Once the Wandle had been a pleasant stream, but years of industrialization had turned it into a treacherous ooze of green and muddy slime, a mixture of poison waste, decomposed rubbish and undigested lumps of plastic which rolled slowly along the river’s surface as it slid like a thick jelly down to the Thames. The Wandle mud would entrap any stranger who was foolhardy enough to wade across it without guidance; no one but the Wendles knew its secret paths, and only rarely could they be prevailed upon to guide travellers through their territory.
Every Wendle carried the smell of the Wandsworth marshes with him, and that smell was the smell of treachery and decay. Knocker had seen but few Wendles; none of them had been this close and he didn’t like what he saw: the green glow to the flesh, the dark eyes of an indeterminate colour, and the cold proud bearing of the born scrapper. There seemed to be no spontaneous warmth in the Wendle and warmth was normally the first thing that was noticed in a Borrible.
‘Take your name, anyway,’ said Knocker flatly, and he held out his hat.
The Wendle narrowed his eyes and screwed up his mouth to prove that he didn’t care a damn about Knocker, or anyone else, and he pulled out his name. He nodded, then he laughed loud, pleased and hostile.
‘Out with it,’ said Knocker impatiently. ‘What is it?’
‘What a name I have.’ cried the Wendle. ‘I shall cover it in glory.’
‘Or mud.’
The Wendle ignored Knocker and looked up and down the line of adventurers. ‘Napoleon Boot,’ he said loudly. ‘Call me Napoleon Boot.’
‘And I suppose you know why you’re going to Rumbledom?’ asked Knocker.
‘Why am I going?’ The other was angry. ‘What’s wrong with you? Because I hate them, that’s why. I always have hated them, and if you’d always had ‘em leering down at yer from Rumbledom, like I have, you’d hate ‘em as much as I do. I don’t need these others to come with me. I’ll tear Rumbledom apart on me tod.’
Knocker shrugged. He was glad to move on to the last of the male Borribles. He looked at the face and liked it. It was square and flat, and the eyes were optimistic under the spiky brown hair. This Borrible looked like he could take a lot of knocks and still come up smiling.
‘Well,’ said Knocker, ‘you’re the last so I know the name; it’s Torreycanyon.’
‘Yes,’ said Torreycanyon, ‘that’ll do nicely.’
Knocker gave the empty hat to Dodger and took the beret with the two names only in it. He stood in front of the two Borrible girls. and felt embarrassed. He was used to girls of course but he’d never heard of any being trained as lookouts. He didn’t like the idea of girls on this adventure and wondered how it had happened. He looked from one to the other of them; he was forced to admit that they were tough-looking, and certainly their ears were amongst the most beautifully shaped he had ever seen, denoting strong character, unbendable wills and great slyness and cunning. He couldn’t fault them there. But, he wondered, would they be able to support the rigours of the trek, the dangers, the rough living out of doors, every night a different bivouac. And what effect would they have on the team as a whole? That was a worry. Borribles could quarrel and fight just as well as they could steal.
Knocker glanced back down the line and found the others watching him closely. Orococco was smiling, his white teeth shining against his black skin; even the Wendle, Napoleon Boot, was smirking.
‘Where are you girls from?’ asked Knocker.
‘Whitechapel,’ said the first.
‘Neasden,’ said the second. Knocker held out the hat to the girl from Whitechapel.
‘Take one of these,’ he said. The girl chose a piece of paper and read her name simply, with no comment.
‘Chalotte,’ she said, her voice cool and relaxed. Her green eyes flickered over Knocker’s face and she smiled. Knocker didn’t like to admit it but over and above her other attributes she was beautiful too; her fair hair fell to her shoulders, her skin shone and her legs were strong and full of running, an asset to any Borrible.
He gave the last piece of paper to the girl from Neasden.
‘Sydney,’ she said when she’d looked at it. Knocker glanced at her. Another good-looking girl; her hair was dark and shiny and her eyes were grey, her face kind.
