The Borribles

by Michael Larrabeiti

  An overpowering stench was brewing by the bank, a mixture compounded of rancid sewage, mouldering waste-paper and the rotting flesh of dead sea-birds. The water dripping from the raised and expectant oars of the rowers made no sound, so thick and oily was it. The Borribles coughed and retched, drooping on their benches, only just able to obey Napoleon's commands as he made the boat nose this way and that, his torch stabbing at the fearsome night.

  At last he turned and in a whispered shout, sharp with tired excitement, said, "I've got it."

  The boat drifted. The rowers twisted on their seats to look and their hearts shrank to the size of peanuts. In the flat wall of the Thames embankment, hidden behind a flotilla of barges, a gap appeared in the feeble light of Napoleon's torch.

  "This must be Wandle Creek," said Napoleon. "Anyway, there's only one way to find out, and that's go up the thing." It was obvious to the others that he was tense, that he didn't really know.

  The boat swung slowly round until it was knocking against the solid current of the Wandle and as soon as he was on course Napoleon ordered his crew to paddle upstream. He ran quickly down the middle of the boat, freed Adolf's hands and told him to lift out the rudder.

  "If you try to escape, I'll catapult you right up the back of the bonce."

  Adolf looked surprised. "Escape? This is what I came for, I'm not leaving you now."

  Napoleon ran back to the bows to direct the progress of the boat in a low voice and the Borribles pulled steadily, only too glad they couldn't see where they were in the fetid gloom.

  They had gone only a short distance when the creek forked and after a moment's hesitation and drifting Napoleon steered them to the left and they rowed on, levering their oars with difficulty out of water that seemed as tenacious as treacle. After ten minutes they heard Napoleon swear loudly and then call out urgently for them to stop. He struck the boat in anger. "Dammit, I forgot the weirs."

  The boatload of Borribles was utterly dismayed. Across the quiet of the night came a sound from beyond their experience, a rushing and a roaring of the elements. Swivelling again in their seats they saw a foaming slope of water slanting towards them in the torchlight; racing yellow suds forced themselves up through a black and shiny surface which slid, unstoppable, towards them, like the most precipitous moving staircase in the London Underground. Polythene containers, empty paint-cans and plastic bottles surged and danced around the boat, buffeting against its sides, like evil spirits on the river to hell.

  "W-what is it?" asked Bingo, trying to keep his lips steady.

  "It's an effin' weir, that's what, too high to get round. We'll have to take the other fork. There's another weir but it's not so steep." Napoleon's voice was dispirited and exhausted. He felt at the end of his tether, worn out by the responsibilities of the river trip and now this at the end of it.

  "If we're caught out here in the daylight, we'll be sussed by the rubbish-men and caught by the Woollies for sure." He thought for an instant and the others waited, the boat still staggering under the onslaught of the swirling water.

  "Ship yer oars," he said at length, and as soon as the oars were on board he took one of them and began to punt the boat back the way they had come, while his crew sat uselessly on the benches of The Silver Belle Flower, squinting hard to right and left but seeing little. It was all too silent and ugly.

  "Keep your eyes peeled for that fork in the creek," growled Napoleon, "otherwise I'll miss it and we'll be out on the Thames again. We must be hidden by dawn. This place is lousy with adults in daytime."

  His fear was shared by the others. Already the high banks of the Wandle, held in place by slimy green sleepers and sheets of pitted iron, were taking on a shape and the black sky was not so black as it had been. "The fork, the fork," sang out Adolf. Napoleon let the boat drift round into the other branch of the Wandle.

  "Get those oars going quick," he commanded, wrenching his own from a mud-bank that was reluctant to let it go. There was a nasty squelch as the oar came away and large dollops of sludge rolled begrudgingly down the wood and slunk back into the river.

  Napoleon urged his crew on. The flow of the tide was less strong here and they soon went under a railway bridge, the boat bashing through floating atolls of muck like a trawler in pack-ice.

  Another fork came up before them but Napoleon did not hesitate this time.

  "Bow side paddle," he called, "stroke side rest, one, two, paddle," and the boat veered to the left.

