The Twyning

by Terence Blacker

  The doctor turns toward me. “I shall ask my assistant, Mr. Smith, to help me reveal a tiny part of what we found.” He takes a pair of gloves out of his pocket and grips a bottom corner of the sack. I take hold of the other corner.

  “If you believe that there is no rat problem in this town, I would ask you to look at this!”

  With a sudden movement, he tips the sack. A deluge of rats’ bodies — dark, wet, many flecked with blood around their mouths — tumbles onto the stage, causing the MP to jump back in alarm.

  There are screams, uproar, in the crowd.

  “I . . .” The MP steps forward, looking with disgust at the pile of dead rodents. “I shall do something about this,” he cries. “Vote for me and you will be voting for a city free of the rat menace forever. The great rodent crusade starts here!”

  . . . to my whole being. I could no longer feel my paws, although I could smell the blood on them.

  Something had happened to my eyes. They were encrusted, swollen, closed up. I was thirsty beyond longing, but the taster’s instinct within me, which stopped me drinking from the puddles and gutters as I made my way through the world above, was stronger than my need.

  I have no idea how long I traveled. Down lanes, over ditches, in the damp shadows of back alleys, along strange walls and through parks and gardens, passing within a few lengths of the enemy, past the barking of dogs, the echo of horses’ hooves on cobbles, I followed the only sound that had meaning for me.

  Malaika.

  There were times that day when I stopped to rest, but the pain grew stronger when my body was no longer moving. I knew that if I slept for even a moment, it would be the end of me.

  I shall never know how I reached the end of that journey, sick, exhausted, but just alive. For those few hours, I felt invisible, and perhaps I was.

  There was a lane. The wet mud on it soothed my burning paws.

  I was close now.

  Malaika was near.

  . . . that night. My stomach aches from the sausages, bread, and pie we have bought from Mrs. Bailey’s shop on our way home from the town hall. At first, the shopkeeper was suspicious about the money we laid upon her counter, and she asked where the likes of us had come upon two shillings.

  “Politics,” Caz said with a laugh.

  “Politics? What do you two scruffs know about that?”

  Remembering it now, Caz laughs. “But it was politics,” she says, staring at the flickering candle. Her eyes are bright, and her cheeks are shining, still greasy from the food she has just eaten. “And rats.”

  “Poor beasts.” I think of the bodies we tipped from the sack into the canal on our way home. They had served their purpose.

  “How can you declare war on an animal?” Caz asks suddenly. “I mean, it’s just stupid.”

  “It’s as I told you. Rats are the enemy, according to the doctor.”

  “Well, he’s an idiot.” Caz has an argumentative look in her eye. “How can we fight this great enemy? With soldiers? With an army and guns?”

  “Gas, more like.”

  “I don’t think so.” She shakes her head. “Gas is too dangerous. That politician’s not going to get elected if people start getting ill from poison.”

  My thoughts go to the Cock Inn. “Dogs, maybe.”

  “How will they find the rats? They’ll just run away.”

  “Not always. Sometimes they fight.”

  Caz reaches into her dress and takes out Malaika. She sets the rat down gently between us. The little gray-and-white beast sniffs the air, her whiskers trembling. Caz strokes her with a single finger between her ears.

  It is good to see Caz and Malaika together.

  “There’s one rat who’ll be safe,” I say.

  Caz reaches into a paper bag where a last slice of chicken pie remains. She breaks off a corner and lays it on the ground in front of the rat.

  “They won’t get you,” she murmurs.

  Malaika nibbles, but not in the way of a hungry animal. It is almost as if she is being polite to us.

  I think of the doctor, the politician, and their great campaign. They are not going to give up easily.

  “They’ll want us to help in the war,” I tell Caz.

  She frowns, knowing what I am saying is true.

  “We’ve got no choice,” I say. “We need to eat.”

  “What will they want you to do?” Caz keeps her eye on Malaika. There is sadness in her voice.

