Borribles Go For Broke, The (2 page)
Read Borribles Go For Broke, The Online
Authors: Michael de Larrabeiti
Twilight was thin and fragile but he could run like a train. His clothes were ragged and his hair was cut unevenly, long and thick and so black it looked blue. He had a sharp nose and one eyebrow that was cast higher than the other, making him look curious and sly at the same time. His eyes were big and dark and often full of thought, he was cheerful and determined; he was muggins for no one.
Twilight always roamed the streets with a band of Bangladeshi friends, about half a dozen of them, and they stuck together for protection. He only knew Chalotte by sight but he had heard some of the stories that were told about her and her part in the Adventure against the Rumbles. All that didn’t matter now; the sight of a Borrible, any Borrible, being taken away by a Woollie was enough to inflame his blood. He called his friends to him and they ran as fast as they could along Whitechapel, on the opposite side to Chalotte, crossing the road eventually some three hundred yards ahead of her, positioning themselves in ambush
between the officer of the law and his police station.
between the officer of the law and his police station.
There was no time for elaborate schemes. Twilight knew that if he did not rescue Chalotte immediately she would disappear into the cells and never come out again, at least not as a Borrible. Round a corner, where Stanton Street meets the main road, he and his friends waited. When the policeman was only a step or two away Twilight gave the word and he and his gang charged into Whitechapel at top speed with all the energy they could muster. They ran straight at the Woollie, shouting, jeering and yelling.
‘Watch out, Woollie; watch out, Woollie!’
Twilight rammed his hard head into the policeman’s soft stomach and there it almost disappeared, like a fist punched into a cushion. His mates followed on like a pack of street dogs run wild; tearing, pushing, and laughing too. Everybody went over, the Borribles letting themselves fall forward, using their speed and weight to topple the big policeman to the ground. They stuck to him, jabbed him, butted him and covered his eyes with their hands, and so this strange gyrating lump of noise rolled along the pavement forcing passers-by to leap into the roadway to escape injury. Hands, legs and heads appeared and disappeared as the lump turned once or twice, then whole bodies disengaged themselves. Chalotte felt herself grabbed under the armpits; there was a Bangladeshi Borrible on each side of her, another ran in front to clear the way. The policeman lay groaning on the ground, sorely winded, his mind utterly drained by the suddenness of the attack. It had only taken ten seconds and Chalotte was free.
Once more her feet hardly touched the ground but now she was borne along by friends and there was hope, not despair, in her heart. Nobody said a word, reserving every ounce of breath for flight. They were just a tight knot of brown Borribles carrying a white one to freedom.
The Woollie lurched to his feet and swung round, his arms stiff and straight, and then, with his boots banging the pavement slabs, he set off after the runaways. But he wasn’t in the race; by the time he reached the traffic lights the Borribles had disappeared. They had re-crossed the main road and lost themselves deep in the market, hiding like they always did where the crowd was thickest.
The policeman knew full well that he had no chance of finding them now; they could be anywhere, under stalls, in their ruined houses, down side alleys, and they would be watching for him. The word would have gone abroad and every Borrible within a radius of ten miles would be taking cover.
The policeman knew full well that he had no chance of finding them now; they could be anywhere, under stalls, in their ruined houses, down side alleys, and they would be watching for him. The word would have gone abroad and every Borrible within a radius of ten miles would be taking cover.
The policeman stood and swore at his failure. He had imagined himself walking proudly into the police station with his captive. He had seen himself telephoning Inspector Sussworth and receiving congratulations and thanks; he might even have been invited to join the SBG, a real plum of promotion for anyone in the Metropolitan Police Force. Ah well! It was not to be. He’d best say nothing about the incident; he didn’t want to be laughed at. Sadly he turned and retraced his steps. Nothing to report.
Back in the hustle of the market the Borribles slowed the pace of their escape, walking at first and then loitering to see if the Woollie was still in pursuit.
‘We’d better split up for a while,’ said Twilight to his gang. ‘I’ll take Chalotte back to Spitalfields while you others keep your eyes open for that copper; he may have gone back for help.’
Chalotte thanked the Bangladeshis and walked away from them, following Twilight. She found it hard to believe that she was safe and she smiled, taking pleasure in the business of the market and the feel of human bodies as they pushed past her. The sun, high in the sky, warmed the whole street, and the smells of strange spices drifted on the air. Sandalled Indian women went softly by, enveloped in saris that sparkled with gold. The costers still shouted at the passers-by, their voices vulgar and outrageous and cracking under the strain of many hours of bawling. Chalotte touched Twilight on the arm. The shirt he wore was gaudy, orange, sickly and luminous. His trousers were blue and too big for him, torn in several places; stolen trousers. His feet were bare but in the hot summer that was how he preferred to be. After all, the pavements were warm and cushioned in dust.
