The swirling rain-clouds rushed on revealing the bright moon and the two Borribles dodged behind the bushes and kept as quiet as they could. There was danger in the air and they could feel it. It would pay to be cautious.
"Strewth," said Knocker, the chief skirmisher and lookout of the Battersea tribe, "what a bloody cheek, coming down here without so much as a by-your-leave."
Lightfinger, Knocker's companion, agreed. "Diabolical liberty I call it . . . nasty bits of work, covered in fur like nylon hearth rugs . . . snouts like traffic cones. Just like rats, aren't they?"
"There's a big one, just getting into the motor, he's shouting at the others, he's the boss all right. Tough-looking, do you see?"
"Yeah," answered Lightfinger, "they do what they're told, don't they? Look at them move."
Presently the two Borribles saw the large car drive away in the moonlight, passing along the shining tarmac which led between the trees to the limits of Battersea Park. The car stopped for an instant at the gates and then turned left into Albert Bridge Road and disappeared on its way southwards into the quiet streets of the outer London suburbs.
The two Borribles stood up and looked around. They weren't too happy in parks, being much more at ease in crowded streets and broken-down houses. It was only occasionally that the Borrible lookouts checked on the green spaces, just to see they were still there and that everything was as it should be.
When Knocker was sure they were alone he said: "We'd better see what they were up to over there. There's something going on and I don't like it."
All at once the patch of ground at his feet began to tremble and clumps of grass began to pop up and away from their roots. There was a noise too, a scraping and a scrabbling, and a muffled voice swore and mumbled to itself. The carpet of grass rose and fell violently until a squat protruberance established itself between turf and top soil. The bump hesitated, as if it didn't know whether to continue upwards or retreat downwards. It grunted, swore again and, as if undecided, took off on a horizontal course, forcing the turf up as it wriggled along.
At the first sign of trouble Knocker and Lightfinger had taken refuge behind a bush but as the bump moved away they came from cover and followed it.
"It's got to be . . ." said Knocker, "it can't be anything else, and down here in Battersea, it's bad, double bad."
The mound now stopped and shook and struggled and became bigger, and as it grew more clods of grass fell from it.
"Watch yourself," whispered Knocker, "it's coming out. Get ready to jump it."
Lightfinger and Knocker crouched, waiting with patience, their minds racing with schemes. The turf rose higher and higher till it was as tall as the Borribles themselves, then it burst and the grass fell away like a discarded overcoat and revealed a dark and sinister shape of about their own size.
It looked like a giant rat, a huge mole or a deformed rabbit, but it was none of these for it stood on its hind legs and had a long snout and beady red eyes, like the things that had gone away in the car.
Knocker gave a shrill whistle and at the signal both he and Lightfinger leapt forward. Knocker got an armlock round the thing's head and pulled it to the ground while Lightfinger fell onto the hairy legs and bent one over the other in a special lock that could dislocate a knee with no trouble. The thing shouted so loudly that it would have woken the neighbourhood if there'd been one in Battersea Park. Knocker squeezed it round the neck and whispered: "Shuddup, you great fool, else I'll smother yer." The creature shuddupped.
Knocker sat the prisoner up and got behind it so he could tie its arms back with a length of rope he took from his waist. He and Lightfinger were very careful with the animal because there was no telling how strong it was. Lightfinger moved so that he was sitting on the thing's legs, looking into the eyes, which were like marbles rolling around at the wide end of the snout.
"All right," said Knocker when he was ready, "give it a duffing."
Lightfinger grabbed it by the scruff of the fur and pulled its snout forward. "Name," he asked gruffly.
The snout moved a little and they heard a voice say in a distinguished tone: "Timbucktoo."
"Tim who?" asked Lightfinger again, shaking the snout good and hard.
"Timbucktoo."
"And where are you from, you moth-eaten carpet?" asked Knocker, though he knew the answer.
Timbucktoo shook himself free of the two Borribles and, though his hands were bound, he got to his feet and glared haughtily down his snout, his red eyes blazing.
"Why, I'm fwom Wumbledom of course, you dirty little tykes. You'd better welease me before you get into sewious twouble."
