The Borribles: Across the Dark Metropolis (41 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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Officer Blume blushed and grew by at least two inches. He looked proudly at the four policemen who still guarded Knocker. ‘Oh thank you, sir,’ he said. ‘Oh thank you.’
‘Yes,’ said the DAC, ‘of course. However, I have to point out that things are goin’ to change. Birdlime is a new broom and he must sweep clean. Sussworth was a wasteful man and he spent much too much money on these Borrible operations and you know what the PM is like about money. At any rate, now that we have disposed of the Borrible ringleaders we shall have to make economies; that’s your job Blume, and Birdlime’s. Understand that. There will be fewer men, fewer patrols, fewer vans. We need to pull our horns in a bit.’
Blume was still beaming. ‘That’s no problem, sir. I promise you. We’ve seen the back of any real Borrible trouble, I’m sure of it.’
The DAC nodded and looked content. ‘I knew I could count on you, Blume, I knew I could.’ His eyes fell on Knocker again. He raised his umbrella and pointed at the four guards. ‘Take the prisoner away, you chaps, and be careful with him. I need to show this one to the minister. Whitehall doesn’t mind catastrophe and disaster, Blume, as long as there are bodies and prisoners to see at the end of the day. It teaches the nation that calamities are really blessin’s in disguise because we get somethin’ out of them, even if that somethin is nothin’ more than a self-administered punch on the nose. There! So don’t let this urchin escape; he’s very important. Now, I’m off to inspect the rest of the corpses, so follow me.’ And with another jaunty twirl of his umbrella
the DAC walked towards the control cabin, stepping gracefully over the railway lines as he went, Officer Blume at his elbow. On his face was an expression of complete satisfaction; he looked supremely happy.
He might not have felt quite so satisfied with himself had he bothered to observe Knocker being escorted away by the four guards. The Borrible’s face also carried a smile of delight and his step had a joyful spring to it. Knocker’s heart no longer felt small and shrivelled; on the contrary it was growing larger and larger with happiness at every moment. His plan had worked better than he could have imagined in his wildest dreams. No Sussworth, no Hanks and a smaller SBG; above all an SBG that believed that the Adventurers and Sam were dead when in fact they were alive and safe. Knocker could hardly believe it. He was so happy. His soul soared and he held his head high, and though weary his demeanour did not show it. Indeed he marched forward eagerly, so eagerly that the four policemen with him had to hurry in order to keep pace. On he went, past the spot where Sussworth and Hanks lay under a tarpaulin, one charred boot protruding, and then further, along the tunnel towards Swiss Cottage, until at last he was led up on to the platform and into the beginning of his dreadful captivity—captivity from which only death could free him—and yet not once did his feet stumble, and not once did his determination falter. Knocker knew he had won and he knew too that his friends, the Borribles who loved him, would be free and alive for ever and ever.
At about nine in the evening of the third night after Knocker’s capture Orococco rolled over in the dark. ‘“Nothing,” according to the proverb,’ he said, ‘“is nowhere near as good as a feast.” ’ He was right. The surviving Borribles were now very weak with hunger and knew that they would have to make a move soon otherwise they would become too ill to continue their journey. And their move, when they
made it, would have to be one that was both cautious and quiet. Consequently, to begin with, from the very bottom of the wall they had built, they silently extracted one brick and through the hole they listened for the sounds of men or trains. They heard nothing.
After waiting patiently for a further hour or so, Orococco, who said he was the fastest and the blackest Borrible there, levered some more bricks from the wall and elected to slip out and see the lie of the land. In another hour he returned. It was night, he said, the trains had stopped running and all signs of the battle had been removed. It was time to go.
Even though the Borribles were faint from lack of food and fresh air it did not take them long to demolish the rest of the wall they had built. Sydney led Sam through to the dust of the disused tunnel and her companions followed. Once outside they went straight to the tap and filled an old bucket with water, allowing the horse to drink copiously so that it could both quench its thirst and ward off the pangs of hunger. For the same reasons the Borribles drank deeply themselves, and as soon as they were ready they set out to rejoin the line that would lead them north-westwards: Finchley Road, West Hampstead, Kilburn, Willesden Green, Dollis Hill and, at the very end of the journey, Neasden.
It was not a difficult march, no more than four or five miles to the final destination, and fortunately for the Adventurers, they had all night to get there. ‘Just as well,’ said Torreycanyon. ‘I’m so weak I couldn’t run if the whole of the SBG was right behind me.’
Along the empty railway lines and through the deserted stations the eight friends stumbled, creeping forward painfully, every step an effort of will with no energy left for speech. Orococco scouted ahead and Twilight brought up the rear, but they encountered no dangers and fell into no traps. Thanks to Knocker the SBG was certain that the Adventurers and their horse had perished. As far as the police were concerned the Borrible menace was over.
