‘What’s he like?’ asked Twilight.
Sydney laughed. ‘Vulge is a bit special. He’s small, mousy hair, got a pointed chin; he wags his head sideways, like he knows everything. He looks like he wouldn’t say boo to a goose, but he’s as tough as nails and never gives in. It was Vulge who killed the Rumble chieftain in his bath … and a score or two more. Oh yes, you’ll like Vulge.’
2
The next day was just as hot, and the heatwave, which had begun two months earlier in the middle of May, showed no signs of breaking. Twilight woke the two girls early and as they sat up he gave them an orange each.
‘Eat these,’ he said, ‘they’re lovely.’
That was breakfast and ten minutes later the three Borribles left the house and made their way towards Whitechapel where they discovered the main road full of the din and uproar of a Monday morning rush hour. Pedestrians hastened along the pavements, running towards work with faces anxious and miserable, as if they had been unhappy and insecure away from their offices and workshops. The tramp of their feet was heavy, raising the dust, and although it was not yet nine o’clock, the sun beat down on the grey macadam of the road and melted it. Each car tyre that passed sounded like a zip unzipping.
Chalotte glanced to right and left, on the lookout for policemen. She saw none. ‘Vulge lives down on the Limehouse Fields Estate,’ she said, ‘I don’t know where exactly.’
‘It’s round the back of the canal,’ said Twilight. ‘The best thing we can do is go along that way and ask a Borrible.’
They crossed the main road, dodging the traffic, and went away from the noise and exhaust fumes into Fieldgate Street and on down Stepney Way. After walking for a quarter of an hour they came to a large housing estate built in brick of brown and black. Scores of children were already out in the courtyard, loafing in the shade, imprisoned by the rising heat.
‘I like the school holidays,’ said Sydney, ‘there’s so many normal kids about the Woollies haven’t a chance of spotting us.’
‘Don’t be so sure,’ answered Twilight. He went into the yard of the estate and the girls followed. ‘There’s got to be a Borrible hiding among all this lot,’ he said. ‘What about that one in the corner, sitting on the bottom step?’
Chalotte and Sydney looked. The boy on the bottom step was wearing half a mauve stocking on his head, well down over his ears.
‘Got to be,’ said Sydney, ‘no one but a Borrible would wear a hat like that on a day like this.’
‘Let’s see,’ said Twilight, ‘but take it easy or he’ll run off.’
They crossed the yard and above them faces peered over the balcony walls and someone spat, but the aim was bad and no one was hit. Chalotte saw the gob explode on the ground and without looking upwards she raised two fingers in the air.
The gesture attracted the attention of the mauve-hatted Borrible, who reached behind and pulled a catapult from his back pocket. Borribles are never friendly straight off, even with their own kind. They quarrel frequently, often they fight and they never trust strangers. Quickly and calmly the Borrible loaded a stone, then he gave a piercing whistle between his teeth and the head and hands of a colleague appeared on the first balcony. He too held a catapult.
A yard or two away from the steps Twilight stopped and, his movements deliberate, showed his own catapult and then returned it to his pocket.
What Twilight had done was important. The catapult is the Borribles’ traditional weapon and they have used it for generations because of its simplicity and deadliness. It can be made anywhere, and long ago in the nineteenth century, when Borribles endured great hardships, it had become their favourite method of defence. By showing his catapult Twilight had indicated that he was a Borrible and by putting it away he had made it obvious that he came in peace.
‘I’m Borrible,’ said Twilight, ‘and me and these two are looking for a Borrible called Vulge; he lives round here. These girls were on the Great Rumble Hunt with him.’
The Stepney Borrible put his catapult away. He waved a hand and his friend on the balcony disappeared. ‘Show us an ear,’ he said.
Chalotte lifted her long hair slightly. The Borrible nodded, satisfied.
‘Great Rumble Hunt, those two? Don’t look as if they could cross the road on their own. Still I’ll take your word for it, thousands wouldn’t … Tell me what Vulge looks like, if you’re a friend of his.’
