by Adam Cloake
A few minutes later, he received one of his wishes. Rusty settled into a helpless whine, which was marginally easier to listen to than his searing bark. Terry knew that it would begin again soon, but, at least for now, he had been allowed some respite. The relative silence from the dog created another problem, however. With his eyes still tightly shut, all visual input blocked out, Terry’s hearing was working harder to compensate. He was highly alert to the only other sound in the room.
The rat had begun to move again.
45 bites on her face!
And Terry was certain it was coming towards him.
150 bites on her hands!
Despite attempting not to hear it, he could tell there was something odd about the way the rat was moving. He had expected the creature to be lithe, the way he imagined all its hateful kind to be. He had spent the last few minutes waiting for the thing to suddenly spring on top of him, maybe at his eyes. It seemed, however, to be dragging itself along. There was even the faint sound of a plaintive sob coming from it.
Unable to cope with the suspense, Terry opened his eyes and looked directly at the rat. Perhaps by glaring at it, he could unnerve it enough to keep it away from him.
This action seemed to have an effect. The rat stopped moving.
Now it was just three feet from Terry’s immobile hand, glaring at him. They were playing chicken with each other.
Terry saw for the first time the dried cuts on the animal’s face – purple crusted scabs. This sight set him off on another minor panic, thinking about plagues and pestilence. As impossible as it might have been, his abhorrence of the animal before him was multiplying.
After a few frozen seconds, it began circling its head around, its tiny snout quivering as it assessed the air. Terry’s prejudice about rats meant that he could only imagine the worst kinds of evil intentions brewing behind those black eyes, shaped like tiny blisters. He desperately wanted to know what the rat was thinking.
In truth, it was terrified as well.
And becoming desperate.
It had taken a lot of courage for the rat to overcome its natural instincts.
First, it had chosen to accept that the dog seemed to be confined to one corner, and thus probably presented no threat. If the rat was wrong, and the dog was truly capable of attack, its injuries meant that there was nothing it could do anyway. It would not survive such a charge. And it was incapable of defending itself against such a large, savage animal. Nevertheless, because of its searing hunger, it had decided that the dog was a risk worth ignoring.
The crashing sound of the man's fall, and the smell of fear flowing from him, suggested that perhaps he was not so dangerous either. The rat’s own pain had resolved it to be courageous, so it had chosen to make that first move, out into the dim light of the cellar.
Once there, it was unsure what to do next.
But the void in its stomach was increasingly driving it to make a decision.
Terry could see how much Rusty was struggling to close the distance between himself and the interloper. Seeing the rat move had restarted the dog’s frantic barking. Helen had often said that the Jack Russell was one of the smartest dogs in the world. Now, although he knew it was a ludicrous notion, Terry hoped that Rusty would think up some clever plan to get him out of this predicament. The sheer tenacity of his breed, the long line of ratters in his collective unconscious, suggested that the dog would stop at nothing to get at this creature.
But there seemed little prospect of that happening.
Now that Terry could see the rat more clearly, could see the way it was dragging its hindquarters, he confirmed that it was somehow wounded. Unfortunately, this probably meant that it would be unable to leave the cellar under its own steam. Perhaps it was dying! Perhaps Terry would be allowed to watch it expire right in front of him. He could witness the descendant of his childhood traumatiser roll onto its side and die, smothering in its own agony. Perhaps this might be enough to heal the psychological wounds of that day years ago.
The hope engendered by this thought clashed with all the shitty emotions he was already feeling. He suddenly felt tears force themselves from his eyes. He hated to acknowledge these tears. Despite the masculine exterior he liked to display, he had been finding himself crying more often in the past couple of years. His current situation was just another reminder of what a terrible job he was making of his life, a life that he feared might be ending soon. This was another failure, the latest in an epidemic of failures that had blighted him. Normal people don’t kick their grandmothers in the shins, making them bleed. A normal boy would not have found himself lying in a pile of hay with a rat inside his mouth. Most men his age had a job, even a career. They had someone to look after, and there was someone to look after them. Instead, while those normal people were milling around on the streets above him, improving their lives, he was lying, hungover, on the cold floor of a house he had not even earned, as impotent as a child.
Terry focussed again on Helen, his one true hope. He just needed to keep his sanity until she arrived. If he could hold out that long, none of this would matter. She would rescue him. Then she would forgive him. Then she would agree to stay with him. Forever.
But he had no idea where she was. Or when she was coming.
Suddenly, the rat began to move forward again.
It had made its decision. Terry felt the breath catch in his chest.
45 bites on her face! 150 bites on her hands!
He tried to yell, but his voice came out even raspier than before. He tried to create a wad of saliva inside his mouth. He would spit this at the rat. It was the only weapon he had. But it was impossible. The alcohol had dried his mouth, and the benefit of those earlier glasses of water had by now evaporated. The only substance in his mouth was a sticky white foam, like the skin on hot milk. Nevertheless, Terry gathered this stuff into a ball on his tongue, and spat it at his enemy. But it was too thick. The gooey ball made it no further than his own desiccated lips, where it dangled worthlessly. Defeated again, he was forced to suck the stuff back into his mouth, and swallow it. The action of spitting had caused another painful twinge in his neck.
