‘Well, look at that,’ said Chalotte, ‘ain’t it strange?’
They went on, halting for a second by St Mary’s church and the Old Swan pub.
‘This is where we landed after our escape from the Wendles,’ said Sydney, ‘and we went into some Borrible houses opposite. They’ve knocked them down too, everything’s going.’
At last they came to their destination, turning into the bottom of Battersea High Street and heading towards the market … But they did not go unobserved. As they passed the corner of Gran-field Street a Borrible, wearing an old Sinjen’s School blazer and tattered grey trousers, stepped in front of them and said, ‘What are you lot doing here?’
It was Lightfinger, Knocker’s friend, and Chalotte recognized him.
‘We’re Borrible, you know,’ she said. ‘Three of us were on the Rumble Hunt.’
Lightfinger was not impressed. ‘So what?’ he said. ‘I still want to know what you are doing here; this ain’t your manor.’
‘Don’t give us any bother,’ said Vulge. ‘We’ve come to see Bingo, not you. Why don’t you get out of our way?’
Lightfinger took a step towards Vulge. ‘Long as you haven’t come to start some dopey adventure like the last one. Where’s Knocker now eh, where’s my friend? Dead, ain’t he?’ Lightfinger clenched his fists and squared his shoulders, ready to take them all on, one against four.
‘Oh, don’t be daft,’ said Chalotte. ‘We’ve come for a chat with Bingo, that’s all.’
‘I’ll tell him,’ said Lightfinger. ‘As for you lot, you’d better go and see Spiff.’ With that he spun on his heel and ran off. The four travellers watched him go.
‘Friendly little feller, ain’t he?’ said Twilight. ‘Hides it well.’
‘He liked Knocker,’ said Chalotte, ‘so he can’t be too bad. Perhaps he hates us because we came back and Knocker didn’t.’
‘What about Spiff?’ Sydney wanted to know. ‘It’s funny but not one of us had thought about going to see him, had we?’
‘What’s he got to do with it?’ asked Twilight.
‘He has the Borrible house where Knocker used to live,’ explained Chalotte. ‘It was him really who talked everyone into going on the Rumble Hunt. It was him who gave Knocker the secret job of getting the Rumble treasure and bringing it back. If you ask me the money was all he was interested in.’
‘We don’t know that,’ said Vulge, wagging his head.
‘No, we don’t,’ agreed Chalotte, ‘but I reckon that Spiff’s so crooked you could use him to unblock a sink. Still, if we don’t want trouble I suppose we’d better tell him we’re here.’
Spiff’s house stood halfway up the High Street. It was tall, wide and derelict, all its windows boarded and a heavy sheet of corrugated iron over the main doorway. The front of the building was painted in grimy grey and in black letters along the front was written, ‘Bunham’s Patent Locks Ltd. Locksmiths to the trade.’
The four Borribles loitered outside for a while and waited until their stretch of street was empty of pedestrians; no Borrible likes to be seen entering an abandoned house. When the coast was clear they went down steep steps into a basement area where they found an open door through which they entered a room that was damp and green and devoid of furniture. Plaster in large quantities had fallen from the ceiling and lay everywhere in lumps.
Vulge looked at the walls and sniffed. ‘We left from here,’ he said to Twilight, ‘this very room, eight of us; Spiff lives upstairs, come on.’
On the first landing Vulge stopped at a paintless door and gave the Borrible knock: one long, two short, one long. The door opened immediately and Lightfinger appeared. He jerked a thumb over his shoulder as he pushed past.
‘He knows you’re ’ere,’ he said, ‘I told him.’ Levering his shoulders backwards and forwards as he walked he went down the stairs.
‘He’s not so bad as he seems,’ said a voice. Spiff stood in the doorway.
Chalotte regarded him closely. The little bugger hasn’t changed a bit, she said to herself, not a bit. It was his face she remembered: clear and bright like a twelve-year-old’s, with eyes that always shone, dark with a fire of deep cunning, a craftiness that might have been ages old. He wore the same orange dressing gown and the same red hat of knitted wool.
‘You’d better come in, all of yer,’ he said, beckoning them across his threshold.
Inside the room Spiff lowered himself into his old armchair. In spite of the summer’s heat his paraffin stove was burning low, and bubbling on top was a large brown enamel teapot. Spiff set four cups on an orange box and poured out a liquid that tasted like gunpowder and needed spoonfuls of sugar to make it drinkable.
