Knocker paused. He knew that each Borrible standing before him could hardly wait for the moment when he would carry a name, the one word which would symbolize a whole life. ‘All right,’ went on the chief lookout, ‘the names will be distributed by drawing lots, six names in one hat, and two names in another. Dodger.’
Dodger and Knocker removed their hats and Knocker tore each name separately from the sheet that Spiff had given him. He put six names into his own woollen cap and two into the red beret of the paratroops. Dodger held the beret while Knocker shook his own hat vigorously to mix the names fairly and squarely. ‘I’ll start at one end and move along,’ he said. ‘It’s all the luck of the draw.’
He studied the face of the first person in line. By chance it was the one he had recommended to Spiff, the Battersea Borrible from Lavender Hill. Knocker had always liked the look of him, although they didn’t know each other very well. He was slightly built, even for a Borrible; his skin was clear and his hair was dark and tightly curled, like wire wool. His eyes were sharp and blue and they moved quickly, but were never furtive. He smiled a lot and Knocker could see that it would take a lot to get him down. He glanced at Knocker, winked, then plunged his hand into the hat and pulled out a scrap of paper. He opened it, read it to himself
and then smiled at the chief lookout. He rolled his tongue once or twice, getting the feel of his name for the very first time.
‘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 solid uncut mass all round his head like a black halo. His teeth protruded and he seemed to be smiling all the time, an expression 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 that said there wasn’t a trick in the book he didn’t know.
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 Vulgarian, I’ve heard he’s the chief Rumble. Don’t reckon his chances when I catch up with him.’
‘I see, 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 adventurer 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. Someone in Peckham said he was the keeper of the Great Door of Rumbtedom—the strongest one. 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 him and Knocker guessed immediately where he came from.
‘You’re from Wandsworth, aren’t you? A Wendle?’
‘So what, the finest Borribles in the world come from Wandsworth.’
Knocker recognized at once the brittle voice that had spoken out of turn a little earlier. ‘Is that a fact?’ 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 dwelt along the banks of the River Wandle in disused sewers and in the smelly holes they had scooped out below the streets. But no one knew exactly how they lived, for they were the most suspicious and warlike of all Borribles; they did not encourage visitors and rarely spoke to anyone outside their own tribe. Most repulsive of all, their skin 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 industrialization had turned it into a treacherous ooze of green and muddy slime, a mixture of poison waste, decomposed rubbish and undigested lumps of plastic which rolled slowly along the river’s surface 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 it without guidance; no one but the Wendles knew its secret paths, and only rarely could they be prevailed upon to guide travellers through their territory.
Every Wendle carried the smell of the Wandsworth marshes with him, and that smell was the smell of treachery and decay. Knocker had seen but few Wendles; none of them had been this close and he didn’t like what he saw: the green glow 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, anyway,’ 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.’ cried the Wendle. ‘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’d 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 others to come with me. I’ll tear Rumbledom 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,’ said Knocker, ‘you’re the last so I know the name; it’s Torreycanyon.’
‘Yes,’ said Torreycanyon, ‘that’ll do nicely.’
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 he’d never heard of any being 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 wondered, would
they 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 was a worry. Borribles could 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 chose 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 didn’t like to admit it but over and above her other attributes she was beautiful too; her fair hair fell to her shoulders, her skin shone and her legs were strong and full of running, an asset to any Borrible.
He gave the last piece of paper to the girl from Neasden.
‘Sydney,’ she said when she’d looked at it. Knocker glanced at her. Another good-looking girl; her hair was dark and shiny and her eyes were grey, her face 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?’
Chalotte said, ‘The message that came to Whitechapel specified a female Borrible.’
‘And the Neasden message?’
Sydney nodded. ‘We were told that two of the High Command are female. That’s why we were asked, I should think.’
‘Hm,’ said Knocker. He went to move away from the girls, but then turned on them suddenly, raising his voice. ‘There will be no favouritism, you will be treated just like the others, you will train like the others and sleep on the ground like the others, and you will wear the same combat clothes. When you leave you must expect the same conditions, exactly. You will march as long, eat as little and fight as much as every other member of the expeditionary force. No favours, so ask for
none. You will take the same risks as the others, and maybe perish with them. Do you understand?’
If Knocker had hoped to frighten Chalotte and Sydney with this outburst he failed.
‘That is why we came,’ said Chalotte, and quoted a Borrible proverb: ‘“No name earns itself.”’
‘Yes,’ said Sydney, ‘and there’s another proverb: ��Every way forward has a way back.”’
Knocker turned again and retraced his steps to the centre of the line.
‘Right,’ he began, ‘now you have your names, training will be all day and every day. I’ll give details tomorrow. First thing you must do is learn your enemy. We have Rumble books here and we have something that is better, Spiff’s notes and studies of ‘em. We will start reading right away. In his notes you will find a detailed description of each of the Rumbles of the High Command. Now you know your names you know which one is yours and you must know exactly what he or she looks like. You will have to distinguish between him and a thousand others right in the middle of a punch-up. Another thing, we shall be training with the Rumble-stick or sticker, the enemy’s weapon. For those of you who don’t know it’s a four-inch nail stuck into the end of a lance of wood. They use it like a spear, or as a quarterstaff and dagger combined. The Rumble is good with it, cuts his teeth on it; you’ve got to be better. From now on we work hard. Your survival will depend on this training.’
The next two weeks were weeks of exhausting activity. The eight members of the expeditionary force never stopped working. Every morning at five Knocker had them on their feet for half an hour’s physical jerks, just to get the blood circulating properly through their brains. After breakfast they had a morning training session inside the gym, the subject chosen by Dodger or Knocker. They perfected their skills with the Rumble-stick and practised stealing in pairs and in fours. Before lunch they slipped out for a quick run, just a mile or so to improve their wind—all Borribles need to be speedy runners—and to keep them in trim Knocker made them responsible for purloining their own midday meal—a meal which they ate all together in some uncomfortable spot along by the river, or in some draughty house with no windows. And all the time Knocker watched the girls closely, but they never complained and they did everything just as well as anyone else.
After the midday meal they went back to the gym for a short rest of half an hour or so and then Knocker would test them on Borrible knowledge and Rumble studies; every one of them had to have a mind as sharp and as hard and as useful as a brand new tin-opener. They learned practical information too: how to avoid capture, how to escape when caught and how to aid other Borribles when in trouble. Knocker insisted that the eight of them should have all this knowledge ready in their minds. There was no telling what they might come across on the long and dangerous journey to Rumbledom; they would have to be prepared for anything and everything.
After the session with the books there was always more physical training. Dodger taught them how to jump from a great height and fall without hurting themselves; how to take punches rolling with the blow, how to duck and weave. He taught them the vulnerable spots of the Rumble anatomy and again how to use the Rumble-stick. Then, in the latter part of the afternoon, Knocker, who’d had a great deal of experience, more than any other known Borrible, taught them field tactics: how to climb trees, how to cross commons and parks without being seen.