catapults at the ready.
The Scrapper smiled. ‘We travel through the cars,’ he explained, ‘from one street to another, along the top … You don’t want to start anything.’
Knocker nodded. ‘Don’t want to,’ he said. ‘All we’d like to do is get in the dry and get some sleep. I feel as wet as the bottom of a drain.’
The Scrapper laughed and led the way to the rear corner of the bus and touched a switch. There was a sound of compressed air being released and a door folded open. ‘It’s big enough for you to get the horse in,’ he said. ‘Our lads like horses and nicked some stuff from a pet shop in Chalk Farm. We got some grub for you too.’ The Scrapper advanced a little further and there was a fumbling. Then a light came on, though not all at once, only gradually did it glow up to strength.
Sydney took Sam by the leading rein and helped him climb the high step into the vehicle. The horse stumbled in exhaustion, both physical and emotional, and Chalotte was obliged to push him from behind.
‘Poor bleeder,’ she said. ‘He must have thought every moment was his last all the time he was in that slaughterhouse. He must be in a right old state.’ Then Chalotte stopped speaking and just stared. The others came and stood close to her, glad to be out of the wind and the damp at last.
‘Well I never,’ said Bingo. ‘Look at that.’
The interior of the bus had been altered completely. All the seats had been unbolted from the floor and rearranged down both sides. There was a kitchen table and one or two kitchen chairs. On the table were plastic shopping bags with food spilling from them. Thick underfoot lay car carpets, and dotted about were small armchairs, rescued from rubbish dumps. What pleased Sydney more than anything else was the huge pile of clean straw and the sack of oats which she could see down at the driver’s end.
‘Oh,’ she said, leading the horse forward. ‘Come on, Sam, you’re in clover here, real clover.’
The Scrapper placed his hands on his hips and beamed at everybody. He looked very happy with himself. ‘The Conkers sent us a runner the other day,’ he said, ‘so we made it as comfortable as we could.
Upstairs you’ll find enough mattresses for every one of yer … You’ll soon be warm and dry.’
The Adventurers fell on to the long upholstered bus seats with groans of fatigue. Now, in the light of the twelve-volt battery lamps, they could see each other.
‘Swipe me,’ said Torreycanyon. ‘Just look at us.’
It was true. Every single one of the Adventurers was covered in thick mud up to the waist and the rest of their bodies were splashed over with it; so were their faces and even their woollen hats. Under the mud was the gore of the slaughterhouse, and under that was the accumulated dirt and grease from the caverns of King’s Cross and the towpath of the Grand Union. Their clothes were tom too and their boots and shoes, casualties of the never-ending rains, were gaping along the uppers.
Chalotte removed her raincoat and then touched the Scrapper guide on the shoulder. ‘We know your tribe is called Scrappers,’ she said, ‘but what is your name?’
The Borrible grinned. ‘Strikalite,’ he said.
Chalotte nodded. ‘Well, Strikalite, yours is a very fine name and I hope that while we are here you will have the time to tell us how you won it. My name is Chalotte and this here is—’
‘So you’re Chalotte,’ said Strikalite. ‘I thought you might be. I’ve heard about you. The Great Rumble Hunt, eh? We’ve heard the tales. That is Sam the horse then; that must be Knocker and that little suspicious bloke, he’ll be the Wendle, Napoleon Boot.’
As he spoke Strikalite was joined by two of his friends carrying plastic jerrycans, heavy with liquid. ‘Hot broth,’ they said. ‘We made it with vegetables from Camden Market.’ And they began to pour it into some large mugs which they had brought with them for the purpose. The Adventurers held the mugs in their hands and warmed their fingers, scrutinizing the strangers closely as they gave out the food. When Borrible meets Borrible it is the usual thing to do.
In fact the Scrappers were very much like the members of any other tribe, although there were some minor differences due to their strange way of life. They were dirtier, if that were possible, than most other Borribles the Adventurers had met, but that was because they
lived in old oily motorcars; their clothing was scruffier too, for the same reason. Not that a great deal of it was visible in wintertime for then the Scrappers always wore over-garments of yellow oilskins, sou’westers and Wellington boots. Where they lived mud and water were everywhere.
But these strange Borribles were nothing if not resourceful. As might be expected they were very talented mechanics and could fashion almost anything out of metal, diesel generators included. Some of the cars they lived in were marvels of comfort and design with radios and even television sets in them. Almost everything they needed they put together from junk, using their own clever hands only.
Unfortunately very little of what they made was destined to last long; the very nature of their home saw to that. The yard was there to gather in discarded vehicles, remove anything that was valuable, sell it at the front gate and turn what remained into piles of scrap. Only three or four labourers were needed for the job but they did it thoroughly, working their way round and round the dump and ripping everything to pieces until they were left with only hollow shells of steel. These were eventually shoved into a crusher and squeezed down so hard that each car was, at the last, transformed into a solid lump of metal no larger than an orange box.
BOOK: The Borribles: Across the Dark Metropolis
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