The Borribles

by Michael Larrabeiti

  "Yeah and today's the day," said Vulge to himself grimly. "I missed a chance there, dammit." 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. 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, enormous for a Borrible, 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 made his eyes twinkle.

  Chalotte and Sydney had arrived in the kitchen perhaps ten seconds before Vulge, but they had wasted no time. The two Rumbles of the High Command had been caught flat-footed by Chalotte's inexplicable appearance but they had soon rallied. They each seized a Rumble-stick from a rack which stood against the wall and shouted to the kitchen-hands to arm themselves and give the alarm. But Chalotte was a magician with the catapult. She had loaded and fired her weapon twice before the two Rumbles could cast their spears and they retreated down the kitchen towards the hot stoves and steaming ranges. The sound of Chalotte's stones as they sliced through the air unnerved the Rumbles, and their lances, when they were thrown, skeetered harmlessly along the tiled floor.

  Now Sydney's catapult was ready and, ignoring the shouts of the scullions and the possible threat of a flying Rumble-stick, she stood and drew the heavy-duty elastic right back to her ear and a well-aimed stone flew to strike her foe in the centre of the forehead. Sydney Rumble fell lifeless to the floor, bringing down a pile of soup bowls with her.

  Chalotte's enemy was to meet a more grisly fate. At the noise of the crashing crockery the High Rumble took fright, for she was now outnumbered three to one, and pushing and kicking the terrified menials from her path she ran quickly to the far end of the kitchen where huge cauldrons boiled quietly on deep square stoves, warming the day's broth. Against the largest of the containers leant a step-ladder, placed there so that ingredients could be added without difficulty and so that the soup could be inspected from time to time by the chief cooks. But now Chalotte Rumble wanted only to get away. If she were to climb that ladder and take one step across the cauldron she could squeeze through a large vent that led into a different part of the Bunker, escaping to raise the alarm and fight another day. But Chalotte the Borrible, her blood pounding with the heat of battle, was a fast and nimble runner and she pursued her namesake closely. As the Rumble reached the top of the step-ladder, Chalotte reached the bottom, seized the whole contraption and lifted it up with all her energy. There was the briefest of silences as the poor Rumble spun in space, weightless for a second, then a scream split the steamy air and the scream wailed on long and loud until, with a splash, it was submerged deep in the hot and lumpy soup, but even then the scream went on, freighted up to the surface of the stew in rippling bubbles, like a fart in bath-water.

  Vulge ran across the room and covered the saucepan with a huge and heavy lid. "Blimey," he crowed, "she's really in the soup now, ain't she?"

  Napoleon's legs appeared through the opening in the ceiling and he dropped to the table and jumped to the floor. He ran to a corner and grabbed a Rumble-stick. He felt the weight of it and looked at the group of kitchen-hands who cowered together in a corner.

  "Okay, you bunch of bunnies," he snarled, "you move and I'll tear yer ears off."

  Sydney pulled her target's body into a broom-cupboard, closed the door and locked it. "Cripes," she gasped, "that was over too fast, don't seem right."

  "Getting in was easy," agreed Chalotte, "it's the getting out."

  "What are we going to do with the skivvies?" asked Vulge.

  "Lock 'em in the pantry," suggested Sydney, "they won't give us any trouble."

  "You do that," said Napoleon, making for the door. "Me and Vulge better get going, we've still got work to do. Before you leave here turn the electrics up; let it all burn dry so it'll smoke and fuse and catch fire. Hungry Rumbles can't fight."

  "That's it." Vulge crossed the room to leave with Napoleon. "When you've done you'd better try to make your way to the Great Door and see if you can meet up with Stonks and Torrey."

  "We might see you again at the Central," said Napoleon, "and then again we might not. Don't wait for anybody. As from now we each takes our chance." With this he and Vulge slipped through the door and were gone.

