Sydney screamd and dropped to her knees in the mud. Because they were handcuffed so tightly together, Chalotte and Twilight were dragged down with her.
‘No,’ cried the girl as loud as she could. ‘Leave Sam alone, it’s not his fault. Do our ears if you have to but leave Sam out of it. He’s only a horse; he’s never done any harm.’
Sussworth laughed and danced contentedly, his hands fluttering up and down his chest like magpies looking for somewhere to land. Hanks’s belly wobbled in merriment and he took a sweet from his pocket and shoved it into his mouth.
‘Don’t take on so,’ said Sussworth, tilting his head in a gesture of ironic kindness. ‘Sam will be free of all earthly constraints soon, but you and your acrobat friends are the ones in trouble. You will be worked to death once we get them ears of yours clipped. You’ll be nice, normal wage-earners for the rest of your lives.’
Now the inspector gestured with his right hand and the regiment of policemen brought their heels together like soldiers.
‘Take these Borribles to the special place,’ ordered Sussworth, ‘and these didicois as well. Lock ’em up and teach them a lesson. In the morning they will be charged with as many offences as I can think of. Take them away.’
As the Borribles were pushed towards the Black Marias parked ready by the side of the SBG caravan, Knocker stepped out of line, the handcuffs forcing his companions to move with him. He got as close to Sussworth as he could, then he lifted his hands above his head and the chained hands of his friends were lifted too. Knocker shook his manacles till they jangled. There was blood on his cheek, his clothes were torn and his face was wild with anger.
‘I’ll kill you,’ he said, his lips white. ‘It’s you who’s done this violence, not us, Sussworth. I shan’t rest till you’re dead. I’ll—’
Knocker was not allowed to finish. A policeman struck him smartly on the side of the head and he was shoved away with the others, staggering and slipping in the mud. Even the circus clowns were forced into a van and treated no better than the Borribles, but cuffed and prodded and sworn at. At least ten of them were in custody and a sorry sight they were. Some of them had fought long and hard under the big top. The others had been arrested while trying to go to their colleagues’ aid. Not for one minute had they understood what had been going on. In the madness of the battle they had thought the circus under attack and had only meant to defend themselves. Now, if found guilty in court they would spend many months in prison, perhaps even a year or two.
Not only that but their circus was in ruins, their costumes had been ripped to shreds and all of them had black eyes, bloody noses and cracked heads. It was more than circus people could take and they too shouted threats at Sussworth and Hanks, but however much they raised their voices it made no difference. They were beaten into the Black Marias and the heavy doors were double-locked behind them. At a sign from Sussworth the vans were driven across the grass to the main road and from there the column turned towards Clapham South, heavily escorted. The Borribles had been caught and Inspector Sussworth was taking no chances.
Clapham South Underground station is only a few hundred yards from that part of Clapham Common where Buffoni’s circus had made its pitch. By the time Sussworth’s caravan had been towed there the prisoners were standing on the pavement, herded together and guarded by more than twice their number of policemen. The Borribles waited for Sussworth with some apprehension; what had he meant, ‘Take them to the special place’? They did not have to wait long for the question to be answered. Near where they stood, on an odd corner of turf that seemed to be neither common nor wasteland, right next to a brick-built set of sour-smelling public lavatories, was a curious cement-covered building, half square, half circular. It was protected by a high wire fence and it was large and windowless, sinister and gloomy.
As soon as the caravan arrived, Sussworth and Hanks marched down its steps and, passing through a gate in the wire fence, went to a large iron door that stood in the square section of this bizarre building. There came the rattle of a key and the sound of a lock opening. The door was pulled outwards, a light was switched on and the prisoners saw a rectangular, unfriendly-looking hallway, quite large and made from concrete blocks.
‘Right men,’ said Sussworth. ‘Bring the prisoners inside; look snappy, we don’t want to be noticed.’
