Borribles Go For Broke, The (24 page)

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Authors: Michael de Larrabeiti

BOOK: Borribles Go For Broke, The
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Spiff nodded and held up something small and bright. ‘Good,’ he said, ‘and in return I’ll give you this key. You’ll find that it undoes those nasty shackles round your ankles. It won’t half make climbing easier.’
‘You sod,’ said Napoleon, but he laughed.
Orococco laughed too. ‘Once a Wendle, always a Wendle,’ he said.
When everyone was prepared for the climb Spiff gave his last
instructions. ‘Let Knocker and Napoleon and Orococco go first,’ he said. ‘They’re the weakest and we’ll take their pace. The other four of us will take turn and turn about with the box. When we get to the top the captives will just behave like captives. The two dressed as guards will pretend to be guards. On the last landing I will take the treasure and come up behind you lot, that’ll give the Wendles something to wait for, something to cheer. Don’t forget at the top I’m Flinthead, so do as you’re told. Let’s go.’
The seven Borribles bent their heads backwards and looked up into the shaft at the long hard way they had to go. Mud and blood dripped in their faces; the rungs were square and rough.
‘I wish,’ said Knocker, ‘that old Torrey was still working the treadmill, then we could have ridden up in the buckets like lumps of mud.’
‘And why not,’ said Napoleon, ‘that’s just what we look like.’
On the derrick platform at the top of the mine Chalotte stood next to Twilight and Norrarf. She was tense, so overwrought she could hardly keep still. Above her in the cavernous arches of the roof hung huge slabs of shadow, solid and black. Nearby Tron strode up and down, only pausing occasionally to look into the mouth of the shaft; time went by and he saw nothing. His three lieutenants leant on their spears and watched him, their faces blank.
On both river banks the bodyguards still held the towpaths clear, controlling the crowds who waited there. Most of the time there was quiet, sometimes there were shouts. Apart from sentries and lookouts every Wendle in creation was present, hundreds of them, all gathered to witness Flinthead’s successful return. In the treadmill Chalotte could see Torreycanyon lying on the floor, exhausted and asleep; beside him sat Stonks, his head leaning against one of the rough wooden spokes.
Chalotte sighed. ‘Why is it taking so long?’ she asked Twilight in a whisper and Tron overheard her.
‘Because the shaft is deep,’ he said. ‘They say a quarter of a mile, though that is hard to believe.’ Tron studied her face and Chalotte hoped that he would not recognize her from the time of the Great Rumble Hunt. He didn’t, and after a moment he resumed his pacing and the waiting went on; one hour, two, then three.
Once more Tron went to the rim of the shaft and Chalotte and everyone else studied him closely. This time the Wendle stiffened, he had seen something.
‘They’re coming,’ he said quietly, and his three lieutenants straightened and twirled their spears above their heads. A cheer rose from both banks: ‘The treasure, the treasure.’
Under orders from Tron every person on the platform was brought to attention and a buzzing quietness was imposed along the river banks, but there was still a while to wait. No doubt, thought Chalotte, they’d be climbing slowly because of the weight of that damn treasure box.
The thought of the treasure made her sick with anguish. She hated it more than anything or anyone in the world. It had ruined the last Adventure; it had killed Adolf and now it was coming back to trouble the Borrible way of life yet again. She bit her lip; who was returning from the bottom of that hellhole, Flinthead or Spiff?
Something stirred at the lip of the mine and Chalotte nudged Twilight’s elbow. A black hand, caked in dry slime, grasped the top rung of the ladder and Orococco heaved himself into sight and tumbled out across the platform to collapse, apparently unconscious, by the side of the treadmill.
His arrival brought a mocking cheer from the watching Wen-dies, and laughter too. They shook their spears and stamped their feet in joy. Now Tron’s three men were at the head of the mine shaft and with rough hands they hoisted Sydney from the pit and dropped her down to lie by the side of Orococco.
Next came two members of the bodyguard, their faces smeared with mud and daubed in blood. They strutted to the edge of the platform and gave a thumbs up sign and the crowds along the river went berserk with happiness. Tron’s men leant into the shaft once more and when they lifted Napoleon Boot into the light a vicious jeering swelled up and resounded between the mudflats and the high roof, for Napoleon was a renegade Wendle, a traitor. Tron’s lieutenants held him high so the crowds could see him and then, when they’d struck him several times, they threw him to the ground.
‘Kill him, kill him,’ the Wendles cried and shook their spears.