"I knew it," said Knocker turning to Lightfinger with excitement. "A Rumble from Rumbledom. Ain't it strange as how they can't pronounce their 'r's?"
"So that's a Rumble," said Lightfinger with interest. "I've often wondered what they looked like . . . bloody ugly."
"It's the first time I've been this close to one," said Knocker, "but you can't mistake them, nasty."
"You wevolting little stweet-awabs," exploded the Rumble losing his temper, "how dare you tweat me in this fashion?"
" 'Cos you're on our manor, that's how, you twat," said Knocker angrily. "I suppose you didn't even know."
"I only know what you are," said Timbucktoo, "and what I am and that I'll go where I like and do what I like without having to ask the permission of gwubby little ignawamuses like you. You'd better untie me, Bowwible, and I might forget about this incident."
"He's a real pain," said Lightfinger. "Let's throw him in the river."
The moon was clear of clouds again and glinted on the nearby Thames. In spite of himself the Rumble shivered. "That will do you no good. I can swim, you know, like an otter."
"So you should," said Knocker, "you look like one," and he cuffed the Rumble once more and told him to hold his tongue.
Knocker thought deeply, then he said, "I s'pose the river's the best idea for getting him off our manor, but maybe we ought to take him back and find out more about him, what his mob are up to. I don't like the look of it; suspicious this is, Rumbles down here in Battersea, it's wrong. We ought to give Spiff a chance to give this thing the once over."
"I think you're right, brother," said Lightfinger, and they hauled the Rumble to its feet and pushed it towards the Park Gates. When they reached the sleeping streets they kept to the dark shadows between the lamp-posts and marched rapidly in the direction of Battersea High Street.
Borribles are generally skinny and have pointed ears which give them a slightly satanic appearance. They are pretty tough-looking and always scruffy, with their arses hanging out of their trousers, but apart from that they look just like normal children, although some of them have been Borribles for years and years. They have sharp faces but their eyes are burning-bright and dart about all over the place, noticing everything and missing nothing. They are proud of their quickness of wit. In fact it is impossible to be dull and a Borrible because a Borrible is bright by definition. Not that they know lots of useless facts, it's just that they are quick and tend to dislike anyone who is a bit slow.
The only people likely to get close to Borribles are ordinary children because Borribles mix in with them to escape detection by "the authorities" who are always trying to catch them. Any child may have sat next to a Borrible or even talked to one and never noticed the ears because Borribles wear hats, woollen ones, pulled down over their heads, and they sometimes grow their hair long, hanging to their shoulders.
Normal kids are turned into Borribles very slowly, almost without being aware of it; but one day they wake up and there it is. It doesn't matter where they come from as long as they have what is called a "bad start". A child disappears from a school and the word goes round that he was "unmanageable"; the chances are he's off managing by himself. Sometimes it's given out that a kid down the street has been "put into care" because whenever he got home from school the house was empty; no doubt he's been Borribled and is caring for himself someplace. One day a shout might be heard in a supermarket and a kid with the goods on him is hoisted out by a store-detective. If that kid gets away he'll become a Borrible and make sure he isn't caught again. Being caught is the end for a Borrible.
So Borribles are outcasts but unlike most outcasts they enjoy themselves and wouldn't be anything else. They delight in feeling independent and free and it is this feeling that is most important to them. Consequently they have no real leaders, though someone may pop into prominence from time to time, perhaps because he has had a good idea and wants to carry it through. They manage without authority and they get on well enough together, though like everybody, they quarrel.
They don't get on with adults at all, or anybody else for that matter, and they say why should they? Nobody has ever tried to get on with them, quite the contrary. They are ignored and that suits them down to the ground because that way they can do what they want to do in their own quiet and crafty way.
Knocker and Lightfinger had been on night patrol in Battersea Park when they'd stumbled across the Rumbles and the discovery had annoyed and scared them. Borribles like to make sure that no other Borrible tribe is encroaching on their territory, that's bad enough. They are always frightened that they might be driven away from their markets and houses and have their little bit of independence destroyed, so scouting round the frontiers is a regular duty.
