Knocker scraped the bottom of his bean can and took a deep breath. ‘I reckon I learnt a thing or two down Flinthead’s mine, I suppose we all did. When we got out alive I thought how stupid that digging for treasure had been, and yet I came out a better Borrible, I think, and somehow it’s all tied up with Sam, getting him away from pulling Dewdrop’s cart. He had no life before that, did he? Work, work, work for Dewdrop and then slaving away for the park keepers. Sam has to be kept free, away from Sussworth, away from work.’
Ninch, who was lying on the floor, rolled over on to his stomach. ‘Lot of fuss about an old horse,’ he said. ‘We had better ones in the circus. I didn’t notice anything special about him.’
Sydney banged her mug on the floor. ‘Not special,’ she cried, the anger mounting in her voice. ‘He saved all our lives, that’s all, but it’s not just that. Like Knocker says, you can’t describe what it is exactly. We just like him. He is Borrible and he’s beautiful too … Oh, I don’t know how to put it. He’s one of us and you have to help him out because he can’t help himself.’
Knocker agreed. ‘Sid’s right,’ he said. ‘Sam has to go to Neasden; it’s more than just getting him there now, it’s the beating of Sussworth. Somehow we’ve got to show that Borrible is Borrible and won’t be bullied. For me, being a good Borrible is mixed up with that horse, but now Sussworth has got him prisoner and if he has his way he’ll kill Sam and enjoy doing it … I’m going to stop him if I can.’
‘Are you after a third name?’ asked Arfinch, closing one eye. ‘Is that what you’re after?’
Knocker smiled bitterly. ‘Once maybe, not any more. I’m not looking for great adventures; we’re just trying to take care of our own, in this case, Sam. I’d want to do that even if he hadn’t done us a good turn in Rumbledom. It’s Sussworth who won’t let us be Borrible, trying to cut our ears off, demolishing our houses. I hate Sussworth for trying to change us into something we don’t want to be. He’d love to have our noses to the grindstone.’
There was a longish silence after this speech. Chalotte studied the carpet in front of her and remembered what Knocker had been like just before the Great Rumble Hunt. He had certainly changed a lot. All he had wanted then was to win more names than any other Borrible. Now his thoughts were a great deal less self-centred. There were obviously more degrees of being Borrible than she had thought possible and Knocker was gradually, but steadily, moving up them.
The silence was broken, strangely enough, by Scooter, who had listened intently to every word that Knocker had spoken. He suddenly leapt to his feet, yelled and threw his empty bean can up to the ceiling. It bounced and fell to the floor with a clatter.
‘Horray for Knocker,’ he shouted, ‘and Sam and Borribles everywhere.’ Then he stopped and became self-conscious and sheepish, staring at his feet.
The Adventurers and the Bumpers laughed to see Scooter’s red face. It was rare to see a Borrible blush and always caused great mirth among their companions when they did. Only Ninch was not amused.
‘Bloody daft, I call it,’ he said. ‘All that fuss about a horse.’
This time Knocker ignored him. He sat back on the sofa and made himself comfortable. ‘All I want to know is,’ he said, ‘is there anyone who doesn’t want to come with me? Because I don’t know how I’m going … but I’m going.’
Vulge tilted his head sideways. ‘We’ve talked about it enough,’ he said. ‘Sussworth can’t win this one whatever happens.’
Knocker looked at Chalotte and she felt him look at her. ‘Who could refuse Knocker?’ she said. ‘Not that I would anyway because I believe he’s right.’
‘Okay, okay,’ said Bisto suddenly, and he crossed the room so that he could face everyone. ‘I’ve got things to say now, it’s an idea. I’ve been sitting here listening to you talking an’ you’ve got to get across the river, right? Without being seen, right? Well, the answer is staring you in the face. You done it before on the way to Rumbledom. You sails down the river and land between bridges, where it’s safe, in the middle of the night.’
‘Oh yeah,’ said Bingo, ‘and where do we get a boat? We’re a long way from Battersea Park lake.’
‘I thought about all that,’ said Bisto. There was a huge smile on his face now, like he was proud to have thought of the idea and delighted to give it away. “First, you don’t need a boat, you have a raft instead; or better still, two rafts because a raft big enough for you all would be too heavy to carry.’
