Knocker and Lightfinger had been on night patrol in Battersea Park when they'd stumbled across the Rumbles and the discovery had annoyed and scared them. Borribles like to make sure that no other Borrible tribe is encroaching on their territory, that's bad enough. They are always frightened that they might be driven away from their markets and houses and have their little bit of independence destroyed, so scouting round the frontiers is a regular duty.
Unearthing a Rumble was something very upsetting. They are the real enemies of the Borribles and the Borribles hate them for their riches, their power, their haughtiness and their possessions. If the Rumbles were coming all the way down from Rumbledom to colonise the Park, what price Battersea High Street?
Knocker and Lightfinger harried Timbucktoo along in front of them. They went past Morgan's Crucible Factory, along Battersea Church Road and by St Mary's down by the river, and then into the High Street. They saw no one and no one saw them, it being well into the early hours of the morning. They made for an empty house standing opposite the end of Trott Street. It was tall and wide and the bottom windows were boarded up and a sheet of corrugated iron covered the main doorway. The facade of the building was painted over in grey, and in black letters was written, "Bunham's Patent Locks Ltd. Western 4828."
It was a typical Borrible hideaway, derelict and decaying, and Knocker and Lightfinger lived there. Borribles live where they can in the streets of the big cities, but they like these abandoned houses best of all. When a house is already occupied they will often use the cellar and they camp in schools at night too because they are left empty and unused, like the schools in Battersea High Street.
The two Borribles halted on the pavement and looked up and down the street. Nobody. They opened a gate in the railings and Knocker pushed Timbucktoo down some stone steps leading to a basement. The captive rolled over and over like some hairy cushion until he landed on his snout at the foot of the stairs. The area was covered in rubbish that had been dropped from the street above the passers-by and luckily it broke the fall of the furry Rumble. He sat up and rubbed his head, then spying the litter he began patting bits of paper with feverish movements of his paws.
Knocker stopped halfway down the steps and turned to speak to Lightfinger. "Look at him, he must be suffering from shock."
"Perhaps you hit him too hard," suggested Lightfinger.
"Nonsense," answered Knocker and he went down and lifted the Rumble to his feet.
The chief lookout opened a door that led from the area into the basement part of the house and dragged the Rumble in by the neck, with Lightfinger pushing from behind. The door was closed and Knocker switched on the electric light. Borribles always have electric light even in deserted houses; there are good technicians amongst them and they simply tap into the nearest power supply.
The Borribles had entered a large cellar which had a few orange boxes for use as chairs and tables. Two doors opened from the room, one into an underground larder, which served the Borribles as a store-room, the other to some stairs which led to the rest of the house. At the bay window were hanging scraps of old blankets with not too many holes in them. They prevented the light shining into the street and alerting the police that someone was residing in a house that was supposed to be empty.
Knocker pushed Timbucktoo down onto an orange box and he and Lightfinger looked at the expressionless snout.
"What we gonna do with him, now we've got him here?" wondered Lightfinger.
"Yes," said the Rumble, looking up, his eyes glinting crimson, "you won't get away with this you know, it's iwwesponsible. You Bowwibles must be insane. I'll see you get your ears clipped."
Lightfinger and Knocker winced. Borribles are very sensitive about their ears, for if a Borrible is caught by the police the first thing that happens is that his ears are clipped and he starts to grow like any ordinary child. Left alone, Borribles don't grow physically and their small size is a great advantage.
"Clip me ears, will yer?" said Knocker tight-lipped and he went into the store cupboard. A second later he was out again, carrying a roll of sticky tape. He went over to the Rumble, grasped its head and wound the tape round and round the animal's snout so that it could no longer speak.
He stood back to admire his work. Lightfinger relaxed and cupped his face in his hands and rested his elbows on his knees.
"There," said Knocker, "that's the way to deal with a talking mattress."
"I'm glad all animals can't speak," said Lightfinger, "we'd have meningitis within the week, or run out of sticky tape."
