‘We won’t get another chance like this,’ said Stonks. ‘We’ve got to have a go, we’ve got to.’
‘Hang about,’ interrupted Spiff, ‘there’s no need for us all to rush over there. Vulge better stay here because of his limp, Sydney too, and Twilight. Chalotte and Stonks come with me. Now, if we get Bingo out we’ll head into the back streets between here and the river. I’ll open the van on this side, away from the caff, that means you three here will have to watch the park keeper. If he looks up he’ll spot us. If he tries to warn the Woollies you’ll just have to run out there and clobber ’im. If that happens nick the horse and cart and drive like the clappers, away up the common, make as much noise as you can, create a diversion. After that you’ll have to run into the side streets and split up, hide, get into a house, anything.’ Spiff drew a deep breath and looked at the circle of frightened faces around him. ‘I know it’s not much of a plan,’ he added, ‘but it’s all we got.’
‘How are you going to pick the lock?’ asked Stonks.
Spiff smiled. ‘How do you think I did the RSPCA office?’ he said, and he drew a small bundle of stiff wire from one pocket and a bunch of filed-down car keys from another. ‘I’m a little boy scout,’ he explained, ‘always prepared.’ Spiff smirked then and looked at Twilight from under his eyebrows. ‘You’d better take the telescope, and don’t look down the wrong end. If you see something you don’t like, whistle.’ And Spiff thrust his hands into his pockets and sauntered, tough and truculent, out from the garden and on to the pavement. Stonks went too and Chalotte, after grimacing fearfully at Sydney, did the same.
Twilight raised the telescope and studied the keeper for a minute or two. Nothing out of the ordinary there. Next he turned his attention to the café, but the windows were thick with the dirt thrown up by passing juggernauts and the Bangladeshi could see nothing through them. He surveyed the houses opposite, the gardens, the roofs. Everything seemed normal.
Spiff reached the van. Chalotte knelt by its front wheel and watched the café and Stonks stood near the back doors and scanned the common. Spiff, the most casual and courageous burglar in the world, leant on the SBG vehicle and attacked the sliding door with his set of keys. He was a good workman; he didn’t rush and he didn’t panic, not even when Bingo’s face appeared close to his own, separated from it only by half an inch of soundproof security glass. The prisoner moved his mouth but Spiff heard nothing above a murmur. He bent his head and went on with his work, saying, ‘Don’t worry, Bingo, don’t worry, nearly got it.’
‘All quiet on the common,’ said Stonks, his voice tense.
‘All quiet in the caff,’ said Chalotte, ‘but get a move on.’
Two minutes went by, three. Chalotte continued to keep a sharp eye on the café door, willing it to stay shut. She heard Spiff swear but refused to turn her head, then came the sound of the lock clicking, the door slid open. Bingo was free.
She half rose from her crouching position and turned to see Bingo, pale and bedraggled, leap from the van and into Spiff’s arms, shouting, ‘You fools, you damn fools, it’s a trap, the common’s lousy with coppers.’
Chalotte glanced across the road and her mouth dried and her blood congealed into a ball of stone that stuck in her heart. The door of the café had been flung open and the policemen were spreading along the pavement, pushing pedestrians out of their way, cutting off any Borrible escape into the streets that led to the Thames.
‘It’s coming down harder, now,’ said Spiff. ‘We’ll have to try and get across the common.’
Back behind the hedge Twilight jumped to his feet, dropping the telescope. ‘The Woollies are coming out of the caff,’ he shouted. ‘Sydney, Vulge, come on. It’s the cart before the horse now.’
Loading their catapults the three of them ran from their hiding place into the open, making as much noise as they could. The keeper saw them coming and turned to face them, squaring his shoulders as if for an attack he had always expected.
Vulge faltered. ‘He knows,’ he said, ‘he knows.’
‘I don’t care how much he knows,’ shouted Twilight, ‘all the knowledge in the world won’t stop a catapult.’ The Bangladeshi knelt and let fly a stone which flew straight at the keeper and struck him cleanly on the elbow, drawing blood.
‘Come on, Sam,’ yelled Sydney. ‘It’s me, Sam, it’s me.’