Unearthing a Rumble was something very upsetting. They are the real enemies of the Borribles and the Borribles hate them for their riches, their power, their haughtiness and their possessions. If the Rumbles were coming all the way down from Rumbledom to colonise the Park, what price Battersea High Street?
Knocker and Lightfinger harried Timbucktoo along in front of them. They went past Morgan's Crucible Factory, along Battersea Church Road and by St Mary's down by the river, and then into the High Street. They saw no one and no one saw them, it being well into the early hours of the morning. They made for an empty house standing opposite the end of Trott Street. It was tall and wide and the bottom windows were boarded up and a sheet of corrugated iron covered the main doorway. The facade of the building was painted over in grey, and in black letters was written, "Bunham's Patent Locks Ltd. Western 4828."
It was a typical Borrible hideaway, derelict and decaying, and Knocker and Lightfinger lived there. Borribles live where they can in the streets of the big cities, but they like these abandoned houses best of all. When a house is already occupied they will often use the cellar and they camp in schools at night too because they are left empty and unused, like the schools in Battersea High Street.
The two Borribles halted on the pavement and looked up and down the street. Nobody. They opened a gate in the railings and Knocker pushed Timbucktoo down some stone steps leading to a basement. The captive rolled over and over like some hairy cushion until he landed on his snout at the foot of the stairs. The area was covered in rubbish that had been dropped from the street above the passers-by and luckily it broke the fall of the furry Rumble. He sat up and rubbed his head, then spying the litter he began patting bits of paper with feverish movements of his paws.
Knocker stopped halfway down the steps and turned to speak to Lightfinger. "Look at him, he must be suffering from shock."
"Perhaps you hit him too hard," suggested Lightfinger.
"Nonsense," answered Knocker and he went down and lifted the Rumble to his feet.
The chief lookout opened a door that led from the area into the basement part of the house and dragged the Rumble in by the neck, with Lightfinger pushing from behind. The door was closed and Knocker switched on the electric light. Borribles always have electric light even in deserted houses; there are good technicians amongst them and they simply tap into the nearest power supply.
The Borribles had entered a large cellar which had a few orange boxes for use as chairs and tables. Two doors opened from the room, one into an underground larder, which served the Borribles as a store-room, the other to some stairs which led to the rest of the house. At the bay window were hanging scraps of old blankets with not too many holes in them. They prevented the light shining into the street and alerting the police that someone was residing in a house that was supposed to be empty.
Knocker pushed Timbucktoo down onto an orange box and he and Lightfinger looked at the expressionless snout.
"What we gonna do with him, now we've got him here?" wondered Lightfinger.
"Yes," said the Rumble, looking up, his eyes glinting crimson, "you won't get away with this you know, it's iwwesponsible. You Bowwibles must be insane. I'll see you get your ears clipped."
Lightfinger and Knocker winced. Borribles are very sensitive about their ears, for if a Borrible is caught by the police the first thing that happens is that his ears are clipped and he starts to grow like any ordinary child. Left alone, Borribles don't grow physically and their small size is a great advantage.
"Clip me ears, will yer?" said Knocker tight-lipped and he went into the store cupboard. A second later he was out again, carrying a roll of sticky tape. He went over to the Rumble, grasped its head and wound the tape round and round the animal's snout so that it could no longer speak.
He stood back to admire his work. Lightfinger relaxed and cupped his face in his hands and rested his elbows on his knees.
"There," said Knocker, "that's the way to deal with a talking mattress."
"I'm glad all animals can't speak," said Lightfinger, "we'd have meningitis within the week, or run out of sticky tape."
"I'll go and get Spiff," said Knocker. He ran up to the ground floor of the house and tapped on the door of the large room that overlooked the back garden. It was dark and dingy that garden and Knocker knew it was a wilderness of weeds growing through the old fragile rust of oil drums and the twisted frames of broken bicycles. While he waited Knocker pulled a damp strip of patterned paper from the wall; plaster came with it. The door opened a crack and another Borrible appeared. He was perhaps an inch taller than Knocker and his ears were very pointed. He was dressed in a bright orange dressing-gown made from new warm towelling. His carpet slippers were comfortable.
