The Borribles: Across the Dark Metropolis

by Michael de Larrabeiti

  Beyond the DAC scores of police officers were searching the ground and every nook and cranny they could find. More constables arrived each second and from all directions, bringing reports written on scraps of paper which the DAC scrutinized before handing them on to a constable with a clipboard who stood near him. Knocker could see that a few charred bodies had been assembled near the mouth of the southbound tunnel. That would be the dwarfs.

  There was great excitement and talking among the policemen when Knocker and his four guards appeared. The DAC watched attentively as the group approached. When he thought they were close enough he raised his umbrella and pointed at the dishevelled and scruffy Borrible.

  ‘What is that thing there?’ he said, his upper crust voice squeezing his vowels flatter than pillowslips in a mangle.

  ‘This is a ringleader, sir,’ said one of Knocker’s guards. ‘Knocker’s his name. He’s been in it from the very beginning. That business at Southfields, sir. Dewdrop and his son, murder, sir. Escaped from protective custody at Clapham South. Another murder at King’s Cross. The list is endless. In capturing this one we have removed the hub from the spokes, sir, as it were. He also admits to throwing the switch that released the current that drove the train …’ The policeman lowered his voice in respect. ‘ … that did for Inspector Sussworth and Sergeant Hanks, sir.’

  The DAC raised an eyebrow. ‘Did that, did he?’ he drawled. ‘Well we owe him somethin’ and we must see he jolly well gets it, what? And his little friends, where are they?’

  Officer Blume glanced at the clipboard in his hand and joined the conversation. ‘According to Inspector Sussworth’s notes,’ he said, ‘based on highly secret reports emanating from certain elements of low life, as correlated on our Borrible computer, sir, according to that information we are pursuing ten Borribles, ringleaders from many tribes. This will be Knocker, from Battersea, sir.’

  The DAC took the clipboard from Blume’s hands and flicked through several sheets of paper for a while before returning it. ‘What’s the word “Ninch” mean?’ he asked. ‘Lots of reports from that.’

  Knocker felt the policeman next to him go tense; the fingers in his hair tightened.

  ‘Ah, Ninch, sir.’ Blume flicked through the report sheets again, making a great show of searching for something. ‘Ah, yessir. Here it is. Ninch was the code name for the computer, sir. It was called Ninch.’

  The DAC nodded and pushed the matter from his mind. All he had wanted was an answer. He redirected his attention to Knocker and gazed downwards.

  ‘And where are your accomplices, my good man? Serious offences, these you have committed. There’s no way out for you, no way at all, but I could search round for reasons for leniency if you are helpful. The ears will have to go of course, but there is such a thing as anaesthetic. We could let you plead manslaughter rather than murder and you’d be out in half the time, but you’d have to turn supergrass and tell us everythin’ you know. Could you do that?’

  Knocker shook his head. ‘The others got away,’ he said. ‘That’s all I’m saying, and you’ll never catch them.’

  A blow struck the Borrible and he staggered into the body of the constable who still held him by the hair. ‘Say “sir” when you answers the DAC,’ said a voice.

  ‘Knickers,’ said Knocker and took another blow.

  The DAC yawned and raised a hand. That’ll do,’ he said. ‘Not while I’m here if you chaps don’t mind. Now, Blume, what about his accomplices?’

  Blume looked at his clipboard again. ‘Eight bodies found,’ he said, ‘but all electrocuted and burnt unrecognizable.’

  ‘Really,’ said the DAC and this time he raised both eyebrows. ‘They seem to have electrocuted themselves as well as Sussworth. How tidy.’ He twirled his umbrella once or twice with satisfaction. ‘Eight bodies plus this one makes nine … One of ’em’s still on the loose then, eh?’

  One of Knocker’s guard stepped forward. ‘Excuse me, sir, but no sir. There’s one more body in the control cabin, a little further in. Definitely a Borrible that one. Pointed ears and quite dead. Napoleon Boot by name, a nasty piece of villainy from wandsworth. What I believe they calls a Wendle. That makes ten.’

  ‘They got away, right away,’ said Knocker. ‘Them bodies aren’t Borribles, you know they ain’t; they’re something else. I suppose Napoleon died fighting a computer, did he?’

