Borribles Go For Broke, The (11 page)
Read Borribles Go For Broke, The Online
Authors: Michael de Larrabeiti
‘I can’t help it,’ he explained, ‘it must be all that beer I drinks.’
Sydney was a brave girl. ‘How much further?’ she gasped.
Ben glanced to his right and then to his left. He could see nothing. ‘Looks like Demorgan Road,’ he said, ‘we’ll be round the corner soon and on to Wandsworth Bridge.’
‘Wandsworth Bridge!’ Sydney felt frightened. Wandsworth Bridge was right on the eastern frontier of Wendle territory. Beyond it lay the River Wandle and the deep sewers where the most violent and untrustworthy of all Borrible tribes lived: the Wendles.
‘Couldn’t you take me to Battersea Bridge?’ said Sydney. ‘Any bridge except Wandsworth.’
Ben twisted round so that he could look at his companion. ‘See ’ere, sunshine,’ he said, ‘you wanted me to bring you to the river, and that’s what I’m doing. I’m going to where I knows best, ain’t I? I have to; it’s pitch dark, see, and I ain’t got no radar in me pocket.’
‘It’s not that,’ said Sydney, embarrassed at appearing ungrateful, ‘but the Wendles live round here and they don’t like us.’
Ben spat and a solid oyster of gob spun once in the air and went splat in the darkness. ‘Them Wendles is only bits of kids like you, Borribles, ain’t they? I sees one or two of ’em from time to time, on Feather’s Wharf. They won’t hurt yer, long as you’re with me.’
‘I hope hot,’ said Sydney, ‘but I don’t like it down here.’
Ben took no more notice and faced about. ‘Come on, horse,’ he said, ‘down ’ere a bit and then left.’
Sam stepped out earnestly, thrusting his head into a mist which now grew thicker and warmer at every step, a mist that became
so impenetrable by the river that the two riders did not realize they were on a bridge until they felt the ground rising steeply beneath them.
so impenetrable by the river that the two riders did not realize they were on a bridge until they felt the ground rising steeply beneath them.
‘This is it,’ said Ben, ‘soon be over the water.’
Up and up went the roadway and Sam stamped his hooves hard upon the tarmac, pacing forward till he reached the high point at the middle of the bridge and there, where the slope began to fall steeply away on the southern side, he stopped for a moment.
All about him was silence, except for the careless slap of a wave or two far below as the black river rolled seawards, forcing itself between the great stone pillars that held the bridge steady in the air. Sydney could see nothing. For a split second she felt that she was soaring, hovering above a sleeping city that was pinned down powerless by the muscular weight of the warm night.
Ben had no such thoughts. ‘Come on, Sam,’ he urged, ‘I’m thirsty, I am. Was born thirsty, wasn’t I?’
The horse moved forward once more and soon, though they couldn’t see it, Ben and Sydney came to the great modern roundabout which is set at the beginning of the Wandsworth one-way system.
‘We’ll go right here,’ said Ben. ‘Wrong side of the road, of course, but us night-riders don’t have to worry about rules and regulations.’
On they went, under the railway bridge and past a pub or two but not a car overtook them, not a window shone and the street lamps were blind. Only the wail of a police siren occasionally arced through the blackness, faintly and from far, far away across the wide waters. Sam did not falter for an instant; off Armoury Way he strode, right by the splendid entrance of Wandsworth Town Hall and along the High Street, coming at last to the great crossroads at Garratt Lane where the Spread Eagle pub stood locked and silent on the corner.
‘Whoa,’ said Ben and he swung a leg over Sam’s neck and slid his feet to the ground. ‘You just sit tight, girl,’ he said to Sydney. ‘I’ll show you somethin’, got to hide this ‘orse, ain’t we?’
In spite of the man’s fearful smell Sydney felt her heart go out
to him. ‘Do you know, Ben,’ she said, ‘you’re almost like a Borrible, but grown-up somehow, and that’s impossible.’
to him. ‘Do you know, Ben,’ she said, ‘you’re almost like a Borrible, but grown-up somehow, and that’s impossible.’
