The Borribles - Larrabeiti Michael (книги онлайн без регистрации .txt) 📗

"Oh, yes," said Dodger proudly, "Parachute Regiment and SAS until I became a Borrible. Might not have run away at all if they hadn't wanted to pack me off to some school. Up'ntil then I'd spent all my time watching the soldiers doing their training. That was the life."

Knocker laughed. "Well, we'd better get going, we haven't got all that long." They turned from the door and strolled down the long hall, their feet kicking into piles of rubbish and releasing stale smells from old cartons.

"How did you get in here?" asked Knocker.

Dodger pointed to the ceiling. "I had the bolts off a couple of those grilles in the pavement. Easy. That way we won't have to go past 'Punchie' the porter every day."

"I'll remember next time."

The Eight sat motionless on the bench. Some leaned back against the wall with their eyes closed; some held their heads in their hands and others sat looking straight in front of them, staring at Knocker.

At a sign from Knocker Dodger switched on some electric lights and the Borribles blinked their eyes. "Stand up. Hats off."

When they had done what Knocker had asked he walked down the line and inspected their ears to see if they showed signs of the intelligence he was expecting. It was a manoeuvre that gave him time to think. He would have admitted to no one, apart from Spiff perhaps, that he was flabbergasted. One of the champions he noticed was black. Of course he knew that many Borribles were black, more and more all the time. There were a lot in Battersea, Tooting, and a greater number even in Brixton; he just hadn't thought of one on this expedition. He had no one to blame but himself for this oversight, he was chief lookout and his mind should have been open to all possibilities, not drifting around in preconceptions. Mentally he kicked himself for being a fool, but he hadn't finished kicking himself yet. When he stopped at the end of the row he found that the last two Borribles were females. Here his surprise nearly got the better of him, but he pursed his lips and pretended to be thinking. One of the girls smiled and to cover his embarrassment Knocker looked closely at her ears. They indicated a high degree of intelligence and great individuality—and that could mean trouble.

Now Knocker knew why Spiff had laughed and why he had said he'd have to put the names into two different hats.

Knocker went back to where Dodger stood, handed over the Rumble books, and took the list of names from his pocket. He looked at it, making the eight champions wait. Finally he said: "You will be here for two weeks. We are going to see how good you really are. When Dodger and I have satisfied ourselves about your basic knowledge we will move on to more specialist skills, but before that I want to be convinced that you are good: good with a catapult, good with your hands, good with your feet. I want you to be the best runners, the best fighters, and I want to see how you deal with adults in tricky situations. You'd better be the best if you want to go on this trip, because if I don't think you are, you ain't going."

Knocker looked along the faces, scrutinising them one after the other. "Anyone hears an order from me or Dodger, jump. That's against the grain for a Borrible, I know it, but there hasn't been an adventure like this in years and if you want to be in on it you've got to do what I say. Any questions?"

There were no questions.

"Good, now to the names. It was decided at the stewards' meeting to give you your names now—provisionally."

There was a stir in the line and eyes flashed.

"This is to make it more convenient for me during training and for you all when you're out on the adventure. These names will not be confirmed until your return—if you ever make it. These names have been lent to you on trust. One false step at any time and your name will be withdrawn, and you will never be given another adventure."

There was silence, the eight faces looked at him and waited. They were tense and excited, but these Borribles were too canny to give much away in their expressions. Knocker liked that. He went on.

"These are fine names, names that have a good ring to them and will remind you, and others in the future, of this adventure; but more important, the name that each of you will be given is also the name of the Rumble that is your individual target. While you remember your own name you cannot forget the name of your enemy."

Knocker paused. He knew that each Borrible standing before him could hardly wait for the moment when he would carry a name; the one word which could sum up and symbolise a whole life. "All right," went on the chief lookout, "the names will be distributed by drawing lots, six names in one hat, and two names in another. Dodger."

Dodger and Knocker removed their hats and Knocker tore each name separately from the sheet that Spiff had given him. He put six names into his own woollen cap and two into the red beret of the Paratroops. Dodger held the beret while Knocker shook his own hat vigorously to mix the names fairly and squarely. "I'll start at one end and move along," he said, "it's all the luck of the draw."

