The Borribles: Across the Dark Metropolis

by Michael de Larrabeiti

  The Adventurers had not felt so happy since leaving Brixton. They had an abundance of food and drink, certainly, but there was something more important than that; here were fifty or sixty friends come to help in that day’s attempt at a rescue. It was a celebration of being Borrible.

  ‘Only thing is,’ said Napoleon, always wary, ‘we’d better not bolt the stable door before we’ve got away with the horse. Have we got a plan?’

  The Adventurers looked at each other, nonplussed. Swish and Treld listened to the silence for a while, smiled, and then Swish spoke: ‘The way I see it is this,’ she said. ‘The best thing us Conkers can do is to create as much noise and mayhem around the slaughterhouse as possible—give the Woollies something to keep them occupied.’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Treld. ‘And while they are chasing us you others must concentrate on getting the horse out and away.’ Treld had dyed her hair a different colour that night. It was now a brilliant orange and in the glow of the torches it looked like a blazing flame. Round her eyes she had drawn circles in green paint.

  Napoleon shook his head. ‘Don’t you realize,’ he objected, ‘that apart from the coppers guarding the place Sussworth’s got carloads of reinforcements just around the corner?’

  Swish drank from a can of beer, emptied it and threw it over her shoulder. ‘That’s where we come in,’ she said. ‘See, the slaughterhouse backs on to the canal—we made a mark to show you where it is—but at the front there’s only a narrow yard. You lot come over the wall from the canal, find your horse, go through the slaughterhouse, down the alley and into the main road. We ought to be able to give you a start, ten minutes maybe, time enough for you to get as far as Camden Town and into Chalk Farm. There’s some good Borribles up there, in a scrap-yard. They know you’re coming ’cos we sent a runner. They will hide you for a couple of days and meanwhile we’ll make sure the Woollies chase us.’

  ‘It won’t be that easy,’ complained Sydney. ‘We’ll be spotted before we get anywhere near Sam.’

  ‘No we won’t,’ cried Knocker, and he slapped his knee. ‘I forgot to tell you … We know the password that will make the coppers think we’re dwarfs.’

  ‘Whoopee!’ yelled Vulge. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Blancmange,’ said Knocker. ‘Blancmange, that’s what is is.’

  ‘It’ll be blancmange for them Woollies all right,’ shouted Orococco, and he raised his can of beer and drank from it.

  Then all the Borribles shouted and leapt to their feet and held their drinks high, their faces shining with joy.

  ‘Sam the horse!’ they cried. ‘Sam the horse for ever!’ And the cry resounded round the bare brick walls of the abandoned warehouse and made them happy. Nothing could stop them now.

  As soon as it was well and truly dark the Borribles set about making their final preparations for the assault on the slaughterhouse. At the very last, when everything else had been done, all the catapults and ammunition were checked and all the torches were extinguished. But just as Treld was on the point of leading the Adventurers outside, one of the Conker lookouts, Mudguard by name, slipped quietly into the warehouse and, in a whisper, commanded everyone to throw themselves to the floor and lie as still as they could. No one was to speak or even cough.

  So great was the girl’s urgency that luckily no one thought for a second of disobeying her. The Adventurers and the Conkers waited, lying face down, without moving, on the dirty planks. Five minutes went by, ten minutes, then came the tramp of marching feet just below on the towpath, and louder than the sound of the marching rang the voice of Ninch the dwarf, bellowing orders.

  ‘Come on,’ he roared. ‘Left, right; left, right. Come on. They may be still there. We’ve got to find out where they are and get after them. Think of the reward. Come on. Left, right.’

  Gradually the noise faded in the distance but the Borribles did not move or speak until, with another whispered command to remain where they were, Mudguard disappeared through a window. In two or three minutes she returned and spoke to Swish.

  ‘I was up the canal a bit,’ she explained. ‘Lucky I was listening and going careful, and lucky they were making such a din. They was about our size but I thought they couldn’t be Borribles, making that noise, they ain’t are they?’

  ‘No,’ said Swish.