‘Why did Whitechapel and Neasden send you two?’ he asked, disguising his shyness behind a sarcastic tone. ‘Haven’t they got any male Borribles out there?’
Chalotte said, ‘The message that came to Whitechapel specified a female Borrible.’
‘And the Neasden message?’
Sydney nodded. ‘We were told that two of the High Command are female. That’s why we were asked, I should think.’
‘Hm,’ said Knocker. He went to move away from the girls, but then turned on them suddenly, raising his voice. ‘There will be no favouritism, you will be treated just like the others, you will train like the others and sleep on the ground like the others, and you will wear the same combat clothes. When you leave you must expect the same conditions, exactly. You will march as long, eat as little and fight as much as every other member of the expeditionary force. No favours, so ask for none. You will take the same risks as the others, and maybe perish with them. Do you understand?’
If Knocker had hoped to frighten Chalotte and Sydney with this outburst he failed.
‘That is why we came,’ said Chalotte, and quoted a Borrible proverb: ‘“No name earns itself.”’
‘Yes,’ said Sydney, ‘and there’s another proverb: ��Every way forward has a way back.”’
Knocker turned again and retraced his steps to the centre of the line.
‘Right,’ he began, ‘now you have your names, training will be all day and every day. I’ll give details tomorrow. First thing you must do is learn your enemy. We have Rumble books here and we have something that is better, Spiff’s notes and studies of ‘em. We will start reading right away. In his notes you will find a detailed description of each of the Rumbles of the High Command. Now you know your names you know which one is yours and you must know exactly what he or she looks like. You will have to distinguish between him and a thousand others right in the middle of a punch-up. Another thing, we shall be training with the Rumble-stick or sticker, the enemy’s weapon. For those of you who don’t know it’s a four-inch nail stuck into the end of a lance of wood. They use it like a spear, or as a quarterstaff and dagger combined. The Rumble is good with it, cuts his teeth on it; you’ve got to be better. From now on we work hard. Your survival will depend on this training.’
The next two weeks were weeks of exhausting activity. The eight members of the expeditionary force never stopped working. Every morning at five Knocker had them on their feet for half an hour’s physical jerks, just to get the blood circulating properly through their brains. After breakfast they had a morning training session inside the gym, the subject chosen by Dodger or Knocker. They perfected their skills with the Rumble-stick and practised stealing in pairs and in fours. Before lunch they slipped out for a quick run, just a mile or so to improve their wind—all Borribles need to be speedy runners—and to keep them in trim Knocker made them responsible for purloining their own midday meal—a meal which they ate all together in some uncomfortable spot along by the river, or in some draughty house with no windows. And all the time Knocker watched the girls closely, but they never complained and they did everything just as well as anyone else.
After the midday meal they went back to the gym for a short rest of half an hour or so and then Knocker would test them on Borrible knowledge and Rumble studies; every one of them had to have a mind as sharp and as hard and as useful as a brand new tin-opener. They learned practical information too: how to avoid capture, how to escape when caught and how to aid other Borribles when in trouble. Knocker insisted that the eight of them should have all this knowledge ready in their minds. There was no telling what they might come across on the long and dangerous journey to Rumbledom; they would have to be prepared for anything and everything.<
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After the session with the books there was always more physical training. Dodger taught them how to jump from a great height and fall without hurting themselves; how to take punches rolling with the blow, how to duck and weave. He taught them the vulnerable spots of the Rumble anatomy and again how to use the Rumble-stick. Then, in the latter part of the afternoon, Knocker, who’d had a great deal of experience, more than any other known Borrible, taught them field tactics: how to climb trees, how to cross commons and parks without being seen.
Like other Borribles Knocker much preferred crowded streets, alive with markets and shops, but unlike the others he’d been obliged, because of his calling, to do an enormous amount of country work. Somehow he had made himself overcome the basic fear that Borribles have when faced with woods and fields. They hate such things.
‘Fields,’ they say, ‘are always windy and there is nowhere to hide, no crowds to get lost in, and there is nothing to pick up, no lorries for things to fall off … Fields are a pain and your Borrible is only really happy when he’s up to something in the street.’