‘So’s most things, sunshine,’ said Ben, and he walked on, leading the horse.
At the far side of the road junction Ben came to a high wall of glazed brick; it was dripping with mist. He turned left there and waddled along for a few yards until he reached two enormous wooden gates. Sydney followed him, her mouth open, amazed by the size and magnificence of what she saw; it was like standing before the ceremonial portals of some ancient and fortified city.
Ben’s fingers patted at a buttress of the wall until they found a bell-push. He winked at Sydney, then pressed the button, and beyond the gates and on the remoter side of courtyards and warehouses, the bell rang and the sound of it echoed along a river bank and told Sydney where she was. She caught her breath and remembered; she was outside Young’s Brewery on the banks of the River Wandle, right in the middle of Wendle territory.
‘Dammit,’ she exclaimed, leaping from Sam’s back to lean against the wall and stare into the darkness. ‘Ben,’ she asked, ‘why have we come here?’ She sounded very frightened.
‘Come to get a drink, ain’t I?’ said Ben. ‘Young’s Brewery this is. Lovely drop of stuff they make here, but over and above that they uses horses to deliver their beer, don’t they? And to have horses you have to have stables and to have stables you have to have someone as can look after them, someone who likes horses, and it so happens that the person I means is a mate of mine. On the road together we was in the old days, walking and talking and scrounging, just like the aristocracy. That’s the way to live, sunshine, when you’re young enough. Sam will be safe here, you’ll see, safe as houses, and there’s not a copper in Christendom will think of looking for him in a stable, is there?’
While Ben was talking the sound of studded boots started to clang across the uneven stones of a cobbled yard. Nearer and nearer banged the boots until at last they stopped quite close and a dead voice came from nowhere suddenly and the words it spoke suspended themselves in the darkness, like damp tea towels left overnight on a washing line.
‘Who is it that wants me at this unearthly hour?’
Sydney shivered as the words touched her, but Ben was unworried. ‘It’s Ben,’ he said, ‘and he needs help.’
The voice did not answer but Sydney heard two iron bolts rasp and a small door set into the main gates creaked open and a man’s face appeared, floating on its own in the night. It was a face that glowed pale under flat spiky hair. On either side of a hard bony nose two sombre eyes angled up and down. Under the nose grew a moustache.
Sydney pressed her body tight into the warm sweat of the brick wall. The man blinked at Ben as if he’d never seen him before, then he swung his head round to take in Sydney. The expression did not change at first but as the eyes slid beyond the Borrible and saw Sam the face broke into a smile that warmed and transformed the whole countenance. The man spoke through the smile and his tone was no longer loathsome, but friendly and welcoming.
‘Well, Ben,’ he said, ‘and where did you get such an ’orse from, eh? What a beauty. Tired out though, ain’t he? Been ill-treated, I’d say.’
Ben wagged his beard. ‘He has been, Knibbs, he has been. Name of Sam, this girl’s ’orse. Her name is … ?’
‘Sydney,’ said Sydney.
‘It’s like this,’ said Ben, ‘we got here by way of escaping from police custody and we needs to hide the ’orse while we goes to ground, like.’
Knibbs studied Sydney closely, his eyes keen. ‘I’ll look after the ’orse,’ he began, ‘I like ’orses. Can’t hide you two though; they’d spot you. Might call the law in, then they’d notice me. Got a bit of form, I have, but they’ll never even see an extra ’orse in a stable full of ‘orses. Best place to hide church lead is on another church roof, I always say.’
‘Ta, Knibbsie,’ said Ben, and he went to hand Sam’s leading rope to the stableman, but the horse wrenched its head away and sidestepped, frightened by the tall gates and the overhanging walls.
‘Now then, come on,’ said Knibbs in his kind voice, ‘you’ll be all right here with me.’ Another bolt slid and slowly the big gates opened until there was a gap large enough for Sam to walk through.
Sydney put her arms round the horse’s neck. ‘You have to hide, Sam,’ she said, ‘just for a day or two. I’ll come back as soon as I can, and I’ll never leave you again, honest.’
