The Deptford Mice 3: The Final Reckoning

by Robin Jarvis

  At the sound of that name a raging tempest welled up inside the city mouse. ‘Morgan!’ he spat furiously, ‘I’ve put this off long enough!’ And he sprang back over the snowy waste ground towards the power station once more.

  ‘He’s gone mad,’ cried Arthur fearfully, ‘what’s the matter with him – he’ll be killed.’

  Thomas glared at the rat; there was something suspicious here. ‘Get you after that lad Barker,’ he ordered, ‘and make sure you bring him back.’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ squeaked Barker, ‘mousey boy must not run off, Barker go fetch him.’ He darted away and did not bother to wait until he was out of earshot before laughing at his cleverness.

  ‘Should we wait?’ Arthur asked nervously.

  Thomas put his paw to his forehead and racked his brain. There was nothing they could do here, it would be better if they continued on. It went against all his instincts but he knew the situation was hopeless. They had to go and warn the others before it was too late – Piccadilly would have to catch them up afterwards, if he could. ‘We go on,’ he told Arthur bitterly.

  * * *

  Piccadilly’s anger scorched his brain. He was blind to everything else; he had forgotten about his friends – only Morgan filled his thoughts. The piebald rat loomed large in his mind, blotting out all reason. The blood of thousands stained the evil; henchrat’s jaws – Morgan had to die.

  The city mouse charged through the wailing spirits who were now stalking fearlessly through l the fire. Their unclean claws tore at his fur as he thundered past and the savage spears hailed after him. Piccadilly did not feel the rents in his sides where the talons of the dead gouged into him, nor did he feel the ice and snow battering into his face as he drew close to the power station once more. Only Morgan’s leering mouth and sneering laugh drove him on. They danced before his eyes, images of madness that had to be destroyed once and for all.

  Morgan was standing near the pane of broken glass, braced against the gale and cackling wickedly. His new army was magnificent! Nothing could stand before it and the world would be his to govern under Jupiter’s rule. He tossed back his ugly head and hooted with pleasure, but the laughter died in his throat as Piccadilly came out of the storm to confront him.’

  A terrible light was shining in the mouse’s eyes and the rat stiffened with surprise. He looked for his army but they were pursuing Thomas and Arthur over the jetty. Morgan was on his own. Piccadilly bared his teeth. ‘Time’s up Stumpy!’ he snarled, prowling forward.

  The rat glared at him and drew himself up haughtily. ‘Get out o’ my sight,’ he growled threateningly. ‘I’ve ’ad bigger ’an you fer breakfast lad.’ But still the mouse came on and the burning hatred in his face caused the rat to step back momentarily. ‘Gah!’ he rumbled, ‘yer only an uppity squeaker, let’s see the colour o’ yer blood.’ The knife he had taken from Piccadilly glinted in his claw and he scythed the air with it.

  The mouse showed no concern at the sharp little blade that flicked and jabbed before him; his determination could not be broken so easily.

  Morgan’s tongue slid out of his slavering jaws and dangled thirstily over his whiskered chin. The remains of his tail swished the snow into two heaps behind as he lowered his head and steeled himself to pounce.

  ‘Raaah!’ he screeched, hurling himself at the city mouse.

  Piccadilly stepped neatly aside and the rat careered into a snow drift. The mouse dashed over but Morgan had already recovered and lunged at him again. A cold slice of pain bit into Piccadilly’s shoulder as his own knife snicked the skin.

  Morgan chortled. He liked to play with his victims. He paced round and threw the knife from one claw to the other – teasing and tormenting Piccadilly.

  ‘Hah!’ he struck out suddenly and slashed at the city mouse’s chest. Piccadilly gritted his teeth and clutched his breast. The blood welled up between his fingers but he did not care. All his sorrows and fury volcanoed inside him and with a mad yell he exploded into the piebald rat, bowling him over like a rag doll.

  The mouse threw himself on top of Morgan and with a fist clenched harder than stone smote the side of his head. The rat shrieked as the blows fell one after another. A paw stronger than iron hammered into his belly and a bloody mixture of spit and broken teeth spurted from his mouth. Morgan wriggled and the knife flashed up across his attacker’s arm.

  Piccadilly caught his breath as the steel wove a net of cruel light about him. With one paw he tried to catch the claw that wielded it while the other closed around Morgan’s throat.

