Three Years with the Rat

by Jay Hosking

  “Fuck me,” I say. John’s notebook is in code. I don’t fully understand yet, but somehow the code is moving, shifting, which is why none of the “algebra” seems to repeat.

  The computer tower beeps to report an error. Back in the rat-monitoring program’s window, the message Connection lost is blinking in the bottom-right panel. The jagged lines have all flattened out and become unresponsive. Buddy’s signal is gone, and I’m not sure if this is what’s supposed to happen.

  I approach the cube in the middle of the room. Even leaning with an ear close reveals nothing of what’s happening inside the box. I wait one more breath and then slide a wall upward. Sure enough, aside from my reflection, the box is empty.

  “Can I help you?” a voice asks from behind me.

  —

  My body startles without my consent, head pulled down, shoulders up, eyes pinched half-shut. I set my jaw and pivot on one heel.

  In front of me is the young woman I met at the entrance. A surgical mask and blue hairnet conceal most of her face but she’s still recognizable. She’s wearing a yellow gown over her hospital clothes.

  “What gave it away?” I ask.

  “Your eyes,” she says. “I mean, you sort of look like her, but the eyes are exactly the same.”

  I curse myself silently.

  “And we’ve met once before, haven’t we?” she says.

  I think back but nothing comes to me. She continues.

  “You were holding some party for John. I was with a few colleagues and one of them interrupted your little get-together.”

  This jolts my memory. “Shifty’s, last year.”

  “She’d been gone awhile, then. I couldn’t get over how similar you looked. It was eerie.” She takes a step forward, pulls down her surgical mask. “Did you use one of their codes to get in?”

  I nod. “John’s.”

  “Then you don’t have much time. Security’ll notice his number in the system and come take a look.”

  She takes another step into the procedure room. She looks past me, into the small box where Buddy used to be, and her eyes widen.

  “Did you put an animal in there?” She speaks again before I can answer. “What animal did you put in there?”

  “We always just called him Buddy.”

  She gets animated now, visibly excited, and paces around the room. Then she asks, “Do you have any idea how long we’ve been trying to make this thing work again?”

  “About a year, I’d say. Since John stopped coming to the lab.”

  “What are we missing? There must be another component. Why does it only work with John’s animals?”

  Her eyes betray her busy mind, straying from me for just a moment. Then she collects herself. “Listen to me, now. I can help you escape the facility without any chance of getting caught. I know a way out.”

  I can guess where this is going, but I ask anyway. “And why would you help me?”

  She says slowly, deliberately, “The animal. I want it. We need it.”

  Her cheeks are smooth and clean and fresh. She’s probably a little younger than me.

  I gesture to the empty box. “As you can see, I have no rat to give you.”

  “You know how to get it back,” she says.

  “I need him, too.”

  “What could a person like you possibly need him for? His data?”

  I laugh once, in part because I’m offended and in part because I’m amused. She sounds like Grace.

  I say, “Christ, are all scientists so condescending?”

  “I could make you a copy of all the data,” she tells me. “John’s files. Whatever you need.”

  Her offer is exactly what I came for but something doesn’t feel right. Deep in me is a gnawing sensation. It takes a moment for it to come to the surface.

  “What will you do with him?” I ask.

  She grunts. “The animal? Look at its data, sacrifice it, see what’s possibly different about this particular subject.”

  Sacrifice it. Kill Buddy. I say, “I can’t let you do that.”

  She coughs. It sounds like she’s trying to hold back a laugh. I like her less and less with every passing moment. How can someone so young and fresh be so callous?

  She takes a deep breath and composes herself. “It’s a lab rat that was bred for one reason. It belongs to this lab. It’s stolen property, for god’s sake! And you don’t want me to have it because of sentimental reasons?”

  “Yes. Exactly. He’s my last connection.”

  She stiffens up and sighs. “Fine, then. I’ll go get security. We’ll figure out how to bring the animal back on our own. And all you’ll get out of this is a criminal record.”

  She says it as a threat, a last chance for me to strike a deal. I don’t move or speak or acknowledge what she’s said in any way. Her face registers growing surprise, then furrowed annoyance, and finally she clomps out of the room.