Knibbs clicked his teeth and stroked Sam gently on the nose. ‘It’s the life of Riley in here, old son,’ he said. ‘It’s a five-star stable and no mistake.’ At last encouraged, the horse stepped through the gap and into the brewery yard.
Once Sam was safely inside Knibbs closed the great gates but the little door he left open. Ben held out his arms, there was a clink of glass against glass and Sydney heard, rather than saw, three pint bottles pass between the two friends.
Ben tucked the beer into the layers of his clothing. ‘Ah, thanks, Knibbsie,’ he said, licking his lips, ‘thirsty work, staying alive, thirsty work.’
Knibbs nodded. ‘I’ll take care of the ’orse,’ he said, shutting the door finally, though they could still hear his voice, ‘but in future make sure you come the back way.’ And that was all except for the sound of Sam being led away across the cobbles.
‘Let’s be off,’ said Ben, and he began to trudge away into the fog; Sydney walked by his side.
‘Are you quite sure that Sam will be all right?’ she asked, anxious now that her horse had really gone.
Ben fumbled in his overcoat and brought out one of his bottles and an opener.‘’Course I am,’ he said. ‘Knibbs likes nothing more than an ‘orse. He’ll look after ’im like a babby, so fat and pampered he’ll be, you won’t recognize him.’
Ben took the top off his beer and looked at the bottle as if he’d never seen one before. ‘My God,’ he said, ‘I’ve been waiting a lifetime for this.’ He raised the drink to his lips and Sydney watched while he took a deep swig. From miles away over the river came the rise and fall of a police siren, howling through the night like a banshee.
Ben lowered the bottle and expelled a sigh of satisfaction from the middle of his beard. ‘That’s the stuff,’ he said. ‘It puts hair on your chest, marrow up your bones and lead in your pencil.’
‘Are we going somewhere now?’ asked Sydney.
‘Somewhere, I say we are,’ answered Ben, ‘we’re going to my
place. You can bet yer boots that the Woollies are pounding the streets for you and they won’t be full of joy and goodwill if they finds yer, neither.’
place. You can bet yer boots that the Woollies are pounding the streets for you and they won’t be full of joy and goodwill if they finds yer, neither.’
Ben laughed at his own joke, tipped the bottle to his mouth again, and still walking, drained it dry. When the beer was finished he gave a fruity belch. ‘By gum,’ he said, ‘I needed that, felt weak and trembly I did.’
‘Do you think my mates are all right,’ said Sydney, keeping close to the tramp so as not to lose sight of him. ‘I hope they all got away.’
Ben looked down at the small Borrible from somewhere beneath the bushes of his eyebrows. ‘Them friends of yourn,’ he said, ‘are alive or dead, free or caught, and all we can do right now is look out for number one.’ And with that he plodded off at a fast rate and Sydney kept up with him as best she might, having no wish to be left alone and lost in the middle of dangerous Wendle country.
Spiff tiptoed into the garage forecourt. All about him the big petrol pumps, their computer faces half hidden in the shadows, stood like Martians come down to earth. The Borrible halted and looked carefully to right and left. Nothing. Underfoot the oil-stained concrete gleamed in the light that fell from some half a dozen overhead fluorescent tubes; a strange mauvish light it was and one that diffused itself over a million particles of mist and hung in the air like dirty raindrops on a dusty spider’s web. It was not yet dawn and the sky beyond the garage was dark and unbroken.
Spiff looked round once more, satisfying himself that the garage was well and truly closed for the night, then he whistled the Borrible whistle and, one by one, his companions stepped out of the blackness.
‘Where are we?’ asked Vulge.
‘Dunno,’ answered Spiff, ‘but wherever we are we ain’t far from the river. Smell.’
Everyone sniffed and the strange odour of the Thames in London, a mixture of varnish and vinegar, was drawn into their nostrils.
‘Well,’ said Bingo, ‘where there’s a river there’s a bridge and we’d better get across it. If we ain’t off the streets by daylight we might as well clip our own ears and save Sussworth the trouble.’ He groped his way over to the far side of the forecourt, the rest of the group following.
