by Robin Jarvis
‘Look!’ exclaimed Oswald when he saw the thirteen rats dive into the water behind them. ‘They’re after us!’
Piccadilly put his head down and concentrated on paddling.
‘Keep up, Oswald,’ he called, annoyed, ‘or we’ll go round in circles.’
‘I want the grey alive,’ Jake’s voice came down to them. ‘Do what you like with the other one!’
And then it was Piccadilly who found it difficult to keep up with Oswald.
Behind them thirteen rats swam; their tails thrashing the water like angry snakes.
On the ledge Jake watched the chase in amusement. This was the sort of thing he had missed and he promised himself never to dig in the mine again. The rat called Fletch swaggered up to him. He was a tatty, dark brown rat with big yellow pimples on his black nose.
‘Not goin’ in for a dip?’ Jake asked dryly.
Fletch shook his head. ‘Don’t feel like it today Jake.’
‘You and water were never friends, Fletch,’ remarked Jake, trying to avoid the other’s bad breath.
‘There’s plenty down there to catch those two,’ grunted Fletch. ‘I thought I’d best stick with you.’
‘What fer?’ asked Jake suspiciously.
‘Oh I just like to stick with the winners.’
‘Think I’m a winner, eh?’
‘Well, one what knows where he’s goin’, then.’
‘And you wanna come with me, right?’
Fletch grinned and his breath whistled through his sharp teeth. Where we bound?’
Jake looked down to the water where the swimming rats were gaining on the little raft. ‘There’s still the skirt to catch. You lot!’ he called to the five remaining rats on the ledge.
‘Leave ’em to it. Let’s find our own mouse.’
The rats cheered and Jake led them away. Through the tunnels they went until they came to the Grille. To their great glee they found there the very mouse they were looking for. Audrey had just sent Twit to fetch Arthur when Jake reached out and grabbed her from behind.
9. Trusting to Luck
Piccadilly paddled furiously. The water splashed his face and his hair hung in a wet curtain over his eyes. Mechanically his arms rose and fell as if driven by pistons. Into the water – pull – out of the water – over – into the water – pull – out of the water – over . . . He glanced back. The pursuing rats were very close now. One had a knife between his teeth. He could see the shining greedy eyes and the snorting wet noses. It would take a miracle to save them.
The rat with the knife caught up with them and scrambled on to the raft. His great claws tore at the wood and the plank lurched dangerously in the water. Just as the ugly brute was getting his balance, Piccadilly sprang at him and with a startled wail, the rat fell back and landed on one of his comrades. There was an almighty smack and a fountain of water spouted up around them.
Piccadilly hastily resumed paddling. Ahead he saw the end of a pipe jutting out of the sewer wall. He wondered if he and Oswald could reach it and climb inside. He called to him and signalled his plan: Oswald understood and nodded vigorously. Anything to get off the raft!
They steadied themselves on the plank and stood up shakily – clutching each other’s paws for safety. The pipe drew near.
‘We won’t be able to reach it,’ howled Oswald. ‘It’s too high.’
‘Well then, we’ll have to jump. Get ready.’
‘Oh no that rat’s got us.’
‘One.’
‘He’s trying to climb up again! Oh Piccadilly!’
‘Two.’
‘Eek!’
‘Three.’
All at once a number of things happened. Firstly the raft passed under the pipe and Piccadilly jumped, which was fortunate for him because the rat suddenly lunged at him with his mouth wide open. But the most surprising thing came with a fierceness that stunned everyone, rats and all with a roar of foam and spray a great rush of water flushed out of the pipe above.
The rat got a mouthful of it and was knocked off the raft into the stream – which had suddenly become a raging torrent. He sank to the murky bottom, never to surface. The other rats were cut off by the sudden waterfall and could not cope with its frothing force. They snapped angrily behind the storm, swearing terrible oaths and punching each other.
Piccadilly’s luck held. Although he missed the pipe, he managed to land back on the raft just as it was gripped by the new current and was swept away at breakneck speed. Oswald grasped the sides for dear life.
‘Ha, ha,’ laughed Piccadilly. ‘That did it. Wheeee!’ The raft was tossed around like a straw. It was a wild bounce of a ride for the two mice as they shot along.
‘I don’t like this!’ Oswald cried.
