The Borribles: Across the Dark Metropolis by Michael de Larrabeiti Page A

his power, his voice rising and falling in the gusty air.
    ‘This is Operation Catsmeat, Operation Catsmeat. No one is to leave the area, repeat, no one. You are all under arrest but anyone apprehending and taking into custody any Borrible or suspicious child will be rewarded. Watch out for Borribles.’
    Deep in the crowd Knocker put all his talents to their best uses. He twisted and turned, making for where he believed the horse to be, just beyond the sideshows under the trees. Chalotte followed him, keeping close. She could not understand it; the crowd was not a large lump of thoughtlessness like crowds generally are, this crowd was taking notice.
Then Sussworth’s announcement came bounding through the night and she knew why; the crowd was not just watching, it was actively looking for Borribles.
    Chalotte stopped in her tracks, her heart turning to jelly. Never in her whole life had she been so frightened or felt so hopeless. There was a great roar in front of her and she saw Knocker thrown into the air, high above the heads of the crowd. His face shone in the floodlights; it was drawn and twisted with anger and fear. Knocker was dropped and then thrown up once more. There were shouts of excitement. Chalotte swore and pushed through a forest of legs. She came to the man who was holding Knocker and she sank her teeth into his thigh. The man yelled and grabbed his leg in pain. Knocker fell to the ground next to her but was immediately seized by another man. ‘I’ve got him,’ he yelled. Then rough hands caught Chalotte and yanked her up to adult height.
    ‘Bite me would yer,’ said a voice, and a fist struck her in the face and she was thrown upwards, dropped, and thrown up again and passed overhead from hand to hand like an unconscious spectator at a football match. She screamed and she kicked and she scratched but it achieved nothing. Rough fingers clutched and tore at her body and she and Knocker were rolled through the air towards the big white caravan on top of which stood Sussworth in his long overcoat, the buttons of it shining like cat’s eyes through the wind and the rain.
     
    The ground which lay closest to the big top had been trampled into mud by thousands of feet; it was a mud that was deep and stuck like glue. Napoleon crawled into it on his belly, a knife between his teeth, pushing with his hands. Behind him came Bingo.
    ‘Tell you what,’ said Napoleon, ‘you go that way round the tent, and I’ll go this way and meet you the other side. Cut every guy rope as you go and the whole bloody contraption will fall down. That’ll keep the fuzz occupied.’
    ‘Right,’ said Bingo and drew his knife.
    The plan worked well. With no tension to hold it in place the great marquee keeled gracefully over, its huge and heavy folds settling on the still struggling clowns and policemen.

    Bingo and Napoleon met as arranged on the far side of the tent and, seeing that the crowd was thinner here, they made a rapid dash towards the obscurity of the nearest stand of trees. They ran fast, dodging this way and that round groups of people who could only stare as the Borribles ran by. Finally in the safety of the dark, under the trees, breathless, they looked back at the dazzle of the police floodlights.
    ‘What a mess,’ said Bingo. ‘I wonder how the Woollies knew we were there.’
    ‘Easy,’ said a voice behind them, ‘we knows everything.’ And the two Borribles were knocked to the ground by heavy blows. Hands moved over their bodies and relieved them of their knives and catapults. Their arms were forced behind their backs and they were handcuffed. Not until they were hauled to their feet did they see that four or five members of the SBG, in uniform, stood around them. Beyond the trees they could see the indistinct shape of an SBG personnel van.
    Bingo could not stand without support. The blow he’d received had knocked the breath from his body.
    ‘You bastard,’ said Napoleon. ‘He’s only a