The Final Reckoning

by Robin Jarvis

  Piccadilly listened to the old rat’s words and considered them carefully. There had to be a reason for this unwelcome change in the attitude of the city rats. Where were they getting this new-found bravery from? He asked this of Barker and the old rat was in no doubt.

  ‘Old Stumpy it is,’ he whispered, shivering. ‘He not like us – he stirs up the rat lads and makes ’em bad. Tells ’em wicked stuff and mixes things up good an’ proper. He don’t like Barker. He laughs when he gives ’im ‘ed lumps – t’ain’t fair it’s not.’

  Piccadilly repeated what the rat had said, ‘Old Stumpy . . .’ he murmured and something stirred in his memory -an unpleasant, ugly thought. His forehead creased as he leant forward urgently. ‘Tell me,’ he insisted, ‘tell me about Old Stumpy. Where did he come from?’

  Barker quivered all over and his scraggy ears drooped with fear. ‘Can’t,’ he refused, shaking his head violently. ‘Barker tell nowt! Them’s big secrets, none must tell.’

  Once more Piccadilly tapped the sack but the rat remained tight-lipped until another biscuit was brought out.

  Eagerly he reached out and said hastily, ‘Him come some months back, he said ‘e come from . . .’

  ‘What’s this then?’

  A strange voice called out from the darkness of the tracks. Barker leapt in the air and his face was stricken with terror. He dropped the unfinished biscuit and covered his face. Piccadilly watched as four claws came over the edge of the platform. Then two great ugly rat heads leered over and glared at the whimpering Barker.

  One of the rats was brown in colour with matted, slimy fur from which a terrible smell issued. He had low, prominent brows and a slightly piggish snout from which two snotty rivers ran. The other rat was very fat and his black fur was dusty. He was chewing the piece of fluff-covered nougat and so did not speak for some time.

  The brown, smelly one scowled threateningly at Barker and gave a sneering grin to Piccadilly. ‘Evenin’ Greyboots,’ he said, pausing to snort the two green lines back up his nostrils. ‘Has barmy Barker been botherin’ ya?’

  Piccadilly did not like the look of these rats – they were far too sure of themselves. Still, he was not prepared to let them frighten him.

  ‘What’s it to you Stinky?’ he asked cheekily.

  The rat blinked his red-rimmed eyes and chose to ignore the insult. Instead he turned back to Barker ‘Now then you old poxbag, what’ve you been sayin’ to your young friend ’ere?’ Barker backed away and yowled, ‘I ain’t said nuffin’ – ’onest lads. Barker he never says nuffin’ to nobody.’

  The brown rat snarled and Barker yelped with fright.

  ‘Now then pretty boy,’ sneered the rat, turning his attention back to Piccadilly, ‘whatever that old sot has been sayin’ you’d best forget it pronto.’

  Piccadilly was not intimidated and replied airily, ‘Why should I Pongo?’

  The rat growled and his claws scraped along the platform making an unpleasant screeching sound on the concrete. ‘The name’s Smiff boy – you’d do well to remember that.’

  ‘Whose the lardy stuffin’ his face?’ inquired Piccadilly, smiling.

  ‘He’s known as Kelly. He don’t talk much, only opens his gob when there’s summat tasty to eat.’ At this point Kelly opened his mouth and proudly showed his sharpened teeth. He looked at Piccadilly in a most disturbing, hungry way.

  The city mouse began to feel uncomfortable but he knew that he must not show it. ‘A fine pair you are,’ he laughed rudely, ‘Smelly and Belly

  Smiff gnashed his teeth and a murderous light shone in his eyes but he controlled himself. ‘You should be more polite, Laddy’ he spat. ‘Not only that, you shouldn’t go believing what Barker tells you.’

  ‘Why not Bog-features?’

  ‘’Cos he ain’t all there, are you Barker old chum?’ Barker looked across at Smiff with tearful eyes. ‘Tell this nice young mousey why we call you Barker’ continued the brown rat nastily.

  Barker dithered, not knowing what to do.

  ‘Tell him!’ snapped Smiff. ‘We calls you Barker because . . .’

  ‘Because . . .’ Barker’s nose dribbled with his tears as he wept,’ . . . because . . . I’m barking mad.’

  Both Kelly and Smiff guffawed. Kelly showed his teeth once more and all his nougat-coloured saliva oozed down his chin.