  The bitter blade cut into his fingers but he grasped the rat’s claw and forced it back, squeezing like a vice. The knife fell from Morgan’s clutches and he writhed violently. His stumpy tail thrashed like a headless serpent beating against the mouse’s back and he craned his neck to bite anything he could reach.

  Piccadilly heaved his knee up under Morgan’s chin and the snapping jaws clacked shut as he stretched out for the knife. His dripping fingers closed round the handle and with a deadly grin he brought his face close to his enemy’s.

  ‘Now I’ve got you,’ hissed the mouse as the blade was pushed against Morgan’s ribs, ‘just one shove and you’re history, so you’d better lie still or there might be an accident.’

  Morgan’s squirming and churning ceased. His frightened eyes stared down at the greedy blade that pressed dangerously close. ‘Don’t gut me!’ he begged piteously.

  The knife dug perilously into his skin and Piccadilly laughed grimly. ‘That’s right,’ he said, ‘I want you to know what it’s like to be at another’s mercy, for you to wonder when exactly am I going to plunge the steel in and take your life. What’s it like Morgan? Are you excited?’

  But a resigned calm had descended on the rat. He closed his beady eyes and when he opened them all traces of fear had gone. ‘Kill me, I’ll not beg,’ he croaked, ‘don’t you see a swift end will be better than what He in there has in store for me. Go on lad, plunge the blade in – feel what it’s like to kill. Already your eyes betray you, you’re enjoying yourself aren’t you?’

  Piccadilly wavered. It was true, breathless and injured though he was, the thrill of the slaughter was something he was looking forward to with relish. It did not matter about anything else – Marty, Jupiter, Audrey, he had forgotten them, now all he wanted was murder. He gazed at Morgan aghast.

  The rat cackled softly. ‘Well well, you squeakers have your worth after all,’ he admitted sourly. ‘There’s little difference ’tween you an’ me lad. Right now there’s more rat in you than mouse. What a fine captain o’ my guard you would’ve made.

  ‘I’m not like you,’ protested Piccadilly struggling to stay sane, ‘I’m not!’

  ‘Don’t give me that, lad,’ scorned Morgan. ‘Things ain’t black an’ white no more are they? The bloodlust burns in your eyes – I can see it. Just one small step an’ you’ll be a rat good an’ proper.’ He rested his head to one side, weary at last of the world and all its torments. ‘Finish me off boy,’ he asked plaintively, ‘let me cheat Him of my service, give me that pleasure, let me get one over on Him just once – at the end.’

  The knife in Piccadilly’s paws trembled as the mouse shook all over. He teetered on the brink and Morgan’s words pounded in his head. Was he really like him? He could not be certain. He wanted to push the knife in . . . or did he?

  Piccadilly snapped out of his madness – he was no rat! Angry he may have been but his heart was pure and he never would sink so low. A shuddering sigh swept through him as he realized how foolish he had been about many things and a joyous laugh rang out in that dreadful place as his noble side won through.

  ‘Never,’ he said tucking the knife into his belt. ‘You don’t understand and never will – that’s what makes you a rat. You see, I trust in the Green Mouse.’ And as he said it tears of joy sprang from his eyes. ‘I honestly do,’ he cried overwhelmed at the sudden warmth that brimmed up in his soul, ‘now I understand.’

  But Morgan would not
be denied, he snarled and snatched the knife from the belt. ‘Good fer you lad,’ he shouted, ‘but this rat’s no cat’s paw any more.’

  Before Piccadilly could stop him Morgan raised the knife and plunged it deep into his own heart. There, in the steady snowfall, Jupiter’s lieutenant gasped and died.

  Piccadilly staggered back appalled by what he saw. He had seen many deaths, of the innocent and the cruel, yet the suicide of this debauched old sinner affected him deeply.

  ‘Mousey,’ panted a voice in the storm, ‘where are you?’

  He turned and out of the dark and the mist came Barker and the sight of him made Piccadilly remember the mission. He ran over to Morgan’s body and stooped to take the mousebrass from around his neck. He hesitated as he looked on the dead rat’s face. How strange! In the gloom he looked at peace, a smile of restful contentment on his lips. At last he had escaped the chains of his dark master once and for all. Audrey’s brass gleamed in Piccadilly’s paws as he cut it free of the cord.

