Ratburger

by David Walliams

  Except it wasn’t Burt. Well, it was Burt, but he had drawn a moustache on his face very poorly with a marker pen.

  “What on earth are you doing here?” said Zoe. “And why have you got a moustache drawn on your face?”

  “It is a real moustache, my dear,” said Burt. He breathed heavily when he spoke. His voice matched his face: they had both stepped out of a horror film.

  “No, it’s not. You’ve drawn it on.”

  “No, I haven’t.”

  “Yes, you have, Burt.”

  “My name is not Burt, child. I am Burt’s twin brother.”

  “What’s your name then?”

  Burt thought for a moment. “Burt.”

  “Your mum had twins and called them both ‘Burt’?”

  “We were very poor and we couldn’t afford a name each.”

  “Just get out of my room, you creep!”

  All of a sudden Zoe heard her stepmother pound along the corridor. “Don’t ya dare speak to the nice pest control man like dat!” she screeched, as she waddled into the room.

  “He’s not the pest control man. He sells burgers!” protested Zoe.

  Burt stood between them with a smirk on his face. It was impossible to see what his eyes were doing because his wraparound sunglasses were black as the deepest, darkest oil.

  “Wot are ya talkin’ about, ya stupid girl? He catches rats,” shouted Zoe’s stepmother. “Don’t ya?”

  Burt nodded silently and smiled, flashing his ill-fitting false teeth.

  The little girl grabbed her stepmother by her thick tattooed forearm, and led her to the window.

  “Look at his van!” she declared. “Tell me what’s written on the side!”

  Sheila looked out of the grimy window, to the vehicles parked down below. “Burt’s Pest Control,” she read.

  “What?” said Zoe.

  She wiped some of the smudges off the window, and peered out. The woman was right. It did say that. How was it possible? It looked like the same van. Zoe looked over at Burt. His smirk had widened. As she watched, he took a dirty little brown paper bag out of his pocket, and picked something out of it. Zoe could have sworn whatever he put in his mouth was moving. Could it have been a cockroach? Was that this depraved man’s idea of a snack?!

  “See?” said Burt. “I’m a rat catcher.”

  “Whatever,” said Zoe. She turned to her stepmother. “Even if he is, which he isn’t because he’s a burger-van man, why is he in my bedroom?” she demanded.

  “He is ’ere coz he ’eard at school dat ya brought a rat into ya lessons,” replied her stepmother.

  “It’s a lie!” said Zoe, lying.

  “Den why did I get a call from your ’eadmaster today? Eh? EH? ANSWER ME! ’E told me everyfink. Ya disgusting little girl.”

  “I don’t want any trouble, my dear,” said Burt. “Just hand the little creature over.” He held out his grubby and gnarled hand. Burt had a dirty old cage on the floor by his feet that looked like it was made from a metal basket from a deep-fat fryer. Only instead of using it to fry chips, he had squashed hundreds and hundreds of rats into it.

  At first glance, Zoe thought the rats were dead, as they weren’t moving. On closer inspection, she realised they were alive, it was just they were packed in so tight they could hardly move. Many looked like they could hardly breathe either, they were all so squashed in together. It was a sickening sight, and Zoe wanted to cry at the shocking cruelty of it.

  Just then Zoe felt Armitage wriggling in her breast pocket. Perhaps he could smell fear. The little girl discreetly brought her hand up to her breast to hide the wriggles. Her mind was racing with potential lies, before she arrived at one.

  “I set him free,” she said. “The headmaster is right, I did bring a rat into school, but I set him free in the park. Just ask Raj – he told me to do it. You should go and look for the rat in the park,” she added, suddenly cupping Armitage through her blazer pocket, as the little rodent was squirming like crazy now.

  There was a deathly pause. Then Burt sneered, “You are lying, my dear.”

  “I’m not!” said Zoe, a little too quickly.

  “Don’t lie to the nice man,” bellowed Sheila. “We can’t ’ave another filthy disease-ridden creature runnin’ around the flat.”

  “I’m not lying,” protested Zoe.

  “I can smell it,” said the vile man, his vile nose twitching. “I can smell a rat from miles away.”