  “All the dirty stuff. The things they don’t want to do themselves. That’s how it is. The doctor wants me to be there tomorrow. Mr. Petheridge is coming to discuss the campaign.”

  “They really do think it’s a war, don’t they? They think they’re generals.” She pushes the morsel of pie closer to her pet rat. “Eat up, Malaika.”

  The rat moves away. Her dark eyes are fixed on the tangled heap of rubbish behind where Caz is sitting.

  “He’s afraid of rats, the doctor,” I say. “I saw it when he was giving his lecture and a beast appeared in the hall. That’s why he likes me to be around.”

  Caz is no longer listening. She is watching her pet rat, which stands motionless, staring into the darkness.

  . . . I reached a mountain made of dead trees and the broken waste of human homes. Although I could hardly see now, I sensed a light ahead. It was not the moon, but something that seemed to come from within the mountain itself.

  I entered the mountain.

  I sniffed the air. The enemy was near. Or, at least, the young of the enemy. And something else, a scent that filled me with longing.

  I tumbled forward a length, maybe two lengths, following the sound within me, answering the question. I rested, breathing heavily, gathering strength. Then I moved again. Closer, ever closer to Malaika.

  The smell of humans was becoming strong now, the sound of them louder in my ears. I sensed movement.

  Then I felt a revelation within me.

  — Who is it? Who is there?

  With the little strength that was left within me, I revealed.

  — Efren. I am Efren.

  Malaika was near. I knew it, but there was no reply, only the faint smell of fear.

  Once more I tried.

  — It is Efren. I have come for you.

  That is the last I remember.

  . . . as Malaika moves away from us, her body alert. She is more like a wild animal than a pet.

  Caz follows her eyes. “Malaika can hear something,” she says.

  “Maybe a hedgehog snoring. Or another rat foraging for food.”

  “It’s moving closer.” Caz is whispering now. “Malaika’s calling out.”

  I listen. I have good ears, but I can hear no sound coming from Caz’s fancy rat.

  “I hear something.” Caz breathes the words. “Something about offering.”

  “I can’t hear anything. Caz, this is —”

  “She’s calling another rat. Look at her, Peter!”

  It is true that the fancy rat is behaving strangely now. Her gray-and-white body is rigid. She is motionless except for the twitching of her nostrils.

  “Offering. Offering. Can’t you hear that word?”

  It has been a long day. We have eaten too much. Maybe Caz is in a dream while still waking.

  “It’s time for us to go to bed,” I say gently.

  There is a stirring, the smallest movement of dry, dead leaves, from the rubbish near where she is sitting.

  “Caz, it’s a hedgehog.” To tell the truth, I am wondering whether she has suddenly become a lunatic. “Or maybe a mouse.”

  Without a word, she points at Malaika. The rat is taking slow sleepwalking steps away from us.

  I reach for her. To my astonishment, her head twitches backward and she gives my finger a savage nip.

  “Ah!” I look at my finger. Blood is seeping from the two holes, the size of pinpricks, made by her teeth.

  “What did she do that for?”

  Caz ignores me. She is still watching Malaika.
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br />   There is another sound of movement from the tip, and at that moment, Malaika darts forward and disappears from view.

  We wait. The scrabbling sounds are more distant now. There is the unmistakable sound of a rat’s squeak.

  Caz turns to me slowly.

  “Not offering at all,” she says.

  “Who wasn’t offering?”

  “I can hear it in my brain,” she whispers. “What they’re saying to each other.”

  “Caz, you’re scaring me.”

  Her eyes are wide with wonder. She has a strange little smile on her face.

  “Not offering, but Efren. What does Efren mean?”

  — help . . .

  — I need help. Malaika, I need help.

  — The kingdom . . . death . . . the enemy.

  I felt the touch of Malaika, her revelation.

  — Efren, Efren.

  Then, beyond her, something that made me believe that I had died.

  Another revelation, different from any I had heard before.

  — We’ll help you, Efren. You are among friends now. Sleep, rest.

  Who was revealing to me? In my fever, I believed it was a human.

