The Borribles - Larrabeiti Michael (книги онлайн без регистрации .txt) 📗
"Dammit," he said, but pulled back the elastic of his catapult as far as his wound and the pain would let him.
His antagonist reached for another spear and lifted it above his shoulder; he was a mighty thrower but he was not to throw again. The second stone from Vulge's catapult struck him fairly on the temple, he fell forward and the lance dropped from his hand.
Vulge stuck his catapult into his belt and, with an effort, he pulled the four-inch barb from his shoulder and threw the lance to the ground.
"I hope the bleeder weren't rusty," he said to himself, crossing the room, "and I hope there aren't too many guards inside."
He rapped on the oak door with the butt of a dead guard's lance.
"Who's there?" asked a rich and plummy voice from the other side.
"I've come with the bweakfast," said Vulge, whose imitation of a Rumble was perfect.
The door popped open and Vulge saw the Chieftain's major-domo standing before him. A haughty sneer was stretched along his snout and his rich beige fur was decorated with a green, white and gold sash; these were the colours of Rumbledom.
"Here's your bweakfast," said Vulge, and prodded the regal domestic in the solar plexus with the sharp end of his lance. The butler doubled up, clutching at his stomach, and Vulge clouted him hard across the head with the shaft of the spear. The Rumble collapsed to the floor and rolled over on his back, his snout crashing open like an unhinged drawbridge.
"That's sorted you out, weasel-chops," said Vulge.
He stepped over the body and entered a magnificent and luxurious sitting-room. The carpet was a spotless white and a huge sofa in cream leather was matched with armchairs of the same material and on the misty green walls were original paintings in good taste. There was a colour television set, telephones in brass with ivory mouth-pieces and copies of the national newspapers and magazines resting aristocratically on small leather-covered tables.
Vulge jerked a linen runner from one of the tables, spilling a majolica vase to the floor, where it broke. He folded the material and shoved it inside his combat jacket to pad his wound and stop the bleeding.
"The sooner I get this over with, the better," he muttered, "otherwise this arm will go as stiff as a Rumble's snout."
He opened another door and saw that he had come to the Chief Rumble's office. Here he found a huge desk, meant to impress visitors with its top of dark green morocco, a map of the world on the wall, bookshelves, electric typewriters, Xerox machines and, once more, everything was furnished in white and misty green. It was an expensive and oppressive room, but what Vulge wanted was not there.
Next he entered a circular bedroom, furnished as if for some great pop-star. A huge round bed stood in the centre of white goat-skin carpets, its coverlet made from green silk, the colour of gorse bushes at dawn. The lighting was concealed and gentle.
"Blimey," said Vulge between his teeth, "I'd like to put a match to this lot." He winced with pain, for his wound troubled him. He walked round the bed and blood dropped from him and stained the floor. On the far side of the room a door stood open and perfume-laden steam floated through it. "The bathroom," thought Vulge, and he stepped inside.
Through the clouds of sweet-smelling vapour Vulge saw his namesake and enemy, Vulgarian Rumble. The Chieftain reclined in an oval bath of green marble which was big enough to swim in. The taps were gold and shaped like Rumble snouts, and scented water poured through them to wash across the furred body and out through an overflow grating, also of gold. The floor, where it was not covered with absorbent carpets, was covered with Italian tiles of a warm southern tint.
Near the bath were several telephones on articulated arms that could be pulled in any direction. Two enormous electric fires faced the marble steps that led down from the magnificent pool so that Vulgarian could warm himself the moment he emerged from the water. Right by the two fires stood a hot air blower on a stand, ready to dry the Chieftain's magnificent coat.
Vulge stepped across the room, trailing the bloody lance point noisily behind him on the tiled floor. The Rumble's snout turned, there was a flurry in his bathwater.
"I twust you've got my bweakfast at last," he began angrily, and then he saw, not the obsequious butler, or even one of his guards. He saw a Borrible.
Vulge was no reassuring sight at that moment. His face was still smeared black from Knocker's greasepaint. His combat jacket was filthy and torn from the scuffling and climbing about in the ventilation shaft and, even more dramatically, blood was spreading out to stain his shoulder. The Borrible cap was jaunty on his head however and there was a gleam of triumph in his eye. Vulgarian Rumble slid down into the water until only his snout was visible. His small red eyes, intelligent and cunning, fluttered over the room, but he saw no escape. For a while the only sound was the gurgling of the bath-water.
"A Bowwible?" asked the Rumble at last.
"A Borrible," said Vulge, "all the way from Stepney, bloody miles."
"Don't swear," said the Rumble.