‘Well, well,’ he said after the first sip, ‘it really is nice of you to come all this way to say hello. Sydney, Vulge and Chalotte, isn’t it? Must be six or seven months since I saw you. Who’s this black lad? Don’t know him, do I?’
‘My name’s Twilight,’ said the Bangladeshi with some pride.
‘That is an unusual name,’ said Spiff. ‘I hope that while you are here you will find time to tell me your story.’
Spiff then suggested that the four Borribles should take their cups and sit on the barrels arranged along one wall of his room. They did as they were asked and relaxed and drank and perspired in the overheated atmosphere, though they said nothing. This silence was embarrassing and Chalotte wondered if Spiff had been nudged off balance by their arrival. It was always difficult to assess his reactions exactly. There were great echoing corridors of artfulness in that small hard skull.
‘Lightfinger said you’d come to see Bingo,’ he said eventually across the top of his teacup. The steam strayed upwards over his face and dimmed the light of his eyes. He waited and smiled as if suspecting his guests of knowing something he didn’t want them to know and yet wishing, without giving anything away himself, to discover the full extent of their knowledge.
Sydney looked at her three companions, wiped some sweat from her eyebrows, coughed and said, ‘We … that is me … I went to see Chalotte because I was worried about Sam.’
‘Sam?’ said Spiff, and his brow furrowed as if he didn’t know the name. Chalotte tightened her mouth in scorn. She was certain that Spiff remembered every detail of the Rumble expedition and, what was more, spent a great deal of his time thinking about the Rumble Hunt, what had happened on it and what might still happen because of it.
‘Sam,’ she said, allowing the sarcasm to show, ‘was the horse.’
‘Oh yes,’ said Spiff, ‘the horse, of course.’ He smiled at the rhyme.
‘Well,’ continued Sydney, ‘I made him a promise that I’d go back for him … then the other day I received this.’ Sydney handed the message to Spiff, who read it very carefully, examining the piece of paper on both sides.
‘Mmm,’ he said when his perusal was concluded. ‘Fulham; are you going to go?’
Vulge leant forward and settled his elbows on his knees, holding his cup between clasped hands. ‘The point is, Spiff, I think the message is a come-on, I think it might be something set up by the SBG.’
Spiff looked at the note again. ‘That’s a thought,’ he said. ‘Those Woollies of Sussworth’s have become a real pain. I’ve had this house searched twice, only just got away the second time. We’ve got Borribles watching each end of the street now. As soon as one of those blue vans arrives, matey, we’re off.’
Vulge nodded. ‘It would have been dead easy, you know, for the SBG to send that note … though I must admit we spoke to a lot of Borribles on the way down here and none of them had seen a message about Sam, so I daresay it’s straight. On the other hand, if we do decide it’s a trap then we ought to forget about the horse altogether.’
‘I should cocoa,’ said Spiff. If he had been nervous earlier he was now visibly relaxing. ‘What do you think, Chalotte?’
‘I don’t think anything. I came along for the walk and to see Bingo and Stonks. Sydney made a promise but I didn’t.’ She s
hrugged her shoulders.
Twilight interrupted. ‘I would go to Fulham like a shot.’
Spiff laughed. ‘He’s like Knocker, he is.’
‘Yeah,’ said Chalotte, ‘and Knocker’s dead and that was your fault. You’re so crafty you don’t know whether you’ve been or gone. I say that to your face.’
Spiff’s expression darkened. ‘I only wanted to share the money out.’
‘Borribles should stay away from money,’ said Vulge.
Spiff grimaced. ‘Well, money certainly stays away from Borribles.’ He looked straight into Chalotte’s eyes. ‘You never liked me, Chalotte, even before Knocker died, but you can’t deny that we haven’t had a peep out of the Rumbles since we attacked them, not a peep.’
‘That’s right,’ said Chalotte, ‘now we’ve got the SBG instead.’
‘The world don’t do us no favours,’ said Spiff, and then he quoted from the Borrible Book of Proverbs. ‘“The only gift given to a Borrible is the one he takes.”’ He studied his visitors for a moment. ‘What are you going to do?’
‘Talk it over with Bingo,’ said Vulge, ‘and Stonks.’
‘Fine,’ said Spiff. ‘I think you ought to find out where the horse is. If it really is in Fulham and you come to the conclusion that it isn’t a trap then we could just wander over there and take a look.’
