Borribles Go For Broke, The (10 page)
Read Borribles Go For Broke, The Online
Authors: Michael de Larrabeiti
With a roar of rage the sergeant sprang at Ben and heaved him from the doorway with all his strength. The old man spun on one heel, lost a boot and teetered at high speed along the corridor until he crashed against the iron railing of the banister and slipped slowly to the floor. Ben stared at his bare foot and waggled his grimy toes. ‘Me bleedin’ boot’s come off,’ he said.
The sergeant peered into the mist. He saw a child on a horse at the precise moment she saw him. The horse bared its teeth and neighed like some flesh-eating monster; there was a flash of steel-tipped hooves and the animal clattered away through the yard gates, then echoing back from the hollow streets of Fulham came the dull rumble of fast-moving hoofbeats and the triumphant noise of children liberated.
‘Strewth,’ said the sergeant, ‘it’s the prisoners,’ and he ran back into the building and down the stairs to the cells. He saw the open doors, he saw the pile of handcuffs. ‘Oh, my God,’ he said, ‘Sussworth will have my guts for garters,’ and he dashed to the first floor to tell his colleagues of the catastrophe that had befallen. Left to himself, Ben replaced his boot and slouched back to the office, his hands thrust deep into two of his many pockets. He felt the metal of the keys rap against his knuckles.
‘Oh, dear,’ he said, ‘they’ll need those,’ and he took out the keys and replaced them on their proper hooks. ‘There,’ he pronounced with a certain amount of pleasure, ‘look at that, nice and tidy, just how they likes it. I’ll go home now, all this shennanigans is nothing to do with me.’ Staggering slightly, Ben aimed himself with great care across the room, through the main door, down the steps, and into the gloom of Fulham Road, singing as he went his own special song:
‘Wot’s the point of workin’ ‘ard?
Wot’s the good of gainin’ riches?
Money’s mean and banks are bitches;
Profit’s just a prison yard.
Wot’s the good of gainin’ riches?
Money’s mean and banks are bitches;
Profit’s just a prison yard.
‘Sling yer ’ook, an’ sling it stealthy;
Gob some grub an’ swig some booze,
Find a place ter kip and snooze—
Now you’re ‘ealthy, wise an’ wealthy!
Gob some grub an’ swig some booze,
Find a place ter kip and snooze—
Now you’re ‘ealthy, wise an’ wealthy!
‘Let the world roll round an’ round,
Wiv its hard-worked folk in fetters:
All ’oo think themselves yer betters,
Money-mad and dooty-bound.
Wiv its hard-worked folk in fetters:
All ’oo think themselves yer betters,
Money-mad and dooty-bound.
‘Make yer choice, there ain’t so many,
No ambition’s worth a fart;
Freedom is a work of art—
Take yer stand with Uncle Benny!’
No ambition’s worth a fart;
Freedom is a work of art—
Take yer stand with Uncle Benny!’
Not two seconds after the tramp had left the police station the duty sergeant ran down from the first floor and went straight to the telephone.
‘Quick,’ he said into the receiver, ‘this is a general alarm. Alert the SBG and every patrol car in the area, every man on the beat. The Borribles have escaped, every last one of them, yes. How do I know? They’re not here, that’s all, but I do know we’d better catch ’em. Sussworth will go bananas else.’
The sergeant banged the telephone down and looked at the shelf where the keys were hanging. He refocused his eyes and stared. Was it his imagination or were those keys swinging on the hook? He glanced at the door; there wasn’t a breath of air nor a whisper of draught. In spite of the summer’s heat he felt a shiver of fear trickle down his spine.
‘There’s something cock-eyed going on here,’ he said, ‘something definitely cock-eyed.’
Ben sauntered along the Fulham Road and London was silent, just how he liked it; murky and deserted, with no cars and no human beings. Even so he could sense the millions of people all round him, twitching under the weight of bad dreams, their warm toes sticking straight up from beneath wrinkled sheets, groping for the cool air of the night. Ben sighed happily. It was a real luxury, having a city to yourself.
He rubbed his big nose with the back of his hand. Under the street lamps the paving stones gleamed dank and dark yellow and the mist surged across the black tarmac of the road in huge rolling banks. Beyond and between the feeble pools of electric light were deep corridors of gloom that could have led anywhere.