"Who are you? Ah, Knocker, what do you want then?"
"Sorry to wake you there, Spiff," said Knocker, "but me and Lightfinger found something in the Park and think you ought to have a look at it. It's down in the basement."
"Oh Lor'," groaned Spiff, "can't it wait till morning? You haven't got the law on your trail, have you?"
"No," said Knocker tensely, "it's nothing like that. What we've got is worse. It's a Rumble! There was a whole lot of them in a posh car and we caught this one coming out of the ground. Cheek, isn't it, coming down here without a by-yer-leave and digging?"
Spiff had become more and more intent on what Knocker had been saying until finally he seemed quite beside himself.
"One of those toffee-nosed Rumble-Rats, eh? You get back downstairs, me lad, and I'll come right away. I'll just put me hat on."
He closed the door and Knocker scooted back down the dark uncovered stairs. He understood Spiff's caution: no Borrible ever left his room without putting on a woollen hat to cover the tops of his ears. It wasn't that they were ashamed of them, quite the contrary, but they liked to be prepared for an emergency. Any unforseen circumstance could force them into the streets and it wouldn't do to be spotted as a Borrible.
"He's coming," said Knocker as soon as he re-entered the room. "He's a good house-steward, you know, short-tempered sometimes, but very crafty."
"You can't get anything past him and that's a fact," said Lightfinger. "Some say he's artful enough to catch himself. Do you know he won all his names in fights with the Rumbles? Nobody knows how many, nobody . . . strange that. He hates 'em."
"There's lots of stories about his names and not very Borrible some of them," said Knocker, "but I don't believe the half of it." He sat down and looked at Timbucktoo and thought about names and the gaining of them, a major preoccupation with him.
A Borrible name has to be earned because that is the only way a Borrible can get one. He has to have an adventure of some sort, and if he is successful he gets a name. There are all kinds of things a Borrible can do; it doesn't have to be stealing or burgling necessarily, though it generally is. It could be a witty or funny trick on someone, and it is preferable if that someone is an adult.
The only thing that Knocker had against the rules was that it was difficult to get on any adventures once you had a name. First chance was always given to those who were nameless and this irritated Knocker for he had a secret ambition: to collect more names than any other Borrible.
A noise on the stairs disturbed Knocker's reflections. He stood up and at the same moment Spiff flung open the door and strode theatrically into the room. His head was adorned with a magnificent hat of scarlet wool and he clutched the orange dressing-gown tightly to his chest. Spiff had the clear face of a twelve-year-old child but his eyes were dark with wisdom. He stopped short as soon as he saw the Rumble and he pushed his breath out over his teeth and made a whisper of a whistle.
"At last," he said like he was praying, "at last. It's been a long while since I had my hands on one of these stinking rodents." He turned and beamed at Knocker and Lightfinger. "You lads have done marvellous, you've captured one alive and well, though he won't be for long, the little basket. Found him in the Park, eh? With hundreds of others, digging holes, that's how it starts, brothers. Down here on our manor, taking it all for granted, think they are the lords of creation, don't they? Go anywhere, do what they like, we don't count." He prodded and screwed the Rumble with a rigid index finger as he spoke. He turned to Knocker; "You know what this is?"
"A Rumble."
"Some people call them Rumbles," Spiff was bitter. "I know what I call them; bloody scavengers, no better than you or me for all their la-di-dah manners. Years of them I've seen, sneerin' at us, down their hoity-toity snouts. Thieves they are, just like us, only they call it finding. A copper would call it stealing by finding. They're a bit quick at it too, mate, I can tell you; why an old lady has only got to put down her bag of peppermints to scratch herself and there they are, gone in a flash. Bloody hypocrites! Drop a gob-stopper and you won't hear it hit the ground, one of these little bleeders has scooped it up in mid-air. Keeping the place clean they call it, huh, so clean there's nothing left for anyone else."
Knocker and Lightfinger looked at each other. They had never seen Spiff so angry.
"Oh, come on, Spiff," said Lightfinger carelessly, "it can't be that bad, the Rumbles have never done me any harm."
Spiff jumped a foot from the floor. "Don't you know anything about the old days," he cried, "the struggles and fights we had to win free? Why those times were terrible."
