The Borribles: Across the Dark Metropolis

by Michael de Larrabeiti

  This was easier said than done. In the circus ring all was mayhem. Inspector Sussworth, with the intention of keeping the SBG raid totally secret, had not bothered to tell Signor Buffoni or any other of the circus people what he had in fact planned. Consequently the clowns in the ring, the real clowns, once they had recovered from their initial surprise, became very very angry. As far as they were concerned a group of unidentified men, dressed as clowns, had broken into the circus and ruined their performance just when it had been going well. For all they knew they had been attacked by their deadly rivals in the circus trade, Bernardo Mattamori and Sons. Such things had happened before.

  Now in total blackness, the police began to grope right and left in an attempt to seize and arrest the elusive Borribles. Unfortunately they only succeeded in catching hold of a number of strong circus men who did not appreciate unknowns handling them in the dark. The circus people started to lay about them with a will, grabbing policemen’s truncheons and cracking skulls with all the gusto of men who were used to swinging ten-pound sledgehammers and delighting in it. So the battle was joined in real earnest and although the circus people were outnumbered they more than held their own. They had been trained in the hard school of circus rings up and down the country. They knew all about jumping, falling, tumbling, throwing and ducking; the men of the SBG, for all Sussworth’s pride in them, came off second best.

  Even in the dark the clowns could find their props and some of them ran to their hosepipe. They turned it on and soaked everybody, policemen and escaping audience alike. They found a fire extinguisher too and covered the men of the SBG in sticky white foam. However hard the Woollies fought back, however loudly they shouted that they were officers of the law on official duty, the clowns would have none of it.

  ‘Don’t give us that,’ they yelled. ‘You’re from Mattamori’s. You can’t keep a good clown down.’

  Knocker too was shouting. ‘Spread out,’ he bawled. ‘Separate. We’ll meet by the horse if we can and take him with us. Make for Brixton Market and wait there. Go!’

  On all sides of the Adventurers adults still fought, pushing and struggling, swearing and stumbling, too busy and too angry to notice the slight bodies of the Borribles as they squirmed and shoved their way to the side of the big top. Knocker found himself thrust against the back wall of canvas with Chalotte next to him. She took a knife and slit the tent open. She put her eye to the gap and stared out.

  ‘Stacks of people,’ she said, ‘all watching. I can’t see any uniforms,’ and without saying any more she slipped from the tent and Knocker followed her, hoping that his friends were getting away as easily as he was. Knocker didn’t know it but his optimism was misplaced.

  As a result of the reprimand he had received from the DAC, Inspector Sussworth was determined not to fail this time. ‘Acting on information received’, as he put it, he knew for certain that the Adventurers were present at the circus that night and, to avoid alerting them, most of his men were not wearing uniform. He had disguised them as clowns, hotdog sellers, ordinary citizens and, in case that was not enough, he had an outer ring of officers and police cars all round the outside of the circus, hiding in the trees and bushes, determined to see that no one got away. The crowd into which the Borribles sprinted in such high hopes of safety was laced with members, both male and female, of the SBG. The Adventurers had no chance at all.

  Inspector Sussworth himself stood on the roof of his brand new snow-white caravan, a megaphone in his hands. Floodlights lit the whole area as clear as day. Sussworth was happy; he took no notice of the streaks of rain that blew with the wind over everything. He was shouting at the crowds, enjoying his power, his voice rising and falling in the gusty air.

  ‘This is Operation Catsmeat, Operation Catsmeat. No one is to leave the area, repeat, no one. You are all under arrest but anyone apprehending and taking into custody any Borrible or suspicious child will be rewarded. Watch out for Borribles.’

  Deep in the crowd Knocker put all his talents to their best uses. He twisted and turned, making for where he believed the horse to be, just beyond the sideshows under the trees. Chalotte followed him, keeping close. She could not understand it; the crowd was not a large lump of thoughtlessness like crowds generally are, this crowd was taking notice. Then Sussworth’s announcement came bounding through the night and she knew why; the crowd was not just watching, it was actively looking for Borribles.