‘To carry?’ said Bingo.
‘Carry,’ said Bisto looking pleased with himself. ‘Making the raft is no problem. Every night the market streets are covered with old pail-lets, bits of timber, wire, nails, everything we need to make a good solid craft. The real problem is getting it from here to the river; it’s two or three miles.’
‘That’s too far,’ said Knocker. ‘By the time we’d carried the rafts we’d be too knackered to paddle, especially if the tide was against us.’
Bisto slapped his hands. ‘That’s just it, man. Me an’ the girls and boys, we had a talk. You don’t carry them, we do; you just jog along and carry your own stuff. It’d be our contribution to the war effort.’
‘You?’ said Chalotte and she shook her head at Arfinch.
The West Indian girl’s expression became stern. ‘And why not?’ she queried. ‘It’s not only you who can have adventures. There’s eight of us, two rafts, four to carry a raft … and just in case we’ll bring another team of eight to take over when we’re tired. They can be lookouts too. We can all run like rockets in Brixton.’
‘Run?’ said Knocker.
‘Yeah,’ answered Bisto, ‘we’ll have to move fast. We daren’t set out until after midnight. We’ve got to cut across to Clapham Road, then down to Wandsworth Road. Over the back of New Covent Garden and across to the river at Nine Elms. You’ll need darkness to get over the Thames and we’ll need darkness to get back home. We’ll have to run. Well, what do you think?’
The Adventurers laughed with pleasure.
‘Bisto,’ said Chalotte, ‘not only is it the best plan we’ve got, it’s the only plan we’ve got.’
‘Okay,’ said Sherbet, ‘but when?’
Knocker raised an eyebrow. ‘Tomorrow night,’ he said.
‘Tomorrow,’ said Arfinch. ‘That’s soon.
‘We’ve been here three days,’ said Napoleon, ‘and tomorrow will make four.’
‘And every day is more dangerous for Sam,’ said Sydney.
‘Tomorrow night it is, then,’ said Bisto. ‘We’ll get the stuff tonight and begin making the rafts in the morning.’
It became known as the Great Raft Run from Brixton to Nine Elms, one of the most famous chapters in Borrible history. Some of the no-name Bumpers won their names that night; names like Rafto, Pallet and Sweetfeet. It was a real old-fashioned Borrible adventure.
Two large pallets had been taken to construct each raft, one pallet nailed and wired crossways on the top of another. To make them buoyant the insides were stuffed with white polystyrene boarding taken from old packing cases. Everyone was convinced they would float but in Brixton there was no way of testing them.
‘It’ll be fine,’ said Bisto. ‘It’s just a question of sink or swim.’
The raft run began at one o’clock the next morning. There stood the Adventurers dressed in new warm clothes and raincoats. They had new rucksacks on their back and packed inside them were all the provisions and equipment they needed. The Bumpers had done them proud.
The Bumpers themselves were only lightly dressed, wearing dark clothes and black running shoes. ‘Remember,’ said Bisto as he gave his final instructions to the Adventurers. ‘Half of your lot will spread out in front, running, then comes number one raft, then number two raft, then the rest of your lot. The standby raft team, when not carrying, will run on the wings, keeping watch. If things go wrong, dump the rafts, separate, get into the side streets and make your way back to Brixton. You’ll be safe here and we can always try again.�
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And so the Great Raft Run set off, slowly at first, with the Borribles crossing the silence of Brixton Road in small groups, gliding like phantoms into the dark patches of the night. But once they had passed under the railway bridge and into the top of Ferndale Road they began to run like they’d never run before. Not once did they halt and luck was with them that night. They ran undiscovered, their hearts beating with a strange excitement and a confidence boon of the friendship they felt the one for the other; tribe for tribe, black for white, friend for friend. They were exultant—rulers, if only for an hour or two, of the huge sprawling beast of a city they lived in.
