by Angela Robb
‘I’ve been noticing,’ I say, ‘that the rats are pretty hard to impress.’
‘That’s because everyone wants to be the next Big Cheese,’ replies Nev, ‘and they don’t like rivals, popping up out of nowhere and threatening their chances. There are squabbles every day over where everyone fits in the pecking order. Around here, you don’t rise through the ranks by winning friends, but by winning fights.’
Suddenly I’m very glad I left out that certain detail from my report of the day’s events. If I were to tell Nev that I somehow upset the Big Cheese’s right-hand rat on my very first day, he’d stuff me in a padded envelope and mail me straight back to the suburbs. Besides, there’s no need for him to know; I have all of this under control. I will use my brainpower to prove my worth and outsmart any would-be rivals. And as you know, should anyone try any mischief I will defend myself most ably.
12
Fast Food
Breakfast.
French crêpes, filled with chocolate spread and sliced banana, served with a side order of flying knives. Note that Chef Claude can wield two rolling pins at once and still stab, throw skewers and toss pans of boiling water at small rodents. Tina is in attack mode with her martial arts, leaping and punching, very, very close to the medley of missiles. It’s impressive, though the other mice yell at her to stop.
Also note that sitting on a chopping board while helping oneself to food on nearby plates may cause unnecessary alarm. Cousin Pip almost faints before I remind him that I only had a stump of a tail to begin with.
Lunch.
Italiano. A bottle of olive oil soaring past my ear to smash against the wall. Two lessons to learn here: one, Nev is quite right that dough balls and pepperoni are easier to carry back to the sewer than ravioli soaked in tomato sauce; and two, there are many ways to shout death threats at small animals in Italian. Weirdly, Tina has replies to them all.
Dinner.
Chinese. One cook realises I’m a (former) fluffy pet. Tries to trap me under a colander. Gets badly bitten.
Very nearly strangle myself with a noodle, but between us we get out with four dumplings, three spring rolls and a couple of cheek pouches’ worth of special fried rice.
Three square meals, and a load of very satisfied rats – Big Cheese included. All in a day’s work for Mouse and Hamster Catering Incorporated.
13
Pistachio Peril
Well I knew it wouldn’t be long before I saw some of the squabbles that Nev described begin to play out. Now here we are, two days later, being swept along in a tide of rats hurrying towards the main chamber, all because Minestroni is apparently dead. It seems that he has choked to death on something beginning with the letter p.
‘It’s a type of nut,’ Nev is trying to explain, despite the rabble of raised voices. ‘And now there will be chaos.’
Be that as it may, Minestroni didn’t seem to like me very much, and it’s a bit of a relief that he’s gone. I feel slightly bad about that, but not really. As we pour into the chamber, several rats are jostling for position atop the slimy brick that Minestroni once stood on to speak to the crowd. It’s turning into a riot in here.
‘SHUT AAAAP!!’ The Big Cheese’s pipe rattles dangerously. He has everyone’s attention. ‘SHOW SOME RESPECT, YOU ’ARTLESS VERMIN! ME TRUSTED ADVISOR, MINESTRONI—’ The Big Cheese’s voice breaks up, and something like a sniffle echoes in the pipe. Everyone exchanges surprised glances. The Big Cheese clears his throat. ‘—MINESTRONI, HAS PASSED AWAY. NOW I DON’T KNOW WHICH OF YOU STOOGES DID THIS – IF I DID, I’D ’AVE YOUR GUTS ON CLAUDE’S FRENCH TOAST – BUT ’OOEVER YOU ARE, YOU ’AVE CREATED A VACANCY. NOW I NEEDS A NOO ADVISOR IMMEDIATELY. SO. ANYONE ’OO WANTS TO BE CONSIDERED FOR THIS POST BETTER DO SOMETHIN’ SMART, AND DO IT QUICK. I DON’T CARE IF YOU DICE UP THE ALLEY CATS OR FIND ME A NICE CHOUX BUN. NOW. DOES ANYONE ’AVE ANY QUESTIONS?’
