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Authors: Michael de Larrabeiti

Tags: #Juvenile Fiction, #Fantasy & Magic

The Borribles: Across the Dark Metropolis (28 page)

BOOK: The Borribles: Across the Dark Metropolis

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Every day the men did their work and every day the Scrappers watched and only when it was necessary did they move their hideouts from one side of the yard to the other. Luckily for them this way of life was not as inconvenient as it might at first seem. The yard was acres wide and no one Scrapper would have to move his home more than once or twice every two or three months. The scrap men ignored the Borribles as long as they kept out of the way and, best of all, the SBG had no idea that anyone was using the place to live in. Given good fortune the Scrappers would never be discovered.

Sunroof and Chivvy, the Scrappers who had carried in the soup, explained all this and the Adventurers began to relax. Gradually the odd oblong room became warmer as a battery-driven heater hummed and hummed. To the Adventurers, that strange bus, lost in London between two railway lines, felt like a palace. Before long they had removed their outer garments and hung them up to dry, and a moment later had all fallen into the deepest of slumbers, lying awkwardly, too
tired even to go upstairs to the mattresses that had been prepared for them. Napoleon, the last to succumb, tried to rouse himself before slipping into unconsciousness. He rubbed his eyes and shook his head.

‘Someone must go on lookout,’ he mumbled.

Strikalite glanced at the Wendle and paused in the act of throwing a rug over Stonks. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘Us three will keep watch … All you need to do is kip. Go on, get to sleep.’

Reassured, Napoleon did as he was told, and as soon as all was peaceful Strikalite and his two companions extinguished the lamps and climbed to the bus’s upper deck in order to take turns resting and watching, mounting a keen-eyed vigil over the grotesque and silent towers of scrap. All night they kept guard, staring through a rain that fell straight like spikes, a rain that washed the blood from the cobblestones outside the slaughterhouse in Baynes Street and riffled the black waters of the Grand Union Canal.

And in the scrapyard itself that same rain rattled on the tin roofs of a thousand gutted vehicles and half woke the Scrappers who lay curled up beneath them. And the rain fell further, down to the ground, and plucked at the surface of the mud itself, making it look pimpled and blistered all over and yet settling the earth, beating it deeper and denser, effacing the footmarks of all those who had passed through the city of broken motor cars, until at last there was no sign left that Borrible or horse had gone that way that night, or indeed any other night.

In the morning the tired light of dawn came only reluctantly to that corner of the scrapyard which sheltered the derelict bus. The rain was still falling from the low sky, but only lightly, swirling without direction in fitful gusts of wind. The Adventurers slept on, their bodies needing to recover after the exertions of the previous twenty-four hours.

They might well have slept for another twenty-four hours had they been allowed to, but eventually the steady silence of the bus was broken by the hiss of the vacuum door and Strikalite appeared carrying a large jug of cold water. He walked over to where Chalotte slept and shook her awake.

The Whitechapel girl sat up immediately and blinked her eyes. ‘Cripes,’ she swore. ‘I aches all over.’

‘You’d better wake ’em up,’ said the Scrapper. ’It won’t be long before the men start work and your mates might have to be ready to move out. You never know.’

‘Yes,’ said Chalotte. ‘Okay. Is it still raining?’

Strikalite swore in his turn. ‘Course it is,’ he said, ‘and the forecast is rain for the next twenty years.’

Chalotte smiled at his remark and began to wake her friends while Strikalite filled a kettle from his jug and switched it on. ‘I’ll make some tea,’ he said to no one in particular.

As soon as Sydney woke she sat up in the straw where she had spent the night and looked at Sam who was lying next to her. The horse was still fast asleep, his legs stretched out, all his nervousness gone. Sydney smiled and stroked the animal, knocking the dried mud from the horse’s flanks with her hand. ‘You rest, Sam,’ she said. ‘It’s not far to Neasden now.’

The kettle boiled and Strikalite made the tea in a large metal teapot. There was plenty of food and fruit left over from the previous evening and the Borribles made a good breakfast. Every now and then, as they ate, a Scrapper scout came into the bus and told Strikalite what was happening outside. It was obvious, they said, that the scrap men were working at the other end of the yard that day and the fugitives could relax. Strikalite was delighted. ‘You see,’ he said, ‘it’s nice and peaceful here just as long as you keep your eyes open.’

