The Borribles: Across the Dark Metropolis (40 page)

Read The Borribles: Across the Dark Metropolis Online

Authors: Michael de Larrabeiti

Tags: #Juvenile Fiction, #Fantasy & Magic

BOOK: The Borribles: Across the Dark Metropolis
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‘What’s yer name?’ said the nearest policeman and he twisted his hand harder in Knocker’s hair.
‘Knocker,’ said Knocker, ‘and stop pulling my hair.’
‘Who’s pulling your hair?’ said the policeman and he pulled Knocker’s hair even harder.
Another policeman moved round the table and shoved his hand under Napoleon’s head, lifting it so that he could scrutinize it more carefully. ‘Which one’s this?’ he asked. ‘Nasty-looking bit of work, vicious.’
‘That’s Napoleon Boot,’ said Knocker. ‘He’s dead now, so you needn’t be frightened.’
Knocker’s head was jerked backwards and he was thrust towards the door. ‘Outside, chummy,’ said his captor, ‘and none of your lip or I’ll teach you some manners, personal.’
With this caution Knocker was ejected from the cabin and searched. His catapult and his knife were found and a guard of four men assigned to take him away, frog-marching him alongside the track in the direction of Swiss Cottage. As Knocker was hustled forward he could see groups of police officers everywhere, searching the train and wandering freely over the sidings, safe now that the power in the live rails had been switched off.
The hand tugged at Knocker’s hair. ‘You’d better tell us where your mates are,’ said the policeman who had arrested him.
Knocker twisted his head up and round as far as he could. ‘Far away, Woollie, far away where you’ll never find ’em.’
‘’Ere,’ said another of the men, stopping Knocker and crouching down in front of him so his face was level with the Borrible’s. ‘It wasn’t you by any chance who turned the power on and made the train go?’
Knocker hesitated and wondered what was the best thing to answer. He could say that Napoloen had been responsible but the SBG would
rather have a live captive than a dead one, someone they could bash about a bit. Knocker looked the policeman in the eye; he was chubby, friendly even. There was a bubble of spittle on his lips. ‘I did it,’ said Knocker. ‘I turned the power on and left it on.’
The policeman smiled like a brain tumour and slowly stood, his big knees creaking. The other three constables came closer to him and formed a circle round the small Borrible and Knocker gazed up at their faces.
‘Ho ho,’ said the policeman who had asked the question. ‘You’ll be straight inside you will. They’ll clip your ears and put you to work until you die of exhaustion. You’ll never get out.’ The smile died on the man’s lips and was replaced by an expression of intense anger. ‘I’m glad we caught you alive,’ he said. ‘Your feet won’t touch the ground for a month. We’ll play squash with you. You killed Inspector Sussworth and Sergeant Hanks, you did. Electrocuted them in the tunnel and run ’em over with the train. That’s murder, chummy, murder, and you’ll be paying for it the rest of your life.’
Knocker stared at each large face above him in turn, wondering if they were telling the truth. Fear touched his heart and it missed a beat. They’d certainly do for him now; they’d make him suffer for as long as possible. But then the fear lessened and he thought of Chalotte. By sheer accident, in despair and frustration, she had struck a blow for Borribles everywhere. Knocker smiled; Chalotte had always been guided by some superior wisdom.
A heavy blow wiped the smile from Knocker’s face and felled him to the ground. ‘Smile would yer?’ said one of the guards. ‘You heartless swine. You’ll smile the other side of your face before we’re through with yer. Go on, move!’
Once more Knocker was hauled upright by his hair and led onward. He staggered often and the pain of the blow hurt badly but despite that pain his heart was singing. Wait till the others heard this news. Just wait till the others heard.
At the end of the train Knocker and his four guards emerged into the open space where Napoleon had fought with Ninch. Here were many more members of the SBG and in their midst was a tall man, beautifully dressed in the smartest of clothes and leaning on a furled umbrella. It was the DAC and he wore a wide-brimmed Homburg hat
and a dark blue pinstriped suit. Across his shoulders, flung carelessly like a cape, was a navy blue alpaca overcoat.
Beyond the DAC scores of police officers were searching the ground and every nook and cranny they could find. More constables arrived each second and from all directions, bringing reports written on scraps of paper which the DAC scrutinized before handing them on to a constable with a clipboard who stood near him. Knocker could see that a few charred bodies had been assembled near the mouth of the southbound tunnel. That would be the dwarfs.