Ben stopped and listened to the quiet. He spat. ‘Nah,’ he said, ‘they don’t have those old fogs like they used to, real pea-soupers where you couldn’t see your hand in front of your face, people hacking and coughing, dropping dead at bus stops, undertakers working ’emselves to death. Lovely that was.’
As the old tramp went to move on the mist meandered and thinned for a moment and he realized that he was on a corner. At
the same time a nameplate showed itself. ‘Rumbold Road,’ read Ben, ‘that’ll do nicely, I’ll go through there.’
the same time a nameplate showed itself. ‘Rumbold Road,’ read Ben, ‘that’ll do nicely, I’ll go through there.’
Once he had left the lamps of the main thoroughfare behind him Ben could see nothing and he was obliged to feel his way forward by limping along the gutter, one foot down, one foot up, his body rising and falling as he plodded on. His progress was slow but he persevered until he eventually entered the maze of narrow streets that lie on the north side of the River Thames near Fulham Power Station, there where the great metal containers of the oil depots loom solid and high, like giants petrified.
As Ben approached the river so the mist curdled and its smell became more noxious. Past the Stephendale Works he went, by Pearscroft Court and Parnell House, using instinct to find a way, talking to himself and swearing hard whenever he found that he had strayed into a dead end he did not know.
Finally, after wandering for an hour or more, Ben emerged into Townmead Road, a wide and ghostly place with a dull brick wall that soared into invisibility on the southern side, a brick wall that was pierced with iron gates giving access to the ugly oil wharves. The whole hemisphere seemed asleep and Ben halted yet again to cock an ear. He could hear something. Across the night and down the graveyard streets came the sound of a shod horse walking, hesitant, lost in the river’s fog.
The old tramp felt his skin prickle, he had completely forgotten about the animal he’d seen back at the police station. His matted hair shifted on his scalp and some strands of it separated, one from the other.
‘Strewth,’ he said aloud, ‘an ’orse. Is this the ghost of Dewdrop and Erbie, still roaming the streets, looking for lumber?’
Ben raised his hands to his throat and gathered the loose collars about his neck. He had never met the rag-and-bone man from Southfields but he had heard the story of Dewdrop’s murder and the tales that told of his restless spirit questing through the streets of south London by night, searching on and on for more and more wealth.
Another wave of mist rolled in from the river and broke in
silent slow motion against a row of terraced houses. Ben shivered and shuffled on. ‘This is creepy, this is,’ he said, ‘double creepy.’
silent slow motion against a row of terraced houses. Ben shivered and shuffled on. ‘This is creepy, this is,’ he said, ‘double creepy.’
The hoofbeats came nearer, insistent, not to be denied. Whichever way Ben turned the noise seemed to be waiting for him. Louder and louder came the sound until, at the place where Townmead Road meets Kilkie Street, a wall of mist rose into the air and without warning Ben came face to face with one of the children he had released earlier. She looked pale and scared and in her hand she held a rope which floated away behind her.
Ben jumped back in surprise, so suddenly that his feet left both his boots behind on the pavement.
‘Oh my ’eart,’ he cried. ‘What the dickens are you doing, creeping about like an evil wish, where’d you spring from?’
‘I’m lost,’ said Sydney, just as terrified as Ben was. ‘I’m not from this part of London, am I? This could be the backside of the moon for all I know about it.’
Ben was on the point of answering when he heard a large beast snort down its nostrils and, though he could not see it, the creature sounded very close.
‘My gawd,’ he said, ‘it’s the ’eadless ‘orseman, ain’t it? The devilish Dewdrop.’
‘Don’t be daft,’ said Sydney, ‘that’s only Sam, he’s with me.’ Hearing his name Sam came into sight and gave Ben a friendly nudge in the chest.
The tramp was reassured by this gesture, and flexing his shoulders bravely he slipped his bare feet back into his boots.
‘Swipe me,’ he said, ‘that is a relief. I thought it was one of them bovver beasts what eats ’umans. When you get the dt’s as often as I do you never know what yer going to meet.’
‘Ain’t you the bloke that got us out of the cells?’ asked Sydney.
‘I am indeed,’ said Ben, patting Sam on the neck, ‘though I would deny it if called upon.’
‘Is there any chance of you getting me across the river?’ said Sydney. ‘I must be out of sight before daybreak, and I need to find somewhere to hide the horse. Seems like I’ve been wandering around for hours.’