  ‘What is occurin’ here?’ asked the DAC. He pointed again at Knocker with his umbrella.

  Blume glared threateningly at Knocker as if he would kill him on the spot. ‘It’s nothing, sir,’ he said. ‘I think this Borrible is a trifle demented, sir, after losing all his friends in such a horrible manner. He probably hasn’t eaten for days, either. Borribles can’t go without food for long, sir.’

  The DAC shot a double cuff of brilliant white sea-island cotton and looked at his watch. ‘Nor can I,’ he said, ‘or claret. Now, can we get a move on? I must say it would suit me to be able to make a nice clear report to the PM as soon as possible. Right, ten Borribles accounted for. Now, about the horse? Isn’t the horse important?’

  Blume cocked his head to one side. ‘Very important, sir, but that was cleared up ages ago,’ he explained. ‘We are confident that the horse was not brought here from the slaughterhouse. Most of the animals escaped up to Hampstead Heath, sir, though there were some reports of cows and horses as far off as Potter’s Bar. In any event they’ve all been rounded up long since and taken back to the abattoir. And that’s it. All been slaughtered sir, and the Borribles’ horse was certainly among them. They’ve lost their mascot for good and the Southfields murders are cleared up once and for all.’

  ‘Excellent,’ said the DAC. ‘Pity about the horse, but there you are. Every cat must have its catsmeat. It’s one of the paradoxes of responsibility: we sometimes have to be cruel to be kind. Noblesse obliged and all that, what?’

  ‘Yessir,’ said Blume, and he stood on tiptoe once or twice.

  The DAC studied Knocker again. ‘Well,’ he said at last, ‘so he seems to be the only survivor. In that case, Blume, see that he is taken off to SBG HQ and interrogated in the usual way, then clip his ears and see that he is put into care. When he’s old enough it’ll be prison.’

  ‘Yessir, right away, sir.’

  ‘And as far as the media are concerned I expect some pretty nifty footwork there, Blume. There’d be a panic if people knew how many Borribles there really are and what they get up to. The PM is most insistent that this business be kept under wraps, Blume. The story to give out, and make sure you understand this—and the men—is that a bunch of skinhead hooligans, or punks or whatever they call themselves nowadays, got down here and had a pitched battle with an equal number of glue-sniffers. Somethin’ like that. Do not breathe a single word of Borribles. Remember, my dear Blume, the best lies are so seemingly reasonable that it would be a gross error of judgement not to believe them. It upsets people to hear things they don’t understand. As fat as the hoi polloi are concerned Borribles belong in the realm of hobbits, boy-wizards and bunnies, and they must stay there. They must never be believed in.’

  Blume made a note on his clipboard. ‘I never believed in ’em, sir,’ he said. ‘My dad used to knock me about the head if I even mentioned Borribles.’

  The DAC touched a loose stone with his highly polished shoe. ‘Quite,’ he said. ‘Furthermore I shall be makin’ a long statement about Sussworth and Hanks. You know the kind of thing: how proud Sussworth would have been, his life’s ambition realized in his finest hour, so few for so many, dyin’ valiantly under the streets of London in a successful bid to keep order on those streets, backbone of the nation, an example to us all … all that, eh?’

  Officer Blume smiled blankly. He looked puzzled and the DAC moved closer to him and lowered his voice.

  ‘Don’t look so miffed, Blume. You ought to know that it is always safer to praise a dead fool than pay heed to a live one.’ The DAC chuckled loudly at his own wit, twirled his umbrella yet
again and winked at Knocker. ‘You Borribles aren’t the only chaps with proverbs, you know,’ he said, and chuckled again before going on.

  ‘You see, Blume, the more we praise Sussworth and Hanks the more we praise ourselves. So the inspector must have a George Medal and an obit in The Times, and Hanks will receive a special mention in dispatches and a military funeral on a gun carriage, no expense spared. All nice and tidy, just a secret little report between me and the PM. And of course, later on, it will become exquisitely obvious to the Cabinet that I chose the right men for the job for the simple reason that they were willing to die in the line of duty, and because I manifested such acumen I shall at last receive my knighthood. I was the right man in the right place sayin’ the right thing, Blume.’

  Blume sniffed and took notes. He looked peeved as well as puzzled now and the DAC noticed it. He laid his hand gently on the constable’s elbow.

