The Borribles: Across the Dark Metropolis Read online

  ‘It’s a catsmeat operation,

  Starting small then growing bigger.

  First the horse—and then my mission

  I shall prosecute with vigour.

  ‘All the anti-social sinners

  Who are ruining Great Britain

  I’ll have processed into dinners,

  Shiny tins for cats and kittens.

  ‘I’ll make catsmeat of the shirkers

  And malingering midday drinkers,

  Of the disobedient workers

  And the independent thinkers.

  ‘I’ll make catsmeat of the steppers

  Out of line, the by-law breakers,

  And of all the social lepers

  Who are punks and trouble-makers.

  ‘Every dissident defaulter,

  Be he Borrible or not,

  I shall apprehend and alter—

  I’ll make catsmeat of the lot!’

  At the end of this song Hanks grinned and wagged his head it astonishment. ‘Wonderful, sir,’ he said, ‘absolutely wonderful.’ He grinned again and poured tea into his mouth.

  As he did so a squall of rain rattled against the walls of the house and Sussworth scuttled to the window. He attempted to peer out into the night but it was as dark as dark in the street and the light from a nearby lamp post hardly fell as far as the pavement.

  Sussworth danced with glee. ‘Look at that cold rain,’ he crowed. ‘I wouldn’t want to be a Borrible in a broken-down old house right now, Hanks, not right now or ever.’

  Hanks laughed. ‘Winter’s coming,’ he said, ‘a long hard winter.’

  ‘It will be for the Borribles,’ said Sussworth, his moustache moving from side to side like a windscreen wiper. ‘A long hard winter for Borribles. I’ll drink another cup of tea to that.’

  ‘Certainly, sir,’ said the sergeant, and he propelled his huge body across the room in the direction of the kettle.

  Bingo Borrible pulled his woollen hat down over his ears, turned up the collar of his combat jacket and heaved himself up to the top of the railway embankment. The wind was vicious; the rain stung his face like nails from a catapult. He twisted his head to look behind him. ‘Come on, Stonks,’ he said. ‘There’s a couple of trucks in the siding.’

  There was a scrabbling noise from below and out of the stormy swirling of the dark rain the head of Stonks appeared. Stonks was big for a Borrible and with a face that was slow to let you know what it was thinking. For all that he was well liked by those who knew him; trusted to the death and as strong as a man. Behind Stonks came Twilight, the Bangladeshi from Whitechapel.

  ‘Well damn me,’ he said. ‘After that summer, this winter; I need a new raincoat.’

  ‘First thing to do,’ interrupted Bingo, ‘is to find some food for Sam. He only had a couple of carrots this morning.’

  ‘You think there’s anything in those trucks?’ asked Stonks. He looked behind and below towards the sparse lighting of Battersea High Street. ‘It’s a bit exposed up here.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ answered Bingo. ‘Someone told me there was a load of cattle cake knocking about. I’ll go over to the trucks while you keep watch.’

  Bingo eased himself over the edge of the embankment and, keeping low, crossed the tracks and went towards the goods siding. Soon Stonks and Twilight had lost sight of their companion, but after a minute or two they heard his call and went to join him.

  ‘What’s in there?’ asked Stonks. He stood by one of the huge wagon wheels, Twilight beside him.

  ‘Not sure, exactly,’ said Bingo. His voice came from inside the truck and his words were ripped apart by the wind. ‘There’s some stuff in plastic sacks. I had a quick glim with me torch and it seems to be some sort of animal grub.’

  ‘Throw one down,’ said Stonks. ‘I’ll carry it back to the factory.’

  ‘And another,’ added Twilight. ‘That’ll keep Sam going for a few days.’

  As the second sack hit the ground there was a loud cry from below them on the far side of the railway line. ‘Stay where you are,’ roared a man’s voice, ‘you’re under arrest.’

  ‘Railway police,’ said Twilight. ‘Come on, Bingo, out of that truck.’ The Bangladeshi pulled a catapult from his belt, loaded it and fired a shot in the general direction of the shouts. He fired another shot and the voice was raised again. Others joined it.

  ‘You can’t get away, we’ve got men on both sides of the track.’