  "We went left last time and it was wrong," said Torreycanyon, loudly with some edge to his voice.

  "Yeah," said someone else.

  Napoleon's face became so white with anger that it glowed phosphorescent in the dark dawn. "Well, we're going left this time and it's right."

  Suddenly there was a clang and a boom and Napoleon was knocked forward and thrown down in the scuppers. The boat stopped moving with a jolt and a scraping was heard as the bows made contact with something. Napoleon jumped to his feet rubbing his head.

  "Damn you, don't talk to me when I'm navigating," he shouted. "We've gone and run into a pipe, could have drowned us."

  Slung low over the water a huge pipe-line spanned the Wandle near a foot-bridge and it was this that had flung Napoleon to the deck.

  "You at the stern, row hard," he cried. "This pipe's so low over the water that we'll have to force the boat under it. Don't fall in any of yer, there's eels in here will have yer leg off."

  Those at the rear of the boat leaned on the oars while those at the front got down on their backs and tugged and shoved The Silver Belle Flower under the pipe-line. When they emerged on the far side it was easy enough for them to push the boat through, while those behind ducked under in their turn.

  "It's not over yet," said Napoleon, "there's a real waterfall here, ten foot high, right under The Causeway. To get round it we've got to pull this boat up and out and over this bridge."

  Above their heads was a high fence that had been made by the rubbish-men, using old bed frames, bedsteads and strips of metal. Napoleon took a pair of wire-cutters from his pocket and got Bingo to give him a leg-up. He clung to the bankside and cut all the springs out of one of the bed frames, making a gap large enough to get the boat through.

  "Throw up the painter," he ordered next and when he had the rope in his hands he told the crew to jam their belongings firmly under the seats and then to climb up the bank to join him.

  "We've got to get this bleeder up here," explained Napoleon, whose weariness had dropped from him under the excitement of leadership, "and drag it across this island we're on, then we'll be above both weirs, but we've got to hurry."

  The Adventurers gathered around the painter and hauled and hauled and slowly The Silver Belle Flower came up from the water to hang vertically above the Wendle. Napoleon looped a couple of turns of the rope around a notice board which said, "Wandsworth Borough Council. Danger Keep Out." The others seized the bows of the boat and manhandled her to The Causeway. They puffed and they panted and waited a while to regain their breath.

  "Right, four each side," said Napoleon. "I'll pull, the Jerry can push." "Not half," said Adolf.

  They dragged and pushed the boat across a littered roadway where splintered glass and the debris from long abandoned houses made a crunching sound under the keel. Fifty yards they had to go; it was hard work and they slipped and stumbled and cursed, but at last they came to the main branch of the Wandle, well beyond the two dangerous weirs.

  It was pale daylight now and the danger of being spotted in this open and desolate country was increasing every minute. Hurriedly they balanced their boat on the river bank and Napoleon grouped them together.

  "When I give the word, we've got to push like hell. She should land flat on the water. If she don't, she'll sink."

  Oh his command they all heaved together, and The Silver Belle Flower flew out into the air and belly-flopped onto the water, with a sound that reverberated like a gunshot across the no-man's land of the empty estuary. Befor
e she could float away Napoleon dived down after the boat, sprawled between the benches, scrambled to his feet and threw the painter upwards into the hands of Torreycanyon.

  "All back in," yelled the Wendle, "quick as yer like."

  As the others embarked Knocker looked back the way they had come, and now in the weak light he could see.

  Two black steam cranes guarded the mouth of the Wandle, square and ugly, covered in sheets of flimsy metal, and they had iron wheels which ran on iron rails. These machines it was that loaded the barges with rubbish, scratching patiently every day into mountains of garbage that were always replenished, never diminishing. Scattered lorries waited to go scouring across Wandsworth in search of more waste; huge tipper trucks and skip-carriers stood idle between piles of discarded stoves and gutted refrigerators. Far off, between the Wandle and Wandsworth Bridge, was a mile of undulating mud-coloured barrenness, relieved only by the blobs of white that were seagulls, big as swans, tearing at offal with beaks like baling-hooks.

  Knocker shivered at the awesome beauty of it. "Strike a light," he said, "what a place."

