by Angela Robb
‘Nev’s going!’ cries Tina. ‘Nev’s fighting! If Nev can fight, why can’t I?’
‘Because,’ says Nev, ‘I am going to be chewed up and spat out by a mangy cat, and someone has to stay alive to keep the family going. Karate kicks are not going to be any use, Tina. Besides, the rats don’t want to be laughed at, which is exactly what’ll happen if they show up with a little kid mouse wearing a shoelace on her head.’
‘It’s a bandana!’
‘You should have more confidence in yourself, Nev,’ I try. He’s giving me a weary look. ‘After all, you never know what you’re capable of, until you try. Who knows what you can do, if you’re determined enough? Those cats are coming – that much is certain – and we’ll never survive if we give up hope already.’
Everyone is looking at me in surprise. I think they understand my meaning, and in their hearts I think they feel the same way.
Now Nev is getting to his feet. He’s coming over … and he’s giving my shoulder a squeeze.
‘Come on, Rocco,’ he says. ‘Let’s get going.’
Everyone agrees that as the cats believe they have the element of surprise, they will not bother to sneak into the docklands through the backstreets but will come as quick as they can, by the most direct route. Therefore, we are lined up in the yard behind the Scuttled Frigate pub, waiting for them.
Of course, we’re all armed to the teeth with top-quality kitchenware (you should check out my pastry fork – even more dangerous than the teaspoon) and the magpies’ shiniest bits and bobs. All except Nev, who has strapped a tub of toothpicks to his back. We’ve been here an hour already, but there’s still no sign of the alley cats.
The rats are growing restless.
‘Either the ’amster’s ’aving us on,’ says Vinny, ‘or old Francis made the whole thing up. Because if them cats was on their way like he said, they’d have got ’ere ages ago. They’re only comin’ from the alley beside the twenty-four-hour minimart.’
‘And we didn’t see ’em on the way,’ says another rat, ‘so they can’t have come by already.’
‘Unless they went some other way,’ suggests a third.
‘But they wouldn’t, so we said!’ the second rat protests. ‘Element of surprise and all that, we said, remember?’
‘Of course,’ says Vinny, rubbing his chin thoughtfully, ‘it’s always possible them cats know their element of surprise is busted. Supposin’ they saw Pigeoni spyin’ on ’em, gettin’ an earful of their evil plans, then flyin’ off towards the docks. Then they’d know we know, wouldn’t they, and they’d go by some roundabout route, laughin’ just to think of us sittin’ ’ere like fools while they move in on our territory.’
There is a long and uncomfortable silence.
‘So what do we do, Vinny?’
‘We waits ’ere a little bit longer. If they ’ave gone some other way we’re too late to stop ’em, and the mice’ll have spied ’em out for us when we gets back. But all of that is a big what if. I’ll bet all of them are right nearby, cookin’ up some plan that we’ll crush in no time. Speakin’ of which, who said you could ’ave the potato masher, Spike?’
As the rats begin squabbling over who should have what weapon, Nev pulls me to one side.
‘Rocco,’ he whispers, ‘what if they have gone another way?’
‘Well,’ I tell him, ‘so long as they believe in their element of surprise—’
‘But we invented that element of surprise! Just like we invented the idea that they’re attacking us because they’re frightened of some hamster!’
That smarts a little, until I remember that it’s absolutely true.
‘They’re attacking because …’ – Nev is having a moment of realisation, and I can tell he’s not enjoying it one bit – ‘because they found out we have a spy, and they found out from our spy exactly where we live, which is information they could never get close enough to find out for themselves, thanks to the foxes … The foxes, who they’ve now heard are not quite as dangerous as they seem. Now for all they know we’ve already found out from Dwayne that he told them everything.’
‘You mean … they know they might not have the element of surprise.’
‘Exactly.’
‘In which case … they also know this might just be the worst route they could possibly choose.’
‘They do indeed.’