  ‘My dear Blume,’ he said, ‘these dicta do not only apply to me but to men of your rank too. You also are in the right place at the right time. As you must know I need a new commander of the SBG and he has already been chosen; Superintendent Birdlime is on his way here at this very moment to take charge of the men. But I know he will need an assistant and I have no doubt that he will take my advice in this matter, especially when I tell him I think I have the very man for the job: a man of energetic discretion. Yes, Blume, you. No, don’t try to thank me. I know you will be first class in the position. We have been groomin’ you for stardom, you know. It’s the first step on the ladder.’

  Officer Blume blushed and grew by at least two inches. He looked proudly at the four policemen who still guarded Knocker. ‘Oh thank you, sir,’ he said. ‘Oh thank you.’

  ‘Yes,’ said the DAC, ‘of course. However, I have to point out that things are goin’ to change. Birdlime is a new broom and he must sweep clean. Sussworth was a wasteful man and he spent much too much money on these Borrible operations and you know what the PM is like about money. At any rate, now that we have disposed of the Borrible ringleaders we shall have to make economies; that’s your job Blume, and Birdlime’s. Understand that. There will be fewer men, fewer patrols, fewer vans. We need to pull our horns in a bit.’

  Blume was still beaming. ‘That’s no problem, sir. I promise you. We’ve seen the back of any real Borrible trouble, I’m sure of it.’

  The DAC nodded and looked content. ‘I knew I could count on you, Blume, I knew I could.’ His eyes fell on Knocker again. He raised his umbrella and pointed at the four guards. ‘Take the prisoner away, you chaps, and be careful with him. I need to show this one to the minister. Whitehall doesn’t mind catastrophe and disaster, Blume, as long as there are bodies and prisoners to see at the end of the day. It teaches the nation that calamities are really blessin’s in disguise because we get somethin’ out of them, even if that somethin is nothin’ more than a self-administered punch on the nose. There! So don’t let this urchin escape; he’s very important. Now, I’m off to inspect the rest of the corpses, so follow me.’ And with another jaunty twirl of his umbrella the DAC walked towards the control cabin, stepping gracefully over the railway lines as he went, Officer Blume at his elbow. On his face was an expression of complete satisfaction; he looked supremely happy.

  He might not have felt quite so satisfied with himself had he bothered to observe Knocker being escorted away by the four guards. The Borrible’s face also carried a smile of delight and his step had a joyful spring to it. Knocker’s heart no longer felt small and shrivelled; on the contrary it was growing larger and larger with happiness at every moment. His plan had worked better than he could have imagined in his wildest dreams. No Sussworth, no Hanks and a smaller SBG; above all an SBG that believed that the Adventurers and Sam were dead when in fact they were alive and safe. Knocker could hardly believe it. He was so happy. His soul soared and he held his head high, and though weary his demeanour did not show it. Indeed he marched forward eagerly, so eagerly that the four policemen with him had to hurry in order to keep pace. On he went, past the spot where Sussworth and Hanks lay under a tarpaulin, one charred boot protruding, and then further, along the tunnel towards Swiss Cottage, until at last he was led up on to the platform and into the beginning of his dreadful captivity—captivity from which only death could free him—and yet not once did his feet stumble, and not once did his determination falter. Knocker knew he had won and he knew too that his friends, the Borribles who loved him, would be free and alive for ever and ever.

  14

  At about nine in the evening of the third night after Knocker’s capture Orococco rolled over in the dark. ‘“Nothing,” according to the proverb,’ he said, ‘“is nowhere near as good as a feast.” ’ He was right. The surviving Borribles were now very weak with hunger and knew that they would have to make a move soon otherwise they would become too ill to continue their journey. And their move, when they made it, would have to be one that was both cautious and quiet. Consequently, to begin with, from the very bottom of the wall they had built, they silently extracted one brick and through the hole they listened for the sounds of men or trains. They heard nothing.

  After waiting patiently for a further hour or so, Orococco, who said he was the fastest and the blackest Borrible there, levered some more bricks from the wall and elected to slip out and see the lie of the land. In another hour he returned. It was night, he said, the trains had stopped running and all signs of the battle had been removed. It was time to go.