  Chalotte stopped in her tracks, her heart turning to jelly. Never in her whole life had she been so frightened or felt so hopeless. There was a great roar in front of her and she saw Knocker thrown into the air, high above the heads of the crowd. His face shone in the floodlights; it was drawn and twisted with anger and fear. Knocker was dropped and then thrown up once more. There were shouts of excitement. Chalotte swore and pushed through a forest of legs. She came to the man who was holding Knocker and she sank her teeth into his thigh. The man yelled and grabbed his leg in pain. Knocker fell to the ground next to her but was immediately seized by another man. ‘I’ve got him,’ he yelled. Then rough hands caught Chalotte and yanked her up to adult height.

  ‘Bite me would yer,’ said a voice, and a fist struck her in the face and she was thrown upwards, dropped, and thrown up again and passed overhead from hand to hand like an unconscious spectator at a football match. She screamed and she kicked and she scratched but it achieved nothing. Rough fingers clutched and tore at her body and she and Knocker were rolled through the air towards the big white caravan on top of which stood Sussworth in his long overcoat, the buttons of it shining like cat’s eyes through the wind and the rain.

  The ground which lay closest to the big top had been trampled into mud by thousands of feet; it was a mud that was deep and stuck like glue. Napoleon crawled into it on his belly, a knife between his teeth, pushing with his hands. Behind him came Bingo.

  ‘Tell you what,’ said Napoleon, ‘you go that way round the tent, and I’ll go this way and meet you the other side. Cut every guy rope as you go and the whole bloody contraption will fall down. That’ll keep the fuzz occupied.’

  ‘Right,’ said Bingo and drew his knife.

  The plan worked well. With no tension to hold it in place the great marquee keeled gracefully over, its huge and heavy folds settling on the still struggling clowns and policemen.

  Bingo and Napoleon met as arranged on the far side of the tent and, seeing that the crowd was thinner here, they made a rapid dash towards the obscurity of the nearest stand of trees. They ran fast, dodging this way and that round groups of people who could only stare as the Borribles ran by. Finally in the safety of the dark, under the trees, breathless, they looked back at the dazzle of the police floodlights.

  ‘What a mess,’ said Bingo. ‘I wonder how the Woollies knew we were there.’

  ‘Easy,’ said a voice behind them, ‘we knows everything.’ And the two Borribles were knocked to the ground by heavy blows. Hands moved over their bodies and relieved them of their knives and catapults. Their arms were forced behind their backs and they were handcuffed. Not until they were hauled to their feet did they see that four or five members of the SBG, in uniform, stood around them. Beyond the trees they could see the indistinct shape of an SBG personnel van.

  Bingo could not stand without support. The blow he’d received had knocked the breath from his body.

  ‘You bastard,’ said Napoleon. ‘He’s only a kid.’

  The policemen laughed and one of their number leant forward and pulled Napoleon’s ear, very hard. ‘Oh yes,’ he said, ‘just a sweet little Borrible kid. Well, you’ll be a little kid soon enough, back to normal for you, chummy, and no mistake.’

  Stonks was strong, the strongest of all the Adventurers. During the confusion inside the big top he had stayed near his friend, Torreycanyon, and pushed a path for the both of them through the mad mob of fighting adults. Once outside they had enjoyed good luck, slipping unnoticed into a group of the audience who had children of their own and had been m
aking their way to the outer ring of tents. The two Borribles had walked with them and when the time was right had ducked into a dark space between two sideshows and stayed there to catch their breath and take stock.

  They could hear everything: Sussworth’s voice on the loudhailer, and the shouts and jeers of the SBG as they chased and arrested Borribles and any of those circus hands who dared to defend themselves.

  ‘We’ll never make it back to the horse,’ said Stonks. ‘We’ll do more good to get out of here and then help anyone who does get off.’

  Torreycanyon nodded his agreement and the two friends backed away from the light and went to the rear of the tents. They looked out; darkness stretched for ever, right to the end of the great common.

  ‘Okay,’ said Stonks, ‘let’s run.’

  With a sudden burst of speed both Borribles left their hiding place and raced into the open, heading for the trees and bushes they could see in the middle distance. They did not get far. They had covered only about ten or fifteen yards when a dozen shadows rose like trolls from the ground. There was a rapid movement in the air and a finely meshed net dropped over the fugitives and down they went, floundering like stranded fish.

