by Angela Robb
‘Fine words!’ I declare. ‘You say you never lie to us – but could it be that in saying so you are simply lying once more? After all, one lie leads to another, does it not? So now you threaten us, faking by insisting you are deadly! Because faking is what you do, to use your own words!’
Maurice raises an eyebrow. ‘Ah yes, of course. The hamster.’ His friends are sniggering. ‘All right then. Tell us what it is that you think you know.’
‘We don’t think anything. I saw you with my own eyes.’ This is it: the eyewitness account that they cannot deny, and it’s a grand moment indeed. ‘I saw you talking to that bony slip of a cat, selling your yard to her and her evil friends!’
The foxes are now laughing loudly – all except Maurice, who silences them with a wave of his paw. ‘That was no alley cat you saw,’ he says smugly.
‘It was so! Skinny and mean-looking, and—’
‘Cream-coloured, mostly, with long pointed ears and sharp face – dark in colour, those ears and that face, and the legs and tail too – slender and elegant and, ah, those striking blue eyes.’ The fox pauses. ‘All the features of a pure-bred Siamese.’
The rats gasp and, yes, once again they are all looking at me. There’s only one thing I can say.
‘What on earth is a Siamese?’
‘A fancy breed of cat!’ hisses Vinny. ‘A pricey pet, not some good-for-nothin’ stray!’
‘Oh, I don’t think so!’ I retort. ‘I am from the suburbs, a place that is crawling with pet cats, all fluffy and well fed! So you see, I think I know a house kitty when I see one!’
Maurice looks at me darkly. ‘I’m not talking about your suburban, semi-skimmed-slurping moggies,’ he growls. ‘Our customers come to us from the west of the city – from mansions, where the humans choose their pets like they choose their sports cars.’
‘What you talkin’ about, customers?’ demands Vinny. ‘What you bringin’ prissy pets around here for, anyway?’
But Maurice ignores him: he’s too focused on me.
Stay calm, and think. He’s lying. He must be lying. Think about everything they said, the fox and the cat.
‘But you said all this would be hers, if she paid up! And who exactly are the other members of her social circle – the ones who’re coming with her?’ I’ve got it. ‘And what about the ridiculous hyperactive hamster she promised to take care of?’
Another gasp from the rats: they’d forgotten that detail, and suddenly I’m back in the game. Maurice stands up.
‘The ridiculous hamster was a birthday present for her owner’s six-year-old daughter. She finds it to be an attention-seeking pest and is determined to stamp it out.’ He narrows his eyes at me. ‘Her social circle consists of two Persians and a Burmese who live in her neighbourhood. As for why they’re coming and what they’re paying for’ – he nods towards the two sheds – ‘you may as well come and see for yourselves.’
As he strolls off to the nearest shed, we shuffle to the gap in the wall, scramble down the broken brickwork and hurry across the yard. We peer inside the shed.
I don’t know what to say. We keep looking at each other, as if checking that we’re all seeing the same thing and not imagining it …
Okay, well in that case this shed appears to be the world’s tiniest restaurant. There are two pink plastic tables surrounded by plump cushions, and in one corner, a stack of little china plates and bowls, all matching.
‘What’s all this then?’ asks Vinny. ‘Some kinda boutique bistro?’
Maurice smiles. ‘We like to think so. You see, while you rats steal scraps with which to stuff your own faces, we are running a successful restaurant. A seafood restaurant, to be precise. Those cats do like a good piece of fish.’
‘We didn’t know you was runnin’ a business!’ says Vinny. ‘Why didn’t you tell us?’
‘You never asked.’
‘What do the cats pay you with?’ I ask, although I don’t even care about the answer.
The fox shrugs. ‘Go on over to the other shed and take a look.’
We drift across the yard and look inside. All right. So the foxes are living in a palace of plush cat beds and soft fleecy blankets. I have seen enough. I want to go back to the sewer and stick my head in some stinking water.
But Vinny’s not finished yet.