"Oh, I know about it all right but that was your time, not mine," and Lightfinger leaned against the wall, crossed his ankles and shoved his hands into his pockets.
"Don't care was made to care," said Spiff sententiously, "and history repeats itself, in fact it don't repeat itself, it just goes on being the same."
"Well, what are we going to do with this rabbit, anyway?" asked Knocker.
"Lock it up in the cupboard," said Spiff rubbing his chin. "I'll call an Annual General Emergency Session tomorrow. You two can run down the street with the message right now, before you go to bed. I know the others won't like it but this is an emergency and we will have to act and think together for once!"
Spiff took one last look at the Rumble, then he shoved his Borrible hat further onto his head, spun on his heels and left the room. Knocker got the prisoner to his feet and locked him in the store-cupboard, then he and Lightfinger left by the basement door and spent the next few hours informing all the Borribles in the High Street what was afoot. The Annual General Emergency Session was set for the next morning at ten o'clock. Finally the two exhuasted lookouts got to their own room at the top of Spiff's house and they climbed into a bundle of old blankets and sacks that formed their bed.
"Ho, ho, oh, ho," yawned Knocker, "what a day." "Goo 'night," said Lightfinger, and was immediately asleep.
A Borrible's main business is to stay alive. This is an occupation that takes up most of his time; getting food from what is left about, finding stuff before it is lost and knocking food off barrows and out of the store-rooms of supermarkets and such like. That is why Borribles live round shopping centres and along street-markets like Brixton and Petticoat Lane. Then again much of their provisions come from the gear that falls off lorries, which happens a lot in London with the bumpy roads.
So important is that aspect of their life that they have many proverbs about it and they are all gathered together in The Borrible Book of Proverbs. Some of these sayings are very ancient, like "That which falls off a lorry belongs to he who follows the lorry," and "That which is found has never been lost." One of their favourites is, "It is impossible to lose that which does not belong to you," and Borribles use that one a lot to people who complain about their thieving.
By eight o'clock on the morning following the capture of Timbucktoo Rumble, Battersea High Street market was in full swing. There were barrows and stalls along each side of the road and so little space was left for traffic that not a car dared venture down there. The barrows had been shoved very close together and it was easy for a Borrible to crawl underneath them from one end of the street to the other, picking up fruit on the way. Some Borribles mingled with the shoppers on the pavements, others looked into carrier bags and asked questions, creating diversions while their mates "did the shopping". It was a good way to get breakfast.
The costermongers shouted at each other and at prospective customers, urging them to buy. There were barrows selling fruit, ironmongery, fish and large crabs; the shops had their doors wide open and friends were drinking tea in Notarianni's cafe and chatting their heads off. The pie-and-eel shop, Brown's, was doing a fine business and people from the different blocks of buildings, Archer House, Eaton House and White House, were loafing about the street and talking about passing bets in Ernie Swash's. The noise was so great that it rose right up the side of the house where Knocker and Lightfinger were sleeping and woke them in their bed on the floor.
Knocker sat up and shoved his companion. "Come on, breakfast." They had both been out so late the night before that when they came back it had been bright morning. Some of the costers had been putting out their barrows and loading them up, so the two Borribles had had no trouble in getting provisions. Breakfast was there beside them: one grapefruit, two oranges and two large doughnuts with jam.
Lightfinger rubbed his eyes and the sacks and blankets dropped from him. He reached for an orange, bit it open and sucked hard, making a lot of noise. The orange was wonderful, it had been chilled to ice crystals by the lorry journeys to and from Covent Garden. "Ooaagh," he groaned with pleasure, "that's lovely"
"We'd better hurry up," said Knocker, "we don't want to miss the meeting."
Halfway down the High Street was an old and disused brickbuilt hall. It had last been occupied by photographers called "Scots of London," but they had gone long since and now the shop fell within the province of the Borribles. It was here that Spiff had asked the other stewards of the High Street to meet him, and as it was a special meeting any other Borrible who wanted could come and listen and eventually make comments, if he wished.