  Orococco and Vulge got clear of the big top and fought their way through the multitude like explorers hacking their way through jungle. They did not realize that the crowd was full of policemen but they could certainly feel hands snatching at their bodies as they dodged along and they could hear voices above their heads shouting after them.

  ‘We’ll have to make for the acrobats’ tent,’ suggested Orococco. ‘It’s our only chance; pretend we’re with them, working for the circus.’

  The two Borribles continued to push forward, kicking and shoving at the legs that barred their way. Somehow they managed to evade capture and got as far as the tent they were looking for. By the side of it was a tiny oasis of calm and they ducked into it. As they recovered their breath Sussworth’s voice sounded from close at hand.

  ‘Do not cease your vigilance, all Borribles must be arrested. Any members of the fairground staff who obstruct officers in pursuance of their duty will be imprisoned. The licence for the circus will be revoked. Mr Buffoni, Mr Buffoni, you will come to the police headquarters caravan immediately. Order all your relations and staff to cooperate with the police. Mr Buffoni, Mr Buffoni.’

  ‘Blimey,’ said Vulge, ‘the coppers are only just round the back here.’

  Orococco nodded. ‘That’s fine, then they won’t be looking for us this close to home. Quick, let’s slip into the tent before we’re noticed.’

  Both Borribles lay on the ground and slithered under the bottom edge of the canvas, pulling themselves along with their elbows. Inside the tent the darkness was thick and there wasn’t a sound to be heard.

  ‘We’ll make for the stage,’ whispered Orococco, ‘that’ll do nicely.’

  The two Borribles were halfway across the tent when there came a loud click; it sounded like a large switch being thrown. It was. Suddenly the whole place was lit from above and twenty light bulbs shone as bright as day. Orococco and Vulge looked at each other and climbed slowly to their feet. There was no point in not doing so.

  On each side of the tent stood a row of SBG men and women in uniform, each one holding a truncheon. They smiled sweetly. Vulge nudged Orococco and jerked his head. ‘We certainly came to the right place, Coco,’ he said. ‘Look.’

  Orococco did. Laid out before them, at full length on the floor, tightly gagged and handcuffed, were all eight acrobats, arranged in a neat little row. Their hair had been pulled back to disclose their pointed ears and their eyes blinked in the sudden light. They looked full of fear, their bodies sagging, limp and hopeless, like big raw sausages on a grill punctured all over with fork holes and ready for cooking.

  ‘I wonder what it’s going to be like, growing up,’ said Orococco, but there was no more time for talk. Huge hands seized him and Vulge and they were pinioned and flung to the ground.

  When the Adventurers had rushed away in different directions from the big top one of their number had hesitated. Crouching low in the darkness just outside the tent she stared at the surging, violent crowd, completely dazed by the shouting and the floodlights.

  As the big top began to collapse the circus people tried to come to the aid of their colleagues imprisoned under the falling canvas. Because they knew nothing of the SBG and its plans these circus people were still convinced that their show had been attacked by Mattamori’s men, and they could not believe the plain clothes policemen who were insisting that they were indeed officers of the law. The circus people struck out first and asked questions afterwards.

  This outburst of hostilities gave Sydney the opportunity she had been waiting for. Making herself as small as she could she passed through the areas of the fairground where the fighting was at its fiercest and managed to arrive at the outer ring of sideshows without calling attention to herself. Once there she crawled under the counter of the coconut shy and bumped into Twilight. Somehow in all that mayhem Sydney had found a friend.

  The two Borribles were delighted to be together but there was really only one thought in Sydney’s mind: find Sam, cut the rope that tied him to his tree and escape with him out on to the common. The idea that Sussworth might capture the horse and set him to work again filled her with dread and made her heart go cold.

  ‘You’re right,’ agreed Twilight. ‘I’ll come along and give you a hand. And anyway,’ he added, ‘the horse is where we’re supposed to meet, isn’t it?’

  The journey to the acrobats’ marquee was accomplished with little trouble, the two friends simply-creeping along from tent to tent and keeping on the side furthest from the crowds. Once at their destination they took up a position from which they could observe the marquee and Sussworth too. He was still prancing about on his caravan roof and still shouting into his megaphone for all he was worth. The inspector’s staff officers were standing in a group, on the ground, staring at the riotous mob as it swirled past them, screaming in panic. But on the other side of a quiet open space, at the back of the tents and nearer to the Borribles than the policemen, under some trees in the half-dark, was Sam, ignored and unguarded.

