The Borribles Go for Broke

by Michael de Larrabeiti

  ‘Not a chance,’ retorted Spiff. ‘I’m to bring up the rear; I’ve got to make sure you lot don’t get lost.’ This sounded so much like one of Flinthead’s schemes that the guard believed it entirely and went quickly over the top, his five colleagues following him just as rapidly as they could. Spiff went last of all.

  Chalotte watched him go. In that brief moment before he disappeared he glanced at her and she lifted a hand in farewell. She wanted to say something but dared not, for Tron was approaching the platform and coming within earshot. She smiled instead, for, when all was said and done and in spite of her dislike of him, Chalotte wanted Spiff to win, wanted him to conquer Flinthead and free the captives. But there was no need for words, Spiff knew what she was thinking and he returned her smile, his face looking as happy as she’d ever seen it. He was pleased with the danger and overjoyed at the unreasonable odds. That was how he wanted to live; and so he winked just once, ducked his head, and was gone.

  Tron climbed on to the platform with his followers and went to stand by the mouth of the mine. On both sides of the river the bodyguards and warriors stood in ranks and kept the tunnel entrances clear. There were many hundreds of Wendles present and over the whole scene the tension tightened. Chalotte held her breath, waiting for the next stroke of her heart, willing it to come, dreading what it might bring. The world had slipped from its axis and was falling all the way down to the end of the universe.

  Spiff reached the first landing and peered over the edge. Far below he could see the light reflected on Flinthead’s copper helmet. The Wendle chieftain was already two or three storeys ahead of his guards and travelling as fast as he could. Spiff swung himself out on to the second ladder and went after him.

  The mine was built from rough planks which the Wendles had taken from old packing cases; the black stencilled letters of the original destinations were still visible: Cardiff, New York, Calcutta. Every fifteen feet or so huge beams had been hammered and wedged across the shaft in order to hold the shuttering in place and to support the landings. It was the shuttering, or vertical planking, that kept the mud at bay, straining against terrific pressures. There were hundreds of thousands of tons of that mud on the other side of the planks and Spiff could hear it slide and slither, searching for a way in, the shaft itself shifting and swaying like a great eel in the currents that surrounded it. Every bit of wood in the construction creaked and groaned all the time, every strut and every joist. A thick slime oozed through the cracks and knotholes and trickled everywhere, saturating everything, dripping slowly from one surface to another until it reached the very bottom of that deep, deep hole in the ground.

  The air was heavy and it became more and more oppressive as Spiff descended. It was wet too and clung to his limbs like sodden clothing. Sweat trickled down his face and stung his eyes with salt and the mud that covered all began to cover him, making him smell like a cesspool rat. Far above, the tiny blaze of light that marked the top of the pit gradually diminished; then it disappeared.

  Spiff spat. ‘I’ve got to overtake them guards,’ he said to himself. ‘Help them on their way.’

  At the next opportunity he rested and stared down into the gloom. Every twenty or thirty feet the Wendle engineers had rigged an electric light and with their aid Spiff could see the figures of Flinthead’s bodyguards hastening in pursuit of their master.

  ‘This is no good,’ said Spiff. ‘I’ll have to start moving, I’ll have to jump.’ Having made the decision he lowered himself over the lip of the landing, to the full extent of his arms, and allowed his body to drop the fifteen feet to the floor below.

  He crashed on to the planking and rolled over. The thump of his fall reverberated and fell and made the bodyguards look up in fear. A gobbet of mud slopped and twisted through the air and struck one of the Wendles across the face. He screamed in terror, convinced that the mine was about to cave in and squash him. Then he stood motionless for a long moment, allowing his companions to go on, and as soon as they were out of sight he began to climb upwards, his knees weak and his lips trembling. But Spiff was relentless, thundering from one storey to the next, and the noise and the mud fell again and again; it was like the footfalls of a giant taking great and regular strides.

  Spiff was travelling fast and he soon overtook the hindmost of the guards, diving past him as he cringed on the rungs of a ladder, petrified by the appearance of this mud-covered figure rocketing out of nowhere.

  There was another crash as Spiff landed and rolled, getting to his feet to beckon at the Wendle in the most friendly manner.

  ‘What you frightened of?’ he said. ‘We’re all chums together, you know.’

