by Robin Jarvis
The Thane leaned forward. ‘What else?’ he asked and all the humour had left his voice. He spoke as though it were one of his Ministers he was addressing and not a cheeky young mouse.
Piccadilly continued. ‘If I were you I’d get Ned Fidjit to start extending the East Way beyond our boundary.’
The Minister for Dwellings spluttered with indignation at the suggestion. ‘The East Way!’ he exclaimed. ‘What has that old tunnel got to do with anything? The lad’s potty.’
‘Let him finish,’ said the Thane.
‘Look,’ explained Piccadilly, ‘in Holeborn we have lots of little entry points and secret exits but only one main door. The rats know where that is and if they come charging through it we don’t stand a chance, they’ll have us cornered. We can’t all squeeze through those small openings in time.’
‘I see what you mean,’ said the Thane. ‘If the East Way is extended and opened we would have what amounts to a large back door that the rats know nothing about.’
‘Now you’re catchin’ on.’
The Thane chuckled. ‘What an extraordinary young chap you are. Is there anything else you can suggest?’
‘Actually ’Enry there is. What we could do is discover the rat’s plans and stay one jump ahead of them.’
‘How do you propose we do that?’
‘Simple. We spy on ’em.’
The Thane looked at all his Ministers and came to a conclusion. ‘Young mouse,’ he said, ‘come here.’ Piccadilly weaved through umpteen rows of mice and stood before the dais. The Thane rose and clapped his paw on the mouse’s shoulder. ‘Piccadilly,’ he announced grandly, ‘I name you the official Minister for War.’
A rush of whispers and shocked looks ran through the assembly. The seven other Ministers began to protest in the strongest possible terms but the Thane silenced them.
‘You have been appointed because you excelled at organizing one thing or another,’ he said. ‘This youngster has more than proved that he is capable of the post. He has imagination and courage. We are too old and settled in our comfortable ways to give thought to battles and strategies – let the young take over where they can.’ He stared Piccadilly squarely in the eye and asked if he would accept the office.
‘Sure thing ’Enry.’
The Thane held up his paw and declared to the thousands of gathered mice. ‘Here is your new Minister for War!’ A young cadet at the back of the hall led the cheers and applause.
‘Well, what will your first act be as a Minister?’ asked the Thane.
Piccadilly clicked his tongue, mulling over the various options. Finally he said, ‘The most important thing is to discover who Old Stumpy is and see how strong the rats are.’
‘It will be a brave mouse who goes into the rats’ lair,’ observed the Thane.
‘Or a foolish one,’ added Ned Fidjit. ‘Tell me Minister, who did you have in mind for this perilous mission?’
‘Me,’ answered Piccadilly soberly.
From the back a tiny voice shouted, ‘And me.’
3. Old Stumpy
The last Underground train closed its doors and pulled out of the station. The cold white light shining from the carriage windows receded down the dark tunnel. Somewhere, far above, the station gates rattled shut and an eerie quiet descended.
The platform was empty. Only discarded sweet wrappers moved on it, rolled by the draught that swept down the escalators. One of the papers fell off the edge and gently spiralled downwards towards the shining rails.
Out of the darkness a claw flashed and seized the wrapper eagerly. An unpleasant sucking and licking sound followed, then the scrunch of paper being chewed.
‘Ting!’ a small, soggy pellet was spat out and smartly hit a rail.
‘Garr!’ snarled a voice. ‘Nowt on that.’
Smiff’s ugly head reared over the side of the platform. The two snotty lines once again ran from his piggish nose. In one quick movement he was standing on the platform with his tail thrashing and eyes hungrily glaring around.
A second head appeared and Kelly hauled his fat body slowly over the edge. His long red tongue dangled from his mouth between yellow, sharpened fangs and licked the fur round his jowls.
The other rat sniffed the air cautiously then darted to the far side where an overflowing litter bin was fastened to the wall. With an eager yell Smiff hurled himself against the side and clawed his way to the top. There he shoved his snout down into the mass of old newspapers, orange peel, chocolate wrappers and used tissues.
His croaky voice echoed strangely inside the bin as he cried, ‘Aha!’ There we has it my lovely!’ and his brown furry body fell head first into the rubbish.
