The Borribles Go for Broke

by Michael de Larrabeiti

  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.

  Flinthead also staggered from the force of the blow but he recovered quickly and came on; he saw that victory was his for the taking.

  ‘The bastard,’ cried Vulge, ‘he’s got some special jacket on, look.’

  It was true. Flinthead’s golden coat had been cut open where Spiff had swiped him and the onlookers could see that underneath it he wore a garment of closely woven chain mail.

  ‘I’ve heard about that,’ said Napoleon bitterly. ‘It’s made out of spring washers, all lashed together; it’s bullet proof.’

  ‘I’ll get him,’ Bingo shouted, and he drew the elastic of his cat- - apult tight, but Flinthead was not to be caught that easily. He moved his weapon so that the blade of it covered his face, and what with his legs being deep in the mud and his body protected by armour there was not one part of him that offered Bingo a reasonable target. The Wendle chieftain leered in triumph and went towards the defenceless Spiff whose death now seemed certain.

  But Napoleon jumped to his feet. ‘No,’ he screamed. ‘Never!’ He ran off the scaffolding and hurled himself down on to Flinthead’s shoulders, wrapping arms and legs around the chieftain’s body as firmly as he could.

  Napoleon was no longer strong. Lack of food had made him almost weightless, but for a second his anger gave him a furious energy and he bore Flinthead into the slurry.

  Even so it did not take Flinthead more than a moment to free himself of his burden and he clouted Napoleon hard in the kidneys and thrust him into the mud. He swirled round to face Spiff, eager to finish the fight, but he was just too late. Napoleon’s intervention had given the Battersea Borrible time to grope beneath the water, time to find his spade. When Flinthead moved to the offensive he found Spiff ready for him.

  ‘So,’ said Spiff, ‘wearing a flak jacket, eh? Never take chances, do yer, Flower?’ And, with a new determination born of his fortunate escape, Spiff advanced, now catching Flinthead in the teeth with his spade’s wooden handle, now stabbing at him with the sharp steel.

  The Wendle chieftain retreated round the wall of the pit and Spiff went after him, step for step, cold and deadly, smashing and banging with hatred until at last, in Flinthead’s lifeless eyes, a distant red spark of fear began to gleam. The sweat of terror started to trickle under his armpits, his knees faltered and he stumbled. In desperation at last, he lifted his weapon above his head and kept it there. ‘Enough,’ he cried. ‘I surrender.’

  Spiff hesitated for a split second and in that second Flinthead whirled his spade in the air, hoping to bring it down on to his opponent’s skull with all his might.

  It was lucky for Spiff that he knew his man. He had hesitated but in that same moment he’d stepped backwards and sideways and Flinthead’s blade ploughed harmlessly into the churned froth of the trampled sludge, the force of the swing yanking the Wendle from his feet and casting him to his knees. There he stayed, beaten, panting.

  Spiff leant on his spade like a navvy at the end of a hard day’s work. ‘There, Flower,’ he said, ‘you’ve had too much of the soft life you have; slowed you down it has, and made you untrustworthy. You’re going to have to make it up to us, you’re going to make sure we get a safe conduct out of here … us and the treasure of course.’

  Suddenly there was a v
iolent surge in the mud and Napoleon rose from it like an underwater missile. He was unrecognizable. He swayed and scraped layers of filth from his face with the back of his filthy hands. He spat dirt from his mouth.

  ‘Never mind about getting out,’ he said, ‘kill ’im.’

  ‘Napoleon’s right,’ said Knocker from the landing. ‘I don’t care if I don’t get away, only killing will do.’

  ‘Wait a minute,’ said Sydney. ‘There’s not only you two to think of, remember there’s Stonks and Torreycanyon up top, and Chalotte.’

  ‘Chalotte,’ said Knocker, ‘is she here?’

  ‘Listen to me,’ said Spiff. ‘The best chance we have of getting out is to use this twerp as a hostage. If we hold a knife to his throat they can’t touch us, can they?’

  ‘Don’t be too sure that the Wendles will want him back,’ said Napoleon. ‘If they see him as a prisoner and realize that they can get rid of him they might just do for the lot of us.’

  ‘On the other hand they might let us go if we hand him over all tied up,’ said Sydney. ‘How about that?’