The rat had noticed none of this.
Its attention had moved further down Terry’s body. It turned to the right, and began to drag itself towards his lower leg.
During the fall, Terry’s bathrobe had been flung open. His legs were both bare.
In just a few seconds, the rat was standing beside Terry’s skinny right calf. It sniffed at the muscle a few times. Then it opened its mouth.
Terry could see the four long fangs, like coffin nails – two in the upper jaw, two in the lower. He could already feel the agony of his immediate future before it had even happened.
The rat pushed its head slightly forward, positioning its jaws around the soft, helpless flesh of Terry’s calf muscle. Then, with a quick jerk of its neck, it bit down.
Rusty was becoming furious. He was intensely frustrated that, even with all the energy he was using pulling himself away from the wall, he was making no advance at all. The small enemy before him had the complete run of the cellar, and Rusty could use none of his skills to prevent this. His natural instincts, bred over centuries, were unavailable to him, and his tight little terrier strength was rendered useless against the rope binding him to the wall. This restraint had to be defeated before the rat could be. Keeping one close eye on his quarry, Rusty grabbed the rope between his teeth, and began chewing at it, pulling backwards from the wall as he did so.
While the dog was performing this operation, the rat was proceeding with its own. Once the outer layer of Terry’s leg had been burst open, the animal began feasting on the succulent flesh beneath, killing its hunger by gnawing and tearing at the exposed muscle.
Terry’s own jaws were locked in a wide-open screech of unheard agony as the rat ripped his thin leg apart. He could hear the screams echo like sirens inside his head.
The agony was immense.
Bl
ood sprayed in jets across the rat's face. The floor beneath was becoming soaked.
A couple more bites, and the hole was big enough for the animal to burrow its head inside, chewing as it went. The next wave of anguish came once the rat had filled its jaws with meat. Pulling its head back out, it yanked the red food with it.
The partial paralysis in Terry’s body had done nothing to blunt his pain sensors. He could feel every single sensation of the muscle being shredded and pulled away. He was trying, in the middle of the pain, not to acknowledge the unspeakable fact that the rat's head had literally been inside his leg, its furry neck rubbing against the meat surrounding the hole. He thought of the gashes he had seen on the creature’s face. Horrific thoughts of sickness and disease filled his head like a tempest. There was no consolation at all in the fact that the flesh being defiled by contact with the rat's head would, in due course, itself be torn away and eaten.
The sound the creature was making was beyond nauseating. It emitted tiny squeaking notes of satisfaction as it sucked the blood from the retrieved meat.
Terry, unable to stop himself, looked down at the long streak of exposed flesh that stretched from his ankle to his knee, a length of about ten inches. The agony was constant, like a burn. Because of his raised head, perched uncomfortably on the step, he could see at an angle how the red strip of leg glistened as it lay in a pool of his own blood.
The rat stopped eating.
Its jaws stuffed with most of Terry’s calf, it stood still for a minute, continuing to sniff the air. The fur on its head and back, drenched in Terry’s blood, stood up in reddish-purple spikes, making the creature seem even larger, even deadlier.
For the first time in many years, Terry prayed. Silently, he begged God to keep the rat sitting where it was, at least until he could hear the liberating sound of Helen’s key in the front door. He stared at the stationary creature, hoping that the intensity of his glare could somehow magically root it to the spot.
The only sounds were Rusty’s whining, and the desperate scrabbling of his clawed feet on the concrete, as he continued to wrestle with the rope.
None of the three in the cellar heard the white Hiace van as it pulled up outside the house.
The rat moved again.
It turned to its left this time, and began to limp in the direction of Terry’s face.
As it approached, it continued to sniff its way along Terry's lower body.
Its nose took particular interest in the blue shorts. The waistband had always been too loose so, although Terry’s thighs were covered down to the knees, a section of his right buttock had become exposed.
Worse than this, his t-shirt had ridden up around his ribs. Most of his midriff was bare and fully on offer. Terry prayed that the presence of his inert right arm and hand, lying so close to his side, might give the rat some pause.
It didn't.
Following a few minutes of hesitation, the animal again opened its mouth. It was closer now, so Terry had a clear, unwanted view of the incisors in its mouth. He could also see, on either side of these teeth, part of his own calf packed into the animal's cheeks. It was saving this part of him for later.
Following a brief recess, the rat resumed its meal. With a stab of pain perhaps worse than before, Terry felt the side of his right buttock being punctured.
The munching, crunching sound was constant, as was the combination of barking, growling, and plaintive crying coming from Rusty. Terry wasn't sure if the dog was upset about the catastrophe befalling his master, or his inability to reach the rat for his own anthropological needs.
Ten minutes later, the rat had devoured much of Terry's buttock, and was systematically moving its mouth upwards along his side. He knew that, despite the enormous loss of blood, despite the shocks which had already pummelled his system, despite the possibility of serious infection, he could still have survived this ordeal. But, if the rat opened him up enough to damage the organs near his side, all his options would be closed off. The animal would eventually burrow its way in towards the right end of Terry’s colon, then work up towards his liver.