  Bingo jumped to the ground. ‘They’re lying,’ he said, ‘otherwise they wouldn’t have told us. Come on, into the High Street.’

  ‘What about this cattle cake?’ asked Stonks, steadfast as ever. ‘The horse is hungry.’

  ‘We can’t take it now,’ said Twilight, ‘it’ll slow us down.’

  Stonks stooped and picked up a sack and threw it over his shoulder. ‘I’ll give it a try,’ he said.

  That was the end of that discussion. The three Borribles turned and ran, stumbling in the dark down their side of the embankment. At the bottom they were brought up against the back wall of the yards that ran behind the shops of Battersea High Street. Bingo had been right; there were no police lying in ambush there. They stood still for a moment listening. The voices were above them now, up by the trucks.

  ‘Over we go,’ said Bingo. He joined his hands to make a step and, placing a foot on it, Twilight levered himself to the top of the wail. As soon as he was there Stonks and Bingo slung the sack up to him and Twilight guided it over to the far side where it landed with a gentle thud. Stonks then climbed the wall in his turn, stretched out an arm and pulled Bingo up next to him.

  For a while all three of them sat on the wall and held their breath; listening as the shouts and whistles of the police diminished in the distance; listening to make sure that no one lay in wait for them below. They sat with patience, not moving, not speaking. They were used to it; in that kind of darkness you never knew who was near, ready to get you. And while they waited the smell of the back yard rose in their nostrils: cats’ pee and concrete, mildew and dead dog.

  When ten minutes had passed and the whole area was quiet again the three Borribles slipped off the wall and Stonks hoisted the sack of cattle feed on to his shoulder. ‘It’s all right,’ he said. ‘We can get back to the factory now.’

  The factory was at the end of Battersea High Street near the junction with Vicarage Crescent, and by keeping to the shadows and climbing over back walls the Borribles arrived without further trouble. To the side of the factory, lying between it and the railway embankment, was a piece of wasteland littered with rubbish and debris. The Borribles crossed this and came to a large door made from wide and heavy planks.

  Bingo halted here and gave the Borrible knock: one long, two short, one long, scraping his knuckles. After a moment the door eased open on freshly oiled hinges and a white smudge appeared in the dark. It was the face of Sydney. ‘Well,’ she said.

  ‘Bingo, Twilight and Stonks,’ said Bingo.

  Sydney grunted and opened the door just enough for the three Borribles to enter. As soon as they had done so she closed it again. It was darker in than out.

  She asked, ‘Did you get anything?’

  Stonks patted the sack on his shoulder. ‘Half hundredweight of cattle cake,’ he said. ‘That should do it.’

  ‘Good,’ said Sydney. ‘Go and feed him then.’ And they heard her step to the nearest window to resume her watch.

  The three Borribles moved away in the blackness, their feet quite accustomed to the uneven floor and its covering of rubble. When they reached the end of the building they went through a hatch in a wall, round a corner and then down a wide ramp which led to a deep cellar.

  This cellar was their home. The factory had lain empty for years now and was really too large and draughty for Borribles. Borribles normally prefer small rooms because they are easier to keep warm, easier to furnish. This time the Adventurers had not had a great deal of choice. On their return from Wandsworth some two months before, escapi
ng from Inspector Sussworth and the SBG, they had been obliged to take cover forthwith and also to find a place big enough to hide Sam the horse in. The factory had fitted their bill exactly.

  At the bottom of the ramp the Borribles doubled back on themselves and walked to the far end of the cellar, where a solitary electric bulb dangled from a frayed length of flex and gave a weak light. There, in a large space hollowed out under the highest part of the ramp, Stonks threw down the sack and, kneeling beside it, drew his knife and slit the plastic open.

  ‘Looks all right,’ he said. ‘Come on, Sam, try this.’

  A small undistinguished horse, half brown half black as if it didn’t really know what colour it wanted to be, stirred in a corner of the cellar and miserably shook its head. This was Sam.

  He came forward and dropped his nose into the open sack and chewed upon what lay there. He did not like the taste of it and after only the smallest of samples he blew through his nostrils and backed away.

  ‘Oh, Sam,’ said Twilight, anxiety making one of his eyebrows twitch up his forehead, ‘you’ve got to eat; you’re not looking well at all.’

