The Rat

by Beth Madden

  *

  The rat’s morning bowl held only a half-serve of soggy wheat cereal, while the father lifted his dish cover from a piping hot sausage, bacon, and cheese omelette. ‘This is only the beginning of your punishment,’ the Father promised darkly as he sliced the omelette with the edge of his glinting splade. ‘Mark my words, rat: you’ll be grown by the time I’m done with you.’

  The Father made the rat sit in the backseat, ordering him to leave his belt buckled. ‘I’ll hear if you undo it. You’re not setting foot outside this car until we’re back in Daini, got it?’

  Back to tearing down the desert road, the rat managed to sleep on and off, making up for what he’d lost to fear in the armchair. But his dreams were no comfort, abstract scenes that revolved around blistering heat, gnashing jaws, and massive butcher knives.

  Just before noon, the familiar lilting jig of the Father’s phone roused him from a particularly horrifying vision of Mari, Saia, and little Ami being sliced up and made into a massive pie, covered by a thick sheet of glistening white pastry. The top was cut with decorative patterns before being shovelled into a volcanic-temperature oven that whistled like an exploding kettle. The rat shuddered with the tail-end of the dream as the Father eased his phone from his trouser pocket with a curse.

  ‘Yes, it’s Tana. I’ll be at rendezvous in fifteen minutes, give or take. Right … right … that’s right, two nurses, five hundred thousand each. … No, the girl’s eight, that’s why I lifted the price … no, we agreed three hundred thousand was fair. … Well, how much does Dante want her? I’m sure I can find another buyer without making another trip … yes … yes, that is what your records say. I’m glad you thought to double-check. … Yes, the teenagers: one’s the standard eight hundred thousand, but the other’s got fair talent with light. She’ll definitely be needing that upcoming attitude adjustment, though—had to break her nose, put her in her place. … No, you can barely tell—one of the nurses patched her up. Her face is much more charming now, actually. I’d even go so far as to say it’s a cute feature, limited edition. Dante’s still happy with one million, one hundred thousand? … If you want to haggle, try realistically … call Dante back and check how much he wants her, then decide if you want to offer me that price again. … Okay, we’ll settle that there …WHAT?’

  The Father suddenly blasted with indignant fury. If the rat hadn’t been buckled in he would have hit the ceiling, and he scrambled to make himself as small as possible.

  ‘Dante said nothing about … it’s not like with Kanara, I didn’t plan … you can’t know without … wait,’ the Father said suddenly, frowning unpleasantly as he thought hard. ‘Which girl again? … Right … right … ahh,’ he breathed in realisation and cursed once, foully, into the receiver.

  ‘All right, yes, it’s possible. But doesn’t Dante want it? … Right … but you can’t say that he doesn’t … right … fine, I’ll take the brat,’ the Father agreed angrily, the rat frightened of his black expression in the rear view mirror. ‘But I’m having it checked the moment I get back. I’ll keep no brat that’s not mine, you understand? You’ll lose it completely. Fine … fine. But just dumping it on me like this is disgusting. I’d like think that such a long-time business associate would deserve warning, at the very least. I’m not happy about this, not at all. … Right … see you in a few.’

  The Father parked the sedan beneath sail-like shading draped between tall green poles in a deserted rest area a few more kilometres up the road. Apart from the brick toilet block, there were only a few vending machines and water dispensers. The Father wound down all the windows, the air-con shut off with the engine, and got out.

  ‘Stay here,’ he poked his head in the rat’s window and growled before stalking over to the line of vending machines. Slotting in a few coins, he bought a cup of instant noodles for the rat’s lunch, cooking them with boiling water from a dispenser.

  He shoved the hot plastic cup through the window at the rat. He didn’t want to eat, not with every skerrick he chewed becoming a shred of Mari’s skin or a length of Ami’s hair, but he took it. Not wanting the Father to catch the flavoured water at the same level in the cup, the rat drank a mouthful and ate a few curly stands, shivering sickly.

  A lone black truck soon lumbered into the rest area and parked alongside the Father’s blue-blue sedan, hiding it from the road. The Father straightened from where he leaned against the bonnet, sullenly blowing smoke into the air. Stamping out his cigarette, the Father returned to the rat’s window and stuck one shovel-like hand through, slamming the rat’s shoulder into the back of his seat.

  ‘Stay here,’ he repeated warningly, glaring as the rat nodded, head on a hinge. ‘Not one word, or I’m having barbeque rat for dinner.’

  Absolutely terrified, the rat kept his eyes fastened on his lunch, trying to slurp his noodles without making a single sound.

  The truck door slammed, and the rat’s eyes snapped up instinctively, orienting to the sound. He cringed when he caught sight of the driver. The man was scrawny and pallid, and looked unnatural against the desert background. He wore a poorly-fitting, light-coloured casual suit and hat, a red and blue striped bandana tied at his throat. There was something unsettling about the way he loped down the stretched sedan’s length to where the Father waited by the boot.

