by Robin Jarvis
‘Stop it,’ Kelly broke in, ‘don’t start a row an’ draw attention to yerself Smiff mate, there’ll be time fer old sots like that later. Get back ’ere, we’ve got a job to do remember.’ He caught hold of Smiff’s arm and yanked him back roughly.
Smiff relaxed and returned to his side where he glowered and threw stabbing glances back at Barker. ‘I’ll not ferget this you old toe rag,’ he warned, ‘you’d better watch out coz one day yer gonna wake up with yer throat slit.’
When they had passed further up the tunnel and out of earshot Barker breathed a sigh of relief and released Piccadilly.
‘Thanks,’ said the mouse, stretching himself, ‘that was a close one! I never want to be in such a tight spot again.’ But the rat was watching the army recede into the distance and seemed not to hear. Piccadilly rubbed life into his cramped legs then folded his arms and frowned, ‘I wonder where they’re going?’ he said curiously, ‘that’s not the way back to their holes.’
‘It is war,’ said Barker and he sounded almost gleeful. ‘There will be many battles and the soil will be a blood marsh.’
Piccadilly was unnerved. Sometimes the old rat really surprised him. ‘I can’t worry about that now,’ he said, ‘I’ve still got to try and find Marty, and I suppose I ought to take a last look at Holeborn.’ With a heavy heart he walked round the corner and beheld the devastation of his home.
Barker stayed where he was, his mind ticking over with its own secret thoughts. When he looked up Piccadilly had gone and he was alone. ‘No mousey boy,’ he whispered softly, ‘you not find freak now. You must come with Barker.’ For a moment the rat straightened his back and was unrecognizable, tall and grim with a knowing gleam in his sharp eyes.
The great door hung sadly off its hinges and the wood was gouged with deep, fierce claw marks. The attack had been a mad frenzy – even if the mice had been warned Piccadilly doubted if they could have escaped. He forced himself across the threshold and saw the first victim. It was the sentry, or rather the bits that were left of him. The ancient spear had been seized and taken victoriously away but the battered tin hat had been too small to fit a rat. All that remained was a crushed lump of bent metal in a dark, grisly pool.’
In a state of shock Piccadilly wandered into the entrance hall. The rations were strewn wantonly around and with overwhelming grief he discovered Agnes Trumper’s discarded apron. Small fires crackled here and there, over which little black pots had been hung. Piccadilly was not foolish enough to go and inspect the contents – the smell was enough. He staggered up the passage to the main hall. The rats had scrawled awful, crude pictures daubed in blood on the ancient tiled walkways. The carved pillars had been defaced: all the marvellous wooden animals were now missing ears, legs or heads and here and there some beast had coarsely whittled shapes of his own and stuck them on with lumps of fat. Piccadilly looked into the Chapel of the Green Mouse. It was a wreck and they had torn down the children’s paintings from the walls. It was worse than he could ever have imagined. Here was a love of destruction and baseness he had not thought possible.
He stumbled on towards the hall. The tapestry curtain was torn to shreds. Piccadilly stepped over the rags and passed within. The large hall looked like a battlefield; the floor was strewn with well sucked bones and a pile of skulls was heaped in one corner. Tatters and scraps of fur littered the place and the huge brewing pans which had been dragged from the kitchens were now capsized, licked clean of mouse broth and ear crisps.
Piccadilly sank to his knees. Finally letting go of his emotions, he threw back his head howling. He shook with violent sobs and his body was racked with weeping as the grief took possession of him. He tore at his hair and his cries were terrible to hear.
The minutes rolled on, and when he could cry no more Piccadilly hung his haggard face, but he was empty and raw inside, almost as if he were dead too. His lips were dry and parched and his head pounded but he did not notice. This had finally been too much. He had come to the edge of despair and stared into the devastating eyes of madness – just one blissful plunge and he would be gone forever, lost in the comforting maze of lunacy, never to return to the harsh, cruel world where his body suffered. His reason began to leave him as a strange smile crossed his face.