‘Well, we’re free of them anyway,’ replied Piccadilly, having a great time.
The water surged about them. ‘Where are we going?’
Oswald had closed his eyes.
Piccadilly smiled at his squeamish friend and fixed his attention ahead. The tunnel appeared to come to a dead end.
‘We’re gonna crash!’ he cried in alarm. Oswald opened one eye, then snapped it shut again. ‘Oh no,’ he wailed. Piccadilly had a thought; why would the tunnel end so abruptly like that? Where did the water go?
He strained his eyes to look at the rapidly approaching blank wall once more. There, at the bottom, was a dark space: the top of a submerged archway.
‘Lie flat!’ Piccadilly shouted to Oswald, and he pulled him down. The gushing water crashed against the wall in huge, frothy, violent spurts. Piccadilly clenched his paws and trusted to luck again.
The raft burst down the shallow opening.
Oswald’s nose scraped against the low brick ceiling until he turned his head to one side slightly, careful that his ears did not suffer similarly.
What a place! They had no idea where they were going. Piccadilly hoped the water level would not rise any more or they would drown.
‘I don’t like this either,’ mumbled Oswald.
‘I counted seven rats left on the ledge,’ said Piccadilly. ‘If they go to the Skirtings then at least there won’t be so many of them.’
‘I suppose so.’
‘Cheer up Oswald – you’re a hero.’
‘Am I?’
‘Course. They’ll sing songs about you.’
‘Really? Well I never. Gosh, I suppose so. Ouch.’
The roof of the tunnel had dropped suddenly and the albino had hit his nose. ‘OOH! Ow – oh, ow,’ he squeaked in agony.
‘I hope we don’t get any higher,’ said Piccadilly. ‘We’ll get scraped to bits before we drown.’ He flattened himself against the raft.
‘Peeled anyway,’ gibbered Oswald. ‘Oh ow!’
Still the water hurtled along and the number of cuts and grazes doubled.
They did not know that as they continued their uncomfortable journey, Arthur and Twit were in the hall of the old house wondering what to do while Audrey had been dragged off by Jake and his lads.
The raft raced along, bumping and scraping through the low passage.
Then, with one last bang on the ceiling they shot out into a lofty, spacious tunnel.
The water swirled and eddied as its force was spent. The raft slowed and twirled around calmly. Piccadilly sat up. ‘Hooray!’ he shouted in relief.
‘Oh by boor doze,’ moaned Oswald feeling his sore snout.
‘Id’s swellid already.’ He fingered the bruises gingerly.
‘Bathe it in the water then,’ said Piccadilly, glad that his own nose was not as big as his friend’s.
‘Dad’s dasty,’ came the blocked response.
‘It’s all we’ve got. Go on!’
Oswald tenderly dabbed some water on to his nose. ‘Ooh dad’s bedder,’ he sighed.
The raft bumped gently against the side of the sewer wall.
‘How’s your conk now?’
‘Oh id sbards. Look ad be, vull ov cuds and scradches.’
The raf
t drifted slowly along. ‘We ought to get off this now,’ Piccadilly said.
‘Oh doh,’ whined Oswald immediately. ‘I’b zo dired. Led’s waid a bid.’
‘All right then but I hope your nose gets better soon. I can hardly understand you.’
Piccadilly dangled his legs over the side of the raft and splashed them casually in the water, humming quietly to himself, while Oswald tended to his nose and other wounds. What a light, giddy head Piccadilly had! All the fear had drained away. None of those rats could possibly follow them here. He was practically drunk with relief and smiled happily.
The tunnel opened out into three others. For a while the raft moved between them as if wondering which to choose. In the end Piccadilly kicked his feet in the water and propelled them into one of them. The ledges in this tunnel were low, low enough to climb on to, in fact.
‘Come on Oswald,’ Piccadilly said cheerfully. ‘Time to get off.’
Oswald stirred and gave his nose one last pat. Piccadilly hauled himself up and then turned to give him a helping paw. Gracelessly Oswald scrambled up on to the ledge.
His nose felt a little better and the swelling seemed to be going down, so he was able to speak more normally. ‘Oh wait, what about de raft?’ he asked.
‘Well we can’t take it with us and there’s no turnin’ back so we’ve got all we could out of it.’
