Vulge crossed the room to leave with Napoleon. ‘And when you’ve done that you’d better try to make your way to the Great Door and see if you can meet up with Stonks and Torrey.’
‘We might see you again at the Central,’ said Napoleon, ‘and then again we might not. Don’t wait for anybody. From now we each takes our chance.’ With this, he and Vulge slipped through the door and were gone.
‘Well, goodbye,’ said Chalotte, ‘and if I don’t see you again, have a good life.’ She and Sydney herded the kitchen hands into the larder, using the sharp spears to encourage them. Once the Rumbles had been disposed of the two girls ran around the kitchen switching all the stoves and ovens to full on, and then, propped against their lances, they looked at each other and a slow smile crept from their eyes to their lips and became a grin.
‘Here, we’ve got our names,’ said Sydney. ‘Fancy that.’
Torreycanyon made his way down the main tunnel. It felt strange to be alone after so long in the company of the others, but there was no stopping now. Somewhere ahead of him would be the main hall, the Central, with corridors running out from it like a spider’s web. For now the bunker was deserted, the Rumbles still sleeping, but in a very short while they would be coming from their dormitories and making for the refectory, ready to eat breakfast.
Occasionally Torreycanyon saw a signpost which, he supposed, was to direct the younger Rumbles until they had learnt their way around. There weren’t enough indications for his taste and he realized what a task the Borrible team had taken on. He understood suddenly that he was going to need a lot of luck to find his target, and a lot more to get
out of this labyrinth alive. He gripped his catapult tightly, a stone ready for firing, and he stepped bravely forward. Best to press on and meet the dangers as they came, no point in worrying about them prematurely. Good old Stonks was behind, guarding a way of escape, and it would take an avalanche of Rumbles to move him.
Torreycanyon crept past several doorways leading from the corridor. He listened at each of them but heard no noises coming from within. So far so good. He went on, halting and listening at every branch corridor, peeping around every corner before advancing and then peering behind him to make sure he was not being followed.
‘Cripes,’ he said, at least half a dozen times. ‘I wish I could find my target and then get out of here; it’s spooky being on your own.’
At last luck was with him. He was on the point of passing by the entrance of a passage, broader than the rest, when his foot slipped and he nearly lost his balance. Looking down he saw a patch of oil on the floor. He moved into the passage and in the light of his torch he saw that at eye level words had been daubed on the wall in blue paint, and although faded and difficult to decipher, they were still legible. ‘Garage and Workshops. Keep Out. Signed Torreycanyon Rumble.’
‘Oh boy, oh boy,’ said Torreycanyon, ‘I’ve done it right. I’ll wait for him in the garage.’ He knew from his reading of the Rumble books that the workshops were a nerve centre of this underground complex, and it was part of the Borrible plan, once they had eliminated their targets, to cause as much confusion as possible. Torreycanyon hoped that possession of the workshops would enable him to wreak great damage throughout the bunker, merely by pulling a few switches. If he could break in before the Rumbles awoke, he would be in a strong position.
The corridor sloped downwards beneath the Rumbledom hillside. It was greasy underfoot because over the years so much machinery had passed that way. Torreycanyon stepped carefully until he came up against a heavy wooden door, sagging on its hinges. It was scarred and battered where sharp metal edges had bashed against it. To Torreycanyon’s amazement the door was open and a light shone inside.
He pushed his torch into his pocket and flexed the rubber on his catapult. He was ready. However many Rumbles were in the workshops he would take them on and then destroy their equipment before they destroyed
him. But he must be sure to get his target; not one of the Rumble High Command must be left to organize pursuit or retaliation.
Torreycanyon took a deep breath, thought briefly of the others and wondered where they were, then shoved the door with a vigorous thrust of his foot and jumped into the room in the style of the adventure stories he had read and the spy films he had seen. The door swung back and banged into the wall. Torreycanyon burst through the doorway and landed in the crouched position. His eyes raced over the workshops, his head turned this way and that, searching, but there was not one enemy to fire at.