‘Look,’ said Twilight, ‘ain’t that a main road there, anybody know it?’
There was no answer, but after a moment Spiff, who had been
staring hard at the ground, said, ‘I reckon it’s straight on, see how the road rises slightly in that direction, like it was going towards a bridge.’
staring hard at the ground, said, ‘I reckon it’s straight on, see how the road rises slightly in that direction, like it was going towards a bridge.’
‘Well come on,’ said Stonks, ‘we don’t want to hang about. There’s nowhere to hide on a bridge; let’s get over before the mist goes.’
But the mist showed no signs at all of going and as the Borribles moved forward it continued to steam up from beneath their feet, growing strangely heavier as it rose, swirling and turning, making it impossible for the runaways to see where they were or where they were walking.
Suddenly Spiff, who was leading, raised a hand and stopped. They had arrived at the highest point on the bridge, where the road began to slant downwards and out of sight as if it had come to an abrupt end on the edge of the world.
‘Well, it’s definitely a bridge,’ said Spiff. ‘Look, it goes down this side, over the hump.’
‘Yeah,’ agreed Stonks, ‘but which bridge? I don’t recognize it.’
‘It ain’t Battersea Bridge,’ said Bingo.
‘And it ain’t Albert Bridge or Chelsea Bridge,’ said Vulge.
‘And it’s not Westminster, Lambeth or Vauxhall Bridge,’ said Stonks.
‘Or Hammersmith Bridge or Putney Bridge,’ said Twilight.
Chalotte pushed through the group and put her face, tight with anger, close to Spiff’s. ‘You know which one it is, don’t yer, Spiff?’ she said. ‘It’s the only one it can be … You knew you were bringing us here all the time. Go on, tell them.’
Spiff laughed. ‘It don’t matter which bridge it is,’ he said, ‘long as we get across it, does it? So it’s Wandsworth Bridge, so what?’
‘So what,’ Chalotte sneered, ‘because Wandsworth is Wendle territory. Last time we were here we nearly got killed and four of our mates did. You’re up to something, Spiff, and I wish to hell I knew what it was. What’s your game?’
‘My game,’ said Spiff, screwing his face right back at Chalotte’s, ‘is getting back ’ome with me ears still on.’
As the two of them glared at each other the hoo-ha, hoo-ha of a
siren came from somewhere near at hand and there was no more time for argument. All six Borribles ran down the southern slope of the bridge just as fast as they could. If they could make it to the great roundabout they would be able to bear left into York Road and head straight for Battersea; with luck, and in a little while, they would be safe at home, hidden and protected by friends.
siren came from somewhere near at hand and there was no more time for argument. All six Borribles ran down the southern slope of the bridge just as fast as they could. If they could make it to the great roundabout they would be able to bear left into York Road and head straight for Battersea; with luck, and in a little while, they would be safe at home, hidden and protected by friends.
It was not to be that easy. Two indistinct and menacing figures, one large and one small, grew out of the mist in the path of the speeding Borribles. Spiff skidded to a halt and the others bumped into him.
‘Sussworth and Hanks,’ said Spiff, ‘and not a catapult between us.’
‘A Borrible,’ said a voice.
‘Cripes,’ said Vulge, ‘it’s Wendles, which is worse.’
‘Don’t be daft,’ said the voice again. ‘It’s Sydney, and I’ve got Ben with me; you know, the bloke who got us out of the nick.’
‘Oh, it’s me all right,’ said the tramp, and there was the clink of a bottle in his clothes. ‘Small world, ain’t it?’
‘Wait a minute,’ said Spiff suspiciously, ‘have you got that bloody horse with yer? We don’t want him following us about, clip-clop, clip-clop.’
‘Don’t you worry,’ said the tramp, pulling a bottle of beer from a pocket, ‘he’s in a safe place.’
‘None of that matters now,’ said Twilight. ‘Look behind you.’
The Borribles did and there, just a little beyond the rim of the bridge, they saw a halo of harsh whiteness reflected on the underneath of the dark sky. It was the beam of a car’s headlamps as it got into position on the north side of the bridge, the side the runaways had left only moments before.