The Adventurers spent the remainder of the day resting and eating, for they were well aware that they would need every bit of strength they had to cover the last miles to Neasden. They dozed, they chatted and they played fivestones, one of their favourite games. They also wondered about their friends the Conkers.

‘There was a bit on the wireless this morning,’ Strikalite informed them, ‘but they never mention Borribles do they? I suppose they don’t want to frighten the adults. Anyway, all they said was that a lot of animals had escaped from some lorries in Camden Town and caused a traffic jam, and that most of the animals had been rounded up during the night except some horses that were running wild on Hampstead Heath and beyond.’

‘Aha,’ said Orococco, ‘that’ll be Treld and Swish and the others. What a bunch! I sure hope they get away all right.’ And with that sentiment everyone present agreed.

And so the hours passed lazily and that evening Strikalite, Sunroof and Chevvy brought the Adventurers even more food from the market at Camden Town, and very many of their Scrapper comrades brought provisions along too, ready to share and enjoy a long and noisy feast.

‘You see, they have a hard time during the day,’ explained Sunroof, ‘always running round, laying in stores. They likes to make themselves comfortable at night.’ And make themselves comfortable they did. They stretched out on the seats in the bus, switched up the heating and joined in the banquet with a will. They had all come to hear stories: name stories first and then the story of how the Adventurers had journeyed to this particular part of London, but above all they wanted the story of the Great Rumble Hunt and all that had happened since.

In view of the hospitality they had received it was only right that the Adventurers should tell their tale, especially as it was the most famous Borrible story ever told. So Knocker began, ‘Because,’ he explained, smiling self-consciously at Chalotte, ‘I was supposed to be Historian on that first trip, remember?’ And he cleared his throat and took a swig of beer.

He started the saga by telling how the Rumbles went to Battersea Park and how the great expedition had got under way. He told of the trip up the river and the discovery of Adolf, and his companions added to the story as it progressed, and Vulge told how he had killed the chief Rumble and Bingo recounted his great fight in the library. On and on it went, each participant telling his or her own chapter in the way that suited them best, and the Scrappers sat and listened, nodding and asking questions, for there was much to be learnt from the tale and they did not want to miss a bit of it.

In this way the story continued, telling of the leaving of Sam in King George’s Park, the expedition to recover him and the saving of the captives in Flinthead’s mine, the fight to the death between Flinthead and Spiff and, at last, the bringing of Sam to Battersea with the aid of Ben the tramp and his friend Knibbsie.

By the time it was all told and all the questions had been asked it was very late, but the Scrappers leant back in their seats and clapped
their hands and whistled through their teeth and shook their heads. ‘Such stories,’ said Strikalite. ‘I never thought I would hear such stories. You are lucky to be alive.’

‘Indeed we are,’ agreed Chalotte, her face sad, ‘but Adolf isn’t and that is not Borrible. It is a great adventure, certainly, but one that we should not have got involved in at the beginning. We should not be risking our ears, we should be living craftily and cleverly like the Bumpers of Brixton, the Conkers of the Caledonian Road and the Scrappers of the Scrapyard, back in our own markets, keeping out of the rain. Somehow it is the Adventure that is dragging us along with it, whatever we try to do.’

‘There’s no way we could dump Sam,’ said Twilight. ‘Not now.’

Chalotte nodded at the Bangladeshi. ‘What you say is perfectly correct. That is the paradox. To be Borrible we must save Sam; to save Sam we find ourselves doing things that are not really Borrible.’

Vulge wagged his head in his own knowing way. ‘I tell you that once Sam’s in Neasden, out of Sussworth’s way, I swear I’m back to Shoreditch like a dose of salts. It’s the complete Borrible life for me then. Quiet and relaxed with stories and just enough nicking to live on.’

‘All very nice,’ said Napoleon, ‘but how do you live like a nice quiet Borrible with Sussworth and Hanks breathing down your neck all the time?’