‘Very impressive, Maurice,’ he’s saying, but in a dangerous tone of voice. ‘You seem to be makin’ a very comfortable profit, bringin’ cats into our backyard. You did say cats, didn’t you, Maurice? As in felines? Kitties? Adorable, purrin’, scratchin’, rodent-killin’ balls of fluff?’
Maurice’s smile broadens. ‘The very same.’
There is an uneasy murmur among the rats.
‘Well what do we think of that?’ asks Vinny. ‘Do we let these mutts play their little game of restaurants with our hated foes? Alley cats or pampered Persians, it’s all the same! I say we dice ’em up anyways!’
The uneasy murmur turns into a riot of angry yelling. Everyone is waving their weapons, and they’re beginning to surround Maurice. But there’s a menacing light in the fox’s eye.
‘Have our guests ever troubled you?’ he snaps. ‘Of course not! They’re overfed and upper crust and they’ve no interest whatsoever in chasing sewer rats!’
‘They don’t mind murdering hamsters,’ I hear myself mutter.
‘We’re the mob around here,’ Vinny continues, ‘the ultimate business critters. That means we get to decide what goes on and who goes down in this neighbourhood!’
Maurice takes a step towards Vinny, his fur bristling, gums pulled back in a snarl that reveals long white teeth. ‘You’re even more foolish than you looked when you were standing on the wall with a cheese grater! You need us, remember? We’re the only thing keeping those alley cats away from your smelly rotten sewer pipes! And besides, do you really doubt that we could bite your rodent heads off at any moment – if we had to?’
The other foxes have formed a circle around us. Now you know how I pride myself on my awesome displays of fighting skills, but there’s more than one way to save the day.
‘YES, OF COURSE! AND NO, OF COURSE NOT! THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR YOUR TIME!!’
And with that we’re off, Vinny included, tearing past the foxes and through the gap in the wall …
We’re all running as fast as we can, of course, but my legs are a little shorter than the rats’. I glance over my shoulder: the foxes are not following us. I drop back, let the others race on ahead. To be honest, I’m not really feeling my best right now, and I’m in no hurry to return to the sewer …
I don’t mind telling you that I’ve just collapsed in a heap twenty feet from our front door, the drainpipe under the bridge.
‘Rocco!’
Was that Nev? It takes all my energy just to look up. But yes, it is Nev, running along the bank towards me. He looks panicky.
‘It wasn’t an owl!’ he says, in a kind of shouted whisper. ‘In the park! It wasn’t an owl!’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘Just now, I … was throwing away our sweetie packet …’ Nev is even more out of breath than I am. ‘And I noticed … some little feathers … stuck in the sugar …’
‘And?’
‘They’re not owl feathers! They’re pigeon feathers!’
As a rule, pigeons don’t go out and about at night. Except, perhaps, one.
‘Francis Pigeoni,’ I murmur.
‘Exactly. And he’s already had plenty of time to tell the alley cats about our trip to see Dwayne. Meaning they now know we have a spy – and they know where to find him.’
‘Then Dwayne’s in danger. And he’s—’
‘Unable to tell any lies. Whatever they ask, he’s going to tell them the whole truth.’ Nev is already scrambling up the bank. ‘We have to get to the park – right now!’
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nbsp; 22
Saving Dwayne
Thankfully, it’s still too early for most humans to be up and about. This means that we have just managed to run the whole way to the park without having to scrabble through hedges. Now that we’ve reached the gates, we have to tread carefully. My head is spinning, and my heart is thumping in my ears.
‘I hope we’re in time,’ I whisper, and I mean it. After this morning’s episode with the foxes, I’m not in great shape for battling our feline foes.
Nev is scanning the open ground between us and Dwayne’s molehills. ‘There’s no sign of anyone,’ he says. ‘Let’s make a run for it!’
We scurry across the grass … but before we even reach the nearest molehill, it’s plain to see that something is very wrong. Dwayne’s muddy mound has been flattened, torn down, broken into clumps of earth tossed far and wide.
It has been dug into.
We hurry from one molehill to the next – all have been smashed to bits in the same way.