  I don’t have much time. Buddy needs to come back, and quickly.

  “Come on, detective, spy,” I say to myself. “Think.”

  And then I realize the ugly reality of what must be done. My mouth goes dry, my heart hammers, and I resist the thought for a moment. Then I take a deep breath and get to work.

  I remove one panel from the Plexiglas cube and replace it with the piece that has a rubber-lined hole. The box no longer looks rat-sized, but instead looks wrist-and-hand-sized. The procedure room seems to throb with damp air, and tears of sweat trickle down my ribs. This is an idiotic plan. And before I can back out of it, I rush forward and jam my right fist into the box.

  At first there’s no difference, but soon the temperature drops inside the cube and my hand stings with coldness. I splay my fingers into the depths of the box but, strangely, nothing is in reach. Judging with my eyes, my fingertips should be able to touch the opposite inside wall of the box. I slide my arm a little farther but still I cannot feel the mirrored wall. There is no doubt now that the inside of the box is bigger than the outside. My stomach turns.

  “Oh Christ,” I mutter, because of what I’m seeing, and because of what I’m about to do.

  I move my arm slowly but steadily forward. The rubber-lined hole in the box envelops my forearm, then elbow, then bicep, but my fingers never reach the inside boundaries of the box, and they never pop out the other side. From my perspective it appears that my arm has been removed and replaced with a small cube of black Plexiglas. The sight of my body without my arm is horrifying. The only comfort is the sensation I’m receiving from my hand, the chilly bite of what seems like outdoor air, the feeble grasps into the unknown abyss. I bend my arm at the elbow, into a ninety-degree angle, and sweep my hand in as wide an arc as I can make.

  The computer beeps again. I crane my head around to see the blinking message on the screen: Connection restored. Buddy is coming back to me. My arm is now in the box as far as it will reach, and my ribcage is flush with the Plexiglas wall. I reach upward until my hand would be above my head, if it were on this side. I stretch it down low.

  My fingers brush against something frayed and wet. It takes closing my eyes to determine what I’m touching: it’s grass, dewy with the night air. The blades of grass feel rigid, as if they’re close to a frost. Suddenly something small and warm and moist presses against the back of my hand. I feel whiskers brush against my skin.

  I turn my hand over and Buddy climbs in, a lump of fur and flesh in my palm. He is wonderfully warm and I can’t help shouting with satisfaction. It’s a relief when I pull back and watch my bicep and elbow reappear on this side, in the lab.

  And then the most bitterly cold fingers I have ever felt wrap themselves around my wrist. They’re so icy that my bones ache with the touch. I yank hard, try to escape that grasp, but my arm doesn’t budge. The hand has clamped onto me like a vise and I imagine my wrist blackening with frostbite until it freezes solid. Buddy remains cupped in my palm.

  Then I feel a cold piece of metal running up and down my forearm while the grip hold
s me in place. It is only a cold scratch at first but soon it burns as if my skin is splitting and the muscles are falling out. I scream from the pain and the sound dies quickly in the small procedure room. Inch by inch my arm is creeping back out into this world, and it is bloody and ragged. Now only my wrist and hand are inside the box, Buddy included, but the grasp is still draining the warmth out of me and will not let go. The jagged piece of metal continues running along my skin narrowing my attention until I recognize the action I must take.

  With my free hand I pry at the edges of the box, desperately, until one wall panel lifts up. The cracks allow light to flood inside and reflect off the mirrors.

  Instantly the vise releases my wrist. It slides out of the rubber-lined hole, leaving a ring of blood behind, until my hand and Buddy finally emerge. I switch Buddy to the other hand, hold him in the air, and inspect him. There’s a little blood on him but it seems to be mine. And although his whiskers are twitching rapidly, he seems fine otherwise. My right arm, however, is ugly. The metallic thing that cut me was sharp enough to draw blood but coarse enough to scrape the surrounding tissue. The pain is both acute and throbbing. I wrap my arm in the extra scrub shirt I brought with me and the fabric sticks to my skin instantly.