There was great excitement and talking among the policemen when Knocker and his four guards appeared. The DAC watched attentively as the group approached. When he thought they were close enough he raised his umbrella and pointed at the dishevelled and scruffy Borrible.
‘What is that thing there?’ he said, his upper crust voice squeezing his vowels flatter than pillowslips in a mangle.
‘This is a ringleader, sir,’ said one of Knocker’s guards. ‘Knocker’s his name. He’s been in it from the very beginning. That business at Southfields, sir. Dewdrop and his son, murder, sir. Escaped from protective custody at Clapham South. Another murder at King’s Cross. The list is endless. In capturing this one we have removed the hub from the spokes, sir, as it were. He also admits to throwing the switch that released the current that drove the train …’ The policeman lowered his voice in respect. ‘ … that did for Inspector Sussworth and Sergeant Hanks, sir.’
The DAC raised an eyebrow. ‘Did that, did he?’ he drawled. ‘Well we owe him somethin’ and we must see he jolly well gets it, what? And his little friends, where are they?’
Officer Blume glanced at the clipboard in his hand and joined the conversation. ‘According to Inspector Sussworth’s notes,’ he said, ‘based on highly secret reports emanating from certain elements of low life, as correlated on our Borrible computer, sir, according to that information we are pursuing ten Borribles, ringleaders from many tribes. This will be Knocker, from Battersea, sir.’
The DAC took the clipboard from Blume’s hands and flicked through several sheets of paper for a while before returning it. ‘What’s the word “Ninch” mean?’ he asked. ‘Lots of reports from that.’
Knocker felt the policeman next to him go tense; the fingers in his hair tightened.
‘Ah, Ninch, sir.’ Blume flicked through the report sheets again, making a great show of searching for something. ‘Ah, yessir. Here it is. Ninch was the code name for the computer, sir. It was called Ninch.’
The DAC nodded and pushed the matter from his mind. All he had wanted was an answer. He redirected his attention to Knocker and gazed downwards.
‘And where are your accomplices, my good man? Serious offences, these you have committed. There’s no way out for you, no way at all, but I could search round for reasons for leniency if you are helpful. The ears will have to go of course, but there is such a thing as anaesthetic. We could let you plead manslaughter rather than murder and you’d be out in half the time, but you’d have to turn supergrass and tell us everythin’ you know. Could you do that?’
Knocker shook his head. ‘The others got away,’ he said. ‘That’s all I’m saying, and you’ll never catch them.’
A blow struck the Borrible and he staggered into the body of the constable who still held him by the hair. ‘Say “sir” when you answers the DAC,’ said a voice.
‘Knickers,’ said Knocker and took another blow.
The DAC yawned and raised a hand. That’ll do,’ he said. ‘Not while I’m here if you chaps don’t mind. Now, Blume, what about his accomplices?’
Blume looked at his clipboard again. ‘Eight bodies found,’ he said, ‘but all electrocuted and burnt unrecognizable.’
‘Really,’ said the DAC and this time he raised both eyebrows. ‘They seem to have electrocuted themselves as well as Sussworth. How tidy.’ He twirled his umbrella once or twice with satisfaction. ‘Eight bodies plus this one makes nine … One of ’em’s still on the loose then, eh?’
One of Knocker’s guard stepped forward. ‘Excuse me, sir, but no sir. There’s one more body in the control cabin, a little further in. Definitely a Borrible that one. Pointed ears and quite dead. Napoleon Boot by name, a nasty piece of villainy from wandsworth. What I believe they calls a Wendle. That makes ten.’
‘They got away, right away,’ said Knocker. ‘Them bodies aren’t
Borribles, you know they ain’t; they’re something else. I suppose Napoleon died fighting a computer, did he?’
‘What is occurin’ here?’ asked the DAC. He pointed again at Knocker with his umbrella.
Blume glared threateningly at Knocker as if he would kill him on the spot. ‘It’s nothing, sir,’ he said. ‘I think this Borrible is a trifle demented, sir, after losing all his friends in such a horrible manner. He probably hasn’t eaten for days, either. Borribles can’t go without food for long, sir.’
The DAC shot a double cuff of brilliant white sea-island cotton and looked at his watch. ‘Nor can I,’ he said, ‘or claret. Now, can we get a move on? I must say it would suit me to be able to make a nice clear report to the PM as soon as possible. Right, ten Borribles accounted for. Now, about the horse? Isn’t the horse important?’