  ‘Don’t be daft,’ said Spiff. ‘There’s the bodyguard to think of, a couple of hundred of them; without Flinthead they’re nothing, they’ll want him alive if only to save their own skins, and I can tell you they’re all waiting on the platform and along the river banks. No, we need him as a hostage, especially if we’re to get away with the treasure as well.’

  ‘The treasure,’ said Sydney. ‘I say leave the treasure where it is.’

  ‘So do I,’ said Vulge.

  ‘Me too,’ added Bingo.

  ‘I say kill him,’ said Knocker, ‘and damn the treasure. I’ve learnt my lesson about that money.’

  Spiff looked up at Knocker. ‘I’d like to kill the old sod,’ he began, ‘but without him and the treasure we don’t stand a chance of getting out, and besides—’

  Spiff got no further with his explanation; Flinthead gave a loud cry, threw himself forward and with his spade held in his two hands charged at Spiff’s throat. He knew that if he could kill his Battersea brother he stood a good chance of fighting his way past the others.

  But Spiff was not known as the craftiest of Borribles for nothing. Talking to the others he had not forgotten his adversary; his ears had been cocked and he had heard the movement of the mud as Flinthead had sprung to his feet. Automatically he raised his own spade to protect himself and Flinthead’s blow glanced off it, striking a spark as steel clashed against steel. Turning, Spiff saw that Flinthead was only a yard away, pulled off balance by the fierce lunge he had made. Spiff lifted his arms, holding the spade delicately between his hands as if about to throw it gently over a wall. He stood poised, briefly motionless, taking all the time in the world, waiting while Flinthead tottered and tried to draw back out of range—but now it was finished.

  Spiff, his expression murderous, balanced his weapon at the level of his eyes and then punched it forward with all his power, guiding it with the left hand and shoving it from the handle with the right so that the bright blade cut into Flinthead’s Adam’s apple, through his windpipe and jugular, and out through the spine; and as it cut it made the sound of an axe slicing into soggy turf.

  And the chieftain’s head exploded from his shoulders and stood surprised in the air. Flinthead was slain and yet, for one instant, the opaque eyes of the Wendle shone at last, incandescent with the fire of death, and a red glow illuminated the whole cavern. Then a huge moan issued from the crimson lungs and the body fell, its blood mingling with the mud and water underfoot.

  The severed head seemed to hang in the air for an age but at length it dropped into the sludge, facing upwards, staring sightless into the yellow blackness of the mine shaft, staring in such a way that Spiff could not bear the scrutiny. He raised a foot and slowly pushed the face under the mire and the thick and loathsome liquid crept across the eyes and closed them forever. And in his corner, where he swayed and clung in weakness, Napoleon Boot vomited.

  But Spiff was aflame with pride, convinced of his magnificence and delirious with his victory. He threw down his spade and shook his fists at his companions and they stepped back in dismay, so terrifying was his face, so distorted with a terrible joy. And Spiff’s voice sounded out in a hard and piercing yell of triumph. ‘I am Spiff the Spifflicator, killer of Flinthead, stealer of the treasure. I have a hundred names now.’

  When the shouting was past there was a great stillness and Napoleon crawled to the ladder and clambered up to join his friends on the scaffolding. While he did so Spiff seized Flinthead’s helmet, just visible in the mud, and placed it upon his head.

  ‘Strewth,’ said Bingo. ‘Brothers were they, and you can see it now he’s got that hat on. You wouldn’t know who was which, would you?’

  Bingo’s words made the others take heed and they could not help but see what he meant. The copper headgear made it almost impossible to tell brother from brother, the living from the dead, and Spiff stood like a statue, knowing the effect he was having, knowing how much of Flinthead there was in him. Then he glanced up and slowly the madness left his face.

  ‘It is over,’ he said, ‘the long battle between us is finished; we must go.’

  ‘How the hell are we to climb out of here?’ asked Sydney, ‘with Knocker, Napoleon and Orococco so weak they can hardly stand?’

  ‘There’s no other way,’ said Spiff, ‘but we’ll go slowly, the stronger ones will pull the weak.’

  ‘We’ll make it,’ said Knocker. ‘We’ll have to.’

  ‘Yeah, maybe,’ said Orococco, ‘but what’s to be done when we get to the top, man?’

