Knocker tried to understand what was being said but all he could manage was to pick out two or three expressions; Rumbledom for one, Sam the horse, Inspector Sussworth and SBG. Orococco was telling most of the story and it took a long while; towards the end of it he reverted to English and looking Black-Hat straight in the eye he said, ‘And that’s the truth of it, all of it. And you can look at our ears, man, if you want. Knocker Burnthand is there. If you don’t believe the story look at his hands, burnt across the palms they are, and his back too if you look at it. I tell you all we want is a few days’ rest, some food, and we’ll be on the road. You see we just want to get that horse away from Sussworth, that’s all, and then go on home. Borrible should help Borrible you know, especially if they are on the run, and we’re on the run all right.’
Black-Hat looked at his friends and after the shortest of silences they began to laugh, lightly at first and then louder and louder, slapping their hands all over again. What had been a dangerous situation had now become a highly amusing one.
‘My name is Bisto,’ said Black-Hat, shouting over the noise, and with a long finger he pushed aside his dreadlocks to reveal a pointed ear, a Borrible ear, one that showed great intelligence and cunning. When this was done he drew a knife and, first inspecting the ears of each and every captive in turn, he cut the ropes that bound them and welcomed them to Brixton.
Orococco, his hands free, rubbed his arms to renew the circulation and introduced each Adventurer, telling of their names and their boroughs.
‘I’m a Totter from Tooting,’ he explained. ‘Twilight’s from Spitalfields, Chalotte’s from Whitechapel, Vulge from Stepney, Torrey’s from Hoxton, Sid’s from Neasden, that’s Ninch and Scooter from the circus … and we’ve even got a Wendle.’
‘A Wendle,’ said Bisto, his eyes widening with interest. ‘Which one?’
‘Me,’ said Napoleon Boot, screwing his face up tight to make his hard face look even harder. He looked small against Bisto.
Bisto screamed with laughter and pointed Napoleon out to some of his friends. ‘Hey,’ he yelled, ‘this here’s a Wendle. Well, I dunno. I was always told they was the most frightening animals on earth, but you ain’t no taller than four-pennyworth of coppers. I’ve seen more meat on a butcher’s pencil.’
Napoleon was not a bit put down. ‘You watch it, Marmite,’ he said, the old truculent sneer on his face. ‘You come up the Wendle with me in a boat, that’s all, across the mudflats and we’ll see how tough you are then.’
Bisto laughed again. ‘Marmite,’ he screamed and tears of mirth stood in his eyes. ‘That’s the best insult I’ve ever heard, that’s wonderful,’ and he put his long arm round Napoleon and shook him affectionately and was so amused that Napoleon could no longer be angry or even pretend to be.
Once they had been accepted the Adventurers were made to feel very welcome; they felt they had come home. They were fed and clothes were brought for them to choose from. They were given raincoats, sou’westers and also catapults and maps, in fact all the supplies they would need to continue their great trek to Neasden.
They were given the run of Brixton too. ‘Don’t you worry about the old SBG, man,’ Bisto had explained with a generous wave of his arm. ‘They don’t like coming down here. Wander about where you like; my house is your house.’
The rooms above the market were high and large and it seemed that they had been deserted for years, their windows dark and dirty; only the ground floor being used as shops and warehouses. Adults rarely climbed the stairs, and if they did the Brixton Bumpers, as the West Indian Borribles were called, would simply move from house to house through openings they had made in the dividing walls. The whole three storeys of the long curving Victorian terrace was a honeycomb of rooms and passages, a delight to live in and easy to escape from. There must have been scores of Borribles living there, if not hundreds, and the place had been comfortably furnished too. There were cheerful pictures drawn on the walls; the floorboards were covered in carpets that had been rescued from rubbish dumps and there were old sofas and mattresses, more than were needed. There were dozens of orange boxes as well, standing in corners and brimming over with books and magazines, all of them saved from dustbins and rubbish heaps. It was a Borrible paradise.
Bisto and his band of mates occupied two rooms in this terrace of houses, up on the third floor of Electric Avenue. They were good Borribles, the Bumpers, and some of the friendships made between them and the Adventurers were to last a Borrible lifetime. There was Arfinch, Sherbet and Peelo, they were the girls; as well as Three-Wheels, Butterfly, Tosheroon and Smoky; and every one of them had offered to share their hideout with the Adventurers for however long they wanted to stay.
