The Borribles Go for Broke

by Michael de Larrabeiti

  ‘What do we do now?’ asked Twilight.

  ‘We go back to the guardroom and wait,’ said Spiff. ‘I’ll ask Norrarf to get us a pack of cards. We can play patience.’

  ‘And the others,’ said Chalotte. ‘I suppose we just leave them in the mine, digging and slaving for Flinthead, until it suits you that is.’

  Spiff smiled his most ironic smile. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘at least we know where they are. They can’t get lost now, can they?’

  8

  More than a week went by, a week that for Chalotte was made unbearable by Spiff’s confidence and high spirits. It was as if he saw the future with complete clarity and knew that his long-laid plans were at last coming to fruition. But Chalotte had never been so unhappy. Every second she was awake she thought of the captives toiling in the humidity of the mine-shaft, digging their days and nights away, knee-deep in muck. She was homesick, a thousand miles from Whitechapel, and had it not been for the hope of rescuing her friends, she would have made her way to the nearest manhole and gone back into the streets, never mind the SBG; anything to get back to a normal life.

  And so she waited with an ill grace. She detested Norrarf and Skug more and more, turning her head away from the sight of them each time they brought provisions and news to the guardroom. That was all she could do; she was helpless and she knew it. She was obliged to accept the situation for as long as it lasted, but she would not acquiesce. She spoke only in grunts to Twilight; Spiff she ignored completely and spent her time either scowling or sleeping. Her usual common sense had deserted her, banished by feelings of frustration and hatred.

  Yet deep down, although the waiting seemed endless, Chalotte knew that soon it would have an end and that if there was any chance of freeing her friends then that chance lay with Spiff and the devious workings of his complicated and untrustworthy mind. On the morning of the eighth day after the capture of Stonks, Chalotte at last awoke in good heart; she took a deep sigh and decided only one thing mattered, and that was the deliverance of the enslaved Borribles.

  As for Spiff, there was only one thing she could do. She glanced over to where he lay and studied his face, as crafty in sleeping as in waking. She could not fight him there and then, and anyway if the rescue attempt failed then Flinthead would kill them all. If it succeeded then there would be time enough to settle accounts. She would have to wait and see.

  As she thought these thoughts Spiff opened one eye and smiled. He had a way of smiling that convinced Chalotte he could see right through her, and she knew he had realized, with his first second of consciousness, that she had come to a decision.

  ‘It’ll be all right,’ he said, ‘if you leave it to me.’

  Whether her tacit acceptance had something to do with it or not Chalotte never knew, but from that day Spiff began to put his plans into operation. From then on they never stopped working. Spiff traipsed Chalotte and Twilight all over Wendle country, familiarizing them with the terrain, stealing systematically and making caches of provisions and weapons in likely and unlikely spots.

  ‘Well,’ he said in answer to Chalotte’s questions, ‘I’m not looking for trouble but when trouble starts it tends to get out of hand. Who knows which way we might have to run; we might have no weapons, no food, we might have to hide for days, weeks even. These supplies could be the difference between life and death.’

  ‘But only if you can remember where they are,’ said Twilight. “That’s not much good if we get split up.’

  ‘It’s good for me,’ said Spiff.

  And so he went on working away at his preparations until the fourteenth day and then he declared enough was enough. He and his two companions had just finished hiding their last Wendle skiff when Chalotte became aware of a figure leaning over her in the yellow half-light. She turned quickly in the water where she stood and pulled her catapult from her belt. Spiff waded ashore, laughing to see Chalotte so ready to fight on his side now. ‘You still can’t see in the dark,’ he said. ‘That’s Norrarf.’

  The Wendle threw three brand new orange-coloured jackets on to the ground. ‘I’m going to enrol you in the bodyguard today,’ he said, ‘all three of you, only you’ll have to come right now.’

  ‘That’s good,’ said Spiff. ‘Plan A.’ And he held out a hand to pull Chalotte from the water to the towpath, but he explained nothing.

  ‘Put the jackets on,’ ordered Norrarf, ‘and as soon as you get a chance you’d better clean your helmets and waders. If you go round like that Flinthead will suss you for sure. And you’d best invent yourself a Wendle name too, just in case you’re asked.’

