by Ged Gillmore
‘Miiaaaaooooowwwwwww,’ yowled Tuck. ‘Let me go!’
He had never been so terrified in his entire life. He just wanted to be dropped so he could run away again, but Mr Pong had grabbed him in such away than his claws found only air, no matter how he kicked or reached or wriggled. He miaowed and miaowed for help, but it was no good. Soon he found himself carried roughly up the steps and into the darkness of the lorry.
WHAT A RAT!
Ginger dozed on and off in the pine tree until halfway through the afternoon, the soft smell of the tree’s needles almost sending her into a trance. Each time she woke, as soon as she’d checked the rats were still in their hole, she remembered how hungry she was. She had, of course, been hungry in her life before, but hunger is not something you get used to by doing it several times. Quite the opposite, in fact. If you’ve ever been really hungry for a long period of time, for all of your life you’ll feel new hunger pangs more than anyone else around you.
Ginger tried to console herself with the fact she was having an adventure. She was away from the farm, footloose and fancy-free. But she was also foodless in a trancey tree and, oh how her bellies were complaining. They grumbled and rumbled, like a fumbling juggler tumbling his dumb-bells. She told them to be humble, to mumble not rumble, but even when she pummelled them, they would not be still. Eventually, nervous their noise would wake the two rats and alert them to her presence, she climbed to a higher branch. She’d been there little more than an hour, watching the early winter sun cross the sky, when at last there was movement below her. One of the rats had left the hole.
‘Nnngg, eek, yawn,’ he squeaked, stretching himself. ‘It has to be said, from my head to my toes, there’s nothing I like more than a good doze.’
Ginger recognised by his voice that this rat was Bumfluff McGuff. In the light of day, he proved to be short-haired and brown with tiny ears and a tail which seemed to have been chopped off halfway along. His friend, Fleabomb, who now appeared beside him, was slightly larger. He had dark shiny eyes, was black rather than brown, and was much fluffier than his friend. Well, can you imagine a more impressive feat of self-discipline than Ginger’s right now? Here she was, as hungry as a hippo who hasn’t had his healthy helping of hummus, and looking down at two rats, stretching themselves and half-awake. She could have easily jumped, landed on top of them and squashed them flat. Then she could have spent the rest of the afternoon eating them. But let me tell you a secret, dear reader, something you must remember for the rest of your life: self-discipline is the key to all success. Without self-discipline you will never achieve anything you want. All successful people know this and all successful cats too. Was Ginger going to be satisfied with catching two thieving rats? Oh stolen stores, no! She wanted all her food back, her entire Spring/ Summer/ Autumn collection. So she swallowed the saliva that was pooling in her mouth and told herself food could wait.
Within a few minutes, brown Bumfluff with his tiny ears and black fluffy Fleabomb with his shiny eyes, had pulled the heavy bag out of the hole where they’d slept and continued on their journey. Naturally, Ginger followed. For the rest of the afternoon she trailed them, always staying far enough back to ensure they wouldn’t hear her. Always downwind to ensure they wouldn’t smell her. Always behind trees and low shrubs to ensure they wouldn’t see her. And always not eating them to ensure … well, you get the picture.
Ginger had been in the Great Dark Forest only once before in her life and, on that occasion, she had come face-to-face with a fox. But the forest seemed less frightening this time. Maybe it was because now she was the hunter; maybe because she was so concentrated on the two rats and their heavy bag; maybe because she was too hungry to feel anything but hungry. Whatever it was, the hours passed quickly, and it was beginning to grow dark when she heard a strange rushing noise.
‘Do yer hear that?’ she heard Bumfluff say. Despite his tiny ears, he had obviously noticed the noise himself. ‘Are we not nearly there? Oh, cheeses in heaven, I don’t think I could have gone any further.’
As Ginger watched, Fleabomb stopped pushing the bag, stood on his furry hind legs and started clapping his front paws together.
‘Nigh!’ he said. ‘Sure, let’s run down and find the others. We’ll let them drag this blooming bag the last little way.’
And with that the two rats scurried off toward the rushing and racing sound. Ginger crept after them, but only as far as the bag of dried lark shanks. Without thinking too hard about it, she bit through the bottom of the bag and started in on the food. Yum and a quarter. Yum and a half. Yum and three quarters. Yum, yum!