‘I do!’ Enter the rat who has managed to claim Minestroni’s old brick. I recognise him as the lanky fellow who was standing right behind Minestroni after the seagulls-and-dead-fish incident. ‘I say we finds out who did this to poor old Minestroni. Give him a taste of his own medicine.’ An uncertain murmur drifts through the crowd. ‘So who’s got a guilty face, then?’
The murmuring dies away. Everyone stares awkwardly at their feet.
‘Standin’ up for justice are you, Vinny?’ shouts a loud voice from the back of the chamber. ‘Or just makin’ sure that whoever did it won’t be challengin’ you for that there brick?’
The crowd likes this.
‘Yeah!’ someone else pipes up. ‘How come you’re up there anyway, Vinny? Bit keen on bein’ the new Minestroni, are ya?’
‘How long’s that been goin’ on?’
As the angry jeering gets louder, Vinny arches his back and bares his yellow teeth. I think it’s time someone pointed out the silliness of all this, before anyone gets hurt.
‘Actually,’ I shout, ‘isn’t it more likely that this was just an accident?’
A hush falls over the crowd. Nev has just kicked me, which I’ll take as a sign of encouragement.
‘What d’you mean?’ someone asks.
‘What I mean is that you hardly need anybody’s help to choke to death. I think you’ll find the thing simply stuck in Minestroni’s throat and killed him.’
Most of the rats seem to be thinking hard about this new concept of accidental death. You know, I think I might have prevented a disaster here.
‘Seems to know an awful lot about choking, doesn’t he?’
Or perhaps not. Everyone is muttering suspiciously.
‘Ah yes,’ sneers Vinny, ‘if it ain’t the cocky fluffball who so cleverly got the cheese out of the trap and so daringly fought off the seagulls from underneath a fish …’
‘HANG ON A MINUTE.’ The Big Cheese sounds confused. ‘ARE WE SAYIN’ IT WAS THE ’AMSTER DID IT?’
‘No, of course I didn’t!’
‘THEN WHO DID?’
‘No one! That’s my point!’
‘YOU BETTER START MAKIN’ SOME SENSE.’
‘It can’t have been Rocco! He was with us mice the whole time!’
Those are some very sensible words from Tina. Now the rats are accusing anyone standing near them whom they haven’t seen in the past couple of hours.
‘Come on,’ says Nev, ‘let’s make ourselves scarce until things cool off.’
We slip quietly from the chamber.
14
Dirty Tricks and Cocktail Sticks
A day has passed since Minestroni’s death, and the air around here is thick with menace. Each and every rat wants to be Minestroni’s replacement – and attacking anyone who might threaten one’s chances seems to be the favourite strategy. Of course, yesterday’s mysterious killer – surely everyone’s biggest rival – continues to terrify the whole gang, despite not really existing.
Nev’s family have insisted that I stay with them in the mouse house. Naturally, I am spending my time here wisely, planning my own bid for the top job. My preferred option is to single-handedly defeat the alley cats. But first I must discover their whereabouts.
Of course Nev knows exactly where they live, but there is no way he will reveal that information while he continues to doubt my capabilities. Indeed, I have been careful not to give away any hint of my plan, trying hard to keep all expressions of deep thinking off my face.
Tina might know. Where the cats live, I mean. And she won’t be afraid to tell me. Happily, everyone except Tina and me is away looking for food; at this dangerous time, Tina has been told to stay behind because she is the youngest, and I because I am a target for would-be attackers. Not that those worry me, but I can’t be wasting time fighting them off when I need to think.
Thinking time is over.
‘Tina, where do the alley cats live?’
Tina stops p
ractising her two-footed rear-end power kicks. ‘One-point-two miles west, between the Scuttled Frigate pub and the twenty-four-hour minimart. In the alley!’ Her eyes are wide. ‘You are going there, aren’t you?’
‘Yes, actually, I am.’
‘To knock them all out?’
‘Pretty much.’
‘I’m coming with you!’
I should have known she’d say that.
‘You are a heroic spirit, Tina,’ I tell her, ‘and your moment to shine will come. But today I must go alone. What would Nev do, if he came back here to find us both gone?’
‘He’d freak.’