"I'll go and get Spiff," said Knocker. He ran up to the ground floor of the house and tapped on the door of the large room that overlooked the back garden. It was dark and dingy that garden and Knocker knew it was a wilderness of weeds growing through the old fragile rust of oil drums and the twisted frames of broken bicycles. While he waited Knocker pulled a damp strip of patterned paper from the wall; plaster came with it. The door opened a crack and another Borrible appeared. He was perhaps an inch taller than Knocker and his ears were very pointed. He was dressed in a bright orange dressing-gown made from new warm towelling. His carpet slippers were comfortable.
"Who are you? Ah, Knocker, what do you want then?"
"Sorry to wake you there, Spiff," said Knocker, "but me and Lightfinger found something in the Park and think you ought to have a look at it. It's down in the basement."
"Oh Lor'," groaned Spiff, "can't it wait till morning? You haven't got the law on your trail, have you?"
"No," said Knocker tensely, "it's nothing like that. What we've got is worse. It's a Rumble! There was a whole lot of them in a posh car and we caught this one coming out of the ground. Cheek, isn't it, coming down here without a by-yer-leave and digging?"
Spiff had become more and more intent on what Knocker had been saying until finally he seemed quite beside himself.
"One of those toffee-nosed Rumble-Rats, eh? You get back downstairs, me lad, and I'll come right away. I'll just put me hat on."
He closed the door and Knocker scooted back down the dark uncovered stairs. He understood Spiff's caution: no Borrible ever left his room without putting on a woollen hat to cover the tops of his ears. It wasn't that they were ashamed of them, quite the contrary, but they liked to be prepared for an emergency. Any unforseen circumstance could force them into the streets and it wouldn't do to be spotted as a Borrible.
"He's coming," said Knocker as soon as he re-entered the room. "He's a good house-steward, you know, short-tempered sometimes, but very crafty."
"You can't get anything past him and that's a fact," said Lightfinger. "Some say he's artful enough to catch himself. Do you know he won all his names in fights with the Rumbles? Nobody knows how many, nobody . . . strange that. He hates 'em."
"There's lots of stories about his names and not very Borrible some of them," said Knocker, "but I don't believe the half of it." He sat down and looked at Timbucktoo and thought about names and the gaining of them, a major preoccupation with him.
A Borrible name has to be earned because that is the only way a Borrible can get one. He has to have an adventure of some sort, and if he is successful he gets a name. There are all kinds of things a Borrible can do; it doesn't have to be stealing or burgling necessarily, though it generally is. It could be a witty or funny trick on someone, and it is preferable if that someone is an adult.
The only thing that Knocker had against the rules was that it was difficult to get on any adventures once you had a name. First chance was always given to those who were nameless and this irritated Knocker for he had a secret ambition: to collect more names than any other Borrible.
A noise on the stairs disturbed Knocker's reflections. He stood up and at the same moment Spiff flung open the door and strode theatrically into the room. His head was adorned with a magnificent hat of scarlet wool and he clutched the orange dressing-gown tightly to his chest. Spiff had the clear face of a twelve-year-old child but his eyes were dark with wisdom. He stopped short as soon as he saw the Rumble and he pushed his breath out over his teeth and made a whisper of a whistle.
"At last," he said like he was praying, "at last. It's been a long while since I had my hands on one of these stinking rodents." He turned and beamed at Knocker and Lightfinger. "You lads have done marvellous, you've captured one alive and well, though he won't be for long, the little basket. Found him in the Park, eh? With hundreds of others, digging holes, that's how it starts, brothers. Down here on our manor, taking it all for granted, think they are the lords of creation, don't they? Go anywhere, do what they like, we don't count." He prodded and screwed the Rumble with a rigid index finger as he spoke. He turned to Knocker; "You know what this is?"
"A Rumble."
"Some people call them Rumbles," Spiff was bitter. "I know what I call them; bloody scavengers, no better than you or me for all their la-di-dah manners. Years of them I've seen, sneerin' at us, down their hoity-toity snouts. Thieves they are, just like us, only they call it finding. A copper would call it stealing by finding. They're a bit quick at it too, mate, I can tell you; why an old lady has only got to put down her bag of peppermints to scratch herself and there they are, gone in a flash. Bloody hypocrites! Drop a gob-stopper and you won't hear it hit the ground, one of these little bleeders has scooped it up in mid-air. Keeping the place clean they call it, huh, so clean there's nothing left for anyone else."