Chalotte described him as Sydney had. ‘And he’s got a limp now,’ she added, ‘where he was wounded in Rumbledom.’
The Stepney Borrible nodded. ‘All right, go round the back of here, over Halley Street, up by the canal towards Oceans Estate, and opposite the recreation ground you’ll see some abandoned houses. The third one down is the one you want … I dunno, girls.’
Chalotte glared at him. ‘I could take your ear off with my catapult from a hundred yards,’ she said.
‘And I could put a stone up your nostril from the same distance,’ said Sydney.
The Stepney Borrible laughed, a cold sound in the baking square of the black courtyard. ‘I heard the story from Vulge,’ he said. ‘You must be the one who drowned the Rumble in the soup.’
‘That’s right,’ said Chalotte, ‘I did.’
‘Well it’s hard to believe and you can tell Vulge so when you see him.’
‘What’s your name, then?’ asked Twilight.
‘Hatrack,’ said the Borrible, ‘what’s your’n?’
‘Twilight,’ said Twilight.
‘Bleedin’-well suits yer,’ said Hatrack. It was obvious that he did not like Bangladeshis and he said no more. Twilight forced himself to make a compliment.
‘Hatrack is a good name,’ he said. ‘I would like to hear the story of it, one day.’ And then he turned and walked out of the estate with Chalotte and Sydney beside him.
They soon found Vulge’s house and, making sure they were unobserved, the three Borribles slipped along an alley to the back of the building. There was no sound and the terrace seemed deserted; there was no glass in the windows either and not a door standing. The rubbish from the streets had drifted high into the houses and for the most part the ceilings had collapsed as well; debris was ankle deep and everything smelt of decay.
‘I’ll go first,’ said Chalotte. Cautiously she led the others up a flight of stairs, stairs which shifted a little under the weight of three people. As she went Chalotte whistled, hoping that Vulge, if he was there, would recognize the sound as the signal they had used on the Great Rumble Hunt.
She stopped. Somewhere above them a door opened and a voice said, ‘Clear off, you’re in the wrong house.’
Chalotte glanced upwards but could see no one.
‘I’ve come to see Vulge,’ she said, ‘it’s Chalotte and Sydney.’
‘Well I’ll be clipped,’ said Vulge, as he moved into view on the landing above. ‘Get on up here and let’s have a look at yer.’
The two girls ran up the remaining stairs and threw their arms round Vulge’s shoulders.
‘Gerrorf,’ he said. ‘Come in my room ’ere, and have a cuppa, bring that friend of yours too, if he is a friend.’
In his room Vulge sat everyone down and brought out a teapot and a packet of tea. Then he switched on an electric kettle. ‘I always keep it full,’ he explained, ‘I drinks a lot of tea.’
Chalotte looked round the room. It was like most other Borrible rooms she’d seen, including her own. The window was covered with an old blanket, there was one bare electric light bulb, a mattress, a few orange boxes for cupboards and a couple of small barrels, upended, to sit on.
Vulge squatted by the kettle and waited for it to boil.
‘This is Twilight,’ said Sydney.
‘A good name,’ said Vulge.
‘If it hadn’t been for Twilight,’ explained Chalotte, ‘I’d ’ave been clipped by now.’ She told the story of her rescue and Sydney’s arrival.
Vulge squinted at the Bangladeshi. ‘Anyone who saves a friend of mine is a
friend of mine,’ he said. Then the kettle boiled and he made the tea, pouring it, when ready, into four jam jars, stirring in the sugar with a knife. He limped across the room to distribute them.
‘How’s the leg?’ asked Chalotte.
‘Better than nothing,’ said Vulge, and he touched the old wound and grinned. ‘I don’t have too much trouble getting about. I can still run though I looks like a three-legged dog when I do. Still, I stays out of bother. I don’t want no more adventures, that Rumble hunt was enough.’ Vulge suddenly screwed up his face and a look of suspicion came into his eyes. ‘You’re a long way from home, Sydney, what you up to?’
‘Tell him,’ said Chalotte.
Sydney took the scrap of paper from her pocket and handed it to Vulge. ‘What do you think of that?’ she asked.
