The Borribles

by Michael de Larrabeiti

  Nothing can frighten us again,

  We fear no monsters, fear no men.

  Brave though bloody, here we come!

  The victors returning from Rumbledom!’

  With Bingo’s example before them, the Adventurers determined to show the Wendles that they were not downcast, and each of them sang loudly of his London borough: songs that told of fine abandoned houses and good days of thieving and food.

  Knocker laughed at the songs. He felt happier now they had committed themselves to a course of action. There was no going back, so they might as well make the best of it.

  All too soon the Adventurers came up with Halfabar at the mouth of the sewer where the Wandle went underground. He smiled and inclined his head; the light of winter gleamed on his helmet.

  ‘Welcome, brother Borribles,’ he said. ‘Napoleon has told us a little of your great adventure. Your names were well won. Flinthead is impatient to hear your stories from your own lips. A great feast awaits you.’

  ‘There,’ said Napoleon to Knocker. ‘What did I tell you?’

  They followed Halfabar and his men underground, and found their way by the light of torches as they had done on their previous visit. Again the Adventurers smelt the smell of the River Wandle, penned and confined in its narrow tunnels, and the stench of it rose and stung their nostrils. Even Napoleon wrinkled his nose in disgust, so many months had he spent in the fresh air.

  After walking a few hundred yards they left the river and Halfabar led them directly to the great hall. There, as before, sat Flinthead, his eyes opaque. The hall was not crowded this time; only the bodyguard stood by, heavily armed and numerous, their faces unsmiling beneath their helmets. In a line before Flinthead’s stage were nine armchairs, and in front of them was a long table loaded with all kinds of food from the Wendles’ store.

  The Adventurers filed across the hall, members of the bodyguard at their side. They were directed to the armchairs and their knapsacks taken and stacked behind them. Torreycanyon and Knocker dropped the burnt and valuable box in front of their seats, and when, on a gesture from Flinthead, they sat, they each put a foot on the Rumble treasure. Flinthead saw the movement and smiled indulgently. When all was quiet he spoke, and his voice was the same as ever: kind, warm and solicitous.

  ‘Welcome back,’ he said, and smiled again. ‘Your adventure has been successful and we are proud, and not a little envious of it, though we grieve at your loss. If you are not too weary, I would like to hear of your exploits, in detail, for all we Borribles love a story of the winning of a name, and I think that there have never been names won like yours. Napoleon Boot has told me something, but I wish to hear it all from your own lips. There is food before you. Tell me your stories one by one, the rest may eat until it is their turn to tell.’ He pointed a finger at the end of the line away from Knocker. ‘You,’ he ordered, ‘begin.’

  So, Stonks it was, began. He told how he and Torreycanyon took the Great Door, how he defended it and how later he took the Rumble skin, and what a fright it caused. The others ate, or aided the story with comments, correcting and enlarging the thread of the tale as it went along. Then it was the turn of Vulge, and Flinthead leant forward in his chair with great interest as he heard how the chief Rumble had met his end. Sydney and Chalotte told of the assault on the kitchens and the subsequent retreat; then came Orococco, followed by Bingo, who told how he met Napoleon in the great library and how he had fought in single combat with the greatest warrior in Rumbledom. Napoleon took up the story and told how he had shaken his namesake from the ladder and how Bingo had saved his life, and how, sorely wounded, they had squirmed and crawled their way to safety, to find Torreycanyon, who then must tell of his lonely fight in the garage and how he caused the great explosion which had put paid to the whole bunker.

  After that, Flinthead asked of Adolf and what he had done, so Knocker related how the German and he had found Vulge, surrounded by the bodies of his enemies, and how the safe had been opened and the box discovered. And the Wendle bodyguard leant on their spears and everyone relaxed, except Knocker; and Torreycanyon whispered that everyone seemed friendly and happy and that things would turn out fine in the end. But Knocker scowled and whispered back that things that happened could only be judged after they had happened, and then not always correctly.

  But Flinthead turned his bland face to Knocker again and said, ‘And now you must speak further and tell us your own story—one full of colour, I am sure, and one for which I have been waiting with great interest—for are you not the writer, the Historian, and will you not have seen and known things that the others did not know?’