  . . . as if it is not a pet rat she is looking for in the rubbish that surrounds us, but a ghost.

  “Tell me you won’t laugh,” she murmurs, her eyes still fixed on the part of the tip where Malaika disappeared.

  “Caz? What’s going on?”

  Now she turns to me. “Do you remember when we gave Malaika her name?”

  “Of course I do.”

  “The name didn’t come from me.”

  “What are you talking about? You just said ‘She’s Malaika.’ ”

  “I heard it. Inside my head. She told me.”

  “She? Who’s she?”

  Caz closes her eyes. “Malaika told me. I heard a voice in my head. I told myself it was the voice of my own imagining, but I knew in my heart that I was being told. She was telling me her name.”

  “You’re saying a rat spoke to you?”

  “Yes. In my head.”

  “Caz, this is —”

  “And then, just a moment ago, I heard another voice.”

  “That offering thing?”

  “Efren. It’s a name.”

  She moves toward the part of the tip where Malaika must be hiding. What else can I do? I follow.

  “We’ve got to find her,” she says. “She wants our help.”

  There are times when it is best to say nothing.

  She pulls at a branch, then carefully removes some broken bricks. On her hands and knees, she makes her way into the tangled rubbish.

  Moments later, she has found her rat.

  “Oh, Malaika.” Her voice is soft. “What is this?”

  She shuffles backward toward me, slowly. When she turns, she holds something in her hand. At first, I think it is Malaika. Then I realize that the shape is bigger. The only trace of color on it is a flash of white on its forehead.

  “A rat,” I say. My words hang in the air, like the most stupid and obvious thing that has ever been said. “A beast.”

  “He’s alive.” She lays the rat near the candle. Malaika now emerges from the tip and sniffs at the newcomer.

  I notice that each of its paws is raw and pink. Its skin is loose on its body, as if it has not eaten for some time.

  “Caz.” I speak quietly. “This is a wild rat.”

  “An animal’s an animal. It needs help.”

  There is no arguing with Caz Lewis when she is in this mood. I look closer at the rat. I notice that there is blood on its mouth, like those I carried in the sack.

  “It’s been gassed,” I say. “Don’t give it water.”

  Caz picks up the limp body and lays it in her lap. Malaika moves closer to the wild rat. It is as if she knows it.

  “That’s right, Malaika,” Caz says. “He needs warmth.”

  We are there, not moving, for half an hour. I watch. Caz murmurs softly, all the while stroking the sick rat. We must make a strange sight.

  Eventually, the rat stirs and tries to get to its feet. Too weak, it slumps back.

  “We’ll help you, Efren,” Caz whispers. “You are among friends now. Sleep, rest.”

  “Caz . . .”

  She smiles, looking down at the wild rat. “This is Efren. He’s with us now.”

  . . . Efren, Malaika, Peter, and Caz.

  “Together?”

  — Together.

  . . . has survived. Too scared to be in our little room at the heart of the tip, he is now a neighbor, living deep in the rubbish no more than a yard from where Caz and I sleep.

  Caz has cleared a narrow passage to where the rats are living. There she has made a home, with a plate of water, scraps to eat, rags for a nest — everything a rat could need.

  Late at night, we can hear Malaika and her new friend rustling in the rubbish that surrounds us. There are times when I wonder about what my life has become.

  Caz, though, is happy. She still works, dancing for pennies in town, but she hurries back as the light is fading, eager to see her beasts. Caring for something, even a rat, makes her more alive. There is a light in her eyes. She is chatty. She laughs more than she used to.

  What do we do next? We learn rat, of course.

  At first, when Caz tells me she is hearing voices, I keep my thoughts to myself. Yes, Caz, I think, of course you are.

  But then it goes on. She tells me what Malaika is saying to the sick rat. Sometimes she goes quiet, but her eyes are alive with a conversation she is having.

  In her brain.

  With a rat.

  To tell the truth, it begins to annoy me. She used to talk to me all the time. Now she sits in silence with a crazy smile on her face. Sometimes she laughs at some kind of ratty joke.