Kelly waited impatiently below. Smiff had found something tasty and wasn’t sharing it. Kelly growled and looked about for something to bang the bin with. He picked up a grey, oval stone and smashed it against the side. ‘What you got in there Smiff you stink bag? Bring it out ’ere.’
Kelly gave the bin another might thwack till it boomed like a gong and a startled yelp issued from inside. Smiff peered down at Kelly with a look of injured innocence on his dreadful face. ‘Kelly mate, what were that fer?’
‘Bring it out ’ere Smiff!’ the fat rat demanded. ‘Don’t bother to deny it, there’s chips all round yer mush.’
Smiff grumbled to himself and reluctantly fished out a greasy bundle of white paper. He threw it down and jumped after it.
Kelly was already on his knees tearing it apart. Inside was a cold, clammy clump of chips and a half-eaten sausage. When he saw this Kelly crowed with delight and crammed it into his mouth.
Smiff scuttled over and guzzled with him. Soon they were licking the papers clean and searching for more. The two rats belched contentedly. Their whiskers were matted down with grease and their claws glistened slimily. Kelly picked his fangs and stared into the darkness of the tunnel. He saw something move and he elbowed Smiff who stiffened immediately.
‘Who’s there?’ he snapped. ‘Come ’ere! Or shall I come an’ get yer?’ As he said this he raised his claws and their savage points shone menacingly.
‘No, no,’ wailed a pitiful voice. ‘I’m a comin’!’
Barker, the old scrawny rat, trotted dutifully into the light. There were terrible bruises on his head and several painful-looking lumps about his temples. Kelly sneered when he saw who it was and coughed up a blob of spit.
Smiff grinned and beckoned to the old rat. As Barker clambered onto the platform Smiff winked at Kelly and quickly wrapped something up in the chip papers.
‘What you doin’ lads?’ Barker asked curiously as he eyed the bundle. He could smell the delicious aroma of cold, vinegary fat. Barker drooled and rubbed his groaning belly.
‘We been ’avin a feast, Barker mate, but there’s only a fishcake left – ain’t there Kelly?’
The fat rat chuckled and nodded his great head. Barker swallowed and gazed longingly down. Tears welled up in the old rat’s eyes. ‘I’ve ’ad nowt since yesterday an’ that weren’t much. Me belly’s flappin’ like an old sock. I’m real weak.’ He wrung his claws together and said, softly, ‘I’m right partial to fishcake an’ all.’
Smiff snorted, ‘We ain’t gonna give you our luvverly grub you old fool – not unless you got summat to swap.’
‘I got nowt,’ Barker admitted unhappily.
‘Then clear off!’ snarled Kelly.
Barker threw one last glance at the tantalizing bundle and shuffled miserably down the platform. The other two rats watched him go with smirks on their faces.
The unhappy, retreating figure paused near an untidy pile of rubbish and bent down. Smiff and Kelly frowned and strained their eyes to see what was happening.
‘He’s found summat,’ muttered Kelly sourly.
Barker was overjoyed. He clapped his claws together and rubbed his eyes in disbelief. There at his feet, amongst the colourful wrappers, was nearly a whole bar of chocolate, the kind with raisins and hazelnuts. Barker could not believe his lu
ck and he cooed excitedly. He picked it up and Smiff’s voice roared next to him.
‘What you got there, Barker mate?’ The old rat jumped and held the chocolate tightly to his chest. ‘Nowt Smiffy,’ he replied timidly, ‘ain’t nuffin’ ’onest.’
‘Looks like chocklett to me,’ Smiff observed slobbering.
‘S’ only a grotty bit, trod on an’ spat at prob’ly,’ Barker whimpered glumly.
Smiff’s eyes gleamed lustily and Barker could see the chocolate bar reflected in them. ‘Don’t look too bad to me Barker, not bad at all.’
The old rat puffed and protested. ‘You can’t ’ave it, it’s mine, belongs to Barker, gimme as many ’ed lumps as you like but it’s mine.’
Smiff raised his claws to silence him. ‘Don’t worry, I’m not gonna thieve it. What do you think I am? I wouldn’t rob an old mate like you.’ He smiled and put his arm around Barker’s shoulders, ‘Us are pals aren’t we?’
Barker looked doubtful ‘Are we?’ he asked.
‘Course we are, course, and as a pal I don’t want to see you lose yer last toof –you’d get a shockin’ toof ache if you ate all that chocklett.’