He studied the face of the first person in line. By chance it was the one he had recommended to Spiff, the Battersea Borrible from the Lavender Hill nick. Knocker had always liked the look of him, although they didn't know each other very well. He was slightly built, even for a Borrible, his skin was clear and his hair was dark and tightly curled, like wire-wool. His eyes were sharp and blue and they moved quickly, but were never furtive. He smiled a lot and Knocker could see that it would take a lot to get him down. He glanced at Knocker, winked, then plunged his hand into the hat and pulled out a scrap of paper. He opened it, read it to himself and then smiled at the chief lookout. He rolled his tongue about, getting the feel of his name for the very first time.

"Bingo," he said, "the name's Bingo."

"That's a good name," said Knocker and stepped sideways. He stood in front of the black Borrible. "Where you from?" asked Knocker.

"Tooting, man, Tooting, and you?"

Knocker raised his head sharply. "I'm from here."

The Tooting Borrible, or Totter, had hair standing out in a thick solid uncut mass all round his head like a black halo. His teeth protruded and he seemed to be smiling all the time, but really his expression was one of cheerful slyness. Knocker liked that. He shook the hat again and the Totter took a piece of paper.

"My name is going to be O-ro-coc-co," he said, splitting the word into separate syllables and pronouncing them with care.

The next person was smaller than Bingo even. He had a triangular face with a pointed chin and his mousy hair lay flat across the top of his head. He had a way of wagging his head in a most knowing way; there wasn't a trick he didn't know, said his eyes. Knocker stopped in front of him with the hat and the Borrible said, "I'm from Stepney, the best place in the world."

Knocker nodded only and offered the hat. The Stepney Borrible looked at the name on the paper he had drawn and whistled, then he said, "Good, I've got the best, Vulgarian, the Chief Rumble. Don't reckon his chances when I catch up with him."

"I see you've read the books, so you know why you're here?"

" 'Course, to get a name, and because they said that this was going to be the best adventure ever." And the Borrible glanced up and down the line and the others nodded in agreement.

"You've got to convince me that you're good enough first. Then you go," said Knocker.

"Perhaps you ought to start by showing that you're good enough to train us," said a brittle voice to Knocker's right, but Knocker ignored it and moved on a step.

"I'm from Peckham," said the next one without being asked and he thrust his hand into the hat and pulled out his name. Knocker watched him closely as he read the paper. He seemed strong and resourceful. He had dark heavy eyebrows and a red face with a firm jaw and enormous shoulders and arms. The kind of bloke who would not mince his words, not very witty perhaps, but dogged and persistent.

"Well," said Knocker, "which one have you got?"

The Peckham Borrible did not even show pleasure as he said, "I've got the name I wanted, Stonks, the Keeper of the Great Door of Rumbledom. He's the strongest one, ain't he? He'll need to be when I hit him."

When Knocker came face to face with the next person he wrinkled his nose. There was an unmistakable smell about this one and Knocker guessed immediately where he came from.

"You're from Wandsworth, aren't you? A Wendle?"

"So what, some of the finest Borribles in the world have come from Wandsworth."

Knocker recognised at once the brittle voice that had spoken out of turn a little earlier. "And some of the worst," he retorted, smiling a smile that had no warmth in it.

In common with most other Borribles he wasn't over-fond of the aloof Wandsworth Brotherhood. They lived along the banks of the River Wandle in disused sewers and smelly holes they had scooped out below the streets of Wandsworth. But no one knew exactly how they lived, for they were the most suspicious and warlike of all Borribles and did not encourage visitors and rarely spoke to anyone outside their own tribe. Their skin always had a green tinge to it which came from living so much underground and being so often in and out of the filthy Wandle water. Once the Wandle had been a pleasant stream, but years of industrialisation had turned it into a treacherous ooze of green and muddy slime. The mud was a mixture of poison waste, decomposed rubbish and undigested lumps of plastic which rolled slowly along the surface skin of the river as it slid like a thick jelly down to the Thames. The Wandle mud would entrap any stranger who was foolhardy enough to wade across without guidance. No one but the Wendles knew the secret paths along the river and they would only take the traveller across for a price. Every Wendle carried the smell of the Wandsworth marshes with him—and that smell was the smell of treachery and decay. Knocker had seen few Wendles, none of them had been this close and he didn't like what he saw: the green tinge to the flesh, the dark eyes of an indeterminate colour, and the cold, proud bearing of the born scrapper. There seemed to be no spontaneous warmth in the Wendle and warmth was normally the first thing that was noticed in a Borrible.