by Robin Jarvis
Even Smiff was amazed at the number of rats. He had never seen so many of his own kind gathered in one place before. There were young rats and old, strong ones, bony ones, and wizened, hatchet-faced old sinners who cursed and swore. Numerous shady characters shifted uneasily, on their guard in case of treachery. Nobody knew everyone there and no-one was sure of the purpose of the meeting. A small group at the back began a gambling game and foul words filled the already polluted air. The atmosphere was tense but expectant.
Eventually every single one of the vile creatures had squeezed into the foul den. Some had climbed up the wall and perched themselves on the cables for a better view of the platform. There were several thousand evil, gleaming eyes in the chamber and all of them reflected the flickering torchlight like a treasury of hellish jewels. The stench of all their filthy sweating bodies was atrocious.
Smiff leaned against the wall, glad to have pushed the stragglers into the packed chamber. He put his claws into his mouth and blew a loud whistle to tell Kelly to escort in their leader.
A frantic pattering caught Smiff’s attention and he looked crossly down the passage wondering who would dare arrive so late.
‘You poxy slug!’ he bawled when he recognized Barker puffing up to him. ‘Where you been? We told you not to be late,’ and he dealt the old rat a cruel blow with his claws. Barker yelled and ran through the curtain cowering and yelping.
Piccadilly and Marty had followed Barker at a safe distance – he had no idea they were following. They pursued him down pitch black passages and tunnels, splashed through ice cold puddles of stinking water and squelched through ghastly stretches of thick mud. They knew that they were deep in the heart of rat territory; bad smells hung about like mists and slithery slime dripped from the walls and oozed over the ground.
‘I think we’re nearly there,’ whispered Piccadilly, ‘there’s a faint light up ahead.’
They were viewing the entrance to the meeting chamber at some distance. They heard Barker’s rough treatment at the claws of Smiff and saw a brighter chink of light as the old rat dodged inside.
‘What was that whistle?’ asked Marty.
Piccadilly was not certain. ‘Sounded like some kind of signal – I wonder what for? We must find out what’s going on in there.’
‘But we can’t march right up and listen, there’s someone on guard.’
Their discussion was brought to an end when they heard a noise that froze their blood. Heavy rat footsteps were coming up the tunnel behind them.
Marty closed his eyes, waiting to be grabbed by rough claws, but Piccadilly caught hold of his paw and tugged him to one side. The rats drew closer and the mice heard Kelly’s voice speaking.
‘Everyone should be in there now Boss. They’re all dying to know what you’ve got to tell ’em.’
Marty scuttled fearfully along the wall, away from the approaching rats. He and Piccadilly were trapped with no chance of escape. Suddenly the wall against his back seemed to crumble and fall away.
Piccadilly wondered where his friend had gone. One minute he was at his side, the next he seemed to have vanished. He dared not call out, for Kelly and Old Stumpy had nearly reached him and would be bound to hear his voice. Something yanked Piccadilly’s tail and he went sprawling backwards into a hole in the wall.
Kelly and Old Stumpy passed by without noticing. Piccadilly had landed on top of Marty and the two mice rubbed their bruises. Piccadilly looked about him.
‘I think it’s some sort of pipe,’ Marty breathed when the rats were out of earshot, ‘what a piece of luck.’
Piccadilly wished that he had been able to see Old Stumpy but Kelly’s large bulk had screened him. Now he ran his paws over the pipe thoughtfully. ‘I wonder where this goes?’ he asked himself.
‘Never mind about that, let’s go home,’ Marty pleaded.
‘No, we still haven’t discovered anything useful. I’m going to see where this pipe comes out. I think I can see a light up there.’ He got to his knees, for it was a very narrow pipe, and began to wriggle along. Marty heaved a sigh of resignation and followed.
Piccadilly crawled over heaps of debris until he made it to the end of the pipe and his face was lit from underneath by lurid torchlight.
The meeting chamber was below him, he was looking out from high up in one of its walls. He was partially hidden from view by the thick cables which disappeared into the lofty ceiling. Piccadilly gazed down at the rat assembly in wonder and dread. He had never dreamt that there could be so many rats in all London. He shuddered and edged back into the pipe a little.