‘That’s correct. So you have to do a very important job, and tell everyone that I’ve just popped out to use the bathroom. That should buy me enough time to get well on my way.’
‘Okay.’ Tina bites her lip, which is trembling with excitement. ‘I can do that.’ She runs into a shadowy corner where the mice store useful items collected on their foraging trips, and returns carrying a cocktail stick. ‘Here,’ she says. ‘Take this for weaponry. The rats will be outside.’
I am about to say, ‘No thanks, I will fight them with my bare hands,’ when an image of me and my cocktail stick, caught up in some serious ninja action against four rats at once, flashes through my mind. From the gleam in her eye, I can see that Tina is thinking exactly the same thing.
‘And also,’ she says, ‘you should take the number 32 bus. Jump off at the Scuttled Frigate.’
‘Thank you, Tina. I should be back by nightfall, I expect.’
I hurry through the pipe that leads to the great outdoors with Tina’s loud whispers of ‘Good luck, Rocco!’ echoing behind me. After so much time in the sewer, the sunlight hurts my eyes as I come out on to the banking.
I glance this way and that. It is the middle of the day, and a steady flow of traffic is rumbling over the bridge nearby. Across the street, holidaymakers and people on their lunch breaks are seated at tables outside Perfecto’s Pizzeria. To try and board the bus over there would be far too risky. Instead, I will hurry up the banking … it’s a little awkward with my cocktail stick, but here we are … and I will follow the cobbled lane along the side of the Jolly Yachtsman Hotel. In three minutes and twenty seconds – make that seventeen – I will join the bus route on the much quieter street outside the old warehouse.
There’s just one thing that’s bothering me a little. If I didn’t know any better – that is, if I didn’t have a calm and rational mind – I’d swear that there are footsteps behind me. Of course, I do have such a mind, so I know those are not footsteps, but figments of my imagination only. They are not quick little footsteps, tap-tap-tapping on the cobbles. Like four sets of claws – no, eight sets of claws, divided between two sets of four feet. Four big feet on each of two big rodents. Rat-sized rodents.
When you think about it, at a time like this, taking a look over my shoulder would not be a sign of silliness. It would be a mark of good sense.
I look round. One is grey and scrawny, the other brown and fat, and both are hurrying towards me with a mad look in their eyes.
I am running. Only until I can think of a master plan, you understand, but these things take time.
It is extremely difficult to run with this cocktail stick between my jaws. Of course, I am trying to picture in my mind what I should be doing with my weapon …
The overall image is there – lots of fancy twirling and accurate poking – but the details of how to do that are a bit sketchy …
My mind, and my heart, and my feet are racing. I can hear the rats grunting.
They’re getting closer.
Stay calm.
I have no idea what I can actually do with the cocktail stick.
Just focus.
Probably nothing.
Well you either try, or you die.
I take the stick out of my mouth, hold it high in one hand, run three-legged.
‘I have a cocktail stick! And I’m not afraid to use it!’
Stick is too long. Legs too short. It’s going to—
—CAAATCH!! between the cobbles, POLE-VAULTING ME UP and somehow I am hanging from … a bicycle lock.
Actually, it’s more of a thin chain than a proper lock, coiled loosely around handlebars and railing, and from the way I’m swinging here, I don’t think it’s going to hold. But here come the two rats, positioning themselves right underneath me, grinning evilly.
‘I wouldn’t stand there, if I were you!’ In my head that was a mean threat, but it came out more as a cry of concern for their safety.
They are laughing, of course.
Ouch. My rump just bumped hard against the top of the bike, nudging it off balance. Now the silver chain is unfurling – rusted bicycle frame set free … I squeeze my eyes shut and wait for the—
CRASH.
I open one eye and look down. The fat rat lies knocked out beneath the crumpled bicycle. Her companion stares up at me in shock.
I shrug my shoulders.
With a jerk, I drop an inch or two. My stomach turns a somersault. The tinny sound of cheap chain links running across metal railings can mean only one thing.