  Piccadilly watched them with a face like stone. ‘I don’t think that was very funny’ he said sternly. ‘Tormenting someone weaker than yourself – why it’s downright cowardly.’

  Smiff drew his breath sharply and wrinkled his pug nose in anger. Through gritted teeth he said, ‘Well, you are a nasty, rude little mouse ain’tcha? I think we oughta teach you a few manners. Like to take me on would ya, freckle face?’ He pulled himself up on the platform and licked his teeth in anticipation.

  Piccadilly sprang to his feet and his paw flew to the small knife around his waist. ‘Just try it,’ he replied in deadly earnest.

  Smiff edged closer but just then Kelly spoke for the first time. ‘Leave the toe-rag Smiff. You know our orders – none of that stuff till He says so.’

  Smiff whirled round. ‘I’m not letting this cursed kid go after what he’s been sayin’ to me.’

  Kelly hauled himself up next to the brown rat and shook his flabby jowls. ‘Leave it! Orders is orders. You know what He said: wait, there’s time enough for this later.’

  ‘But I want ’im now!’

  ‘Ya can’t!’

  For a moment it looked as if the two rats would fight each other, but in the end Smiff calmed down and spun sullenly on his heel.

  Kelly turned to Piccadilly, ‘You’d best tail it kid while you’ve got the chance. Piccadilly picked up his sack and replied, ‘I weren’t afraid of ’im, nor you, Fatty.’

  Kelly held Smiff back and shouted, ‘Just clear off or you will be afraid. You don’t know what fear is yet lad.’

  Piccadilly thought it was time to leave. He slung the sack over his shoulder and walked as casually as he could up the platform. His mind was racing. There was so much here to think about. He knew he had to tell the Ministers what he had learnt. The rats were becoming dangerous. When he was out of sight he set off at a run and made for Holeborn.

  On the platform the two rats turned on Barker. The old rat retreated as far as he could against the tiled wall. He looked round desperately. The two faces before him were grim and menacing.

  ‘Been telling tales, have you Barker?’ asked Smiff. ‘You know what He’ll do don’tcha?’

  ‘No, no,’ howled the old rat. ‘Barker said nowt. Trust Barker.’

  ‘You’d best not have spilled the beans,’ said Smiff, raising his clenched claw. ‘Don’t hit Barker – spare him the lumps,’ he pleaded.

  ‘I’m gonna teach you to keep yer mouth shut.’

  ‘Give ’im ten of the best,’ smirked Kelly.

  The old rat’s cries filled the tunnels until they were drowned by the sound of laughter – two, hideous voices raised in mockery.

  * * *

  ‘Declare yourself!’ said the mouse.

  ‘Piccadilly – foraging party.’

  ’Pass friend.’ The mouse stepped aside and knocked on the old, wooden door behind him.’ ‘Forager,’ he shouted to whoever was on the other side. There came a muffled sound of iron bolts dragging over wood and the great door opened a chink. A friendly young mouse popped his head out and ushered Piccadilly inside.

  As he stepped through the doorway Piccadilly glanced back at the single sentry and looked troubled. The sentry only carried an old spear, a blunt, ancient weapon handed down from his great great grandfather, and on his head he wore a battered tin hat. Any determined enemy could get past him easily. The great door itself was antique, put there when Holeborn was first established centuries since. It would not take much to break through. Piccadilly was very concerned. He hurried along the dimly lit entrance hall to the gathering point. This was an area set in the tunnel wall where all the foragers deposited their
sacks. There three cheerful mousewives collected the goods and sorted through the supplies.

  ‘Hello Piccadilly,’ said Agnes Trumper, ‘had a good day?’ She smiled at him as he handed his finds over.

  ‘Not really,’ he replied. ‘Where’s Flo and Edna tonight?’

  Mrs Trumper threw up her arms and scurried back over to him. ‘Oh darlin’,’ she cried, ‘I didn’t tell you. There’s a great meeting in the big hall. It’s been going on for a while now. Flo an’ Edna have gone to it. I would’ve too but I knew you hadn’t come back yet so I waited.’

  ‘What’s this meeting about then?’ he asked.

  ‘Rats luv – an’ what we can do about them. You won’t have heard what happened to Charlie Coppit.’

  Piccadilly shook his head. ‘He’s on the Central shift isn’t he? What happened to him then?’