  ‘Old Stumpy dead now,’ tutted Barker, ‘mousey boy do this?’

  ‘No,’ the mouse replied quietly, ‘he released himself.’ Then, with the mousebrass in his grasp, he strode over to the broken window. ‘I’ve got a job to do,’ he said to the old rat, ‘stay here and watch out for those phantoms. This shouldn’t take long.’ He ducked through the gap and disappeared into the power station.

  With keen, sparkling eyes Barker peered after him and hoped he would succeed. ‘That’s right boy,’ he whispered, ‘everything depends on this now. Get rid of him for us.’

  The eternal cold flooded through the vast building, filling it with freezing fog and dense cloud. A deathly silence layover the place, broken only by faint, discordant notes as, high above, the long, slender icicles tinkled like wind chimes. A hush seemed to have settled on the power station, cutting off the noise of the gales outside. Into this enclosed, deserted wilderness stepped Piccadilly and the sound of his breathing rang round like an alarm.

  Bravely he marched through the malignant, misty blackness, ignoring the searing pain of the frost-bitten floor and the stinging of his wounds as the cold poured into them. He was as tiny as a flea in that cathedral of despair but his spirits were high enough to conquer anything. He strained his eyes to pierce the fog which smothered round, yet he could see no sign of Jupiter’s infernal spirit.

  But in his present mood this did not matter. If the devil wanted to lurk in the dark cloud Piccadilly would make sure he found him. Never had a mouse been more daring as he went bravely on, holding the anti-cat charm high over his head, defying the cloaks of shadow and veils of mist that Jupiter had gathered about himself.

  He had gone some distance and still the unearthly silence prevailed. Piccadilly raised his voice and shouted, ‘Show yourself!’ but only the eerie calm answered him. The air was still and even the faint tinkling ceased. ‘Where are you Jupiter?’ he called, ‘Are you afraid of one little mouse?’

  For a moment nothing happened and then the fog began to disperse, pulling itself away, tearing in ragged shreds and fading into the dark corners. Jupiter was coming.

  A deep rumble obliterated the silence and the ground quaked under the mouse’s feet. The walls shook and the high windows cracked and splintered. Glass fell shivering to the floor, smashing and crashing into a million glittering shards.

  Two pale swirls of blue light formed far above in the velvet gloom between the icicles. They burned with the bitterness of the empty void and as Piccadilly looked at them they blazed and grew until they were huge, baleful lamps of distilled evil. A great slit opened in the centre of each fiery eye, blacker than the deepest chasm, and slowly a horrendously massive head gathered smokily around them. Jupiter’s foul face with its rolling jowls appeared and his monstrous mouth was open. Piccadilly could see his cruel fangs and beyond them his cavernous throat. In a rush of frozen breath Jupiter spoke and the sound of his voice cut through Piccadilly like a thousand knives.

  ‘Puny creature, how dare you enter my realm!’

  But the city mouse stood his ground and held the brass before his face. ‘My name is Piccadilly,’ he shouted proudly, ‘and by the power of the Green Mouse I banish you forever!’

  The terrible eyes narrowed and doubt filled them as they beheld the charm that had once sent his body toppling into a watery grave. A hiss steamed through the building as the lips pulled back over the sharp fangs.

  Piccadilly leaned back as he prepared to throw the mousebrass. ‘Give me the strength,’ he prayed and he flung the charm as hard as he could.

  Audrey’s brass whizzed through the darkness, gleaming as it spun. Up it soared towards the immense head of Jupiter. Far below the tiny, grey figure jumped up and down, cheering and punching the air gleefully.

  Jupiter snarled as the mousebrass sailed up towards him then, with a mighty blast that split the walls and loosened the bricks, he blew hard and furiously.

  The mousebrass was left spinning helplessly in mid air as the demon’s breath hailed violently down. The frost roared out of the unbounded mouth and struck the mousebrass with tremendous force. The yellow metal dripped with rime and turned white. The charm lurched and with a loud ‘CRACK’ became ice. Like a stone it plummeted towards the ground where it smashed to smithereens.

  Piccadilly stared at the fragments that littered the floor. The anti-cat charm was completely destroyed. He swallowed nervously and lifted his gaze. Jupiter laughed at him.