  Sydney and Chalotte herded the kitchen-hands into the larder, using sharp spears to encourage them. Once the Rumbles had been disposed of the two girls ran around the kitchen switching all the stoves and ovens to full on, and then, propped against their lances, they looked at each other and a slow smile crept from their eyes to their lips and became a grin.

  "Here, we've got our names," said Sydney. "Fancy that."

  Torreycanyon made his way down the main tunnel. It felt strange to be alone after so long in the company of the others, but there was no stopping now. Somewhere ahead of him would be the main hallway with the corridors running out from it like a spider's web. The Bunker was deserted, for the Rumbles were still sleeping, but in a very short while they would be coming from their bedrooms and making for the refectory to enjoy a copious breakfast.

  Occasionally Torreycanyon saw a signpost which, he supposed, was to direct the younger Rumbles until they had learnt their way around. There weren't enough indications for his taste and he realised what a task the Borrible team had taken on. He understood suddenly that he was going to need a lot of luck to find his target, and a lot more to get out of this labyrinth alive. He gripped his catapult tightly, a stone ready for firing, and he stepped bravely forward. Best to press on and meet the dangers as they came, no point in worrying about them prematurely. Good old Stonks was behind, guarding the Great Door, and it would take an avalanche of Rumbles to move him.

  Torreycanyon crept past several doors leading from the corridor. On each was a notice saying, "Dormitory"; he listened but heard no noises from within. So far so good. He went on, halting and listening at every branch corridor, peeping around every corner before going on and then peering back to make sure he was not being followed.

  "Cripes," he said, often. "I wish I could find my target and then get out of here, it's creepy being on your own."

  At last luck was with him. He nearly passed a narrow passage leading off to his left but his foot slipped and looking down he saw a patch of oil on the floor. He moved into the passage and shone his torch on the wall, for it was darker there. At eye level words had been daubed in blue paint, and although faded and difficult to decipher, they were still legible. "Garage and Workshops. Keep Out. signed TORREYCANYON RUMBLE."

  "Oh boy, oh boy," said Torreycanyon, "I've done it right. I'll get in the garage and wait for him." He knew from his reading of the Rumble histories that the workshops were a vital nerve centre of this underground complex and it was part of the Borrible plan, once they had eliminated their targets, to cause as much confusion as possible. Torreycanyon hoped that possession of the workshops would enable him to wreak great damage throughout the Bunker, merely by pulling a few switches. If he could break in before the Rumbles awoke, he would be in a strong position.

  The dark corridor sloped downwards beneath the Rumbledom hillsides. It was slippery and oily underfo
ot because so much machinery had passed that way but Torreycanyon moved forward only when he had verified with his torch that it was safe to do so. At last he came up against a heavy wooden door, sagging on its hinges. It was scarred and battered where sharp metal edges had been bashed against it. To Torreycanyon's amazement the door was open and a light shone inside.

  He pushed his torch back into his pocket and flexed the rubber on his catapult. He was ready. However many Rumbles were in the workshops he would take them on and then destroy their equipment before they destroyed him. But he must be sure to get his target; not one of the Rumble High Command must be left to organise pursuit or retaliation. Torreycanyon took a deep breath, thought briefly of the others and wondered where they were, then he shoved the door with a vigorous thrust of his foot and jumped into the room in the style of the adventure stories he had read or of the spy films he had seen when bunking-in at the Imperial Cinema, Clapham Junction. The door swung back and banged into the wall. Torreycanyon burst through the doorway and landed in the crouched position. His eyes raced over the workshops, his head turned, searching, but there was not one enemy to fire at. Torreycanyon relaxed.

  He was in a large rectangular room. It was lined with shelves on which was stowed every tool that might be needed in the underground stronghold and, in addition, there was row upon row of spare parts for the machinery that kept the Bunker ticking over. There were work-benches and power-points, electric drills and lathes, winches and a conveyor belt. It was an extremely well-equipped and functional place and Torreycanyon liked it.