This is terrible. While we’ve been standing in this dusty yard, those foul cats have no doubt been zigzagging their way through the narrowest, grubbiest backstreets between here and the docks. How did I fail to realise what a sticky mess we’re in? The answer hits me like a rock. I have believed my own lies – the ones about threatening Francis, about being feared by the cats; the ones that brought us to this yard. I’ve been too caught up in boastful bluffing, and have completely lost track of the truth.
‘Their mucky paws could be tramping over our fine cobbled streets already,’ I whisper.
‘And my family’s out on those streets.’
We look steadily at each other. I’ll say what we’re both thinking:
‘We have to get back, right now.’
‘Yes we do.’
The rats are still fighting over the weaponry. Apparently, everyone wants that potato masher.
‘The tricky part is persuading all of them that we should go back now,’ says Nev.
I nod thoughtfully. Yet no matter how hard I think, I have absolutely no idea what to say or do. Alarmingly, it seems that Nev doesn’t either.
Our efforts at figuring this out are interrupted by something white and gooey, splatting on to the ground barely an inch from where Nev is standing.
It is bird mess.
I am about to say, ‘That was close,’ but Nev’s gaze is already fixed on the source, high above us. I look up, craning my neck. Perched on a lamp post right over our heads is none other than Francis Pigeoni. If it’s possible for someone with tiny beads for eyes and a beak in place of a mouth, I’d say Francis looks embarrassed.
Nev and I look at each other. Our genius minds are thinking alike.
‘Hey there Francis!’ I yell.
The rats stop squabbling. Three dozen heads turn to the lamp post. That’s seventy-two yellow eyeballs, and there’s burning suspicion in every one.
‘It’s the pigeon!’ someone shouts. ‘Who may or may not have been seen by the cats!’
‘And ruined everythin’ – possibly!’
‘Let’s kill ’im! Just in case!’
There are snarls of agreement, and lots of stainless steel being waved in the air. Those at the front start scuttling towards the lamp post.
‘WAIT!!’ screams Nev. ‘He’s occasionally useful, remember? He might have information for us.’
‘The mouse is right,’ growls Vinny. ‘He already told us the cats is comin’. If that ain’t a lie.’
Everyone backs away from the lamp post, muttering their disappointment. For a moment there I was worried that Francis might point out that he didn’t tell us the cats are coming – but he seems happy to take the credit.
‘Although,’ adds Vinny suddenly, ‘I don’t know how useful he really is – after all, you two almost had to beat him up to get that information on the cats …’
The rats nod and chatter. Francis is staring at Nev and me.
I sense Nev’s panic.
It’s contagious.
‘Eh, well,’ I try, ‘we only, I mean, we didn’t really, you know, that’s not how it, I mean … I might have … exaggerated a bit.’
Vinny raises an eyebrow. As does Francis. I try shrugging to say I’m sorry, but my heart is hammering in my chest.
‘Right, whatever,’ shouts Vinny. ‘Why don’t you get down here right now, Pigeoni, and tell us everythin’ you’ve got on them alley cats. And it better be good!’
By clamping my lips ti
ght shut, I manage not to let out a huge gasp of relief. My fibbing back in the sewer didn’t just make me sound extra fantastically superb – it made Francis sound bad and nearly got him wiped out. Yet the pigeon flutters calmly to the ground, untroubled by the fact that nearly everyone present wants to kill him for some misguided reason. In fact, for a moment he simply stands, very upright, as though enjoying the power that his knowledge gives him.
And now … now he is placing his wings behind his head, running on the spot … pointing to the right …
‘What’s he doing?’ I hiss in Nev’s ear.
‘Telling us everything he’s got,’ whispers Nev, as if it’s obvious. ‘Francis doesn’t talk. He mimes.’
He’s hopping up and down with the tips of his wings sticking up behind his head – like pointed ears. All at once, the rats start to guess.
‘Cat …’
‘Cats running …’
He jabs the air with both wings, pointing …
‘To the docks!’ I cry. He nods at me. I’m quite enjoying this now.
‘But we know that already!’ someone yells. ‘That’s why we’re standing ’ere!’
Francis shakes his head. He raises the tips of his wings behind his head again.
‘CATS!!’
