Hamster Gangster

by Angela Robb

‘But Rocco, why don’t you want to go bust up those cats, just like we used to talk about?’

  ‘Because they’re big and fierce, and they’ll eat us.’

  I may have broken her heart, but that’s better than watching her get eaten by a flea-bitten feline. There’s nothing shameful in knowing when you’re beaten. In fact, knowing when you’re beaten allows you to avoid total disaster. It allows you to stay alive.

  I can hear Nev hurrying through the pipe. He sticks his head inside the mouse house.

  ‘The rats are getting seriously grumpy with hunger,’ he says. ‘We better go quick, before they remember that we’re protein.’

  Ah yes, I haven’t told you yet, have I? Now that the cats have moved in and the foxes have moved out, the mice (and that includes me) have food-collecting duty all to ourselves. The rats are doing none of the restaurant raids, supposedly because they are larger and more easily spotted by the cats. But you know the real reason as well as I do: they’re too scared to go outside. So, to avoid becoming lunch ourselves, we’re doing our best to fill up their stomachs three times daily. Trouble is, even with my cheek pouches full to bursting, we simply can’t carry enough and everyone is permanently hungry – and increasingly angry about it.

  So without further ado, we’re all running up the pipe towards the exit. But someone is blocking our path up ahead. I immediately recognise the fussiest eater in the sewer. He claims he’s gluten free. I don’t know what that means, but I do know that he refuses to eat almost everything we collect.

  ‘Hello there Benny,’ says Nev’s dad, nervously. ‘Any special requests today? We’ll do our best, as always.’

  ‘I’ll save you the trouble,’ says Benny. ‘See, you idiot mice can’t seem to get to grips with the simplest of dietary needs, so this time I’m comin’ with you.’

  What a treat.

  ‘Oh, well … all right then,’ says Nev’s dad. ‘Which restaurant is it to be?’

  ‘The very best,’ declares Benny. ‘Let’s see what Claude’s got on the specials board.’

  ‘Just you make sure your stupid great furry hugeness doesn’t get us noticed by those cats!’ says Tina, as Nev places a hand across her mouth.

  So that’s settled then: off we go, into the danger zone with Benny. Let’s all hope the signs are out for Gluten Day à la Claude.

  Thankfully, at this time of day the chef himself is away at the market. In fact, only one of his cooks is in the kitchen, and right now he is snoozing in a chair with a magazine draped over his face. This seems unwise, as something is sizzling furiously in the frying pan, but it suits us just fine.

  My cheeks are already loaded with cherries. Nev and Tina are positioned at either end of a huge baguette, with Cousin Pip holding it up in the middle. As the baguette hurries across the floor, Nev’s parents and Uncle Alfie are carefully sliding wedges of cheese off a huge wooden board.

  I look around for something I can carry. And what do I see but Benny, standing on the work surface next to the cooker, fanning smoke from the frying pan towards himself and sniffing dreamily.

  ‘Benny!’ I hiss. ‘What are you doing up there?’

  ‘What does it look like?’ he sneers. ‘I’m ’elping myself to the good stuff while you lot scrabble about the floor with bread and cheese.’

  ‘But we don’t take cooked things, not these days. We can’t carry enough for everyone and it causes fights.’

  ‘Trust me,’ says Benny, ‘when the others get a whiff of what you mice have left behind, you’ll be comin’ back ’ere in relays till we’ve all had our fill.’

  He’s doing an evil laugh, but I’ve already turned away. There’s a pile of pastries on the table, so I climb up a string of onions hanging over the edge, and sling a croissant on to my back.

  The cook snorts loudly. We all freeze. He’s still sound asleep, but all the same, it’s time to go.

  ‘Where’s Benny?’ asks Nev’s mum.

  We look around. The rat has already gone.

  ‘I’m afraid he’s made off with whatever’s cooking in that frying pan,’ I tell them.

  ‘I knew it,’ sighs Nev’s dad. ‘Ah well, it can’t be helped.’

  We’re all peering out of the door. The coast seems to be clear, so we make a dash for it.

  How I’d love to tell you that we’re safely back in the chamber, with the rats happily filling their faces. But instead we’re on the bank under the bridge, along with Benny … and a few other interested individuals.

