by Angela Robb
‘Okay, enough jokes,’ declares Vinny. You might remember Vinny, the rat who tried to take over when Minestroni died. ‘Let’s have the goodies out here, see what we’ve got to bargain with.’
Clearly, he has taken charge – which is rather annoying, actually, as I’d been planning to take on the leadership role myself … even if I’m not entirely clued up on what we’re actually doing. That said, although there are a few grumblings about Vinny’s power-snatching, there’s hardly the furious disagreement you’d expect. It seems that no other rat wants to take the lead tonight; like everyone’s super keen on the idea of snaffling the magpies’ weapons, but without having to deal with the magpies themselves.
The crowd parts to let two rats pass through. They are walking backwards, dragging a large cloth napkin. The napkin is laden with silverware that you’d find in any kitchen. There are teaspoons, and salt and pepper pots, and napkin rings. But mostly teaspoons.
Nobody is saying anything. Someone really should, so I’ll try this:
‘Well that’s the shiniest load of stolen goods I’ve ever seen.’
‘Exactly!’ Vinny looks delighted, and slightly crazy. ‘And don’t them magpies just love shiny! They’ll go daft over this lot, give us all the sharp stuff they’ve got.’
Everyone is exchanging surprised glances. A cautious murmur of agreement quickly spreads and becomes a rumble of enthusiasm. But I don’t quite understand why. I mean, is shiny really enough? Won’t the magpies want some of our dangerous weapons, in exchange for theirs? Are teaspoons and salt pots dangerous? Am I missing something here?
Anyway, it looks like we’re off. The napkin is swiftly folded and tied at the corners to make a bundle, and the same two rats start dragging it away. We all follow, and now there is a real sense of excitement in the air. But for some reason, I don’t seem to be sharing that excitement. In fact, suddenly I have a bit of a headache. Maybe I’ve been down in the sewer too long.
I’m glad to see the light from street lamps at the end of the tunnel. The mice are waiting there to see us off.
‘Cheerio,’ I tell them.
Nev pulls me aside. ‘Just remember what I said, Rocco. About staying out of sight.’
Tina gives me a high five.
I’m glad it wasn’t far to the cake factory where the meeting is to take place. I can’t help feeling that this many rats (and one hamster), out and about with a large bundle of silverware, could attract some unwanted attention. Of course, that’s why we’re doing this at three a.m.: this is gang business, and gang business is secret business.
We cross the yard in front of the cake factory. A basement window has been jammed open with a brick. Vinny slips through it, and the others follow. I am the famous, fearless Hamster Gangster, so I really should be among the first to go inside. Being smaller, I easily dart through the window alongside two of the rats.
The factory basement is in darkness, but large squares of yellow light are falling in through the row of high windows. Having dropped on to a shelf laden with bags of – wait till my eyes adjust – caster sugar, I can see that it’s quite a long way to the floor. To my left and right, the rats are sinking their claws into the wooden posts at either end of the shelving unit. There is an unpleasant scratching sound as they descend to the floor.
I scurry to the post on my right and wait my turn. Rather cleverly, I think, I find the holes left by the rats’ claws where they stuck them into the wood. I slot my own fingers into the holes and swing myself off the shelf … Okay, now I just have to slowly release my grasp until I start to … slide, and … oh, here we gooooOOOHHH!
Ow. It’s okay. I’m okay. Claws aren’t as long as the rats’, so … came unstuck, that’s all.
I can hear someone tearing down the post above me, so I roll quickly out of the way and on to my feet. I look around, but all I can make out are the packets, tins and bottles of ingredients on the shadowy shelves. It seems we’re the first to arrive – but then, isn’t that the glimmer of two beady eyes, staring out from between those bags of self-raising flour?
As the last of our gang reaches the floor, there is a deadly silence. Vinny scurries into the centre of the room and stands on his hind legs.
‘All right then, Joe and Co.,’ he says loudly. ‘We’re here and we’re ready to do business.’