There was no doubt that the Adventurers did need to rest. Most of the time they were in Brixton they spent indoors, lazing on the mattresses, recovering from their exhaustion. Half sleeping they could hear the sounds of the great crowds in the streets below; thousands of people tramping in and out the shops, wandering round the stalls, and through it all the voices of the costermongers shouting their wares. These were the sounds that made the Adventurers feel very much at home, safe and comfortable.
They did other things of course—swapping stories and telling one another how they had won their names—and they went out on to the streets of Brixton as well, with Bisto and his friends, to be amazed and delighted at the movement and colour they found there.
It was very enjoyable, perhaps too enjoyable. Had there not been the problem of Sam, the Adventurers might have stayed in Brixton for ever. As it was that wouldn’t do. A day slipped by, then two, then three. Sydney began to worry about the fate of the horse and reminded her friends of it. The Adventurers, thanks to the kindness of the Bumpers, now had everything they needed for the road; there was no excuse for delay. The only thing they didn’t have was a plan. Was Sam still in Wandsworth Prison, or was he already as dead as Sussworth had promised he would be, already minced in shiny tins of catsmeat in some supermarket?
There was much discussion about the problem, and the Bumpers, who had been told in great detail about the Great Rumble Hunt and everything that had happened since, were asked for their advice. It was Arfinch who came up with the best suggestion of all.
‘There’s a bloke,’ she said as they were eating on the third afternoon of the Adventurers’ stay. ‘He lives down Rattray Road someplace. He’s a friend of mine. He ran away from some telecommunications family. Anyway, he’s a whizz-kid. He’s the one who keeps us in front of the Woollies. He lives in a cellar and he’s dug through to the telephone cable … He’s plugged into the whole world, he hears everything.’
‘That’s right,’ said Sherbet. ‘If anyone knows what the SBG have done with your horse, Stovepipe’s yer man.’
‘Can we go and see him?’ asked Chalotte. ‘Would he mind?’
Arfinch opened her mouth wide and laughed. She was a broad-shouldered girl with a big flat face full of life. ‘No, he won’t mind, as long as you’re with me.’
Later that evening Arfinch and Sherbet took Knocker, Chalotte and Vulge to Rattray Road. The two black Borribles were obviously well known in their area and numbers of people spoke to them as they walked by. There were many Borribles too who leant from the windows of their squats to wave a cheery greeting or to invite them into the house. The two Bumper girls returned these greetings with laughs and waves of the hand. ‘See you on the way back, man,’ they shouted. ‘We’re going to a place where they got real music.’
Their destination was not far. On the corner of Rattray and Saltoun Road was a beaten-up old Borrible house, with half its roof missing and its windows and doors boarded over. Arfinch led the way to the rear of the house and rapped with her knuckles on the wooden shuttering which covered a back window level with the ground.
The shutter was in fact on hinges and swung open immediately. A black face appeared with a green Borrible hat pulled well down over the ears. This Borrible had a narrow and intent face and his e
yes were set well apart, glinting behind wire-rimmed spectacles.
‘Ah, Arfinch,’ he said. He smiled and then wiped the smile from his face in the same second. He looked at the white Borribles. ‘What’s this?’ he asked. ‘What’s this lot doing down here?’
‘Take it easy, Stovepipe,’ said Arfinch. ‘They’re Borribles and they’re on the run from the SBG.’
‘Ah,’ said Stovepipe again. He stared for a moment at the three Adventurers. ‘Yeah, now let me see. This will be Knocker; this will be Sydney, no, Chalotte, and this little nipper with the limp, that’s got to be Vulge.’
Knocker threw a quick glance at Chalotte and Vulge and dropped his hand to where his catapault was. This was uncanny. If this fellow Stovepipe knew so much then something was wrong; he must be working for the Woollies.
Sherbet laughed to see Knocker and his two companions turn so pale and then Stovepipe’s intense face broke into a grin. ‘Don’t be worried,’ he said. ‘I’ve been plugged into the SBG headquarters for the last few days and they ain’t been talking about nothing else but you and your friends. I’ve heard your description so many times I could recognize you in the dark, and all the others.’