  Bingo lifted a bucket of clean water. He swirled it round so that it made a sloshing noise. ‘Perhaps he’s thirsty,’ he said.

  As Bingo spoke another light was switched on and showed two or three bunks to one side of the cellar and three or four mattresses on the floor as well. Under the archway of the ramp the Borribles had made a kind of rough sitting room with two or three wrecked armchairs, their stuffings and springs visible. There was also a long table made from scaffolding planks supported on saw-horses. Stools had been improvised from orange boxes and barrels. Dirty blankets and torn cushions gave what little comfort there was.

  Bingo looked up as the light came on. Faces appeared from the shadows. Knocker threw his blanket back and rose, fully dressed, from his bed on the floor. He came to stand with the others, close to Sam.

  ‘He doesn’t look well, does he?’ he said.

  Chalotte propped herself up on her elbow and looked out from her bunk. ‘He’s not getting any fresh air,’ she said. ‘That’s what he needs, and exercise.’ There was an orange under her pillow. She pulled it out and began to peel it.

  There was a loud yawn next and then a burst of swearing and Vulge emerged from under a pile of blankets and sacks. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘as long as the lights are on and you’re going to start chatting I might as well make us all a pot of tea.’ He filled a kettle from a tap in the wall and plugged it in to boil. ‘What time is it, anyway?’

  Chalotte looked at her watch. ‘It’s three o’clock,’ she said. ‘In the morning.’

  Napoleon Boot was next awake. ‘Strewth,’ he said. ‘What the old Mother ’ubbard’s going on here?’

  ‘We got some cattle cake for Sam,’ said Bingo. ‘Do horses like cattle cake?’

  There was silence for a while. Everyone watched Vulge make the tea and when it was ready Knocker took a mugful and sat at the table. ‘Who’s on guard?’ he said.

  ‘Sid and Torrey,’ answered Vulge. ‘I’ll take ’em a drink.’ He scooped up two mugs and walked off into the darkness, limping slightly.

  ‘I’m worried about that horse,’ said Knocker between sips, ‘very worried. He looks unhealthy. Look at his coat, half brown and half black; he looks like a carpet.’

  ‘It’s the dye that Knibbsie put on him,’ said Chalotte. ‘The black’s wearing out.’

  ‘He eats the carrots we get,’ said Bingo, ‘and the apples and the cabbages.’

  ‘Course he does,’ said Twilight, ‘but he’s not a bleedin’ goat, is he? He needs hay and that.’

  ‘It’s the lack of fresh air.’ That was Sydney’s voice and everyone turned to look at her. She had just come into the light from the bottom of the ramp. Her face was lined with worry. All the Adventurers were fond of the horse but Sydney loved him. For her Sam was something special.

  Orococco dropped from a top bunk without a sound, took a cup of tea and went to sit by Knocker. ‘How long we been hiding now,’ he asked, ‘about two or three months?’

  ‘Long enough,’ said Napoleon with more than his usual bitterness. ‘Long enough for a long summer to turn into a long winter.’

  There was another silence as each Adventurer thought his or her own thoughts. Only a few weeks had brought them to this feeling of imprisonment; it was like being under siege. They had returned from Wandsworth in such high spirits too, with Ben the tramp and Knibbsie the stableman. They had only taken refuge in the factory as a temporary measure, hiding until the hue and cry had died down, waiting until it was safe to take Sam to Neasden.

  But things had gone wrong, seriously wrong. The search by the SBG had not slackened as the Borribles had hoped and they found their movements terribly restricted. They were hemmed in on every side. There were policemen on every bridge across the River Thames. There were policemen disguised as costermongers. There were policemen guarding every crossroads with their SBG vans circling round and round, like carrion crows. On York Road and at Prince’s Head groups of Woollies stopped children at random and inspected their ears. Any stray Borrible who was discovered had his ears clipped as soon as he or she had been questioned. It was even difficult to steal things in the market, the only source of food, and feeding Sam was the biggest problem of all. The Borribles were forced to move about almost entirely at night when there was less food to be had. The danger of capture was always with them and seemed to be increasing every day. They felt they were being strangled. They had become downhearted and homesick for the old Borrible life of independence and freedom; they were too dispirited even to quarrel.