Inside the hall Spiff stood on the stage talking away as fast as he could go. He was listened to, very seriously, by about a score of his colleagues. Other Borribles, ragged, dirty and inquisitive, slipped in through the side entrances and stood about, wondering what was going on. They did not have long to wait.
Spiff stepped to the front of the stage and held up both his arms like a politician. He shouted several times and gradually the noise in the hall became less and less until eventually there was a kind of excited silence. The stewards behind Spiff took their seats and leaned forward attentively. Spiff looked all round and then began to speak, relishing the occasion, for if he had a weakness at all, it was a delight in speechifying.
"Brother and sister Borribles, I am pleased to see so many of you here, for today is a day of decision. Our way of life is threatened and we must either act together or perish."
The hall went quieter and the tension rose.
"Not to beat about the bush, I'll give you the facts, then I'll tell you what me, and the rest of your elected representatives, have decided, and then, in due order, we shall put it to the general vote. Right, the facts. Last night, our chief lookout and his assistant . . ."
All heads turned to Knocker and Lightfinger.
". . . while on a routine inspection of the Battersea area discovered that we had been invaded by the Rumbles."
The crowd drew in a deep breath and then let it out again in a long explosion and Spiff looked round for effect and more silence.
"It seems that a large force came down here, all the way from Rumbledom, and occupied the Park for several hours. They were digging! Now, in my opinion, this can only be a preparation for a take-over of Battersea, an erosion of our freedom, a new and subtle kind of slavery and a clipping of ears. Things have been bearable as long as the Rumbles have stayed in Rumbledom, where they belong, but this is something else."
Murmurs of assent came from the assembly but Spiff held up his hand and went on.
"There is only one answer, my friends, pre-emptive defence. We must attack before we are attacked. We, my brother stewards and I, have evolved a plan to destroy the Rumbles at the heart of their organisation. However . . ."
Spiff broke off for a second and admonished the ceiling with a grubby finger.
". . . to carry out this plan we shall need to search carefully among the ranks of the nameless. From those who have not yet had their first adventure we must select the bravest, the slyest, the craftiest and the most resourceful. It is not only the enemy we have to fear, but the enormous distance between us and him, dangerous terrain. The Rumble is confident in his stronghold, blinded by his own conceit, safe, so he thinks, in the security of his own riches and comfort, but that is where we shall strike, with a handful of chosen Borribles. We shall need dedicated volunteers but remember, those who go may never return. Blood will be spilt."
At this there was a terrific hush in the hall and the Borribles looked at each other with trepidation. An adventure was one thing, death another.
"We feel," went on Spiff, "that Battersea should not bear this brunt alone. All London Borribles are involved. To this end messages will be sent out over the city and certain tribes will be asked to send their likeliest un-named champions to us for training and instruction. Likewise, from among the ranks of the Battersea nameless, we shall choose one who shows the greatest promise. We intend to approach the following groups: the Totters of Tooting, the Wendles of Wandsworth, the Stumpers of Stepney, the Whitechapel Wallopers, the Peckham Punch-uppers, the Neasden Nudgers and the Hoxton Humpers. Details of the raid will be worked out when all the candidates have arrived."
Spiff stopped for breath and the hall became alive and buzzed with conversation. Who, people wondered, would be chosen as the Battersea representative on the expedition? An honour, yes, but what a danger too.
Knocker swore to himself; "Wish I didn't have my name already, that's a real adventure that is, wish I could go."
Spiff called for quiet again, and got it, after a while. Now he prepared for his moment of high drama. He made a sign to the side of the stage and the prisoner was brought on for all to see. There was a stunned silence. The Rumble was still taped round the snout but its beady eyes glowed a fearful red and it stood upright and unmoved.
"This," shouted Spiff, "is the enemy, no braver than us, no more dangerous, but he is difficult of access, well-protected in his burrows, he is rich and he is powerful, thinks himself superior to all Borribles by divine right. This is the enemy who wants to take Battersea into his grasp. Even now they may be digging under the streets to emerge in your very back-yard, even now they may be undermining your way of life, silently, like dirty moles."