‘Mousey boy!’ Barker’s voice croaked at the entrance. ‘Mousey snap out!’ The rat scurried over to Piccadilly and slapped him sharply, ‘Not yet,’ he snarled, ‘Barker needs you a little longer.’ He crouched down and peered expertly into the city mouse’s raving eyes, ‘Return from the dark shore Piccadilly,’ he commanded in a powerful voice that was not his own.
Piccadilly’s body became limp and he fell into Barker’s arms like a rag doll. The rat dragged him over to the tiny stream which ran along the side of the hall and splashed some water onto his face. Gradually Piccadilly came round, his eyes became sane and he groaned.
‘Drink mousey boy’ Barker pleaded in his normal, idiotic voice and he offered up a cupped claw to his cracked lips. Piccadilly spluttered and spat out the water in disgust – the rats had polluted the stream.
‘Get off’ he coughed, pushing Barker away. ‘I’m all right, let’s get out of here.’ He stormed out of the hall and Barker scampered closely behind. Piccadilly wanted to get as far away from Holeborn as possible, somewhere where there were no rats.
‘Barker learn summat mousey boy,’ the old rat called after him, ‘don’t you want to know what it is?’
Piccadilly paused, ‘You haven’t found Marty have you?’ he asked hopefully. Barker looked sheepishly at the floor, ‘No he not found freak mouse, but he knows where Old Stumpy has gone.
‘Back to his dingy little slime holes I should think.’
‘No, He went to Deptford.’
The grey mouse froze, ‘What did you say?’
Barker shrugged. ‘They’ve gone down to the river. Old Stumpy’s takin’ all the lads to Deptford, says there’s lots a’ fat mice down there.’
The now familiar cold fear blistered down Piccadilly’s spine. He stared at Barker and spoke quickly, ‘We’ve got to stop them, I have friends there.’ He raced down the passageway shouting, ‘Show me where Morgan is now.’ Barker chuckled.
* * *
The breeze was bitter. It nipped and pinched its way over the slate-grey river and carried in its sharp, invisible fingers light flurries of snow. The tiny flakes that were thrown into the icy water floated for some time before melting. It was a wintry dawn and not a soul stirred outside. The Thames moved turgidly round the rotten jetties, brooding and sombre, bearing the refuse of mankind on its oily waves.
The steep river walls were riddled with small holes: behind the green, moss-covered stones dark, dripping passages led off under the city. It was through one of these secret ways that Morgan led his army. He popped his piebald head out of a livid patch of damp moss and squinted in the dull light of the dismal daybreak.
He looked down and gauged the distance to the dark mud below. With a yell of determination he jumped and landed with a squelch. ‘Come on boys,’ he called up. The rats rained out of the hole like water from an overflow pipe. They splattered in the soft, sucking sludge and covered each other from head to toe with it. When it came to Kelly’s turn to jump he made a tremendous dent in the river bank, throwing up huge, gloopy splodges. Some happily slung the slop at one another, enjoying messing about in the filthy muck.
‘Calm down, calm down,’ ordered Morgan pattering about in the oozing brown mud, his stumpy tail dragging patterns behind him. ‘This is the quickest way to Deptford so you’ll have to swim.’ The rats grumbled but he glared at them and hobbled over to a large piece of driftwood which he examined and carried to the water’s scummy edge. He lowered it in and grunted satisfactorily; he, at least, would not have to get wet.
Morgan leaped onto his makeshift raft and called out, ‘Vinny, gimme the standard.’ The squat, smirking rat squelched forward and waded into the frosty river. The cold water wiped the smile from his lips but he handed
the banner over to his master. As he drifted gently away from the bank Morgan addressed his army.
‘War and bloodshed!’ he cried, flourishing the standard with one claw and clutching a glittering pendant to his breast with the other, ‘follow me to Deptford my fine soldiers.’ Then the current gripped the driftwood and Morgan began to sail down river.
The rats on the shore wasted no time. They yahooed and dived into the glacial water, shrieking and gasping in the ice cold waves. But rats are very strong swimmers and these were no exception. Their tails thrashed and whisked in the river, churning and convulsing the surface like a storm at sea. Smiff and Kelly waited till the last had gone before they too charged into the freezing water. With Morgan sailing before them, and the standard fluttering over his head, the rats began the long swim to Deptford.
