‘He doesn’t like you very much, you know,’ he said to Knocker. ‘He thinks you are up to something.’
Knocker grinned. ‘I am up to something, mate, and you’re going to be up to it with me. As for Napoleon, it’s in his nature to be suspicious; Wendles always are.’
‘Ho ho,’ hooted Adolf. ‘Never mind all that. Something is what I like to be up to. Let us hurry.’
Stonks and Torreycanyon sneaked through the gorse bushes on their bellies and approached the Great Door with caution. A premature alarm would alert the Rumble defences and make the difficult task of the Borribles into an impossible one. The grass and bushes were damp with the threat of the coming dew and soon the two attackers were drenched.
‘We’ll soon dry off when we get inside,’ said Torreycanyon. ‘I’ll use my Rumble as a towel.’
‘It’s funny in a way, isn’t it?’ said Stonks. He stopped crawling and faced his companion. ‘Going after a bloke with the same name. It’s like going after yourself. I mean, the names we’ve got aren’t our names, they’re really theirs; but when we’ve eliminated them, the names will be ours for ever, and the adventure we’ve had, even if we’ve been killed, can never be taken away.’
‘It’ll be taken away if we’re all killed and nobody gets back to tell the story. If it’s never written down, then it’s gone for ever. The story’s the thing; have you thought of that?’
‘Yeah, maybe Knocker shouldn’t have come this far. He can’t be Historian if he’s captured or killed … You know, I hadn’t realized Historians were so important.’
Torreycanyon held Stonks by the arm for a moment.
‘Ah,’ he said, ‘but if he hadn’t come this far he would have had no story to tell. Historians have to go where the history is, I s’pose.’
They crept on until they were about ten yards from the door; there they stopped and checked their watches.
‘Another five minutes.’
‘Look at that door,’ said Stonks, with respect in his voice. ‘Im-bloody-pregnable.’ It was true. Although not large, for Rumbles are about the same size as Borribles, it was stoutly built in oak, with iron bars reinforcing it. Its hinges were massive and heavy, designed to withstand a great deal of battering. By the time it was vanquished, that door, all the Rumbles in Rumbledom could be behind it.
‘This is the time for guile,’ said Torreycanyon wisely, ‘but what kind of guile, I do not know.’
Stonks looked at his watch. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘I have an idea. Let’s unwind our ropes.’
Stonks joined the two pieces of cord together, then, crouching, he made for the trees that grew a short distance from the bunker door. Torreycanyon followed. At the foot of a stout sapling Stonks said, ‘You’re going to climb this, so it’ll bend under your weight. Here’s the rope, tie the middle of it round the top of the trunk and drop both ends down to me. Got it?’
‘Yeah,’ said Torreycanyon. ‘Course I got it.’ And he scrambled up the tree making it droop more and more as he climbed higher, and making it sway from side to side as he secured the rope and threw the loose ends of it to Stonks. Then Torreycanyon felt himself drawn nearer and nearer to the ground, as the strongest of the Borribles pulled on the rope until the topmost twigs of the sapling touched the grass.
‘Stay where you are, Torrey,’ said Stonks breathlessly. ‘Keep your weight on while I tie it down to this root over here.’
It took Stonks but a moment to fasten the sapling, and when he had finished he allowed Torreycanyon to step from his perch.
‘Whatever it is you’re going to do, Stonksie, you’d better do it now, because the others are going in at this very moment.’
As Torreycanyon spoke someone stirred behind the door. Stonks winked at his companion and took up the spare piece of rope that dangled from the tree top. He went over to the Great Door, knocked and then spoke up firmly in a Rumble voice: ‘Sowwy to twouble you, Stonks, but I’ve found something mighty suspicious here. You’d better check it over. Open up.’
There was a second’s hesitation on the far side of the door and then Stonks and Torreycanyon heard the bolts being slid and a key being turned in the massive lock.
‘Torrey,’ whispered Stonks, ‘when I tip you the wink, cut that rope.’
Torreycanyon crouched and Stonks stood behind the door as it swung slowly open.
