Borribles Go For Broke, The (22 page)

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Authors: Michael de Larrabeiti

BOOK: Borribles Go For Broke, The
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At last Spiff saw the chieftain’s copper helmet. Flinthead was
waiting on the last landing of all, just above the very bottom of the pit, and beyond him Spiff could make out the figures of the Borrible slaves. ‘Oh, boy!’ said Spiff. ‘This is what I’ve been waiting for.’
Flinthead heard waders scraping across wood and he glanced up. ‘Where have you been, you fools,’ he cried, but then he saw one guard only and not the expected six. ‘Where are the others?’ he asked. ‘What are you playing at?’
Spiff pulled his tin helmet tight to his head and wiped a muddy hand across his face in an attempt to disguise himself a little more; it was hardly necessary. He was already covered from top to toe in filth.
‘I’m sorry, Flinthead,’ he said, affecting a harsh Wendle voice, ‘I came as quick as I could. One of the others had a nasty accident and that held us up a bit.’
Flinthead swore and looked away and Spiff placed his feet on the rungs of the ladder that alone separated him from the Wendle chieftain. Down he went.
Here, where the shaft petered out, the protective shuttering had a temporary and fragile appearance. The last landing was only half completed, its planks loose and warped, and just one piece of scaffolding board, with rungs nailed to it, led ultimately to the floor of the mine.
Spiff gazed with horror at the scene he had journeyed so far to see. It was bright with light and black with mud, the end of an abyss, a cruel circle set in the still centre of the earth and dripping with a poisonous heat.
The slaves stood or sat in a slime that was knee-deep and gurgled in from all sides. Spiff’s eyes searched for Knocker and then Napoleon and Orococco. They were difficult to distinguish, nearly at one with the mud; their tattered clothes were welded to their limbs, their hair was plastered flat on their skulls and they crouched against the walls, thin and black, bodies drooping. Spiff wrinkled his nose and even his stomach heaved; all the effluent of Wandsworth came here.
Knocker raised his head, stared at Flinthead for a moment, then
lowered it again. Spiff bit his lip, shocked for once. Knocker’s face was lifeless, there was no blood left in it. Napoleon and Orococco were in the same pitiful state. Bingo and Vulge leant against the shuttering, holding their spades. Sydney sat on a piece of half-submerged wood, trying to keep dry. In the middle of the creeping sludge, gleaming at the corner where it had been cleared, was the brass-banded lid of the Rumble treasure box.
Flinthead squatted at the edge of the landing and pointed.
‘You, Vulge, whatever your name is, take your spade and finish digging the box out.’
Vulge moved to a pile of spare timber, sat down and lifted his feet from the water. The iron fetters clashed on his ankles.
‘Dig it out yourself,’ he said.
Flinthead’s voice hardened. ‘I’ve still got two of your friends up top, remember, and I can still make them suffer. What’s more I’ve got reinforcements on the way … I’ll soon have you doing what you’re told, you little rat.’
These threats did not alter Vulge’s attitude. He was past fear and he made no attempt to move. It was Bingo, because he knew it would have to be done eventually, who swished his legs through the mud and used his spade to dig the chest free.
Flinthead turned his head from where he crouched and looked at Spiff’s face and then up into the shaft. ‘Where are those other guards?’ he asked. ‘They should be here by now.’
‘They can’t be far,’ said Spiff, standing to attention like a good Wendle.
Flinthead lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘As soon as they arrive,’ he explained, ‘I want you all to go down and kill the prisoners. They’ve done what they had to do, no point in taking them up again.’
‘Yessir,’ said Spiff. ‘What about the two in the treadmill?’
Flinthead laughed. ‘I don’t need them either; when we get back we’ll throw ’em over the top to join their friends.’ He went back to watching Bingo and Sydney dragging the box clear of the mud. ‘Right’ he said, ‘bring it up here, just the two of you, no others.’
‘Leave it be,’ said Napoleon, ‘he’s going to kill us anyway.’
Flinthead raised an arm and pointed. ‘You will die, Napoleon
Boot, certainly, because you are a traitor Wendle. The others I will let free if they do as I say; after all they have dug well and found my treasure for me.’
