The Borribles Page 3

  Two assistant lookouts came into the room and leaned against the wall to watch as Knocker read his instructions. When he had finished he removed the tape from the animal's snout and sat it on a grape-barrel.

  "You are being sent home, Rumble, alive. Take that message to your leaders and tell them what you have seen and heard."

  Knocker turned to the lookouts. "You two can escort him on the first stage of the journey. This envelope has instructions from the meeting. Take him to the Junction and hand him over. Then he can be taken to the Honeywell Borribles and they can take him up to the Wendles beyond Wandsworth Common, from there the Wendles will take him to Merton Road. This letter goes with him and explains what should be done at each stage. Finally, he should be released as near Rumbledom High Street as possible and allowed to find his way home. Any questions?"

  The two lookouts shook their heads.

  "Right," said Knocker, "as soon as you've got rid of him come back to me and report. It is very important that he gets back in one piece, though it doesn't matter what he looks like; the rougher the better. We've got to frighten the fur off them."

  Timbucktoo jumped to his feet at this. "You don't fwighten me, Bowwible, nor your fwiends. You don't know what you're taking on. We'll be keeping a watch out for you, you'll be skewered on our Wumble-sticks before you get a sight of Wumbledom Hill. You may be safe down here in your gwimy stweets and stinking back-alleys, but Wumbledom is a wilderness with twackless paths that only we can follow. This means war.

  Knocker cuffed the Rumble round the ear, almost affectionately. "Go on," he said, "you old door-mat, before I knock that snout of yours through the back of your bonce."

  At a sign from Knocker his two assistants hauled the Rumble from the room on the first stage of his long and perilous journey; a journey on which he would be passed from hand to hand like a registered packet in the London post.

  2

  During the fortnight that followed the lookouts' room in the old empty house marked "Bunham's Patent Locks Ltd" became the centre for the collection of all gear that might turn out to be useful on the expedition. Under the watchful eye of Knocker it was stacked and sorted. Accepted or refused, everything was entered into a large ledger; anything left over was going to be raffled so there was great interest in the High Street, and many of the Borribles were excelling themselves in collecting material. Of course a lot of others took no interest at all and if they found something useful amongst their loot, well they just kept it.

  There were life-jackets from the sports' section of Ardens and Nobbs, thick warm coats from Walker's, sleeping-bags, unbreakable nylon rope for climbing up trees and the sides of houses, stout boots, oilskins, woolen underwear, sharp knives, sou'westers, ski-goggles, corduroy trousers with knee pads and small shoulder satchels converted into rucksacks.

  Looking at his inventory Knocker felt pleased; 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 his desk and a kind of corridor to each of the doors.

  One day his contented musing was interrupted by Lightfinger who came into the improvised warehouse and sidled between the goods towering above his head.

  "You look tired," he said.

  "I am that," answered Knocker. "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.

  "Come in," cried the rough voice and Knocker did so.

  "Ah, there you are, Knocker, sit down, good news, they're here."

  "Who?" asked Knocker who was very tired and whose mind was still counting hot-water bottles and ice-axes.

  "Oh, come on," said Spiff. "The Champions, the Brightest of the Borribles, the Magnificent Eight, the two thirds of a Dozen, call 'em what you like, they're here."

  "Where?" asked Knocker, sitting up in his chair.

  "They're in the store-room under the gym at forty-five Rowena Crescent, other side of Prince's Head. I want you to put them through basic and advanced lookout training, even if they are lookouts already. Make sure they are first-class thieves, good at shoplifting, Woollie-dodging; and see they know the Borrible proverbs by heart, all the usual kind of thing. Then take them on a few courses in Battersea Park, I know they don't like the countryside, but they've got to get used to it; Rumbledom's rough. I'll give you a fortnight, that's all. There'll be another bloke to help you, he's from the Northcote Road lot, 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, the way they fight with their Rumble-sticks. Nasty prodders, they are, with a four-inch nail at the end. Everything's there. Get on with it, Knocker. I'll come and see you in two weeks' time. If there's anything you need, send a runner."

  Knocker gathered up the books and got up to leave, but he was stopped.

  "Oh, yes, in the first volume I've made a list of the Eight High Rumbles of Rumbledom, their names. We thought it would be a good idea if we gave each of your Borribles one of those names to win, so if they ever get that far, your blokes will know exactly which Rumble he's got to do for. Good idea, isn't it?"

  "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 let them draw for them, then there can be no arguments about the targets they are given." The steward hesitated and then laughed again. "That is except 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."

