The Rat

by Beth Madden

  *

  After the housekeeping staff cleared their mess away, the Father flicked on the Link television and jerked opened the squat fridge beneath it, grabbing two beer bottles by their narrow necks. He unscrewed their caps with sharp pops, downing both in quick succession. Totally ignoring the rat, the Father tossed the empty bottles away and reclined on a pile of squashy white pillows, eyes on the slightly grainy television pictures and smoking idly. After twenty minutes he began to yawn widely, and before too long he began to snore, sprawled diagonally across the double bed.

  The rat at last felt safe, and slid quietly to the floor. The short carpet kindly damped the sound of his tip-toes as he crept into the bathroom and slowly, carefully, closed the door.

  The bathroom was small and square, walls and floor off-white tiles punctured by an occasional square of slate grey. One clean white towel was folded beside the sink. The other was soaked, dropped in a heap in the middle of the floor. The shower had been used, grimy puddles all over the floor and coarse brown hair clogging the plug hole and stuck to the shower door, glass gone cloudy with excessive soap splatter. But the bath was clean and untouched.

  The rat took the rubbery plug on the end of its silver chain and stuffed it into the half-sunken tub, turning the twin taps until water gushed a pleasant, cool temperature. Unable to read their labels but guessing at least one was soap, he pumped generous quantities from three pump-packs adhered to the wall above the taps. All three dripped thick foam—one honey-coloured, one lime green, and the last sunset pink. The rat smothered laughs of delight with his fingers when the foam expanded, exploding into a thick blanket of colourful bubbles atop the water.

  Removing his clothes in careful order and folding them neatly in the corner, far away from the watery remains of the Father’s shower, the rat leaned precariously across the tub and shut off the taps when it was three-quarters full. Then, pulling his towel from the high bench and refolding it on the quietly closed toilet seat, he lifted one bony foot over the edge of the bath. Gripping the edge with both hands, the rat lowered himself into the cool foam.

  The rat paddled about in the tub, stretching out his short, skinny limbs contentedly. Lifting foam in his hands, he blew hard, sending it soaring in broken particles with a spray of spittle over the field of bubbles, interrupted only by his ten tiny toes where they bobbed to the surface. Then, sitting up and gathering as much foam in his arms as he could, the rat scrubbed his hair vigorously, digging his nails into his scalp. His head was followed by his face and body, and the rat ended with his feet, washing until his skin glowed.

  As he lowered his sparkling foot back into the water, the rat eyed the three pump-packs he’d used, lined up military-straight above the taps. Reaching with his dripping hands, he lifted them, one by one, from their stands and floated them amid the slowly dissolving tri-coloured foam. Pushing them back and forth like ships on the ocean, the rat spoke in muttering, squeaking tones as he played, the three soap containers conversing happily as they sailed off on an exciting expedition, far away.

  Long past when his fingers began to wrinkle, he sighed and reluctantly pulled out the plug, letting water rush away from beneath him. The pump-packs clattered quietly against the edges of the tub as they were swept around in the tiny whirlpool above the plughole. Then, cool and damp in the emptied tub, the rat closed his eyes and fell asleep on the smooth tiles, arms clasped loosely around the sunset pink pump-pack.