  Burt sniffed the air, then wheezed. “Baby ones smell especially sweet…” He licked his lips, and Zoe shuddered.

  “There’s no rat here,” said Zoe.

  “Hand it over,” said Burt. “Then I give it a quick whack with this special high-tech rodent stunner.” He produced a bloody mallet from his back pocket. “It’s painless really, they don’t feel a thing. Then he can join his friends for a nice play in here.” Burt indicated the cage, by kicking it hard with the heel of his dirty boot.

  Zoe was horrified, but composed herself before she spoke. “You are quite wrong, I am afraid. There is no rat here. If it comes back we will of course call you immediately. Thank you.”

  “Hand it over. Now,” wheezed the sinister man.

  Meanwhile, Sheila was studying the step-daughter she loathed intently, and noticed the awkward positioning of her left hand.

  “Ya vile creature!” accused the woman, as she yanked her stepdaughter’s hand away. “It’s in her blazer.”

  “Madam, you hold her down,” directed Burt. “I can whack the rat through the cloth. There will be less blood on the carpet that way.”

  “Nooooooooooooooo!” screamed Zoe. She tried to wrestle her arm away from her stepmother, but the woman was a lot bigger and stronger than her stepdaughter. The little girl lost her balance and crashed to the floor. Armitage wriggled out of her pocket and started scurrying across the carpet.

  “Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa aaahhhhhhhhhhhhhh hhhhhhhh!!!!!!!!!!!!!! !!!!” screamed her stepmother. “Get it away from me!”

  “Trust me, he won’t feel a thing,” wheezed Burt, as he got down on his hands and knees, brandishing the bloody mallet. His nose twitched as he chased the rat around the room, whacking the implement on to the floor, missing Armitage by millimetres.

  “Stop!” screamed Zoe. “You’ll kill him!”

  She tried to make a charge at the man, but her stepmother held her back by her arms.

  “Come here, you little beauty!” whispered Burt, as he brought the mallet crashing down repeatedly on to the dusty carpet, plumes of ingrained dirt now exploding into the air with every thwack.

  Armitage scurried this way and that, trying desperately to avoid being whacked. The mallet walloped down, just catching his tail.

  “Eeeeeeeekkkkkkkkk!” squealed the rat in pain, and he dashed off to hide under Zoe’s bed. This did not deter Burt, who, without taking off his dark glasses, got down on to his belly and slithered under the bed like a snake, flailing his mallet wildly from side to side.

  Zoe writhed out of her stepmother’s grasp and launched herself on to the man’s back as soon as he appeared from under the bed. The little girl had never hit anyone before, and now she had leaped astride his back like a cowboy on a bull at an American rodeo, thumping his shoulders with all her might.

  Within seconds her stepmother yanked her off by her hair and pinned her against the wall, before Burt disappeared under the bed again.

  “Zoe, no! You’re an animal. Ya ’ear me? An animal!” screamed the woman. Zoe had never seen her stepmother so uncontrollably angry.

  Muffled under the bed, Zoe could hear thud after thud of the mallet crashing down on the carpet. Tears were streaming down the girl’s face. She couldn’t believe her beloved little friend was going to meet such a violent end.

  THWACK!

  And then there was silence. Burt wriggled out from under the bed. Exhausted, he sat on the floor. In one hand he held the bloody mallet. Between the fingers of his other hand he held a lifeless Armitage, dangling by his
tail, before announcing triumphantly…

  “Gotcha!”

  rawn cocktail crisp?” offered Sheila to the man.

  “Mmm, don’t mind if I do,” Burt replied.

  “Just one.”

  “Sorry.”

  “So, er, wot ’appens to all these rats?” continued Sheila in her poshest voice as she showed Burt to the door. Zoe was sitting crying on her bed. Her stepmother was so appalled by Zoe’s behaviour she had locked her in her room. As much as Zoe rattled the handle and banged on the door, it wouldn’t move. The little girl was utterly broken. There was nothing to do but weep. She listened to her stepmother show the repulsive man out.

  “Well I tell the kiddies…” replied Burt in a tone that was meant to be reassuring but actually sounded disturbing, “…that they all go to a special hotel for rats.”

  Sheila laughed. “And they believe ya?”