  "Come on," Napoleon's voice was harsh, "get a move on."

  Knocker jumped down into the boat and took up his oar.

  "Row on," called Napoleon with venom. "This 'ere Wandle's the steepest river in London, like rowing up Lavender Hill it is, with the traffic against yer."

  The Adventurers bent forward. Their hands were sore, their backs ached and the tensions of the night had exhausted them. With their eyes closing and their muscles burning they rowed on and on, across a windswept landscape with no trees or buildings, until, after Armoury Way, they came by the back-yards of factories to Young's Ram Brewery and at last they heard Napoleon's soft command.

  "Hold it steady now, ship yer oars."

  They relaxed and the boat came gently to rest. Behind them dawn was lying along the streets of Wandsworth like a tired animal and the straight sides of the buildings, raised up in smoky yellow bricks, towered into a dusty sky. And very high, one bright window of light showed where an early morning bus-driver grumbled his way from a warm bed into a cold kitchen.

  Napoleon did not allow the crew to rest for long. "Right, you lot, we're here!" he said, a certain amount of satisfaction in his voice, and the Borribles turned and not one of them didn't gasp in horror. In a cliff-like factory wall a deep hole was visible: a brick culvert, barely large enough to allow the passage of the boat, hardly high enough to clear the heads of the rowers. It dripped with green slime and Napoleon's voice echoed feebly around it, dying weakly, sucked into nothing. The stench was disgusting and solid, rolling out onto the straggling river in misty clouds, like the final gasps of a decaying beast.

  "Swipe me, man," said Orococco, his eyes and teeth looking green in the queer light that floated up from the water, "we ain't going in there, I hope."

  Napoleon stood up in the prow, his legs spread, his hands on his hips, like a ruffian pirate captain. "This is the River Wandle," he said. "An ordinary little river that flows under the houses."

  "It stinks," said Bingo.

  "You've had it too easy," retorted Napoleon, "this is Wandsworth where the best Borribles come from."

  Knocker grinned to himself in spite of the trepidation he felt in common with his companions. Whatever else he thought about Napoleon Boot he had to admit that the Wendle had guts and style.

  "Now, we're taking this boat in," said the navigator, "and anyone who don't like it can swim home in this." He bent and scooped up a handful of the river water and cast it into the gangway of the boat. The eyes of the Borribles were attracted by the evil-looking liquid while their bodies were repelled by it. The water hardly disintegrated at all but green globules of it rolled into the crevices of the woodwork to lie there glowing.

  "Right," went on Napoleon, crouching in the prow. "Gently . . . keep your heads down and I'll fend off with my hands."

  Under the cautious power of the rowers the boat shoved its nose into the steaming dankness of the sewer and Napoleon shone his torch this way and that, but it did little good, for the rolling clouds of fog swallowed and digested the tiny beam before it could travel a yard. The rowers leaned back in their seats, digging their oars through the surface of the water. Adolf sat on the stern seat, shining his torch backwards, and in its light the Adventurers could see the dripping roof of the cavern and sometimes the gaping holes of side tunnels where thick water slid slowly out to fasten itself to the main stream. The German hummed gently to keep up their spirits. "Ho, ho, heave ho." Then he repeated it, "Ho, ho, heave ho. Come, my brothers, ho, ho, heave ho."

  Napoleon's commands came regularly in a quiet voice. "Slowly bow side, two strokes. Easy stroke side, now one stroke." And so they groped forward, hesitating at times before tunnels that forked to right and left, Napoleon sometimes knowing where he was going, sometimes guessing.

  After what seemed hours of paddling the oars stuck against the walls and they were brought into the boat. "It's too narrow for rowing now," said Napoleon. "Someone will have to get into the water and pull the boat along."

  There was silence amongst the Borrible crew. Napoleon bent under a seat and pulled out a pair of rubber waders. He was laughing to himself as the others could see in the light of his torch.

  "I knew I'd have to do it," he said. "The best Borribles come from Wandsworth all right."