  It’s the seagulls. With the foxes and their seafood gone, they’re clearly looking for a whole new food fight. And right now they’re looking straight at us. We’re facing each other in two lines: eight of us, five of them, but all the same I don’t like those odds. The gulls are standing between us and our front door.

  ‘Clear off!’ yells Benny. ‘I’ll wring yer scrawny necks before I’ll give up a crumb!’

  Indeed, it’s Benny’s frazzled mixture of meat and herbs that has captured the gulls’ attention. Apparently it is known as a meatball, and Benny has pinched three of them. The gulls don’t budge, although the one in the middle lowers his head, stretching a menacing beak towards Benny.

  Nev gives me a nudge. ‘Something’s not right,’ he whispers. ‘Claude never has meatballs on his menu.’

  ‘He doesn’t?’

  ‘Of course not! They’re Italian, not French.’

  ‘Oh. Well, in that case …’ I’m hoping we can now resolve the situation swiftly, because this croissant is starting to feel heavy. ‘Actually,’ I announce, ‘there could be something funny about those meatballs.’

  Benny glares at me. ‘Oh yeah? And why is that?’

  ‘Because they’re Italian and Claude only cooks French. I don’t think he’d be giving those to his customers.’

  Benny laughs loudly. ‘Of course!’ he jeers. ‘He made them specially for us!’

  Out the corner of my eye, I am aware of that middle seagull waddling down the bank, straight towards Benny. But the rat is too busy mocking me to notice.

  ‘Right on cue, the ’amster blows in like so much hot air! Well, my friend, if you say don’t eat the meatball, then ’ere’s to the delicious meatball!’

  Benny opens his mouth wide to take a bite, just as the seagull opens his beak.

  I drop my croissant.

  Dive towards Benny.

  Bowl him out of the way as the gull’s beak snaps shut on thin air.

  ‘Aaaarrggh!’ cries Benny. ‘You idiot—!’

  ‘Aaaarrggh!’ That’s me this time, I’m afraid, because the gull is coming in for another go – but Nev, Tina and Pip knock him out of the picture with their baguette battering ram.

  The other gulls are shrieking, beating their wings and running at us.

  ‘Quick!’ yells Nev’s dad. ‘Use what you’ve brought, then make for the door!’

  He and Nev’s mum and Uncle Alfie are flinging cheese at the birds’ heads, while the baguette, with Tina at the leading end, is storming back and forth jabbing each of the gulls in turn. As for me, I’m spitting cherries like rounds of machine gun fire.

  But Benny is less willing to participate.

  ‘YOU IDIOT HAMSTER!’ he’s yelling in my ear, over the gulls’ screeches and Tina’s war cries. ‘YOU MADE ME DROP THAT MEATBALL! AND WHERE D’YOU THINK IT IS NOW?!’

  I pause in my cherry-spitting. ‘I’ve no idea!’

  Benny points at the dark river behind us. ‘AT THE BOTTOM OF THAT LOT, THAT’S WHERE!’

  ‘Don’t worry!’ I tell him. ‘You’ve got two more! Just throw those, they’re good and heavy!’

  ‘HAVE YOU LOST YER TINY MIND?! I AIN’T THROWIN’ THEM, I’M EATIN’ THEM!’

  ‘Not if he eats them first!’ shouts Nev.

  We turn quickly. The gulls’ leader is holding one of Benny’s treasured meatballs in
his beak. The other gulls are squawking excitedly, trying to get the third one – but he’s got it clamped under his big webbed foot.

  Nev’s parents and Uncle Alfie have run out of cheese; I think the gulls have eaten it all. Only the baguette has survived – with many chunks torn off – to make a final, desperate lunge across the grassy bank.

  Too late.

  ‘NOOOOO!!’

  As Benny dives towards him, the seagull swallows down the last of the blackened meat, and clicks his beak in satisfaction. Benny freezes. His eyes are bulging and his jaw is twitching, as though he’s about to go into some kind of fit. His crazy stare drops towards the last remaining meatball, which the gull keeps rolling in little circles under the tip of his toe, apparently just to upset Benny.

  The gull has an altogether smug look about him.

  Well, actually, he did have a smug look, but now it’s gone. Suddenly, I’d say he looks a bit queasy. His eyeballs are rolling around. His tongue is hanging out of his beak. Now he’s making a kind of strangled clucking sound. He wraps both wings around his throat, wheezing, staggering first to the left, then to the right.

  The meatball rolls free, but no one’s touching it.

  The seagull has gone rigid. His left foot lifts off the ground … he’s sort of – twirling on his right.

  Nobody moves. The seagull falls over backwards, stiffly. His feet are in the air.

  The other gulls stare at him blankly, or perhaps their faces just can’t do anything else. At last one of them gives a single squawk.

  The mice and Benny and I shuffle closer.

  ‘Is he – dead?’ asks Benny.

  ‘I should think that’s more than obvious,’ I can’t help saying.

  One by one we back off, heading for the pipe. Benny has a last, longing look at that third meatball before scurrying after.

  As we move inside, I look over my shoulder at the seagulls, still standing next to their fallen comrade. I have to admit, I feel rather sorry for them.

  ‘BLIMEY.’

  Everyone waits, but it seems that this is all the Big Cheese has to say about one of the seagulls being killed by Chef Claude’s meatball.

  ‘They’re poisoned,’ says Nev. ‘And I don’t mean they’ve gone bad, I mean Claude put poison in them.’

  ‘But he wouldn’t be giving poisoned meatballs to his customers!’ someone points out.

  ‘Then the ’amster was right!’ wails Benny. ‘That good-for-nothin’ cook left ’em out for us to steal!’

  ‘Does anyone smell something?’ asks a rat at the back of the crowd. Everyone lifts their snouts and sniffs hard. There is a warm, herby aroma mixed with the stale air of the sewer. As we keep sniffing, it’s getting stronger.

  ‘Sage, and …’

  ‘Thyme. Definitely thyme.’

  ‘And beef … lots of juicy, pan-fried—’

  ‘Meatballs!’ yells Vinny. ‘At the front door!’

  Everyone is running to and fro in utter confusion.

  ‘GO, GO, GO!’ shouts the Big Cheese.

  Now the rats are making for the doorway under the bridge. The mice and I gather close and run behind them.

  At the end of the pipe, we push our way through the crowd, and there it is: a big pile of meatballs. The rats stare at them in horror, and fear, and fury – and their mouths are watering. One or two begin drifting towards the pile as though under a spell, and have to be pulled back. After all, two webbed feet are still sticking up in the air just a little way down the bank.

  ‘Split up!’ Vinny shouts. ‘Search the bank! I wanna know everything these villains are up to!’

  The rats pour left and right along the embankment; some dive into the water and swim for the other side. As I shoot towards the cobbled lane beside the Jolly Yachtsman, along with the mice and a handful of rats, we can already see the full extent of the trouble.

  For all along the water’s edge are cooks from Chef Claude’s kitchen, in their white jackets and checked trousers, sprinkling treacherous treats by every hole and crevice leading into our sewer. And leading them, guiding them from one secret doorway to the next, are none other than the alley cats, skipping and meowing.

  And look – there’s Claude with his tabby and ginger friends, just like Tina described them. They’re dancing round his ankles as he merrily deposits generous helpings of death. Suddenly it all makes sense: Claude wasn’t at the market while we were raiding his kitchen – he and his team were already out here on their evil mission, except for the one cook left behind, who was supposed to be looking after the next batch of meatballs.

  Actually, Claude’s big clogs are stomping this way, so we retreat into the lane. No one can speak. Even Tina looks worried. Claude thunders past the end of the lane, and keeps going.

  Now here comes Vinny. ‘Regroup!’ he cries as he streaks past.

  Everyone gathers behind the Jolly Yachtsman’s wheelie bins. Vinny returns with the last of the rats. He has a mad glimmer in his eyes.

  ‘Okay,’ he pants. ‘So … what do we know … We know Claude’s tryin’ to poison us, and those filthy cats is ’elping him because they know where we live.’ Vinny is wheezing like crazy, and everyone’s leaning back as though afraid he might explode. ‘DID YOU HEAR WHAT I SAID?!! THEY KNOW WHERE WE LIVE! HOW DO THEY KNOW WHERE WE LIVE?!!’

  ‘Dunno, boss,’ says one rat. ‘No one knows where our doors are ’cept for us.’

  ‘Well …’ says another, ‘there is one other critter who knows …’

  Oh no. Oh heck. I can feel a cold sweat coming on. Nev is shaking. Vinny is boiling over, gurgling in his throat, and vibrating.

  ‘DWAAAYYYYNE!’ he hollers at last.

  27

  A Tight Scrape and the Bottom of a Barrel

  What do I do? Should I knock everyone out with my bare fists, right now? Isn’t that the only way to save Dwayne? I’m looking at my fists – they seem smaller than they once did.

  ‘That no-good mole!’ spits Vinny. ‘The cats must’ve got to him! He can’t lie, he’d tell them everything!’

  ‘He’s a double agent!’

  ‘Let’s nail him, boss!’

  Vinny waves his hands for silence. ‘We can’t all be runnin’ towards the park as if the Pied Piper’s there givin’ out free frankfurters. You’ – he jabs a finger at one of the rats – ‘and you, and you, and you. Come with me. We’re gonna knock down some molehills, right now.’

  Vinny and his helpers run off and the others break up. At last, only Nev’s family and I are left behind the wheelie bins.

  ‘Come on,’ sighs Nev’s mum, ‘let’s get home. Right now there’s nothing we can do for poor Dwayne. We can’t get to the park quicker than the rats.’

  ‘They’ll drag him all the way to the sewer, for sure,’ says Uncle Alfie. ‘We have to think of a plan by then.’

  Nev and I are staring at each other. We stay put as the other mice melt away.

  All but one of the other mice, that is. Tina has noticed we are hanging back, and is eyeing us suspiciously. ‘You two got a better idea?’

  Nev and I exchange glances. After her expert spying on the cats at Claude’s restaurant, I think Tina might finally have persuaded her brother that she’s ready for the big time. Nev sighs. He’s given up trying to stop her, at any rate.

  ‘All right,’ he says, ‘but if you’re coming with us you can’t tell a soul about it. I mean you mustn’t breathe a word to anyone, Tina.’

  Tina stands up straight. ‘I shall be utterly silent.’

  ‘Okay. Good.’ Nev takes a deep breath. ‘Dwayne isn’t in the park.’

  Tina’s eyes light up. ‘He isn’t?’

  ‘No. That night we went to talk to him – it wasn’t an owl chasing us, it was Francis, spying. I found his feathers stuck to our sweetie bag. That’s when we knew Dwayne was in danger.’

/>   ‘Unfortunately,’ I add, ‘the alley cats got to him before we did.’

  ‘So where is he now?’ asks Tina eagerly.

  ‘In an empty beer keg,’ I tell her. ‘Right over there.’

  We move over to the beer kegs, stopping by the third keg from the left.

  ‘Dwayne!’ says Nev in a loud whisper. ‘Dwayne, it’s us!’

  No reply.

  ‘Perhaps it’s the wrong barrel,’ I suggest.

  ‘Maybe,’ says Nev, doubtfully.

  Each of us picks a different keg and starts whispering at it.

  ‘Dwayne?’

  ‘Dwaaaayne!’

  ‘Dwayne! Dwayne! Dwayne!’

  But Nev is shaking his head. ‘We definitely left him in that one over there.’

  So it’s back to the third from the left. Except there’s plainly no one inside, so we’re standing rather helplessly, looking at it. Suddenly, I notice something on the ground: wet patches, leading away from the barrel. They are roughly the same shape as large flat feet.

  ‘Look,’ I say.

  ‘Footprints!’ gasps Tina. ‘Maybe Dwayne’s gone out to look for some grub.’

  ‘But why are his feet wet?’ Nev looks anxiously from the prints on the ground to the hole in the side of the beer keg. He scrambles up to peer in the hole, and when he drops back down his eyes are watering. ‘It stinks of beer in there.’

  ‘But it’s empty,’ says Tina.

  ‘Empty yes, but it’s not dried out yet. The fumes are really strong …’ Nev blinks hard, shaking his head as if to restore his senses. There is an uneasy pause.

  ‘The footprints are not in the straightest of lines,’ I add. Tina puts a hand to her mouth. I think we all know what this means.

  We have followed the zigzagging footprints, all the way to the lane on the far side of the Jolly Yachtsman. The good news is this: Dwayne is alive. In fact, he is putting on quite a show. Unfortunately, the audience at that show consists of half a dozen alley cats.

  ‘There iss no ffiner thing,’ slurs Dwayne, ‘than a well-made tuunnel. For goin’ about … ssspying on folks. Now thass … a subtle art …’