  There is still more left to do. The computer screen blinks with some new error, namely that Buddy’s telemetry device’s transmissions have fallen out of synch with the computer’s receiver. I select Save data from the menu and record the file on my flash drive.

  It occurs to me that the note is no longer taped to Buddy’s back.

  —

  I have more than enough time to get ready for the young researcher’s return with the security guard. They make a beeline through the rat colony and into the procedure room, not noticing that I’m slumped behind the stacks of cages in the dark colony. The procedure room door swings closed behind them and I rush out, shoulder first, and pin the door shut with my body weight. Then I slide the wooden wedge in place with my foot, under the crack of the door, and kick it as hard as I can, two, three times. I don’t wait to see if it works but instead grab Buddy from the shelf and dash out of the lab. The researcher and the guard thump against the door as I leave, jamming the wedge even farther and locking themselves in place.

  I weave down the hall as fast as I can without jogging. In the men’s changing room I kick off the hospital scrubs. My makeshift bandage sops with blood. I leave it all on the floor, change back into my disguise, and Buddy happily scuttles back into the pouch of the hoodie. My shoes take a few seconds longer to slip on than I’d like, due to my trembling hands. Blood from my right arm drips and smears everywhere, but thankfully it’s difficult to see on the black fabric of my shoes. My disguise is intact.

  It takes only a few moments to cross through the security barriers and get to the foyer. No passwords are needed to exit. I walk confidently but without rushing through the lobby. I hear the guard behind me stop talking mid-sentence and stand up, the chair rolling out from under him.

  “Excuse me,” he says, and his voice cracks a little. He’s just a university security guard and has likely never dealt with something like this before.

  I walk faster, push through the last two doors and feel the autumn wind nip at my face as I enter the outside world. The security guard shouts at me again, this time more forcefully. I break into a sprint.

  No one notices me running past the shoppers and panhandlers and university students. The sweat that covers my body takes little time to chill and soon I’m cold and clammy. My right arm screams as it moves, raw skin brushing against the rough fabric. Buddy and the electric razor bounce against my belly with each step. But all of this only faintly registers. Instead I’m focused on dodging pedestrians, jaywalking, avoiding the bullet-shaped streetcars, and returning to the brown stone building in front of which I parked my car.

  I stop running, fold myself in half from all the wretched bodily feedback, and groan with sick apprehension.

  My car is gone.

  Two possibilities come to mind, towed or stolen, but neither is a solution to my current problem. I need to disappear. There doesn’t seem to be anyone following me when I look back toward the animal facility, but there’s also no reason to wait for them. I straighten myself out and jog west, to the corner of Bathurst.

  Shifty’s is nearly wall-to-wall windows across the storefront and purposefully layered in graffiti along the exposed bricks that border the windows. Even the glowing sign above and the sandwich board out front carry the same scrawled, hand-painted motif of skull and crossbones. Through the window I can see the appropriately tattooed and dishevelled crowd, my crowd. I enter the restaurant and head straight for the stairs, down to the men’s washroom.

  I choose one of the dirty stalls and lock the door behind me. From the pouch of the hoodie I take Buddy, the flash drive, and the electric razor, and place them all on the back of the toilet. Then I peel off my top layer of clothes, hoodie and track pants, and put the bundle on the floor. Now I look like a patron of Shifty’s, with my black pants and long-sleeved black T-shirt revealed. I should feel relieved without the top layer of clothes but in actuality a thick, viscous grime of perspiration has replaced it. There are pangs where the salt of my sweat seeps into the wounds on my arm, and when I look at it, I can see no pattern. The skin is crudely damaged, as though I was attacked with the sharp end of a rock, and if I don’t get stitches my arm will become a network of bubbled scar tissue.

  I glance at Buddy, who is sampling the dank basement air, and then at the innumerable messages written on the walls of the bathroom stall. One note, hashed in black permanent marker, catches my eye:

  Trouble loves Danger.

  It is such a sad reminder. When did I write that?

