She looked at me, not angry but amused by my defiance. Unhurried and confident, she circled me.
As I turned, facing her as she went, something I saw among the courtiers caught my eye.
A rat with one leg missing.
Could it be? The next time Ozorka reached the same spot, I looked more closely.
It was my friend Fang. Beside him was Floke, and they were both surrounded by warriors. With even a glance, I could tell they were battered and exhausted. Their pelts, scarred and bloody, hung on them as if somehow they had been hollowed out. Their eyes were dull, half closed. My poor friends had been tortured. What a terrible day it had been for them when I had entered their lives in this very hollow.
There was a splash from the water behind me, and for a trice, Ozorka was distracted.
Behind her, high on a ledge, the queen stirred. She yawned, and as if sensing that Her Majesty was tiring of my little dance with Ozorka, the correctors moved closer.
Another splash.
My eyes remained fixed on Ozorka; I became aware, from deep within me, of a singing in the blood.
Something was wrong.
I am a taster, and even as I faced my death, my senses were alerting me to danger in the air.
From a corner of the Great Hollow, I heard squeals of alarm.
— Poison! Poison!
The other members of the Court of Tasting were sensing it, too. There was restlessness among the citizens, the scent of fear.
Near me, Ozorka bared her teeth and moved toward me.
Beyond her, I saw a movement in the river. The water was bubbling. A thin blanket of steam covered its dark surface.
Citizens near the banks seemed agitated. They tried to move but appeared only able to twitch their limbs.
— Danger!
The revelations were louder now.
— Danger in the water!
— Flee, citizens!
The warning in my blood was raging now, but Ozorka had only thoughts of death, my death, on her mind. I saw the muscles around her hindquarters tense, but before she could pounce on me, I moved in the one direction she least expected.
I darted forward, hurling myself off the ledge of the Rock of State, through the steam, and into the bubbling water.
Dive. Dive. I swam deeper and deeper through the foaming waters, defying the scream of warning from within me.
Better to drown than be killed by Ozorka.
Keep swimming. Dive. My body was bursting, agonized by lack of air, but still I forced myself downward in the water.
I must have lost consciousness, because the next thing I remember was floating to the surface. I took a breath of air. It was like drinking fire. I gulped water, but that only made the pain worse.
What was happening? On the shore nearby, I heard the groans and screams of rats, twitching and writhing, their eyes protruding from their agonized bodies. Something was killing the kingdom.
I dived again and was swept downstream by the river.
Deeper. Deeper. Darkness . . .
I was floating on the water. My insides felt as if they had been scoured by a knife, but I was alive. There was something bright above me. It was the moon.
I was in the world above.
. . . when he finds those dead beasts.
It is the following night and I am at home, in the tip, with Caz. I am tired after another day working with the doctor, but there is a warmth in my heart that comes from a full stomach.
It was not happy work I had done today, but I had made another shilling.
“Do his face.”
Caz lies under the coverlet she has sewn together from rags, sacking, feathers, and wool she has found around the tip. The pet rat lies asleep near her hand.
“Go on. Do his face, Peter.”
I think of the doctor, how his face seems actually to get longer, his eyes widening, his eyebrows heading for his hairline, when he is excited.
I make the face, and Caz laughs and hugs herself.
She likes my stories. Sometimes it is as if the things I tell her have not really happened but are part of a story land that has nothing to do with the two of us, alone with a pet rat in a rubbish tip.
But it is no bedtime story, what happened today. I have told her how the doctor and I went to a small building near the drain where we dropped the poison, how we met two men from the council, Mr. Woodcock, a man with a mustache and a stomach that tugs against his waistcoat, and Mr. Robinson, a tall man with the look of someone who has just been given some really bad news.
I tell Caz about the arrival of Mr. Petheridge in his carriage. He was late and made no attempt to disguise his lack of interest.
“The building wasn’t really a house at all, Caz. It was the top of some steps that led underground into the sewer.”
“Was it dark?”
“Pitch-black. All the men are carrying lanterns. I’m at the back, trying not to fall into a sewer.”
So the story continues. How we reached a narrow path beside the underground river that looked so dark and slow in the lamplight it might have been molasses.
“I used to love molasses,” Caz murmurs sleepily.
“So there we are, walking beside the river. It smells strong now, and when I catch a glimpse of Mr. Petheridge’s face, I almost burst out laughing. He is looking around as if a ghost is about to jump out at him.”
“Does he say anything?”
“He turned to the doctor and said, ‘I really hope this is worth it, Gibbon. I shan’t be able to wear this suit in decent company for weeks.’ ”
After about five minutes’ walking, there was a bend in the path and the river. Mr. Robinson, who was leading us, stopped as we entered a large cavern. He lowered his lantern slowly.
“Oh, jeepers. Oh, my goodness, me.”
“That was Mr. Petheridge?”
“It was. He looked as if he were going to faint clean away.”
Ahead of us, the path was blocked by the dead bodies of rats. Beneath the walls nearby, they were two or three deep, as if the beasts had scrabbled to escape.
“Poor things.” Caz placed her hand over her pet rat’s head. “Don’t listen, Malaika.”