The inspector stood by the entrance and watched while his orders were obeyed. ‘I want twenty men to lead the way in here,’ he said. ‘The prisoners will walk in the middle, and twenty more men will bring up the rear with Sergeant Hanks. I also want a guard of six constables on the caravan, and I want two more to take the horse to Wandsworth Prison where it will be incarcerated until the knacker’s yard is ready for it. The rest of you will return to headquarters, but report here tomorrow, early. Is that perfectly clear?’
The men saluted and Hanks lost no time in deciding which of them would stay and which would go. These arrangements made, Sussworth ordered the great iron door closed and as the noise of its closing died he locked it with a great key and then put the key in his overcoat pocket, patting it afterwards in self-satisfaction.
Next Sussworth crouched to the ground and took another, smaller key from a different pocket and unlocked a steel flap in a manhole which had been cemented into the floor at the far end of the hallway. He fiddled with a combination lock and when the tumblers had fallen into place he commanded six of his officers to lift the trap. It was not an easy task. The manhole was thick and heavy, but after a great deal of panting and puffing by the policemen it swung back on its hinges.
Sussworth then reached into the hole that had been revealed and pulled a switch. Hundreds of lights came on and an air-conditioning plant began to hum as if from many miles away. The men of the SBG crowded round the opening and stared down. They gasped. They could see a stairway and it seemed to spiral away for ever and ever, disappearing only when it was too small to be seen.
‘Yes,’ said Sussworth proudly, as if he’d built it all himself, ‘this is the eighth wonder of the world. What used to be, during the last war, a mere air raid shelter for the ordinary populace, has been excavated deeper and wider until it stretches halfway under Clapham Common. What we have here is a veritable city that contains all the things that our civilization needs to preserve in the event of a thermo-nuclear homocost: government offices, command posts, food, water, lavatories … and a jail, a very large one. If there is total destruction we have to ensure that our administrators survive, and that whatever happens law and order will continue beyond the day of doom. There is always a need for law and order, men, as you know. Sadly, even a thoroughgoing nuclear war won’t extinguish villainy.’
‘Is it a good strong jail, sir?’ asked Sergeant Hanks.
‘The best,’ answered the inspector, ‘that is why we are here tonight. No Borrible, however bright a burglar, can wangle his way out of this one. No clown, however comical, can laugh this off. Now, men,’ said Sussworth, bringing his little speech to a close by jumping on to the first step below the trap, ‘follow me. It’s a long, long way to go, so best foot forward.’
With a flick of his moustache the inspector went out of sight and was followed immediately by the first contingent of his men and then the prisoners. They were followed in turn by Sergeant Hanks and his twenty officers, the very last one of them closing the manhole and locking it from the inside. As Sussworth had said: there was to be no escape.
Every step the Borribles took increased their despair. Worse than no escape there was not even the slightest hope of any. There was only one way out and that carefully guarded, and the corridors and passages formed a labyrinth where Sussworth deliberately took the prisoners back and forth, just to confuse them.
On every landing were tunnels leading off in all directions and from those tunnels they saw other tunnels and polished doors without number, each with a notice on it which they could read as they passed: CIGS, M15, M16, Admiralty, Home Office, Foreign Affairs Committee, Cabinet Room,
Squash Court, Security, PM, Swimming Pool, Ministry of Defence. Some of the doors were open and the prisoners caught glimpses of carpeted suites with tables covered in green baize surrounded by comfortable chairs. Many of the rooms had been laid out for relaxation with large sofas, cocktail cabinets and bookcases; and there were some with beds and divans too, all made up with freshly ironed pillowslips in readiness for the great day of Armageddon.
But at last the prisoners, stumbling now from weariness as well as dejection, were brought out into a wide and bare corridor that seemed to form the very base of the underground citadel, and here were more doors, solid steel this time with bolts top and bottom and peepholes for jailers to look through. Sussworth gave his orders and three of the cells with thrown open.
‘You’ll like this,’ said the inspector, ‘freezing cold they are.’
‘What about some food?’ said one of the clowns. ‘We must eat.’