  And suddenly I’m a step removed from myself. I’m Nicole looking at me from a distance. And I see a bloody, sweaty man, no longer a young man, in a filthy toilet stall, mangled arm, shaking limbs, winded lungs, hiding from the people he’s just robbed. Loveless, friendless, sisterless. My eyes get glassy, my cheeks get tight, and my jaw clenches. It’s not fair. My breath whistles through the grimace of my teeth. My nose is running.

  This is the thing I have become.

  I want to wallow but there’s one last step to removing my disguise. Aloud I say, “O.K. Enough.”

  I lift the seat of the toilet, vision still watery thanks to my brimming eyes, and grab the razor. The electric blade removes the beard without any trouble, and ruddy tufts of me float down into the toilet bowl. Without a mirror, I have to use my fingers to inspect my work. I start making sideburns for myself but then, in a moment of impulse, turn the razor upwards and shave the rest of my head. In a few minutes, my skull feels like a misshapen ball of stubble.

  I flush my hair and leave the stall, pausing a moment to inspect my image in the mirror. My face is arresting, thinner, like my idea of a prison inmate. They’re the same eyes but my shaved head makes them stand out even more. I toss the hoodie and track pants in the garbage, palm the electric razor in one hand and Buddy in the other. Buddy’s long tail dangles against my leg and bobs as we make our way up the stairs. The flash drive is in my back pocket.

  A slightly smaller figure almost bumps into me at the top of the stairs. At first I mistake her for a short man but there is something just a little feminine about her hips and stance. The moment throws me into confusion: in front of me, her short hair swept to one side, is certainly the tomboy from the show at the Fortress, but she’s wearing heavy boots and a dark uniform with a bulky belt, a holstered pistol, and a metallic badge glinting from her breast. The realization finally comes to me.

  “Officer 2510,” I say.

  She gives me a crooked smile. “Long time no see.”

  My hands instinctively move behind my back. “You, uh, used to have long hair.”

  She slowly, firmly shoulders me out of the way and starts down the stairs. She says, “And you used to have hair. Things change.”

  My mind races. She is
n’t looking for me. She doesn’t know.

  I cheat my body toward her, hiding Buddy and the razor, but it’s ultimately for no good reason. She doesn’t even look back at me. “Why do I get the sense I’ll be seeing you soon?”

  She doesn’t wait for an answer, rounding the corner and disappearing into the women’s washroom.

  —

  Back inside my apartment, I look up all the city towing depots. None of them have any record of my missing car. Buddy doesn’t protest when I put him back in his cage, and as a reward for a hard day of work, I give him a slice of cheddar off the brick.

  With no computer at home, I create my own tabula recta from memory, then alternate my attention between it and John’s notebook: The street where I grew up led to a dead end. MOIJX­+NEW-­T*HHV­XI/NR­RX+NY­UWIFM­WVH-H­IDQBQ­W*ZMX­RWLDI­YG/RR­P…There must be a relationship between the table and the code, a way to unlock the one with the other. I try shifting all the letters by a fixed amount, so that T equals A, U equals B, V equals C, and so on. I try letter substitution, with T as M, the first letter in the code, H as O, E as I, and so on. I try nonsensical things, follow hunches about diagonals in the tabula, circle letters of the sentence and the code. For an hour or two I get nowhere with it. And then, as I’m on the verge of passing out from exhaustion, the solution reveals itself to me all at once, unravels so completely that at first I doubt it can be so simple and also correct. MOIJX becomes THERE, NEW becomes WAS, T becomes A, and HHVXI becomes LARGE. I decode thousands of words, hours of effort, but eventually I flip a page and the solution no longer works. For now, the rest of the notebook will remain unsolved. I pick up what I’ve decoded and read, read it again, again.

  SILHOUETTE BREAKS RANK – I

  The street where I grew up led to a dead end. There was a large, flat, reflective diamond signalling all cars to stop, but more importantly, it warned us that even crossing the threshold on foot was forbidden. Beyond the dead-end sign was undeveloped land, an impossibly large expanse of greens, greys, and browns all knotted together into something relatively wild for the suburbs. The plan was always to continue the road once development had filled that area with unremarkable houses like our own, but the street was never extended. No one would remove the sign from the ground.