by Robin Jarvis
Older, less useful rats wearily heaved the soil away in sacks and tins strapped to their brittle, bony backs.
It was a hive of bizarre industry, with no rest. The pace was set by the youngest and strongest; the others had to follow. Twit saw one old rat strain at the heavy sack he was struggling with. It was obvious that he had not slept for a long time, and Twit doubted if he had eaten. He guessed rightly that when breaks were given the rats scrambled for the food provided and the weak were lucky to suck the bones after the others had finished.
The old rat pulled at the sack and heaved it on to his back, his ears drooping and his eyes shot with blood.
He took several faltering steps, staggering beneath the weight, and then his heart burst. He fell like a stone to the ground. No one made any effort to help. The rat gasped, his ribs heaving up and down. He opened his mouth, trying to say something, but the words were lost in the din of work. With agony in his face the old rat’s eyes slowly closed and never opened again.
‘That’s how they look after their own,’ Thomas said softly in Twit’s ear.
Another elderly rat picked up the sack that had been such a burden to the other.
He looked down at the pathetic crumpled body that lay at his feet. The rat sneered and spat in the upturned blank face, then he set off, kicking the corpse aside into the dirt.
Twit looked away, disgusted at the scene that had unfolded before his eyes. Then he turned to Thomas.
‘What be they diggin’ for?’
He could see no point to it at all.
‘Oh there’s a reason! Jupiter’s got something up his sleeve,’ Thomas pondered. ‘Treasure maybe or p’raps some powerful magical thing to make him stronger, Green Mouse forbid.’ He closed his eyes and turned slowly around. His whiskers twitched and then he said, ‘If my sense of direction is right, and it always is, I reckon that tunnel they’re diggin’ runs clear under the park. If they keep this up they’ll be under Blackheath soon. Now I wonder what Jupiter wants there.’
He put his arm around Twit’s shoulders. ‘Let’s get out of this dungeon and take a walk in the fresh air. I’ve a mind to find out what Jupiter’s after.’
The two mice left the small passage and the slow chant behind them.
8. White and Grey
Whilst Audrey had waited with Twit in the cellars, Oswald and Piccadilly had run headlong into the sewers in search of her missing mousebrass. Oswald had hurried ahead, but Piccadilly soon caught up with him.
‘Hang on pal,’ he called. ‘Where’s the fire? Stop a minute, will you?’ He pulled Oswald’s scarf and slowed him to a standstill.
Oswald’s pink eyes were wide and round with excitement. ‘It can’t be far now,’ he panted. ‘Look at the divining rod: it’s twitching like anything.’
‘Maybe, but we’ve come too far.’ Piccadilly gazed at the tunnel they were in. Large plops echoed in it as water dripped down from the arched ceiling.
‘We’re not on the right track any more.’ Piccadilly swept his hair out of his eyes and looked back along the tunnel. ‘I think I can remember the way,’ he said.
‘Shall we go on then?’ inquired Oswald.
Piccadilly nodded. ‘Why not! Okay, Whitey, lead on.’
Oswald coughed. He disliked being reminded how different he was; his friends in the Skirtings made a conscious effort to avoid saying things like ‘Pink Eyes’, ‘Bino’, ‘Freaky’ and ‘Whitey’.
Piccadilly fiddled with his ear. He had seen Oswald’s reaction and he bit his lip. ‘Sorry Oswald,’ he apologised. ‘Didn’t mean anything by it, honest. Besides, white suits you.’
The other mouse managed a smile. ‘Oh I don’t mind the way I am,’ he sighed. ‘It’s the way others react that gets to me. Just because I’m tall and have funny eyes. It hurts Mother most of all though; I’ve often caught her looking at me sadly.’
‘How do you mean?’
Oswald frowned as he searched for the right words. ‘Well, I know that she loves me and all that, but I can’t help feeling that sometimes she’s . . . ashamed of me.’
‘That can’t be true.’
‘You don’t know Mother,’ said Oswald softly. ‘Oh I know I’m not what she wanted . . . No, it’s true.’ He sighed and looked absent-mindedly down at his feet. Then he sat down miserably and groaned. ‘I get the feeling that Mother resents me sometimes. I don’t fit in, you see.’