Sam needed no telling. He was a veteran of the Great Rumble Hunt and he could smell danger just as well as he could smell the scent of his Borrible friends. He neighed like a warhorse, eager for battle, swished his tail and ran in the direction of his beloved Sydney, his lips curling back over his teeth in ferocious glee.
There was no time for greeting, not then, not in the middle of such a hue and cry. Sydney sprang on to the cart and seized the reins; Vulge and Twilight leapt up beside her, catapults ready.
‘I came back for you, Sam,’ cried Sydney breathlessly. ‘I told you I would.’
Spiff and his band ran diagonally across a corner of the common. They ran fast and in a fair race would have soon outdistanced their pursuers, but the trap had been well laid. Sweat ran into Spiff’s eyes.
‘Make for that street over there,’ he panted, ‘we’ll leave ’em behind in no time.’ But even as he spoke a blue Transit van skidded round the corner of the road he had indicated. All its doors burst open and another dozen Woollies jumped into the fray. ‘Hell,’ said Spiff, ‘we’ve been set up.’ He swerved in his tracks, the others followed and they ran up the side of the green towards the next street. Another blue van appeared and the Borribles were forced to run on.
‘What about the other side of the common?’ asked Chalotte.
‘Take a look,’ said Stonks. Chalotte saw and heard three vans screech into view. They did not stop at the kerbside either, those vans, but drove and bumped and swayed out on to the yellow grass.
‘Shit,’ said Spiff, ‘they’re really coming for us today.’
‘It was nice to escape,’ said Bingo, ‘even if it was only for a minute.’
Sydney spied her friends and directed the cart towards them.
‘Sam,’ she wailed as the horse ran, ‘this is not how we meant it to be. Now we’re caught for good, now they’ll clip us and we’ll grow up and hell and dammit.’
The policemen began to advance from three sides, both on foot and in their vans, but Sam’s blood came afire with the urge to help his friends and he galloped like he had on Rumbledom. He swerved and slid the cart in front of Spiff and the others and they threw themselves aboard and Sam was away again, heading for the top of the common where the field narrowed to a point and there were no blue vans to be seen.
The seven Borribles, united now, aimed and shot their catapults as rapidly as they could and the policemen on foot fell back under the onslaught of those deadly missiles, but four vans drew alongside the cart and kept pace with the gallant horse.
‘Aim at the windscreens,’ called Spiff, but it was not that easy. The SBG vans had thicker glass than ordinary cars and the stones rebounded harmlessly into the air.
Sam galloped on, sheering this way and that, trying to reach the streets. More vans drove on to the common, fast at first, then they slowed and circled the cart, drawing closer and closer, forcing Sam away from the edge of the field, into the centre.
Sam wheeled again and looked for a way of escape. There was none. The blue vans slithered to a halt on the dry grass, the doors banged open and scores of policemen rushed into the sunlight—Sussworth’s men, his pride and his joy, in full riot gear. They held shields in front of their bodies and on their heads black helmets reflected only a black sunshine. In front of the men’s faces were see-behind visors, in the men’s hands, long truncheons. The SBG marched towards the cart; the world was theirs and the Borribles were hostages for it.
Sam swerved but he was hemmed in completely and the end soon came. A policeman leapt up and grabbed at Sam’s bridle. The horse reared and lifted the man from his feet but he held on. Another policema
n ran forward, then another. The Borribles fired stones at their knees, their ankles; many men fell but others ran round them, protecting the injured with their shields. It was a fierce battle but the SBG would not be intimidated and they did not fall back. Sam reared again and the cart crashed into one of the stationary vans. The horse whinnied piteously as he struggled to be free. He bucked, he kicked.
‘Leave him alone,’ shouted Sydney, and fired a stone at the constable who was punching Sam on the nose.
The cart pitched and tipped and Spiff, drawing back the rubber of his catapult, was thrown to the ground badly stunned. He groaned and rolled on to his back. Chalotte was seized by an ankle and dragged from her feet. Her back cracked against the side of the cart, she was grabbed and chucked from one policeman to another. Someone cuffed her and dropped her down beside the unconscious Spiff. She screamed and covered her ears with her hands.