  Agnes folded her arms. ‘You go find out my duck. I’ll sort out your lot then pop up after.’ He waved farewell and pattered away.

  Through the maze of familiar passages he went. The tunnel system at Holeborn was exceedingly intricate and complex. It had been added to over the countless generations in a haphazard manner and only the Minister for Dwellings really knew the whole layout. Even he was not totally sure, having to consult various maps and plans.

  Piccadilly jogged along. He gave a quick glance at the chapel when he passed it – there was no-one there, not even the Green Minister whose job it was to organize the celebrations of all things connected with the Green Mouse. There should have been a Yule gathering in there tonight – things must be serious indeed for pious Percy to miss that. At last he came to the main hall, parted the tapestry curtain and went inside.

  This was the largest single space in Holeborn. It was used only rarely, for meetings like this hardly ever took place. It was a great, long room with a high ceiling crossed by thick oak beams from which hung many lamps. There was a raised dais in the centre of the hall and on this sat the Thane. He was a wise-looking mouse with small ears and a well-groomed whiskery beard. He was nodding sagely to all that was being said around him. On all sides of the dais stood the seven Ministers, and each one of them was trying to be heard.

  Around the dais was a sea of mice, filling the hall. Practically every mouse in Holeborn was there. Piccadilly had never realized there were so many. All were looking to the Thane for an answer to their problems.

  A paw tugged Piccadilly’s arm. It was his young friend Marty. He was sitting cross-legged on the floor so Piccadilly sat next to him.

  ‘What’ve I missed?’ he whispered.

  Marty shrugged, ‘Not much. It took ages for everyone to get in and settle down. We’re just about to hear what happened to Mr Coppit.’

  ‘Good,’ Piccadilly said and sat back to listen.

  The Minister for Supplies, a short, well-built mouse, fiddled with his brass and cleared his throat. ‘Mr Charles Coppit,’ he called.

  A figure came from behind the dais clutching the side of his face. ‘‘Ere I am,’ he said.

  ‘Now Mr Coppit, would you like to tell everyone, in your own words, what happened to you this evening?’

  ‘Too right I would,’ came the reply, ‘an’ I want to know what we’re gonna do about it.’

  ‘Ahem, just in your own words – when you’re ready.’

  Charlie Coppit stood before the assembly and took the paw away from his face. It was badly bruised and his eye was bloody. A ripple of surprise ran through those mice who had not yet heard the news.

  ‘I was on me shift with me cadets,’ Mr Coppit began, ‘an’ we were just ready to call it a day when we stumble across a pack of ugly rats, the foul rogues. Well one of ’em, a ruddy great brute, steps up an’ starts messin’ with our sacks. “Leave that be,” I says to him, but this mangy good-for-nothing goes an’ opens the flippin’ thing and takes one of me finds out and eats it.’

  ‘What did you do then Charlie?’ continued the Minister.

  ‘I tells ’im to watch it or I’d crack ’im one. Well this rat goes and laughs in my face and swipes the sack away and ’is mates take the others. Well I wasn’t going to stand for that so I tells ’em to give ’em back. The big rat calls me summat I don’t wanna mention here in front of the ladies and socks me with ’is claw.’

  ‘And you returned here with your frightened cadets. How is your face now?’

  ‘Throbbin’.’

  The Minister turned to the assembly. ‘You have heard what has happened today. The rats are becoming aggressive and it is no longer safe to forage.’

  The Thane looked at his subjects gravely. ‘We are in a crisis,’ he said. ‘Those once cringing, dull-witted creatures are rising against us.’

  The sound of thousands of mice exclaiming in horror filled the hall. The noise rose as they considered this news and the implications that it brought. Husbands held their wives tightly and some children began to cry. Others muttered darkly to their neighbours and some even began to pray.

  Piccadilly could not hear himself think. The noise grew and grew until every conversation was shouted. Piccadilly looked over the heads of the agitated mice to the dais where the Thane sat. It was like a lonely island set in a turbulent ocean of distraught faces. Suddenly his noble figure rose and held up his arms for silence. Five thousand snakes seemed to hiss and then all was still and quiet.

  ‘My friends,’ began the Thane mildly, ‘what we have heard is no doubt alarming, but surely we must think about what we can do.’ He turned to the Minister of Supplies. ‘Tell me Bert,’ he said, sitting down again, ‘how long can we last if we shut our door tonight and not leave Holeborn to forage?’