But there was one thing that was more important than everything else put together. Knocker made the Eight train hour after hour with the Borribles’ traditional and preferred weapon. It had been used by them for generations, and had been chosen for its simplicity, its range, its power and its deadliness. It was an ancient weapon but was as efficient as any modern invention. It could be made anywhere and, back in the days of the nineteenth century when Borribles had endured great hardships and had been hounded from place to place, it had become their favourite method of defence because of the cheapness of its manufacture. The weapon was a very dangerous one—the catapult.
Every Borrible was an expert with the catapult, but the Eight would have to surpass the usual standards and become boringly accurate, able to hit a Rumble on the snout each time they fired.
‘You must never miss,’ Knocker told them. ‘You will have a great deal of provisions to carry, but if you each have forty stones on you that will account for three hundred and twenty of the enemy between you. If you are besieged, always choose somewhere where you can find plenty of ammunition lying about, then you will be invincible.’ And so each of the Eight became a crack shot; every one of them could take a fly off a park keeper’s nose at a hundred yards and he’d never even notice.
That was how the days were filled. And every evening the Eight returned to the gym to find that the High Street Borribles had provided them with a supper of food stolen from the market. They ate with huge appetites and, after talking to each other for a little while, they rolled into their sleeping bags and slept on the floor of the long dusty room. The next day they would have to wake early and do the same things again—run a little faster, shoot a little straighter.
Knocker gave them no rest. He made them rehearse the expedition route on the street map of London until they knew it by heart; and he insisted they play war games that placed them in impossible situations, obliging them to think their way clear as quickly as they could, and if Knocker wasn’t satisfied with their efforts they would have to do their tasks again, and then again. The Eight were tired all the time.
About one o’clock on a grey afternoon towards the end of the fortnight, Spiff, with two of his cronies from the High Street, made an appearance in the storeroom of the Rowena Crescent Gym. It was the beginning of the rest period and Spiff walked around the room talking to the Borribles who were stretched out on their sleeping bags, dozing with their eyes only half open. When he’d had a short word with each, he came over to speak to Knocker and Dodger.
‘Knocker,’ said Spiff, nodding his head abruptly at the two Borribles by his side. ‘This is Rasher and this is Ziggy.’
Knocker stood and said, ‘Those are fine names, certainly, I would like to hear the stories one day.’
The two nodded but did not smile. They looked out of humour.
‘Yes,’ said Spiff, ‘that will have to wait of course. Now, Knocker, you’ve reached the end of the two weeks. How have you got on?’
Knocker reached for a large notebook on his desk. It contained a detailed description of each Borrible’s training, together with various comments.
Spiff waved it aside. ‘No, I can look at that later, just a verbal report will do.’
‘Keep it general, too,’ said Rasher.
‘Well,’ said Knocker, looking sideways at Dodger, ‘they are very good, all of them. Some are better at one thing than another, but they are all naturals with the catapult. They could knock a running cat over with their eyes closed, girls as well. In fact Chalotte is better than all of the others, except perhaps Orococco. Hand-to-hand fighting is good. climbing good, running very fast. With the Rumble-stick they vary, but Bingo is fantastic. They aren’t so good at scouting work in the countryside, but that takes years of practice and it’s unnatural, but they’re first-class in the streets and markets, you hardly see their hands come up from beneath a barrow when they takes their dinner. Marvellous. And all of them are dead keen.’
Knocker hesitated and lowered his voice. ‘I’m only worried about one of them, although he’s worked as hard as anyone, harder. But I dunno, there’s something that worries me about Napoleon Boot. He always seems to be thinking about something else, there’s a slimy feel to him, it’s … well, to tell the truth, Spiff, I dunno, it’s just a feeling.’
Dodger nodded to substantiate what Knocker had said.
Spiff looked back down the hall to where the Borribles were resting. Some were reading the Rumble books, others were just relaxing and looking at the ceiling. Napoleon Boot was scrutinizing the road map of Greater London and memorizing street names.