Next he lies on the ground, one leg over the other, wings crossed behind his head.
‘Sunbathing!’
‘Relaxing!’
Francis hops to his feet. With his feathery fingers politely splayed, he saws the air with an imaginary something-or-other held in his right wing … stabs it with something in his left … lifts it to his beak, which is click-click-clicking as he pretends to eat …
‘Fine dining,’ announces Vinny.
‘Oh no,’ whispers Nev, ‘the cats are eating food from the restaurants. They’re already at the docks.’
Francis turns to Nev and gives him two thumbs up (or two feathers, at least).
‘WHAT?!’ hollers Vinny. ‘You mean those pointy-eared vermin are thieving our haute cuisine?!’ He snatches up the potato masher. ‘BACK TO THE DOCKS! NOW!!’
The rats have headed straight for the chamber to report back to the Big Cheese – but not so Nev and I. We met neither cat nor mouse as we tore through the streets on our way back to the sewer, so the first thing to do is to find Pip and Tina and warn them of the danger.
We tumble into the mouse house and flop down on the floor, breathless. There’s no one here.
Actually, I can hear a muffled banging. And a muffled call of ‘Help.’ Nev’s heard it too, and we’re back on our feet, looking frantically around the room.
In a shadowy corner, a tall jar is rocking back and forth. We hurry over. Inside is a very hot-and-bothered Pip, standing with his hands and face pressed to the glass. ‘Let me out,’ he says.
‘Hold on!’ says Nev.
We hop up the staircase of matchboxes stacked behind the jar, unscrew the lid, and push. The jar topples on to its side with a clink, and Pip rolls out on to the floor.
‘Are you all right?’ I ask as we help him to his feet. ‘What happened?’
‘You mean … who happened,’ he pants.
Nev looks at him sideways. ‘Where’s Tina?’ he asks.
‘How should I know?’ grumbles Pip. ‘She ran off as soon as she had me stuck in that jar.’
‘Tina did that to you?’ I can’t help feeling impressed.
‘She told me that my efforts to stop her going outside proved I am an honourable mouse, but it’s her destiny to save our streets from invasion. And then she left.’
‘When?’ says Nev.
‘At least an hour ago, I think. Although time does tend to drag, when you’re in a jar.’
Now we’re rushing through the sewer while trying to tell Pip all that has happened. There’s daylight ahead, but it’s casting the long shadow of a mystery creature, standing right in our doorway. We slow down, creeping forward and squinting into the bright light. Finally, I can make out not one, but three figures – very small ones, scurrying down the pipe towards us.
It’s Nev’s parents and Uncle Alfie.
‘You’re all right!’ shouts Nev’s mum, grabbing Nev and me in a hug.
‘What happened?’ asks his dad. ‘We saw that idiot Vinny leaping down a drain waving a potato masher.’
‘The cats are already here,’ blurts Nev. ‘You didn’t see them?’
‘No,’ says Uncle Alfie. ‘We looked everywhere, except the restaurants.’
‘Tina’s out there too,’ says Pip. Now Nev’s mum looks like she’s about to faint, so we hurry up the pipe and out into the sunshine.
We make for the bridge, busy with cars and people. Knowing Tina, she’ll be weaving between their wheels and under their feet without a thought for anything other than kung fu kicking those cats.
We run up the embankment … round the end of the iron railings that run the length of the bridge—
Oomph.
Straight into something small and wide-eyed. The mice land in a pile on top of me.
So we’ve found Tina, then.
I may be lying beneath a heap of furry bodies, but something tells me that Tina is already back on her feet.
‘Come on! Hurry!’
Everyone scrambles off me, and before I can even get up, Tina has rolled me back on to the embankment and under the shadow of the bridge.
She hardly needs to explain that she has stumbled upon the alley cats.
25
Well They Should Have Signed a Contract
Tina is standing on an upturned yogurt pot. Everyone in the chamber is listening to her with open mouths.