From Ferndale to Kimberley they went and on into Clitheroe. They slowed momentarily to cross Clapham Road, but raced on into Union and turned right at Larkhall Lane, cutting down Priory and Lansdowne until they crossed the Wandsworth Road and went into the gloom of Cowthorpe and the crescent of Crimsworth, and there they halted in an alley made from a dull brick and bounded on the northern side by a high wall where names and oaths were written in aerosol paint and chalk of many colours. Bisto leant against the wall, panting hard. ‘This is it,’ he said. ‘This is the back way into Covent Garden Market; once across it we’ll be on Nine Elms Lane, right by the river.’
The pallets had been fashioned so that they could also act as ladders. They were upended, leant against the wall, and one was placed on the side of the other. The slats of the rafts now became rungs and, taking it in turn, the Borribles climbed to the very top of the sheer brick cliff. Once there they sat astride and gripped the coping stones with their legs and pulled the two precious craft up to them with ropes specially brought for the purpose, lowering them down on the market side in the same manner. At the end of the operation the Borribles disappeared from the wall, dropping silently on all fours to the soft grass verge that lay below.
They were now in New Covent Garden, an enormous space full of bustle and business, particularly during the hours of darkness, for it is to Covent Garden that come the great pantechnicons from all over Europe, loaded to overflowing with fruit and vegetables. Here the lamps burn all night so that the great lorries may drive to the warehouse gates, selling and buying, loading and unloading.
For the Borribles it was a place full of danger but they crouched low and their luck stayed with them. It was so busy and crowded that a few kids, carrying what looked like two old pallets for firewood, were barely noticed, and when noticed at all, were completely ignored. The Borribles were glad; they kept to the edge of the adult activity and skirted the blazing lights. In less than a quarter of an hour they had crossed Covent Garden and emerged, undiscovered, on Nine Elms Lane. On the far side of this thoroughfare they saw an open gateway; passing through it they found themselves in a riverside yard which possessed its own wharf and, what is more, its own iron ladder set into the embankment and leading down to the surface of the water.
The River Thames in this part of London is infinite and evil. In the gloom of the early hours it looks like a black spirit sliding to hell, bearing on its back hapless lumps of rubbish like the souls of the lost and the damned. It moves with a steady surge of muscular power. Nothing can resist it, nothing can fight against it. The Thames is a stream that wants blood; it yearns to suck you down.
That night of the Great Raft Run was no exception. The rain held off but the air was cold and murderous like the blade of an axe, and though there was a moon stealing along behind low wet clouds, only occasionally did the glint of silver touch the water. All was dark, as dark as death. No sky, no skyline, no earth beneath the feet. It was the brink of the world.
But the Adventurers did not falter in their resolve and the confidence they had felt during the long run from Brixton bore them up. So too did the friendship of the Bumpers and, all working together, the Borribles lowered the rafts into the water and the strong smell of the Thames rose into their nostrils, robbing them of their breath. An old smell it was, brewed up from a mixture of toadstool, sewage, sump oil and factory waste.
And now the Adventurers clambered down the metal ladder for there was not a moment to be lost. The river was choppy and snapped at the rafts, but they were buoyant and rode high even when fully laden with their crews, though the tide tugged and heaved as if all the power of the turning world was there under the surface of the Thames, wishing. the voyagers ill. It was time to go.
The Adventurers looked up at the wharf, and the excitement that had sustained them that night died like the flame of a little candle; its place was taken by a melancholy as dark and as pernicious as the Thames itself, and because of it the Adventurers could not bring themselves to paddle, only drifting away from the embankment, lacking the courage to say goodbye. And for the same reason the Bumpers themselves said nothing and did not move.
At last Napoleon Boot broke the silence. ‘Come on,’ he said, and dropped the blade of his paddle into the darkness of the water. ‘I’m not scared of the river, and if we don’t get a move on the police patrols will find us out here in daylight.’
So the Adventurers left the bank, watching their friends until they were but one black with the black of the night and the Bumpers called goodbye from nowhere.
‘You take it easy,’ said Bisto in a whispered shout. ‘You make sure you come back to see us when it’s over … and make sure you damn’ well don’t get bloody well caught. You understand?’ And with a sob in his voice that he tried in vain to disguise, Bisto turned away and began the long run back to Brixton, tears blurring his sight, and his friends ran behind him and they exchanged not a single word during the whole long journey.