‘Must. Stop. Eating,’ she thought. ‘Before. Rats. Get. Back.’
But have you ever seen a cat try to stop eating? Even Ginger, a mighty mistress of self-mastery, couldn’t do it. Yum, yum and a quarter. Yum, yum and a half. Yum, yum and three quarters. Yum, yum, yum! Maybe if the rats had come back any sooner, Ginger would have been discovered and her plans would have been blown. But, fortunately for her, she was a fast eater and was already licking her lips clean before she heard squeaks coming back up the path.
‘Oops,’ she said to herself, somewhat unconvincingly.
She ran to a nearby chestnut tree, climbed it at speed and crawled along a branch so she had a good view of the ground below her. Within a minute, Bumfluff McGuff and Fleabomb McGee appeared on the path, followed by two of the ugliest rats Ginger had ever seen. She could tell at a glance they weren’t native to the forest. Oh vile vermin, no! These were stinky city sewer rats, pale grey from the tips of their twitchy noses to the ragged ends of their thick tails. They were wearing thick black leather jackets which, Ginger saw as they passed below her, had Riff Raff written across the back in thick grimy studs.
‘What d’you blooming well think we are? Baggage handlers?’ said the first of them in a thick city accent. He turned to his equally evil-looking colleague. ‘Can you believe the cheek of them, Vicious Lee?’
‘It’s just with it being so heavy, so,’ said Bumfluff. ‘And us after pushing it all day.’
‘And after pulling it all through the night,’ said Fleabomb, who really was the most atrocious liar. Or quite a good one, depending on your point of view.
‘Yeah, well,’ said the second sewer rat, whose fur was covered in scabs and scratches. ‘We and the lads had to shift all the others. Didn’t we, Dubious? Don’t see us making a fuss about it, do you?’
‘But there’s dozens of ye, and ye’re big and strong,’ said Fleabomb with a tremor in his voice. ‘And only two of us wee ones. Anyways, it’s over here, like. Oh!’
Ginger watched silently from the chestnut tree, the late afternoon light fading by the minute, as the four rats below her looked at the torn and empty bag.
‘What’s your game?’ said the first sewer rat, the one called Dubious. ‘You having a laugh?’
But neither Bumfluff nor Fleabomb said a word. At least, not a useful one.
‘But … but … it … but … I don’t …’ said Bumfluff.
‘What the … It was … How …?’ said Fleabomb.
And they scurried round and round the bag as if that might help them find the missing food. Then they stopped scurrying and turned to the two sewer rats.
‘Well,’ said Bumfluff, finding some composure. ‘Something has obviously happened to this bag, so it has. But this is just one of hundreds. We should still get our payment in full.’
‘Er … what he said!’ said Fleabomb, making sure Bumfluff was between him and the larger rats.
Before the two grey rats could respond, they all turned at the noise of something approaching along the path. When it appeared, Ginger, high in the chestnut tree above, had to put a paw over her mouth to stop herself gasping. She had lived in cities all over the world, travelled on great ships, ventured into sewers and lived under piers. But never in her life had she seen such a huge rat. Even in the half-light of the evening, Ginger could see her clearly. Like Dubious and Vicious Lee, she was grey all over, but
she was much bigger than either of them. She was as long as a table is wide, as broad as a book is long and her tail was on top of that. She had two huge front teeth and a deep, rasping voice.
‘What’s all this about, Sergeant Scard?’ she said to the rat called Vicious Lee.
‘These peasants have lost a bag of loot, Corporal Punishment, ma’am,’ he replied. ‘But they want their payment in full. Isn’t that right, Private Staines?’
‘Yes, sir,’ said the rat called Dubious. ‘Absolutely correct, sir.’
‘Really?’ said the Corporal. ‘Is that so?’
Like the other two city rats she was wearing a black leather jacket which now creaked as she walked over to Bumfluff and Fleabomb.
‘Payment?’ she said. ‘You want payment? Whatever gave you that idea?’
‘Yer did,’ said Bumfluff. ‘Twenty-five num-nums per bag.’