‘Two of them, right? Round the back of Chef Claude’s. A massive, bushy tabby and a big ginger tom with a chewed-up ear. And Chef Claude’s there too. They’re rubbin’ against him, and he’s giving it some French-talk, like, “’Ello, leettle kittees, ’ow are you today, you would like some feesh, no?” And then he goes back into the kitchen—’
Tina pauses to bounce high on her yogurt pot, kicking and punching the air.
‘—and then, out he comes again, with fish! And he gives it to those scruffy cats!’
There is a gasp of horror from the crowd.
‘And then he tickles them under their big ugly chins, and he says, “Ah, nice kittees! Zer is plenty more of zat lovely feesh for you! You can stay ’ere, and soon you will get reed of all zose dirty rats, oui?” ’
Cries of outrage all around.
‘So then I run round the front, and there are two more! A thin, smoky grey one, and a black one with one eye and four white socks. Sitting prim as you like on Claude’s front doorstep.’
Much tut-tutting and shaking of heads.
‘That’s when I knew I had to come get backup!’ Tina leaps from the yogurt pot and makes for the exit. ‘Let’s go get ’em, while they’re still at Claude’s!’
Suddenly, the rats’ anger turns into a lot of muttering and shuffling of feet.
‘HANG ON A SECOND.’ The Big Cheese, at last. ‘THE MOUSE IS RIGHT. WE ’AVE TO TAKE THEM CATS DOWN, AND DO IT FAST. BUT ’ERE’S THE THING: YOU LOT GO OUT THERE RIGHT NOW, AND YOU MIGHT JUST GET EATEN UP FASTER THAN THEM FISH. SO ’ERE’S WHAT I SAY: GO GET THE FOXES. TELL ’EM TO STRUT THEIR STUFF, ALL VICIOUS LIKE.’
‘But they won’t help! Last time we paid ’em a visit we attacked ’em!’ protests Vinny.
‘NO YOU DIDN’T. YOU ONLY THREATENED TO ATTACK ’EM.’
‘And,’ I chip in, ‘we politely took it back once they explained what was really going on. The thing is, they can’t risk our gang getting wiped out, because they still want us around to see off the gulls every day. And besides, I’m sure an alley cat invasion won’t go down well with their customers. So actually, I think they’ll be glad to help, and they won’t just act vicious, either.’
&
nbsp; ‘’COURSE NOT. THEM CATS ’AVE GOT TOO BIG FOR THEIR BOOTS IF THEY WANNA PLAY ROUGH WITH THAT LOT. NOW GET OUT THERE AND CUT THEM DOWN TO SIZE. WITH HELP.’
Every one of us is staring in disbelief at the foxes, who are standing in the middle of their yard beside a pull-along wagon loaded with luxury cat beds. They were already gathered there when we came pouring through the gap in the wall.
And the reason they were already gathered there is this: they are leaving. That’s right. Upping sticks. Shipping out. They have packed their plush pillows, along with their tables and crockery, and are ready to go.
‘So sorry we can’t help,’ says Maurice, not at all as if he means it, ‘but you see we’re right in the middle of moving to the suburbs.’
‘But … why?’ splutters Vinny.
‘Oh, that’s simple. We wish to expand our successful business. I mean, fine dining is all well and good, but we thought, what the heck – let’s go for the mass market. And I believe that when you last paid us a visit, your hamster mentioned that the suburbs have a large population of pet cats. So I suppose we should thank him for giving us the idea.’
I sneak back over the wall and dash up the lane before anyone can quite take in what the fox just said.
26
Murder by Meatballs
The atmosphere within the sewer is extremely tense. Everyone is laying low, but no one is laying lower than me.
It’s all my fault the cats are here.
It’s all my fault the foxes aren’t.
Three days have passed since Maurice and company moved to the suburbs. Within that time I have experienced many new emotions, and I haven’t enjoyed a single one of them. First came guilt, then a total loss of confidence and some serious despair. Today’s addition to the list is utter hopelessness. Of course, everyone around me is sharing in it, except for Tina. She alone is asking why we don’t just storm the streets and beat up the cats with rolling pins, or even our bare little hands.
This morning she asked me that question for the fourteenth time. The conversation went something like this:
