The Deptford Mice 1: The Dark Portal

by Robin Jarvis

  He cackled. Jake was going to get it in the neck from His Highness for letting that grey escape – he couldn’t last long.

  Morgan looked doubtfully at the sack again. He was suspicious of that round, heavy lump in there.

  He licked his teeth and, cast his eyes on the rest of his bounty. His gaze rested on the fluffy sticky sweets. He grasped one and flicked it into his waiting jaws. The sweet squelched and stuck between his teeth, clinging in gluey lumps. Morgan picked at them with his sharp claws amidst appreciative sucking noises.

  Under the pile of mouse skins Piccadilly and Oswald huddled together, hardly daring to breathe. It was the skins that reeked of salt. It had been rubbed well into the newly peeled flesh to preserve them. So dense was it that when Piccadilly moistened his, lips he could taste the salty tang. Oswald had closed his eyes. The thought of their situation was too horrible for him. Here he was wrapped in dead mouse flesh. It was, a chilling, gruesome thing; the pawless arms dangled around and touched him so softly that it was like being tickled by the dead and caressed by ghosts. At this thought Oswald nearly jumped out of the skins and shouted, ‘I’m here! Eat me. I’m here.’ Anything to be out of them! It said much of Oswald’s courage that he did not do this, but the hairs on his neck were tingling and standing on end.

  Piccadilly peered out from the mound of the dead. In the deep shadows his eyes twinkled. He saw Morgan and recognised him from the altar chamber. This was the rat who had caught Albert, and here he was feeding his ugly face and sucking his yellow teeth. Piccadilly’s jaw tightened. He knew that he would feel no remorse if he killed Morgan – the murderer! In fact the city mouse had no doubt that he would actually enjoy it.

  Unaware of the hidden mice, Morgan decided it was time to go. He dared not linger; Jupiter had ordered and he must obey. The rat swung the sack on to his back, mouthing obscenities at the humiliation of manual labour.

  With one last sigh as he glanced around his secret place, Morgan lumbered out, dragging his stumpy tail behind him.

  The mice remained where they were in case Morgan should return unexpectedly. They stayed there, crouched amongst the dry skins which crackled like parchment, and waited. Oswald was terrified but Piccadilly was lost in his own thoughts.

  It was Oswald who eventually forced them out of hiding. A cramp in his legs suddenly became too much to bear and he shot out of the skins, limping and stamping for all he was worth.

  Piccadilly let the furry scraps fall about him. His face was stern and he resolved to kill Morgan – one day that piebald Cornish rat would be his. He promised himself that.

  Oswald collected himself. The pins and needles were going now. ‘I’m glad he’s gone, whoever he was,’ he puffed.

  Piccadilly stepped out of the skins. ‘That was Morgan,’ he stated flatly. ‘He gave Albert to Jupiter.’

  ‘Oh,’ Oswald said meekly. ‘Poor Mr Brown.’ He glanced back at the skins pathetically crumpled on the floor. Oswald felt terrible for disturbing them and he knew that he would be haunted by nightmares for years to come. ‘What shall we do about them?’ he asked.

  ‘There’s nothing we can do.’

  ‘Well, we might pray.’

  Piccadilly baulked at that. ‘Who to? Your precious Green Mouse? Don’t bother! I don’t want to hear it. Believe all the stories you like, Oswald. Praying to a phoney myth won’t bring them back!’

  Oswald returned to the untidy pile and folded them neatly and reverently.

  ‘No, you’re right there,’ he said softly, ‘but it may make their rest easier – wherever they are now.’ Oswald bowed his head and clasped his paws together. Piccadilly turned away. He did not want to hear Oswald’s prayer, but the gentle murmuring words came to him and in, spite of himself, the cynical city mouse felt a lump in his throat.’

  He shuffled his feet and waited.

  Oswald completed his prayer and raised his head. ‘I feel better for that,’ he said mildly. ‘I hope they do.’ He blinked, then stared past Piccadilly.

  ‘Look!’ he cried and ran to where Morgan had been sitting. The rat had left the divining rod behind. Oswald snatched it up, and flourished it proudly. ‘See,’ he bubbled excitedly, ‘I knew the Green Mouse wouldn’t desert us.’

  ‘Don’t be daft, Oswald. Morgan, not the Green Mouse, brought that.’ Piccadilly shook his head.

  ‘Well, it’s still here,’ Oswald muttered. He did not want to argue. ‘Shall we still try to find Audrey’s brass?’

  ‘I suppose so – it’s a shame to go back to the Skirtings empty-handed now.’

  Oswald was already holding out the rod, waiting and concentrating. It jerked and jumped wildly. ‘It must be very close. Look at it!’

  Piccadilly cast one last glance over the neatly arranged skins. Oswald had even folded the rat furs. They had all been victims of a horrible death and the white mouse had supposed that that united them in some way, and cancelled out whatever wickedness those rats had done in their lifetimes.

  Oswald was jumping impatiently now. ‘Piccadilly, come on! We can find it and get out of here at last.’ He ran out of the chamber.

  Piccadilly followed him from Morgan’s secret place, but in the tunnel Oswald was already a distance away, running for all he was worth.

  ‘Oh no!’ Piccadilly cried. A madness seemed to have gripped Oswald. The grey mouse ran after him.

  Oswald hurtled along, stumbling and tripping in his usual ungainly manner. He paid no attention to the pain of his toes as they struck sharp stones or skidded in the puddles. His mind was full of Audrey’s mousebrass and the divining rod pulled him to it. He had no control over it now. It was all he could do to keep hold of it – how it tugged and wrestled to be free.

  ‘Not long now,’ he thought. ‘Then we can go home and Mother can scold me all she likes. I shan’t care.’

  He did not see the passages he ran down or hear Piccadilly’s voice calling to him some distance behind. Oswald continued to run blindly on.

  Piccadilly panted – he was surprised at how fast Oswald could run. It was as if all the rats in creation were snapping at his heels. He only caught glimpses of his friend far ahead. He was afraid he would not be able to catch up. Piccadilly was uneasy; he did not know where they were going but he felt it was dangerous – running like a stupid rabbit headlong into peril. If there was a Green Mouse, Piccadilly wished He would do something to help.

  Oswald splashed across a murky pool, disturbing the oily scum on its surface. Then he slipped and fell. He cracked his jaw on the hard bricks but did not flinch at the blood which trickled down where a chunk of fur had been scraped out.

  The divining rod had been knocked out of his paws and it danced and clattered on the ledge like a thing possessed. Oswald chased it, cornering the magic twitching thing as though it were alive, then he swept it up and set off once more.

  It was enough of a delay, however, for Piccadilly to catch up. He tried to clutch at one of the ends of Oswald’s scarf which was streaming behind him.

  But still Oswald ran. He had forgotten about the city mouse, only the mousebrass mattered now. He did not feel his heart thumping madly in his chest or hear his own difficult breathing wheezing in the echoing tunnel.

  A piece of rag was stretched across the path, obscuring the way ahead. Oswald did not see it and crashed through regardless.

  Piccadilly saw the dirty cloth and a twinge of wariness clutched suddenly at his stomach. He had to follow Oswald though, and he pushed the rag aside and ran on.

  They seemed to be in a large chamber, littered with sacks; large bundles on the floor, hanging off ledges, piled in corners. Oswald was in the centre stooping. Piccadilly caught up with him, nimbly hopping over the bundles.

  ‘What are you doing? Are you crazy?’

  Oswald stared at him with glassy, heavy eyes. He held his head to steady himself as the mania wore off – the divining rod was limp in his paws. Oswald swayed and came out of his trance. At his feet gleamed the mousebrass.

  Piccadi
lly looked down and froze. Oswald, coming to his senses at last, blinked and gasped.

  The chamber they had barged into was the main sleeping quarters of the rats. The sacks they had jumped over were sprawled, sleeping brutes. All about them were hundreds of snoring rats.

  Oswald and Piccadilly had run slap bang into the middle of them.

  The mousebrass they had come so far to find was clenched tightly in the cruel claws of a large brown rat. Oswald gulped: strapped to the stump of the rat’s arm was a peeler. It was Skinner. The sharp talons of his one good arm were twined about the cord that had once held the charm around Audrey’s neck. Oswald thought of the skins he and Piccadilly had found and wondered if this creature had taken part in their murders.

  He stared at the grunting, snoring beast at his feet, feeling weak and sick. If there had been any colour in him it would have drained away. He turned and saw all the terrible brutes slumbering around them. In all the chilling horror stories whispered around the winter fires he had never heard of anything so dreadful as the situation he had run into headlong. Oswald finally looked back to Piccadilly.

  ‘Pick it up,’ hissed the grey mouse indicating the mousebrass.

  Oswald shook his head, appalled at the suggestion. He didn’t want to touch the snoring monster to retrieve Audrey’s brass. ‘Let’s leave,’ he implored.

  ‘Not till we get what we came for.’

  Piccadilly bent down. The heat from the nostrils blew harshly against his arms. Piccadilly braced himself and gingerly unwound the cord from the claw. A disturbed mumble growled from the rat. The grey mouse paused, waiting to see if the rat stirred, but there was nothing more. Piccadilly resumed. Gently he lifted one of the talons and pulled the cord free. Slowly he passed the mousebrass to Oswald and lowered the sharp talon.

  ‘Now,’ he whispered, ‘let’s go. One clumsy move, Oswald, and we’re rat meat. You’d better let me go first and you tread where I do.’

  Oswald nodded. He wanted to get out of this frightening place. His instinct was to flee, to run wildly through the rag partition – but there were so many sleeping bodies between it and them that he knew Piccadilly made sense.

  He marvelled at the luck which had brought them this far without treading on a tail or whisker and inwardly thanked the Green Mouse. Oswald’s admiration for Piccadilly soared as well. He could never have taken the mousebrass like that. He glanced at the gleaming yellow charm in his paw. They had come all this way for this, an anti-cat sign – was it worth it? Oswald was not sure now.

  Piccadilly began to pick his way through the rats, showing Oswald where to step safely. With a nervous last look at the sleeping rat, the white mouse followed.

  With a painful slowness that made every bone of them ache the two mice edged their way back to the cloth stretched across the entrance. Piccadilly sighed when he reached it and pushed it aside gladly.

  Oswald hopped over the last rat – he was a scrawny villain with one ear torn off, and he ground his teeth loudly as he slept. But as Oswald neared the partition an almighty gong boomed throughout the chamber and the rats awoke.

  Oswald couldn’t move. There were yawns and stretches as the rats prepared for their shift in the mine. The sound of two hundred knuckles cracked in the chamber.

  Oswald should have run but his legs wouldn’t respond. He stayed there and whimpered, stricken and frozen. Through a rent in the cloth he saw Piccadilly’s urgent face calling him, but it was no use. He was rooted to the spot.

  Piccadilly cursed his luck for running out here at the end of their journey when the mousebrass had been found. The rats were sure to catch them. He saw Oswald, bleak and terrified, trembling in the chamber – what could he do?

  Oswald grasped the mousebrass tightly. He saw Skinner rub the sleep out of his eyes and then stare blankly at his empty paw.

  ‘Nar! Where’s it gone? Who’s ‘ad me prize – which stinkin’ sot’s pinched me mouse dangler?’ Skinner turned on his neighbour and gripped him by the throat. ‘Were it you, Spiker?’ he snarled. ‘I’ll gut you an’ make rope from your entrails.’

  The rat called Spiker eyed the peeler as it swayed menacingly before his face. ‘Keep yer bile in,’ he spat. ‘Haven’t got yer poxy bauble. Mebbe Pokey ‘ad it,’ and another rat was involved in the argument.

  So far no one had seen Oswald. All eyes were on the brawl in the middle of the chamber. The mouse felt life return to his legs and he crept quietly towards the partition.

  A claw gripped his shoulder.

  ‘’Ere, who’re you then?’ the rat with the torn ear growled behind him.

  Stammering, Oswald turned round – face to ugly face. The rat grinned; there were bits of rotten green in his long teeth.

  ‘New are you?’ he sneered, looking Oswald up and down. An odd light flickered in the rat’s eye. ‘Where’d you get this then?’ he said, pointing to the green scarf. ‘Trophy is it? You’ll not get many of them in the mine.’

  Oswald was totally puzzled. And then he realised what had happened – he had been mistaken for a young rat! His pride was somewhat injured by this insult, but it was hardly the time to complain – he told himself that after everything he had been through he probably did look quite dishevelled.