‘Can we come in?’ asked Arfinch. ‘We want to talk.’
Stovepipe nodded and stepped back from the window. Arfinch led the way over the sill and down a wooden stepladder. In a moment the Borribles were out of sight of the street and the shutter was closed behind them.
They were in a dark room which had been dug out below the ground floor of the abandoned house. It was lit entirely by electric light and the Adventurers could see that the room was crammed with radio equipment, telephones, tape recorders and computers.
‘Where’s all this come from?’ asked Chalotte.
Stovepipe switched on a kettle and emptied a teapot into the sink. ‘It’s bits and pieces I’ve put together,’ he said. ‘I built most of it from stuff that’s thrown away; a little bit’s nicked of course.’ He pulled some folding chairs out from underneath his bed and invited everyone to take a seat. ‘Anyway, what do you want?’
As briefly as she could Chalotte told Stovepipe the story of Sam the horse and how she and the others were trying to get him to safety in Neasden. ‘We were lucky to get away from Clapham South,’ she said when she was rounding off the tale. ‘Most of the circus Borribles were clipped but two got away and came with us, Ninch and Scooter’
‘All we want to know,’ said Vulge, wagging his head nervously, ‘is what Sussworth has done with the horse. Have you heard anything on these machines of yours?’
Stovepipe sat and stretched his legs out in front of him. He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. ‘I’ve got a permanent line to SBG headquarters now,’ he explained. ‘They’ve been getting very excited since you got away from Clapham South … very.’ Stovepipe eased his wheeled chair forward so that he could reach a bank of switches. He touched a button and a tape began to turn. ‘I recorded this yesterday,’ he said. ‘It might be what you’re after.’
The tape spun and the Borribles listened. A car went by outside; there was conversation in the street. A voice came from Stovepipe’s monitor speaker; it was the voice of the DAC.
‘ … it’s bloody stupid, Sussworth. I’ve had nothin’ but flak from the Commissioner and he’s gettin’ it in the neck from Downin’ Street. He wants my head on the block for this, and I warn you, Sussworth, if my head falls you’ll be the one goin’ for catsmeat, you and that odious Hanks.’
‘Yessir,’ answered Sussworth, and Knocker glanced at Chalotte. It seemed so strange to hear the inspector close like that, almost as if he were in the same room. The voice continued.
‘We’ll soon have the culprits who got them out, sir. I know who it is, circus vagabonds, sir …’
‘Sussworth,’ the DAC was shouting, he was very angry. ‘You idiot. I don’t care who did it. The main thing is that the Borribles have escaped and we are in trouble, both of us. I will have to resign unless you find where those Borribles are, got that? And if I resign I shall make sure that you end up standin’ in the dole queue. So, Sussworth, do not bother yourself about who got them out of the shelters, but concentrate all your effort and all your manpower on findin’ where they have gone. This is your last chance. After this it’s Chief Superintendent Birdlime, understand?’
‘Oh yessir,’ said Sussworth. ‘I understand, sir. I’ll find them, I’ll get them back into custody. I’ve dealt with the horse for a start, sir.’
Chalotte covered her face with her hands and the blood left Knocker’s face, but before he could say anything the DAC went berserk.
‘You’ve what, you incompetent little cipher? What have you got in your skull, cornflower sauce? What have you done?’
‘Sir, you did agree at Clapham South that it should be slaughtered.’
‘Your brain is a banana, Sussworth. That was under a different set of circumstances. Tactics alter as and when strategy does. It’s elementary Clausewitz. When the horse was alive we at least knew that the Borribles would come lookin’ for it … it’s called a trap, Sussworth … an ambush.’
‘Ah that’s all right then, sir.’
‘All right! It’s not all right.’
‘No, sir. You see, I only sent the horse over to the abattoir this afternoon; they aren’t going to slaughter it until tomorrow. I’ll telephone and get them to hang on to the horse, sir. They’ve got plenty of stabling over there.’
There was a long silence on the tape as the DAC digested this news. Vulge jumped to his feet and cheered; Chalotte lifted her face and smiled at Knocker.