For over half an hour the bank was still and quiet. The grey light grew brighter but no sun shone through the dense white clouds. The snow began to stick on the silted shore and a fine powdery layer formed over everything.
Piccadilly came slithering and sliding out of the hole in the stone wall and fell wriggling down.
‘Splat!’ he ploughed into the mire.
‘Gloosh!’ Barker was buried headfirst. He kicked and jerked his legs while his knobbly tail whipped about and sent up vast sprays of mud.
‘Hang on,’ said Piccadilly coming to the rescue. He grabbed hold of the rat’s feet and yanked him out. Barker was a sorry, bedraggled sight. He glistened with thick, wet slime and his startled, round eyes peeped out of the muck comically.
In spite of everything Piccadilly could not help laughing. The rat looked so funny covered in mud from the top of his head all the way down to his navel. He clutched his sides and pointed at the bewildered Barker who merely blinked stupidly and blew dirty bubbles from the corner of his mouth. Piccadilly shook his head as the humour subsided and trudged to the river’s edge where he put a paw over his eyes and stared. In the distance, under a bridge, he saw a frothing, seething mass and in front of that some kind of boat with a sail – no it was a flag.
The ghastly mud squidged coldly up between his toes and the brown water welled in. The city mouse shivered at its icy touch; he realized he would not be able to swim in that. What he needed was a boat or something similar. He started to look round the shore.
‘What is mousey boy looking fer?’ inquired Barker wiping the slime from his face and smearing it over the rest of his body.
‘Something that will float,’ Piccadilly replied distractedly. ‘Lend us a paw will you?’
The two of them hunted about in the rubbish, turning over bottles and tins, throwing them into the water to see if they floated. Barker liked this game and soon he forgot what he was looking for, content with just throwing things into the river. ‘Splash splash, plop plop,’ he sang happily, doing a ludicrous dance in the mud.
Piccadilly ignored him and continued the search. Finally he found the perfect thing: a red, plastic pudding bowl that was big enough for two. Eagerly he began to look for something he could use as paddles and came up with a broken wooden spoon and a large, strong gull’s feather.
‘Help me,’ he called to the prancing Barker, ‘I’ve got to pull this bowl into the water.’ He dragged his finds down towards the river’s edge.
Barker wandered curiously over to him, studying the plastic bowl intently, ‘Mousey boy going to make breakfast?’ he asked hopefully, rubbing his slime-spattered belly.
Piccadilly puffed and took a breather. ‘This my dear chum,’ he declared proudly, ‘is going to be our trusty vessel – even old Triton would approve.’
‘Vessel?’ queried the rat, ‘Our vessel? Barker not understand.’
‘Yes you do,’ laughed the city mouse, ‘I’ve got to get after Morgan and you’re coming with me.’
Barker began to protest again but Piccadilly marched right up to him, grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and made him climb into their new little boat. Barker whimpered as he clambered in. The plastic flexed and wobbled alarmingly. He thought of what it would be like when they were actually sailing in it and screwed up his face in misery.
Piccadilly pushed and heaved the bowl and the rat into the water. It lurched and nearly turned over, and Barker wailed out loud and gripped the sides for dear life but only succeeded in making matters worse. The boat bobbed about threateningly and the rat dropped down out of sight cringing on the bottom with his arms over his head. Piccadilly splashed after and hauled himself inside.
‘Now,’ he said, once the rocking and tilting had eased down, ‘Take this, Barker lad,’ and he handed him the large feather whilst he took up the wooden spoon.
Barker gazed at the feather stupidly, not sure what to do with it. Grinding his teeth in exasperation, Piccadilly showed him how to place it in the water and draw it back. After several minutes of frustrating coaching they began to paddle. At first the bowl spun round getting nowhere, as Barker’s efforts were pathetic – he was too busy staring fearfully at the cold, dark river all around them. Piccadilly smacked him on the back of his head and the rat cried out.
‘Paddle!’ shouted the mouse angrily. ‘We’ve got to catch them up.’