‘I’m not so sure you must,’ said Sussworth, ‘certainly not until tomorrow. You’ll be a lot more helpful after a couple of days without sustenance. Most people are.’ He waved his hand and his policemen shoved the clowns into a couple of the cells and the doors were bolted behind them.
‘Ah, Hanks,’ said Sussworth, addressing his sergeant who was just bringing up the rearguard, ‘I want you to bring those Borrible acrobats along for interrogation; just uncuff them from the others.’
Sergeant Hanks took a key from his pocket and did as he was ordered. ‘Wonderful, sir,’ he gloated. ‘Nothing like a bit of interrogation to sharpen the appetite. I’m quite looking forward to it.’
The acrobats did their best to fight against the power of the policemen but they could not escape their fate. Ninch swore and punched and kicked like a savage, Scooter and Matzo did very much the same, but the rest completely lost their nerve and rolled on the ground, screaming in terror. None of it helped; laughing and jeering the huge, ham-handed policemen dragged the captives away by the feet, bumping their heads along the hard corridors until their cries grew fainter and fainter and were heard no more.
‘There,’ said Hanks as he prodded the Adventurers into their cell. ‘When you see your little chums tomorrow with their ears all bloody and jagged you’ll turn as good as gold, you will; tell us all we want to know, you’ll see.’ The sergeant slammed the metal door and the clang of it echoed along the corridors. Then he shot the bolts and pressed an eye against the peephole. ‘There you are,’ he said, ‘all nice and safely off the streets. We’ll have some fun tomorrow, I promise you. A bit of slap and tickle, you won’t get bored for a second.’ Hanks chuckled loudly to himself and then went away, his flat feet stamping into the distance.
‘We’re in it now,’ said Twilight, ‘right in it.’
‘Yes man,’ said Orococco, ‘right in it is right, and we’ve never been deeper in it than this.’
In the most comfortable sitting room of that government command post the DAC poured himself a large gin and tonic, lowered his elegant body into a soft armchair and dangled his leg over the arm of it, swinging his foot gently back and forth. He tilted his glass in celebration. ‘Have a drink, Sussworth, old boy,’ he said. ‘My God you deserve it. You’ve exceeded the PM’s wildest expectations.’
‘No, thank you, sir,’ said Sussworth, fidgeting with his tie. ‘I don’t drink, sir, ever sir. Certainly not whilst on duty.’
‘Whilst, eh?’ said the DAC raising an eyebrow. ‘Well sit down man, you make the place look tidy.’ The DAC smirked at his own joke. He was in a good humour.
Sussworth crossed the room and perched himself on the edge of an armchair which was at least three times too big for him.
‘Wonderful place this, eh?’ said the DAC, sipping at his drink. ‘Such forethought and plannin’.’
‘Oh yes sir,’ said Sussworth, ‘the Medium Operandi has to be protected.’
‘Quite so, Sussworth, quite so.’
‘You know sir, in a way I would quite welcome this homocost. It would be a way of sweeping things clean sir, getting things in order. Less people to discipline; it would be a fresh start.’
The DAC sipped his drink again. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘rather. Now I’ve been discussin’ things with Whitehall and they want me to convey to you how pleased they are with the way things are goin’ …’
Sussworth edged even further forward on his chair. ‘Oh really, sir.’
‘Yes.’ The DAC waved a limp hand. ‘Furthermore they want you to hold the prisoners here for as long as you can. They want to see if this Borrible thing collapses under its own weight. Now that you’ve captured the ringleaders and this blessed horse it might be a good idea for you to slow down.’
Sussworth’s moustache drooped in disappointment. ‘May I ask who in Whitehall sir, respectfully?’
The DAC sat straighter in his chair. ‘Good Lord, Sussworth, go steady. It all comes under the Official Secrets Act. However I can tell you that the Treasury is very worried about the money we’re spendin’. They want us to hold fire … Now don’t look disappointed; it’s probably only a temporary measure … Whitehall is delighted really, and those other things we talked of the other day, well, it’s all on the boil.’
‘Boil, sir?’
‘Knighthoods, peerages and that, definitely in the offin’, maybe even hereditary, none of these short-term life jobs. Any children, Sussworth? No! Eh? Never mind, just as well.’
The DAC emptied his glass and got to his feet. ‘Keep up the good work. What have you done with that horse, eh?’
‘Sent it to Wandsworth, sir, for the time being. It’ll be on its way to the abattoir in a day or two.’
The DAC looked pleased. ‘Splendid, Sussworth. Didn’t like the way that horse kept poppin’ into the picture … Odd that. Keep in touch then, on the private line to Scotland Yard. By the way, there’ll be nothin’ in the newspapers, I’ve seen to that. Just an affray on Clapham Common; local roughs versus gypsies … drunk and disorderly.’
Sussworth got to his feet also and pulled a brown envelope from his pocket. ‘My confidential report, sir.’
The DAC reached for his alpaca overcoat; he looked quite shocked. ‘Good Lord, no,’ he said. ‘No written reports, not even secret ones. I don’t want to know how you do things, Sussworth, ever. It could be very embarrassin’ if things go awry. This Borrible business is all off the record. All I want to know about is success, success. Don’t let those children escape now. You’ll never make viscount if you do. Keep your wits about you, eh?’
Sussworth twisted his ankles and bent his knees in a movement that was halfway between a curtsy and a bow. ‘There’ll be no way they can escape from down here,’ he said, ‘no way. I’ve got the top entrance guarded.’
The DAC looked at the inspector with distaste and wriggled his fingers into gloves of grey kid. ‘No,’ he said, and crossed the room to step into the high speed VIP lift that would carry him back to the surface of the earth. The doors closed automatically and Sussworth disappeared from sight. The DAC breathed a sigh of relief. A few seconds later he emerged from a concealed exit by Clapham South Underground station and, turning his collar up against the rain, he walked the few yards to where his black Rolls-Royce waited in the darkness.
The chauffeur was ready and opened a door; the DAC ducked into the car and settled into the soft cushions of the back seat. Then the chauffeur got behind the steering wheel, switched on the ignition and in a second the huge machine slid into the shapeless night, as silent as a cloud of poisonous gas.
In that same night and not so very far away the ruins of the circus glistened in the same rain that had fallen so briefly on the DAC. In the yellowness of their emergency lighting the people of Buffoni’s travelling circus and fairground took stock and attempted to make good the terrible damage that had been done to them. It seemed hopeless. The big top was a wreck, torn and ripped, its guy ropes cut, its main pole leaning at a crazy angle, its canvas wet and heavy like the sails of a schooner gone aground.
The sideshows had
fared no better; their boarding had been splintered, their tented walls unhooked from their moorings, their prizes trampled in the mud. Electric cables had been pulled from sockets and benches had been used as battering rams and lay everywhere in pieces. Lost clothing, hats, scarves and gloves littered the battleground and the ice cream wagon had been overturned, its contents—strawberry, coffee and vanilla—oozing into the mud.
The circus people felt they had been insulted to the depth of their being, brought down and belittled. And what was worse their clowns, all friends and relations, had been arrested and taken away. No amount of begging and pleading with Sussworth and Hanks had helped. The inspector would not even tell Signor Buffoni where the clowns were to be imprisoned and the circus owner had gone to his caravan and hidden his head in his hands.
But Ronaldo Buffoni was not a man easily overcome. For years he had travelled the roads of the world. He had been to India and America, to Australia and the Falkland Islands; many had been the tribulations he had been obliged to overcome. So, although he gave way to sorrow for a little while, ten minutes later he reappeared and gathered his people together in the acrobats’ tent—it was the only one left standing—and everyone present could see that Signor Buffoni was in a towering temper. He climbed on to the stage and addressed his audience with words that shook with passion; there was fire in his voice.
The Borribles: Across the Dark Metropolis Page 8