The Borribles Read online

  2

  During the fortnight that followed the capture of Timbucktoo, the lookouts’ room in Spiff’s house became the centre for the collection of all gear that might turn out to be useful on the Great Rumble Hunt. Under the watchful eye of Knocker it was stacked and sorted: there were rucksacks and life jackets from the sports section of Arding and Hobbs, thick warm coats, sleeping bags, unbreakable nylon rope for climbing trees and the sides of houses, stout boots, oilskins, woollen underwear, sharp knives, sou’westers and ski goggles.

  Looking at the spoils Knocker felt pleased; his job was finished and every eventuality had been foreseen. The store cupboard was full and the lookouts’ room was piled high with valuable items. The only space left clear was a small area round the desk and a kind of corridor to each of the doors. Knocker rubbed his hands together in contentment and at that moment Lightfinger appeared, sidling between the goods towering above his head.

  ‘You look tired,’ he said.

  ‘I am that,’ answered Knocker. ‘But I think I’ve got everything now, though I suppose I’m bound to have forgotten something.’

  ‘Well, you haven’t finished yet, mate,’ said Lightfinger. ‘Spiff wants to see you right away, upstairs.’

  Knocker ran up to the ground floor landing and knocked on Spiff’s door. It was opened immediately.

  ‘Ah, there you are Knocker, come in, sit down. Good news, they’re here.’

  ‘Who?’ asked Knocker, whose mind was tired and preoccupied.

  ‘Oh, come on,’ said Spiff. ‘The Brightest of the Borribles, the Magnificent Eight, call ‘em what you like, they’re here.’

  ‘Where?’ asked Knocker.

  ‘In the old storeroom under the gym in Rowena Crescent, other side of Prince’s Head. I want you to put them through a complete lookout training. Make sure they are first-class thieves, good at shoplifting and Woollie-dodging; and see they know the Borrible proverbs by heart. Then take them on a few runs in Battersea Park; I know they don’t like the countryside, but they’ve got to get used to it; Rumbledom’s rough … I know, I’ve been there. I’ll give you two weeks, that’s all. There’ll be another bloke to help you, he’s from the Northcote Road tribe, was brought up in a paratrooper’s family before he was Borribled, he could be useful. By the way—’ Spiff threw over some books and Knocker caught them in his lap ‘—you’d better read those from cover to cover, they’re the Rumble manuals, their whole history from the word go, gives the layout of their place, the structure of their command and the way they fight with their Rumble-sticks. Nasty long lances they are, with a four-inch nail at the end.’

  Knocker was caught off-balance. ‘Rumble manuals, Spiff, how did you get your hands on those? No Borrible’s meant to have seen ‘em.’

  Spiff tapped his nose with a finger. ‘Never you mind, young feller me lad. Everything you need is there. Just get on with it. I’ll come and see you in two weeks. If there’s anything you need, send a runner.’

  Knocker gathered up the books and rose to leave, but Spiff raised a hand to stop him.

  ‘Oh, yes, in the first volume I’ve made a list of the Eight High Rumbles of Rumbledom, their names. I thought it would be a good idea if you gave each of your Borribles one of those names to win, so if they ever get that far, each of your blokes will know exactly which Rumble he’s got to do for. All right?’

  ‘How shall I give them out? Did you decide that?’

  Spiff laughed to himself mysteriously. ‘You’d better put the names into a hat and your guys can draw for them, then there can be no arguments about the targets they are given.’ Spiff hesitated, and then laughed again. ‘That is except for two of them, those you’ll have to put into a separate hat. You’ll see them marked on the list. Go on, buzz off, Knocker.’

  As he went down the stairs Knocker let out a long low whistle. He would have loved to have gone on the expedition, to have earned a new name and a new story to tell, but fancy going through life with a Rumble title; that would be strange. Then he reflected that it was not the name after all, but the story it carried with it that mattered. He could think of some fine Borribles with the most extraordinary monikers, but when you saw them or heard their names you didn’t think of the word alone or its sound, you thought of the life and the deeds that lay beyond it—the story.