Now it was Piccadilly’s turn to cough. He was embarrassed by this outburst from Oswald. Nobody in the city had ever bothered to tell him how they felt, and he was quite unprepared to deal with it. He shifted uncomfortably, then sat down next to the white mouse.
‘The sooner we find Audrey’s brass the better, eh?’ He tried to change the subject and bring the other out of his sad mood. ‘I’ve had enough of sewers to last me a lifetime. What did she go and lose it for?’ He rested his head on his paw and remembered how he had met Albert: it seemed such a long time ago now. Piccadilly had liked Mr Brown. Although he had not known him for very long, a bond had quickly developed between them. With a shudder he relived those last moments in Jupiter’s chamber.
Piccadilly closed his eyes and wondered once more if there had been anything he could have done to save Albert. He had been over it many times in his head – something he could have said might have stopped Albert going to listen to Jupiter, or if he had been more alert he might have noticed Morgan creeping up. No, thinking about it didn’t help. Albert was gone, and nothing he could do now would alter that. He could dwell on the if onlys forever and change nothing. Piccadilly wished Audrey would believe him. He had liked her from the first time he saw her, but she had hated him. Oh, what a mess everything was!
‘Come on Oswald!’ he said with sudden resolution. ‘Let’s find Audrey’s brass and clear off out of here.’
Oswald agreed. He picked up the divining rod once again and stood very still, allowing the vibrations to flow through him once more as he concentrated on the missing mousebrass. The rod began to twitch.
‘Yes, we’re on the right track,’ he said.
They set off along the ledge at a brisk pace. For some time they pattered quietly down the deserted tunnels, turning whenever the rod jerked them in a different direction. Piccadilly let Oswald lead because the albino’s eyes could see more in the dark than his.
Suddenly Oswald let out a shriek and fell over. Piccadilly was so close behind that he too found himself sprawled on the wet ledge.
‘What happened?’ he asked, stunned a little.
‘I’m sorry,’ Oswald said quickly. ‘I didn’t look where I was walking and yes, there you see, I fell over that piece of wood.’
A green, damp, swollen plank lay obstinately behind them. Piccadilly forgave his friend, if only to shut him up. Oswald was a constant apologiser. But the albino mouse soon stopped again’
‘What’s that?’ he whispered abruptly.
‘What’s what?’ Piccadilly could hear nothing. Oswald cocked his head to one side and listened intently.
‘There,’ he said softly. A faint rumble came from in front of them. It grew steadily louder. ‘Oh lumme,’ breathed Piccadilly huskily. ‘Rats is comin’.’
Oswald clapped his paw to his mouth. ‘What are we to do? What are we to do?’ he yelped.
‘Keep calm,’ Piccadilly urged him. ‘They can’t have seen or heard us yet. So don’t go givin’ us away.’
Oswald nodded and took his paw away, but the occasional stifled squeal kept rising from his tummy as he tried not to panic.
Piccadilly tried to follow his own advice and think calmly. The rats – and it sounded like a lot of them – could come around the corner any time and they would be caught with nowhere to hide. They would surely be seen and chased; he might not be so lucky this time. No, Piccadilly decided they had to hide somehow and let the rats pass by. He grabbed Oswald’s paw and dragged him back down the sewer.
‘Look for a niche, or hole in hole in the wall – anything,’ he explained.
‘But you know we haven’t passed anything like that,’ Oswald protested.
‘Shut up and look!’
The mice groped frantically at the brick wall. Oswald grazed his paws badly in his fright. But there was nothing neither crack nor gap.
Piccadilly glanced quickly over his shoulder; the tramp of rat feet was very close. From behind the corner came a glow. The rats were carrying torches!
The city mouse knew that they would never be able to hide from them. The torches would reveal them wherever they hid.
He looked across to Oswald, whose eyes were wider than he would have thought possible. Oswald gulped, and the divining rod fell from his hands.
Piccadilly edged back slightly, awaiting the end. Oswald buried his face in his paws and shook uncontrollably. Something brushed against Piccadilly’s foot and a splinter pierced his heel.
‘Ouch,’ he cursed and looked down. There was the plank that they had tripped over before. He gave it a vengeful kick. Then a wild idea seized him.