At this rate, his death was becoming inevitable.
He kept passing out from the agony, along with the desperate need to escape, but the pain was too blinding. Although he escaped into the soothing blackness of unconsciousness for a few seconds at a time, he felt himself being constantly, cruelly, jerked back by the inferno engulfing the right side of his body. By now, his hopes of Helen saving him had all but been abandoned. The only relief left to him was the death he had earlier feared so much. When it came, he would welcome it.
And still, he remained alive, as the rat kept on feasting.
* * *
At this moment, the woman at the core of all Terry’s hopes was just over a mile away, and approaching fast. It was 11.00 in the morning, and Helen sat on the upper deck of a 68 bus, making good speed. She expected to arrive at Marian Villa in about fifteen minutes.
Her arrangements were already in place. By late evening, she expected to have taken most of her things with her, and to be launching the next phase of her life.
Helen was uncertain of what to do about Terry once she arrived at the house. She had accepted completely that their relationship had not been good for her, and was better off ended. Still, she couldn’t ignore the belief that there was still a slender romantic cord attaching her to him. She was concerned that she might allow him to seduce her into staying. Worse, what if she ended up seducing him? What then? No, she had to be clear that, if this did indeed happen, it would be for all the wrong reasons. Terry was adrift, and was becoming more so. His personal stability was coming more into question as time passed. Helen knew that he believed his moments of harsh, spontaneous grief, his sudden bursts of personal despair, were secrets of his own, but she had guessed at them some time back. He needed her help, but she could only provide it sparingly. Otherwise, they would drown together.
And so, she had provided herself with a reason to prevent her own return. The new flat was like an armour that protected her from getting too close to him again. As long as it existed, she had to move on.
And so, she had reached a compromise with herself. She decided that, until she had emptied the Villa of all her belongings, including Rusty, she would do what she could to help Terry. She would advise him, counsel him, help him get some of his stability back. Then she could, in good conscience, fade from his life.
She was frowning over this thought when, four stops from her destination, her mobile phone rang.
Rusty's neck was hurting badly. He had been straining against the rope for about half an hour, despite the physical distress it was causing him. It would have been unthinkable for him to relax his efforts. His problem was that the rope was thick and waxy; it was difficult for his teeth to gain purchase. His straining was, however, having some effect, although he was still unaware of this. That was, until the last, sudden moment.
The iron hook had been embedded in the wall long before Terry had moved into the house. It had once been used for hanging cans and buckets. Over the years, lack of use had caused it to rust; the concrete surrounding the metal had begun to crumble. Now, with one final tug, the hook shot free, as if spat from the hole in the wall. Rusty’s body jerked forward. The brown hook flew over his head, and clanged to the floor beside him.
Rusty, surprised at first, quickly righted himself. He made ready to spring.
Terry, from within his momentary blackness, only had a second to register the metallic sound that chimed on the concrete floor. An instant later, he saw the dog attack.
Rusty’s front paws landed on either side of the rat. In one quick motion, he sank his teeth into the creature's tiny head, puncturing one of its eyeballs. The rat emitted a sharp squeal as it was lifted off its three good legs, then slammed to the floor again. Adjusting his grip, Rusty clamped his jaws firmly around the rat's neck, and vigorously shook the little body to left and right. It flopped wildly, as if its bones had been turned
to liquid. Terry had seen the dog do this with his toys. Now, with a small rush of triumph, he was seeing it for real. With new relief added to his intense pain, he lay and watched the end of the rat's life. The snapping back and forth of Rusty’s head was so violent that Terry wondered if he would end up breaking his own neck as well.
Small chunks of the meat stored in the rat's jaws sprayed the surrounding area. Bits of Terry's own calf and buttock spattered his chest and face. One piece of himself, soaked in rat saliva, landed on his half-open lips. He had to snap his head to the side to prevent it entering his mouth, causing another jolt of pain in his neck.
When he turned back again, he saw that Rusty had placed the limp figure of the rat on the floor. He was now nudging it with his snout, verifying its death. There was a gaping hole where the right eye should have been, Rusty's long incisor having pushed the eyeball deep into the rat’s skull. Its back was twisted at a grotesque angle, its upper spine having been shattered in the dog's jaws.
Terry could take little joy from this sight, however. His own body had been practically destroyed, and was undoubtedly crawling with disease.
Rusty’s tongue flicked rhythmically to either side of his snout. He bent to sniff at the little corpse. A thin line of saliva dripped gloopily from his mouth, landing on the blood-soaked fur of the rat’s still back.
“Go on, lad!” Terry thought. “Dig in! You deserve it!”
His hair was sopping wet, a whole morning’s perspiration mixed with tears of pain. Now he could feel the tears come again, this time brought on by guilt and shame. He was silently thanking Rusty. His earlier, savage treatment had happened because of his own reprehensible failings, not for anything the dog had done. Terry wept for a few moments, until the dehydration finally stifled his tears.