Blume cocked his head to one side. ‘Very important, sir, but that was cleared up ages ago,’ he explained. ‘We are confident that the horse was not brought here from the slaughterhouse. Most of the animals escaped up to Hampstead Heath, sir, though there were some reports of cows and horses as far off as Potter’s Bar. In any event they’ve all been rounded up long since and taken back to the abattoir. And that’s it. All been slaughtered sir, and the Borribles’ horse was certainly among them. They’ve lost their mascot for good and the Southfields murders are cleared up once and for all.’
‘Excellent,’ said the DAC. ‘Pity about the horse, but there you are. Every cat must have its catsmeat. It’s one of the paradoxes of responsibility: we sometimes have to be cruel to be kind.
Noblesse obliged
and all that, what?’
‘Yessir,’ said Blume, and he stood on tiptoe once or twice.
The DAC studied Knocker again. ‘Well,’ he said at last, ‘so he seems to be the only survivor. In that case, Blume, see that he is taken off to SBG HQ and interrogated in the usual way, then clip his ears and see that he is put into care. When he’s old enough it’ll be prison.’
‘Yessir, right away, sir.’
‘And as far as the media are concerned I expect some pretty nifty footwork there, Blume. There’d be a panic if people knew how many Borribles there really are and what they get up to. The PM is most insistent that this business be kept under wraps, Blume. The story to give
out, and make sure you understand this—and the men—is that a bunch of skinhead hooligans, or punks or whatever they call themselves nowadays, got down here and had a pitched battle with an equal number of glue-sniffers. Somethin’ like that. Do not breathe a single word of Borribles. Remember, my dear Blume, the best lies are so seemingly reasonable that it would be a gross error of judgement not to believe them. It upsets people to hear things they don’t understand. As fat as the hoi polloi are concerned Borribles belong in the realm of hobbits, boy-wizards and bunnies, and they must stay there. They must never be believed in.’
Blume made a note on his clipboard. ‘I never believed in ’em, sir,’ he said. ‘My dad used to knock me about the head if I even mentioned Borribles.’
The DAC touched a loose stone with his highly polished shoe. ‘Quite,’ he said. ‘Furthermore I shall be makin’ a long statement about Sussworth and Hanks. You know the kind of thing: how proud Sussworth would have been, his life’s ambition realized in his finest hour, so few for so many, dyin’ valiantly under the streets of London in a successful bid to keep order on those streets, backbone of the nation, an example to us all … all that, eh?’
Officer Blume smiled blankly. He looked puzzled and the DAC moved closer to him and lowered his voice.
‘Don’t look so miffed, Blume. You ought to know that it is always safer to praise a dead fool than pay heed to a live one.’ The DAC chuckled loudly at his own wit, twirled his umbrella yet again and winked at Knocker. ‘You Borribles aren’t the only chaps with proverbs, you know,’ he said, and chuckled again before going on.
‘You see, Blume, the more we praise Sussworth and Hanks the more we praise ourselves. So the inspector must have a George Medal and an obit in
The Times,
and Hanks will receive a special mention in dispatches and a military funeral on a gun carriage, no expense spared. All nice and tidy, just a secret little report between me and the PM. And of course, later on, it will become exquisitely obvious to the Cabinet that I chose the right men for the job for the simple reason that they were willing to die in the line of duty, and because I manifested such acumen I shall at last receive my knighthood. I was the right man in the right place sayin’ the right thing, Blume.’
Blume sniffed and took notes. He looked peeved as well as puzzled now and the DAC noticed it. He laid his hand gently on the constable’s elbow.
‘My dear Blume,’ he said, ‘these dicta do not only apply to me but to men of your rank too. You also are in the right place at the right time. As you must know I need a new commander of the SBG and he has already been chosen; Superintendent Birdlime is on his way here at this very moment to take charge of the men. But I know he will need an assistant and I have no doubt that he will take my advice in this matter, especially when I tell him I think I have the very man for the job: a man of energetic discretion. Yes, Blume, you. No, don’t try to thank me. I know you will be first class in the position. We have been groomin’ you for stardom, you know. It’s the first step on the ladder.’

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