Ben now laid a hand on Sam’s back and although the horse curled a lip at the smell that hovered about the tramp he did not back away.
‘If you could just hop me up on to this animal,’ said Ben, ‘we could travel in style. Our objectives obviously lie in the same direction.’
Sydney did not hesitate; far away on the main roads she could hear the sound of police sirens under the low night sky, and if she did not hurry, her escape route would be blocked and dawn would find her still out on the streets, an easy catch for the SBG.
She backed Sam over to a brick coping about two feet high and helped Ben to climb on to it. Then she shoved and heaved him from behind until he was astride the horse with the reins in his hands.
‘Here,’ she said, ‘hold those, though you won’t really need ’em. Sam understands every word you say. Do you think you’ll be all right up there?’
‘Most certainly,’ said Ben proudly. ‘I have been a fine horseman in my time,’ and as he raised a hand to emphasize the point he swayed alarmingly from the hips, only saving himself from a nasty fall by clutching at Sam’s mane. ‘Whoa,’ cried the tramp fiercely, though the horse had not budged an inch, ‘bugger me, but this animal is a lively lad and no mistake.’
Sydney had serious doubts about Ben’s ability to find his way out of the back streets at all but she sprang up behind him, drew a deep breath against the dreadful smell and tapped the horse’s flanks with her heels. That slight touch was enough and, taking his orders from Ben, Sam set off at a stately pace in the direction of Wandsworth Bridge.
The old tramp was supremely happy, indeed rarely had he been happier. He sat on Sam’s back with his arms loose and his long legs rigid, while his boots hung precariously from his hooked toes and his tattered overcoats floated gently out into the mist like a highwayman’s cloak. But, as the outcasts rode along, there came again, and from not so far away, the sound of a police car tearing through the night.
‘Sod the law,’ said Sydney, ‘I hope the others are getting on all right.’
The others were not getting on all right. They were trudging, hopeless and lost, through the same muddle of faceless streets as Sydney and Sam, only they did not have Ben to show them the way. They had stuck together and they were following Spiff, mainly because he had assured everyone that he knew the way to Battersea like the back of his hand, but, as time went on, it seemed less and less likely that he did. The Borribles had turned a hundred corners and retraced a thousand steps; now they no longer had any idea where they were. They were tired, dispirited and almost ready to give up.
A siren howled strangely in the night and an SBG van passed nearby. The Borribles ducked behind a low wall but there was no real need. Down there by the river the mist was too dense for light to penetrate. Nothing the police had, neither revolving blue beam nor yellow headlamp, showed up at more than a yard or two. When the van had driven into the distance the runaways resumed their march, and as they did another sound came out of the huge cavern of darkness that surrounded them—the eerie footfalls of an invisible horse stalking along the roadway.
‘It must be Sydney,’ said Chalotte, ‘with Sam. Let’s give ’em a whistle.’
She lifted her fingers to her lips but Spiff raised a hand of his own and clasped it over the girl’s mouth, jerking her head round roughly so that he could glare into her eyes.
‘You bloody fool,’ he hissed. ‘And it might be a mounted Woollie, and it might be a trap. You whistle and we could be back inside just as sure as eggs is fried. Keep quiet, everyone. Even if it is Sid and Sam the last thing I want is a bleedin’ ‘orse clip-clopping along behind me telling every copper in London where I am.’
Chalotte struggled but she could not break free of Spiff’s grasp and none of the others made a move to interfere. As far as they were concerned Spiff was right. It could be Sam out there but it could be the police too and nobody wanted to be captured a second time. So the Borribles stood without moving, held their breath and listened to the ghostly hoofbeats passing by.
‘We’ll wait here,’ said Spiff, ‘till everything’s nice and quiet.’
Ben was enjoying himself. Sydney was not. Ben sang snatches of his song to while away the time. Sydney was trying to live without breathing. She liked the tramp well enough of course and was grateful to him for the part he had played in her rescue and escape, but riding behind him, arms round his waist and nose bumping into the small of his back, was not a pleasure. Ben’s odour, especially at close range, was mature and strong. No one in the history of the world had ever smelt like Ben and he not only carried this smell with him, he added to the strength of it every few seconds, with a great deal of noise.
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