Vulge read the message aloud. ‘“Sam is still alive. Last seen in Fulham. Needs help. Signed, A Borrible.”’ He handed the paper back and was silent for a moment or two. His face darkened. ‘It could be a trap,’ he said at last.
‘A trap!’ said Sydney.
Vulge took a slurp from his jam jar. ‘Have you heard of the SBG yet,’ he said, ‘and Inspector Sussworth?’
Chalotte nodded. ‘The Woollie who caught me yesterday said something about him. They’re trying to catch all of us.’
‘They always are,’ said Twilight.
‘Yes,’ said Vulge, ‘but this is different. The law got very upset when they found Dewdrop and Erbie, especially when they found ’em dead. They got this Sussworth to form the Special Borrible Group, mainly to find out who killed Dewdrop but also to catch as many Borribles as they could, clip their ears and turn them back into normal kids. They know all about us, got a book of our proverbs, captured a few Borribles and made them talk. They drive about London all the time, day and night, in blue Transit vans with dark windows. If they see a catapult or a woollen hat or a kid near a house like this one, they’re out of their van in a second and it’s down the nick and never seen again.’
‘We know all that,’ said Sydney. ‘What’s that got to do with this note?’
‘Like so,’ said Vulge. ‘If this Sussworth knows about Dewdrop and Erbie then the chances are he knows about the battle of Rumbledom. He might even know that Sam helped us, so all he has to do is drop a few notes like this one about and, if he knows how Borrible messages are passed from hand to hand, then he knows a message like this stands a fair chance of getting to someone who’d actually been on the Rumble hunt. Now if that person were daft enough to go looking for Sam in Fulham, and if Sussworth caught that person, then the SBG would be pretty sure they’d caught someone who’d had something to do with the Southfields murders, wouldn’t they?’ And Vulge leant back, wagged his head and supped his tea with the air of a Borrible who could read the mind of a policeman from a distance of half a hemisphere.
Sydney’s face creased with disappointment and Chalotte felt sad for her. She knew how much Sam the horse meant to the girl from Neasden.
‘I hadn’t thought of it like that,’ said Sydney. ‘But it doesn’t have to be a trap, does it? I mean Borrible messages do cross London this way; it could have come from a Fulham Borrible who’d seen Sam and knew the story. It could be like that, couldn’t it?’
‘True,’ said Vulge, ‘but whoever goes looking for Sam better take a telescope with him because there’ll be a copper hiding underneath his tail.’
‘I would go with her,’ said Twilight. ‘I am not frightened.’
Vulge turned on his barrel and smiled. His flat brown hair and his pointed chin gave his face a mischievous look. ‘It’s not a question of being frightened, it’s a question of not getting your ears clipped, of survival, like it always is. If you’d seen half of what we saw on the Rumble hunt you’d be quite happy to stay near your market, live in your house and keep away from the Woollies.’
‘But that’s just it,’ said Twilight raising his shoulders, ‘I haven’t seen half of what you’ve seen, and I won’t unless I do something.’
‘What I feel,’ said Sydney, ‘is that we owe our lives to Sam. I made a promise to go back for him, I’ve never forgotten that promise and since I got this note I can’t stop worrying about it.’
‘Well you’re not the only one to have thought about Sam,’ said Vulge. ‘I have too and I daresay the others have. I felt rotten leaving him there on the banks of the Wandle, but travel is dangerous these days and getting more and more dangerous all the time. We shouldn’t go charging about London, getting ourselves caught by the SBG. Sam himself wouldn’t want that.’
Sydney stared at the piece of paper in her hand. She wanted to believe in it so much and now Vulge had undermined her confidence. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘I know Chalotte doesn’t want to come, but I suppose Twilight and me could go, just to have a look I mean.’
Vulge shook his head. ‘I don’t want to win any more names; I’m not ambitious like Knocker was. He wanted to win more glory than any other Borrible, and where is he now, dead and deep in Wandle mud. How does the proverb go … “One good name is enough if the name is good enough”? Well, my name is.’