  But then stories are very important to Borribles. Most of the time they can’t have a real adventure because they are too busy making sure they get enough to eat, so to compensate they read tales like westerns or spy stories or science fiction. For a Borrible the next best thing to an adventure of his own is hearing other Borribles tell how they won their names; and it doesn’t matter if they exaggerate their deeds in the telling, exaggeration is accepted as long as it makes a good story.

  So in Knocker’s mind, as he made his way up the High Street, there was no doubt that the eight Borribles who were going on this adventure would have wonderful stories to tell. The Rumble names they were going to win would remind them of their targets during the expedition and, in years to come, if they were successful, everyone who heard the names would know how they had been won. ‘Yes,’ concluded Knocker as he turned into Rowena Crescent, Spiff had come up with a good idea, but then Spiff was as sharp as a cut-throat razor.

  Outside the gym Knocker stopped to make sure his hat was on firmly, his ears covered. The building was long and low, looking like an empty pub and faced with green tiles. Above the door and three long windows was a sign. Knocker looked up at it, though he knew what it said: ‘Rowena Gym. Tough Guys for Stage and Screen and TV. Stunt Men. Kung Fu. Laetitia Martin, prop.’

  Knocker could hear grunts and groans coming from inside: adult males trying to break into show business. In the pavement he saw the telltale grilles revealing where the basement was, where the Borribles would be. Tightening his grip on the Rumble books, Knocker went through the gym’s main entrance and down a corridor that was tiled in the same dirty colour as the front of the building. As he went forward a security guard threw open the door of his office and came to stand in Knocker’s way. He was huge, with his legs spread and his hands on his hips. He had a cauliflower ear and his breath smelt sickly-sweet of brown ale.

  ‘And where d’you think you’re going, mush?’

  ‘It’s all right,’ lied Knocker, ‘my big brother’s here and I got to give him these books. I’m late already.’

  The man thought slowly, then: ‘Okay, but don’t hang about. Kids ain’t allowed in here, ‘specially little squirts like you.’ With that he retreated into his office and slammed the door.

  At the end of the corridor Knocker ignored the up staircase and descended a flight of dank cement steps until he was in a darkness so deep that he had to feel his way. He groped along a wall until he came up against a rough wooden door which did not give when he pushed it. He tried the Borrible knock, gently at first and then, when nothing happened, a little louder—one long, two shorts, then a long—Dah … di-di … dah.

  There was a slight noise behind the door, a bolt clanged, a lock clashed and an eye peered through a slit.

  ‘Borrible?’ asked the person behind the door.

  ‘Borrible,’ answered Knocker.

  The door was opened, just wide enough for Knocker to pass through, and then it was closed and bolted behind him. He found himself in a long dusty space with exercise bars covering each wall from floor to ceiling. From central beams hung thick ropes for climbing; jute mats were piled in the corners and here and there various bits of machinery, designed to improve the efficiency of the human body, had been abandoned. The light in the room was grey and faltering; indeed it was so weak that Knocker could hardly make out the eight shapes sitting quietly on a bench at the far end of the gym.

  The chief lookout turned to the Borrible next to him. ‘Northcote Road?’ he asked, and his companion nodded.

  ‘Name is Dodger,’ he said, and smiled.

  ‘That sounds like a good name,’ said Knocker, ‘you must have had a good adventure
getting it. Perhaps you’ll tell me one day.’

  ‘Everyone knows how you got your name, Knocker, that’s one of the best Borrible stories ever told.’

  Knocker was pleased by this tribute to his celebrity and he felt sure that he and Dodger would get on. It is usual for Borribles meeting for the first time to exchange compliments on their respective names and the winning of them. Until they have a name Borribles are known simply as ‘You’, ‘Oi’ or ‘Mush’, sometimes as ‘Fingy’, or even ‘Wazzisname’. But to call a named Borrible by one of the foregoing is an unforgivable insult and will lead to fighting.

  An even greater insult for a named Borrible is for him to be told that he acquired his name only because he’d found it, or someone had thrown it away. And for an un-named one it is very galling to have it suggested that he is nameless because no one has yet had the devious ingenuity to invent an epithet bad enough for him.

  Knocker glanced at the beret Dodger was wearing; it was dark red in colour, and bore the badge of the Parachute Regiment, shining bright.