As the chain frees itself, it drops me in a dead-straight plummet … and as the rat below looms closer, I meet that yellow-eyed stare, now a mix of terror and acceptance, and you know, I think we understand each other …
There must have been a thud, but I don’t remember feeling it. Everything has been black for a good few seconds. Perhaps I should open my eyes.
Either the world has turned blue, or I’ve hit my head very hard.
Actually, neither; I’m lying on my back, looking up at the sky. I’ve landed on something warm and soft.
And furry and grey.
I scramble off the rat, ready with my fists. But he’s been knocked out, just like his friend.
I survey the scene before me. I just took out two rats with one cocktail stick: not too bad. And to think that, for a moment there, I almost lost my nerve. But what did I tell myself? Stay calm, and focus. From now on I shall always remain calm and focused.
I hear a flapping of wings above me, and look up in time to see a scruffy grey pigeon take off from the top of a nearby lamp post. He is flying, I believe, in the direction of the number 32 bus route.
Clearly, my newest adventure has not gone unnoticed.
15
Rumour Has It
I have abandoned my mission.
I can tell that you’re surprised. But think about it.
Clearly, I have been spied on by Francis Pigeoni, who is now heading for the alley between the Scuttled Frigate and the twenty-four-hour minimart to tell the cats of the deadly new foe who’s coming their way. This means that, were I to stick to my original plan, the cats would be awaiting my arrival, making the job extremely dangerous – perhaps too dangerous, even for me. And besides, rumours about fearsome creatures have a habit of exaggerating; I’ll sound more fearsome each time the tale is told, and the cats’ fear of me will grow as Francis’s story spreads through the gang.
So I slip back through the pipe, and into the mouse house.
‘Hello everyone.’
‘Rocco!’ the mice cry, all together.
My ears are filled with cries of relief and stern lecturing from Nev’s parents. Nev folds his arms and says nothing, but I can tell that he is secretly eager to hear what I’ve been doing. Uncle Alfie and Cousin Pip also seem mostly curious, while Tina is obviously disappointed to see me back already.
But I know how to lift the mood. After all, I’ve a heroic story to share. So I describe how I was chased by two rats and defeated them both using a cocktail stick, a parked bicycle and my own bodyweight.
‘But Rocco,’ says Tina, ‘how did that stop you from going to crush the alley cats, like you said you would?’
The other
mice glare at me. It may be best to tell a tiny lie.
‘Well, actually, all I really wanted was to see for myself where they live, and maybe catch a glimpse of them. To see exactly what we’re up against.’
‘We’re not up against the alley cats, Rocco,’ Nev protests. ‘We own the docks, and the foxes look like they own the docks, and that’s just about enough to keep the cats away from the docks … so long as we don’t start appearing on their precious patch.’
‘So why didn’t you go there, Rocco?’ asks Tina, ignoring her brother.
‘Ah. Well I had to scrap that plan because the pigeon saw the whole thing. Saw what I did to the rats.’
There is silence.
‘What pigeon?’ says Nev’s dad.
‘Francis Pigeoni. He took off towards the cats’ territory. Trust me – once they hear what he has to say about me, the last thing those mangy moggies will do is come anywhere near.’
Unfortunately, everyone except Tina seems to disagree. What I’m now hearing is an argument over whether the cats will mock the idea of a deadly hamster, or take the threat seriously and sneak into the docklands to take a look for themselves. I’m a little disturbed by both these theories.
‘Hey Rocco.’ Tina is bouncing up and down and making stabbing motions with an imaginary object. ‘Show me all your moves with the cocktail stick! Did you twirl it? Did you jab it? Did you whack it?’
‘Actually, I … pole-vaulted it.’
Her eyes widen in amazement. I’m beginning to feel better already.
It’s now two days since Francis took flight in the lane, and here we all are, gathered in the chamber for one of the Big Cheese’s regular rants. News travels fast, it seems, and it’s not just the alley cats who’ve heard all about my adventures outside the Jolly Yachtsman Hotel. Yesterday two magpies were heard discussing an unusually large hamster who threw a bicycle on top of a rat, before crushing another just by jumping on him; by this morning, according to one conversation between a crow and a starling, the number of rats pounded by this fearless rodent had increased to four.