  Adolf chuckled. "Ho, I don't know about that, we've got a lot of dirty water in Hamburg, my friend. Give me the waders, I will pull you, I haven't done any of the rowing." The German bustled down the boat. He took the waders from the astonished Napoleon, slipped them on and jumped into the stream with no hesitation at all.

  The rowers swivelled in their seats to watch with amazement. Bingo knelt and shone his torch just ahead of the intrepid little German, so that he could see where he was going, but Adolf had his own torch hooked onto a button of his jacket. He grabbed the painter in both hands and with a "Ho, ho, heave ho," he pulled the boat smartly along as if it weighed nothing.

  "Well I never," said Sydney.

  Napoleon shook his head. "There'll be a kind of pathway by the side of the sewer a little further on," he called, "then you'll be able to get up on that."

  This information turned out to be true and soon Adolf was striding out cheerfully along a brick bank that had been built originally for the sewer-men of Wandsworth, the only adults that the Wandsworth Borribles respected.

  Suddenly Adolf stopped humming and tugging simultaneously. The rope went slack and The Siver Belle Flower bumped into the bank. Those in the boat looked up to discover what had stopped the German and saw, crouching aggressively against the curving wall of the sewer, an armed Wendle.

  He was a thin and wiry figure and he was wearing the same kind of rubber waders that Napoleon had lent to Adolf. Instead of the normal woollen Borrible cap this Wendle, like other warriors of his aggressive tribe, wore a metal helmet to cover his ears and guard his head; made from an old beer can, it glowed coppery green in the light of the torches. He wore a thick chunky jacket of wool covered with plastic to keep out the water and the plastic shone orange and luminous, like the coats worn by the men who work on motorways. In fact the material had been stolen from them. The Wendle's face was hard and tough, much tougher than Napoleon's even, and his eyes moved quickly. He was not afraid even though he was one against ten. With a shout he thrust forward with the Rumble-stick he bore in his hands.

  It was then that Adolf showed what a redoubtable fighter he could be. Unarmed, he was not one to avoid a good fight; as he had said, he liked fighting. The spear jabbed towards him and he slid gracefully to one side, his body folding into the water. His companions, who had come to like and admire the German, sprang to their feet in dismay. But Adolf was down not out, for as he fell he went under the vicious weapon and caught hold of the Wendle's right foot. As soon as Adolf's feet touched the river bottom he yanked as hard as he could and the Wendle lost balance and landed flat on his back on the edge of the pat
hway, the spear shaken from his grasp. The German grabbed his opponent's head and pulled it brusquely into the water and shoved it under the filthy surface.

  "Ho, ho, ho," he roared, his face bright with triumph and his blue eyes flashing like police beacons revolving.

  There was a clatter further along the tunnel and three more Wendles appeared, armed with powerful catapults, raised and ready, aimed at Adolf.

  Napoleon waved his arms and his torch. "A Wendle, a Wendle, a Wendle!" he shouted at the top of his voice. "Don't fire! Borrible! Adolf, let him up. Quick or you're as kaput as a kipper."

  The German kept his eyes on the strung catapults and cautiously raised the limp body of his assailant from the black water. He held it in front of him like a shield and without being noticed, except by Knocker, who was now in the prow of the boat with Napoleon, he slid a catapult from the unconscious Wendle's pocket and secreted it in his own.

  "Good work," said Knocker to himself, "that kraut's a real find."

  One of the three Wendles called out in a harsh voice that came grating along the tunnel wall. "You, put that Wendle back on the path, the rest of you keep dead still. There's another fifty of us up round the next bend."

  Adolf carried his burden to the bank and unceremoniously dumped it. Then he stood against the prow of the boat. Knocker was right behind him now and it was easy to slip a few catapult stones into the German's right hand which was held behind his back in the hope that someone would know what he wanted.

  Napoleon shouted out anxiously, "I'm a Wendle myself, on the Great Rumble Hunt. Flinthead knows about it, hasn't he told you?"

  "He's told us," came the answer, "but if you've drowned Halfabar then you're in serious trouble." One of their number now came forward and knelt beside the half-drowned Wendle. He turned the sodden body over and pummelled the water put of it, ascertaining that the warrior would be capable of many more fights in the future. He nodded to the others and they seemed satisfied.