The noise of the rats was very loud now, and the bobbing glow from the torches brighter. Any moment now they would turn the corner.
Piccadilly lost no time. He picked up the piece of wood. Telling Oswald to do the same he ran off the ledge.
Before Oswald knew what they were doing they had jumped clear away from the side of the sewer. Then splash! Dark water swallowed them.
The rats burst around the corner. There were twenty of them, all jostling for place as they ran. The fiery torches were held high over their ugly heads. It was a startling sight: their red eyes sparkled in the firelight and shone with the hunger and hatred that drove them. They were all dirty and sweaty; some were scabby; others bald, where fur had been torn out in fights. Leading them was a rat with a patch over one eye: it was One-Eyed Jake.
For some time, Morgan had been keeping an eye on Jake as a possible source of trouble. Jake was too cocky for his own good. He was one of the rats that Morgan felt might one day fancy promotion. Maybe he should arrange it so Jake failed to wake up one morning. He was getting too popular with the lads, and that worried Morgan. His position as Jupiter’s lieutenant was under threat. He would have to see to it personally, of course – he trusted no one. It would have to be quick too; Jake was younger and stronger. Yes, throttle him while he slept, or better still slash his ugly throat.
But at the moment Jake was laughing and whooping with his mates. He had been ordered by Jupiter himself to go and bring back any mice in the sewers. If there were none there then he had been authorised to find the Grille and grab any girl mice and a particular grey from the city. Jake chuckled as he recalled the frosty glare Morgan had given him outside the altar chamber. He was losing his grip, that one, thought Jake. None too in with His Lordship of late, letting things slip. Jake gave a crow of delight. Yes, soon he would take over from the Cornish rat. Things were looking up.
Jake was in a good mood. He had been let off the digging for a while and entrusted with a mission. There might be mouse for breakfast yet.
The teeming rats filled the sewer ledge and sang bawdy songs as they ran. They were in high spirits.
Far below them Oswald was gasping for air. He splashed about wildly in the water. He had swallowed a good deal of it and he gagged and choked at the taste.
Piccadilly had already scrambled aboard the plank, which floated quite well. He used his paws to paddle over to where Oswald was thrashing around.
Above them he could see the rats waving their torches around, and he could hear them snorting and laughing. He hoped they were too engrossed to look down at the water.
Oswald’s head disappeared under once more. Piccadilly reached down into the cold, deep water and grabbed his friend’s scarf. He yanked it as hard as he could and Oswald followed, spluttering and coughing as he broke to the surface.
Piccadilly hauled the wet albino on to the makeshift raft, where he lay collapsed like a broken doll. His coughing rocked them and water slopped over the edge of the wood. Piccadilly was afraid that they might sink and prayed for the rats not to hear them. He looked up once more.
The rats were still above them. Why was that? Had they seen him and Oswald? No, the rats were still running. Then he realised with a dull, sick feeling that the current of the sewer water was carrying them along at the same pace as the rats above. Piccadilly groaned. They had been lucky so far. No rat had bothered to look down at the stream below – but it couldn’t be much longer until one did. Everyone knew that rats were excellent swimmers.
Oswald’s breathing eased. He had spat out as much water as he could. He turned over and lay on his back grunting uncomfortably.
‘I’ll be ill for weeks,’ he said glumly.
Piccadilly put a paw to his lips. ‘Quiet!’ he whispered, and pointed upwards. Oswald slowly took in the situation. ‘Oh my,’ he whimpered.
‘I thought you could swim,’ said Piccadilly softly. ‘Sorry.’
‘Oh, that’s all right. We’d have been peeled by now if you hadn’t thought so quickly. I shall tell Audrey so when we get back.’
‘If we get back, you mean,’ corrected Piccadilly doubtfully.
‘Don’t say that. We’ve done fine so far, haven’t we?’
‘Not really. We haven’t found what we came for, have we? And here we are, tagging along with a load of horrible rats.’
‘One other thing,’ said Oswald miserably. ‘I dropped the divining rod! We shan’t find the mousebrass now.’
‘There you are then. What a fix to be in.’ They both gazed up at the ledge where the rats ran, mouths agape and slobbering. ‘Ho, Jake,’ called one rat to the leader.