‘I wealize you’re vewy stwong,’ said the Borrible, ‘but I don’t think that even you can keep hold of this.’ He put the rope’s end around the door and thrust it into the hand of the Rumble. ‘Hang on tight, he insisted. ‘Wemember we Wumbles never let go.’ And he made the sign to Torreycanyon, who, with one slash of his knife, severed the cord that held the tree top to the ground. The sapling was immediately released from constraint and it sprang upright with an irresistible power, dragging the short end of rope with it. The Rumble doorkeeper at the end of the rope, true to his upbringing, held on tightly and shot through the doorway like the first Rumble rocket to the moon, knocking the Great Door open with such force that it would have killed Stonks had he not jumped clear of it.
The Rumble whizzed over the Borrible’s head at escape velocity and was swung away in a wide arc. Still he held on, and could he have strengthened his grip he might have lived for ever, but when the sapling reached its apogee it suddenly and treacherously reversed its direction. So there came a moment when the Rumble was travelling away from the door at a speed that was much faster than safe, and the top of the sapling was travelling at the same speed but back towards the door. The rope became taut and even the remarkable strength of Stonks the Rumble could not hold on to it, and it was torn from his grasp. He disappeared into the black night, a fast-moving silhouette against the starry sky.
‘He’ll be burned to a frazzle on re-entry,’ said Stonks with a sniff and a spit. They waited a long while in silence.
‘He’s been ages up there,’ ventured Torreycanyon.
Just then there came a scream and a crashing of branches from about three hundred yards away. Then there was a dull crump and the ground where the Borribles stood shook and shivered.
‘Ah, that sounds like a satisfactory abort,’ said Torreycanyon, rising from his crouching position and sheathing his knife at last. He stepped over to Stonks and took his hand and shook it ‘I’d like to be the first,’ he said, ‘to congratulate you on being the first of us to win a name. Well done, Stonks, no other’s name but yours now.’
The door to the bunker now stood open and undefended. The two Borribles tiptoed towards it and peered in. An electric light showed an entrance hall furnished with a comfortable armchair for the duty guard to rest in; there were some blankets and nearby a little table with food and books on it. On the other side of the hall a lighted tunnel led off to the heart of the bunker. Both the hallway and the tunnel were built in brick and there was carpet on the floor and pictures on the walls. It looked warm and comfortable.
‘Nobody about,’ said Stonks, and they entered the hall and pulled the massive door shut behind them.
‘What a smashing place,’ said Torreycanyon. ‘Don’t stint themselves, do they?’
‘They have no need to, mate, no need,’ said Stonks, and he shot the bolts and turned the key in the lock. ‘Look,’ he went on, ‘I’ve done my bloke so I’ll stay here and watch the exit, that way we’ve got a line of retreat.’ He picked up the Rumble-stick which had belonged to the guard who had left his post so precipitately, and hefted it in his hand. ‘Any Rumble who tries to get the door from me will have four inches of nail in him. You can tell the others when you see them. I’ll also pull some bricks from the wall and make a couple of barricades across the tunnel. If you come back this way you’ll have to give the whistle and I’ll let you over.’
‘Good idea,’ said Torreycanyon. ‘I’ll tell anybody I see.’ Then he said, ‘I’d better get going. Goodbye, Stonks. Don’t get caught, eh?’ And there was a catch to his voice as he spoke.
Stonks caught hold of his friend and embraced him. ‘Take care, me old
china. Win your name well. Don’t you get caught now, I’d miss you.’
And Torreycanyon turned abruptly, a tear in his eye, and he ran down the lighted, twisting, dangerous tunnel as fast as he could go, eager for his name.
Orococco and Bingo slid down the bumpy hillside, getting wet where they sat and slithered on the soaking grass. The slope ended in a small cliff and they fell together, all of a heap, into a little open space at the bottom of the hill.
‘Careful, Bingo,’ whispered Orococco. ‘We’ve landed right on their doorstep.’
They crept on all fours till they came up against the Small Door. As its name indicated it was less important than the Great Door on the other side of the hill—even a Borrible would have to crawl through this one—and in the middle of it there was a judas hole so that whoever was on guard could open a flap and see outside without having to put himself in danger.
‘Time for a bit of the old crafty,’ said Bingo.
‘That’s all we got, man,’ said Orococco. He knocked at the door. There was no answer.
