by Robin Jarvis
‘Goodnight Arthur,’ Gwen said affectionately.
‘Goodnight Mum,’ he replied pulling the blankets up under his chin. She extinguished the kitchen candle and went to her own room.
Arthur stayed awake for an hour until he was certain that his mother had fallen asleep, then he got out of bed and tiptoed out of the Skirtings. The Hall was lit with the ruddy light of the fire’s dying embers, and eerie shadows flitted over the walls. Arthur swallowed nervously. Ghost stories were all very well if you went straight to bed afterwards. There you could pull the bed clothes over your head if the dark frightened you, but to embark on a midnight quest for food was – well, alarming, especially as his imagination was beginning to make sinister shapes in those shadows. Grim demons seemed to be hiding in the darkness ready to pounce on him with sharp fangs. Arthur took a deep breath and ventured down the gloomy Hall
In the kitchen it was very dark. Arthur jumped down the single step and felt the smooth lino beneath his feet. A chill draught ruffled his fur. It came from the passage which led to the outside – It had been unblocked that morning to bring in the evergreen sprigs that decorated the Hall Obviously someone had forgotten to seal it up again. The draught made him shiver and he began to wonder if a secret feast was really worth all this.
‘Psst! Arthur!’ A tall shadowy form beckoned to him from the deep darkness ahead. Oswald had been there for ten minutes and he did not like it one bit. ‘Where’ve you been?’
‘All right, I’m here now aren’t I?’ Arthur replied. ‘You ready then?’
Oswald nodded quickly. ‘Let’s hurry Arthur, I’m freezing.’
Arthur felt his way to the far wall, jumped onto an old wooden box and scrambled up a pipe. ‘You should have put on those things your mum made for you,’ he called down to the albino.
‘I have,’ said Oswald awkwardly. Recently Mrs Chitter had knitted her son a woollen hat and a pair of mittens to match his scarf but up till now he had been too embarrassed to wear them. ‘I don’t want to catch another cold,’ he wheezed as he laboured clumsily onto the box and heaved himself up the pipe.
Arthur put a finger to his lips, ‘Ssshh – whispers only from now on,’ he warned. ‘Come on.’
Through crumbling plaster and dry, flaking timber they went, then they hopped along the wall cavity.
‘Here it is,’ Arthur said, coming to a break in the brickwork. The two mice squeezed through and emerged in a large, echoing space.
‘This is the Larder,’ Arthur whispered, greatly pleased with himself. He rubbed his tummy expectantly. ‘This is the vegetable shelf, we don’t want to bother with anything here. There’s another one above with all sorts of gorgeous things on. We can climb onto it just over here.’ Arthur moved over to the wall where a vertical row of half hammered in nails acted as a ladder.
Oswald looked puzzled and put a mittened paw to his mouth. ‘But Arthur,’ he began slowly, ‘there are no vegetables on this shelf, there’s nothing here at all.’
A loud disappointed groan came down from above. ‘Oh Oswald,’ moaned Arthur glumly, ‘this shelf’s empty too, not a crumb or a blob of cream not anything.’
‘Oh dear,’ sighed Oswald, no secret feast for us then.’
But it’s far more serious than that,’ said Arthur fearfully, ‘don’t you see? The Larder has never ever been empty! There was always something here for us – oh Lord, what are we all going to do? We rely on this place for our food! We must go back and tell the others. We shall have to save what’s left of the Yule feast and live off that till we find more food.’
Oswald began to sniffle. He sobbed all the way back through the wall cavity and when they were in the kitchen once more he could contain himself no longer and burst into tears. ‘We’ll all die,’ he wept.
‘Quiet!’ hushed Arthur. ‘Listen, there’s a commotion in the Hall. I wonder what’s going on?’
He and Oswald ran to the kitchen door, leapt up the step and raced into the Hall. There they stopped and took in the scene before them.