‘What is it?’ asked Marty catching up with him and craning his neck to peer over his shoulder. ‘Oh my!’ he exclaimed on seeing the chamber and its occupants. He felt his knees turn to water and he looked fearfully at Piccadilly.
‘Don’t worry,’ said his friend calmly, ‘they won’t see us up here, they’ll all be too busy looking at Old Stumpy.’
A commotion below made the mice look down again. The sea of rats near the curtain was parted as Smiff led their leader in.
‘Make way, make way,’ he yelled ploughing through the throng.
Smiff stepped onto the platform and wiped his running nose on his arm. ‘Brother rats,’ he called out proudly. ‘I ’as the ’onour to introduce to you our great leader, known to some of us lads as Old Stumpy!’ There was a tremendous roar as the rats cheered and banged their tails with approval.
Old Stumpy came onto the stage; somewhere in the crowd Barker cringed and high above, watching from the pipe, Piccadilly choked back a cry of shock.
Old Stumpy was an ugly piebald rat. He had a ring through one ear and something glittery hung round his neck. His tail was just a stump, hence his nickname. Piccadilly recognized him at once.
‘Morgan!’ he spat the name contemptuously.
Here was Jupiter’s old lieutenant – that master of slyness whom everyone had presumed had perished when his foul master’s tail had swept him into the sewer water. Piccadilly’s face hardened; he remembered that it was Morgan who had given his friend Albert Brown to Jupiter.
‘Do you know him?’ asked Marty in surprise.
‘I once swore I’d kill him,’ said Piccadilly. ‘I thought fate had cheated me of that but now . . . who knows?’ Marty saw the grim look on his friend’s face and was alarmed. He had never seen Piccadilly like this before and it frightened him.
Down on the platform Morgan greeted his subjects. He waddled across the stage rubbing his claws together.
‘Lads,’ he shouted, ‘how pleased I be to see all yer pug ugly faces.’ The rats cheered and warmed to him immediately. Morgan stretched his arms open wide and began his speech.
‘You be here because of blood,’ he screamed. You have none! Where be the hot, burning blood of the ravenous rat? It don’t run in your veins – I should know, I comes from Deptford.’ The crowd murmured admiringly. Everyone had heard of the rats of Deptford and how vicious they were. ‘When I come ’ere,’ Morgan continued, ‘I couldn’t believe me eyes. There you were, you miserable vermin, fawning and scraping – afraid of mice and yer own shadders! It made me honk I were so disgusted.’
He pointed to Smiff and Kelly and a few other fierce-looking brutes. ‘See what can be done if’n you forget yer lily-livered ways and follow me. Turn to the path of Tooth an’ Claw. Let blood flow in the Underground.’
The crowd began to buzz. Some of the rats nodded eagerly and opened their slavering jaws. Morgan danced round the platform whipping his audience into a frenzy.
‘Why should us stay away from the puny mouse halls? What right have they got to the best pickin’s? Rats are strong – we are mighty. Our teeth bite an’ tear, we ’ave claws to slash and split open. Hear me you rats, have yer never ’ad the blood craze? Have yer eyeballs never burned with hate for everything save yerselves? Have yer never slaughtered and gorged on blood?’
The rats became possessed as Morgan’s hate and hunger consumed them like a raging fire. They waved
their claws in the air, slashing furiously like tigers. Those near the platform banged their fists on it passionately.
Morgan grinned. It was all going according to his plans. Now he would rule an army of rats – just what he had always wanted. His beady red eyes flicked over his followers and he nodded with satisfaction. Suddenly a voice shouted from the far corner and all turned to see who it was.
A scabby-faced black rat was trying to make himself heard above the din. ‘Hang on, hang on,’ he cried. ‘What do we wanna listen to ’im fer? We’re ’appy enough ain’t we? So what if the mouseys call us names an’ ‘ave first claim to all the grub –I prefer the stuff they don’t want. We ain’t no killers. You should go back to Deptford where you belong instead of stirrin’ up trouble ’ere.’
The crowd looked at Morgan expectantly but he merely smiled, ‘Come forward friend,’ he said disarmingly. ‘Come up here where I can see you proper. I should like to talk with you.’ His stubby tail thumped impatiently on the platform.