  ‘Dwarfs,’ said Napoleon. ‘Nasty little spies and traitors.’ In the dark he stretched himself to his full height.

  ‘There must have been about twenty or thirty of them.’ Mudguard went on. ‘That one who was with you at our place, who ran away, he was leading them. I recognized his voice.’

  ‘So did I,’ said Napoleon. ‘Which way were they going, back?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Mudguard, ‘towards the Caledonian Road.’

  Knocker looked at Chalotte. ‘I hate to think what Ninch’ll do to Scooter when he finds him.’

  ‘Ah, but they won’t find him,’ said Swish. ‘The guards will have taken him somewhere else by now.’

  Napoleon hitched his rucksack higher on his shoulders to make it sit more comfortably. ‘I don’t mind what they get up to,’ he said. ‘If it keeps the dwarfs out of our way for twenty-four hours they can put the little bleeder through a mincer for all I care … and so much the better.’

  As Knocker had said, the slaughterhouse was at no great distance from the hideout, and, after following the towpath for half an hour or so, the Adventurers saw the Conker chalk mark glowing on a crumbling brick wall to their right. This wall had once been high and sturdy, surmounted with shards of broken glass, and had separated the backyard of the slaughterhouse from the canal bank. Over the years it had been worn away by weather and children until now it was little more than knee-high to an adult. Access, over a scrap of wasteland to the sheds and then the streets beyond, was easy. The Adventurers halted and crouched behind the remains of this broken barrier and examined their surroundings. At last they had come to the slaughterhouse; at last they could see it, and smell it too.

  Although the winter dark had long since settled over London it was only early evening and the men in the abattoir were still at work. Electric light was blazing out from a huge pair of double doors, flung open in the middle of a long, low-lying, windowless building on the far side of a cobbled yard. A man, just a silhouette against the light, was hosing blood from the cobbles with water that looked thicker than glue and darker than black. Down it went into a gaping drain. He was whistling as he worked, a tuneless melody, and the sound was carried across to the Borribles on damp, death-laden air.

  Somewhere a horse whinnied and the whinny became a scream and that scream was ended as a metal bolt was fired through the living bone of a skull and smashed its way into the warm and tender brain. A body fell, legs thrashed. The man in the yard kept hosing and whistling as more steaming blood poured through the double doors and he washed it away. His big leather apron gleamed, moist and shiny his wellington boots squelched. The Borribles stared over the wall, swallowed hard and gritted their teeth. Sydney swore.

  ‘I’ll get them for this,’ she said. ‘Brother, will I get them for this.’

  The Borribles continued their scrutiny of the yard. On the left-hand side of it were three juggernaut lorries parked close together in a line. From the first came the bleating of fear-crazed sheep; from the second came the grunting of pigs, scared witless by the smell of blood; and from the third rolled the deep lowing of cows who knew their lives were ended. And out of the rear of each lorry, urine, acrid and foul, dripped steadily to the ground. Near the drivers’ cabs—standing, watching, waiting—were two policemen. Three more stood on the right, at the entrance of the lane that led to Baynes Street and the front of the building. Beyond the juggernauts, lining the far side of the yard, was a series of stable doors, about fifteen of them, all bolted on the outside.

  Sydney, using the broken wall as cover, crept along until she was close to Knocker and Chalotte. She pointed. ‘Those stables,’ she whispered. ‘I bet that’s where they’ve got Sam.’
/>
  Knocker nodded and glanced at his watch. ‘We’d better make a start,’ he said. ‘Chalotte and Nap and me will go and talk to the coppers. Stonks, Torrey, Vulge and Coco can stay behind this wall in reserve. The rest of you creep round behind the lorries and find out if Sam’s in them sheds. If you find him just keep quiet until the Conkers start their bit round the front, then we’ll go out through the slaughterhouse. Stick together and don’t get caught.’

  With one last nervous smile for his friends Knocker stood and stepped over the low wall. Napoleon and Chalotte went with him, their hearts knocking like pneumatic drills. As the Borribles came into the light the police officers heard them and turned with a start.