‘We?’ exclaimed Sydney.
‘Yes, why not me as well? I haven’t been on a trip for ages. Don’t want to sit here all the time. Besides, it would do me good to get out.’
Sydney and the three others stared at each other. This was a turn of events that flabbergasted them completely. They had never known Spiff leave his room for any length of time.
‘I wouldn’t walk down the street with you,’ said Chalotte.
Spiff raised his eyebrows. ‘It doesn’t matter, you said you wouldn’t be going anyway. Sydney, Twilight and me could manage on our own, even if Bingo and Stonks don’t want to come.’
‘Wait a minute,’ said Vulge, reddening. ‘I wouldn’t be against going as long as I felt sure that it wasn’t an SBG set-up.’
Spiff leant forward. ‘It’s no good us deciding anything till we get more information. I’ve got a few friends in Fulham; I’ll try to find out if there’s any truth in the message.’
Chalotte banged her empty cup on the floor. ‘Have you ever had any news out of Wendle country?’ she asked.
A gleam of hatred glowed at the back of Spiff’s eyes. ‘Nah,’ he said, ‘only rumours, but then not much news comes out of Wendle country at the best of times.’
Chalotte pointed a finger at him. ‘You don’t even care what happened to Knocker,’ she said.
Spiff poured himself another cup of tea. ‘I’ve been a Borrible for years,’ he said, ‘more years than the rest of you put together. You just watch your lip, Chalotte, or I’ll thump you into the middle of next week.’
‘Not while I’m here,’ said Vulge quietly.
‘Nor me,’ said Sydney.
‘Or even me,’ added Twilight.
Spiff raised his cup and bent his head in mockery. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘The top room is empty. There’s the market every day of the week; help yourselves, just stay out of trouble and don’t upset any Battersea Borribles while you’re here.’
‘Thanks very much,’ said Chalotte, and she went quickly from the room. The others filed after her, only Vulge stopped on the way out.
‘Go easy on Chalotte,’ he said. ‘It upsets her when she remembers the Adventure, Knocker and all that. She thinks it’s not right for Borribles to go looking for trouble.’
Spiff smiled his craftiest smile. ‘Who has to look for trouble?’ he said. ‘Trouble knows its way to everyone’s house, the trick is to be out when it gets there.’ And he threw back his head and his smile broke into pieces and became harsh laughter. Vulge said no more but turned and went away, closing the door quietly behind him before following his friends upstairs.
Upstairs was Bingo. ‘I saw old misery-guts Lightfinger in the market,’ he said, and clapped Vulge on the back. ‘Hello, you old cripple, how’s the limping, getting better?’
Bingo was slightly built, even for a Borrible. He was about the same size as Twilight but thinner. His skin looked healthy and he had blue eyes that moved all the time though never furtively. His hair was dark and tightly curled, like wire wool. When he talked he smiled; it took a lot of trouble to get him down.
‘The limping’s very good,’ said Vulge, and pushed his mate gently in the face with the palm of his hand.
‘Who’s the spade?’ asked Bingo.
‘My name’s Twilight,’ said the Bangladeshi, drawing himself up to his full height and looking Bingo straight in the eye.
Bingo shouted in delight, ‘Twilight is a great and magnificent name. O Borrible from beyond the water, tell me its story.’
‘Beyond the water,’ said Twilight, becoming angry, ‘don’t be bloody stupid, this is the first time I’ve been out of Whitechapel.’
Bingo winked. ‘Ah, but you had to cross the river to get here, didn’t you?’
‘He’s having you on, Twilight,’ said Chalotte. ‘Leave him alone, Bingo. Twilight saved me from a Woollie the other day.’
Bingo went serious for a second. ‘Anyone who saves my friend,’ he said, ‘is my friend,’ and he slapped Twilight on the shoulder.
The Bangladeshi was so pleased with this reception that a lump rose in his throat. He found no words to say but just nodded and smiled.
‘At any rate,’ Bingo continued, ‘I won’t have you all staying here, it’s rotten. I have an empty cellar next door to a supermarket on Lavender Hill. I took a few bricks out of the wall so food is no longer a problem. I offer you a feast and there are mattresses galore. How about it?’
The decision was easily made and the five Borribles clattered down the wooden stairs, halting just for a moment on the ground floor so that Vulge could tell Spiff where they were going and also to leave a message for Stonks.