‘I suppose so,’ Oswald murmured as he watched the piece of wood float gently out of reach.
‘We’ve got things to do,’ said Piccadilly breezily, as if they were going for a picnic. ‘Come on Oswald!’
Oswald felt glum. He had no idea where they were now. ‘But what can we do?’ he asked lamely.
‘First off, let’s try and see if we recognise where we are; then get back to the Skirtings if we can.’
‘And Audrey’s bousebrass?’
‘You said you lost the divining rod, didn’t you old chum? Pity – I’d dearly like to see her face if we did find it. That’d show her.’
‘Oh, she won’t think you’re a coward Piccadilly. I’ll tell her how barvellous you’ve been.’
Small tunnels led away from this larger one and the mice chose one that was not too dirty to go down.
‘Wait a bo,’ said Oswald before they set off. He pulled the scarf from around his neck and wrung it tightly, then gave it a good shake.
‘It’ll only bake be worse,’ he explained.
Piccadilly sighed. ‘Now can we start?’
Into the small tunnel they went.
‘Doesn’t smell too bad in here,’ commented Piccadilly.
‘I woulden doh,’ Oswald replied. ‘Can’t smell a thing.’
But it was drier than most of the tunnels they had been in. Slime did not drip off the walls or lurk treacherously on the floor.
‘Wonder where we are now?’ thought Piccadilly aloud. ‘Don’t ever remember this place even when I was wandering around before I met Albert.’
Further in they strode. ‘I can see an opening in the side up ahead,’ said Oswald, his sharp pink eyes scanning the area in front of them. ‘Shall we take a look?’
When they reached the hole Piccadilly sniffed it to check.
‘You know,’ he said thinking aloud, ‘I don’t think this passage is used by the rats very much – if at all. I just get the feeling that no one knows about this place.’
‘What about this opening?’ asked Oswald. ‘Do we try it? How does it smell?’
‘It’s odd.’ Piccadilly breathed in deeply, filling his nostrils with the air of the hole. He tried to explain it to his friend. ‘Well it’s sort of musty – very dry, salty even, I’d say.’
‘Ought we to go in then?’ Oswald asked doubtfully.
Piccadilly frowned. ‘It whiffs strange. What does it remind me of?’
‘Maybe it’s the sea,’ suggested Oswald. ‘Master Oldnose says that smells salty – only I can’t remember why.’
‘The sea’s not round here,’ scoffed Piccadilly. ‘Nearest we’ve got’s the river an’ I don’t think that’s salty. No, I was thinkin’ more of . . . yes that’s it. Once, when I was in the city I found some of those cringin’ rats with a salted fish. Don’t know where it came from. It were all dried and brittle – they didn’t know what it was. They’d licked it and were gaspin’ for water. I gave ’em a good bit of chat special for the occasion.’ He laughed at the memory of it.
‘I don’t understand,’ said Oswald. ‘What’s salted fish doing down here?’
‘I only said it smelled like it. Perhaps we’ve stumbled across someone’s secret larder. It was a joke, but Piccadilly did not realise how right he was.
Oswald shivered. ‘I hope not. They won’t like it, whoever it is, if they know we’ve been there.’
‘I suppose it must be nasty stuff if it’s in the sewers,’ Piccadilly said slowly. ‘Rat hoard, most like.’ He gave Oswald a quick, mischievous look.
‘Fancy a butchers?’
‘No! I don’t want to see dried rat food. It might be anything. No, I’ll stay here and keep watch.’
So Piccadilly cautiously passed through the opening. There was a narrow passage beyond which abruptly opened out into a small chamber, the walls of which were very rough. It had been dug out with claws and teeth. The room was small and it was filled with all sorts of rat booty. Some chocolate biscuits were still in their wrappers; a bag of sticky, fluff-covered boiled sweets lay on the floor; there was a large bundle of dark sacking or cloth in one corner; several bundles of knotted, tangled string; a tall jar with a few shrivelled lumps in it; and a squashy tomato that was gradually acquiring a green fur coat.
Piccadilly looked distastefully at the bizarre collection. The things rats collected: it was peculiar to say the least.
A movement behind made him swing round suddenly.