6
Inspector Sussworth’s mobile headquarters was parked in a narrow crescent somewhere between St Pancras Way and the Camden Road. It was a quiet street, ill frequented and little known. In the centre of the crescent was a scrubby and dusty garden where a few pale sprouts of withered grass struggled for life in a rancid and ungenerous soil. The garden was bordered by an iron fence which lurched in all directions at once, like a drunkard. Skirting the perimeter of this cul-de-sac was a line of tall thin houses, squashed one against the other in a tight jumble. Some of the houses had been abandoned, some were inhabited by pensioners whose relatives no longer knew where they lived; their windows were lightless and their doors never opened to visitors.
Sussworth’s caravan stood out clearly in the murk of its surroundings. It was painted in white gloss and the four police officers who drove the Range Rover, which pulled the caravan from place to place and guarded the inspector from harm, were under strict orders to wash the caravan once a day, sometimes twice if Sussworth thought it was dirty. In consequence it gleamed all over and the chrome trim on the wheels shone like four moons on a night of frost.
The caravan was a long one, very large and very stable with a balcony at each end so that Sussworth could easily speak to his men. Inside it was spotless. The carpet looked like it had never been trodden on, the walls never leant against and the windows never soiled by anything so vulgar as a glance travelling through them.
At one end of the caravan stood Sussworth’s desk and behind that a section had been walled off to provide the inspector with a bathroom and lavatory—for his use only. As at the SBG headquarters in Micklethewaite Road the caravan’s facilities were not to be sullied by any presence but the inspector’s. No other bum was allowed to lower its weight on to the plush-covered seat of the lavatory pan; no other body was permitted to wallow in the deep pink bath. This was Sussworth’s sanctum.
In the middle of the caravan was a comfortable sofa that unfolded to become a double bed, suitable for the inspector’s neat and fragile frame. Nearby, on a small table, was a computer terminal that could be plugged in to central criminal records. Beyond that, at the opposite end to Sussworth’s lavatory, was the kitchen area and a narrow bunk into which Sergeant Hanks was obliged to squeeze his lumpish body when he needed rest.
In the kitchen there was a stove, a sink and a table where the sergeant could brew his tea and con
coct his favourite oily meals: breakfasts of fried bread, bacon, eggs and black pudding. Sergeant Hanks loved eating and the evidence was all too obvious; stains of yellow egg and white lard paraded across the broad bosom of his tunic like the badges of a hundred regiments. Next to eating he loved cooking, and police work had to fit neatly in between those two activities. At the very moment the Adventurers were launching their craft on the dangerous waters of the Thames, Sergeant Hanks was prodding a slice of bacon in his frying pan and waiting for the kettle to boil. Inspector Sussworth sat at his desk, his fingers tapping, his feet clicking, pondering his predicament, impatient for his tea.
‘The trouble is,’ said Sussworth, ‘that since those villains broke out of custody at Clapham South, aided and abetted by those travellers and gypsies, we have lost contact and all knowledge of their whereabouts.’
The kettle boiled and Hanks poured the water into a large brown teapot.
‘You see,’ went on Sussworth, ‘the information received seems to indicate Brixton as their probable and likely destination, but we cannot verify these reports.’
‘Tricky,’ said Hanks, and poured a mugful of tea for his superior officer, black and strong, no milk, no sugar. ‘Brixton’s tricky. I mean we don’t want to stir ’em up in Brixton, that might be more trouble than it’s worth.’ Hanks hooked something juicy out of his nose, looked at it from every angle and then stuck it on the underside of the table where it joined the rest of his collection, now nicely crisp.
‘Yes,’ said Sussworth. ‘We can’t take chances in Brixton.’
Hanks burped. ‘What about the dwarfs? Have they brought in any news?’
Sussworth got to his feet, strutted to the kitchen, seized his mug of tea and sidestepped like a dancer back to his desk where he sat down. He took a deep sip. ‘Ah, tea, Hanks, perfect. Yes, the dwarfs. Now there’s an idea of mine that worked well.’ Sussworth’s moustache twitched in glee and trembled like a leaf on the end of a branch. ‘But you see, at Clapham South, those circus dwarfs who had done so superbly, they didn’t want to do any more, they desisted.’
The Borribles: Across the Dark Metropolis Page 12