by Michel Faber
‘I’ll do me best, sir.’
‘You needn’t worry about hurting me.’
‘I won’t, sir.’
‘And don’t pull it out until …’ He turned even more sharply away from her, as though he had just spotted someone of his acquaintance passing by in the street. ‘Until it’s over.’
‘How can I be sure of that, sir?’
He turned to face her then. His mouth was set hard. The scarred flesh on his face was pale, while his cheeks were flushed and mottled.
‘The last rat will be dead,’ he said.
The Traveller’s Rest was on the other side of the world. The cab had to cross the Thames to get there, past Waterloo, where Clara had been once or twice with her mistress, and then farther still. The pub itself, when they finally reached it, hardly seemed to warrant the length of the journey. It impressed Clara as a low sort of establishment, the kind where shiftless men drank with serious intent. The atmosphere was brewed thick with pipe smoke and alcohol fumes, and the regulars hunched low as if to take the occasional breath of oxygen from somewhere under the tables. A patch of floor where the floorboards had rotted away was crudely mended with planks of a different colour, the jagged edges covered over with tar. The fireplace was choked with ash and amber embers. Several of the gaslights were turned off or had ceased to function, and the scarcity of glass in the room meant that it wholly lacked the mirrored conviviality of the pubs Clara frequented. Instead, dark brown wood stole the light and refused to give it back.
‘I don’t like it here,’ she whispered to her companion.
‘This isn’t what we’ve come for,’ he whispered back. ‘What we’ve come for is downstairs.’
Clara couldn’t see any stairs. She craned her head around a pillar, and saw only more half-sozzled men staring back at her from their drinking stations. She had expected a bright, theatrical-looking banner hung up to generate excitement about the impending rat fight, but there was nothing of the sort. Indeed there was scant decoration on the walls – just a few curling handbills advertising recently bygone entertainments in more salubrious-sounding establishments than The Traveller’s Rest. There was also a hand-lettered notice saying ‘BEWARE OF SODS’.
Mr Heaton walked up to the publican. They nodded at each other without a word, shook hands … or perhaps a coin was being passed from one man to the other. Then the publican, Mr Heaton and Clara passed through the room to the very rear, where the publican pulled open a trap-door in the floor. A flight of stairs was revealed, illuminated by a light of unclear origin. The tobacco vapours of the room below met those of the room above, and swirled into each other.
The cellar, when Clara had allowed herself to be led down the stairs, was really not such a dismal place. In fact, it suited her better. Despite its subterranean location, it seemed less claustrophobic than the drinking den upstairs, and was much better lit, with a dozen oil lamps at strategic points. The rough stone walls were painted white, to enhance the illumination.
The cellar was mainly given over to the rat pit. There were several rows of wooden seats pushed against the rough stone walls, but no-one was sitting in them. All the spectators – some twenty in all – stood around the edge of the pit, which was more like a raised wooden tub. It was octagonal, waist-high, and about nine feet in diameter. The publican made his way over to a barrel almost as tall as himself, a barrel made for flour rather than wine or beer, to whose lid he laid his ear. Not quite satisfied, he peered into one of several holes drilled in the lid, squinting clownishly.
‘Seventy-five of the best in there,’ said a man wearing a top hat without any top on it.
‘We could use a hundred,’ said the publican.
‘A nundred of these beauties takes more than one man to catch.’
‘You used to catch a hundred for us.’
‘That was before himprovements in sanitation.’
‘Well, I hope these are big ones.’
‘Big? Comb their fur a different way and they could pass as ferrets.’
Mr Heaton laid a finger against Clara’s upper arm to get her attention.
‘I’m going to fetch Robbie now,’ he murmured near her ear. ‘Things will move fast from here on in. Remember what I’ve asked of you.’
She nodded.
‘Take your glove off, then,’ he reminded her.