‘It’s only me,’ said Oswald. ‘I didn’t like it out there on my own. Gosh, look at all this crazy stuff!’ He gazed around with interest and repulsion. ‘It’s perfectly horrid. Oh yuk!’ He looked down at his foot. ‘I’ve trodden in something sticky – those sweets have oozed over the floor.’ Oswald hopped about as he examined his tacky foot.
‘There’s some cloth or sacking over there,’ giggled Piccadilly. ‘I’ll get it for you to wipe that off.’ He clambered over the biscuits, avoiding the mouldering tomato.
Oswald leaned against the wall. ‘I suppose it could be worse,’ he said. ‘I might have stepped in that tomato thing. Oh it’s disgusting! Is that what was making that funny smell you were talking about? Shouldn’t be at all surprised. Have you found that cloth yet? Fancy us being in a rat’s larder, makes me shudder. Piccadilly?’
The grey mouse was standing stock-still and staring at the crumpled dark material in his paws. Oswald became concerned. It wasn’t like Piccadilly to be so quiet. ‘What is it?’ A hint of fear crept into his voice: there was something about his friend that made him uneasy. ‘Don’t tease.’
‘Oswald,’ Piccadilly muttered thickly. ‘Come see.’
The white mouse forgot all about the sticky substance on his foot and hurried over to see what the other had found. Piccadilly turned a drained, shocked face to him. His eyes were wet and his lashes blinked the tears away.
Not knowing what to expect, Oswald fearfully looked down at what Piccadilly was holding.
It was not cloth or sacking as Piccadilly had first thought it was a mouse’s skin. It had been a brown mouse with a splash of white on the breast; the ears were missing and Oswald felt sick as he recalled the rats’ passion for them fried and crispy. His bottom lip trembled – what a horrible thing it was! There were holes where the eyes had been and the paws and feet had been chewed off. It was a macabre trophy. Oswald began to weep. ‘There was a mouse,’ he stammered through his tears, ‘who disappeared when I was young. He lived on the landing and he . . . they . . . they used to call him Bib because of a white patch on his chest.’ His voice broke up chokingly.
‘There’s more over there,’ said Piccadilly quietly.
‘Mostly greys like me and from the size of two of them, rats as well.’
Oswald shook his head in disbelief. ‘They even do it to themselves? What sort of creatures are they?’
‘The creatures of Jupiter,’ replied Piccadilly coldly. ‘Sshh!’ he hissed suddenly. ‘There’s someone coming.’
Oswald’s tear-stained face broke into a despairing picture of misery. His lips wobbled with the wail that was about to surface.
Piccadilly grabbed his scarf and shook him angrily. ‘Look!’ he said sternly. ‘If you don’t want to end up like good old Bib in here you’d best come and hide with me, and not a sound, right?’
‘But where? There isn’t a place to hide in here,’ Oswald gibbered.
‘In there!’ Piccadilly pointed at the bundle of dried mouse skins. He dragged his horrified friend towards them. Morgan came tramping in. A sack was on his back. ‘Ach,’ he cursed. ‘What now? Why all the way up there?’ Morgan looked around the room. This was his own special place; somewhere to think out his dark schemes; somewhere to hide his treasures, creamed off the offerings made by the lads to Jupiter; somewhere for his bitterness to fester. It was a secret – nobody came here.
Morgan dumped the sack on the floor and plonked himself down next to it. He had just been ordered by His Majestic Darkness to go to Blackheath and this sack had been waiting on the altar for him to take along. Things were changing and Morgan didn’t like it. His Lord was planning something and he couldn’t figure out what it was.
Morgan stretched out a claw and dipped it into the putrid tomato. He scooped up a dripping lump, mould and all, then sucked his claw clean.
‘Mmm,’ he grunted contentedly. This was a good place – a private realm of his own where everything belonged to him. He had only popped in for a moment though – just to think by himself with no fiery eyes watching him. What was he going to Blackheath for? He wondered what was in the sack.
Morgan twirled something in his claws. One of Jake’s party had returned, drenched and bedraggled. Apparently the water that had gushed from the pipe had drowned most of the rats that were pursuing Piccadilly and Oswald. The survivors then involved themselves in blame-laying, and fighting ensued. Only one young rat had returned to the altar chamber to tell the tale and bring this odd thing with him. Morgan threw it up into the air and caught it again – it was the divining rod!