  "Blimey," he said, looking round in wonder and respect, "what couldn't we do with this little lot," but then he remembered why he was there and he shook the feeling of awe from his mind. He bolted the door and made a tour of inspection, making sure that no unseen Rumble lurked behind the shelves, or between the work-benches. The more he saw of the place the more impressed he became. He had a practical turn of mind himself, and when he saw all those shining tools, laid out in perfect order, and those handy work-benches, the wood, the carpentry, the work in progress and the projects nearly finished, he felt that it was a great pity to destory such order. Why, oh why, did he not have such a workshop back in Hoxton? He knew he could have done it justice.

  He sighed and came to a corner where he thought the shop ended, but he had discovered another section of the room and he could see at a glance that this was the garage. He remembered that the Rumbles had built a car and had in fact used it for their trip to Battersea, that time when Knocker had captured one of their number. And here it was, he had discovered that car. He lowered his catapult; this place seemed empty too. The car itself was long and sleek and powerful-looking, but what struck Torreycanyon as he inspected it were the changes being made to the bodywork. Someone was converting it into an armoured troop-carrier, a weapon of war. There were little slits in the side of it, so that missiles could be fired from inside while the occupants remained protected. And on the steel panelling, not yet painted, some Rumble had scrawled in chalk, "Death to the Borribles". Torreycanyon glanced back down the long workshops. So that was it; those workshops did not look beautiful now, they looked sinister, and compassion drained from his heart.

  His thinking was interrupted by the clink of a spanner falling to the concrete floor and Torreycanyon heard a Rumble oath. He raised his catapult, crouched and looked towards the armoured car, all in one movement. Protruding from underneath the rear axle were two padded feet. A Rumble was doing an early morning stint on the mechanics and the car had been jacked up high at the back to enable the fitter to move comfortably about his business.

  Torreycanyon thought quickly. If that Rumble was the only one present, then all well and good, but was there another entrance, and were there more Rumbles to come? He stepped towards the car.

  "I say," he said politely, "any twouble?"

  "Who's that? What are you doing here? Hand me that Fourteen Whitworth," said the mechanic, rapidly and without waiting for answers.

  "It's Bingo," said Torreycanyon, using the first Rumble name that came into his head.

  "Bingo," cried the voice attached to the two feet. "Look, if you give me a hand for a couple of hours, we can do the test wun tonight. This car will be invincible; it'll take us down to Battersea High Stweet in half an hour, give those Bowwibles a beating and bwing us back in time for bweakfast."

  The Borrible tensed his muscles and was just about to drag the Rumble out from underneath the car when he had a thought. "Who is that under there, anyway?" he asked. "I can't wecognise you by your feet, they're not vewy distinctive."

  "Towweycanyon, of course—who else would be here at thwee in the morning when evewy other Wumble is still in bed? We of the High Command have got a sense of wesponsibility, a devotion to duty."

  Torreycanyon stood up and smiled to himself. What a stroke of luck. Unbelievably his target was right there with him, and they were all alone.

  The voice below the car said, "Go wound the back and pass me the working light, it's wolled out of my weach. Time is of the essence. The sooner we can teach those Bowwibles a lesson the better. We'll give them a twouncing all wight."

  "All wight," said Torreycanyon, and he began to walk round the car hoping Torreycanyon Rumble wouldn't notice that his feet were not padded as they should be. But the Rumble said nothing and he continued to talk as he struggled with spanners and nuts.

  "Now, when you get wound the back, be vewy careful, the handle of the jack is sticking out, just don't touch it at all, do you hear that, Bingo? It's vewy dangewous, cars and jacks and that, specially if you're underneath them. Nice things motors, but not seen fwom this angle, like a lot of things weally, all depends on the angle and that."