  “Allo, what’s this?’ said policeman number one, recovering from his surprise and folding his arms with an air of ineffable smugness.

  ‘Yes indeed,’ said policeman number two. ‘And where have you lot sprung from?’ He folded his arms likewise and affected a demeanour of insufferable superiority with a touch of no-nonsense-me-lad thrown in for good measure. Both men gazed down from a great height.

  ‘Midgets,’ said Napoleon.

  ‘Dwarfs,’ said Knocker.

  ‘Blancmange,’ added Chalotte.

  Both policemen nodded sagely. ‘Blancmange,’ they repeated.

  ‘We were recruited yesterday,’ explained Knocker, ‘by Inspector Sussworth, in his caravan in Rochester Gardens.’

  ‘All very well,’ said policeman number one. He now began to rock backwards and forwards on his heels like a copper in pantomime, ‘but everything’s under control. We don’t need no dwarfs.’

  There was a shout from inside the abattoir, a burst of swearing and laughter, the bleating of sheep and then the sound of small hooves dancing nervously on concrete. More blood surged from the double doors and the man kept whistling and hosing.

  Knocker wiped the cold sweat from his forehead with the heel of his hand. He hoped he wasn’t going to be sick. The smell was awful and the winter night suddenly seemed hot and sticky. He looked up at the policemen and loaded his voice with sincerity.

  ‘We were ordered to check the canal,’ he said. ‘We were given instructions to start up at Camden Town and work our way to King’s Cross. The inspector thought the Borribles might try to come along the towpath and surprise you.’

  ‘Surprise us?’ said number one. He stopped rocking his body, astounded at the effrontery of the remark. ‘Take more than a few Borribles to surprise the SBG, chummy. I’ve got three men over there, and about another twenty round the front, and if that weren’t enough we’ve got another forty in reserve.’

  Policeman number two unfolded his arms and put his hands on his hips. ‘If those Borribles try to get that horse,’ he sneered, ‘it’ll be them as goes for catsmeat. After all there’s only ten of ’em. If they dares to show their faces round here I’ll have each and every one hanging up by their chins on meat hooks, all in a row.’

  ‘Too right,’ said Chalotte, swallowing hard.

  At that moment more noise issued from the slaughterhouse. The sheep were again bleating for their lives. The smell of death was in their nostrils and their instinct told them that soon they would not be smelling anything at all but would be part of the smell themselves. Knocker checked his watch once more. The ten minutes were nearly up. The Conkers would be attacking any time now.

  ‘Oh well,’ he said, ‘we’ll be on our way then. If we see anything between here and King’s Cross we’ll let you know.’

  ‘You do that, titch,’ said number one, drawing his breath over his teeth, ‘but you won’t see nothing. For my money them Borribles are miles away by now, hiding in another town.’

  As Knocker and his two companions went to leave, there came the smash of breaking glass, faintly as in the distance. Then there were shouts, and the radio on policeman number one’s lapel began to buzz and speak. ‘Stand by, stand by,’ said a voice. ‘Got some punk dwarfs going berserk round here! Watch out your side. We’re calling in the reinforcements. Nothing to worry about.’

  Just then, with a perfect sense of timing, Torreycanyon and Stonks jumped up on to the canal wall and fired their catapults at the policemen Knocker had been talking to, aiming to miss.

  Napoleon crouched, pointing, half turning. ‘Look,’ he cried. ‘Look at that. Borribles. After them.’

  The two policemen, angry at being attacked in this way, ran towards the canal wall and at the same time ordered their three colleagues to stay on guard at the corner of the lane. Firing another stone each Torreycanyon and Stonks leapt out of sight and fled eastwards in the direction of King’s Cross, disappearing out of the light and into the darkness. With no hesitation the two men of the SBG jumped the wall and set off in pursuit, close on the heels of the fugitives and calling loudly for them to give themselves up and face arrest.