Spiff took a deep breath and shook his arms in front of his body as if he was emptying a sack of cement and the crowd stirred with emotion. Spiff raised his voice a further notch. "This is the enemy, brothers, and we all know that he must be stopped at all costs, yes, but more than that, he must be eliminated, and who are the Borribles to do it? Why we are!"
An enormous cheer gushed from the audience. "Throw it in the river," came a voice from the back of the hall, "with a bicycle round its neck."
This suggestion was so popular that it was taken up on all sides.
"Yeah," came the shout, "in the river, steal a bike someone."
Spiff smiled indulgently."I understand your feelings, brothers," he looked at the Rumble, "but I have a better plan. Let me explain. The one thing that these objects fear above all others," he touched the Rumble lightly with a disdainful finger, "is discovery! They would hate to be unmasked and shown for what they really are. In their mythology the greatest possible disaster is what they call the Great Rumble Hunt. Their whole world is built on a false confidence, friends; the Great Rumble Hunt will destroy that confidence, and we, the Borribles of Battersea, will start that Rumble Hunt. But," Spiff had to shout across the cheering, "this is to be a war of nerves, we want them to know that something really nasty is on the way . . . us! And that is where this little rodent comes in. We propose to stick a notice onto the fur of this—carpet bag, and send it back along the chain of Borribles, right back to Rumbledom, where it will be discovered in an exhausted and dishevelled state as proof that we mean business. The message will say, 'The Great Rumble Hunt is on. Beware the Borribles!' All those in favour say 'Aye'."
Another enormous cheer rose from the assembly. Borribles clasped each other, jumped up and down and shouted, "We'll show 'em, we'll teach those rabbits to come down here." Only Knocker was unhappy, wishing he could get rid of his name.
The stewards on the stage left with Spiff and the prisoner and the hall gradually emptied as the various groups of Borribles made their way back to their own houses, cellars and sheds, to discuss the morning meeting and to wonder who would be chosen as the Battersea champion to go with the others. Those who were not known for their bravery kept very quiet and decided not to call attention to themselves, for there are Borribles who go right through life without ever earning themselves a name. But there are others of a different stamp, and they ran back to the market directly from the meeting, stole some paper and, without delay, sat down and wrote a note to Spiff begging for the position.
Knocker walked back to his house, alone. Lightfinger had gone off on a food raid but Knocker wasn't hungry. He felt thwarted. He knew that there was absolutely no chance of him being considered for the expediton to Rumbledom. He went into the basement of the deserted house and made his way upstairs. As he passed Spiff's door it was thrown open and the steward appeared, beaming.
"Right, lad," he said, "in here, just the bloke we want, look lively, the others want a word with you."
Knocker stepped inside the room and found it crowded with the stewards who had been on the stage with Spiff. The prisoner had disappeared. Knocker took off his woollen cap and held it in his hands; he had good pointed ears showing a high range of intelligence and alertness. The stewards nodded in approval. They were sitting round the room comfortably relaxed on upholstered orange-boxes and little grape-barrels. Spiff settled into a fine armchair that must have fallen off a very expensive furniture lorry or removal van.
"Sit down, lad," he said. "We wanted to thank you for your good work last night, champion that was, champion." He consulted a sheaf of papers. "Now to business; we want to ask your advice. As you may know, there are eight Rumbles in the Rumble High Command. I feel that if we can eliminate them, the rest of the Rumble social structure will fall to pieces and they won't have time to interfere with us any more. So that's why we are sending eight Borribles only, one for each High Rumble. There will be one from Tooting, Hoxton, Wandsworth—you heard all that already. But, Knocker, who are we going to send from Battersea?"
"The point is," said one of the other stewards, "you are out and about a lot, you see a lot of Borribles in action, who do you think would be a good choice?"
Knocker thought for a while. "It's tricky," he said at length, "there's quite a few who are good. There's a bunch of bright lads down by Morgan's Crucible Works, some others under the railway arches at Battersea Park Station, but I think the brightest of the lot, out of the whole Borough, is one who lives up on Lavender Hill, bright as a button and smart as paint."
"Whereabouts does he hang out?" asked another steward.
"Underneath the nick," said Knocker, who had been saving up the surprise.