‘What we gonna do with a mouse when we get one?’
‘Bloodybones ’im,’ cackled the others.
‘That right Jake?’
‘Do what you like with ’im Fletchy, so long as you save me a bit,’ Jake shouted back. The rest of the rats loved this and sniggered nastily.
‘Nice an’ juicy fleshy hocks.’
‘Save me the ears. Ooh, luvverly fried and crispy!’
‘Boil the head for brawn gravy!’
‘Pickle the eyes in rancid fat.’
‘Oh yes, very tasty.’
‘Can’t we go faster?’
The mice on the raft shuddered at the suggestions. Oswald was shivering anyway. He was cold and wet through – the water seemed to have seeped into his bones. If he ever managed to get back to the Skirtings he would be in bed for weeks with chills and sneezes.
‘Just you remember lads,’ began Jake, ‘that if it’s a mouse wench or a grey then you or me can’t have, ’em.’
There was a groan from the other rats. ‘Not fair!’ they cried.
Jake warned them, however. ‘Not so much as a toenail, or else! Not that it’s me what says that. It’s His Lordship, and we don’t wanna mess with Him, do we?’
The rats muttered and shook their heads.
‘There you are then: anything else and they’re ours. But thems for Him first. Got it? The skirt and the grey!’
The rats nodded grudgingly.
Oswald nudged Piccadilly. ‘He means you,’ he said appalled.
‘And Audrey too,’ the grey mouse replied.
‘But this is dreadful,’ stammered Oswald. ‘They’re going out of their way to find you – why?’
Piccadilly shook his head. ‘I don’t know – unless Jupiter thinks whatever Albert heard I did too and he doesn’t want it to get about.’
‘But Audrey?’
‘I don’t know. She is Albert’s daughter. Maybe he thinks she knows too. But that’s daft.’
‘I wonder what it could be that he doesn’t want to get out,’ wondered Oswald.
‘Well I, for one, don’t know,’ shrugged Piccadilly.
Suddenly Oswald gave a strangled cry of shock. ‘Oh no!’ he gasped. ‘They must be going to the Skirtings to find you and Audrey.’
‘You’re right! Crikey, what can we do?’
‘We’ve got to stop them,’ c
ried Oswald, thinking of the chaos the rats would cause amongst the mice in the old, empty house.
‘But how? They’re so many – and here we are down here: they could get us as quick as anything.’ Piccadilly snapped his fingers. ‘Two more peeled mice won’t help anyone.’
Oswald gulped. ‘Maybe we could lure them away though.’
Piccadilly agreed. He knew they had to do something.
‘How fast do you think you can paddle?’ he asked.
‘Oh not as fast as you, I’m sure, but we might give them a good chase – for a while, anyway.’
‘All right then,’ said Piccadilly. If we’re sure.’ Oswald nodded back. The grey mouse looked up at the rats on the ledge. I suppose they might have seen us soon anyway, he thought to himself. He cupped his paws around his mouth and yelled at the top of his voice: ‘Oi! Slime-stuffers! Where’s your hankies to wipe your snotty noses?’
The rats stopped and looked around in amazement.
‘Maggot brains!’ Piccadilly resumed. ‘Peel me if you can!’
‘Yes . . . you nasty whisker pullers,’ added Oswald, a trifle less dramatically. ‘Me too!’
The rats saw them now. ‘There they are!’ they called. ‘Two floating mouseys!’
‘Wait!’ shouted Jake. ‘One of ’em’s a grey – get him lads.’
‘Twerps!’ Piccadilly continued.
‘Smelly feet!’ It was the worst Oswald could think of.
The rats flung their torches at the raft. Like flaming spears they hurtled down on the two mice.
‘Paddle now,’ urged Piccadilly, and he and Oswald began pawing madly at the water on either side of the raft.
Fortunately, when the rats had stopped, the raft had not and the mice already had a slight lead. The burning missiles fell just short of them. They plunged into the water in a great cloud of steam.
The rats on the ledge howled in dismay.
‘Get down there,’ snarled Jake and kicked one over the edge. Twelve others followed him, gnashing and snarling as they jumped.