No one spoke for a long while after that, they concentrated instead on finishing their tea. Vulge even rose from his seat and made some more, and all the while his guests remained silent. Sydney continued to stare at the message and Chalotte could think of nothing to say that might cheer her friend. Twilight kept his own counsel because it was not his business; it was a matter for three old friends, veterans of a wild and perilous experience that he had not shared.
Ten minutes went by. Chalotte could see that Vulge was thinking intently, resting his top teeth on the edge of his jam jar of tea. At last he got to his feet, limped over to an orange box, took out some apples and handed them round.
‘This is my idea,’ he began. ‘It’s the school holidays now, safer for us to travel. I’m not in favour of doing anything dangerous, but what we could do is get the other survivors together, there’s only Stonksie in Peckham and Bingo in Battersea, then we could all talk about it. We’ll find someone who’s going Peckham way and send a note to Stonks and get him to meet us at Bingo’s house. On our way to Battersea we’ll ask any Borrible we see if they’ve come across any messages about Sam. If they haven’t then the message is likely to be genuine, if they’ve seen a few then it’s probably a trap. That way we don’t make any decisions about going to Fulham until we’ve heard what everyone has to say. How’s that strike yer, Sydney, is that better?’
Sydney looked up and smiled, her eyes brightened. ‘Oh Vulge,’ she said, ‘that’s marvellous, bloody marvellous.’
The four Borribles meant to waste no time and decided to set out the following morning. A message was despatched to Peckham via the Borrible network and Twilight volunteered to make himself responsible for gathering the supplies they would need on the long walk to Battersea. He left Vulge’s house that afternoon and promised to return by nightfall.
Vulge checked over his catapult. He also gave Chalotte a spare to replace the one she had lost when captured by the policeman. Later on that day he disappeared for an hour or so, ‘To get some good stones,’ he said.
That night all four of them slept in Vulge’s house and at first light they rose and made a good breakfast.
‘We’ll get on the streets as soon as it’s rush hour,’ said Vulge. ‘That way we won’t be so noticeable. Remember, the slightest sign of trouble and we run. If we get separated we all meet at Bingo’s house.’
‘This is great,’ said Twilight. ‘Do you know I’ve never been out of the East End, let alone across the river.’
‘Well,’ said Chalotte, ‘let’s hope it turns out to be just a walk we’re going on and nothing more.’
As it happened the walk was a good one. The route lay all along the side of the River Thames and the water glinted and gleamed in the July sunshine. Tugs and barges steamed by on the tide; seagulls swooped down the winding currents of warm air and their long wailing cries made the Embankment sound as
exotic as a treasure island. Buses and cars shone and stewed in the heat and the blue smoke of their exhausts floated in a pale stream a yard or so above the bubbling tar of the road surface.
This was central London in summer, and so content were the four Borribles to be a part of their city that they began to sing quietly to themselves as they advanced along the hot pavements, singing a song that told of their way of life and the joy they had in it; one of the most famous Borrible songs ever written:
‘Who’d be a hurrying, scurrying slave,
Off to an office, or bound for a bank;
Who’d be a servant from cradle to grave,
Counting his wages and trying to save;
Who’d be a manager, full of his rank,
Or the head of the board at a big corporation?
Ask us the question, we’ll tell you to stuff it;
Good steady jobs would make all of us snuff it—
Freedom’s a Borrible’s one occupation!
‘Our kind of liberty’s fit for a king;
London’s our palace, we reign there supreme.
Broad way and narrow way, what shall we sing—
Alleys as tangled as knotted-up string,
River that winds through the smoke like a dream—
What shall we sing in our own celebration?
Ragged-arsed renegades, never respectable,
Under your noses, but rarely detectable—
Freedom’s a Borrible’s one occupation!’
And so they marched along the north bank until they reached Albert Bridge; there they crossed. Once over the water they turned right and went past the bus garages, then into Church Road where a great change awaited them. The high black walls of Morgan’s Crucible Works, the tall chimneys that had always stood against the clouds, the acres of sooty windows, had all gone. The factory had been demolished.
Borribles Go For Broke, The Page 3