  Though he distinguished no words, the rat heard the Father and the suited driver talk. Soon, he felt the slight bounce as the boot opened, followed by more talk. Though he tried not to look, his eyes were drawn from his horrible noodles to the rear-view mirror when Etta’s reflection appeared. Jen, Ami, and Saia followed. All of them were hustled, one-at-a-time, into the truck.

  When Mari’s lean form appeared, the rat stifled a sob. But a hiss and a crack then cut the air. A blinding white flash exploded from behind the sedan, enveloping the entire rest area.

  Dark spots dancing on his retinas, the rat heard footsteps pound past his window. His heart bounded with them.

  Mari was running away!

  She wouldn’t be eaten!

  ‘Hold up, girl!’

  Still half-blind, the rat let out a yelp as he was suddenly yanked out the window. The Father clamped him close, and though he couldn’t see, the rat felt something cold and metallic dig into the side of his head. He couldn’t see what it was, but it hurt, and he tried to edge away. But the Father pressed it closer, squeezing him so hard he squealed in pain.

  Mari’s dashing footfalls stilled.

  ‘Do you want to kill him, girl?’

  The rat’s vision was clearing. Mari stood dark against the sun’s withering haze. She was growing larger. Walking back towards them.

  ‘Mari, no! They’ll eat you!’ the rat wailed, and screamed when metal clashed against his fragile skull.

  ‘Don’t,’ Mari shouted, her call only an angry hiss on the hot wind, voice still shut away. The Father would only break his spell once he received confirmation that every one of them was irreversibly cooked.

  ‘He’s mine,’ the Father growled as the seedy driver leered at Mari, locking her wrists into metallic cuffs, ‘I’ll do what I Gods-damn please with him.’

  Eyes swimming with tears, the rat was returned to the backseat without his noticing. He heard the rustle of countless notes in the desert silence as they were handed over and distributed among the Father’s many wallets. A few more words were exchanged, joking from the driver and tight from the Father. ‘Hand it over then, and I’ll be on my way.’

  Curious in spite of himself, the rat wiped his eyes and peered out the window, putting a hand to his throbbing head. The driver had opened his front passenger door, and now held a bundled up blanket, which he passed to the Father. The Father glared down at the bundle with disgust.

  ‘Give my regards to Dante. Though again,’ the Father said, giving the bundle a light shake in the driver’s lewdly grinning face, ‘I’m far from impressed. If this happens again …’

  ‘There’s a simple solution to that,’ the driver smir
ked.

  ‘If it happens again,’ the Father repeated more loudly, ‘I may start offering my best products elsewhere. I’ll stop giving Dante first look at my prime stock, and only save him the real fixer-uppers. Worthless, filthy addicts that we snatch off the street, that’ll be all he gets. See how he likes that.’

  A minute later, the black truck drove away, taking Mari and the others with it.

  To be eaten.

  The rat began to sob into his shaking hands. All he could see were fire and knives and greedy, tearing teeth. The Father deposited the bundle on the front passenger seat, and slammed the door jarringly. Then, the back door opened.

  ‘On your front.’

  The rat threw himself down, still sobbing. The Father yanked up his shirt, planted one heavy hand on the base of his neck and one knee on his calves, and proceeded to whip the rat’s poor four-year-old back until it throbbed crimson, unyielding metal raining down.

  ‘I … told … you … not … a … word,’ the Father grunted with each strike, cold weapon lacerating the rat’s skin with dozens of tiny triangles.

  Finally he stopped. The rat remained perfectly still, breathing hard, tears beaten out of him.

  ‘We’re not stopping unless I say so. If you’ve got to piss …’

  The father dropped the empty noodle cup on the rat’s bleeding back.

  ‘One drop on my upholstery …’

  He didn’t need to finish.

  The Father’s heavy black shadow withdrew, and two doors slammed, one after the other. The rat didn’t move, feeling the vibration as the engine started and the sedan turned about, the Father pointing its nose back the way they’d come.

  For home.

  The bundle beside the Father gurgled sunnily.

  ‘First a rat, now a brat,’ he grumbled, feeling terribly hard done by, the huge sum filling his wallets doing little to ease his suffering when he knew part of it would now be spent raising an unwanted product of his seed. ‘At least I wanted a boy. If she’s not mine … but maybe … maybe I can con the Harpas into sponsoring her at the orphanage until she’s grown,’ the Father mulled, shrewd, cruel mind already scheming. He narrowed his eyes at the stirring bundle as he considered the possibilities.

  ‘Any syndicate in Sato would pay at least eight hundred thousand for her once she hits fourteen.’