‘Dwayne!’ calls Nev. ‘Dwayne, are you there? It’s Nev and Rocco!’
We’re running around on the scattered soil. It’s like a churned-up battlefield.
‘Maybe he got out in time,’ I say hopefully. ‘He’s very clever, with those tunnels of his. Perhaps he escaped.’
‘But where did he go?’ Nev seems to whisper that question to the world in general.
I point to the nearest trees. ‘We could start over there.’
It’s the best guess we have, so we make for the trees. You might expect we’d feel safer under there, but this is not the case. To creatures our size, a small group of trees may as well be a vast forest, with the danger of enemies lurking behind every trunk.
Together we pick our way between the roots. This could take a while, if no one risks a whisper, so here goes:
‘Dwayne!’
We listen: nothing. I scramble over twigs, dodge between conkers; I’m moving as fast as I can now, and I know Nev is right behind me.
We stop. We sniff the air. There’s a faint rustling sound, somewhere off to the right. I creep towards it, Nev at my side. If I’m honest, I’m expecting a great big ugly cat to come leaping out of nowhere and swallow us whole. But I have to pull myself together. I won’t abandon Dwayne to a horrible fate.
‘We’re getting close,’ Nev whispers.
We crawl behind a tree root and peer over the top. Straight ahead, there is a little pile of leaves. It is trembling.
‘Dwayne?’ says Nev.
The pile stops trembling. Very slowly, a pink nose emerges. ‘Nev?’
We hurry over, pull Dwayne from under the leaves and dust the dirt from him.
‘That wasn’t such a great hiding place,’ I tell him. ‘The best hiding places don’t usually shake so much.’
‘Thank heavens we found you first,’ adds Nev. ‘Francis saw us, the night we visited you. We’ve seen what those cats did to the molehills.’
‘Well … the thing is,’ says Dwayne. We stop dusting his fur. ‘Actually, you didn’t find me first … I mean … I …’ He bursts into tears. ‘They knew our signal! They tossed the little stone into the side of the molehill, and out I popped! Right into their paws!’ I hand him a leaf and he blows his nose. ‘I’m sorry!’
Nev sags, burying his face in his hands.
‘What did they do to you?’ I ask, more than a little afraid of the answer.
‘Oh, well they … pinned me down with their claws, and … asked me some … some questions.’
‘What questions?’
‘Oh, you know, um … questions about the gang. About … the whereabouts of the gang’s lair.’
Nev’s wide eyes are peering between his fingers. I can hardly bear to ask Dwayne the obvious question … but here it comes:
‘What did you tell them?’
‘Everything!’ Dwayne is now sobbing uncontrollably. ‘Where the – entrances are to the – rats’ den! And – I told them – the rats might just have – fallen out with the foxes! Who aren’t – vicious and – aren’t even interested in fighting!’
‘All right, let’s look at this calmly,’ says Nev, although his voice is trembling. ‘It’s not safe for you to stay in the park. The cats might come back, or else the rats, once they figure out that you …’
‘I think what Nev is trying to say,’ I add helpfully, ‘is that you should come back to the docklands with us. There you can hide out somewhere and stay safe from some very angry rats, while we plan how to destroy the alley cats, who will, of course, be launching their attack on our sewer very soon.’
No one seems particularly happy about that analysis, but they’re not disagreeing with it either, so without further ado we’re heading home. The fishmonger’s van should be delivering to the big houses opposite the park right about now, with Salty’s Seafood Bistro its next stop. That means we can hitch a lift back to the docks without fear of being spotted.
23
It’s Not Lying, It’s Self-preservation
The Jolly Yachtsman Hotel seems to be collecting beer kegs by its back door. One of these kegs is now occupied by a very anxious Dwayne.
Of course, this is strictly between Nev, and me, and you. No one else must know about it – not even Nev’s family. They’ll be safer that way – if they know nothing, the rats can’t punish them for being involved – and they’ll also be unable to accidentally spill the beans.