Suddenly there are many more pairs of beady eyes, and a good deal of flapping and fluttering and whipping up a cloud of dust and flour as the magpies come down from the shelves.
They are carrying things. Jostling each other with their beating wings, they set these things down on the floor. There are pins and needles, letter openers and silver nail files. This stuff is unmistakeably shiny and impressively sharp.
‘Okay,’ says the biggest of the magpies (let’s assume this is Joe). ‘So what have you got for us, Vinny?’
All of us are looking around … looking for the two rats who hauled the napkin stuffed with goodies.
Except they’re not actually here.
There is a loud clattering above us: here they come. Together with the bundle, they’ve just dropped through the window and on to the caster sugar shelf.
Panting, they heave the loot to the end of the shelf … Now one is positioning himself on the wooden post, pulling the bundle towards him. It’s over his head and he’s reaching up with one hand, trying to support its weight … The other is holding the napkin where it’s tied at the top … and as the first rat slides just a little way down the post, the second fixes himself to it higher up.
The second rat is coming down … too quickly! The first looks like he’s being swallowed up by the bundle as it drops on top of him. Can he hold on?
No. He’s lost his grip on the post but not the napkin … he’s hanging there, but … ah, yes. Too much weight for Rat Number Two.
CRASH.
All of us are cringing. At last Vinny storms over and hauls the napkin off the dazed rats. He unties the knot, revealing the silverware. The magpies stare. I feel that I should use my reputation to make sure they don’t mess with us, so I shuffle closer to Vinny and the napkin. But not too close. Somehow I want to scare the magpies with my presence, and also remain unseen.
Joe cocks his head to one side. ‘What’s this exactly?’
‘What does it look like?’ says Vinny. ‘It’s only the finest shiny stuff from the best restaurants in this city.’
‘And what are we supposed to do with a load of teaspoons? You lot tryin’ to stir up a fight?’
The other birds caw with laughter.
‘Nice try Joey,’ says Vinny. ‘We all know you birdbrains go crackers for the likes of them teaspoons. I guess you can see your reflection real good in them, for preening all them fancy-pants feathers.’
There is a dangerous gleam in Joe’s eye. ‘Don’t push it! You ain’t the only gang here lookin’ for weaponry. So you see, this stuff ain’t no use to us – unless our enemies are gonna sneeze to death …’
Joe kicks over a little silver pepper pot, sending a plume of brown powder into the air. The rats gasp at such a waste of seasoning.
The magpies move forward, closing in on us.
‘We ’ave a hamster,’ shouts Vinny, ‘and we’re not afraid to use him!’
‘That’s right!’ I squeak, although I really didn’t mean to. I clap my hands firmly over my mouth.
Everyone is looking at me. Quickly, I drop my hands, clenching my fists – then I stretch up on my hind legs, making myself as tall as possible …
And as I’m doing so, it’s making me think. I knew all that harmless kitchenware would not impress the magpies; I knew trouble was brewing. I am super smart. The magpies may be many, and big, and their beaks may be sharp – but they’re not half as sharp as Rocco the Quick-witted.
So why are they giggling?
‘Oh, of course, how could we forget?’ says Joe. ‘Maybe it�
�s ’cause he’s not quite the two-foot-tall, bike-flingin’ freak of nature all the rumours was describin’?’
Now the magpies are almost helpless with laughter. Vinny looks at me and seems to be panicking.
As for me – I’m ready to teach this beaky buffoon a thing or two.
‘You think size is everything?’ I yell.
‘Let’s find out!’ says Joe. ‘We fight for the sharp stuff!’
Everyone takes a flying leap at the weaponry offered up by the magpies. I run in among them, but already everything has gone. So I grab one of our teaspoons instead.
The air is filled with the tuneful ringing of silver things striking other silver things. Suddenly a large bird is right in my face. I smack him across the beak with the back of my spoon.
‘SQUAWK!’
He backs off.
And here’s another! I give him the same.
‘Ah-ha!’ I cry. ‘Perhaps you should believe the rumours!’