Napoleon lifted his gaunt face and stared at his chieftain. There was silence for a moment and in that silence a large round drop of rich blood fell from high in the mine shaft and landed on the back of Flinthead’s hand, staining it red.
Flinthead brought the hand close to his eyes and stared at that blob of blood. The silence intensified. Slowly every head was raised to look into the darkness, every head except Spiff’s. Instead he smiled a seraphic smile and removed his Wendle helmet; a life’s work was nearing completion.
‘I hate to disappoint you, Napoleon,’ said Spiff in his old Battersea voice, ‘but Flinthead ain’t going to kill no one, I am.’
At these words even Knocker, Napoleon and Orococco found the strength to pull themselves to their feet. Their mouths dropped open with astonishment. Now they recognized Spiff’s face: that cocky, crafty face, lined with double-dealing and artful treachery, and life drained back into their hearts.
Flinthead also recognized the face and, crouching as he was, knew himself vulnerable. He snatched for his knife and tried to get to his feet but Spiff was ready; he hooked his foot under Flinthead’s behind and then shoved him hard, outward and upward.
The Wendle chieftain made a despairing grab at the air but it was useless. He flew like a bullet across the width of the shaft and his helmeted head rammed against the shuttering on the far side. There was a deep clang, a roar of pain and Flinthead’s body jackknifed and then plunged down the wall into the slop and slurry, crashing heavily across the box of treasure.
Sydney and Bingo toppled over too, diving joyfully to right and left to escape the falling Wendle. Then, in celebration, they slapped the mud with their hands, throwing it at each other and everyone else. Mud splashed over all.
‘It’s Spiff,’ yelled Bingo, ‘come from nowhere.’
‘About time too,’ said Knocker. ‘He got us in here, it’s only right he should get us out.’
‘This is not the end,’ screamed a voice, and the Borribles looked
and saw that Flinthead had risen and though covered in sludge was standing astride the treasure box, the long knife in his hand.
‘Let’s get him,’ shouted Napoleon. ‘Quick.’
‘No,’ cried Spiff, ‘you lot get up here out of the way, he’s mine, he is, all mine.’
‘My guards will be here soon,’ said Flinthead, ‘you’ll sing a different tune then.’ But Flinthead was deceiving himself. At that moment another blob of blood fell from above and slapped on to his dented helmet, and the sound rang in his ears like a death knell.
‘Yeah,’ said Spiff with a sneer, ‘that’s a bit of one of ’em dropping in right now.’
More blood fell and Flinthead realized that he was on his own, but he was not afraid. ‘Even if you kill me,’ he said, ‘you’ll never get out alive. The whole Wendle nation is waiting for this box of treasure.’
‘Let him rant,’ said Spiff, ‘you Borribles start getting up here out of the way.’
The weakest ones, Knocker, Napoleon and Orococco, were the first to climb from the muck, hauling their bodies painfully from rung to rung, their leg irons banging. Bingo, Vulge and Sydney kept watch on Flinthead in case he should attack with his knife, but Spiff had drawn his catapult and there was a large chunky stone aimed at Flinthead’s face.
‘I’ve got him covered, Bingo,’ he said. ‘You and the other two can come up now.’
When Bingo reached his side Spiff handed him the catapult and his two bandoliers. ‘You’re a good shot, ain’t yer Bingo?’ he said. ‘If I should lose this fight, kill him.’
Napoleon lifted his head; he lay stretched out and exhausted next to Knocker and Orococco. ‘After what I’ve been through,’ he said, ‘I could kill him with my teeth.’
Spiff brushed past Bingo and went to Knocker’s side. He took the weight of the leg irons in his hand and saw that Knocker’s ankles had been rubbed raw by them. He looked into Knocker’s tired eyes. ‘Sorry mate,’ he said, ‘really I am … Things will be all right now, you’ll see.’ Then he took a deep breath and, not bothering to use the ladder, sprang from the landing.
The Borribles moved forward to watch, sitting or lying on the
loose planking. There could have been no more fitting place for two such enemies to meet; a quarter of a mile of darkness above, the slimy and treacherous mud underfoot, and the walls of the shaft trickling steadily now with black water and red blood under the bleak electric glare.
Spiff fell to his hands and knees, carried there by the impetus of his leap. Flinthead stepped back from the treasure chest, there was a flash of steel at his right hand and his long knife whistled through the air.
