Michael Larrabeiti - The Borribles

"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.

"Take your name, any way," said Knocker flatly, and he held out his hat.

The Wendle narrowed his eyes and screwed up his mouth to prove that he didn't care a damn about Knocker or anyone else and he pulled out his name. He nodded, then he laughed loud, pleased and hostile.

"Out with it," said Knocker impatiently. "What is it?"

"What a name I have," he cried, "I shall cover it in glory."

"Or mud."

The Wendle ignored Knocker and looked up and down the line of adventurers. "Napoleon Boot," he said loudly. "Call me Napoleon Boot."

"And I suppose you know why you're going to Rumbledom?" asked Knocker.

"Why am I going?" The other was angry. "What's wrong with you? Because I hate them, that's why. I always have hated them, and if you always had 'em leering down at yer from Rumbledom, like I have, you'd hate 'em as much as I do. I don't need these other seven to come up the Burrow with me. I'll tear it apart on me tod."

Knocker shrugged. He was glad to move on to the last of the male Borribles. He looked at the face and liked it. It was square and flat, and the eyes were optimistic under the spiky brown hair. This Borrible looked like he could take a lot of knocks and still come up smiling.

"Well," he said, "as I'm last, I hardly have to take my name out, do I? I mean I've seen the books, too, like the others, even in Hoxton, so I know my name then, it's Torreycanyon."

Knocker gave the empty hat to Dodger and took the beret with the two names only in it. He stood in front of the two Borrible girls, and felt embarrassed. He was used to girls of course but not to be trained as lookouts. He didn't like the idea of girls on this adventure and wondered how it had happened. He looked from one to the other of them; he was forced to admit that they were tough-looking, and certainly their ears were amongst the most beautifully shaped he had ever seen, denoting strong character, unbendable wills and great slyness and cunning. He couldn't fault them there. But, he thought, they'll never be able to support the rigours of the trek, the dangers, the rough living out-of-doors, every night a different bivouac. And what effect would they have on the team as a whole? That really worried him. He knew Borribles, they would quarrel and fight just as well as they could steal.

Knocker glanced back down the line and found the others watching him closely. Orococco was smiling, his white teeth shining against his black skin; even the Wendle, Napoleon Boot, was smirking.

"Where are you girls from?" asked Knocker.

"Whitechapel," said the first.

"Neasden," said the second. Knocker held out the hat to the girl from Whitechapel. "Take one of these," he said. The girl took out a piece of paper and read her name simply, with no comment. "Chalotte," she said, her voice cool and relaxed. Her green eyes flickered over Knocker's face and she smiled. Knocker thought she was beautiful; her hair fell to her waist and was blond, her skin shone and her legs were well-shaped and long.

He gave the last piece of paper to the girl from Neasden. "Sydney," she said when she'd looked at it. Knocker looked at her. Her hair was dark and shiny and her eyes were grey and her face was kind.

"Why did Whitechapel and Neasden send you two?" he asked, disguising his shyness behind a sarcastic tone. "Haven't they got any male Borribles out there?"