It took more than words to dismay Napoleon Boot; he crawled into an open space, levered himself erect and gave a two-fingered
salute to the whole Wendle nation. And when the gesture brought shouts and threats in its turn he ignored them and wobbled back to his friends and collapsed across their bodies. He sighed and closed his eyes, groaning with the pain of extreme fatigue, but there was a hard and wicked smirk upon his face.
Eventually Knocker came and Chalotte’s heart leapt, for she liked Knocker more than any other Borrible she had ever met, but her joy changed to pity in an instant for knocker was ragged and covered in sludge; his bones protruded through his skin like broken sticks in a sack and the lines of his features were deep enough to lose a finger in.
Tron’s lieutenants had no such feelings. They seized Knocker by the hair and hauled him up and beat him to the floor and kicked him. The Wendles under Flinthead had been taught to hate Knocker for he had been brave and unflinching in his conflict with the chieftain and had almost succeeded in stealing the treasure completely away, only failing from ill luck. Again the cry rose from the river banks: ‘Kill him, kill him!’
Suddenly Tron held up his hand and all noise stopped. Knocker dragged himself out of the way like a half-smashed cockroach, trailing blood, and Flinthead’s copper helmet appeared at the rim of the great pit. At last the whole host of Wendles saw the chieftain climb back into their sight; on his back he carried the great burnt box of Rumble treasure and they lifted their spears high in the air and with one voice they shouted: ‘Flinthead, Flinthead, Flinthead!’
The noise was overpowering, Chalotte could hear nothing but noise. She looked at Twilight in confusion. ‘It’s Flinthead,’ she cried, ‘he must have done for Spiff. He’s got the treasure too; he’ll kill us all.’
Twilight could not hear Chalotte’s words above the din of the mad rejoicing that rang along the river banks. He pointed to the shore. ‘There’s too many of them,’ he shouted. ‘Just keep quiet and hope for the best.’
Chalotte scanned Norrarf’s face. Would he betray them now? It certainly seemed likely; he was laughing and shouting with the rest. He half turned towards her. ‘It’s all right, it’s Spiff,’ he said,
but Chalotte, in that clamour, did not catch his words. She glanced at the treadmill where her friends cowered, beaten and battered. It was heartbreaking. They stared at Flinthead, abject, like slaves about to be sold.
Chalotte gritted her teeth and decided; whatever happened, whether she died or not, she wouldn’t allow Flinthead his triumph. The treasure must not return to destroy the Borrible way of life. She and her companions were as good as dead anyway, but if they had to die it was better that Flinthead should die with them.
Another great shout rolled across the river. Flinthead stood on the last rung of the ladder, a crazed smile on his blood-covered visage and smudges of gore on his gold-coloured coat. Chalotte heard him raise his voice.
‘I am Flinthead, here is the Rumble treasure and it is mine again … Now the prisoners can die.’
‘And so can you,’ cried Chalotte and, unnoticed in that great commotion, she leapt forward and seized a mallet from among a pile of Wendle tools. Twilight went with her out of a feeling of loyalty, not knowing what she had in mind but eager to help. Tron pivoted on his heel but Chalotte was upon him and he had no opportunity to defend himself. She bashed the mallet against the side of his helmet and Flinthead’s second-in-command collapsed, unconscious. Before Tron’s lieutenants realized what she intended Chalotte had climbed the parapet of the mine and was hitting out with all her strength, loosening one of the wedges that held the mighty cross-timbers in position. The wedge swivelled, Chalotte clouted it again and the block of wood flew free, clattered against the side of the shaft and then fell away out of sight in a spinning blur.
‘Chalotte,’ yelled Spiff, ‘don’t be a fool, it’s me.’
For a moment Chalotte did not understand. ‘Damn you, Flinthead,’ she cried. ‘I won’t let you bring that money back.’ Then she thought that maybe Flinthead was not Flinthead and that perhaps she’d made a mistake, but in the same instant she decided that it was not a mistake and that anything, even Spiff’s death, even her own, was better than the recovery of the Rumble treasure. With a cruel determination in her heart she raised the mallet above her
head and swung it like a pick to strike at the shifting timbers beneath her feet.
Tron’s men sprang at her but Twilight got in front of them and struck out, tugging, tripping and punching. Bingo and Vulge, still acting the part of Flinthead’s guard, caught their breath in fright and stretched their arms to pluck Chalotte from where she stood on a cross-beam, shouting for her to stop, dragging her at last to the safety of the platform—but those heavy blows had been enough. The main beam jolted sideways and the tension that had held it in position for months was released and the timbers of the mine shaft lurched, the mud squeezed in and a wild wrenching sob was torn from the heart of the wood. So loud was it that the sound of cheering was stilled and the watchers on the towpaths realized that something had turned their triumph sour; danger had come to take the place of pleasure.