‘Don’t clip me,’ she yelled, ‘don’t clip me.’
Stonks was strong. He was held by the leg. He kicked out and the hand let go. He jumped over the edge of the cart and butted someone in the stomach. A way was clear before him, he moved for it but a truncheon struck him across the back and all the wind went from him, sucked from his lungs. He fell to his knees and that was the end of his battle.
Sydney had not thought of fighting. In her heart she was weeping because it had been her idea to look for Sam in the first place and now that idea had brought them all to this defeat. Never had there been such a thing in the whole of Borrible history. Never had so many been caught in one fell swoop.
Vulge sprang from the cart but he was caught in midair by two policemen and they grasped him by the legs and wrists and his skinny body writhed in the air between them. Twilight was on the ground, so was Bingo. Everyone had been taken.
With her heart breaking Sydney jumped on to Sam’s back, fell on his neck and clung tightly to him. ‘Oh, Sam,’ she cried, ‘this was all for you and it’s all gone wrong, you’ll never see us Borribles again.’ But there was no time to say more. She was plucked from the horse by brutal hands and flung to the ground.
Spiritless she gazed at the sky. It was blue still and burnt the world. Her body ached and sweat ran over it. The earth was hard in her back and she could feel it spinning, faster and faster. All around her, staring down, was a ring of helmeted heads, moving and motionless, like the rim of a gyroscope. Blank masks: no eyes, no noses, no mouths. Nothing.
Suddenly a section of the circle fell away and into the gap stepped a short man in officer’s uniform. He had twisted features and a black moustache. Beside him stood a fat policeman with a shiny face made uneven and bumpy by glowing pearls of perspiration. It was Inspector Sussworth and Sergeant Hanks.
The inspector jeered and clapped his hands and looked at the faceless faces of his men. Sydney saw him do a little jig of happiness, pirouetting from one foot to the other. The sergeant stared lovingly at the prostrate captives and licked his lips as if he were contemplating his favourite food.
‘Well, well,’ said Sussworth when his dance was over and a smile set crooked on his ugly mouth. ‘What a lovely batch of Borribles I’ve got. Welcome home you little brats, welcome back to the straight and narrow.’
After their capture the Borribles were handcuffed together in a long line and locked into one of the Transit vans. Eel Brook Common looked like a no man’s land. Two vans had crashed and one of them lay on its side, dented and demolished. Police equipment was strewn over an immense area and many of the SBG, exhausted by the heat of the day and the exertion of the chase, lay where they had fallen, like corpses on a battlefield. On the main road loitered little knots of people, gazing without understanding at the aftermath of the conflict. Some of them questioned the policemen about the cause of the affray but received no answer. They went to leave but halted to witness one last flurry of excitement.
Sam the horse had not finished yet; his body shook all over and his legs trembled, there was froth on his lips. He stood dejected in the shafts of the rubbish cart, his head touching the grass in sorrow, and the park keeper, one elbow bandaged, came up to the horse and caught him violently by the reins.
‘Come on, animal,’ he said, ‘it’s back to work for you, and no mistake.’
It is difficult to know what goes on in a horse’s mind but something snapped in Sam’s. He had tasted freedom for a few minutes, he had seen his friends for a while, knew he was loved, but at the end everything had been taken from him. It was more than he could bear. He lunged and he reared, snorting out a challenge to the man in brown and all that he stood for. His front legs flailed and the park keeper let go the reins and cowered to the ground, shielding his head with his good arm. In the prison van Sydney pressed her face against the wire-meshed window.
‘Look,’ she said, ‘Sam’s escaping.’
Sam kicked his hind legs at the cart that he hated. There was a noise of splintering wood and a shaft broke away. Sam reared once more, high and magnificent, and his valiant neighing rang out across the common, defying anyone to enslave him ever again.
The keeper made a last attempt to seize the flying reins but Sam sprang at him, forcing him back, and the second shaft gave and the traces snapped: Now he was free of the cart altogether; now, unhindered and unfettered, he wheeled like a wild stallion, then he chose his direction and galloped off, his neck stretched and his tail and mane and broken leathers streaming behind him.
The exhausted policemen were ordered to their feet and compelled to link arms and form a human chain across the common. Others raced to their vans, but Sam would not be caught. He launched himself at the SBG line as it advanced towards him; he ran faster and faster, his hooves thundered across the turf and the policemen before him faltered; that horse was insane—it was not going to stop. On and on sped Sam and when only a few yards from the human barricade he soared into the air, as high and as handsome as any hunter, and landed gracefully well beyond the reach of those who sought to bring him down. Across the main road he went then and into the freedom of the back streets, like any Borrible would.
‘He got away,’ said Sydney. ‘Imagine that, he got away.’
Vulge kicked the side of the van. ‘Well, we didn’t,’ he said, ‘and what will happen to us now?’
He was not kept in suspense for long. The van groaned on its springs and three policemen climbed into the front seat. One of them switched on the engine and his colleagues turned to keep a close watch on the prisoners. The van drove slowly off the common, bumped over the kerbstones and crawled away in the direction of Fulham Road. It was escorted by another van, and another. There was to be no escaping.
It was not a long drive and within a few minutes, sirens howling, the column of blue vehicles swept into a grey yard surrounded by high brick walls; this was Fulham police station. The vans parked and the SBG men bundled out of them to form up in straight ranks while Inspector Sussworth and his sergeant stood happily before them. Just for a little while there was silence, then the inspector raised his arms and opened his mouth.
‘Bloody Nora,’ said Vulge who had been watching the policemen through the windows of the Black Maria, ‘he’s going to sing, like some football supporter whose team’s won the cup.’
And sing the inspector did, a fine marching song, a song to rouse the blood, and as Sussworth sang his men saluted and marched and tramped on the spot, and every time their leader completed a verse the constables shouted aloud and sang the chorus with verve and energy: but the song sent a chill into the bones of the Borribles as they listened, for the words offered them no hope.
‘To make a new society
we must reform the human race;
if all the world were just like me
the world would be a better place.
CHORUS:
‘There’s law and order in my blood, and disobedience makes me mad;
I am the friend of all that’s good,
I am the foe of all that’s bad.
‘I hate the fools who won�
�t obey
the rules we set for them to keep;
it’s criminal to err and stray—
good citizens behave like sheep!
‘Authority must always win,
dissenters are a mortal blight—
I’ll straighten them with discipline,
teach them to put their morals right!
‘For we know best what’s right and wrong;
we make the laws, we know the form—
I’ll come down hard, I’ll come down strong
on every sod who won’t conform—
‘Especially these little brats
the Borribles—the lawless shites
with pointed ears and woolly hats;
I’ll crucify the parasites!
CHORUS:
‘There’s law and order in my blood, and disobedience makes me mad;
I am the friend of all that’s good,
I am the foe of all that’s bad.’
Once the SBG march had been sung no more time was lost. The prisoners were hustled from their van and into the back door of the police station, pushed past some concrete steps leading to the cells, and shoved into the interrogation room. Several policemen went with the Borribles and marshalled them before a large desk. On the desk were piles of paper; behind the desk sat the malignant figure of Inspector Sussworth; beside him, ever subservient, stood Sergeant Hanks.
Inspector Sussworth arranged his papers into squares of neatness and jerked his face into some form of straightness. He cleared his throat. ‘I see you’re wearing Sinjen’s blazers and trousers,’ he began, ‘some kind of disguise I suppose, pitiful! Well, let’s see …’ He studied a charge sheet. ‘I can do you for breaking and entering, damaging police property, resisting arrest, obstructing police officers in the execution of their duty, attacking officers of the law, grievous bodily harm, actual bodily harm, obscene language, horse-stealing—used to be a hanging charge that one, pity—aiding and abetting a prisoner to escape and evade lawful custody … I’ve got enough to put you lot into care until the next millennium, and with your ears clipped I bet you’d grow up into as lovely a bunch of little Lord Fauntleroys as you could wish to see … But then I’m not interested in the future, I’ve got bigger fish to fry.’ Sussworth’s face twisted and tightened in its anger. ‘You lot know something about the Southfields murders; you lot were there and before I’ve finished with you I’ll have you queueing up to tell me about it.’
Borribles Go For Broke, The Page 7