  Knocker looked along the line of his companions. They were sprawling in the comfortable armchairs, their faces flushed with food and drink. They were too relaxed, too easeful, unable to defend themselves if the need arose. Knocker himself sat nervously on the edge of his seat, his feet tucked under him, ready to leap at the slightest hint of danger.

  ‘My part was, in fact, small,’ he heard himself saying. ‘Adolf and I followed the others and discovered Vulge only after he had fought his great battle alone. Later it was a question of retreating slowly, grouping together and fighting our way along the tunnels to the Great Door where Adolf was killed, but if it hadn’t been for Sam, the horse, none of us would be sitting here now.’ And Knocker went on to praise the horse and tell of their imprisonment by Dewdrop and his son, how they had escaped and taken Sam with them.

  Flinthead cupped his chin in his right hand and rested the elbow on his knee. He swayed forward, listening with an attention that did not waver for a second. He was fixing every detail of the story in his mind. When the tale was finished he leant back in his chair, clasped his hands in his lap and beamed a cold smile at everybody, a brittle smile that was simply a movement of facial muscle with no breath of warmth in it.

  ‘I hope, Knocker,’ he said, ‘that you will write down this adventure as soon as you have time. There are so few good stories left. I look forward to reading it.’ He paused and looked round the hall at the bodyguard, then looked at Knocker and flicked his finger against his thumb, just once. There was a clash of armour and members of the bodyguard moved behind the Adventurers to hold them fast, deep in the soft armchairs, knives at their throats. Held all that is save Knocker; he had been ready, perched on the edge of his chair. He jumped forward, butted a warrior in the stomach and snatched his lance.

  But there was another Adventurer who had not been made captive, Napoleon Boot. He too sprang from his armchair as if expecting trouble but he did not need to seize a lance; one was thrust into his hands and he was joined by a band of Wendles who rushed from the side of Flinthead’s stage.

  Knocker crouched, his spear held low. He was convulsed with a bitter wrath. To come so far, to do so much, and then to lose everything through the treachery of a fellow Adventurer.

  Napoleon stood opposite him, haughty, confident, ‘Drop that spear, Knocker, you have no chance. If you resist we will kill you.’

  ‘You thing of no name!’ screamed Knocker at the top of his voice. ‘Traitor! May you be un-named and cursed and your story for ever told with a curse.’ Knocker drew back his arm and cast the spear at the Wendle with all the strength at his command, for he hated Napoleon with every fibre of his being. But Napoleon was ready; he knew that Knocker would throw the lance. He stooped and it struck a Wendle behind him with such force that the lance pierced the warrior’s breast, and the blade stood out a handsbreadth behind his back.

  The Wendle shrieked and fell lifeless to the floor, but his fellows leapt upon Knocker and bore him to the ground. He was cuffed and beaten, his hands were tied and at last he was hoisted to his feet. Blood trickled down his face and a bruise rose, purple, on his forehead.

  ‘You’d better kill me, you no-name-bastard-Wendle,’ he said, hissing the words, ‘for if I live, I’ll kill you. I’ll train a race of Borribles who will seek you out and put you through a mincer.’

  Napoleon ignored h
im and gave a sign. The other Adventurers were hauled to their feet and their hands bound fast. Flinthead rose from his chair and came to the edge of the stage.

  ‘Well, there we are, nice and tidy.’ Again he clicked his fingers and the treasure chest was prised open to reveal banknotes and coin. ‘Hmm,’ said Flinthead. ‘Superb! Napoleon, you have done well. You shall be promoted to the bodyguard, co-captain with Tron, and choose yourself a second name while you are at it. I want you to see that your … friends are safely locked up. As for the box, that must be guarded day and night by members of the bodyguard, but you will be responsible for it … with your life, of course. Take as many Wendles as you need.’

  Flinthead looked down at the captives and smiled his smile of death once more, but they did not see his face. They stood staring at the ground, their shame too great to bear, tears of anger in their eyes. Only Knocker held his head up and shouted after the Wendle chieftain as he left, ‘Guard yourself well, Flinthead. I’ll ram that money down your throat before I’m finished. I’ll skin you alive, you and your bodyguard of un-named, slow-witted, snot-gobblin’ morons.’