‘Yes?’ he said.
‘Thanks for rescuing me,’ said Chalotte. ‘I was just looking at all this and wondering where I would be now if it hadn’t been for you.’
Twilight tried to appear unconcerned. ‘Well I heard you call out, didn’t I? No Borribles can resist that. Besides, I was sent to look for you.’
‘Look for me?’ said Chalotte in surprise. ‘I never saw you before. I don’t even know your name, even if you’ve got one.’
‘Course I have,’ said the brown Borrible.
‘What is it then?’
‘Twilight,’ said Twilight.
‘Twilight,’ said Chalotte. ‘That is a good’n and I bet a good adventure lies behind a name like that. You must tell me how you won it some day.’
It was quite normal for Chalotte to speak to Twilight in this manner. Names and how they are won are important to Borribles because for them a name is not given but earned; it is the only way. An adventure of some sort must be completed and out of that deed will grow a name. An adventure of any kind will do. It doesn’t have to be stealing or burglary, though it often is because that’s what Borribles prefer.
Chalotte studied her companion. ‘And while we’re on the subject, how come you know my name?’
‘I know your name,’ said Twilight, ‘for the simple reason that everyone knows your name and how you won it. It is one of the greatest Borrible stories ever told but I have never met anyone before who was on the Great Rumble Hunt. When we get home I’d like you to tell me about it. I have heard things that are hard to believe.’
Chalotte’s face became stern. ‘They were probably true,’ she said. ‘It all got a bit nasty. Borribles should not have been involved in such things. Five Borribles were killed, five good Borribles. It was a waste. I don’t mind telling you the story in return for you rescuing me, but it is not a happy story.’
Twilight smiled and his teeth were bright against his dark skin. Like all Borribles he loved stories, both the telling and the listening, but for the present there was no time and he led Chalotte away from the market into less crowded streets. He took her past rows of shattered houses and dingy blocks of buildings where Bangladeshi families, half-hidden among the bright colours of the week’s wash, stood on balconies to keep an eye on their children
as they played in the glass-strewn streets. But the Borribles walked on across a derelict stretch of ground that had been bombed flat in the war and not built on since. Here people dumped their rubbish and here the weak sprouts of pale grass fought against the sun and died for lack of water.
as they played in the glass-strewn streets. But the Borribles walked on across a derelict stretch of ground that had been bombed flat in the war and not built on since. Here people dumped their rubbish and here the weak sprouts of pale grass fought against the sun and died for lack of water.
On the far side of the bomb-site stood a straggle of terraced houses, leaning one against another as if tired of life and desiring demolition. They were gaunt and reared up against the semicircle of blue sky like an eroded cliff. They had boards nailed over their windows and sheets of corrugated iron over the doors. Their areas were half full of rubbish, their cellars smelt of cats, both alive and dead. The steps of the houses were covered with broken bricks and lumps of plaster; dangerous shards of shattered milk bottles glittered in the sun like silver. The place was a desert of dust and it smelt of excrement and trouble.
It was typical of a Borrible hideout. Borribles are obliged to live where they can and they prefer these abandoned and decaying buildings which are rarely, if ever, in short supply. If a house is already occupied they will sometimes use its cellar; they also camp overnight in schools, especially during the holidays when the buildings are left empty and unused for long periods.
In the middle of the bomb-site Twilight halted. ‘I was out looking for you,’ he said, ‘because we found somebody who said she’d come to see you.’
‘See me?’
‘Yeah, we came across this girl wandering about on the other side of Spitalfields. White girl, come all the way across London, so she reckons. We checked her ears; she’s Borrible all right. We brought her home and then went out to look for you.’
‘What’s her name?’
‘Something funny,’ said Twilight, ‘but I’ve forgotten it, something like Harry or Charlie.’
Chalotte drew a breath. ‘Was it Sydney?’
‘That’s it, rings a bell that does, ding-dong.’
‘The Great Rumble Hunt,’ said Chalotte, ‘she was on it too, the Adventure to end all adventures.’
Twilight put a hand on Chalotte’s shoulder. ‘Let’s go and see
her then,’ he said, and he led the way up the broken and littered stairs of his house.
her then,’ he said, and he led the way up the broken and littered stairs of his house.