All the mice from the Skirtings were in the Hall and making for the stairs. Some were still half asleep and blinking drowsily, covering long, cavernous yawns with their paws. Others were fussing around looking worried but eager to get to the Landings. The Raddle sisters appeared with their hair done up in curling papers and Master Oldnose was chivvying everyone along and trying to keep some sort of order in. the proceedings. Some of the mice were saying things like, ‘Oooh isn’t it marvellous, I’ve never heard of this happening before have you?’ whilst others grumbled sourly, ‘’Tis the first sign of doom – mark my words.’
At last Arthur caught sight of his sister and pushed through the crowd to talk to her. Audrey turned round when he called her name and a look of relief came over her face. ‘Where’ve you been?’ she questioned him. ‘Mother thought you might have been responsible for this.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Arthur, puzzled.
‘What’s been going on here?’
‘It was about half an hour ago,’ she explained. ‘There was a terrible noise coming from the attics – I even heard it in my room, it woke me up. Well, all the folk on the Landings rushed about to see what the matter was and then one of them came down and called us all upstairs to see what was happening. We’re just going up now.’
‘But what is happening?’ Arthur· demanded impatiently.
‘Come and see for yourself. We’re on our way to look out of one of the upstairs windows.’
‘But that’ll take ages, look how slowly the Raddle sisters are going.’
Oswald’s voice called out to them suddenly. ‘Over here,’ he shouted from the kitchen, the passage that leads to the outside.’
‘Brilliant,’ answered Arthur, ‘that’ll be much quicker. So he and Audrey ran into the kitchen and with Oswald they went through the short tunnel that led to the small garden.
It was a bitter, frosty night and there was a halo around the bright, waning moon. The night air was so cold that it bit into the nostrils of the three mice and Oswald hurriedly buried his nose into his scarf.
‘There,’ said Audrey pointing into the sky.
They looked up into the black winter sky. Out of the rooftops of every house all around, hundreds of bats were emerging. From the Victorian terraces, out of the tall estate buildings, from the old church at Deptford Green, even from the tower blocks, the winged creatures of the night were flying. They swarmed about the chimney pots and swooped down over fences. They skimmed the tips of trees in Deptford Park then rose high into the air where they joined a seething dark mass already gathered there.
‘There must be thousands of them up there!’ exclaimed a bewildered Arthur. ‘I’ve never heard of them doing this before,’ said Oswald wondrously. ‘I didn’t realize there were so many of them round here.’
The sky was thick with the movement of the bats and their high voices filled the night as they called to one another in their secret language which they taught to no-one. For a while they remained above Deptford, waiting until all their brethren had joined them, then all of a sudden they departed. They left in a fast wailing rush, and down on the ground Audrey felt the draught from their wings brush faintly upon her face.
Then they were gone and the sky was empty once more save for the moon and the frosty blue stars. Silence fell over Deptford.
Audrey, Arthur and Oswald craned their necks back to try and look for any stragglers but there were none. Oswald, who had the keenest eyes in the Skirtings, just managed to spot the vast dark bulk of the bat hoard as it flew towards the city and then that too merged into the surrounding night and was lost. Arthur was the first to speak.
‘Well,’ he gasped, ‘what do you make of that then?’
Neither Audrey nor Oswald could answer him. This had never happened before in their lifetime and they both glanced warily back up to the sky.
‘I suppose the bats from our attic, Orfeo and Eldritch, were with that lot,’ mused Arthur.
‘I don�
��t like it,’ said Oswald, ‘bats know things – they see into the future. If they’ve all left it doesn’t look too good does it?’
‘I agree,’ admitted Audrey. ‘I wish I knew what was going on. I hope it doesn’t mean that something awful is going to happen.’
It was only then that Arthur remembered what he had discovered. With a worried face he turned to his sister and said, ‘Sis, I forgot to tell you. Oswald and I went to the Larder just before and it’s totally empty.’
Oswald put his mittens over his cold, tingling ears. ‘This is the end,’ he said. ‘We have no food to survive the midwinter death and the bats have left us to face something worse. We’re all going to die!’
2. Mad and Bad
Piccadilly swept the hair out of his eyes and looked across to his friend. ‘Anything yet Marty?’ he called.
Marty held up a half eaten piece of nougat with bits of fluff stuck to it. ‘Yuk!’ Piccadilly grimaced. ‘Leave that for the slime suckers – we don’t have to eat that muck.’