  But Flinthead just waved a bored hand, and went from the hall surrounded, as always, by the pick of his men.

  When Flinthead had gone, Halfabar stepped up to Napoleon and gave him a warrior’s helmet and a special jacket. Napoleon put them on, tugged the lance from the corpse on the floor and rapped the bloody tip of it against Knocker’s chest. ‘You shuddup, sonny,’ he said. ‘You’re a nobody and nobody wants to hear you.’

  By way of reply Knocker spat directly into Napoleon’s face and the saliva trickled down his nose. Angered, Napoleon twirled the lance expertly in one hand and caught Knocker a stinging blow across the head. Knocker fell to his knees.

  Although bound and outnumbered by the bodyguard, Knocker’s companions stepped forward and stood fearlessly between Napoleon and his victim.

  ‘Leave him alone,’ said Stonks, in an untroubled voice. ‘Leave him alone, you skinny fart, or I’ll kill you.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Sydney. ‘Aren’t you satisfied with your day’s work yet, Wendle?’

  Napoleon’s face clouded over for an instant, then he shook himself and said to Halfabar, ‘Right, let’s get them out of here.’

  The Adventurers were taken only a short way into the corridors before Napoleon halted them and opened a heavy iron door. With blows raining on their heads they were forced to enter a small damp dungeon, where green slime dripped and oozed from the walls. It was lit by one weak electric bulb and there were no seats or beds, only some dirty and mildewed sacks piled in one corner.

  Once they were in the cell, Halfabar entered and, protected by others of the bodyguard, he cut the bonds from the Borribles’ hands.

  ‘Ain’t that cosy,’ he said when he’d finished. And leering into Orococco’s face he added, ‘Safe and sound, the lot of you.’

  Orococco bared his teeth at the Wendle, making him jump backwards.

  ‘I’m going to hold you under the water next time, friend, but I will not let up until you have stopped breathing that stinking breath of yours. Couldn’t you sprinkle a little deodorant on your cornflakes and make a few friends?’

  Halfabar raised his hand to strike Orococco, but he remembered in time that the Totter now had his hands free and so contented himself with a sneer, backing to the door and slamming it, the noise echoing up and down the tunnels, and still echoing long after the last Wendle footsteps had faded into the distance.

  The Borribles stood disconsolate in their prison. They could not even look at one another and a mixture of shame, rage and hatred, despair and disbelief, held them tongue-tied. Speech was impossible. A quarter of an hour went by, then half an hour, and the silence became hard and solid.

  Finally Knocker broke into a stream of swearing that lasted for minutes on end. He thought of every Borrible curse he could remember and enlarged and embroidered on it. He went backwards and forwards through the Borrible Book of Proverbs, and turned each adage into a malediction on the head of Napoleon Boot. He wove garlands of evil words around that Wendle’s name, and when he had finished and was breathless and his memory and mind were empty, he felt better, and so did those who had listened to him and had joined in his song of hate with imprecations of their own.

  ‘I still can’t believe it,’ said Chalotte. ‘What made him do it?’

  ‘Once a Wendle always a Wendle,’ said Knocker, and that was enough explanation for him and he said no more.

  ‘I don’t think we ought to be too downhearted,’ said Stonks in his flat, straightforward manner. ‘After all, we got there and back again and did what we said we’d do.’

  ‘I’m not blaming anyone, ‘cept maybe Spiff,’ said Chalotte, ‘but if it hadn’t been for that money, we’d have been on our way home by now.’

  ‘Well. as the proverb says,’ said Vulge, “It ain’t fault, it’s happenstance.” After all, we’re still alive.’

  Orococco laughed harshly. ‘Not for long, we ain’t.’ And again the adventurers lapsed into a long and moody silence.

  The prisoners were kept incommunicado, and though food was brought to them it was the meanest of cold scraps, flung through a barely opened door. They became weak through lack of sustenance and more and more depressed as the days went by. Escape was impossible. Even if they managed to open the heavy iron door of their dungeon, they were certain to become lost in the tangle of culverts and corridors that was Wen- dle country. On their heels would be warriors from the toughest of all the London tribes, hard and dedicated Wendles who knew every inch of their territory, every fathom of the river and every yard of underground sewer within a radius of miles. The idea of freedom receded further and further from the captives’ minds, and their hatred of Napoleon Boot dulled to a slow burning ache.