  Torreycanyon moved stealthily to the rear of the garage. Here was the enormous jack, here tools littered the floor, and there was the working light, up against the second entrance to the workshop—a sliding door of steel, large enough to allow the passage of the armoured car. No doubt, thought Torreycanyon, the door was concealed on the other side; camouflaged to look like a grassy bank behind gorse bushes or trees.

  The voice under the car went on. "If I stwetch out my hand you can put the working light underneath, there, just by the nearside fwont wheel and then I can . . ." The voice trailed off, and then, falteringly, it started again. "Bingo . . . you've got shoes, feet, weal feet. You can't be Bingo. You're human . . . or . . ."

  "A Borrible," cried Torreycanyon. He leapt for the car jack, knocked off the safety catch and triggered the mechanism that released its power. The mighty car, the massive tool of destruction, sank slowly and relentlessly to the oily floor, crushing the small life out of the Rumble who had tended it so lovingly. There was a scream, then quiet, and Torreycanyon slipped his catapult into his back pocket. He spoke out loud to himself and his voice echoed round the hard walls of the garage. "Congratulations to you, Torreycanyon," he said, "on achieving your name. Now you may construct a little mayhem out of the materials that lie about you."

  Knocker dropped down into the kitchen as the others had done. Adolf followed him and they both seized Rumble-sticks from the corner of the room.

  "Aha," said Adolf, "good weapons for close work." The door opened and they stiffened but it was Chalotte and Sydney returning from the corridor.

  "It's all quiet outside," said Chalotte, "but we don't know for how long."

  "What's all this nasty steam and stink?" asked Knocker, peering round the room. Sydney gestured to the huge pots still boiling and bubbling on the stoves. "Chalotte shoved her namesake into the porridge," she said.

  Adolf hooted. "So we have to felicitate you on your first name. I'm sure you will have many in the future."

  "I got mine as well," said Sydney, "in the cupboard."

  "You certainly wasted no time," said Knocker. "What about the others?"

  The two girls told them that Napoleon and Vulge had set off already, suggesting before they left a rendezvous in the heart of the Bunker, where most of the tunnel
s met.

  "That sounds all right," agreed Knocker. "Adolf and I will try to stir things up a bit; some alarm and despondency is what we want. Meanwhile, you girls could start preparing a line of retreat."

  When Chalotte and Sydney had gone, Adolf leant on his Rumble-stick and looked at Knocker from under his brow. "Well, my Battersea friend," he asked with the bright light burning in his blue eyes, "what is it we are up to?"

  Knocker laughed with happy excitement. "I'm going to get a second name out of this, and you can help Adolf. Somewhere in this maze of tunnels and corridors is a chest of treasure, money. My job is to get it back to Battersea High Street, so that it can be shared amongst all Borribles."

  "A fine Historian and Observer you are," said Adolf. "Where is it?"

  "I don't know," said Knocker, making his catapult ready and inspecting the nail on the end of his lance. "The Head Rumble's office seems a likely place, and that's where I am going."

  "Excuse." Adolf held up his hand. "That is where we are going."

  "Come on then," yelled Knocker and they dashed from the room.

  Vulge came to a halt at a place where the corridor divided. A notice showed him which way to go, it said, "Headquarters." He turned to Napoleon.

  "See you back at the Central, or at the Great Door."

  "Or not at all," said the Wendle, with an ironic smile.

  "It is sad to pass through life without one good Adventure," said Vulge, quoting one of the oldest of Borrible proverbs, and plunged forward with a mad eagerness.

  "And remember," said Napoleon to himself as he watched the energetic figure recede, "it is foolish to run faster than what you chase." Then he settled the bandoliers on his shoulders and marched away down the other corridor.

  Vulge had not far to go. He rounded a bend in the tunnel and came upon a well-lit and spacious hallway. It was more luxuriously carpeted than any other part of the Bunker. Rows of armchairs were there for lesser Rumbles who might wait to see their chieftain, and opposite Vulge was a stout oaken door. It was guarded by two stalwart Rumbles, armed with lances.