  Chalotte swung her legs out of bed and threw her orange-skin into a corner of the cellar; she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

  ‘It’s been two months too long,’ she said. ‘We’ve got to get out of this place and find somewhere quiet to spend the winter. Sussworth knows we’re here or hereabouts and the longer we stay the more chance we have of being caught. We won’t do Sam any good if we’ve all had our ears clipped and are growing up like nice little boys and girls in some foster home. After a few months we wouldn’t even remember Sam. The memory goes, they say, when you’ve had your ears done.’

  ‘What if we left Sam just for a while,’ suggested Napoleon, ‘got out for the winter and then captured him back later?’

  No one answered. Knocker looked at Chalotte and then both of them looked at Sydney. It was she who spoke for the horse.

  Sydney sat hunched on a barrel; she did not raise her head when she spoke and her voice was low and sad.

  ‘Look,’ she said, ‘I know you’ve done more than enough for Sam … all that trouble with Spiff and the fighting in the sewers and the digging in the mine. I thought it was all over when we got back here. I thought I would simply take Sam back to Neasden and that would be that. Perhaps Napoleon’s right; there is no point in us all getting caught. Perhaps you should all go home until next spring and I’ll stay with Sam, keep feeding him and hope I don’t get caught.’

  ‘It’s not that, Sid,’ said Chalotte, ‘it’s Sam. He’s been cooped up in this cellar for two months; it ain’t healthy. He’ll die if we don’t get him out.’

  Sydney lowered her head into her hands. ‘And so will we, one way or the other. Sussworth’s got us on the run.’

  Knocker got to his feet and moved from the dark into the light. ‘We can’t carry on like this,’ he said, then he quoted from the Borrible Book of Proverbs: ‘“A Borrible who does not live like a Borrible is not a Borrible.” We’ve got to go somewhere else.’

  Orococco poured himself another mug of tea. ‘We’ve got to think positive,’ he said. ‘First, Sussworth doesn’t know where we are, not for sure he don’t. Second, it’s coming on winter. It’ll be dark at three o’clock in the afternoon in another month or so, and it rains most of the time; people keeps their heads down. They won’t notice us once we’re out of the danger zone.’

  ‘And I suppose,�
� said Napoleon with the old sneer in his voice, ‘they won’t notice a thumping great horse walking along behind yer. What you going to tell ’em, eh? It’s just a Great Dane with a big head?’

  ‘We owe him our lives,’ cried Sydney, ‘and don’t you forget it, Napoleon Boot Wendle.’

  ‘It won’t make sense,’ said Twilight, ‘if we have to give up our freedom and there’s no guarantee of Sam getting his. That would be daft.’

  ‘It would be,’ agreed Chalotte. ‘That is why we have to be crafty, we have to win this one. That horse is important. We have to get it to Neasden so that Sydney can look after it and so that we can go home and lead normal lives.’

  ‘Neasden,’ said Napoleon. ‘You realize where that is? It’s the other side of the bloody moon, that is. And every inch of the way there’ll be Woollies, Rumbles, Borrible-snatchers and Inspector Sussworth and Sergeant Hanks and the boys in blue from the SBG. Why Neasden?’

  Sydney stood, put her hands on her hips and faced up to the Wendle. ‘I tell you why Neasden,’ she said, ‘because I live there and I can look after Sam, and because there’s an old bloke who lives in these acres and acres of waste ground by the railway line. Adults hardly go there; they think this bloke’s daft in the head. They calls him Mad Mick, but he ain’t mad, not by a long chalk. He saves horses and donkeys from the knacker’s yard, won’t let them be slaughtered. There’s some people up there who give him grub and hay and straw and stuff. They throw things out the train windows on their way to work. If Sam was there with all the other horses, Sussworth would never find him and I could see him whenever I wanted … That’s why Neasden, that’s why.’

  Knocker raised a hand. ‘The way I see it is this—the worst thing will be getting out of Battersea because this is the place that Sussworth is watching the hardest. If we could get a few miles away, take it in slow stages, well … we might do it. As long as we travelled in the dark we’d only have to hide during the daylight hours and there’s only about six or seven of them in the winter.’