  The Minister consulted a tally scroll and examined it closely. ‘What perishable food we have would only serve us for three days,’ he announced grimly. ‘After that, with the preserves we have made, about . . . two weeks, and that is stretching it.’

  The hall buzzed once more.

  The Thane stroked his whiskers thoughtfully. ‘If the rats are indeed deadlier than before, what will be their course of action? Will they be content to harrass our foragers and leave it at that or are they even now preparing for war?’

  The Minister for Dwellings spoke up. ‘’Enry,’ he cried, ‘why all this talk of menace and doom? One incident in the Underground does not make it a dangerous place. I do not believe that the rats have turned vicious. How do we know they were local rats – they might have been travelling ruffians passing through. You know what it’s like in winter – all sorts of folk tramp through the city. I say we must wait for more positive proof of malice before we close our door and starve -that would make the rats laugh, be they wicked or no.’

  ‘I can see you point Ned,’ mused the Thane, ‘but for some time now I have been growing uneasy. We must not be idle.’

  ‘Then tell the foragers to work harder so we can start stocking up.’

  ‘Don’t you say anything against my foragers Ned Fidjit,’ warned the Minister for Supplies.

  ‘Gentlemen please!’ interrupted the Thane kindly. ‘I do believe someone has something to say on this matter.’ He pointed to the back of the room where an arm had been raised waiting to be seen. ‘You there, what is it you have to say?’

  The mouse in question rose. ‘Good heavens,’ said the Minister for Supplies, ‘that’s one of my lads – Piccadilly. Good worker he is.’

  The Thane bent down and asked softly, ‘Isn’t that the one who disappeared some months ago and came back with a fantastical tale?’

  ‘That’s the one.’

  The Thane straightened himself and muttered, ‘Well he might have something worth listening to then.’ He drummed his fingers on the sides of his chair and called out, ‘Speak boy.’

  Piccadilly had been listening to the debate with growing impatience. He wanted to tell them what had happened to him. All this talk of closing the door and keeping the rats out was ludicrous. Bursting with frustration he had stuck his paw into the air, much to the surprise of Marty.

  ‘Put it do
wn,’ his young friend had hissed at him.’ Then the Thane had noticed him and it was too late. Marty buried his face. ‘You’ve done it now,’ he said as Piccadilly got to his feet.

  Now Piccadilly was standing and every mouse in the hall was staring straight at him. He coughed nervously but lost his fear as soon as he began to speak.

  ‘’Scuse me ’Enry,’ he said, ‘but I think you ought to know what happened to me tonight.’ The Thane chuckled at the young mouse’s forthright manner and waved him to continue.

  ‘Well, it were like this,’ Piccadilly began and he told them about his meeting with Barker, what he had learned from him about the ‘new blood’ in the rat population and how he felt that it was all down to ‘Old Stumpy’ – whoever that was.

  When he had finished the Thane thanked him and turned to the Minister of Dwellings. ‘Well Ned, do you still doubt the ferocity of the rats?’ The Minister shook his head glumly. ‘No,’ resumed the Thane, ‘now we must really consider the possibility of war.’ He pointed to the Minister of Craft and said, ‘You must start making weapons Sid. The old heirlooms we have won’t be enough. Make spears, knives and anything else you can think of that will give a rat the bashing of his life. We must also begin training ourselves in the devilish art of warfare. Rationing of the supplies must start tomorrow but the foragers will continue to go out until it is too dangerous.’ He sighed wearily. ‘What else can we do? I’m afraid I am not well versed in this – perhaps I should consult the chronicles of my celebrated forebear – he loved a skirmish he did.’

  ‘’Scuse me,’ a voice called out.

  The Thane looked up. ‘What’s this, you again?’ Piccadilly was waving his arm in the air once more. ‘Tell us what it is you have to say this time. Do you have something to add?’

  ‘Quite frankly I do,’ said Piccadilly standing up again. ‘I can’t believe that’s all you can think of doing!’

  Everyone in the hall raised their eyebrows at this rude outburst but the Thane took it with good humour. ‘And what would you have us do?’ he asked.

  ‘Well, you could put extra sentries on our borders for starters and then begin makin’ a better door. That one’s so old a determined worm could bash its way in.’