“So the doctor gave this little speech about the diseases carried by rats. He said he had conducted a little experiment to show the gentlemen from the council how serious the problem was. He said these rats were the tip of the iceberg. Then he went on about the need for a war on rats. I began to fill the sack I had brought with me with the bodies.”
Caz squeezes her eyes shut.
“I was doing what the doctor told me to do,” I explain.
“I don’t like the sound of your doctor.”
“While I was filling the sack, the MP, Mr. Petheridge, began to speak. He told the men from the council that public health was important with an election coming up. He said he expected the council to support his campaign. He was just beginning to explain how he had called a public meeting when he gave a little scream.”
“What? Why?”
“He thought he saw something large swimming toward him in the water. He pointed down at it and said, ‘It’s a rat! I think it’s still alive.’ One of the men from the council held his lamp up. ‘That is not a rat, sir,’ he said. ‘Thank goodness,’ said the MP. ‘What is it?’ ‘Human waste, sir.’ ‘Oh, God!’ said Mr. Petheridge.’ ”
And I make my revolted MP’s face again.
Caz laughs. “What of the sack of rats?”
“The doctor wants it for the public meeting outside the town hall tomorrow. In the morning.”
“More work for Mr. Smith.”
“It’s a long way to carry a sack of rats.”
“Here’s what we shall do,” says Caz. “We shall go together.”
. . . on the bank of the river. My body ached and I breathed with difficulty. A winter sun was in the sky. The light around me was clear, dangerous. A vision of horror that had been the Great Hollow flashed before me.
And was gone.
>
Live. Survive. Through me, the kingdom. It is now that matters, not then.
I tried to stand but my legs were too weak to move.
Think.
— You are not as other rats.
It was Alpa — still alive, at least in my thoughts.
I am a hearer.
I lay, thinking not of my pain or of my fear, but of my power. A spark within me. A scratch of sound. I listened and it became clearer. I heard the groans and wheezes of a few citizens in the world below, not yet dead.
Other, stranger sounds, nearer to me, tried to break through. A small number of rats had lived. Or perhaps they were visitors from another kingdom, alerted by the scent of death.
There was an otter downstream. Two squirrels were squabbling in a tree. The trem of humans on a road nearby.
Breathing hard now, I closed the door on all these things.
Hear. I must hear to save my life.
It is a muscle like any other, the gift of hearing. I felt what little strength I had draining from my body. Noises grew quieter, the noise of the night, the noise of my own breath, of my heartbeat, until I was in a world of perfect silence.
Yet there, deep within me, I heard a distant whisper. I concentrated my whole being upon it.
Malaika.
I knew that sound. Where had I heard it? It warmed me. It made me feel stronger.
Tell me. Tell me again.
Malaika.
A face looking up at me. Behind it a mass of rats, trapped, starving, angry.
Malaika.
A fragile. The fragile. I had promised to see her again, and now that promise was calling out to me.
Malaika.
And I knew where I had to go.
. . . as we carry the sack full of dead rats through the streets the next morning. They look at us in our rags, with our dirty faces, and wonder if our heavy load has been stolen.
If only they knew.
As we approach the town hall, there are notices nailed on some of the trees. They read:
ONE O’CLOCK TODAY. YOUR MEMBER OF PARLIAMENT,
MR. VALENTINE PETHERIDGE MP, WILL SPEAK ON
A MATTER OF URGENT CONCERN TO LOCAL PEOPLE.
“They’re only animals,” Caz mutters as we continue on our way.
“They’re the enemy, the doctor says.”
“How can they be the enemy?”
“You’ll see.”
When we reach the town hall, a small wooden stage has been put up on a little green across the street. There is no sign of the doctor or the MP or anyone else.
I lug the sack under the stage. We wait, sitting together on the steps leading to the stage. Now and then passersby glance at us, as if even waiting in a public place on a cold winter’s morning is an act of sin.
“Ah, Mr. Smith.”
We must have been waiting an hour before I hear the doctor’s voice.
I stand up, and so does Caz.
The doctor wears a busy, distracted expression on his face and has a bundle of papers under his arm. I have noticed that since Mr. Petheridge has talked of him as a scientist, he has combed his hair less, and he mutters to himself a little bit more. I think he believes it is how scientists are supposed to behave.
“And where is the sack?”
I point under the stage.
“Excellent.” The doctor suddenly notices Caz and gives a little start, as if she has suddenly appeared out of nowhere. “You have company, Mr. Smith.”
Caz gives a little curtsy. “Catherine Lewis at your service, sir.”
There’s something twinkly and mocking in the way that she says this, and the doctor frowns.
“A friend, Mr. Smith? I never knew you had a friend.”
He turns to go, and at that moment Caz surprises me. She stands in front of him, a hard look in her eye.
“We’re hungry,” she says.
The doctor reaches into his waistcoat pocket and takes out two penny pieces. He hands the coins to Caz as if the merest touch of her might infect him with a disease.
There is a pie man on one of the side streets, and that twopence is well spent.
When we return, a small crowd has gathered a few yards in front of the stage. There are men and women of all ages, and children running around the green. If they have anything in common, it is that they have nothing else to do.