Spiff knew the knife was coming and threw himself forward; the dagger missed him and clattered against the side of the mine and disappeared below the surface of the water. Spiff rose, the filth dripping from him.
Flinthead looked round for some other weapon and saw one of the spades, half submerged in sludge. He pulled at it with all his strength and slowly it came away making a long sucking sound.
‘Watch out, Spiff,’ called Vulge. ‘Get the other one, it’s just behind yer.’
Spiff turned and grabbed the second spade. He grinned and his teeth flashed white in his dirty face. He backed away, hefting the weapon in his hand.
‘So, Flower,’ he said, ‘at last we’re alone, after all these years.’
‘Don’t you call me Flower,’ said Flinthead, and he too tested the weight of his spade.
‘He doesn’t like being called Flower,’ said Spiff, ‘that was his nickname when he was a kid, before he was a Borrible even. Everyone’s forgotten it, except me, ain’t that right, Flower?’
Flinthead leant against the wall and held the spade defensively across his chest. His pale green face glowed with hatred but he showed no fear. ‘You’re on your own, Spiff,’ he said, ‘and I’ve always been the better fighter. Those few up there won’t stop me getting out; they’re too weak, and their legs is chained. You’re going to lose, Spiff, killed by yer own brother.’
‘Don’t you brother me,’ said Spiff.
Knocker pulled himself up on his elbows. ‘Brother!’ he cried. ‘Brother!’
Spiff laughed but he did not take his eyes from Flinthead. ‘You might as well know,’ he said, ‘it don’t make no odds now. He’s my brother all right … We came from the same family, ran away in the time of the old queen we did, became Borribles together. It was hard to stay alive in them days, so we came down here and took over the old tunnels. We did everything together, but then little Flower wanted to take charge of everybody and rule Borribles like they were never meant to be ruled. So they became Wendles and I became a nuisance and he had me staked out on the mudflats, his own flesh and blood, but I got away and now I’m back.’
‘Back to be slaughtered,’ said Flinthead.
‘We’ll have to see, won’t we,’ said Spiff. He lifted his blade and a solid lump of mud slid from it and plopped into the water and the fearsome cutting edge was suddenly revealed, shining with months of digging. The soft sand and mud had worked upon the tool and honed it to the sharpness of a razor.
‘Well, brother,’ said Spiff, ‘I can dig your heart out with this.’
‘And mine’s as sharp as yours,’ answered Flinthead, and the two Borribles moved into the centre of the arena. Spiff held his spade with both hands, his right grasping the handle, the left the shaft, aiming it at Flinthead’s throat like a bayonet. He trod carefully, studying his opponent’s every move.
The Wendle chieftain held his spade in a different manner, wielding it like a two-handed sword, swinging repeatedly at Spiff’s unprotected head. The weapons clanged and clashed. Spiff defended himself well against Flinthead’s massive blows, dancing and ducking round his antagonist like a boxer, lunging at him, trying every second to cut and wound. Twice Spiff rang his blade across his enemy’s head and twice Flinthead’s helmet saved him. Three times Flinthead caught Spiff with the flat of his weapon and three times Spiff rode the onslaught and dodged away before the Wendle could take advantage and go in for the kill.
From the scaffolding the slaves followed every movement of the struggle, their hearts beating against their ribs. Napoleon had scrambled to his knees and he swayed his shoulders in sympathy
with every stroke Spiff made. All the months of his captivity rose up in his mind’s eye and the hatred he bore his chieftain, for Napoleon had once been a loyal Wendle, was as great as Spiff’s.
‘Kill ’im,’ he shouted. ‘Kill ‘im.’
Spiff pressed home his attack, beating and bashing, cutting and lunging, and he fought so relentlessly that at last he opened a way through his enemy’s guard, and then, using every ounce of strength he possessed, he thrust his spade forward at shoulder height, holding it level, aiming at the heart.
Flinthead shouted and Spiff’s weapon struck him fiercely in the chest, making a loud grinding noise like a metal hinge under strain. But it made no difference; the Wendle remained unharmed and Spiff’s spade bent and quivered, rebounding from his grasp like a live thing, spinning above his head and splashing down to be lost in the mud. Spiff staggered backwards, dazed, both arms paralysed, his brain shocked.

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