  “Yes, the little fools think they all get to frolic outdoors in the sunshine, before relaxing in a spa area, having massages and facials and the like!”

  “But really…?” whispered Sheila.

  “I pulverise them! In my special pulverisation machine!”

  Sheila let out a gurgling laugh. “Is it painful?”

  “Very!”

  “Ha ha! Good. Do ya stamp on ’em?”

  “No.”

  “Oh, I would stamp on ’em and then pulverise them. Then they would suffer twice as much!”

  “I must try that, Mrs…?”

  “Oh, just call me Sheila. Another prawn cocktail crisp?”

  “Ooh, yes please.”

  “Just one.”

  “Sorry. Such a delicate flavour,” mused Burt.

  “Exactly like a real prawn cocktail, I dunno how they do it.”

  “Have you ever had a real prawn cocktail?”

  “Nah,” replied the woman. “But I don’t need to. They taste just the same as the crisps.”

  “But of course. Madam, if you don’t mind me saying, you are an extremely beautiful woman. I would love to take you out for dinner tonight.”

  “Oh, ya naughty man!” flirted Zoe’s stepmother.

  “Then I can treat you to one of my very special burgers.”

  “Ooh, yeah please!” The horrific woman added another sickeningly girly little laugh at the end. Zoe couldn’t believe her stepmother was actually flirting so outrageously with this loathsome individual.

  “Just me, you and all the burgers we can stuff down our gobs…” mused Burt.

  “How romantic…” whispered Sheila.

  “Until later, my Princess…”

  Zoe heard the door close, and her stepmother thunder back along the corridor to her daughter’s bedroom, before unlocking the door.

  “You’re in so much trouble, young lady!” said Sheila. She must have kissed Burt goodbye because she now had black marker pen above her lip.

  “I don’t care!” said Zoe. “All I care about is Armitage. I have to save him.”

  “Who’s Armitage?!”

  “He’s the rat.”

  “Why would ya call a rat that?” asked the woman, incredulous.

  “It’s a long story.”

  “Well it’s a completely stupid name for a rat.”

  “What would you call him?”

  Sheila thought for a long while.

  “Well?” asked Zoe.

  “I’m finkin’.”

  A long silence followed during which Sheila looked like she was concentrating very hard. Finally she said, “Ratty!”

  “A bit unoriginal,” muttered Zoe.

  That made her stepmother even more furious.

  “You’re evil. Ya know that, young lady. Evil! I’ve got a good mind to throw ya out on to the street! How could ya attack dat lovely man?”

  “Lovely?! The man is a rat murderer!”

  “No, no, no. They all go to a special rat sanctuary and have spa treatments…”

  “Do you think I am completely stupid? He kills them.”

  “He doesn’t stamp on ’em though. They are just pulverised. Shame, really.”

  “That’s monstrous!”

  “Who cares? One less rat.”

  “No. I have to save my little Armitage. I have to—”

  Zoe stood up and headed for the door. Her stepmother pressed her firmly back down on to the bed with her considerable weight.

  “You’re not goin’ anywhere,” said the woman. “Yer grounded. Ya hear me? G-R-O-N-D-E-D! Grounded!”

  “There’s a ‘U’ in grounded,” said Zoe.

  “No dere isn’t!” Sheila was really angry now. “Ya aint leaving dis room until I say so. Ya can sit in ’ere, fink about what ya ’ave done. And rot!”

  “Wait until my dad gets home!”

  “What’s dat useless git gonna do?”

  Zoe’s eyes stung. Dad might have fallen on hard times, but he was still her father. “Don’t you dare talk about him like that!”

  “All he’s good for is benefit money and a roof over me ’ead.”

  “I’ll tell him you said that.”

  “He knows it already. I tell ’im every night,” snorted the gruesome lady, with a guttural laugh.

  “He loves me. He won’t let you treat me like this!” protested Zoe.

  “If ’e loves ya so much, why does he spend his whole life down de boozer?”

  Zoe fell silent. She didn’t have an answer to that. The words broke her heart into millions of tiny pieces.

  “Ha!” said the woman. With that Sheila slammed the door shut and locked it behind her.