As they watched there was more noise behind them: tyres screeching, car doors slamming, men shouting. They turned again; once more a brightness glowed and another arc of silver light clamped itself against the low-lying mist, this time on the southern shore of the Thames and only three hundred yards from where the Borribles stood.
‘It’s that bloody Sussworth,’ said Spiff. ‘I bet he’s blocked every bridge between Richmond and the sea.’
‘We’re caught in the open too,’ said Bingo. ‘Once daylight comes we’ve had it.’
Ben leant against the balustrade of the bridge and drank from the second of the bottles that Knibbs had given him. ‘Well,’ he said as soon as the bottle was empty, ‘I think you kids better come home with me.’
‘Oh, yeah,’ said Spiff, ‘and what do you think the coppers will do, help us on our way?’
Ben scratched inside his coat and ignored Spiff’s sarcasm. ‘Behind me,’ he said, ‘as I stand here, though you can’t see it, is the end of the bridge. Behind that is a narrow roadway, next to the river here, and down there is a pub, stands all on its own that pub, in empty ground, called the Ship it is. Behind that pub, about eight feet high and with only a little barbed wire on top is a wall; behind that wall is Feather’s Wharf rubbish dump. In the middle of that rubbish dump is my ’ome, a palace with room for everyone.’
‘And what’s beyond your palace?’ asked Spiff.
‘The River Wandle,’ said Ben, ‘where the cranes load the barges with trash before they sails away to export.’
‘It’s where the Wandle meets the Thames,’ said Sydney, ‘don’t you remember, it’s awful.’
‘It could be ten times awful,’ said Spiff, ‘but it’s the only way we’re getting off this bridge.’
‘One thing’s certain,’ said Chalotte, ‘we’re getting deeper and deeper into Wendle territory … It’s almost like someone wanted us to go there.’
Spiff smiled mysteriously. ‘Don’t blame me,’ he said. ‘We’ve got no choice now.’
They did not have far to go. A few paces beyond where they had been standing they came to a slope that dropped steeply away from the bridge; this slope soon became a road and after following it for about a hundred yards, leaving the Ship Inn on their left, they came to a solid brick wall, and as Ben had said, the top of it was looped along with barbed wire.
‘We’re right on the river now,’ explained the tramp, ‘so if you climb up this little embankment wall here you can reach round the end of the big wall and you’ll feel an iron ring on the other side.
Hang on to that, throw your legs out over the water and, lo and be’old, you’ll find yourself on Feather’s Wharf.’
Hang on to that, throw your legs out over the water and, lo and be’old, you’ll find yourself on Feather’s Wharf.’
‘And if we falls in the river … ?’ asked Vulge.
Ben snorted. ‘I’ve done it hundreds of times drunk, so I’m sure you bits of kids can do it sober. ‘Ere, watch this.’ The old man hauled himself on to the low parapet of the embankment, grasped something that was out of sight, kicked his feet, threw himself into space and disappeared. After this exploit there was a second or two of silence, just time enough for the Borribles to look at each other anxiously, then they heard the crash of a body hitting solid earth.
‘I hope he’s all right,’ said Sydney, but at that moment Ben’s voice resounded loudly through the night.
‘Ouch, ooer, it’s me back, bugger it! Come on over, you lot. I’ll catch yer this side.’
‘I don’t want to fall in,’ said Twilight, ‘I can’t swim.’
‘Tough,’ said Spiff. ‘I’m going anyway. I’d rather fall into the Thames than fall into the hands of the SBG.’ He sprang on to the wall and leant sideways, an expression of concentration on his face. ‘I can reach the ring,’ he called down. ‘You have to push yourself round here and hang on tight. Like this.’ And with that Spiff disappeared as well.
Stonks was next up and he followed Ben and Spiff without the slightest hesitation. Then Sydney went, then the others. Chalotte waited to be last and as she swung her legs out above the rolling darkness of the river she glanced upwards and saw that the sky was becoming pale; she could even see one or two weak stars. The mist was going and dawn was on the way—it was time for the Borribles to be under cover.