The first magpie lifts his right foot. In it he is clutching a long needle.
He jabs – I hop to the left. He jabs again – I hop to the right. I swing my spoon and wallop him on the head. His eyes cross as he keels over.
‘I JUST KNOCKED OUT A MAGPIE!’
I couldn’t help remarking on that, but it seems to have made the second fellow rather angry. He has a nail file. I spring backwards as he swipes it at me—
‘Aaahh!’
—Not quite – ow – fast enough to avoid getting my – geez, that smarts – nose filed. I grab the rounded end of my spoon and poke him hard in the belly with the handle. He flaps across the room muttering things I will not repeat.
‘Two down! Who’s next?’
That’ll be the huge bird standing right behind me, grasping a letter opener like a dagger in her long claws.
She takes a stab at me. I block it with my spoon – and just like that, it’s a sword fight! She raises the blade high – I lift my spoon up – she brings it down, pokes it at my middle – I smack it clean away!
You may not think a teaspoon seems a natural substitute for a sword, but actually it works extremely well—
Ah. Until it’s knocked out of your hands.
The magpie lunges – but I’m already out of there, bolting past her. She spins around, looking for me. But she can’t see me, because I’m underneath a shelving unit, hard against the wall.
She’s walking towards me. She still can’t see me – it’s too dark – but she will, once she’s close enough. Can she fit herself under this shelf?
I don’t know. And why should I care? She’s clearly evil, and good will always triumph over evil. It just has to figure out how.
Or maybe it doesn’t. My feathered foe has been pounced on by a rat with a salt pot – and it seems that seasoning in the eye works even better than a teaspoon in the gut, because she’s just taken flight and slammed into the wall. It looks like our shiny loot is more useful than anyone imagined.
The question is: what do I do now? I can’t see much from under here, which makes thinking up a genius plan especially difficult. Nev’s last words to me are flashing through my mind: Just remember what I said. I do remember. He told me that there’s no shame in staying out of sight, and at last I think I understand what he meant. He meant: keep yourself hidden while you find the ideal spot from which to take the enemy by surprise.
Good plan, Nev!
I move to the end of the shelving unit. Happily, there’s a doorway here, meaning no neighbouring shelves. And so I begin scrambling my way up: grasping the end of a shelf … climbing on top of the ingredients stacked there … reaching up to grab the shelf above …
Well, all of that is harder than it sounds. But – wow! – the view from up here is—
—terrible, actually. Everyone is hitting and prodding each other with items that birds and rodents were not designed to use, and neither side is making any progress. It is now clear that I alone can lead us to victory. I must think fast.
I look around. I see tins and packets: condensed milk, treacle, brown sugar. I need something more deadly! But there is nothing deadly here on the top shelf.
Just condensed milk … and treacle … and brown sugar.
Treacle …
Are you thinking what I’m thinking? Because I’m remembering something else Nev said. He said, Sometimes these things get sticky.
Of course! These are not ingredients. They are weapons. I climb on top of the nearest treacle tin. Now I’m prising off the lid. Very slowly, because … it’s a pretty tight fit, of course, but … here it comes …
POP.
Suddenly I’m lying on my back on the shelf, holding the lid in both hands. I stand up, holding on to the tin and peering over the rim. The stuff inside is thick and black, and smells sickeningly sweet. I look around the room: the rats and magpies are spread out across the floor. That won’t do.
I take a deep breath. There’s nothing else for it.
‘Attention, everyone!’ I yell. ‘This fight is over! The rats have won!’ Everyone stops and looks up, glancing around in confusion until they spot me on my shelf. ‘They have a secret weapon – and it’s right up here, with me! You doubt me, you magpies, because I am not tall! And yet you stand there on the floor rather than challenge me! Well, you’ve got five seconds before things get nasty!’
It’s working. The magpies look furious, the whole lot of them are hopping in my direction. They’re spreading their wings – about to fly up here …
Time to tip the tin! I push it on to its side … and yes, the treacle is pouring down, but by golly, it’s thick! Pour faster!!