So it was that the fugitives met no enemies and somewhere, before dawn, the narrow tunnel rose to the surface of the city and the Borribles found themselves at last in the open. Instead of the deep close gloom and used-up air of underground there was now the high cathedral darkness of the London night and the soft touch of fresh dampness
on the face. Occasionally there was the odd break in the cloud and the silver edge of the moon would gleam bright like a blade for a second, disappear, and then gleam again. Sam pricked up his ears with pleasure, lightened his step and gave a neigh of contentment. He also seemed to know that the end of the long, long journey was close at hand.
‘Yes, Sam,’ said Sydney when they’d marched a little further. ‘Only a little way to go.’ And she took the head of the column with Sam beside her, needing neither light nor map to find her road because this was her manor and it was only right that she should go in front.
And on she led until the Adventurers stalked through Neasden station itself, and all the streets and alleys of London lay quiet on every side and a great feeling of achievement came over the Borribles, just for being in that place after everything they’d been through, although nothing was special in the look of it.
‘It’s just Neasden,’ said Sydney, stopping for a moment in the middle of the track. ‘It’s just like anywhere else, but I love it and I’ve just the spot for Sam … and there’ll be some grub there too. Only another half mile.’
Sydney sounded cheerful now and her voice urged her companions to one last effort. It was still dark between the rooftops and the clouds, but high up on the eastern fringes of the sky the stars had faded, and there was a touch of pearl-grey light, growing stronger.
Sydney kept going and took the Adventurers as far as the London Transport railway works which lie north of the main line, but her destination was not in that direction and instead she headed south, into a part of the city that is white and unmarked on the map, an area unknown and unexplored by normal citizens.
The Borribles did not hesitate to follow. They trusted the Neasden girl and they were well aware that she knew what she was doing. With a sure step she led the horse down a sloping path, through some scrubby grass, and up to an old platelayers’ shed built from solid wooden boards. There, out of sight of the track, the runaways lowered themselves to the ground and, side by side, rested their backs against the rough planks of the abandoned hut. ‘Wait here,’ said Sydney. ‘Rest but don’t sleep.’
Slowly the day came. A train, the first of that early morning, rushed past as if in a panic to rediscover the long musty tunnels below the earth. The Borribles, only half awake, watched as the weak light grew stronger and stole inch by inch over this sequestered part of their planet. It was such a strange place to have found: so wide, so empty, amputated from the rest of the world, unseen and unimagined.
It was an area that looked like it had been built in fits and starts and then forgotten. A few buildings stood forlorn and half finished, windowless and abandoned, caves for the wind to whistle in, bounded in the east by a sweep of the North Circular Road and to the south and west by the River Brent and Tokyngton Recreation Ground. To the right it was bisected by the Marylebone Railway, and to the left it was divided by a stretch of dull water, a feeder arm supplying the Grand Union Canal; because that canal had journeyed all these miles too, leaving the River Thames at Limehouse Basin and circling north to join it again at Brentford. This is where Sydney had wanted to come, and this is where Sam would be safe; it was perfect, she’d said.
The daylight grew even stronger. About fifty yards away from the platelayers’ shed stood an old man dressed in a faded blue anorak, Brent Council overalls and rolled-over wellies. Beside him stood Sam and Sydney. Sam was eating something from the old man’s hand. Beyond the man were ten more horses and a score of donkeys grazing on the wild grasses and thistles that grew there. Further back were some dogs and goats, the dogs sleeping.
The wet clouds peeled backwards and showed another layer of sky. The Borribles shivered. In the distance, perhaps a mile away on the other side of this wedge of land, they could see where the ranks of streets and houses took up their march again. Between those streets and the platelayers’ hut lay the bleak depots and the piles of equipment that belonged to the council road-men: hoppers for loading grit, rusty rubbish skips and big yellow machines for digging holes and moving earth. From all sides came the roar of motor traffic, grinding to work. From above came the screaming and whining of jet engines as the fat airliners lowered themselves into Heathrow Airport. London was starting a new day.
The man turned and went further into the wasteland, threading his
way through his horses and goats and donkeys and dogs. Sydney beckoned to the Borribles, then she followed the man and Sam followed her. The Borribles groaned, hauled themselves to their feet and made themselves go forward, but their journey was a short one. After walking for no more than two or three hundred yards they found themselves outside a long low shed made from corrugated asbestos. Its doors were missing and had been replaced by hanging sacks tied together. There was a bench on the southern side of the shed and some of the Adventurers sat on it while the remainder threw themselves full-length on the ground, unable to take another step. It did not matter too much; they were in a kind of hollow and felt safe. No building overlooked them, no one could see them from road or railway line.
A moment or two after their arrival Sydney emerged from the shed with half a sack of horse feed on her shoulder and poured it on to the ground. Sam began to eat. From inside the hut came the sound of a pan hitting the cooker and then the smell of bacon and bread frying. Sydney disappeared again and in a little while came back, this time bearing a piece of wood sawn from a plank; on the wood she bore eight old bean cans, each one full of steaming tea, and she handed them round.