  ‘You leave that to me,’ said Spiff and he groped beneath the mud and turned Flinthead’s body over. In a moment he straightened and was seen to be holding the golden jacket, thick with slime. He laughed and threw it up to the landing. ‘Here, Bingo,’ he said, ‘clean it while I get the money.’

  ‘No money,’ yelled Knocker. ‘When Vulge was wounded in Rumbledom I wanted to leave him behind so that I could bring the treasure. Adolf wouldn’t have anything to do with it and carried Vulge on his shoulders and saved his life. I did the opposite; I saved the treasure and got Adolf killed. He was a true Borrible, I wasn’t. I won’t make that mistake again.’

  ‘We won’t help you with that box,’ said Bingo.

  ‘All right,’ said Spiff, ‘have it your own way, but has any one of you smart alecs got a plan for getting out? There’s a tribe of Wen-dies topside, just waiting. And what do you think they’ll do when they see us arrive without the treasure … give us a round of applause and a free boat trip to Battersea?’

  There was silence. The Borribles knew that Spiff was right but no one wished to agree with him.

  Spiff laughed. ‘Throw down that jacket, Bingo.’

  Bingo did as he was told and Spiff slipped the garment over his shoulders. ‘Now,’ he said triumphantly, ‘who am I?’

  ‘You’re Spiff,’ said Vulge, ‘but from here you could be Flinthead, alike as two gobs of spit.’

  ‘Right,’ went on Spiff, ‘and who do Wendles obey, without question?’

  Napoleon looked up. ‘All Wendles obey Flinthead, especially if he’s got the treasure.’

  ‘Right again,’ said Spiff. ‘Now to get out of here we’ve got to give them something to occupy their evil little brains … When they see the treasure they’ll be so happy they won’t even look at me closely, they’ll just see what they expect to see.’

  ‘But they’ll notice there’s no guards; there won’t be enough of us,’ said Sydney.

  ‘They won’t at all,’ said Spiff. ‘Halfway up the shaft we’ll find some bodyguard uniforms, on bodyguards I admit, and a bit damaged. Still, Bingo and Vulge can dress in those, the rest of you will act like captives. The Wendles will be too busy cheering and jumping up and down to start counting how many guards or prisoners there are.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Vulge, ‘so you’re Flinthead. What happens at the top?’

  ‘Easy,�
�� continued Spiff. ‘I give orders, everyone else takes ’em. The treasure is locked in my apartments, the prisoners as well, ready for execution. But in reality, as soon as you’re rested and got some decent food inside yer, we’ll be off.’

  ‘And the money?’ asked Sydney.

  Spiff grinned. ‘Oh, I’ll take that with me, there’d be no fun otherwise.’

  Napoleon jeered. He might have been a slave for months but his mind had lost none of its Wendle suspicion. ‘You expect us to believe that you’re going to take Flinthead’s place just for a couple of days and then walk away from all that power and take the money back to Battersea, share it out and settle down like a pensioner?’

  Spiff shrugged. ‘I don’t care what you believe, you’ve got to do as I say or you won’t get out at all.’

  ‘Oh, I think you’ll get us out,’ said Napoleon, ‘but I also think you’ll stay behind and become Flinthead.’

  Spiff ignored the remark and pulled at one of the handles of the treasure chest. It came out of the mud slowly and reluctantly but it came nevertheless. ‘I reckon I can make the Wendles into proper Borribles again,’ he said, ‘even if I have to kid them along to do it.’ He knelt and got the heavy box on to his shoulder and began to climb the ladder. No one moved to help him and Spiff’s face grew red with the effort but he would not ask for assistance.

  Napoleon and Knocker looked at each other. ‘I don’t like it much,’ said Knocker, ‘but he’s right, as a plan it’s all we’ve got.’ He scraped the dirt from the palms of his hands and found the scars that the red-hot treasure box had scorched there when he had carried it from the burning halls of Rumbledom.

  ‘You were given a second name you know, Knocker,’ said Spiff as he arrived on the landing. ‘Chalotte chose it, Knocker Burnthand.’

  ‘That’s just like her,’ said Knocker, ‘to give me a name that will always remind me of what an idiot I was.’

  ‘All right,’ said Bingo, ‘we’ll help you with the treasure, as far as the top, but only because it’s part of the plan. Nothing after that.’

  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.’