The grey mouse had settled down again in the city. He was a useful forager and knew the best places to find ‘good grub’.
The city mice were highly organized. They lived in a rambling system of tunnels which was collectively known as ‘Holeborn’. It was an ancient civilization with strict customs and rules to obey.
Those who dwelt in Holeborn were governed by the Great Thane. He was a venerable mouse whose family had ruled for centuries. Beneath him in importance were the Ministers – these were mice who excelled at organization and all had their own different guilds to run. The Minister of Dwellings supervised the digging of new tunnels when the need arose and allotted empty homes to the needy who would join the Holeborners from time to time. There was the Minister of Craft who taught the children in a large spacious chamber. There they learnt everything they could in order to survive life in the harsh city. The Minister for Supplies was concerned with the gathering of food and other useful items, all of which were distributed so that everyone had their fair share – there were no ‘privileged’ in Holeborn. The quick-witted, nimble mice were allocated to him to go into the foraging parties.
It was one of the most perfect mouse societies to have existed in the whole country. Everyone enjoyed their work and nobody thought themselves superior to anyone else – even the Great Thane was known to all as ‘‘Enry’ despite his noble lineage. The Holeborners knew that the smooth running of the community depended on each and every one of them. Hundreds of generations of mice had happily lived this life and they were, above all, content.
Piccadilly walked down the Underground platform swinging his sack in one paw. All that week he had been assigned a group of cadets. These were young, brassless mice, new to the work, and he was enjoying their company. One of them, Marty, was a sensitive youngster – he had large brown eyes and a fine long nose with constantly twitching whiskers and down his back there was an unusual dark mark in his fur like a flash of lightning. Although Marty was grey like all the other city mice he strongly reminded Piccadilly of Oswald and more than once this week he had absent-mindedly called him ‘Whitey’. Now Marty was getting the hang of foraging and his sack was almost as full as Piccadilly’s when the shift ended.
Piccadilly sent the others back. When they had all gone he stood alone on the Underground platform. It was late at night and all the trains had stopped running long ago. Only the service lights were on and they made it a forbidding place. The tunnels were much larger then the sewers in which he had been lost, but the curved walls always reminded Piccadilly of them. He would often let the others go on ahead and stay behind to think of those times in Deptford and the good friends he had left there.
He sighed sadly. If only Audrey had liked him! Oh well, that part of his life was over now and he just had to forget it. He hoped that one day he would be able to remember without it hurting any more.
As he stood there, Piccadilly gradually became aware of two small points of light shining down in the darkness where the Tube tracks lay and it was only when the lights blinked that he realized they were eyes. It gave him quite a shock but when he recovered he shouted sternly.
‘’Ere, who’s that down there? Come out now.’ The eyes vanished as whoever it was turned tail and darted away.
‘Oh no you don’t!’ yelled Piccadilly leaping off the platform. He landed between the tracks and set off in pursuit.
Whoever he was chasing was quick on their feet and scampered swiftly into the extreme blackness of the Tube tunnel. Piccadilly charged along as fast as he could, trying to see the figure he was chasing. All he could make out was a hunched, furry shape dodging to and fro with a thin, knobbly tail slithering over the never-ending silvery rails.
Piccadilly lengthened his strides, leaping over the wooden sleepers and ignoring the pain of the sharp gravel under his feet. Slowly he began to gain on his quarry. With outstretched paws he caught hold of the clammy tail which lashed about before him.
‘Aiee!’ squealed a croaky voice as Piccadilly gave the tail a sharp yank. There was a loud ‘Clang!’ as the unseen creature lost its balance and fell heavily against one of the rails. ‘Oh me ’ed!’ whined the voice morosely. ‘Oh it ’urts, ooch, ah – ee!’
Piccadilly strained his eyes in the darkness to see what he had caught. An old brown rat lay on the ground before him. His thin, chiselled face was crossed by many wrinkles and the fur round his temples was grey. The rat was nursing his head and uttering indignant cries through gummy lips – there was only one tooth in his head.