The scabby rat pushed through the crowd and was lifted up next to Morgan.
‘Tell me,’ said the piebald rat smarmily, ‘what be it about me that offends you so?’
The rat shrugged, ‘Tain’t personal – it’s just that I don’t think we should go round murderin’ anyfink just for the sake of it. Why can’t we just go on as we always ’ave?’
Morgan whirled round and grabbed him by the scruff of the neck. ‘This is what makes me sick!’ he cried to the audience. ‘Cowardly weakling scum, he be no rat, he don’t deserve to live!’ He threw the astonished rodent down, leapt into the air and lunged at him. With one swift slash of his powerful claws he tore out the other’s throat.
Piccadilly and Marty covered their eyes and felt sick.
The assembly was in confusion, not knowing whether to be angry or afraid.
‘That is what happens to the weak and spineless!’ boomed Morgan, kicking his victim off the platform. ‘Follow me and you shall drink sweeter blood – mouse is better by far. A mouse’s flesh is tender and juicy and when fried his ears are good enough to die for.’
The rats went wild. They tore the dead rat apart and tasted what they could get their claws on.
‘We go to war!’ screamed Morgan triumphantly. ‘Death to all mice.’
‘Death, death, death!’ echoed the assembly licking their lips and feeling the hatred burn behind their eyeballs. Morgan had done his work well.
Piccadilly and Marty held on to each other in shock. Marty was pale and shook all over. ‘What are we to do?’ he wept. ‘They’re going to eat us all.’
‘We must warn them in Holeborn, Marty,’ said Piccadilly.
They began to ease back out of the narrow pipe but in doing so Marty dislodged some loose rubble. It fell into the chamber and the torches spluttered.
Every bloodthirsty rat looked upwards and saw Piccadilly’s startled face.
‘MOUSE!’ they screeched at the top of their evil voices.
‘Get him,’ commanded Morgan, ‘he’ll warn the others.’
The rats began to scramble up the wall towards the broken pipe. Piccadilly ducked out of sight but knew it was too late. He could hear their curses and their claws scrabbling against the bricks. Wildly he turned to Marty. ‘They haven’t seen you yet,’ you’ve got to get out and warn everyone at Holeborn. I’ll keep them busy here.’
‘I won’t leave you, Piccadilly,’ squealed Marty.
‘You must, but promise me you’ll take the longer route to the East Way. The rats are sure to be watching the main entrance to Holeborn.’
‘I promise,’ said Marty and he gave his hero a final hug. ‘Green save us,’ he prayed.
Piccadilly pushed him away. ‘Hurry up!’ Marty slithered down the pipe and was gone. ‘Green save us indeed,’ Piccadilly shook his head, ‘I don’t believe in no Green Mouse. Trust in yourself lad that’s how you’ve managed before. I’ll give those rats a run for their supper.’
He took hold of his little knife and stuck his head out of the pipe once more. The walls were smothered in heaving bodies, each trying to be the first to catch him.
‘Oi, dung for brains!’ Piccadilly yelled to them, ‘Here I am – what are you waiting for?’
On the platform Morgan recognized the city’ mouse and his temper flared. ‘Kill, kill, kill!’ he stormed.
Piccadilly hurled rocks down at the oncoming rats. He hit one right between the eyes and it dropped to the ground stone dead. But there were too many of them and Piccadilly was running out of missiles. When they were within range he lashed out with his knife, claws splintered and flew but the mouse could not keep it up, his arm ached and he decided it was time to leave.
‘Marty should be clear of the ratlands by now,’ he thought, so with one final chop that lopped off a huge spotty ear, he darted down the pipe and into the tunnel.
‘Where’s ‘e gone?’ wailed the rats in dismay.
‘He’s escaping down the tunnel you fools,’ screamed Morgan impatiently. The curtain was tom down and the rat army trampled over it.
‘There he is,’ they cried, ‘get ’im.’
Piccadilly charged as fast as he could; He raced down the tunnel like a bullet. The stones cut his feet but he did not care – the rats were directly behind and that was all that mattered. He shot through the slimy passages and out into the Underground, leaping over the track and not daring to look back.
