‘Careful, Bingo,’ whispered Orococco. ‘We’ve landed right on their doorstep.’
They crept on all fours till they came up against the Small Door. As its name indicated it was less important than the Great Door on the other side of the hill—even a Borrible would have to crawl through this one—and in the middle of it there was a judas hole so that whoever was on guard could open a flap and see outside without having to put himself in danger.
‘Time for a bit of the old crafty,’ said Bingo.
‘That’s all we got, man,’ said Orococco. He knocked at the door. There was no answer.
‘The fools are sleeping,’ said Bingo. ‘You see, they don’t know we’re here.’ This time he knocked, with the butt of his catapult, very loudly indeed.
There was a sudden and muffled snort from inside the bunker and Orococco put his face close to the judas. The flap in the door flew open and a sleepy voice said, ‘Who goes there, Wumble or foe?’
‘A Wumble,’ said Orococco, flashing his teeth.
‘No such thing as a black Wumble,’ said the guard, his snout coming close to the opening and quivering distrustfully. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Owococco,’ said Orococco, nodding at Bingo, who was close to the door but out of sight of the person within.
There was a shocked silence from the Rumble, then he said, ‘Wait a minute, that can’t be your name, it’s my name.’
‘Sowwy,’ said Orococco, ‘you’re mistaken. Owococco is my name, always has been, Honky.’
‘Idiot,’ said the voice behind the door, ‘Do you think I don’t know my own name? I’m Owococco.’ The snout pulsated and sniffed. ‘You don’t even smell like a Wumble.’
‘Well,’ said the Totter from Tooting, ‘all I can say is open the door and have a look.’
‘I can’t do that,’ said the guardian. ‘It’s against the wules, and according to my list evewyone is in tonight.’
‘All wight then,’ said the black Borrible. ‘Stick your nose out and take a weally good sniff and let me in. I’m exhausted. I have important news for the High Command.’
‘I’m one of the High Command,’ said the Rumble, suddenly intrigued. ‘You may tell me all.’
‘I’ll tell you nothing until you let me in,’ insisted Orococco.
The snout pushed through the judas in an attempt to sniff the Borrible’s face, but Orococco fell back half a step and the protuberance was obliged to push itself a little further and again a little further, still snuffling and vibrating. It was then that Bingo rose and seized it in both hands and held on with all his might.
Quickly, Orococco slipped the length of strong cord from his waist and wound it several times round the Rumble’s snout. Tying it very tightly, he secured the free end to the root of a gorse bush. The Rumble could hardly breathe but Bingo did not let go, nor did the rope slacken for all the animal’s struggles behind the door.
‘Shuddup Rumble,’ whispered Orococco. ‘If you don’t stop that wriggling I’ll beat your nose till it looks like a limp wind sock.’
The struggling abated, then ceased altogether.
‘Now, listen,’ went on the black Totter. ‘You can reach the bolts, and you can reach the lock, so open up. We have an ultimatum for your mates, and they’re going to get it one way or the other, whether you have a snout left or not.’
Orococco Rumble hesitated. There was a little more kicking of padded feet and a flailing of arms, but the snout did not move an inch from its imprisonment. Then the two Borribles heard the bolts slide and the key grate in the lock, and Orococco threw his body at the door with such force that the cord holding the snout broke with a loud twang and nearly pulled the Rumble’s head through the judas. This fierce assault slammed the body of the guardian back against the wall of the passage and there was a sickening thud.
Bingo vaulted into the corridor, rolled over and came up holding his catapult at the ready, but he did not fire for this was Orococco’s game.
Orococco seized a Rumble-stick, one of many that stood in a rack; he drew back his arm, ready to thrust the deadly sticker into the furry body of his namesake, but before he could act the Rumble fell forward on to the floor, the weight of his body banging the Small Door shut.
Bingo turned the body over with a foot. ‘Strewth,’ he said, ‘you must’ve broke his neck when you opened the door.’
‘Never stand behind a door when there’s a Totter coming through the other side,’ said Orococco. ‘That’s an old Tooting proverb which ain’t in the book but ought to be.’