The front door clanged open, swinging on a loose wooden frame. Inside, half submerged in a litter of bottles, sacks and tattered packages bound with hairy string, lay an old man. His face was unshaven and his shapeless mouth snored. Twilight stepped carefully round the unconscious form and guided Chalotte past a jagged hole in the floorboards.
‘I can never understand how he don’t fall into the cellar,’ said the Bangladeshi, ‘but he don’t.’
‘Who is he?’
‘Some meffo,’ said Twilight. ‘He’s harmless, apart from the smell that is.’
The bare wooden stairs were splintered and weak, slippery too with chunks of fallen plaster and slivers of broken windowpanes. At the very top of the house was a small landing with three doors leading from it. Twilight opened one and showed Chalotte into a boxroom which had a sack over the window. On the floor were three old mattresses, darkly stained. A few torn blankets had been thrown across them as well as some newspapers for undersheets and insulation. In a corner, sitting on one of the mattresses, her back against the wall, head in hands, elbows on knees, dressed in worn trousers and a green T-shirt with holes in it, sat Sydney, her eyes closed.
Chalotte crossed the room and crouched to the floor. ‘Sydney,’ she said. ‘Sydney.’
Sydney’s eyes flickered once or twice as she tried to come awake. She stared through a heavy glaze of weariness. Chalotte spoke again.
‘You haven’t walked all the way from Neasden, ’ave yer?’
Sydney yawned and rubbed her face. It was a kind face and Chalotte had always liked it. ‘What’s up, Sid?’ she asked. ‘You haven’t hiked across London just to say hello, I’ll be bound. What’s up?’
Sydney looked at Twilight who leant against the door, listening. She hesitated.
‘He’s all right,’ said Chalotte, ‘you can speak free.’
‘I had a strange message,’ said Sydney, ‘a Borrible message, passed from hand to hand, you know. I’d never seen the bloke who gave it me, ain’t seen him since neither. He said it had come clear across London, but he didn’t know where from. Then he ran off.’ Sydney reached into a pocket and pulled out a ragged scrap of lined notepaper. She gave it to Chalotte who smoothed it out on her knee and read aloud.
‘“Sam is still alive. Last seen in Fulham. Needs help. Signed, A Borrible.”’ She whistled. ‘Well that’s good news …’ She glanced into Sydney’s face. ‘Well, isn’t it?’
‘I dunno, it seems a bit mysterious to me. I’m not sure what to make of it.’
‘Who’s Sam?’ said Twilight.
‘Sam’s a horse,’ said Chalotte. ‘He saved all our lives when we were in Rumbledom.’
Sydney shifted on the mattress and hoisted herself upright. ‘The horse belonged to a Borrible-snatcher,’ she explained. ‘We had to kill the man before we could get away. I mean Knocker did.’
‘Knocker and Adolf,’ said Chalotte.
‘We had to leave Sam when we went underground on our way home,’ continued Sydney. ‘I hated doing that, seeing how much we owed him, and I made a promise that if I ever got out of that Adventure alive I would go back to get him … And I meant it, but I’ve never known where he went or what happened to him. This is the first news I’ve had.’
‘So?’ said Chalotte.
‘Well,’ said the Neasden girl, ‘I got this message about two weeks ago and I didn’t know what to think … The best thing seemed to be to come and see you, so we could talk it over. I mean we owe it to Sam to see him all right if we can. Somebody might be working him to death.’
Chalotte stretched out on a mattress and was silent. What Sydney had said had brought the whole terrifying expedition back to her. What had started as a great Adventure to win names had turned sour and five Borribles had died. Borribles weren’t supposed to die, but those five had. Knocker, whom Chalotte had especially liked; Orococco, the black boy from Tooting; Torreycanyon, the square-faced
Borrible from Hoxton, and most dangerous of all, the twice-turned traitor and Wendle warrior, Napoleon Boot. And there had been Adolf too, a four-named Borrible from Hamburg, burnt alive in the halls of Rumbledom. All of them dead. Chalotte sighed. The Great Rumble Hunt had been madness. Never again would she take part in such an expedition.
Borrible from Hoxton, and most dangerous of all, the twice-turned traitor and Wendle warrior, Napoleon Boot. And there had been Adolf too, a four-named Borrible from Hamburg, burnt alive in the halls of Rumbledom. All of them dead. Chalotte sighed. The Great Rumble Hunt had been madness. Never again would she take part in such an expedition.
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