The harsh cries of the rats rang in his burning ears as they hunted him. Piccadilly saw an arch of light ahead; he was coming to a station. He could lose them there if only he could make it. With his heart pounding desperately he raced nearer. Then he made his mistake.
He glanced over his shoulder and saw thousands of flaming eyes pursuing him –he was doomed. There was no way he could escape them. But he could not stop running. A sharp stab of pain seared through his foot as it struck the rail and twisted awkwardly. Piccadilly howled, lost his balance and fell headlong onto one of the concrete sleepers. His head struck the corner with a mighty ‘crack’ and he rolled unconscious beneath the track. A suffocating blackness engulfed him and he knew no more.
4. Murder in the Park
Thomas Triton stirred in his sleep and dreamed deeply. Silver armoured fish flashed over his bed, and splashed into the wooden wall whilst his forehead rippled and rolled. Green waving weeds spilled over the blankets and salty bubbles blew up through the pillows. Seagulls cried down to him as he drifted through the night on his raft of bedclothes. They wheeled and circled high above, their voices becoming faint and mournful.
Out onto the ocean of the dark the midshipmouse sailed, his white whiskers spread out into foamy waves, frothing and curling in the bedraft’s wake. Shadowy faces shimmered out of the black water, faces from the eddies of Triton’s past when he was young and the spray was still fresh on his cheeks.
‘Woodget,’ he called out in his slumber, grasping the empty air with tormented paws.
Like the Sirens of old, the haunting faces lured the sleeping Thomas to them. The sea tilted, swelling and churning as the rain battered down from the ceiling sky. Amid the woodgrain clouds another face loomed over him, a squint-eyed, evil phantom, riding on a serpent’s scaly back and laughing with the tempest’s fury.
‘No, no!’ beseeched the midshipmouse, grappling with the bedsheet sails that flapped in tatters and ripped out of his fingers.
The storm ravaged down and the bed spun. Drenched by the thundering waves Thomas clung to the pillows wretchedly. Pale, spiny fish with luminous eyes rose from the depths to snap at his tail as the gale trumpeted in his ears. A huge, white crested wave smashed down on him and the bed foundered.
‘Help, help,’ he spluttered, struggling to keep afloat. He gulped the air as the sea dragged him under and closed over his head. The mouse plunged into the cold dark whence none return.
Thomas fell from his bunk and hit the floor. With a grunt of alarm he woke up. The blankets were on top of him and for a moment he thought he was still dreamin
g. He rubbed his head dopily and blinked.
‘You daft old fool Tom,’ he sighed, shaking himself. But the terror of his nightmare was still with him and there were salty tears in his eyes. The midshipmouse got slowly to his feet but decided not to get back into bed. He crossed his small room and lit a candle. The inside of his figurehead glowed warmly but Thomas was troubled. With a pinch of tobacco he sat down and began filling his pipe.
A low rumble vibrated through the Cutty Sark and Thomas scowled; there was a real storm passing outside. He drew on his pipe and reflected. The thunder rolled outside and then faded away.
‘Bad night,’ shivered Thomas, blowing blue smoke from the corner of his mouth. ‘Glad I’m battened under the hatches safe an’ sound.’ Yet he felt as if he wasn’t safe. Trouble was brewing somewhere – his whiskers were twitching and that was always a bad sign.
‘Tain’t no use,’ he muttered, putting his pipe down, ‘you’re no good to anyone like this, Tom. If you can’t sleep you might as well take a look at the weather.’ He pulled on his hat and tied a red kerchief round his neck. He did not admit to himself that he did not want to go back to sleep again and was just finding an excuse for not doing so.
In its dry dock the Cutty Sark rested uneasily on her steel skewers. Thomas Triton stepped onto the deck and walked over to the rail, from where he surveyed the wintry world.
The night was cold and the stars shone brightly in the clear sky. The river was calm and its voice whispered softly against the jetties. Far to the left the old power station at Deptford Green was wreathed in a grey mist. It hung about the old, empty building curiously, shrouding the blank windows and melting away at the water’s edge. The one tall chimney stuck out of the mysterious cloud like a long, white periscope. It held Thomas’s attention.