‘Hey,’ said Bingo, ‘you’ve got your name already. That’s great, congratulations.’ He slapped his friend on the shoulder.
‘Thanks, man,’ said Orococco. ‘Now we’d better see about getting yours.’ And he turned and locked and bolted the door before slipping the key into his pocket. ‘Remember I got the key, Bingo, just in case I don’t make it. Now let’s go see if the others got the kettle on yet.’ And holding his Rumble-stick across his body he ran as fast as he could down the tunnel, and Bingo ran with him.
Vulge lay full length in the narrow ventilation shaft and inched his body along with his elbows. Behind him he could hear the others, breathing hard as they followed. After a few yards, which seemed like miles, he came to a grating set in the floor. He reached behind him with an effort and pulled his torch from a pocket of his combat jacket. He masked the beam with his hand and saw that he was at the end of the tunnel. Someone bumped against his feet.
He shone his torch on the grating and saw that it was held in place by four screws. He reached for his knife and slowly began to undo them.
‘What’s up?’ asked Chalotte.
Vulge twisted his head as far as he was able.
‘A grating, four screws.’ He whispered the words and went back to the task; it wasn’t easy but finally the barrier came free and he slid it below his body. Now he could see into the kitchens.
They were enormous—an expensive modern installation kitted out with long stainless steel ranges and endless working surfaces—for this equipment had to cater for the hundreds of Rumbles who lived in the bunker, and on its smooth running would depend their health and well-being. The management and ordering of such a place demanded complex
skills and the Rumble commissariat was in fact controlled and directed by the two female members of the High Command—Chalotte and Sydney Rumble.
At that moment only three Rumbles of any importance were visible to Vulge, two females and one male still in his dressing gown. They had not been in the kitchens long for they were rubbing their eyes and yawning. As Vulge watched, the two female Rumbles began bellowing orders, and skivvies and scullions, about a dozen of them, rushed to their duties. Huge saucepans were sent clanging and spinning on to the stoves, the hotplates glowed red and vegetables were washed and shredded. The morning porridge simmered in the pots.
With a start that nearly gave him away, Vulge recognized the male Rumble; it was the chief, the main one, his very own target. Vulge quickly withdrew his head and scrambled over the opening into the end section of the shaft, allowing Chalotte to move up a little. He shone his torch behind her and saw Sydney; he gave them a thumbs up then popped his head down through the hole again, wondering what he should do.
The High Rumbles had taken up a position in the middle of the kitchen urging their minions on, supervising the baking of the Rumble bread. Vulge pulled out his catapult and was easing a stone from his bandolier when the chief Rumble, Vulgarian himself, spoke to the women. He sounded irritable and short-tempered.
‘I wish you’d huwwy, you two. When I say an early bweakfast, I mean an early bweakfast. I’ve got a nasty feeling something’s afoot. Last night, one of our sentwies didn’t weturn, and I’m wowwied. Come on, huwwy it up.’
‘It’s no good,’ snapped Chalotte Rumble. ‘It won’t be weady for another half-hour at least.’ And she jerked her snout up an inch to indicate that the discussion was at an end.
“Vewy well,’ said Vulgarian. ‘Then I’ll take a bath. Send me my bweakfast on a tway as soon as it’s weady.’ He pulled his dressing gown tight to his body and stalked off without another word.
‘What an awwogant swine he is,’ said Chalotte Rumble to her companion. ‘Who does he think he is? We wun this department.’
‘Ignore him,’ said Sydney Rumble. ‘He’s due for a nasty shock one day.’
‘Yeah, and today’s the day,’ said Vulge to himself grimly. ‘I missed a chance there.’ He pulled his head back into the darkness of the tunnel where Chalotte waited.
‘Mine’s gone to have a bath,’ said Vulge, ‘but yours is right below you, and Sydney’s. You’re lucky, all you got to do is thump ‘em.’
Chalotte twisted and spoke to Sydney, then she crouched over the hole and looked down. Below her was a good ten-foot drop to the top of a wide kitchen table, white with scrubbing. She took her catapult from her back pocket, wrapped the elastic carefully round the butt and clenched the weapon between her teeth, then with a nod at Vulge, she let herself fall from his sight.