  ‘The mine’s collapsing, isn’t it?’ said the Wendle, scrambling down to join Spiff. ‘And it’s so spooky. I don’t care what I do as a rule but I wish I hadn’t been picked for this job.’

  ‘You will, certainly,’ said Spiff, and with a straight right arm he pushed the bodyguard backwards from the platform.

  The Wendle shrieked and the shriek stood across the darkness like a bright light. Even high up on the banks of the Wandle they heard it and there was not one person whose stomach didn’t shrivel at the sound. Spiff himself listened to the cry with satisfaction but there was no time for such contentment; there were still five Wendles between him and Flinthead.

  He came upon two of those five only a little later. Spiff’s first victim, a dead weight plunging at great speed, had fallen on to them like a sack of spuds and had broken their bodies as effectively as any car crash. Now all three lay mangled together, groaning as the blood crept from their wounds to drip between the rough planks, and not far below the remaining guards knew the sticky touch of it on their hands and faces.

  They were ready for Spiff when he appeared on the landing above them, and they were suspicious. They had heard strange bumps and bangs and had felt warm blood on their skins; something was wrong, very wrong. They loaded their catapults and aimed at Spiff’s head.

  ‘Gerrorf,’ said Spiff. ‘I’m just a member of the bodyguard, like you lot; you saw me at the top.’

  ‘What’s all this noise about?’ asked the biggest of the three Wendles. ‘And what’s all this blood?’

  ‘Ah,’ said Spiff, ‘you see one of your fellows lost his nerve and he’s gone back up again. As for the other two, well, one of them slipped and fell a couple of storeys all in one go and as he went he pulled his mate along with him. They’re a bit the worse for wear, they are, that’s why there’s blood about.’ Spiff grinned and without waiting for the Wendles to come to a decision began to climb down towards them, talking as he went.

  ‘This game don’t half make your legs ache, don’t it?’ he said cheerfully. ‘How much further do we have to go?’

  ‘Effin’ miles,’ said the big Wendle when Spiff had joined him, ‘and we’d better get a move on otherwise Flinthead will skin us.’ He studied Spiff closely. ‘Who are you then? You still haven’t said.’

  Spiff shut an eye and tilted his head to one side. ‘My name’s Ratrap,’ he said. ‘I’ve only just been made a member of the bodyguard.’

  The big Wendle seemed satisfied with this explanation and he and his two colleagues stowed their catapults under their jackets and made ready to continue the journey. Spiff went with them to the top of the next ladder, making sure that he was the last in line as they each awaited their turn to go down. Then, as soon as the big Wendle had begun his descent, Spiff drew his knife, pressed his hand over the mouth of the guard who stood in front of him and quietly slit his throat.

  By now the big Wendle had arrived on the floor below and was shouting for the others to follow on. Spiff lowered his victim’s corpse to the planking and allowed the second Wendle to get his foot on the first rung, then he bent over and tapped him on the shoulder.

  ‘Yes,’ said the Wendle, raising his head. He was caught in an awkward crouching position.

  ‘Aren’t you the one with the whip,’ asked Spiff politely, ‘the one who’s been bashing
Torreycanyon and Stonks about?’

  ‘Yes,’ answered the Wendle. ‘I’m good with a whip I am.’

  ‘A-mazing,’ said Spiff. ‘Well, life is full of little surprises and here’s one for you,’ and he lashed out with a fist, striking his enemy hard and knocking him senseless. As the body fell it curved over backwards and dived gracefully on to the head of the big Wendle, smashing open his helmet, splitting his skull and casting him down into the half-darkness. There were no screams this time; there was nothing but a silent and elegant flight followed by a distant and mortal thud.

  Spiff put his knife away. ‘Beautiful flyers them two,’ he said, ‘just like the pigeons that live in Battersea Park … And now there’s only Flinthead. He’s got the treasure and I’ve got him.’

  Spiff saw the lights at the end of everything long before he arrived there. He calculated that there must be at least four or five bulbs rigged round the perimeter of the diggings in order to make it easy for the miners to see what they were doing. Wherever the Wendles stole their electric power they certainly stole a lot.

  Spiff was travelling slowly now, using the ladders rather than jumping, and all was silent again, except for the bellowing of Flinthead’s voice at intervals, ordering his guards to hurry.

  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 t
hat 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.