"Underneath the nick!" cried a dozen voices. "He must be mad."
Knocker laughed. "Oh, no. Bright. There's a stack of rooms that are left empty each and every night. It's centrally heated, blankets galore, constant electricity and hot water. You name it, he's got it. In fact he's got some of the Woollies thinking he's a local lad and in the daytime he often does the odd errand for 'em. You see he doesn't even have to do a lot of thieving; he's got almost everything he needs on the spot."
"I should have known about this before," said Spiff, looking a bit disgruntled.
"I'm sorry," explained Knocker, "but I was hoping to make the boy a lookout for us. I was waiting for the right adventure to come up so that he could get a name, and I think this must be it."
Spiff looked round at the other stewards.
"Carried," he said, and they nodded. "Right, that's settled. Now, Knocker, I want you to send a runner up to Lavender Hill and get that wazzisname down here. As soon as the champions come in from the other Boroughs we shall have to begin a training session. As well as that, I want you to get some volunteers to do some spare-time thieving. We're going to need lots of things for the expeditionary force, grub, weather-proof clothing, good catapults, watches, compasses, anything that might be useful. You are our best lookout so I want you to organise the provisioning of the expedition. I know you've got your own thieving to do, and so have the others, but do what you can. This expedition cannot afford to fail."
Knocker nodded. His heart was bursting with pride, he was being involved, which was more than he had dared to hope. "Is there a chance of anything else, Spiff?"
"What do you mean? You can't go on it, you know, that's a rule."
"I know that. It's, well, you said they would have to be trained. I'm a good Borrible lookout, well, I could train them . . . couldn't I?"
Spiff gave Knocker a long look, a look that went right through the Borrible and saw everything. "Hmm," he said, smiling a secret smile, "you are keen, aren't you? How many names have you got?"
"Just the one," answered Knocker feeling uncomfortable.
Spiff chuckled and looked at the other stewards. "He reminds me of me," he said. "Well, brothers, shall he train the team?"
The motion was passed and Knocker was delighted. He wasn't the chief lookout for nothing and he knew how to get his own way. He got up to go, feeling proud and also grateful to Spiff. The steward detained him.
"Here, take this envelope, it's instructions about the Rumble, he's downstairs in the cupboard. Send him packing, try not to let anyone see him, they might chuck him in the river anyway."
Knocker ran downstairs and opened the cupboard. Sure enough the Rumble was there, his paws still tied behind him and a notice glued onto his fur, which had gone all spiky and dirty.
Two assistant lookouts came into the room and leaned against the wall to watch as Knocker read his instructions. When he had finished he removed the tape from the animal's snout and sat it on a grape-barrel.
"You are being sent home, Rumble, alive. Take that message to your leaders and tell them what you have seen and heard."
Knocker turned to the lookouts. "You two can escort him on the first stage of the journey. This envelope has instructions from the meeting. Take him to the Junction and hand him over. Then he can be taken to the Honeywell Borribles and they can take him up to the Wendles beyond Wandsworth Common, from there the Wendles will take him to Merton Road. This letter goes with him and explains what should be done at each stage. Finally, he should be released as near Rumbledom High Street as possible and allowed to find his way home. Any questions?"
The two lookouts shook their heads.
"Right," said Knocker, "as soon as you've got rid of him come back to me and report. It is very important that he gets back in one piece, though it doesn't matter what he looks like; the rougher the better. We've got to frighten the fur off them."
Timbucktoo jumped to his feet at this. "You don't fwighten me, Bowwible, nor your fwiends. You don't know what you're taking on. We'll be keeping a watch out for you, you'll be skewered on our Wumble-sticks before you get a sight of Wumbledom Hill. You may be safe down here in your gwimy stweets and stinking back-alleys, but Wumbledom is a wilderness with twackless paths that only we can follow. This means war.
Knocker cuffed the Rumble round the ear, almost affectionately. "Go on," he said, "you old door-mat, before I knock that snout of yours through the back of your bonce."
At a sign from Knocker his two assistants hauled the Rumble from the room on the first stage of his long and perilous journey; a journey on which he would be passed from hand to hand like a registered packet in the London post.