‘The fools are sleeping,’ said Bingo. ‘You see, they don’t know we’re here.’ This time he knocked, with the butt of his catapult, very loudly indeed.
There was a sudden and muffled snort from inside the bunker and Orococco put his face close to the judas. The flap in the door flew open and a sleepy voice said, ‘Who goes there, Wumble or foe?’
‘A Wumble,’ said Orococco, flashing his teeth.
‘No such thing as a black Wumble,’ said the guard, his snout coming close to the opening and quivering distrustfully. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Owococco,’ said Orococco, nodding at Bingo, who was close to the door but out of sight of the person within.
There was a shocked silence from the Rumble, then he said, ‘Wait a minute, that can’t be your name, it’s my name.’
‘Sowwy,’ said Orococco, ‘you’re mistaken. Owococco is my name, always has been, Honky.’
‘Idiot,’ said the voice behind the door, ‘Do you think I don’t know my own name? I’m Owococco.’ The snout pulsated and sniffed. ‘You don’t even smell like a Wumble.’
‘Well,’ said the Totter from Tooting, ‘all I can say is open the door and have a look.’
‘I can’t do that,’ said the guardian. ‘It’s against the wules, and according to my list evewyone is in tonight.’
‘All wight then,’ said the black Borrible. ‘Stick your nose out and take a weally good sniff and let me in. I’m exhausted. I have important news for the High Command.’
‘I’m one of the High Command,’ said the Rumble, suddenly intrigued. ‘You may tell me all.’
‘I’ll tell you nothing until you let me in,’ insisted Orococco.
The snout pushed through the judas in an attempt to sniff the Borrible’s face, but Orococco fell back half a step and the protuberance was obliged to push itself a little further and again a little further, still snuffling and vibrating. It was then that Bingo rose and seized it in both hands and held on with all his might.
Quickly, Orococco slipped the length of strong cord from his waist and wound it several times round the Rumble’s snout. Tying it very tightly, he secured the free end to the root of a gorse bush. The Rumble could hardly breathe but Bingo did not let go, nor did the rope slacken for all the animal’s struggles behind the door.
‘Shuddup Rumble,’ whispered Orococco. ‘If you don’t stop that wriggling I’ll beat your nose till it looks like a limp wind sock.’
The struggling abated, then ceased altogether.
‘Now, listen,’ went on the black Totter. ‘You can reach the bolts, and you can reach the lock, so open up. We have an ultimatum for your mates, and they’re going to get it one way or the other, whether you have a snout left or not.’
Orococco Rumble hesitated. There was a little more kicking of padded feet and a flailing of arms, but the snout did not move an inch from its imprisonment. Then the two Borribles heard the bolts slide and the key grate in the lock, and Orococco threw his body at the door with such force that the cord holding the snout broke with a loud twang and nearly pulled the Rumble’s head through the judas. This fierce assault slammed the body of the guardian back against the wall of the passage and there was a sickening thud.
Bingo vaulted into the corridor, rolled over and came up holding his catapult at the ready, but he did not fire for this was Orococco’s game. Orococco seized a Rumble-stick, one of many that stood in a rack; he drew back his arm, ready to thrust the deadly sticker into the furry body of his namesake, but before he could act the Rumble fell forward on to the floor, the weight of his body banging the Small Door shut.
Bingo turned the body over with a foot. ‘Strewth,’ he said, ‘you must’ve broke his neck when you opened the door.’
‘Never stand behind a door when there’s a Totter coming through the other side,’ said Orococco. ‘That’s an old Tooting proverb which ain’t in the book but ought to be.’
‘Hey,’ said Bingo, ‘you’ve got your name already. That’s great, congratulations.’ He slapped his friend on the shoulder.
‘Thanks, man,’ said Orococco. ‘Now we’d better see about getting yours.’ And he turned and locked and bolted the door before slipping the key into his pocket. ‘Remember I got the key, Bingo, just in case I don’t make it. Now let’s go see if the others got the kettle on yet.’ And holding his Rumble-stick across his body he ran as fast as he could down the tunnel, and Bingo ran with him.