  Even though the Borribles were faint from lack of food and fresh air it did not take them long to demolish the rest of the wall they had built. Sydney led Sam through to the dust of the disused tunnel and her companions followed. Once outside they went straight to the tap and filled an old bucket with water, allowing the horse to drink copiously so that it could both quench its thirst and ward off the pangs of hunger. For the same reasons the Borribles drank deeply themselves, and as soon as they were ready they set out to rejoin the line that would lead them north-westwards: Finchley Road, West Hampstead, Kilburn, Willesden Green, Dollis Hill and, at the very end of the journey, Neasden.

  It was not a difficult march, no more than four or five miles to the final destination, and fortunately for the Adventurers, they had all night to get there. ‘Just as well,’ said Torreycanyon. ‘I’m so weak I couldn’t run if the whole of the SBG was right behind me.’

  Along the empty railway lines and through the deserted stations the eight friends stumbled, creeping forward painfully, every step an effort of will with no energy left for speech. Orococco scouted ahead and Twilight brought up the rear, but they encountered no dangers and fell into no traps. Thanks to Knocker the SBG was certain that the Adventurers and their horse had perished. As far as the police were concerned the Borrible menace was over.

  So it was that the fugitives met no enemies and somewhere, before dawn, the narrow tunnel rose to the surface of the city and the Borribles found themselves at last in the open. Instead of the deep close gloom and used-up air of underground there was now the high cathedral darkness of the London night and the soft touch of fresh dampness on the face. Occasionally there was the odd break in the cloud and the silver edge of the moon would gleam bright like a blade for a second, disappear, and then gleam again. Sam pricked up his ears with pleasure, lightened his step and gave a neigh of contentment. He also seemed to know that the end of the long, long journey was close at hand.

  ‘Yes, Sam,’ said Sydney when they’d marched a little further. ‘Only a little way to go.’ And she took the head of the column with Sam beside her, needing neither light nor map to find her road because this was her manor and it was only right that she should go in front.

  And on she led until the Adventurers stalked through Neasden station itself, and all the streets and alleys of London lay quiet on every side and a great feeling of achievement came over the Borribles, just for being in that place after everything they’d been through, although nothing was special in the look of it.

 
; ‘It’s just Neasden,’ said Sydney, stopping for a moment in the middle of the track. ‘It’s just like anywhere else, but I love it and I’ve just the spot for Sam … and there’ll be some grub there too. Only another half mile.’

  Sydney sounded cheerful now and her voice urged her companions to one last effort. It was still dark between the rooftops and the clouds, but high up on the eastern fringes of the sky the stars had faded, and there was a touch of pearl-grey light, growing stronger.

  Sydney kept going and took the Adventurers as far as the London Transport railway works which lie north of the main line, but her destination was not in that direction and instead she headed south, into a part of the city that is white and unmarked on the map, an area unknown and unexplored by normal citizens.

  The Borribles did not hesitate to follow. They trusted the Neasden girl and they were well aware that she knew what she was doing. With a sure step she led the horse down a sloping path, through some scrubby grass, and up to an old platelayers’ shed built from solid wooden boards. There, out of sight of the track, the runaways lowered themselves to the ground and, side by side, rested their backs against the rough planks of the abandoned hut. ‘Wait here,’ said Sydney. ‘Rest but don’t sleep.’

  Slowly the day came. A train, the first of that early morning, rushed past as if in a panic to rediscover the long musty tunnels below the earth. The Borribles, only half awake, watched as the weak light grew stronger and stole inch by inch over this sequestered part of their planet. It was such a strange place to have found: so wide, so empty, amputated from the rest of the world, unseen and unimagined.

  It was an area that looked like it had been built in fits and starts and then forgotten. A few buildings stood forlorn and half finished, windowless and abandoned, caves for the wind to whistle in, bounded in the east by a sweep of the North Circular Road and to the south and west by the River Brent and Tokyngton Recreation Ground. To the right it was bisected by the Marylebone Railway, and to the left it was divided by a stretch of dull water, a feeder arm supplying the Grand Union Canal; because that canal had journeyed all these miles too, leaving the River Thames at Limehouse Basin and circling north to join it again at Brentford. This is where Sydney had wanted to come, and this is where Sam would be safe; it was perfect, she’d said.