‘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.’
‘That was six months ago,’ said Sydney. ‘Where’s the horse now, I wonder?’
‘Well,’ said Spiff, ‘I looked in a phone book and the RSPCA have got an office in Battersea Bridge Road, by the traffic lights. What I reckon is that a couple of you ought to go down there and say you’re distant relatives of Dewdrop. You know, kid them you’ve just heard about the horse and would like to see it, make sure it’s all right. Bingo’s good at that kind of thing, with that innocent face of his.’
Bingo, lying full length on his stomach, scratched a pattern in the dirt. ‘I wouldn’t mind a little run down the road,’ he said. ‘I could be there and back in half an hour.’
‘I’ll come with yer, if yer like,’ said Stonks.
‘And me,’ added Twilight.
‘OK,’ agreed Bingo, ‘the rest of you can wait here.’ He pushed himself to his feet and Stonks and Twilight did the same.
‘You be careful,’ said Chalotte, ‘we don’t want any complications.’
‘Don’t worry,’ said Twilight, ‘I move very fast; they call me the black mamba of Whitechapel Road, you know.’
Battersea Bridge Road was scorching underfoot, wide and cluttered with hot traffic. The heatwave hung over the city like blue enamel and breathing was like drowning in warm water.
‘Strewth,’ said Twilight, ‘I’m glad I don’t live in one of those tropical places abroad.’ He backhanded the sweat out of his eyes.
Stonks gazed into the distance. ‘You can bet your life,’ he said, ‘that if you want a number in a road that has a lot of numbers then the number you want is always the number at the other end of the road.’
‘Yes, Stonks’s Law,’ said Bingo.
They trudged on and on for what seemed miles until at last they came to a row of shops by the traffic lights at the corner of Westbridge Road. Here they found, among others, a dull shopfront with its plate glass smeared over with bilious green paint. Above the window was written, in dim yellow letters: RSPCA, Local Office.
‘Well, here we are,’ said Bingo, ‘and in I go. You two better stay out here, in case there’s trouble.’
‘Trouble, what trouble?’ said Twilight. ‘They ain’t interested in kids, ain’t got the time, it’s all “puss-puss” and “down Rover” with them.’
Bingo looked at Stonks, who said, ‘There’s enough of us, we should be all right.’
Bingo opened the door and the three Borribles found themselves in a bleak office furnished only with a cheap desk and a few chairs. There was a typewriter, a telephone, a lady in a brown cardigan and a thick-set man dressed in a shiny black suit. The strange light from the painted window made everything a ghostly green, especially the two adults. They looked like they’d been recently dug up in some damp and mouldy cemetery.
The lady raised her head from the papers on her desk and smiled like a dentist. The man, his buttocks overflowing the small perimeter of his chair, smiled too. Bingo didn’t like either of the smiles.
‘Yes,’ said the lady, ‘and how can we help you three nice little boys?’ She patted the crust of lacquer on her lifeless hair and her eyes glinted. The man rolled his lips around and said nothing. Inside his heavy suit his body was cooking like a chicken in a microwave and sweat gleamed and trickled across the acres of his pale skin. Bingo looked to the floor expecting to see a puddle of perspiration—he was disappointed. He looked back at the lady, confused. ‘Is this the NSPCC?’ he asked.
The lady’s laugh jangled about the room like an armful of brass bracelets. ‘Oh no, my dear,’ she said, ‘this is the RSPCA. We’re the ones with the Royals in front. We look after animals and the ones without the Royals do the children.’