Corporal Punishment laughed a hideously rasping laugh.
‘Well, you can forget that now!’
‘But yer said—’ said Bumfluff.
‘I DON’T CARE WHAT I SAID,’ squeaked the Corporal in huge capital letters. She stood on her two back legs, her full height rearing above the others. ‘To serve his Majesty is payment enough. Be off with you. BE OFF!’
Well, Fleabomb and Bumfluff didn’t need telling a third time. They turned on their heels (rats do have heels, you know) and scurried into the undergrowth so fast they were little more than a brown and black blur. Corporal Punishment chuckled nastily, bumped her front paws back down to the ground and led the other Riff Raff rats back down the path and out of sight.
High in the tree above, Ginger thought, ‘His Majesty?’ Then she thought, ‘The King?!’
The idea that King Rat really did exist made her tremble all over. It made her remember night was falling and she was deep in the Great Dark Forest. All her life she had heard stories of how evil King Rat was, and how he controlled all the rats in the world through fear. How terrible his torturous deeds were. If there really was a King Rat, and these rats really were working for him, then she’d be crazy to continue. But then she looked down at the forest floor below her and saw the empty food bag lying flat and forlorn. She remembered these rats had taken all the food she’d worked so hard to store and smoke and save for winter. And she thought of Tuck and Minnie, helpless on the farm.
‘King Rat?’ she said out loud to herself. ‘Bring it on.’
WHAT A STATE!
Miaownwhile, on the road towards the city, Minnie was struggling to keep her composure. Oh, how her paws hurt. Ooh, how her legs ached. Ooof, how her belly rumbled. But worse than all that was the knowledge of what a dreadful sight she must look. As she had walked, her fur had dried into clotted clumps until her tail felt like a well-used lavatory-brush and her body like a dirty discarded duster.
‘Oh well, Minnie,’ she said, pretending she felt better than she did. ‘At least it’s dark now and no one can see you. And, anyways, you was born under a house and … sniff … despite that, you made yourself into the epitome of glamorous beauty. If you done it once, you can do it again. And besides, you’re so blooming grotty now, you won’t mind sleeping outside, will you?’
It really was properly dark now, and Minnie knew she was going to have to spend the night under a hedge or in a tree. She was looking around, peering into the dark to find something suitable, when she saw a tiny red light away from the road in a small bunch of trees.
‘Ooh, ooh,’ she thought. ‘Civilisation! And a break from this blooming tarmac!’
A little further on, she found a small track that ran off the road and across a field towards the light. Without thinking twice (which, as we know, is normally a good idea), Minnie picked up her pace and followed the track. As she got closer to the light, she could see it was made up of flashing neon letters and, as she got closer still, she could see it hung above a cat flap in the side of a ram-shackle old building hidden in the trees. The Scratching Post said the sign. Then it said nothing as it flashed off. Then it said: The cratching Po t’, until the S’s flickered into life, and it said: The Scratching Post again. Below the red neon letters, on the rusty old cat flap, was a large paw-printed sign which said ‘We Don’t Serve Dogs, No Matter How Small.’ Through the door came the sound of miaows and mellow music. Minnie was about to press her nose against the flap when it opened from the inside and two well-groomed tabbies followed each other out. Each of them wore a collar with a little medallion. The tabbies hesitated when they saw Minnie, then they looked at each other and strolled off giggling.
‘Gosh, what a state to let yourself get into!’ Minnie heard one of them say. ‘I’d rather be neutered.’
Well, as you can imagine, Minnie wouldn’t normally take any cheek like that. ‘Better than being domesticated!’ she wanted to shout after them. But she knew they were off to a warm house and some dumb humans who’d probably give them food and tickle their tummies and let them watch telly, and it took all her energy not to breakdown in tears of jealousy. Besides, looking down at her mud-mottled and mangy mane, she couldn’t disagree with them. She was in a right state. If she went in looking like this, she wouldn’t even get served.