"Knickers," answered Vulge and gobbed into the bath-water. "This is the Great Rumble Hunt, mate. You've got everything you need up here, you should have stayed out of Battersea."
Vulgarian raised himself a little. "As if we would want your stinking markets and wubbishy old houses, but, I'll tell you this, we'll go where we like and . . ."
"Don't want it, eh? What about all that digging down there in Battersea Park, eh? What about that, then? You started this, Rumble."
"We started it! I know Timbucktoo is a twifle over-enthusiastic at times, always wants to be digging and that, but he's harmless. No, it won't do. This twouble is all your fault, Bowwible."
"Cobblers," said Vulge, moving nearer the bath.
"How many of you here?" asked the Chieftain.
"There's only eight of us, but that's enough of us to wreck the place." Vulge stood between the two electric fires and let them warm the pain in his shoulder. He was getting weaker and stiffer by the minute. He knew he must finish the task quickly; he felt in no state to defend himself if reinforcements arrived on the scene.
Vulgarian suddenly stood up and the water cascaded from his fur. He was the tallest of all the Rumbles, impressive and commanding. He looked down his snout imperiously at the grimy little Borrible.
"Eight of you!" he cried. "Why, you impudent little whippersnappers, you insignificant hobbledehoys. I tell you that Wumbles will go whewever I say, fwom Hampton Wick to Arnos Park, and fwom Ealing Golf Course to Bexley Heath. We won't be stopped by a handful of ignowant stweet urchins, thieves who live in slimy slums and damp cellars, who cannot afford a bar of soap and would eat it if they could, who smell, whose ears are pointed by the effect of cheap peasant cunning and who are fit only to be our slaves. You Battersea bwat, I have only to pwess that alarm bell and my bodyguard will make a pin-cushion of you with their Wumblesticks. Hand me that towel, you scwubby little serf. Hand me that towel I say, Bowwible!"
Vulge smiled and did not move for a moment. Then he pushed the end of his Rumble-stick through the handle of one of the electric fires and he raised the sticker and the fire pivoted on the end of it. He slid his feet up the steps, his eyes remaining steady on Vulgarian's face and he held his spear forward so that the fire was above the water and near to the Chief Rumble's fur. There was a smell of singeing and Vulgarian took a step backwards, horror replacing the expression of disdain on his snout.
Vulge smiled ironically at the Rumble. "Don't worry about the towel," he said pleasantly, "I'll soon have your fur dry," and he allowed the lance to slant down to the water and the fire plopped into the bath and hissed. The electric current sprang from the fire and arced across the water, and from the water it raced through the flesh of the Rumble Chieftain. It burnt through his heart and demolished it like an old fuse-box and Vulgarian Rumble's voice cried out, but he never heard the sound. His body jerked upright, his dead eyes stared in amazement, then, as stiff as a scaffolding plank, he fell forward into the bathwater and a tidal wave washed over the rim of the beautiful bath and gushed down the veined green of the marble steps.
Vulge sniffed and prodded the body with the point of his spear. It bobbed lifelessly in the tinted foam.
"Well, there you are, me ol' Rumble," said Vulge reflectively. "That's 'ow you singe your fur at both ends. Kilowatts will kill a weasel any day. So," he added, "I've got my name. Mind you, the way I feel, I shan't have it long . . . alive."
He descended the steps and pulled the cables from the remaining electric fire and from the hair-drier. Next he trailed the flex across the room to the door, which he shut, and then he wound the bare wires around the metal door handles. He looked at his work and went on talking to himself. "I don't think I could fight my way out of here with this wound, so I might as well have a scrap here; saves time."
He crossed the room once more and pressed the red alarm bell by the bath. "That should bring the bodyguard at a run," he said and he pulled a couple of chairs and cushions across the bottom of the bath steps to form a rough barricade and squatted behind it. The dead Vulgarian floated behind him.
Vulge removed his bandoliers and placed them near to hand. He took out his knife and placed that ready, and he laid his lance on the barricade. He leant back then on a cushion, waiting, favouring his injured shoulder, which was very stiff now though it pained him less. He wagged his head and thought of a few old Borrible proverbs to while away the time.
"It is better to die young than to be caught," he quoted from memory and he smiled and hoped the others were getting on all right.
Knocker and Adolf ran together from the end of the tunnel and into the hallway that led to the Head Rumble's apartments. Alarm bells were ringing and lights were flashing in the ceiling. In the distance a siren howled and a recorded voice called all Rumbles to their battle stations. Knocker and Adolf stretched their catapults but they need not have bothered. The bodies of the two Rumble guards in the doorway did not move. Knocker put his catapult away and picked up a lance. "Look," he said, showing the point to Adolf, "blood."