  The officers did not get far. A length of old wire, invisible across the towpath and held tightly in position by Vulge and Orococco, tripped both men. Policeman number one, who was in the lead and running very well, felt his feet pulled from under him while the rest of his body continued forward at an alarming speed. Unable to recover his balance, he found himself curving in a graceful arc over the edge of the canal bank and, shouting with surprise, he splashed into the filthy waters of the Grand Union, his shout changing in a split second from noise to silence as his mouth submerged and took in about two pints of untreated sewage.

  Policeman number two, following close behind, made a strenuous effort to avoid his colleague’s fate and nearly succeeded. He saw his friend hit the wire and tried to leap high and swerve all at once, but on that narrow towpath there was nowhere for him to swerve to. On his left was a factory wall, on his right the canal.

  He kicked his feet against the ground in an attempt to soar upwards, but his body, twisting in mid-flight, struck the wall, bounced off it and then teetered for an age at the very brink of the path, arms outspread, on tiptoe like a dancer. As he swayed there Vulge appeared from his hiding place and, using only one hand, he pushed the rigid policeman into the canal at just the moment when number one was surfacing and vomiting large quantities of water into the air like a fountain. Vulge yelled in triumph and Orococco appeared beside him, a large grin spreading over his face.

  The two policemen now struck out with their arms and legs, heading for the canal bank they had just left. Seeing this, Vulge drew his catapult, Orococco too. Vulge fired a stone into the water near number one’s face.

  ‘Go for the other side,’ Vulge yelled, ‘or we’ll aim to hit you, and if we do you won’t get out of there alive.’

  Vulge and Orococco were now joined by Stonks and Torreycanyon, returned from their feigned flight, and all four watched as the policemen swam away to clamber out on the opposite towpath; there they shook their fists and swore at their enemies. But that bravery could not last long. The near-freezing water of the canal had all but stolen the life from the two officers, and shivering violently they left the scene in search of a warm refuge and dry clothing.

  As soon as they had disappeared Stonks rallied his companions and led them off in the direction of the slaughterhouse. ‘Because it’s there,’ he said, ‘that this battle will be decided.’

  At the slaughterhouse everything had changed and everything was chaos. In the right-hand corner of the yard, at the place where the narrow road came from the front, stood the massed ranks of the Conkers, their brilliant mops of hair swaying this way and that as they fought off the dozen or so policemen who were trying to get at them. They were yelling and shouting and firing their catapults as fast as they could. ‘A Conker, a Conker,’ came their battle cry and they surged backwards and forwards, at least forty of them, always together, always shouting.

  Stonks cast his eye across the battleground as he and his three companions climbed over the wall to enter it. The policemen who had been guarding the corner which the Conkers were now defending, had taken up a new position just inside the great double doors of the abattoir. They were pinne
d down, helpless for the moment, victims of a sustained and accurate fire from the catapults of Knocker, Napoleon and Chalotte. Stonks called to Vulge, Orococco and Torreycanyon and they crossed the yard at a run to add their firepower to the barrage.

  Without turning his head Knocker said, ‘Where’s them two coppers?’

  ‘Very wet,’ replied Stonks. ‘What’s next?’

  Knocker tilted his head. Behind the three lorries the stable doors stood wide open, unbolted by Sydney, Bingo and Twilight. Now nineteen or twenty horses wheeled and stamped in freedom, their hooves clashing against the cobbles. They neighed loudly, made frantic by the smell of blood.

  One of those horses was indeed Sam, and while Sydney calmed him Bingo and Twilight kept their catapults trained on the lorry drivers who had been fast asleep in their cabs and who now peered, pasty-faced and amazed, through their windscreens at the incomprehensible struggle raging around them; a struggle which they had no wish to joins.

  ‘Open up the backs of them lorries, Stonks,’ said Knocker. ‘The catches were too stiff for us, but you’re strong. Set them animals free.’

  Stonks nodded and called Torreycanyon, his friend, to go with him. ‘I’ll need to stand on your shoulders, Torrey,’ he explained, ‘to reach the handles.’

  Knocker watched them run to the rear of the first lorry. He got to his feet. ‘Watch them coppers,’ he cried to Chalotte. ‘I’m going to see Swish. It’s time we got out of here.’