Down on the ground there was no light. When Chalotte had pivoted through the air and landed on a patch of hard and dusty dirt she found that the faint glimmer she had seen in the heavens did not penetrate the murk of Feather’s Wharf.
Ben’s voice came to her from somewhere in the dead atmosphere beside the brick wall. ‘Ah … what’ll we do? Ah yes, best follow me in single file, you lot, and don’t take the wrong path, ’cos you’ll end up in the rubbish crusher if you do.’
Having given them this warning the old tramp set off into a vast and lightless terrain. This was the wasteland that stretched between Wandsworth Bridge and the River Wandle, an abandoned country which rose in crumbling hillocks and fell in deep valleys of brown and black earth. It was a place of desolation where nothing was visible in the dark but where the Borribles could sense the danger of an emptiness somewhere near, like an unseen cliff beneath their feet.
Silently they trudged, keeping close behind Ben as he went along a narrow track whose surface had been packed firm over many a month and year by the slow scufflings of his broken boots. The path wound this way and that across the land; through wide depressions in which half-squashed tins and rotten cartons were knee-deep, and over hills so precipitous that the Borribles were forced to climb them on all fours, just like the rats that scampered and squealed all around.
There were fearsome smells too, making the air thick as soup as it floated in from the Thames; a foul stench compounded of rancid sewage, mouldering cardboard and the rotting flesh of dead seabirds. The odours pricked at Chalotte’s nostrils and as she walked she remembered, from her previous visit, the grotesque ugliness of this strange landscape: a square mile of dullness strewn with the white rectangles of rusty washing machines and gutted gas stoves; a maggoty place.
Chalotte gritted her teeth and followed the shape in front of her, up and down, left and right. Finally the shape and the shapes in front of it stopped, and she heard Ben’s voice come from the head of the column.
‘We’re here,’ he said, “ome, sweet ‘ome.’
Staring into the gloom Chalotte could just make out an oblong of shadow that could have been a small building. Ben’s tall form merged with it and there was the scraping noise of bone dry hinges grinding on rust. Slowly the Borribles edged through a doorway, step by step, until they stood, seeing nothing, in the unknown space of Ben’s hideout, and there they waited, hardly daring to breathe.
For a while they listened to Ben fumbling and swearing in the
dark, then they heard the scratch of a match, then another, and a tiny flame sputtered into life. Ben brought the candle to the flame and the light flickered up for a moment, fastening on to the wick and finally growing large and steady. The tramp was strangely silent. He put the candle down and, still without speaking, he went round the room until he had lit every other candle he possessed. When that was done he brought three larger oil lamps from a shelf and lit them too. And now the golden light filled the whole shack and the Borribles gasped and gazed around in wonder. They were in the most remarkable residence they had ever seen; it was a palace, just as Ben had said it would be, but a palace in his own style. Nobody but Ben could have made such a house.
dark, then they heard the scratch of a match, then another, and a tiny flame sputtered into life. Ben brought the candle to the flame and the light flickered up for a moment, fastening on to the wick and finally growing large and steady. The tramp was strangely silent. He put the candle down and, still without speaking, he went round the room until he had lit every other candle he possessed. When that was done he brought three larger oil lamps from a shelf and lit them too. And now the golden light filled the whole shack and the Borribles gasped and gazed around in wonder. They were in the most remarkable residence they had ever seen; it was a palace, just as Ben had said it would be, but a palace in his own style. Nobody but Ben could have made such a house.
The tramp laughed at the amazement on the faces of the Adventurers and fell into a chair at the head of the long table which occupied the centre of the room. Then he groped under his seat and began to pull bottles of Special Brew into sight, lining them up, one beside the other, until there was enough for everybody.
‘Here you are then, mates. You’d better have one of these, celebrate your arrival at Ben’s gaff, like.’ He looked round the room until he could contain his pride no longer. ‘Well,’ he asked, ‘what do you think of her, eh? I tells yer straight, even ole Queenie ain’t got nothing like this; she wouldn’t know what to do with it even if she had.’
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