  Knocker whistled as he went down the stairs. He would dearly have loved to go on the expedition and to have earned a new name and a new story, 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.

  Stories are very important to Borribles. Most of the time they can't have a real adventure because they are too busy, but they read tales that deal with exciting things, 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 recount their adventures and how they won their names. That's why they like doing outlandish things, so they can tell their stories afterwards and exaggerate what happened. They like winning their adventures of course but, just like most other people, they very often lose, but that is all right as long as it makes a good story.

  Knocker left the house and made his way up the High Street. There was no doubt in his mind as he threaded his way along the pavements; the eight champions 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, "a clever idea."

  Outside number forty-five Knocker stopped to make sure his hat was on firmly. The gym was a long low building looking like an empty pub and faced with green tiles. Above the door and the three long windows was a notice board. Knocker looked up at it, though he knew what it said: "Rowena Gym. Tough Guys for Stage and Screen and T.V. Stunt Men. Kung Fu. Laetitia Martin, prop."

  Knocker could hear grunts and groans coming from inside. That would be adults trying to break into the big-time. In the pavement he saw the tell-tale grilles showing him the
basement where the Borribles would be. Tightening his grip round the Rumble books Knocker went through the main entrance and down a corridor that was tiled in the same dirty colour as the front of the building. A porter threw open the door to his office and stood right in front of the pint-sized Borrible. He looked huge with his legs spread and his hands on his hips. He had a cauliflower ear and his breath smelt sickly sweet with 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, "Hmm, okay, but don't hang about. Kids ain't allowed in here, specially little squirts like you. I'll clip you round the ear, I will."

  Knocker shuddered at the idea, pulled his hat down hard and bobbed away.

  At the end of the corridor Knocker found two staircases, one going up, the other down. Knocker allowed one of his books to fall to the ground and as he picked it up he looked under his arm and saw that the doorman was still watching. Knocker went up to the first floor, waited a while, then crept back down the stairs. The corridor was now empty so he descended the dank cement steps until it became so dark that he had to feel his way. He groped along a wall until he came up to a rough wooden door which did not give when he pushed it. He gave the Borrible knock, gently at first and then, when nothing happened, he knocked 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 out through a slit. .

  "Borrible?" asked the person behind the door.

  "Borrible," answered Knocker.

  The door was opened enough for Knocker to pass through and then it was closed and bolted behind him. He found himself in a long dusty room with exercise bars covering each wall from floor to ceiling. From the central beams hung thick ropes for climbing. Mats were piled on the parquet flooring and Knocker could see all kinds of equipment for improving the efficiency of the human machine. The room was lit by long narrow windows situated under the grilles that Knocker had seen in the pavement outside. The light that slanted across the room was grey and faltering, losing itself before it reached the corners. It was so dull 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. You must tell me one day."

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

  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". To call a named Borrible by one of the foregoing is an unforgivable insult and will lead to fighting. Borribles are great scrappers, mainly because they are used to it.

  An even greater insult for a named Borrible is to hint that he acquired his name only because he'd found it, or someone had thrown it away. And to 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 inspected the Northcote Road Borrible and liked what he saw. It seemed to him that they would get on. He smiled.

  Instead of the usual woollen cap Dodger wore an army beret of a dark colour and stuck into it was the badge of the Parachute Regiment, shining bright.

  "Army background," observed Knocker.

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

  Knocker laughed. "Well, we'd better get going, we haven't got all that long." They turned from the door and strolled down the long hall, their feet kicking into piles of rubbish and releasing stale smells from old 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."

  "I'll remember next time."

  The Eight sat motionless on the bench. Some leaned 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 Knocker.

  At a sign from Knocker Dodger switched on some electric lights and the Borribles blinked their eyes. "Stand up. Hats off."

  When they had done what Knocker had 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 he noticed was black. Of course he knew that many Borribles were black, more and more all the time. There were a lot in Battersea, Tooting, and a greater number even 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 chief lookout and his mind should have been open to all possibilities, not drifting around in preconceptions. Mentally he kicked himself for being a fool, but he hadn't finished kicking himself yet. 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 had 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 adults in tricky situations. You'd better 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, scrutinising 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 at the stewards' meeting 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 in their expressions. Knocker liked that. 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 could sum up and symbolise 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 the Lavender Hill nick. 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 about, 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 thick solid uncut mass all round his head like a black halo. His teeth protruded and he seemed to be smiling all the time, but really his expression was one 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.