‘He never stops,’ said Knocker. ‘They all know the Borrible Book of Proverbs by heart, but Napoleon knows it backwards and sideways as well. He’s too good to be true.’
Spiff creased his face. ‘Well, son, there’s nothing to be done now. They have to have a Wendle with ’em because they’ve got to cross the Wandle. You know how suspicious Wendles are of anybody who wants to cross their bloody river.’ He sniffed. ‘Wendles are so crooked they find it hard to stand up straight … but it’ll work out, you’ll see.’
There was silence as if nobody agreed with him, not even Spiff himself. He changed the subject.
‘Well, your blokes must leave soon anyway; the longer they wait the more dangerous it is. There was a psychological advantage in letting the Rumbles know we were on to them, but the longer we take getting up there, the more time they will have to prepare their defences. Our Eight might not be able to get into the Rumble burrows. Imagine, all that way for nothing!’
Ziggy, who had been trying to interrupt Spiff’s flow, at last got a word in. ‘I’ve never liked this idea, you know, Spiff. I think we should have gone up there in force, taken them on, given them a thumping, duffed ‘em up ’
‘Out of your mind,’ said Spiff impatiently; he was always right and knew it. ‘We’d have been outnumbered ten to one and they’d have been fighting on their own ground. We stand a much better chance by sending in eight professionals like this, and eliminating their leaders, mark my words.’
‘Oh, it sounds all right,’ said Ziggy, ‘but I don’t think those Eight over there can manage it. They haven’t done anything yet. Anyone can fire a catapult at a Woollie and run, but what if it’s a Rumble with a Rumble-stick at your throat, eh?’
‘Look,’ said Knocker, ‘I’ve trained this lot. If anyone can get inside the Rumble burrows they can.’
‘Rubbish,’ said Rasher, joining in the argument, ‘they don’t stand a monkey’s.’
‘They do,’ said Knocker.
‘They don’t,’ said Ziggy.
Spiff sniffed once more. ‘I’ve been looking at the map, Knocker. I think the Eight ought to go up the Thames, from St Mary’s to Wandsworth Reach. I know it’s dangerous, but it will save days on the journey, and it means the Eight will be going in from a direction that the Rumbles won’t dream of. Even if they�
��ve got lookouts deployed as far as Wandsworth Common station and Earlsfield, we’ll outflank them. What do you say?’
Knocker was angry all over again. ‘But, Spiff,’ he cried, grabbing his arm, ‘the river is a death trap, all those barges and tugs and police launches, they’d be run down or run in without a chance. They’ve had no training for water. I don’t even know if they can row. I thought they were going to march overland, and now you want to throw ‘em in the oggin. It’s not on, Spiff.’
‘How far do you think they’d get then if they went overland,’ asked Ziggy, ‘with a solid line of Rumbles from Merton to East Hill?’
Rasher shoved his face up to Knocker’s and tilted it sideways. ‘If your blokes are as good as you say they are, why are you making excuses? Can’t they do it?’
‘It’s a question of time, training,’ spluttered Knocker.
Spiff nodded. ‘Just so, you’ll get an extra day for boat training and rowing.’
‘But we haven’t got a boat,’ said Knocker, looking at Spiff as if he were mad.
‘Oh, you’ll need a boat,’ said Spiff, ‘to row up the river. You’ll need one before then to train in, won’t yer?’
‘Where can we get one?’ asked Dodger, looking distraught.
Spiff turned on him, venom in his voice. ‘You’re a Borrible, ain’t yer? Steal one, this afternoon, instead of kipping. Try Battersea Park.’
‘Yes,’ said Ziggy. ‘Let’s see how good this team is, or can’t they do it?’
Spiff laughed. ‘Don’t take any notice of him, Knocker. I’m sure your blokes have more tricks up their sleeves than a conjuror’s overcoat.’ And with that, Spiff, Ziggy and Rasher climbed up the wall on the exercise bars and, one by one, disappeared through the narrow windows that led to Rowena Crescent.
The Borribles Page 4