  ‘You think to fling trifling toys at me!’ he stormed. ‘Know now that Jupiter is invincible and you are defeated.’

  The mouse staggered back, stumbling in his fear. He was defenceless and alone – he had never felt so small in his life.

  ‘Run,’ the enormous spirit mocked, ‘you are too small a morsel for my palate, escape if you can.’

  With his eyes fixed on Jupiter’s huge, ghostly form floating high above, Piccadilly ran for the broken window and hideous laughter filled his ears.

  ‘Too late,’ Jupiter whispered glaring past the fleeing mouse, ‘ridiculous insect, your struggles are ended!’

  Piccadilly turned to see what he meant and there pouring in, blocking his exit, was the phantom army. He skidded to a halt and glanced round quickly. Where was Barker? The shades of Morgan’s rats lifted up their deadly spears and took aim. This was it – Piccadilly closed his eyes. ‘Help me,’ he prayed.’

  The spectres opened their hollow jaws and let out a horrible wail. The ice spears left their claws and shot grimly through the air. The power station boomed with Jupiter’s laughter.

  The small body lay motionless on the ground, the face turned heavenwards. Piccadilly’s little paw was closed tightly around his own mousebrass kept fastened to his belt – it was the sign of Hope, but with his life that too ended in that dark place.

  11. The Midwinter Death

  Arthur squirmed through the rusted iron leaves of the Grille. He heaved a weary sigh and turned to pull Thomas out. The midshipmouse ground his teeth when his leg dragged against one of the metal fronds. A shudder of agony rifled up his thigh as the ugly gash wept poisoned, black blood and the skin around it turned blue. The wound was getting worse far quicker than he had expected, no doubt because of some evil enchantment on the ghastly ice spears.

  It had been a nightmarishly difficult journey back through the sewers. Trying to negotiate the slippery ledges with someone who could hardly stand was an experience Arthur never wanted to repeat.

  ‘Come on Mr Triton,’ he said encouragingly, ‘not far now, there’s just the cellar steps to get up.’

  Thomas felt as though he would faint at any moment. A black sickness was creeping over him as the infection took hold. He limped along stiffly, trying not to put any weight on his left leg. Past the dusty bric-a-brac stored in the cellar, the two figures slowly made their way to the foot of the stone stairs. Arthur looked up and wondered how they would manage; the midshipmouse was swaying dizzily, and he passed a tired paw over his worried, plump face.


  ‘I’ll get onto the first step and reach down for you,’ he said, leaning his ailing companion against the wall while he clambered up.

  Thomas nodded but did not reply; his words were stuck in his throat, and the weight of the world seemed to descend on his shoulders. He had never felt so exhausted. Beads of cold sweat pricked his brow and ran icily down his nose.

  On the step Arthur lay on his tummy and stretched his arms down. ‘Here Mr Triton,’ he called, ‘take my paws.’

  ‘Where . . . are you?’ stammered Thomas thickly. A shadow had fallen across his eyes and Arthur was just a grey blur that flickered uncertainly before them. Everything was growing dim, and a drowning darkness rose all around. He felt a black gulf yawn under his feet ready to swallow him whole. ‘Mouse overboard!’ he cried wildly, waving his paws in the air. ‘He’s going under, save him me boys!’

  Arthur jumped down startled and afraid. The midshipmouse slithered to the floor and lay there gasping as the ice fever seized him altogether. ‘Mr Triton,’ shouted Arthur, ‘speak to me – please!’

  In the sea mists and pathless oceans of his mind Thomas heard his name, but it was carried on a black, silken breeze scented with venomous death and seemed very far away.

  Arthur knelt beside him. What was he to do? He looked at the festering wound and shook his head. The flesh of the leg was becoming rigid, freezing before his eyes, shot through with glacial streaks of livid blue. Soon the whole limb would be a solid block of dead ice, and then it would spread until the midshipmouse was a motionless wintry statue.

  ‘Don’t worry Mr Triton,’ Arthur said hurriedly, pressing Thomas’s paws to comfort him, ‘I’ll not be long, I’m going to fetch help.’

  Thomas lifted his face in distress and turned it blindly to the young mouse. ‘Woodget,’ he murmured hoarsely, ‘is that you?’ Bleak tears rolled and crystallized down his cheeks. ‘Have you sailed back to me again – after all this time?’