Vulge lay full length in the narrow ventilation shaft and inched his body along with his elbows. Behind him he could hear the others, breathing hard as they followed. After a few yards, which seemed like miles, he came to a grating set in the floor. He reached behind him with an effort and pulled his torch from a pocket of his combat jacket. He masked the beam with his hand and saw that he was at the end of the tunnel. Someone bumped against his feet.
He shone his torch on the grating and saw that it was held in place by four screws. He reached for his knife and slowly began to undo them.
‘What’s up?’ asked Chalotte.
Vulge twisted his head as far as he was able.
‘A grating, four screws.’ He whispered the words and went back to the task; it wasn’t easy but finally the barrier came free and he slid it below his body. Now he could see into the kitchens.
They were enormous—an expensive modern installation kitted out with long stainless steel ranges and endless working surfaces—for this equipment had to cater for the hundreds of Rumbles who lived in the bunker, and on its smooth running would depend their health and well-being. The management and ordering of such a place demanded complex skills and the Rumble commissariat was in fact controlled and directed by the two female members of the High Command—Chalotte and Sydney Rumble.
At that moment only three Rumbles of any importance were visible to Vulge, two females and one male still in his dressing gown. They had not been in the kitchens long for they were rubbing their eyes and yawning. As Vulge watched, the two female Rumbles began bellowing orders, and skivvies and scullions, about a dozen of them, rushed to their duties. Huge saucepans were sent clanging and spinning on to the stoves, the hotplates glowed red and vegetables were washed and shredded. The morning porridge simmered in the pots.
With a start that nearly gave him away, Vulge recognized the male Rumble; it was the chief, the main one, his very own target. Vulge quickly withdrew his head and scrambled over the opening into the end section of the shaft, allowing Chalotte to move up a little. He shone his torch behind her and saw Sydney; he gave them a thumbs up then popped his head down through the hole again, wondering what he should do.
The High Rumbles had taken up a position in the middle of the kitchen urging their minions on, supervising the baking of the Rumble bread. Vulge pulled out his catapult and was easing a stone from his bandolier when the chief Rumble, Vulgarian himself, spoke to the women. He sounded irritable and short-tempered.
‘I wish you’d huwwy,
you two. When I say an early bweakfast, I mean an early bweakfast. I’ve got a nasty feeling something’s afoot. Last night, one of our sentwies didn’t weturn, and I’m wowwied. Come on, huwwy it up.’
‘It’s no good,’ snapped Chalotte Rumble. ‘It won’t be weady for another half-hour at least.’ And she jerked her snout up an inch to indicate that the discussion was at an end.
“Vewy well,’ said Vulgarian. ‘Then I’ll take a bath. Send me my bweakfast on a tway as soon as it’s weady.’ He pulled his dressing gown tight to his body and stalked off without another word.
‘What an awwogant swine he is,’ said Chalotte Rumble to her companion. ‘Who does he think he is? We wun this department.’
‘Ignore him,’ said Sydney Rumble. ‘He’s due for a nasty shock one day.’
‘Yeah, and today’s the day,’ said Vulge to himself grimly. ‘I missed a chance there.’ He pulled his head back into the darkness of the tunnel where Chalotte waited.
‘Mine’s gone to have a bath,’ said Vulge, ‘but yours is right below you, and Sydney’s. You’re lucky, all you got to do is thump ‘em.’
Chalotte twisted and spoke to Sydney, then she crouched over the hole and looked down. Below her was a good ten-foot drop to the top of a wide kitchen table, white with scrubbing. She took her catapult from her back pocket, wrapped the elastic carefully round the butt and clenched the weapon between her teeth, then with a nod at Vulge, she let herself fall from his sight.
Immediately Chalotte had gone, Sydney wriggled forward, her catapult already prepared, and sprang, eager as a cat, through the opening. Napoleon was still some distance away but inching nearer. Vulge did not wait for him. He sat on the edge of the hatch, lowered himself by his arms till his body was at full extent, and then let go.
His feet hit the wooden surface and, following the precepts of Dodger’s paratroop training, he allowed his legs to crumble and he rolled over, curving his shoulder to take the force of the fall. He came off the edge of the table and fell easily into a crouching position on the kitchen floor. From there he witnessed a fight that he knew he would never forget, a story that he would tell until the end of his days.
The Borribles Page 15