  Sydney drew her knife. ‘I’m going to run over and cut him free,’ she said. ‘You keep watch, Twilight, and if any of the coppers look round and there’s any danger of ’em seeing me, well, you’ll just have to attract their attention and make ’em chase you. When I get the horse into the trees, then you come over. Okay?’

  The girl did not wait for the Bangladeshi to answer. As light as the wind she ran to the horse, her arms outstretched.

  ‘Oh Sam,’ she whispered as she slashed the rope, ‘we’ve got to scarper, like quick.’ She pulled at the horse’s rein but Sam did not stir. He shook his head like a wild thing, flared his nostrils and Sydney saw that the animal’s legs were closely hobbled with tough nylon ropes. He could not move.

  ‘The bullies,’ said Sydney, and she knelt to hack at the hobbles, obliged to move fast. She’d been in the open too long. Again the horse shook its head and now it shuffled backwards. ‘Oh, Sam,’ said Sydney again, ‘what’s wrong, what have they done to you?’

  Sydney had not seen what Sam had seen behind her, the slight form of Twilight dragged into the open, bound and gagged and made prisoner, or the ring of dark figures closing in on the girl from the tents and the trees. But with a glance she saw them and she moaned out loud, throwing her thin arms round the horse’s neck, clinging there for dear life.

  ‘Oh, Sam,’ she cried, ‘I’ve failed. They’ve got you again. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.’ And Sydney was downcast and she did not hear the triumphant voice on the megaphone announcing that all Borribles and their allies had been captured and that the battle was lost and won. She did not feel the big hands take the knife from her grasp or the catapult from her pocket, and she did not feel the cold handcuffs snapping on to her wrists like the bite of a dog. All Sydney could do was weep for th
e end of Sam, the horse she loved, gone for catsmeat.

  4

  Inspector Sussworth and Sergeant Hanks stood like presidential candidates on the rear balcony of the white SBG caravan. Below them, ankle-deep in mud, washed by a light rain, stood the Adventurers and the acrobats, handcuffed together in one long line, their pointed ears plainly visible. Behind them stood Sam the horse, behind him stood the circus clowns, also handcuffed, their faces bloody and their clothes torn. Surrounding them all stood a solid regiment of policemen, their black macs phosphorescent in the night like wet coal.

  The SBG had at last restored order. The general public had been packed off home and the circus people had been locked in their caravans and commanded to remain there until further notice, on pain of arrest. A great quiet reigned where before there had been only riot and pandemonium. Nobody stirred except a few policemen who were wandering through the ruins of the great fight, making sure that no Borrible still lurked under the debris of torn canvas and battered sideshows. The desolation was complete.

  Inspector Sussworth beamed over the scene like a lighthouse, striving to contain his pleasure but unable, his smile bursting out intermittently. His hands were grasped tighter than ever behind his back, his right hand trying to dislocate his left shoulder by yanking fiercely on that arm. His heels rose and fell in a persistent tattoo. At last he raised his hand; he was about to speak.

  ‘Men,’ he began, ‘I offered you blood, sweat and tears but there was no time for weeping. We have won a famous battle, just as I said we would. Here stand the captives and their aiders and abetters, manacled together in shame and disgrace: malcontents and malefactors who would change the world because it doesn’t suit them; who would descend to physical violence when the rules of society become inconvenient. Now we have caught the ringleaders and our struggle is almost over. We have caught their mascot too, this moth-eaten, knock-kneed, spindle-shanked, spavin-legged erstwhile equus. This wretched animal has become the symbol and the centre of their revolt. Well, so far and no further. If this horse is their heart, then I shall grasp that heart with both hands and rend it asunder. I hereby order that the aforementioned animal be conveyed from this place to an abattoir or slaughterhouse and there it will be banged on the head until dead and then hung up by its hind legs, from a hook. It will be slit open with a carver and minced into nice neat little tins of food for small kittens. I tell you men, Operation Catsmeat has been a complete success. A campaign medal will be struck.’