Immediately Chalotte had gone, Sydney wriggled forward, her catapult already prepared, and sprang, eager as a cat, through the opening. Napoleon was still some distance away but inching nearer. Vulge did not wait for him. He sat on the edge of the hatch, lowered himself by his arms till his body was at full extent, and then let go.
His feet hit the wooden surface and, following the precepts of Dodger’s paratroop training, he allowed his legs to crumble and he rolled over, curving his shoulder to take the force of the fall. He came off the edge of the table and fell easily into a crouching position on the kitchen floor. From there he witnessed a fight that he knew he would never forget, a story that he would tell until the end of his days.
Chalotte and Sydney had arrived in the kitchen perhaps ten seconds before Vulge, but they had wasted no time. The two Rumbles of the High Command had been caught flat-footed by Chalotte’s inexplicable appearance but they had soon rallied. They each seized a Rumble-stick from a rack which stood against the wall and shouted to the kitchen hands to arm themselves and give the alarm. But Chalotte was a magician with the catapult. She had loaded and fired her weapon twice before the two Rumbles could cast their spears, and they retreated down the kitchen towards the hot stoves and steaming ranges. The sound of Chalotte’s stones as they sliced through the air unnerved the Rumbles, and their lances, when they were thrown, skeetered harmlessly along the tiled floor.
Now Sydney’s catapult was ready, and, ignoring the shouts of the scullions and the possibility of being wounded by a flying Rumble-stick, she stood and drew the heavy-duty elastic right back to her ear,
and a well aimed stone flew to strike her foe in the centre of the forehead. Sydney Rumble fell lifeless to the floor, bringing down a pile of soup bowls with her.
Chalotte’s namesake was to meet a more grisly fate. At the noise of the crashing crockery the High Rumble took fright, for she was now outnumbered three to one, and pushing and kicking the terrified menials from her path she ran quickly to the far end of the kitchen where huge cauldrons boiled quietly on deep square stoves, warming the day’s broth.
Against the largest of the containers leant a stepladder, placed there so that ingredients could be added without difficulty and so that the soup could be inspected from time to time by the cooks. None of that mattered now, for Chalotte Rumble wanted only to get away. If she were to climb that ladder and take one step across the cauldron she could squeeze through a large vent that led into a different part of the bunker, escaping to raise the alarm and fight another day.
But Chalotte Borrible, her blood pounding with the heat of battle, was a fast and nimble runner and she pursued her namesake closely. As the Rumble reached the top of the stepladder, Chalotte reached the bottom; she grabbed it and lifted it up with all her energy. There was the briefest of silences as the Rumble spun in space, weightless for a second, then a scream split the steamy air and the scream wailed on long and loud until, with a splash, it was submerged deep in the hot and lumpy soup. But even then the scream went on, freighted up to the surface of the stew in rippling bubbles, like a fart in bath water.
Vulge yelled in triumph and ran across the room to cover the saucepan with a huge heavy lid.
‘Blimey,’ he crowed, ‘she’s really in the soup now, ain’t she?’
Just then Napoleon’s legs appeared through the opening in the ceiling, and he dropped to the table and jumped to the floor. He ran to a corner and grabbed a Rumble-stick. He felt the weight of it and looked at the group of kitchen hands who cowered together in a corner.
‘Okay, you bunch of bunnies,’ he snarled. ‘You move and I’ll tear yer ears off.’
Sydney pulled her target’s body into a broom cupboard, closed the door and locked it. ‘Cripes,’ she gasped, ‘that was over so fast it don’t seem right.’
‘Getting in was easy,’ agreed Chalotte. ‘It’s the getting out that might prove tricky.’
‘What are we going to do with the skivvies?’ asked Vulge.
‘Lock ’em in the pantry,’ suggested Sydney. ‘They won’t give us any trouble.’
‘You do that,’ said Napoleon, making for the door. ‘Me and Vulge better get going, we’ve still got work to do. Before you leave here turn the electrics up; let it all burn dry so it’ll smoke and fuse and catch fire. Roast Rumbles can’t fight.’