‘What the blazes d’you do that fer?’ he squawked woefully. ‘I didn’t do nowt.’
Piccadilly looked at him distastefully – he did not like rats. There had been a time when he would cheerfully have kicked any rat’s backside and blown a raspberry after it, but ever since his experiences in Jupiter’s domain, rats made him nervous. This specimen looked harmless enough, however - it was too old to be anything else. Still, Piccadilly eyed him carefully. There had been some unpleasant rumours going round Holeborn lately about the city rats. Piccadilly thought this might be a good time to find the answers to a few questions.
‘What were you spyin’ on me for?’ he asked sharply.
The rat mumbled to itself and folded its arms sulkily. ‘Got sore ’ed now,’ it said stubbornly, ‘get a lump there Barker will. Hates lumps, he does. Lump, lump, lump. Barker always gets ’em, he gets ’em from them – he gets ’em from you. Barker might as well punch hisself to save you an’ them the bother.’ The rat pouted moodily and repeated, ‘Lump, lump, lump,’ once more.
Piccadilly groaned – he could not stand whingers, but he offered the rat a paw to help him up. ‘You called Barker then?’ he asked. There was no reply.
‘Is your name Barker?’
The rat had looked away rudely and remained obstinately where he was, ‘Lump, lump, lump,’ he grumbled peevishly.
‘Get up or I’ll give you some more lumps to worry about,’ warned Piccadilly, losing his temper.
Immediately the rat sprang to his feet but ignored the offered paw. ‘Barker go now?’ he grunted.
‘Not so fast mate.’ Piccadilly caught hold of the rat’s fur. ‘You haven’t said why you were spyin’ on me.’
‘Jus’ watchin’, that’s all, weren’t doin’ no harm. Barker’s all right he is, ain’t got nowt to do with the new blood.’
At this, Piccadilly raised his eyebrows and decided he would learn more from this old rat. ‘You hungry?’ he asked.
Barker’s tiny eyes lit up and he nodded hurriedly whilst rubbing his stomach. ‘Yes,’ he wailed sorrowfully. ‘Barker not eated fer days an’ that were only a mangy bit of orange peel. He saw mousey boy’s sack of nosh – that’s why he was starin’ see.’
‘Come on then.’ Piccadilly began to walk down the tunnel once more. ‘I’ll see what I can spare.’
Barker smacked his gums together and followed warily. His bright little eyes flicked this way and that but always returned to the grey mous
e in front of him, watching for any sudden movement or sign of danger.
When they were out of the tunnel Piccadilly climbed onto the platform and searched in his sack for something suitable. He felt it was all too good to be wasted on a rat but he hoped he might learn something from Barker. Eventually he fished out two whole biscuits and passed them over.
Barker snatched them greedily and devoured them in the most disgusting display of manners Piccadilly had ever seen. When the biscuits had disappeared the rat nosed around for any stray crumbs and sucked his claws loudly. When he had finished he squinted down at the sack hopefully.
‘That’s enough for now,’ said Piccadilly following his gaze. It was time to get down to business. ‘Tell me,’ he began, ‘why are you so hungry? There’s plenty of food for all you ratfolk to guzzle down here.’ He was puzzled by Barker’s scrawny appearance –animals rarely went hungry in the city.
Barker pulled a face. ‘Bah!’ he spat. ‘Not no more there ain’t.’
Piccadilly was startled by the ferocity of his outburst and he recalled something that the rat had said earlier. ‘Barker,’ he began carefully, ‘what did you mean before when you spoke of “new blood”?’
The rat clapped a claw over his wizened mouth as though frightened by what he had let slip and refused to say anything more. Piccadilly casually tapped the sack with his paw and the meaning was not lost on his companion.
The rat lowered his head and swivelled his beady eyes nervously. In a rasping whisper he said to Piccadilly, ‘Them is the new blood. They make Barker’s life a misery ’cos he won’t join in. Pinch his dinner they do – the scumbags! When he complains they give Barker ’ed lumps. They not nice ratfolk, dangerous they are. Barker fears them. They sharpen their claws an’ fangs! You stay away from them mousey boy.’