The hot tea warmed the Adventurers. Sydney sipped from her tin and looked at her friends. Their faces were so begrimed with dirt and oil that it was impossible to see their tiredness, but she could sense it; their movements were rheumatic, no words were spoken, there was no backchat. Sydney stared at the cuts and bruises on the back of her hands; she looked at what remained of her clothing, torn and frayed and smeared with filth.
‘He’s called Mad Mick,’ she said to the others and squatted on the ground, watching Sam eat and stroking his head every now and then, ‘and this place is called Mad Mick’s; but he ain’t mad, not a bit of it. He just likes looking after old horses and donkeys and such. He saves them from the knacker’s yard. People bring him food and things he needs, sometimes they throw it over the walls down there. That’s how we can help while we stay here, going round the walls picking stuff up. The council know he’s here but there’s so much space …’
Mad Mick shuffled from his shed at this point bearing huge peanut butter sandwiches. ‘Bacon’s cooking,’ he said and went away.
The Borribles fell upon the food like savages, eating and drinking in great gulps. While they ate Sydney talked. It was as though she had to explain everything after what it had cost to get there.
‘He’s been here years,’ she said with her mouth full, ‘but nobody cares. He hands out food to us when we’re short and when he’s short we go and nick some for him.’
‘He don’t say a lot,’ said Torreycanyon.
‘He don’t need to. He talks to the animals all the time. Still, he told me you could stay here as long as you like, until you’ve completely recovered and got some really good grub down you.’
‘I don’t see any markets or shops,’ said Torreycanyon. ‘We’ll need grub all right.’
Sydney waved an arm. ‘Willesden and Stonebridge are over there,’ she said, ‘and Neasden, where I live, over there. I can come here all the time and see Sam, it’s no distance.’
As she said this Mad Mick came from his hut with more sandwiches and distributed them, nodding all the while but saying nothing.
‘When we’re all rested up,’ said Stonks, ‘and before we leave we ought to make sure Mad Mick has enough grub to last him a twelvemonth. It looks really safe here.’
‘Don’t talk about leaving yet, man,’ said Orococco. ‘I’m tired and my legs are aching.’
‘I’m not talking about going,’ said Chalotte suddenly, broaching the subject that everyone had been thinking of but had not mentioned. ‘I’m going to wait for Knocker.’
Stonks took a breath that reached right down to the bottom of his guts. ‘Supposing he don’t show up?’ he said. ‘What then?’
‘He’ll be here,’ said Chalotte. ‘It’ll take more than Sussworth to catch him.’
Stonks was sitting on the bench and he gazed at the ground between his feet, staring past the bean tin he held in both hands. ‘You know,’ he said, ‘when I talked to him the last time it sounded to me like he didn’t think he was coming back; like he had a plan … like he was going to do for Sussworth but like he might get done himself into the bargain.’
Twilight finished the dregs of his tea and spat a leaf out from between his teeth. ‘You talked to him, Chalotte, through the hole in the wall. What did he tell you?’
Chalotte looked behind her and watched the horses as they shook their heads and flicked their graceful tails. They were so beautiful, contrasting strangely with their bleak surroundings, and Sam, his soft brown coat now clean of every trace of Knibbsie’s dye and Sydney’s polish, was beautiful too. It had been right to bring him here, a good thing for Borribles to have done, worth all the struggle and sacrifice.
Chalotte sniffed. Sam had finished his feed and was moving easily to join the other horses browsing on the rough grass which grew in clumps by the side of a square of tarmac that had once been the floor of a building. The horse was happy now, and safe for ever. He had come home and found friends. Chalotte looked back at Twilight and answered his question: ‘He said that there was only one way for him to convince Sussworth that we were all dead. Sussworth had to believe that those dwarf bodies were us, and Knocker reckoned he could do it by leaving Napoleon’s body for the Woollies to find and then letting them see him and chase him through the tunnels. “Eight plus two makes ten,” he said.’
‘It wasn’t a bad plan,’ said Bingo.
‘Suppose he let himself be captured on purpose,’ said Vulge, ‘so he could be “forced” into telling Sussworth a lie at the same time as making him think it was the truth.’
‘He must ’ave,’ said Bingo, ‘otherwise how did we get away so easily, eh?’
‘That must be it,’ agreed Twilight. ‘The SBG knew we had to come out of the Underground somewhere but we didn’t see sight nor sound of ’em. Not one van, not one uniform, not one siren.’
There was silence for a while as everyone thought about what Twilight had said.
Torreycanyon scratched his head. ‘What can we do?’ he asked. ‘We got Sam here all right, we won the battle, but we lost two of the best, two of the very, very best. What can we do?’
Chalotte rubbed her red eyes and got to her feet. She shook her dirty hair free.

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