Barker’s bottom lip trembled. ‘But Barker’s starvin’.’
‘Course you are, that’s why I thought we could do that trade I mentioned before. Wouldn’t you rather have a nice fish cake than all that sickly chockie?’
‘Fishcake?’ the old rat repeated uncertainly.
Smiff waved his claw before his face, ‘Yeah, a scrumschiss, sucklent fishcake. Imagine Barker – the crispy batter on the outside, all crunchy an’ greasy, an’ inside the soft mulsh of fish. Oh I can’t bear it,’ and he wiped invisible tears from his eyes.
A great bellow thundered from Barker’s stomach.
‘Ow,’ he moaned miserably.
Kelly appeared at a signal from Smiff carrying the bundle of chip papers. The fat rat ogled the chocolate with undisguised greed. The smell of the vinegary paper was too much for Barker and he yielded at once. ‘Take it, take it,’ he cried thrusting the bar into Smiff’s arms.
‘There’s ’andsome,’ grinned Smiff. ‘Now, give our pal the fishcake Kelly.’ The bundle was handed over but before Barker could open it Smiff held his claws and said, ‘Don’t forget Barker, Old Stumpy’s speakin’ to all of us later. You’d best be there if you value your head.’ With their mouths full of chocolate the two rats leapt off the platform and ran into the tunnel laughing.
Barker tore open the greasy paper then blinked. The slow realization that he had been tricked dawned on him. For there was no fishcake within – only an oval, grey stone. The old rat collapsed in a woeful heap. He thought of the chocolate that had been his and threw back his head letting out a tremendous bitter howl of anguish and despair.
* * *
‘What’s that?’ Marty clutched Piccadilly’s arm in fright as the terrible wail rang through the deserted Underground like a pronouncement of doom. Piccadilly shivered. It was a sound of misery and hopelessness. The pain and resentment in the tortured voice cut into his heart and left him breathless. ‘I don’t know what it is Marty,’ he admitted, ‘but we’re going to find out.’
The two mice followed the sound of the dreadful wailing. Piccadilly went first with his little knife clutched tightly in his paw, ready for anything. Marty pattered behind him, his eyes wide with fear and excitement. He had never done anything like this before and all his senses were alive with tingling thrills. He wondered what lay ahead. Would he see great dangers and have fierce battles? Marty hoped that he would be brave whatever happened – he did not want to disgrace himself in front of his hero Piccadilly. They came to a turning; the source of the noise was just around this corner. Piccadilly tightened the grip on his knife and peered round. Marty held his breath anxiously but was surprised to see his friend relax and chuckle.
‘What is it?’ he hissed.
‘Nothing to worry about,’ replied Piccadilly disappearing round the corner.
Barker’s tears had dried up and now his wailing had deteriorated to a rasping whine. His body was slumped over the torn chip papers, he was exhausted and his bony chest ached from sobbing. Through sore, red eyes he stared at the oval stone and mournfully licked his solitary tooth.
‘Poor Barker,’ he croaked hoarsely, ‘he never gets nowt – only lumps. Lumps on ’is ’ed an’ lumps o’ stone to eat. Poor Barker.’ Slowly his knobbly tail began to tap the platform as a thought came to him. ‘But one day, one day Barker’ll show ’em won’t he? He’ll learn ’em an’ they’ll all be sorry. If only they knew . . .’ he sniggered harshly in a voice that was not quite his own. He did not notice Piccadilly creep up behind him.
‘Wotcha Barker old chum!’ shouted the mouse.
The rat squealed and buried himself under the chip papers where he trembled and dithered.
‘It’s all right, it’s only me!’ Piccadilly tried to reassure him. A bleary eye peeped cautiously out from the greasy bundle.
‘Mousey boy,’ said the rat. ‘That you? You on yer lonesome?’
‘No, I’ve brought a friend of mine to see you. Come out Marty.’
With a rustle the papers shuffled backwards apprehensively as the small figure of Marty came onto the platform. The young cadet eyed the shaking pile nervously.
‘This is Marty,’ announced Piccadilly.
Barker’s head rose above the chip papers and his whiskers quivered. The rat scrutinized Marty with suspicion and frowned as he smacked his gums. He stepped from his cover and walked slowly over to the cadet. Marty looked helplessly at Piccadilly but the older mouse made a sign telling him to stay still.
Barker sniffed the air about Marty and paced all round him.