  Spiff slung his old jacket into the river. ‘Right,’ he said, ‘as of now we’re in the bodyguard. That means doing what you’re told, Chalotte, when you’re told, without question. We’re walking on a knife’s edge. If we get found out it’s curtains.’

  When Norrarf was satisfied with the look of his recruits he got them into line and marched them upstream until they came to the landing stage, the open space which was level with the mine and its platform. As always the noise of the treadmill and the buckets filled the whole cavern. Chalotte could see Stonks in the wheel with an arm round Torreycanyon, helping him along. Every now and then came the crack of the whip and Chalotte formed her lips to curse, but Spiff was watching and shook his head. ‘Not now,’ he said, ‘not now.’

  There were about twenty of Flinthead’s bodyguard on duty in the area and their uniforms were spotless and their weapons clean. They leant casually against the brick walls or crouched on their haunches. From time to time, when they considered it necessary, they cleared the towpath of ordinary Wendles so as to make a way for Flinthead should he come. Apart from that they did nothing, though they gave the impression of being ready for anything at a moment’s notice. Under the bright helmets their faces were hard; they did what they were told and they did it quickly.

  Norrarf marshalled the newcomers on a flat space by the bankside. He clicked his fingers and a warrior brought him an assortment of sharp spears; he gave one each to the three Borribles.

  ‘You have been picked to serve on Flinthead’s bodyguard,’ he said, loud enough for the nearest Wendles to hear, ‘and you know what that means; you will be rewarded for instant obedience, anything less than that and you’ll be staked out on the mud. Now dismiss … and get your weapons and uniforms clean.’

  Spiff saluted and Chalotte and Twilight did as he did, then they turned and walked away to find an uncrowded spot on the towpath not too far from their new colleagues.

  ‘I’ve seen a few Borrible tribes,’ said Twilight, ‘but I’ve never seen anything like Wendles, I mean obeying orders, cleaning clothes … How does Flinthead get away with it?’

  Spiff spat on the point of his spear and polished it with his sleeve. ‘Because he doesn’t mind what he does or who he does it to, just as long as he gets his own way. It’s also got a lot to do with living so near Rumbledom. Until the Great Rumble Hunt was successful your average Wendle never knew from one minute to the next if he was going to be taken over or not … There was always a battle going on along the frontier. That made ’em suspicious of outsiders and always ready for a scrap, but then,’ and here Spiff winked, ‘so am I.’

  During the days that followed Chalotte learned more about self-discipline than she had ever thought possible. She steeled herself to ignore the crack of the whip; she pretended to jeer and laugh with others of the bodyguard whenever Stonks or Torreycanyon fell to their knees in the treadmill; and she forced herself not to think of her friends, Knocker in particular, who were still toiling in the deep pit of the mine.

  Most of the time she leant against the curved wall of the sewer and looked as ferocious and heartless as she could, or squatted cross-legged on the ground and played fivestones with Twilight, assuming an indifference to all that went on around her, though in reality her blood was seething with anxiety and impatience. Then one day, when she had almost forgotten who she was and why she was in Wendle country at all, S
piff came and sat with her and Twilight, resting his spear across his knees.

  ‘Something’s going to happen soon,’ he began, ‘I have a feeling in my water. Norrarf thinks they’ll reach the treasure any day now and when they do he reckons Flinthead will go down to get it because he won’t trust anyone to do it for him. He’ll come this way, by the landing stage, and be rowed over to the platform, and then down he’ll go.’

  ‘Alone?’ asked Twilight.

  ‘Not bloody likely, he wouldn’t be safe. Bingo, Vulge and Sydney are still pretty fresh, they might wind their leg chains round his neck and strangle him. He’ll have to take some bodyguards with him … and we’re bodyguards. Now whatever happens we’ve got to get over to the platform with Flinthead. Norrarf and Skug are in charge here and they are going to order us into the rowing detail. We must get to the platform.’

  ‘Supposin’ we don’t?’ said Chalotte.