And there you go! The first couple of magpies to get a coating of the sticky stuff squawk in horror, stopping the other birds in their tracks. Giving me time for a genius move!
I’m on top of the tin. Running on the spot, like I used to do on my hamster wheel back at Gary’s place. Except this time, I’m moving – backwards – spreading the trickle of treacle along the line of astonished magpies! They’re yelling all sorts, flapping their wings and jumping around like crazy, but that’s only helping to spread the stuff far and wide.
I jump round to face the other way – land perfectly on top of the tin – now I’m moving back the way I came, giving everyone a second coat.
The tin’s gathering too much speed. I jump clear as it rolls off the shelf …
… and lands on one of the magpies. In fact, I do believe it’s Joe. He’s running in circles with the tin over his head, slamming into other birds and knocking them half out. Each and every magpie is weighed down in treacle – a slippery black blob with a beak – and they’re not happy.
‘Get down, Rocco, let’s GO!!’ someone yells.
I tear down the post at the end of the shelf – oops – head first – not thinking straight – and give the magpies a wide berth as I hurry across the floor after the rats, who are laden with the birds’ weapons. There’s just time to grab a couple of needles, and – do you know what? – I’m taking a teaspoon as well, before scrambling back up and out the basement window.
21
Foxed
Now it’s straight back to the sewer, everyone choose your weapons, and hey-ho and away we go to have a little chat with a certain bunch of foxes. My trusty teaspoon served me well in the cake factory, so I’m sticking with that. In any case, it’s just for show, since the foxes aren’t fighters.
We line up on top of the wall at the edge of the foxes’ yard. The first pink rays of dawn are in the sky, but there is no sign yet of the cunning canines. Once again Vinny is in charge.
‘Come on out, you vermin!’ he cries. ‘We ’ave a message for ya from the Big Cheese.’
There is a sound like someone yawning loudly. It is coming from the nearest shed. And now the same sound is coming from the other one.
Maurice steps out of the
shed nearest to us. He stretches his long front legs, then he yawns again. He looks at us with a mild curiosity. At the same time, the rest of the foxes emerge from the other shed and continue with the stretching and yawning. All of us rodents are waiting on the wall, waving our kitchen utensils and shiny sharps as menacingly as possible.
‘A very good morning to you too,’ says Maurice. ‘Please, tell us this message. If it’s worth disturbing our sleep so early in the morning, then it must be extraordinary news indeed, so we’re all dying to hear it, I’m sure.’
‘Well.’ Vinny clears his throat. ‘We are ’ere to say that we know exactly what you riff-raff has been plottin’ with them alley cats.’
Maurice lowers his brows. He looks very mean.
‘And also, if you don’t stop your little scheme right now, we’re gonna dice you up and make six kinds of sizzlers out of ya.’
Maurice smiles. It’s even scarier than the mean look.
‘We’d be fascinated to see you try that,’ he says, ‘but unfortunately we cannot allow it. You see, none of us has any dealings whatsoever with the alley cats, and so your accusation – whatever it actually is – is plainly false. Now we foxes may be fish thieves and fakers, but we never betray, or lie to, those with whom we have made a deal. That, my friend, is because we are honourable. And right now, if you won’t stop threatening us, that honour of ours will see the lot of you torn to shreds without a thought for how you might be sizzled, sautéed or otherwise cooked.’
‘Ha!’ scoffs Vinny. ‘And how are you gonna do that, then? Call the mob? Oh no, that’s right – we’re the mob!’
There are a few laughs from the rats, followed by an uneasy hush as Maurice’s glare grows steelier.
‘It’s true that we do not use violence readily,’ he says, ‘because we are civilised, and prefer to let lowly creatures fight off seagulls. But we are foxes. We don’t have to act deadly to be deadly. If you need us to prove this, we’re happy to do so.’
Why is he looking at me? That’ll be because everyone is looking at me. In fact, Vinny is staring at me with a desperate look on his face. Once again, it’s down to the famous hamster to save the day.