  Then, after a while, I begin to worry. What if my Caz is going soft in the head? What will I do then? What can I do to bring her back to me?

  But it is not only rats’ thoughts she can read.

  “You don’t believe me, do you, Peter?” she says one night.

  I’m trying to sleep after another long evening of silent rat conversation.

  “They must be really interesting, those rats.” There’s a hardness in my voice that takes even me by surprise. “You’ve more to say to them than to me.”

  “Efren’s getting better. He is strong. Sometimes when he reveals, it’s so loud that it hurts my head.”

  “Reveals what?”

  “I’ve told you. That’s how rats talk to one another — by revelation.”

  “So why can’t I hear his voice?”

  “Perhaps you have to believe. If you believe, you’ll hear.”

  I really don’t like this talk of believing. Caz is beginning to sound like a priest.

  “Listen to them, Peter. Just try.”

  “Maybe they can tell me where the beasts are hiding.” I laugh. “So I can help kill them tomorrow.”

  Caz is silent. Maybe she’s talking to rats; maybe she’s just upset.

  As I drift off to sleep, I hear her voice.

  “You don’t understand.”

  The fact is, there is so much going on during my daytime life that there is not enough room in my brain for the idea that I should be chatting to beasts.

  A few days after the meeting outside the town hall, I return there in the company of the doctor.

  There is no sack of dead rats this time, no speeches. Instead, we go straight into the building. With the new cheerful, loud voice that I have noticed he uses these days, the doctor announces himself to the man behind the desk in the big entrance hall.

  Soon afterward, Mr. Robinson, the younger man who had been with us when we visited the sewer, descends the stairs. He shakes hands with the doctor and, without a glance in my direction, leads us upstairs and through some double doors.

  A group of men in dark suits — there must be almost twenty of them — is seated around a long table. Among them, I notice Mr. Petheridge. At th
e head of the table is Mr. Woodcock, the other man who visited the sewer with us.

  “Dr. Ross-Gibbon,” he says. “Very good of you to join us.”

  “Gentlemen.” The doctor’s smile takes in the whole room. He sits in a chair beside Mr. Petheridge.

  “Ah.” Mr. Woodcock’s smile grows a little colder. “You’ve brought the boy. Strictly speaking, he shouldn’t —”

  Mr. Robinson, seated beside him, murmurs something. I pick up the word “simple.”

  Mr. Woodcock nods impatiently and points to a chair in the corner of the room. I take my seat and listen. Sometimes it can be useful being an idiot.

  “The purpose of this meeting,” Mr. Woodcock announces, “is to put some detail on the plan of Mr. Petheridge to rid this borough of a great and growing menace to the health of our citizens — the rodent population. Mr. Petheridge, would you like to add anything?”

  The politician looks bored. “I am not the rodent expert here,” he says. “I am but a humble servant of the people. What voters want — nay, what they demand — is a war on the rat. An end to the killing of their children.”

  A man sitting across the table from the MP raises a hand. “Mr. Petheridge, we are a peace-loving borough,” he says. “Maybe the word ‘war’ is a little strong. May I suggest the phrase ‘eradication campaign’?”

  “It’s a war.” The doctor sits forward in his seat. “And ultimately it is a war for the survival of mankind. A war that we must win.”

  “So how would this war be waged?” one of the older councilors asks.

  “There are various options,” says the doctor. “We could introduce a disease, but that would take time. I am confident that, with the manpower, we can use traditional methods — baiting, drowning, dogs, and so on — to solve the problem. But rats move from one area to another when attacked. If our campaign could be quick and effective, covering the whole borough, they will be panicked and vulnerable, making our task easier.”

  “And how will you find them?” asks Mr. Woodcock.

  “We have means. There are many rat experts — hunters, official and unofficial — in the borough. We shall use them.”

  I am just thinking that matters are not going the way of the doctor and Mr. Petheridge when the conversation takes an alarming turn.