  ‘Army?’ observed Knocker.

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Dodger proudly. ‘My family was Parachute Regiment and SAS until I became a Borrible. I wouldn’t have run away at all if they hadn’t wanted to pack me off to some school. Up until then I’d spent all my time watching the soldiers doing their training. That was the life.’

  Knocker laughed. ‘Well, we’d better get a shift on, we’ve only got two weeks.’ They turned from the door and made their way down the long hall, their feet kicking into piles of rubbish and releasing stale smells from old cardboard cartons.

  ‘How did you get in here?’ asked Knocker.

  Dodger pointed to the ceiling. ‘I had the bolts off a couple of those grilles in the pavement. Easy. That way we won’t have to go past “Punchie the porter” every day.’

  Knocker nodded. ‘I’ll remember next time.’

  The Eight Adventurers sat motionless on their bench. Some were leaning back against the wall with their eyes closed; some held their heads in their hands and others sat looking straight in front of them, staring at nothing.

  At a sign from Knocker, Dodger switched on some electric lights and the Borribles blinked their eyes.

  ‘Stand up. Get your hats off.’

  When they had done what Knocker asked he walked down the line and inspected their ears to see if they showed signs of the intelligence he was expecting. It was a manoeuvre that gave him time to think. He would have admitted to no one, apart from Spiff perhaps, that he was flabbergasted; one of the champions was black. Of course he knew that many Borribles were black, more and more all the time. There were legions of them in Battersea and Tooting, and an even greater number in Brixton; he just hadn’t thought of one on this expedition. He had no one to blame but himself for this oversight. He was, after all, a chief lookout and his mind should have been open to all possibilities, not drifting around in preconceptions and prejudices.

  Mentally he kicked himself for being a fool, but he hadn’t finished kicking himself. When he stopped at the end of the row he found that the last two Borribles were females. Here his surprise nearly got the better of him, but he pursed his lips and pretended to be thinking. One of the girls smiled and to cover his embarrassment Knocker looked closely at her ears. They indicated a high degree of intelligence and great individuality, and that could mean trouble. Now Knocker knew why Spiff had laughed and why he’d said he’d have to put the names into two different hats.

  Knocker went back to where Dodger stood, handed over the Rumble books, and took the list of names from his pocket. He looked at it, making the eight champions wait. Finally he said, ‘You will be here for two weeks. We are going to see how good you really are. When Dodger and I have satisfied ourselves about your basic knowledge we will move on to more specialist skills, but before that I want to be convinced that you are good: good with a catapult, good with your hands, good with your feet. I want you to be the best runners, the best fighters, and I want to see how you deal with tricky situations. You’ll have to be the best if you want to go on this trip, because if I don’t think you are, you ain’t going.’

  Knocker looked along the faces, scrutinizing them one after the other. ‘Anyone hears an order from me or Dodger, jump. That’s against the grain for a Borrible, I know it, but there hasn’t been an adventure like this in years and if you want to be in on it you’ve got to do what I say. Any questions?’

  There were no questions.

  ‘Good, now to the names. It was decided to give you your names now—provisionally.’

  There was a stir in the line and eyes flashed.

  ‘This is to make it more convenient for me during training and for you all when you’re out on the adventure. These names will not be confirmed until your return—if you ever make it. These names have been lent to you on trust. One false step at any time and your name will be withdrawn, and you will never be given another adventure.’

  There was silence; the eight faces looked at him and waited. They were tense and excited, but these Borribles were too canny to give much away. He went on.

  ‘These are fine names, names that have a good ring to them and will remind you, and others in the future, of this adventure: but more important, the name that each of you will be given is also the name of the Rumble that is your individual target. While you remember your own name you cannot forget the name of your enemy.’

  Knocker paused. He knew that each Borrible standing before him could hardly wait for the moment when he would carry a name, the one word which would symbolize a whole life. ‘All right,’ went on the chief lookout, ‘the names will be distributed by drawing lots, six names in one hat, and two names in another. Dodger.’