Torreycanyon had come into a large rectangular room. It was lined with shelves on which was stowed every tool that might be needed in the underground stronghold, and in addition there was row upon row of spare parts for the machinery that kept the bunker ticking over. There were workbenches and power points, electric drills and lathes, winches and a conveyor belt. It was an extremely well equipped functional workshop and Torreycanyon liked it.
‘Blimey,’ he said, looking around in wonder and respect, ‘what couldn’t we do with this little lot?’ But then he thought of why he was there and he shook the feelings of respect and admiration from his mind. He bolted the door and made a tour of inspection, making certain that no unseen Rumble lurked behind the shelves or between the workbenches.
The more he saw of the place the more impressed he became. He had a practical turn of mind himself, and all those shining tools laid out in perfect order, and those handy workbenches, the carpentry, the work in progress, every bit of it made him regret that he was about to destroy such order. Why, oh why, did he not have such a workshop back in Hoxton? He knew he could have done it justice.
He sighed and came to a corner where he thought the shop ended, but he had simply discovered another section of it and he could see at a glance that this was the garage. He remembered then that the Rumbles had built a car and had in fact used it for their trip to Battersea, that time when Knocker had captured one of their number. And here it was, the very car. He lowered his catapult; this place seemed empty too.
The car itself was long and sleek and powerful, but what struck Torreycanyon were the changes being made to it. Someone was converting
the vehicle into an armoured troop carrier, a weapon of war. Narrow gun ports had been made in the bodywork so that weapons could be fired from inside while the occupants remained protected from attack. And on the steel panelling, not yet painted, was scrawled in chalk, ‘Death to all Borribles’. Torreycanyon glanced about him once more; these workshops did not look beautiful now, they looked sinister, and compassion drained from his heart.
These reflections were interrupted by the clink of a spanner falling to the concrete floor, and the sound of a Rumble oath. Torreycanyon raised his catapult. Protruding from underneath the car’s rear axle were two padded feet. It was obvious that a Rumble was doing an early morning stint on the mechanics, and that was the reason the vehicle had been jacked up high at the back, so as to enable the fitter to move comfortably about his business.
Torreycanyon thought quickly. If that Rumble was the only one present, then all well and good, but was there another entrance and were there more Rumbles to come? He stepped towards the car.
‘I say,’ he said, ‘any twouble?’
‘Who’s that? What are you doing here? Hand me that fourteen Whitworth,’ said the mechanic, rapidly and without waiting for answers.
‘It’s Bingo,’ said Torreycanyon, using the first Rumble name that came into his head.
‘Bingo,’ cried the voice attached to the two feet. ‘Look, if you give me a hand for a couple of hours, we can do the test wun tonight. This car will be invincible; it’ll take us down to Battersea High Stweet in half an hour, give those Bowwibles a beating and bwing us back in time for bweakfast.’
The Borrible tensed his muscles and was just about to drag the Rumble out from underneath the car when he had a thought. ‘Who is that, anyway?’ he asked. ‘I can’t wecognize you by your feet, they’re not vewy distinctive.’
Towweycanyon, of course. Who else would be here at thwee in the morning when evewy other Wumble is still in bed? We of the High Command have got a sense of wesponsibility, a devotion to duty.’
Torreycanyon smiled to himself. What a stroke of luck. Unbelievably his target was right there with him, and they were all alone. The voice continued, ‘Go wound the back and pass me the working light, it’s
wolled out of my weach. Time is of the essence. The sooner we can exterminate those Bowwibles the better.’
‘All wight,’ said Torreycanyon, and he began to walk round the car hoping Torreycanyon Rumble wouldn’t notice that his feet were not padded as they should be. But the Rumble said nothing and he continued to talk as he struggled with the job in hand.
‘Now, when you get wound the back, be vewy careful, the handle of the jack is sticking out, just don’t touch it at all, do you hear that, Bingo? They’re dangewous, cars and jacks and that, specially if you’re underneath them.’