Bingo shook Chalotte as hard as he could, anger and fear mingled in his weary face. ‘You damn fool,’ he said, ‘now we’re all dead men.’
Chalotte stared at Bingo like an imbecile, alarmed and fearful. She opened her mouth to speak but now there was no time. Another grinding scream was wrung from the mass of splintering timber, the very grain of it was riven and rent asunder and the great beams at last plunged downwards, their massive weight twisting and gathering momentum to smash and destroy the landings and scaffoldings below.
Spiff called for help but his ladder veered away from the wall of the mine shaft and teetered, becalmed for a second, standing on nothing and near the point of falling. The blood drained from his face, he clung frantically with one hand to a rung, and with the other he grasped the treasure box. It was a long stationary moment; it was almost his last and Spiff knew it.
‘Damn you, Chalotte,’ he yelled.
Then came another cracking and another rumbling as more scaffolding dropped into the shaft and the shuttering that held the mud back began to slip and great streams of black sludge surged forward. The mud was thick and muscular; it could strangle and it
could suffocate, it wanted to drag everything down to the darkness at the centre of the earth.
The top section of the shuttering now collapsed completely and fell inwards, the huge planks coming together like rigid fingers, smashing Spiff’s ladder to smithereens and pinning his body in space. Spiff screamed in pain and the treasure box dropped from his grasp, disappearing into the ravenous mouth of mud. Spiff struggled against the timber, trying to push it away, trying to stop it crushing him. His efforts failed; he was held too tightly, like a wireworm in steel tweezers. He raised his head in his agony, but he could not scream. There was no breath. His eyes glazed over until there was no sight left in them and then slowly the timbers slid down into the mud and, inch by inch, they took Spiff with them. He was gone.
Now all around; apart from the soft surging of the thick waters, there was no noise. The Wendles on either towpath stared in disbelief as the Borrible they believed to be their leader died before them, while the Adventurers knew only too well that it was Spiff who had died there, his eyes blind with terror, his lungs empty of air.
Chalotte shook herself free of Bingo. ‘Oh, Spiff,’ she cried. ‘Oh, Spiff.’ And the hot tears ran down her face for what she had done.
‘Get back,’ warned Vulge. ‘Get back, or you’ll be dragged in too.’
Bingo pounced on the unconscious Tron and hoisted him to his feet. The Wendle rubbed his eyes.
‘Where’s Flinthead?’ he asked.
‘Dead,’ said Bingo, ‘the way we’re all going to be in a minute.’
Tron looked about him and took in the situation. The platform was sinking and the mud was rolling inwards, unstoppable. Only the treadmill seemed solid and even that was beginning to go under.
‘Quickly,’ Tron shouted. ‘The wheel. Get those two prisoners out of it and turn it over, it’ll float.’
Suddenly there was another grinding lurch and the platform settled a foot into the mud. Tron’s lieutenants and the two Wendle guards threw down their spears and dived into the river in panic, making for the shore.
‘Come back you fools,’ yelled Norrarf, ‘the mud’ll swallow yer.’
‘Never mind them,’ said Tron, ‘let’s get this wheel over.’
It was no easy matter. By the time Stonks and Torreycanyon had crawled between the spokes the platform had sunk so far that the Borribles were up to their waists in a quicksand that sucked at every movement they made. Yet somehow, and all together, they bent and groped below the surface, grasping the bottom of the treadmill and heaving it upwards with such energy that it rose for an instant above the mud before splashing down on to its side.
‘Come on,’ shouted Tron again as soon as the wheel was floating. ‘Everyone aboard, it’s our only chance.’ just as they felt the platform plunge away from beneath their feet the Borribles managed to scramble up on to the solid spars of their makeshift raft. But no sooner had they gained this temporary safety than a new danger threatened them. The mouth of the mine, now clear of debris, had become a mouth indeed; it gaped and pulsated, the centre of a slow whirlpool, a black vortex that waited to devour everything: mud, timber, Borribles and all.
‘We must do something,’ said Knocker. ‘We’ll be drowned in a minute.’
‘Is there any chance of your blokes getting a boat out to us?’ asked Bingo.
Tron stood on the rim of the wheel and looked towards the shore. ‘There are no boats,’ he said after a while. ‘The currents have swept the banks clear, half of my men have gone too.’

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