Caz and I sit down with our backs against the stage, facing the crowd. The grass is a bit damp but we don’t care. We are earning money today and we’re together.
The truth is, I feel stronger when Caz is there. Alone, I will do anything to avoid being noticed. With her, I don’t mind. The world can stare. I stare straight back at it the way that she does.
She starts to sing.
“Daddy wouldn’t buy me a bow-wow, bow-wow,
Daddy wouldn’t buy me a bow-wow, bow-wow.”
I nudge her.
“Caz!”
“What? My mum used to sing it to me.”
She goes on with the song, louder this time.
“I’ve got a little cat
And I’m very fond of that
But I’d rather have a bow-wow-wow.”
An old couple, dressed in their Sunday best, is looking at her as if singing a song in a public place breaks some important law. She smiles at them and starts the song again.
Just to show I’m not ashamed of my Caz, I start singing along. We’re in the middle of a bow-wow-wow when the doors to the town hall open, and a group of men wearing dark suits and serious expressions walk down the steps.
I see Mr. Woodcock and Mr. Robinson from the council in the group. Following them is the doctor and Mr. Petheridge.
I nudge Caz, and reluctantly, she stops singing.
As the men approach, one of them sees us and makes an impatient sweeping gesture. We get up and move away.
Mr. Woodcock climbs the steps to the stage. As he starts to speak, the doctor edges his way toward us.
“When I need you, Mr. Smith, I shall nod my head. You come and do exactly what I say. Understood?”
Without waiting for my reply, he has gone.
“Ladies and gentlemen.” Mr. Woodcock looks around as if there were a huge crowd here, rather than a few people who happened to be passing by.
“I am Joseph Woodcock. Many of you will know me. I am the public health officer for this borough council.”
No one seems to be listening. Mr. Woodcock puts his hands behind his back, which causes his stomach to stick out farther. He looks like a cockerel that is just about to crow.
“We face a very serious problem,” he shouts. “Something that will affect all of us. I have asked our local member of Parliament, Mr. Valentine Petheridge MP, to speak to you about an important public health campaign that your council will launch in the next few days. Pray silence for Mr. Petheridge.”
The MP climbs the steps. There is a strange look on his face, which I think is meant to be a smile.
“Oh, dear,” says Caz, beside me.
For some reason, her words set me giggling. The elderly couple glances in our direction, frowning fiercely.
Mr. Petheridge struts across the stage. When he starts speaking, it is difficult to hear his words above the chatter. There is something about health, I think. He mentions a “public menace” several times, but what little curiosity there was in the crowd seems to have disappeared. At the back, people are drifting away.
“I am talking”— the MP raises his voice — “about rats!”
A woman standing in front of the stage gives a little scream, and there is laughter. At first, Mr. Petheridge seems flustered, but then he realizes that at least people are listening now.
“You may laugh, but, ladies and gentlemen, what is it that spreads disease throughout this borough? What is it that invades your homes, raids your kitchens, skulks behind the walls, beneath the floors, in the drains and gutters?”
“Rats.” It is the woman who screamed, but no one is laughing now.
“Madam, d
o you know how much of this city’s food is eaten by rats every year?” The MP drops his voice. The chatter in the crowd has died down.
“No, sir,” says the woman.
“One-third. For every three loaves of bread you buy for your family, rats will take one.”
“Eh?” The woman looks around her, but all eyes are on the MP now.
“I shall make you all a promise.” He raises his voice and points a finger to the sky. “If we do nothing, the great rat invasion will grow worse. More of our children will be attacked in their cribs. There will be more disease. Rats are on the march, ladies and gentlemen. They are growing bolder by the day. They are among us.”
Beside me, Caz smiles. “I should have brought Malaika,” she whispers.
“And, ladies and gentlemen, I shall prove it.” Mr. Petheridge beckons to the doctor. “The world expert on rats, Dr. Henry Ross-Gibbon, will now reveal the full and terrifying danger that you and your families, especially your little kiddies, now face.”
The doctor looks in my direction. Leaving Caz, I reach under the stage and pull out the sack of dead beasts.
With some difficulty, I lug them up the steps onto the stage.
The doctor is there, standing beside Mr. Petheridge, as he addresses the silent crowd.
“Ladies and gentlemen. They attack us. They bring disease into our midst. It is my belief that rats now pose the greatest danger to us all. And I can give you proof.” He points to the sack, stained with blood, which is at my feet at the back of the stage.
“Yesterday, the borough chief engineer, Mr. Petheridge, and myself accompanied Mr. Woodcock into the sewers beneath the streets of this borough. There we found millions of rodents, both alive and dying from the very diseases that they can communicate to humans.”
“What’s ’e on about?” a man near the back of the crowd asks.
“I shall tell you,” says the doctor. “The brown rat carries bacteria within its body, and on it there are even greater dangers. Lice. Mites. Fleas. Ticks. All of these things spread diseases among humans, particularly among our little ones. They bring germs from the sewers into our homes, our kitchens, our bedrooms.”
“Speak for yourself, mate,” a joker in the front row calls out, but nobody laughs.
The Twyning Page 13