’He’s a friend,’ said Piccadilly.
The rat scratched his ears. ‘So you says mousey boy, so you says, but Barker don’t like him. This whelp has freak mark branded on his spine.’ He pointed to the lightning pattern on Marty’s back. ‘He’ll let you down one day mousey boy, Barker knows. Don’t trust him with anything important he’ll go his own way and bring ruin on all, especially himself.’
Marty opened his mouth in protest but Piccadilly was smiling and told Barker to be quiet. ‘I’ve come here to see you,’ he said.
The rat blinked and forgot his concern about Marty. ‘You come to see Barker mousey boy? What fer – he ain’t done owt wrong?’
‘I want to have a chat that’s all.’
Barker shook his head tetchily. ‘No chat, we no chatter chin wag,’ but then he remembered his hunger and looked at Piccadilly hopefully, ‘unless nice mousey boy has present for Barker – biscuit perhaps, yes, no?’
Piccadilly could have kicked himself for not, anticipating this. ‘Sorry Barker,’ he said, ‘I haven’t got anything with me.’
The rat pulled a disappointed face and snorted. ‘But if you tell me what I want to know,’ Piccadilly continued hurriedly, ‘I’ll give you’ enough biscuits to last a lifetime.’
But Barker was not impressed. ‘Barker want grub now, not next time or tomorrow –he say nowt!’ he folded his arms and shut his mouth resolutely.
‘Tell me about Old Stumpy you barmy old snot gobbler,’ said Piccadilly sharply. ‘What are his plans?’
Barker fell back dismayed. ‘No, Barker not spill beans – he want no more ’ed lumps, you keep away from Barker mousey boy. He knows nowt!’
Piccadilly rushed forward and caught hold of the rat’s shoulders. Barker flapped his arms wildly, trying to escape.
‘Last time you were going to tell me who Old Stumpy was,’ cried Piccadilly angrily, ‘why can’t you tell me now?’
Barker gasped and yammered, wriggling and twisting like a worm on a hook in his desperate efforts to escape. ‘We been told to say nuffin’ till He tells us to. There’s big secrets in dark places Barker not like them. Let him go mousey boy, Barker got to go now, mustn’t be late.’
‘You’re staying put until you tell me what I want to know.’
The rat was hor
rified and in a panic he screamed, ‘No, no! Barker must go, all must be there for the meet. He says all have to go or we get our throats cut.’ And with a tremendous burst of strength he broke free of the mouse’s grasp and leapt off the platform into the tunnel.
Marty ran over to Piccadilly who was tapping his feet in annoyance.
‘What was that all about?’ he asked staring after the crazy rat running along the rails. ‘What did he mean about meetings? I’ve never heard of them doing that before. He really is barmy.’
Piccadilly spun round and took hold of his friend’s paw urgently, ‘This is it!’ he exclaimed. ‘This is our chance to discover what is going on. If we follow Barker to this meeting we could learn who Old Stumpy is and listen to his plans.’
‘Oh,’ murmured Marty in surprise, ‘but isn’t that terribly dangerous?’
‘You don’t have to come if you don’t want to Marty,’ said Piccadilly as he jumped off the platform.
Marty wished he was at home with his three sisters. Now it came to it he didn’t feel like being brave and fearless at all. He dithered on the edge of the platform not knowing what to do, when suddenly he found that he had stepped off it and was standing between the shining Tube rails.
‘Knew you’d make it,’ said Piccadilly by his side. ‘Now, let’s go.’
* * *
Smiff held a flaming torch high above his head and peered into the chamber. Everything was ready. A platform of bricks and boxes had been made in the centre for the speaker to address them. Torches had been placed all round and their brazen light licked over the grimy walls with lurid, dancing tongues. Everyone would be able to see their glorious leader.
The chamber was a forgotten service passage lined with thick, heavy-duty pipes and cables which ran from floor to ceiling. A ragged, foul smelling cloth had been hung over the entrance and Smiff found himself clucking with anticipation. Soon Old Stumpy would divulge his plans.
He sniffed violently and the two green candles which had been dangling from his nose shot back up his nostrils. There came the sound of many feet dragging on the ground, accompanied by the sweep of half as many strong, thick tails trailing behind. Smiff yanked the curtain aside and the entire rat population of the city poured in like a colossal flood of fur.