‘Sussworth,’ continued the DAC at last, ‘you nearly gave me a coronary. Where have you got this horse?’
‘Oh quite safe, sir. In a slaughterhouse in Baynes Street; that’s Camden Town, on the canal.’
‘Good, good, at least that’s somethin’. Put a strong guard on that horse, Sussworth. While we’ve got it we have a chance of catchin’ those Borribles of yours. It seems that they would do anythin’ for that horse, anythin’.’
‘I know, sir. I can’t understand it.’
‘Right, anythin’ else, Sussworth?’
‘No, sir. I’ve got my men looking in every street in London, sir. Looking into every empty house, sir. Those Borribles won’t get far.’
‘They’d better not, Sussworth. If you let me down on this I’ll see to it that they won’t even employ you to collect trolleys in a supermarket car park. Think of that, Sussworth.’
‘Yessir, I do, sir. Continually and all the time.’
‘Excellent. Now somethin’ else. If those Borribles don’t know the horse is in Camden Town, how can they attempt a rescue, eh? Answer me that. If they think the horse is just a series of chunks of meat in rows of tins they’ll abandon the idea of savin’ it, won’t they? What are you goin’ to do about it, eh?’
‘Um,’ said Sussworth. ‘Ah, that’s a good question, sir. Pass.’
‘Do your Borribles know you sent the horse to Wandsworth Prison, Sussworth? Do they know that?’
‘They do indeed, sir. I made a point of telling them, sir, just to rub . it in.’
‘Good. We can count on them sendin’ a runner as far as that then, just to scout out the lie of the land, but don’t set a trap there, Sussworth; we want to catch them all. Put a notice on the prison doors sayin’ that the horse has been sent to Camden Town to await execution, and put other notices outside all police stations. That should do it. Make the date of the execution three or four weeks away, give them time to get there, and then watch all the bridges over the river … You’re bound to catch ’em that way.’
‘Oh yessir. A marvellous idea, sir.’
‘And don’t slaughter that horse until I give the word, do you understand?’
‘Yessir!’
‘And telephone me with all developments, wherever I am. Where’s your caravan?’
‘Near Camden, sir. Near the abattoir but not too near.’
‘Excellent. Well look lively, Su
ssworth. Be about your business and no more mistakes. Goodbye.’
The line went dead and Stovepipe switched off the tape machine. ‘How’s that?’ he asked. ‘Any good?’
Chalotte banged her hands together. ‘Stovepipe,’ she said, ‘you’re a marvel. That machine of yours has told us exactly what we wanted to know. Sam is in Camden Town and alive. Now we have a destination.’
‘It sounds dangerous to me,’ said Sherbet. ‘You heard what they said; it’s a trap.’
‘Yes,’ said Knocker, ‘but this time we know it’s a trap. That gives us a bit of an edge.’
Stovepipe began flicking through a notebook. ‘I write down their radio messages too,’ he said, ‘and I tell you, if you’re going north of the river then you’ll have your work cut out. Apart from watching every bridge the SBG seem to have what they’re calling “extra lookouts” everywhere.’
‘Perhaps,’ suggested Vulge, ‘that’s how they knew we were with the circus. Perhaps these lookouts saw us leaving Wandsworth Common.’
Knocker shook his head. ‘If we can’t use the bridges, getting across the river will be tricky.’ He topped up his tea from the pot and drained his cup. The conference was at an end. With many thanks to Stovepipe for his information and a parting warning that he should not get caught, the two Bumpers and the three Adventurers walked slowly back to Electric Avenue. There would be much to think about and much to discuss over the meal that evening.
‘The main problem is getting across the river,’ said Knocker, leaning back on a broken sofa and spooning some baked beans into his mouth. ‘A bridge is the worst place in the world to get caught, no way out but down to the water.’
‘We’ll be walking into a trap,’ said Chalotte, ‘when we should be living like these Bumpers live. They’ve got it right, living in the market, happy with what they’ve got. Look at us … out on the road, fighting for our very existence. It’s not Borrible and I know it’s not Borrible but at the same time we can’t let Sam down. It’s a mess.’
The Borribles: Across the Dark Metropolis Page 11