  Dodger and Knocker removed their hats and Knocker tore each name separately from the sheet that Spiff had given him. He put six names into his own woollen cap and two into the red beret of the paratroops. Dodger held the beret while Knocker shook his own hat vigorously to mix the names fairly and squarely. ‘I’ll start at one end and move along,’ he said. ‘It’s all the luck of the draw.’

  He studied the face of the first person in line. By chance it was the one he had recommended to Spiff, the Battersea Borrible from Lavender Hill. Knocker had always liked the look of him, although they didn’t know each other very well. He was slightly built, even for a Borrible; his skin was clear and his hair was dark and tightly curled, like wire wool. His eyes were sharp and blue and they moved quickly, but were never furtive. He smiled a lot and Knocker could see that it would take a lot to get him down. He glanced at Knocker, winked, then plunged his hand into the hat and pulled out a scrap of paper. He opened it, read it to himself and then smiled at the chief lookout. He rolled his tongue once or twice, getting the feel of his name for the very first time.

  ‘Bingo,’ he said, ‘the name’s Bingo.’

  ‘That’s a good name,’ said Knocker, and stepped sideways. He stood in front of the black Borrible. ‘Where you from?’ asked Knocker.

  ‘Tooting, man, Tooting, and you?’

  Knocker raised his head sharply. ‘I’m from here.’

  The Tooting Borrible, or Totter, had hair standing out in a solid uncut mass all round his head like a black halo. His teeth protruded and he seemed to be smiling all the time, an expression of cheerful slyness. Knocker liked that. He shook the hat again and the Totter took a piece of paper.

  ‘My name is going to be O-ro-coc-co,’ he said, splitting the word into separate syllables and pronouncing them with care.

  The next person was smaller than Bingo even. He had a triangular face with a pointed chin and his mousy hair lay flat across the top of his head. He had a way of wagging his head that said there wasn’t a trick in the book he didn’t know.

  Knocker stopped in front of him with the hat and the Borrible said, ‘I’m from Stepney, the best place in the world.’

  Knocker nodded only and offered the hat. The Stepney Borrible looked at the name on the paper he had drawn a
nd whistled, then he said, ‘Good, I’ve got Vulgarian, I’ve heard he’s the chief Rumble. Don’t reckon his chances when I catch up with him.’

  ‘I see, so you know why you’re here?’

  ‘Course, to get a name, and because they said that this was going to be the best adventure ever.’ And the Borrible glanced up and down the line and the others nodded in agreement.

  ‘You’ve got to convince me that you’re good enough first. Then you go,’ said Knocker.

  ‘Perhaps you ought to start by showing that you’re good enough to train us,’ said a brittle voice to Knocker’s right, but Knocker ignored it and moved on a step.

  ‘I’m from Peckham,’ said the next adventurer without being asked, and he thrust his hand into the hat and pulled out his name. Knocker watched him closely as he read the paper. He seemed strong and resourceful. He had dark heavy eyebrows and a red face with a firm jaw and enormous shoulders and arms. The kind of bloke who would not mince his words; not very witty perhaps, but dogged and persistent.

  ‘Well,’ said Knocker, ‘which one have you got?’

  The Peckham Borrible did not even show pleasure as he said, ‘I’ve got the name I wanted, Stonks. Someone in Peckham said he was the keeper of the Great Door of Rumbtedom—the strongest one. He’ll need to be when I hit him.’

  When Knocker came face to face with the next person he wrinkled his nose. There was an unmistakable smell about him and Knocker guessed immediately where he came from.

  ‘You’re from Wandsworth, aren’t you? A Wendle?’

  ‘So what, the finest Borribles in the world come from Wandsworth.’

  Knocker recognized at once the brittle voice that had spoken out of turn a little earlier. ‘Is that a fact?’ he retorted, smiling a smile that had no warmth in it.

  In common with most other Borribles he wasn’t over fond of the aloof Wandsworth Brotherhood. They dwelt along the banks of the River Wandle in disused sewers and in the smelly holes they had scooped out below the streets. But no one knew exactly how they lived, for they were the most suspicious and warlike of all Borribles; they did not encourage visitors and rarely spoke to anyone outside their own tribe. Most repulsive of all, their skin had a green tinge to it which came from living so much underground, and being so often in and out of the filthy Wandle water.