  Spiff dismissed the thought. ‘We just have to, even if we take a separate boat. Once we get there you two line up with the Wendles and do as you’re told. It’s my job to see that I’m chosen as one of the guards to go down the mine with Flinthead.’

  ‘Cripes,’ said Twilight, ‘you can’t do that; it’ll be you against all of them.’

  Spiff turned his head very slowly and looked at the Bangladeshi, his blue eyes blazing with the bright love of danger. It was a light fuelled by hatred and Chalotte blinked in the glare of it.

  ‘You’re mad, Spiff,’ she said very quietly, ‘you’re raving bonkers.’ But although she meant it there was a note of admiration in her voice. His bravery burnt like a beacon.

  ‘Maybe I am,’ said Spiff, ‘but when I get down there I won’t let two or three little Wendles come between me and what I’ve been dreaming of for years.’

  ‘What about when you come back up again?’ said Twilight. ‘We’ve got the whole Wendle nation to get past, remember. You said yourself they ain’t going to sit back and let us go without a fight.’

  ‘You don’t have to know any more than I’ve told yer at this stage,’ said Spiff. ‘Just behave like regular bodyguards until I comes with the prisoners, then do as I orders and everything will work out fine.’

  There was nothing more to be got out of him and he left them, ignoring them both in the days that followed and spending all his time with the troops of the bodyguard, laughing, joking and making friends. Indeed Spiff became very popular among the warriors, although it was obvious to Chalotte that if it became necessary he would slide his knife into any Wendle who upset his calculations. That was Spiff and he was not to be altered. So Chalotte gave up her contemplation of the strange un-Borrible Borrible and contented herself with counting the days … eighteen … nineteen … twenty … twenty-one.

  An electric light flickered and Chalotte raised her head from between her hands. She was sitting on the towpath and Twilight sat nearby. In spite of her efforts she had lost count of time; there had been something like twenty-four days, she thought, since the capture of Stonks’s raiding party.

  Chalotte glanced into the roof vault. The light flickered again. Something was wrong in the citadel, there was something missing. Then she realized; there was silence everywhere; the buckets were not clanking, the treadmill was not creaking. Chalotte glanced across the river. Torreycanyon was a collapsed heap and Stonks was kneeling beside him. The guards were as still as stone carvings, their spear points unmoving. Everyone, standing or sitting, was motionless, their ears cocked, their eyes wide open. There had been a noise and they were listening to it. Chalotte herself, preoccupied by her own dreams, had let the sound slip by at first, but then her memory found the noise and brought it back to her and it merged in her ear with a real echo, and Chalotte recognized the sound and the echo for what they were and so did everyone else in the Wendle citadel.

  A quarter of a mile below the surface of the River Wandle, at the very bottom of the mine shaft, in a pool of mud and filth, Knocker’s spade had struck the steel lid of the Rumble treasure chest and the noise had rung in every Wendle heart, and it still rang and continued to ring as every heart stopped.

  Down the corridors and tunnels the bitter noise echoed and no one moved while it passed them, but as it dwindled and died at last there came another sound, as chilling and as frightening as the first. A scream of pleasure rose from Flinthead’s throat and rode along the dark passages of his empire. Flinthead had got his way.

  Flinthead called again; his duty bodyguard gathered round him and all together they raced towards the river. The chieftain’s face was crazed with greed and no one dared to look upon it in those first moments. But from the mouth of every tunnel that Flinthead passed came every Wendle who could move, eager to be with their leader, struggling with each other to be the first to see the box of treasure which they believed would change their lives.

  Spiff rushed to Chalotte and Twilight and shook them hard by the shoulders, breaking the spell of fear that bound them. ‘Come on,’ he yelled. ‘Today is the day of all days, follow me and think fast.’

  Then Norrarf’s voice came over the milling crowds on the towpath. ‘Clear the banks,’ he shouted, ‘Flinthead is coming.’

  ‘More room,’ shouted Skug from somewhere.

  ‘Follow me,’ said Spiff, and with the haft of his spear he levered himself through a thick crowd of Wendles and Chalotte and Twilight went with him, shoving and kicking their way.