  The rat told him it was time to start and the gong sounded again. ‘I hates it! That’s our shift that is. Look at them over there, most of ’em too thick to tell dung from apples – they do what they’re told. What’s it all for though, eh?’

  He turned to see the fight between Skinner and Spiker.

  Oswald shot a glance at the hole in the rag. Piccadilly was bewildered. ‘It’ll never work,’ the city mouse mouthed.

  Oswald pulled a what can I do? face and Piccadilly mimed to him to hide his obvious mouse hair and ears from view.

  Oswald quickly removed the scarf from his neck and tied it about his head in a rakish manner, then he tucked the mousebrass under it.

  ‘I’ll get help,’ Piccadilly assured him and the grey mouse turned and ran back down the passage as fast as he could.

  The scuffle in the chamber ended suddenly. There was some cheering – others muttered, but Spiker said nothing – he fell dead to the ground, a great slit up his middle.

  ‘I’ll finish the job later,’ said Skinner and he licked his bloody device clean.

  ‘I hates both of them – should have both copped it,’ mumbled the rat next to Oswald. ‘Pus-buckets they are.’ He tore the cloth aside and made to stomp through, but he turned to Oswald and said, ‘You’d best stick wi’ me on yer first day. I’ll show yer the ropes. We’ll get on fine you an’ me – mates together, be old cronies this time next shift. You’d like that wouldn’t you lad?’ He brought his face closer. Oswald nodded hurriedly.

  ‘Name’s Finn.’

  ‘Oh . . . I’m . . .’ Oswald coughed and tried to sound harsh and croaky like a rat whilst he fumbled for a Suitably rattish name, ‘ . . . Whitey’

  ‘Mmm, most like,’ Finn smiled unpleasantly. ‘I’ll show you the mine, Whitey lad.’ Oswald followed the scrawny rat into even greater danger.

  10. Magic on the Heath

  The night air was cool and refreshing. Twit quickly recovered from the stifling atmosphere of the sewers as the breeze ruffled his fur and blew away the memory of the cloying, sweaty rat smell.

  Thomas had led him back through the sewers a slightly different way from the one they took when they entered them. The two mice had surfaced near to the park where great iron gates kept out unwanted visitors in the night. They ducked under the ironwork and pattered along. Immense trees stood black against the sky, looming above them so high it hurt Twit’s neck to look. Their new leaves dappled the mice with moonlight as they passed underneath.

  ‘The oldest trees are over the hill there,’ pointed Thomas when he noticed Twit’s upturned face. ‘Huge chestnuts, ancient and knobbly. Give good feast to the squirrels and Her Ladyship.’

  ‘Who’s Her Ladyship asked Twit curiously.

  ‘The squirrel
s here are a watery lot by and large,’ Thomas continued, not seeming to hear the question. ‘I’ve no truck with them mostways – ’cept her, she is a grand lady.’ He gazed about them and scratched his whiskers. ‘This way matey.’

  Twit trotted after him. Thomas was striding briskly again. ‘But if you please, who is a grand lady?’

  ‘Why – the Starwife,’ he replied. ‘Have you not heard of her?’ Thomas tutted at this gap in Twit’s education.

  There were no lights in the park, and the streets to the right were obscured by the tall trees, so little light from the lampposts fell on the sweeping lawns.

  ‘See yonder hill?’ Thomas nodded to the dark mass that rose to their left. ‘The strange domed building that sits on top is for lookin’ into the sky.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ Twit said brightly, ‘the bats told me it was to see the stars, but I can see ’em anyways.’

  ‘Aye the stars,’ winked the midshipmouse. ‘Oldest navigation points. Hmm, there’s paths to be found up there. Lead you far away and back again they can.’ He cleared his throat and dismissed the urge to roam that was rising in him.

  The seafarer shook his head slowly and removed his woollen hat. He stared at the glittering heavens and sighed; ‘No, you’ve had my best, I’ll not wander again, whatever you tempt me with. I’ve anchored down at last and nothing can draw me out.’ Thomas pulled his hat back over his head, covering the white wisps of hair that had been revealed and which waved like seaweed floating in the deep. He smiled at Twit. ‘It’s a strong pull the world has, once you’ve seen it. Well, where was I?’

  ‘The Starwife,’ the fieldmouse reminded him.