  Zoe rushed to the window and peered down at the road. She had a pretty good view of it, what with being thirty-seven floors up in the crumbling tower block. In the distance, she could see Burt speeding off in his van. He wasn’t much of a driver: she watched as he knocked off a few car wing mirrors and nearly ran over an old lady, before the van zoomed off out of view.

  Outside, the sky grew dark, but the thousands of streetlights in the town lit up the outside world. They bathed her room in an ugly orange glow that could never be turned off.

  Late into the evening, Dad finally returned from the pub. There was shouting between him and Sheila as there always was, and the slamming of doors. Dad never came into Zoe’s bedroom to see her; most likely he had fallen asleep on the sofa before he had the chance.

  Night came and went without sleep for Zoe. Her head was spinning and her heart was aching. In the morning she heard her dad go out, presumably to wait for the pub to open, and her stepmother turn on the TV. Zoe banged and banged on the door, but her stepmother would not let her out.

  I am a prisoner, thought Zoe. She lay back down on her bed in despair, thirsty, hungry and desperately needing a wee.

  Now what do prisoners do? she said to herself. They try to escape…!

  rmitage was in terrible danger. Zoe needed to save him. And fast.

  She remembered that Burt parked his filthy burger van outside her school every day, so if she could just break out of her room she could follow him. Then she could find where he imprisoned all the rats before they were ‘pulverised’.

  Zoe pondered all the different ways in which she might try to escape:

  1. She could tie all her bed sheets together, then try and abseil to safety. Though, as she lived on the 37th floor, she wasn’t sure the sheets would get her much further down than the 24th. Chance of death – high.

  2. There was always the birdman option. Make some kind of glider from coat-hangers and knickers and fly down to freedom. Chance of death – high; and more importantly Zoe didn’t have enough pairs of clean knickers.

  3. Dig. Tunnels had been a favourite method of escape for soldiers in prisoner of war camps. Chance of death – low.

  The problem with number three was that below Zoe’s room was the flat of a moany old lady who, despite having the yappiest dogs herself, always went on and on about the noise from above. She would turn Zoe in to her stepmother in no time.

  I could always tunnel sideways!
thought Zoe.

  She unstuck a poster of the latest boy band, and gently tapped the wall behind it with her fingernails. The tapping echoed into the next flat, which meant the wall must be thin. Over the years she had heard a great deal of shouting coming from next door, but it was too muffled to deduce what kind of people lived there – a girl and her parents, Zoe thought, but maybe others too. Whoever they were though, their lives sounded every bit as miserable as Zoe’s, if not more so.

  The plan itself was simple. The poster could be replaced at any time to hide what was going on. All she needed now was something to tunnel through the wall with. Something metal and sharp. A key, she thought, and ran excitedly to the door, only to remember that the key was on the other side. That was the whole reason she had to escape!

  Duh! she said to herself.

  Zoe rummaged through her belongings, but her ruler, her comb, her pen and her hangers were all made of plastic. Anything plastic would snap instantly if she tried to hollow out a wall with it.

  Zoe caught sight of herself in the mirror and realised the answer was staring her in the face. Her braces. The blasted things would at last be of some use6. Zoe pulled them out with her fingers, and dashed to the wall. Without even pausing to wipe the spit off them she scratched at the wall. No wonder the braces were painful and rubbed against her gums, and got stuck in Raj’s cardigan – the metal was sharp! Quickly the plaster from the wall was flaking on to the floor. Soon Zoe had scratched through the plaster to the bricks behind it, and the braces became thick with all the paint and plaster and dust from the wall.

  Suddenly Zoe heard the key in the lock turn in her bedroom door and she leaped up and stuck the poster back on the wall. Just in time, she remembered to shove her braces back in her mouth, though there wasn’t time to wipe them first.

  Sheila looked at her stepdaughter suspiciously. She looked like she knew Zoe was up to something, but she didn’t know what. Yet.

  “Do ya want some grub? I suppose I betta feed ya,” said the vile woman. “If ya starve to death I’ll have social services all over me like a bleedin’ rash.” Sheila’s beady little eyes circled the room. Something was definitely different. She just couldn’t quite put her chubby finger on it.