Barker put his head down and started to row properly. The little red bowl with its two unlikely mariners set off down the Thames as the snow began to fall thick and heavy. Soon they disappeared into the white, whirling curtain and when Piccadilly looked back at the city it was a vague blur hidden by the wintry weather. ‘Sorry Marty,’ he said regretfully. ‘I’m sure you’ll be able to take care of yourself. I’ve got to go now but I’ll be back, I promise.’
The faint vision was cut off by the all-engulfing blizzard and the grey mouse never set foot there again.
9. Showing the Way
The snow fell monotonously over everything and the roofs of Deptford were draped with thick white folds, whilst the roads became choked and impassable. The park was obliterated under the ever-deepening layers of snow and ice and the trees groaned as their branches creaked beneath the weight of the new, wintry foliage. Nowhere escaped the driving flakes. They drifted into doorways and piled up against windows, they clogged the ice-clad gutters and piled against walls in huge drifts. The blizzard was unrelenting, all morning it raged and continued steadily throughout the afternoon. The bitter weather seized the land and gripped it fiercely.
The shore of the river was a playground for the wind. It whipped up the falling snow and sent it dancing in flurries around the rotten wooden jetty which stretched down from the power station. The water’s edge was frozen solid and the ice radiated out across the Thames in sharp, narrow blades.
A faint noise floated over the water as a splashing, thrashing sight paddled into view. Morgan and his army had arrived at last.
The piebald rat tossed back his head and squinted at the power station. He beat his stumpy tail on the makeshift raft excitedly – his master was in there waiting for him.
‘Hurry you swabs!’ he shouted over his hunched shoulder to the army which struggled and spluttered in his wake. ‘Not long now my worshipful Lord,’ he crooned dreamily to himself.
The rats had swum fast and hard and the river grew ever colder as they drew close to Deptford. Their chests were tight and nearly bursting with exhaustion, and the weaker ones flopped their arms about and floundered miserably. Some of their number had already surrendered to the aches that racked them and the cold that bit into their claws. They gasped their last and ceased all struggling the river closed over their heads and they sank lifeless to the murky bottom. No attempt to save them was made by any of their comrades – ‘good riddance’ was their harsh attitude. The army would slow down for nothing.
As they neared the power station the rats had to fight against drifting blocks of ice which bobbed stubbornly in their way. Morgan chortled as he kicked the obstructions out of his path. With a ‘clonk’ the raft hit the edge of the ice flow and juddered to a halt. It bumped gently against the side and the water lapped over the plank, cov
ering Morgan’s toes. He spat and considered the problem. There was still a great distance between him and his master’s base, but the raft would float no further and he did not want to get wet. Using the end of the pole bearing the standard he gave the ice a quick prod – the edges flaked away but the rest seemed to be quite firm.
Licking his lips Morgan stepped nervously from the plank and flopped onto his belly.
‘Gar!’ he snarled, spitting up a contemptuous green glob. Cautiously the sour-faced rat wobbled to his feet and slid warily along the ice, using the standard for support. The army hauled themselves out of the water behind him and shook themselves. They puffed and cursed, clapping their claws and howling at the cramp which had set in. But there were too many of them and the frozen platform could not support their weight. With an ominous splinter the section of ice they had clambered onto split and they tumbled shrieking into the river once more.
Morgan, having slithered safely ashore, watched them and hooted at the top of his croaky voice. He thought it was hilarious and held his sides, pointing at his unfortunate followers and shouting rude insults at them.
Amid the churning, half-drowning mob, Smiff and Kelly glowered. ‘I’ve ’ad it wi’ that lousy mongrel!’ Smiff ranted and he swam ashore. His fur was matted with icicles and frost but he paid it no heed – there were other things on his mind. Kelly waded up after him, shivering despite his bulk and whistling through his chattering teeth.
Morgan saw them approach and sniggered at the sight. ‘Look what the cat’s dragged in,’ he cackled. Neither of the rats smiled. Their faces were grim and menacing.
Morgan eyed them with suspicion; they were planning something. ‘What’s got into yer scurvy heads?’ he barked, playing for time.