Torreycanyon moved stealthily to the rear of the garage. Here was the enormous jack, here tools littered the floor, and there was the working light, up against the second entrance to the workshop, a sliding door of steel large enough to allow the passage of the armoured car. No doubt, thought Torreycanyon, the door was concealed on the other side, camouflaged to look like a grassy bank behind gorse bushes or trees.
‘If I stwetch out my hand you can put the working light underneath, there, just by the nearside fwont wheel and then I … ’ The voice trailed off, and then, falteringly, it started again. ‘Bingo … you’ve got shoes and feet, weal feet. You can’t be Bingo. You’re human … or … ’
‘A Borrible,’ cried Torreycanyon. And with those words he leapt for the car jack, knocked off the safety catch and triggered the mechanism that released its power. The mighty machine, the great car, the massive tool of destruction, sank slowly, relentlessly, to the oily floor and crushed the small life out of the Rumble who had tended it with such love. There was a scream, then quiet, and Torreycanyon slipped his catapult into his pocket. He spoke out loud to himself and his voice echoed round the hard walls of the garage. ‘Congratulations to you, Torreycanyon,’ he said, ‘on achieving your name. Now you may construct a little mayhem out of the materials that lie about you.’
Knocker dropped down into the kitchen as the others had done. Adolf followed him and they both seized Rumble-sticks from the corner of the room.
‘Aha,’ said Adolf, ‘good weapons for close work.’ The door opened and they stiffened, but it was Chalotte and Sydney returning from the corridor.
‘It’s all quiet outside,’ said Chalotte, ‘but we don’t know for how long.’
‘What’s all this nasty steam and stink?’ asked Knocker, peering round the room. Sydney gestured to the huge pots still boiling and bubbling on the stoves.
‘Chalotte shoved her namesake into the porridge,’ she said.
Adolf hooted. ‘So we have to felicitate you on your first name. I’m sure you will have many in the future.’
‘I got mine as well,’ said Sydney, ‘in the cupboard.’
‘You certainly wasted no time,’ said Knocker. ‘What about the others?’
The two girls told them what Napoleon and Vulge had suggested: a rendezvous, if possible, in the heart of the bunker, the Central, where most of the tunnels met.
‘That sounds all right,’ agreed Knocker. ‘Adolf and I will try to stir things up a bit; some alarm and despondency is what is called for. Meanwhile, you girls could start preparing a line of retreat. Guard one of the tunnels.’
The moment Chalotte and Sydney had gone on their way, Adolf leant on his Rumble-stick and looked at Knocker from under his eyebrows.
‘Well, my Battersea friend,’ he asked with the bright light burning in his blue eyes, ‘what is it we are up to?’
Knocker laughed with a happy excitement. ‘I’m going to get a second name out of this, and you can help, Adolf. Somewhere in this maze of corridors is a chest of treasure. My job is to get it back to Battersea High Street, so that it can be shared among all Borribles.’
‘A fine Historian you are,’ said Adolf. ‘Where is this treasure … and is it Borrible?’
‘I don’t know, and right now I don’t care,’ said Knocker, making his catapult ready and inspecting the nail on the end of his lance, ‘but I’m going to the head Rumble’s quarters; it seems a likely enough place.’
‘Excuse.’ Adolf held up his hand. ‘That is where we are going. You’re going to need someone to look after you.’
Vulge came to a halt at a place where the corridor he was following divided. A notice showed him which way to go: ‘Headquarters’. He turned to Napoleon.
‘See you back at the Central, or at the Great Door.’
‘Or not at all,’ said the Wendle, his smile a smile of granite.
‘It is sad to pass through life without one good adventure,’ said Vulge, quoting one of the oldest of Borrible proverbs, and with a reassuring jerk of his head he slapped the palm of his right hand against Napoleon’s and marched on.
‘And remember,’ said the Wendle as he watched the small figure recede, ‘it is foolish to run faster than what you run after.’ Then he settled his bandoliers across his shoulders and made his way into the other corridor, desirous of only one thing, a meeting with his namesake.