Orococco sighed. ‘Bombles have always been on the run,’ he said, ‘all through history, and I can’t see it ever changing, unless we can turn everyone into Borribles.’ He laughed. ‘And that would take a few Borrible lifetimes.’

Chalotte tossed her hair and her eyes shone. ‘How do we know?’ she asked, her tone belligerent. ‘There may be more and more Borribles happening all the time, probably is. All we can do is make sure we stay Borrible, don’t get caught and turned into adults. Keep out of sight and Borrible must always help Borrible. It’s as simple as that.’

There was silence after this while everyone thought their own thoughts, including the Scrappers. The silence lasted for a long while until Chalotte said, ‘It’s the only way, you know.’

Sydney raised her head. She was sitting next to Sam where he lay at full stretch on his straw. ‘It is too,’ she said. ‘That’s why we had to help
Sam. He’s a Borrible and he helped us once; now we’ve got to give him what we’ve got, and all we’ve got is the chance of getting him away from Sussworth and years of slavery … or ending up as catsmeat, one and the same thing really. We owe it to Sam to see that he’s looked after, properly, for as long as he lives. It don’t matter what lies Sussworth tells about us, that we’re murderers and such. We know what he says about us is not true; he’d say anything about anybody who didn’t agree with him.’

Sydney drew a deep breath when she’d finished. It was the longest speech she’d ever made in her whole life. She blushed.

‘Right,’ said Stonks.

‘That’s why,’ added Knocker, ‘we have to keep telling our story wherever we go; so that people realize how important it is.’

Sunroof leant back in his bus seat and blew his breath out over his teeth. ‘Blimey,’ he said. ‘That’s all too deep for me. I just lives like a Borrible because I am a Borrible.’

‘That’s it,’ said Strikalite. ‘Imagine living like a grown-up. Work, work, work; then die, die, die. They must be stone-raving bonkers.’

There were murmurs of approval when Strikalite expressed this sentiment and no doubt the discussion would have continued had it not been for a sudden noise at the door. It hissed, folded open and a gust of wind and rain tore into the warm interior of the Borrible hideout bearing with it two Scrappers dressed in oilskins and streaked with mud. Between them they carried what looked like a bundle of rags, wet and filthy. The two Scrappers dropped this bundle on the floor and one of them prodded it with his foot while the other returned to the roaring night, plunging into the darkness.

‘What is it, Clinker?’ asked Sunroof. ‘Trouble?’

Clinker pulled off his sou’wester to reveal a cunning face, sallow with years of dirt. He sniffed and poured himself a mug of tea from the big brown pot which stood on the floor. He kicked the rags again, not hurrying with his answer.

‘We found this creeping about near the Roundhouse,’ he said at last. ‘We didn’t like the look of it so we duffed it up and then brought it in to show you. He’s been moaning a lot; must be hurt.’

Twilight, who was nearest, knelt by the unconscious captive and examined
him closely. ‘I don’t recognize the bloke,’ he said. ‘Give us a wet cloth, someone, and I’ll try to wipe a bit of the dirt off his mush.’

Bingo got to his feet and dipped a lump of cotton waste in a bucket of water and then handed it to Twilight who began, gently, to wipe the mud-covered countenance. Knocker and Napoleon came and stood behind the Bangladeshi and gazed down.

Suddenly Napoleon swore: ‘Bloody Nora,’ he said, ‘it’s Scooter, that’s who that is. This could mean that all the dwarfs in creation are after us … and the SBG not far behind. I told you we should have killed him.’

There was consternation in the room and everyone reached for a catapult. One or two of the Borribles even pulled on their waterproofs, ready to run for it.

Chalotte did not panic. She pushed Napoleon aside and bent over the injured dwarf. ‘Leave it out, Nap,’ she said, ‘and just have a butcher’s at these ears of his. The plastic ones are gone remember, you pulled ’em off, and the others’ve stopped bleeding now, see, and they’re even more pointed than they were the day before yesterday.’

Even the deep doubts of the untrusting Wendle were tempered a little by this evidence, but he said nothing.

Vulge did: ‘Look at that,’ he cried. ‘His ears are almost as pointed as ours.’

BOOK: The Borribles: Across the Dark Metropolis

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