Minnie sat there, the red neon flashing on and off above her, and wondered what to do. Then she heard a bunch of young toms approaching and decided she didn’t even want to be seen by them. She was about to slink into the shadows when something beside the cat flap caught her attention. It was another paw-printed sign, below the No Milk Served To Under-One-Year-Olds poster and above the Please Be Respectful To Our Neighbours, No Caterwauling Upon Departure sign. As the voices of the young toms grew louder, Minnie stepped forward and squinted at what she’d seen until the red neon lights above the door flicked off and left her in total darkness. But when the lights came on again, the two S’s crackling with the effort, a huge smile had spread across her dirty face.
WHAT A NIGHTMARE!
Tuck lay curled in as tight a ball as he could manage. His eyes were closed tight, his ears were laid back tightly against his head and his tail was wrapped tightly over his nose. If only he could sleep, he thought, then maybe he could wake up again and this nightmare would be over. Or, if only he could wish himself into something else, into a bird maybe, so he could fly high above and look down on the horrible prison where he now found himself. Or, into a clever cat who knew what to do: whether to run away or to stay where he was. But he had no insight to whether fight or flight might be bright or right. Lying there tight, he felt only fright—more than light or slight in that terrible night—and the sight of his spitefully-blighted plight, even from the height of a kite, started to bite until he felt quite white. Because every time he stopped wishing or trying to sleep, he remembered he was still there, locked in the back of a lorry rumbling along a road.
‘Oh miaow,’ Tuck cried. ‘Oh help!’
After a while the lorry slowed its rumbling and then stopped altogether. The engine was turned off, and Tuck heard the humans get out of the cabin, slam the doors and walk away. Then, with his eyes still squeezed tightly shut, he began to hear other noises. Closer noises. Noises of things locked in the back of the lorry with him. He could hear a scratching which could be a cat in a litter tray, or could be a vicious dragon tearing out the belly of one of its victims. He heard a light lapping, which could be a cat having a drink, or a wolf licking blood from something it had killed. He heard a thud-thud-thud, which could be the elbow of a cat on the floor as it scratched behind its ear, or a mad axeman beating down the door.
‘Oh, please let it be cats!’ he miaowed aloud. ‘Oh, please let it not be Dragons or Wolves or a Mad Axeman!’
Then he heard a giggle. Well! That didn’t sound like a D or a W or an MA. Tuck carefully twisted an ear in the direction of the giggle.
‘What-a is a wrong-a with ‘im-a?’ he heard a voice ask.
‘He’s just frightened,’ said another voice, so close that it would have made Tuck jump had it not been very soft and gentle.
‘Looks like a bit of a pussycat,’ said a third voice.
‘Leave him alone,’ said the gentle voice. ‘You remember what it was like when you were first thrown in here.’
Well, it would have taken a far less curious cat that Tuck not to open his eyes at that point. After all, whilst listening to all of the above, he’d had a good sniff of the air around him and that sniff had confirmed what he’d suspected outside. The trailer of the lorry smelled of cats and not, as far as he could tell, of dragons or wolves or mad axemen. So he opened first one eye, then the other. At first, all he could see were criss-cross lines. Then he realised he was shut in a small wire cage, which also contained a small cushioned bed, a litter tray, and a small bowl of water. Then, as Tuck looked further afield, he saw this was just one of rows and rows of cages which stretched from the floor of the trailer to the narrow windows which ran around the top of its walls. Some of the cages were empty, but as Tuck’s eyes grew accustomed to the dim light from the window, he saw that most of them were very much occupied.
‘Buongiorno,’ said a sleek black cat in a cage on the opposite wall. ‘’Ow you-a doing?’
Tuck said nothing.
‘You alright there, mate?’ said a sturdy black cat two cages down from the first one who’d spoken.
Still Tuck said nothing.
‘Don’t worry,’ said the petite black cat in the cage next to his own. This was the cat with the soft and gentle voice. He had a quiet American accent and was separated from Tuck by no more than a single layer of mesh.
‘You’ll get used to it,’ said the American. ‘You look strong, you’ll be fine.’
‘Mummy!’ wailed Tuck. ‘I want my mummy!’
The sleek black cat in the cage opposite giggled, while her sturdy neighbour sighed and turned away. But the American stayed where he was, smiling gently in a way which belied his huge yellow eyes. These were so big and wide that he looked terrified, at the same time as his soothing voice was calming Tuck down.