‘All right,’ said Spiff, ‘I’ll tell him and if I hear anything about the horse I’ll send a runner. Be careful now, and don’t get caught.’
‘No,’ said Vulge, ‘we won’t,’ and he limped away.
The period of waiting passed enjoyably. As Bingo had promised there was a ready supply of food in his cellar and most days the five Borribles wandered together round the busy streets of Clapham Junction, talking to other Borribles and joining in the games of ordinary children. Twilight told the story of his name and in return Bingo gave him yet another version of the Great Rumble Hunt, telling of his fight in the library against the best warrior of Rumbledom, a fight to the death with the Rumble-stick, and he told how Napoleon Boot had killed scores of Rumbles and had set fire to the great library.
‘That Napoleon Boot,’ said Bingo, shaking his head as if he couldn’t believe that he had met such a person, ‘what a scrapper he was, loved it, he did. I know it was him got us into a mess with the Wendles but I liked him, and you have to remember that it was him that got us out of it in the end. No one else could have, not even Knocker … and nobody else could have tricked Flinthead.’
‘What was he like, Flinthead?’
‘The chief of the Wendles! He’s the toughest, coldest, nastiest, cruellest Borrible git in creation,’ said Bingo. ‘If you ever have the bad luck to meet him, turn and run like hell. Don’t try to be brave or anything stupid like that, just run. Flinthead is the kind of person that likes sticking pins in worms and watching ’em wriggle.’
Early one morning, after a week of idling and talking, a message, scrawled on a piece of paper, arrived from Spiff. ‘Stonks is here,’ it read. That was sufficient, Spiff knew, to get the five Borribles down to Battersea High Street in a hurry, and he was right. They left Lavender Hill at a trot and kept it up all the way. They found Stonks waiting for them at the top end of the market, leaning against a traffic light.
Stonks was big for a Borrible, strong-looking with dark heavy eyebrows and
a red face which was slow to register his feelings. Stonks never minced his words; he wasn’t witty but he was dogged, persistent and dependable. A good friend to have beside you when things turned nasty.
‘I’ve been waiting ages for you bunch of layabouts,’ he said, and although he tried to look stern, pleasure forced its way into his expression. ‘It’s miles from here to Peckham.’
‘Shuddup,’ said Bingo, ‘or I’ll let Chalotte push yer face in.’
When these greetings had been exchanged the six friends passed into the market, took some food as they went, and continued along the High Street until they reached an open area of dusty ground between the railway embankment and a scrapyard where the wrecked bodies of old cars were piled four or five high, slung precariously one on top of another. There the Borribles sat themselves down on the stony dirt in the shade of a plank fence, the hot sky stretched tightly above them. Every ten minutes or so a dark blue electric train rattled by, the noise turning hollow as the wheels clanked over Battersea railway bridge. The Borribles were safe in that spot and they liked it. They ate the fruit they’d stolen and they talked.
‘I don’t give a monkey’s about the SBG,’ said Stonks. ‘I mean they don’t know we’re worried about Sam, or that Sydney made a promise. I think we owe that horse at least a try at finding him … I’ve always felt rotten about leaving him behind.’
‘That makes four of us,’ said Twilight, ‘me, Sydney, Bingo and now Stonks.’
‘Five, if you count Spiff,’ said Chalotte.
At that moment the conversation was interrupted by a scrabbling sound and Spiff himself sprang through a hole in the fence. No longer the tea-swilling Borrible wrapped in an orange dressing gown, but dressed for the road, he looked hard and ready for anything.
‘Don’t see you out often,’ said Bingo.
‘I’m out now,’ answered Spiff, and he pushed into the group, squatted down and, without any preamble, began to talk, as if continuing the discussion of a week earlier.
‘I just heard from a Borrible along York Road; he told me that when Dewdrop was killed there was a bit in the paper about it … how the Woollies found all the stolen gear in the house and how they think Borribles did the stealing and then killed Dewdrop in a quarrel over the sharing out. This newspaper also said how the horse was found, cut and bleeding, in King George’s Park. It was recognized as belonging to Dewdrop but nobody claimed it. It seems that Dewdrop didn’t have any relations except his son and he wasn’t much use, seeing as he was dead too, so the horse was given to the RSPCA.’
Borribles Go For Broke, The Page 4