  One day, or night, some weeks later, the door to the cell opened quietly and, after a moment’s pause, clicked shut. The Borribles did not look up; it would only be some inedible Wendle meal delivered in a dirty bucket. But when Vulge rolled over in his blanket, which was green with damp mould like all the others, he saw to his surprise the slight figure of Napoleon Boot.

  Napoleon looked splendid. His helmet of tin was burnished and his orange jacket gleamed in the light of the electric bulb. His waders were new and shone blackly and they fitted tightly to his calves and thighs. He had two steel catapults in his belt and a double bandolier of the choicest stones. He looked proud and well fed, though his face had once more taken on the green tinge that touched the complexion of all Wendles.

  Napoleon raised a finger to his lips. The Stepney Borrible couldn’t believe his eyes.

  ‘What’s going on?’ he asked.

  We’re getting out,’ said Napoleon, his voice tense.

  Hearing this conversation the others looked up and rolled out of their damp couches.

  ‘Be dead quiet,’ said Napoleon, whispering, ‘or you’ll be quite dead.

  The captives rose to their feet, gazing at each other with puzzlement.

  ‘Is this some new trick?’ asked Sydney. She had liked Napoleon since the day he had stolen the boat in Battersea Park, and she had taken his deception very hard.

  ‘I haven’t got time to explain now,’ said Napoleon. ‘You’ll have to trust me.’

  Knocker laughed quietly. ‘Trust the honest Wendle and end up in prison

  ‘We could kill him,’ said Torreycanyon.

  Napoleon’s face creased with anguish. ‘There isn’t much time don’t be stupid.’

  ‘What are you going to do this time.“said Knocker. ‘Let us loose in the tunnels so the bodyguard can kill us? Hunt us down one by one and shove us under the Wandle mud when they catch us? I’ve heard that’s one of your favourite sports.’

  ‘Oh, listen,’ said Napoleon quickly, ‘and listen well, because every minute we waste is precious. Flinthead knew about the Rumble treasure even before the expedition started. He sent me on the Adventure in the first place to keep an eye on you all.’


  ‘I could see that,’ said Knocker with a sneer. ‘That much was obvious.’

  ‘On the way back,’ continued Napoleon, ‘my job was to lead you into the Wandle and see that you suspected nothing, so that Flinthead could capture you and the money.’

  ‘You did that all right, didn’t you?’ said Bingo. ‘You fooled me completely, but then I only fought side by side with you in the library. I thought we were mates.’

  ‘Oh, shuddup,’ said Napoleon. ‘When we got back to King George’s, I didn’t know what to do. I was in a state. There was you lot on the one hand, my tribe on the other. I fretted about it all the time. Anyway, we couldn’t have got away at that stage, Flinthead had patrols everywhere. He doesn’t mess about, you know. So there was only one thing I could do: go ahead with Flinthead’s plan. It wasn’t easy being hated by all of you … and now, if I help you escape, I shall be hated by everyone in my own tribe. I’d like to see you lot in the same position. What would you make of it?’

  ‘If all this is true,’ asked Torreycanyon, ‘why has it taken you so long to make up your mind?’

  ‘I’ve been waiting for the right opportunity,’ said Napoleon. ‘It won’t be easy getting out of here, and today’s a good day.’

  ‘What’s so special about today?’ asked Chalotte.

  ‘There was a big stealing expedition yesterday,’ said Napoleon, speaking more easily. ‘Most of us were out in the streets, hard at it. Now they’re sleeping. There’s to be a big celebration soon, and as Knocker said, it’s likely that you will be released into the tunnels one by one for the bodyguard to hunt down—Flinthead’s favourite sport. I … I … would be one of the hunters. I couldn’t stand that … so … well, there you are.’

  ‘Well,’ said Orococco, ‘I don’t care whether he’s telling the truth or a lie. I’m for getting out of here. Anything’s better than staying in this hole, even a scrap with the bodyguard and a muddy grave in the Wandle.’