She looked down at her hands, self-conscious at the idea of removing her gloves in a public place: everyone would instantly assume she was a woman of low breeding. But then she realised she was the sole female in the cellar, and that each man must surely already have judged her to be a whore. She pulled off her gloves, finger by finger, and no-one took a blind bit of notice. She could have thrown her skirts over her head, and still the assembled spectators might have kept their attention squarely on the business at hand. Some of the men were already leaning their elbows on the rim of the rat-pit, jostling shoulder-to-shoulder. Clara wondered how it was decided who should lean on the rim of the pit and who should goggle over their shoulders; did it depend on how much they’d paid for admission? Several of the customers were rather handsomely dressed, with shiny buttons on their coats, immaculate hats, fashionable cravats that cost fifty times more than the grubby cotton scarf worn by the rat-catcher. Clara doubted these gentlemen would ever set foot in a place like The Traveller’s Rest, were it not for the scuffling, squeaking contents of the keg.
‘All right, gentlemen,’ announced the publican when Mr Heaton had disappeared into an anteroom beyond the cellar. ‘We have two dogs this afternoon, Robbie and Lopsy-Lou. Less rats than we might’ve hoped. How shall we divvy up the day’s proceedings?’
This provoked a roisterous babble of bets and disputation.
‘A shilling on Robbie to kill five in fifteen seconds!’
‘Two shillings on Lopsy-Lou to kill twenty in fifty seconds!’
‘Here’s a shilling says twelve of twenty’s still kicking after half a minute!’
‘If we’ve only got seventy-five rats, it should be three matches of twenty-five each.’
‘That muddles everything!’
‘Twenty is a good number.’
‘It don’t go into seventy-five.’
‘All my bets is calculated on twenty.’
‘We know all about your bets. You expect to see blood for sixpence.’
‘We can’t have three matches with only two dogs.’
‘’Course we can. Best of three.’
‘Put out thirty-seven rats each match, and god damn the one left over!’
‘Lopsy-Lou is heavier than Robbie; she should have a handicap. I say Robbie kills ten for Lopsy’s fifteen.’
‘Why should a Manchester terrier have it easier than a London one?’
‘Let’s weigh the dogs! Each kills as many rats as he weighs in pounds. The dog that kills his quota quickest is the winner.’
‘I don’t see no scales.’
‘A public house with no scales?’
‘Keep the times and rats the same number, but give Robbie smaller rats!’
‘What bollocks! If he can’t kill his share, he shouldn’t be here!’
‘Why not set a fixed time – half a minute, say – and see which dog kills the most?’
‘I won’t bet dog against dog. It should be dog against rat.’
‘Anyway, what would you do after the thirty seconds was up, and there was still rats alive?’
‘Pull the dog out of the pit, of course.’
‘That’s cruel!’
‘Gentlemen!’ barked the publican. ‘We must begin. Let’s have twenty in the pit for Robbie and see how the first match pleases you.’
This seemed to satisfy the majority, and the bets were swiftly laid, and the money collected. During this process, Mr Heaton emerged from the shadows, holding his dog by a leash, very close to its collar. It was indeed a beautiful dog, a silky black animal, somewhat smaller than Clara had anticipated. It was placid, standing patiently at its master’s side, looking up at him for
approval – until the publican opened the lid of the barrel and started doling rats into the pit. Then Robbie reared up, lunging against the leash, and Mr Heaton had to pull him hard against his thigh.
The publican worked swiftly but carefully. Using a pair of metal tongs designed for removing buns from an oven, he selected the squirming rodents one by one from the keg, and deposited them gently into the pit. The rats (a little various in size, which caused mutters of complaint among the spectators) seemed healthy specimens of their kind, as sleek as kittens and as nimble as cockroaches. They immediately attempted to scuttle to freedom, but the sides of the pit were smooth, and the pit’s rim had a lip of metal screwed onto it for extra security. The sound of tiny claws scrabbling against polished wood was marvellously distinctive. The way the rats slid back down to the chalk-whitened floor was comical. Clara licked her lips.
Mr Heaton made his way, with some difficulty, to her side. His limp was one problem, the barely suppressed frenzy of poor Robbie another. The dog was making little whining sounds, deep in its throat – plaintive whore noises. Seventeen, eighteen, nineteen rats had been doled out into the pit. Mr Heaton stood close to Clara, his hip almost touching her waist. The unscarred parts of his face were shiny with sweat, and the muscles in his neck were bulging, a phenomenon with which Clara, in her new profession, had become increasingly familiar. The moment was almost nigh.