  ‘Stand back for the guard,’ yelled Spiff. Chalotte looked at him; he grinned and she grimaced in return, striking a Wendle with her spear. ‘Stand back for the guard,’ she shouted.

  The three Borribles emerged at last on the landing stage where Norrarf and Skug and their platoon of warriors were fighting hard to keep a space open. Norrarf, who stood in the centre, was nervous, a sickly colour under his greenish skin. He blew his cheeks out with relief when Spiff and his companions arrived.

  ‘You three,’ he commanded, ‘stand by the big skiff there; you will take Flinthead to the platform.’

  Spiff, Chalotte and Twilight ran to the water’s edge and stood by the boat. From everywhere came the sound of tramping and shouting, growing louder every moment. Spiff untied the skiff’s painter and waded knee-deep into the mud, holding the rope in his hands.

  ‘Stand smart on either side,’ he said. ‘Don’t look at Flinthead; just obey orders and let’s hope he’s so excited that his nose don’t smell us out.’

  And then there came an increase in the rush of noise and it swept out of the tunnels like a wind and the Wendle chieftain, running at the head of his men, burst into view and strode to the landing stage, crossing it immediately and heading straight for the river where Spiff held the boat steady against the shore.

  ‘You Wendles,’ called Flinthead, addressing his bodyguard, ‘you will hold this jetty until my return.’ He stared towards the mine, his blank eyes burning. ‘Who rows me to the platform?’

  ‘Those three, Flinthead,’ said Norrarf, his voice shaking, ‘and me.’

  ‘Very well,’ said the chieftain. ‘I shall need six or seven warriors to come with me to the bottom of the mine to help with the prisoners.’

  ‘There are eight men on the platform now,’ said Norrarf, ‘ever since you ordered the guard doubled. They are eight of your best.’

  Flinthead looked at his rowers and Spiff inclined his head and dragged the boat a little further into the mudbank. Chalotte and Twilight moved a little closer too, their bodies rigid with fear.

  Flinthead stepped into the boat and it lurched. He strode over the seats and sat in the prow. Chalotte noticed the long knife in his belt; he kept his hand on it all the time.

  ‘Hurry,’ said Flinthead, ‘or I’ll know the reason why.’

  Spiff shouted at Twilight and Chalotte, ‘Quickly you two,’ and they took their places by the slender oars. Norrarf followed and Spiff pushed the boat out into the flowing mud and leapt aboard expertly, like the Wendle he was.

  ‘Row, you fools,’ he shouted, grabbing an oar for
himself, ‘row, there’s not a second to lose.’

  The skiff breasted the current and floated slowly round to face the stream. On a word the four rowers leant to their task and the boat shot across the river. Flinthead turned in his seat and stared as the derrick drew near, his eyes steady.

  In a moment or two the skiff bumped against the platform and the eight guards crowded forward to help their master disembark. Spiff was only a pace behind him, light-footed and tense like an alley cat.

  The boat was firmly moored and Chalotte, Twilight and Norrarf clambered on to the wooden island while Flinthead himself shouted over the river to where Tron and his men stood in an orderly line on the far bank.

  ‘Tron,’ called the chieftain, ‘while I am down below you will take charge; get over here with your three lieutenants. Anyone who breaks rank or disobeys orders will answer to me as soon as I return, and no one is to move while I am gone, do you understand?’

  Tron raised a hand to show that he knew what Flinthead wanted, then he stepped into a boat, three warriors with him, and they began to row towards the platform. Meanwhile, Flinthead directed his attention to the eight guards and gave them their instructions.

  ‘Two of you stay here,’ he said, ‘the other six will come with me. You won’t need your spears, just knives and catapults. Norrarf, you will aid Tron and see that my orders are carried out.’ And with one last bleak stare from his blank eyes the chieftain swung a leg over the rim of the shaft and went in search of his treasure.

  As soon as Flinthead’s face had sunk beneath the level of the planking Spiff pushed himself into the group of Wendle guards.

  ‘’Ere,’ said one, ‘he wanted six of us, not seven.’

  ‘He gave me my orders earlier,’ lied Spiff. ‘I’ve got something special to do.’

  ‘Oh that’s different,’ said the Wendle. ‘You can go first then.’