Nev and I are hurrying to the chamber right now. I suppose it’s safe to say that I am not very popular at the moment. After all, our scuffle with the magpies was not, it turns out, necessary; it was all for the sake of gathering weapons for an alley cat invasion that was never going to happen. Because the foxes were not in fact plotting to sell their territory to the alley cats after all. Which brings us to the other, near-fatal brush with the foxes. And yes, Nev and I are about to break the news that now the alley cats really are coming after all – all because Francis Pigeoni spotted Nev and me visiting Dwayne … a visit that only happened because I thought the alley cats were coming, when they weren’t …
Okay, so when you think about it like that you could say all of this is my fault. But Nev and I have been thinking fast. Which is lucky, because here we are, entering the chamber.
Everyone is here. Everyone looks mad. Must START TALKING before someone remembers they want to kill me.
‘The alley cats! The alley cats are coming! No – this time they really are! Honest!’
It’s all about speaking confidently.
‘Can it, hamster, it’s gettin’ old! If you’re tryin’ to buy yourself some time before we gobble up your gizzard, you’re gonna have to do better than that!’
I don’t even know who said that, but I’m very keen to do as they suggest. Thankfully, Nev and I have it all worked out. Dwayne’s part in all this must not be mentioned – so a tiny lie must be told.
‘Francis told us! He was drinking out of a puddle, and we sprang on him! We nailed his feathery behind to the wall and demanded that he give us some news!’ I just this moment made that last bit up. I think it was rather good.
‘That’s exactly what happened,’ drones Nev. I feel he could have said that a little more as if he meant it.
‘AND WHY IS IT THE ALLEY CATS DECIDE TO PAY US A VISIT RIGHT NOW?’ asks the Big Cheese. ‘DID THE PIGEON SPY THE LOT OF YA OVER AT THE FOXES’, ALL WEAPONS AND THREATS AND KICKIN’ UP A FUSS ABOUT CATS?’
‘Maybe,’ yells someone, ‘they thought that since we’ve fallen out big time with our only allies, this might be a good time to move in, strike a deal with them foxes and separate us from our well-fed guts!’
‘Just like you said was gonna happen! Except it wasn’t gonna happen! And now it really is gonna happen!’
‘Yeah!’
‘IT’S ALL YOUR FAULT!’
I know it looks like a bad situation, but
in fact this is one mess I can talk my way out of.
‘Actually, friends, according to the pigeon those cats are coming right now, as quick as their grubby paws can carry them, because they’ve heard all about my awesome greatness! Especially how I sweetened up those magpies! They feel threatened – so they thought they’d spring a surprise attack! But they’ve failed already, haven’t they? Thanks, I believe, to me and my partner in crime Nev!’
Most of the rats have begun chattering, but some – including Vinny – are glaring at me with a new kind of malice. Nev looks at me uncertainly.
‘SO YOU’RE SAYIN’ ALL OF THIS IS A GOOD THING?’
‘Yes!’ I’ve got it. I’ve nailed it. ‘Don’t you see? We can meet them head-on! Take them by surprise! This is our chance to destroy those alley cats once and for all!’
Frenzied excitement all around. Even Vinny seems to be giving this some thought. Only Nev is shaking his head frantically.
‘ALL RIGHT! THE ’AMSTER HAS A POINT. AS USUAL. SO STOP STANDIN’ AROUND AND GET OUT THERE! WITH UTENSILS!’
24
Cat-astrophe
‘I’m going,’ says Tina. ‘I’m going, I’m going, I’m so going.’
Here’s the deal: while the rest of us are busy taking down the cats, the mice will spread out and search the docklands for any scouts – cats who’re already in the neighbourhood, trying to gather info on us before the others arrive.
Or, to be more precise, the grown-up mice will search the docklands.
‘You’re not going anywhere, Tina,’ says her mum. ‘You and Pip are to stay right here.’
Nev is lying in a heap on the floor. This is because, to be even more precise, all the grown-up mice except Nev will be searching the docklands. After all, Nev has proved himself as a gangster by taking part in the assault on Francis (the one that didn’t technically happen), and the rats have insisted that he must join the fight.