At the drop of the twentieth rat into the ring, a tall man with a stopwatch started a short countdown to Robbie’s release. Those five seconds were the longest Clara had ever endured.
The instant the dog’s collar was unfastened, he shot into the pit and began killing rats. Contrary to Clara’s expectations, he didn’t chase them round and round the enclosure, feinting and dodging and hesitating like a cat with a mouse. He killed with the efficiency of a machine. The rats swarmed helplessly to and fro, clustering together in corners of the octagonal arena, or dashing across to the opposite side. The dog didn’t waste time chasing individuals. He pounced on groups, picking off the rat nearest him, dispatching the squealing creature with a single bite. One snap of his jaws seemed enough. He didn’t bother even to give his kill a triumphal shake, but merely let it drop to the floor as soon as his teeth had stabbed through the soft flesh.
With a dawning thrill of admiration, Clara realised there was more to the dog’s performance than random brutality: he paced his exertions with extraordinary cunning, pausing for a half a second here and there to allow stray rats to huddle together again, stamping one paw on the ground to dissuade a rat from running the wrong way. His eyes were bright with a fierce intelligence. There was something weirdly benign about his murderousness; he treated each rat the same, neglected none. He killed with a conscience, clearly aware of the bets placed upon him, the high hopes of his master.
Twelve rats dead, thirteen, fourteen. Mr Heaton was hard up against Clara, his arm nudging hers. The cellar was delirious with desperate noises: heavy breathing, the squeals and skitterings of doomed rats, the taloned patter of dog feet, hoarse cries of ‘Yes!’ and ‘There!’
It was over all too soon. Robbie lunged at the last rat, broke its back with a snap of his jaws. A great cheer went up, and the time-keeper punched his fist in the air. Clara gasped, slumped against the rim of the rat pit, whose metal surface she found she was gripping with both hands.
The aftermath was messy. Not because of blood or saliva (Robbie had been remarkably clean) but because there was disagreement among the spectators over the deadness of some of the rats. A forlorn specimen was fished from the ring and laid on the floor at the men’s feet. One man alleged that the creature only had its back broken, rendering it immobile, but that it was still alive: he had seen it choke for breath. Another man stamped on the rat’s tail, arguing that if it had any life left in it, the pain would surely summon up some reaction. There was none. A second contentious rat was retrieved from the arena, having allegedly been spotted breathing. Although limp and unconscious, it seemed to be very much alive; its abdomen was palpating visibly. Two of the men who had bet against Robbie insisted that he’d failed to kill his quota. Another man proposed that the match be resumed just for a few seconds, to allow Robbie to kill this last rat in whatever time it took – to which the two dissenters objected that it would obviously take the dog only half a second to kill a rat which was insensible, but that he ought to’ve done the job properly the first time. The rat-catcher, who had been regarding the creature philosophically all this while, suddenly bent down and slit open the rat’s belly with a knife. A grisly sight was revealed: a tangle of foetal sacs, shiny as sausages, each containing a squirming baby rat, fully-furred and almost ready for life.
‘’Ave we got a puppy wants to learn a trade?’ quipped the rat-catcher, and the good spirits of the company were restored.
With one exception. Mr Heaton left The Traveller’s Rest before Lopsy-Lou even had her chance to perform. He pleaded a stomach upset, and indeed he did look ghastly, his face a mixture of bone-white and beefsteak red. His fellow sportsmen protested that he must stay: Robbie was a champion and would surely be given a third match after Lopsy-Lou had done her dash. Lopsy-Lou’s owner hinted that Mr Heaton’s sudden illness might indicate a greater regard for his already-pocketed winnings than for the inherent value of watching two noble dogs compete. But Mr Heaton was not to be persuaded. His digestion, he insisted, was very bad. He shouldn’t be a bit surprised if he was in bed within the hour.
Without speaking to each other, Mr Heaton and Clara walked side-by-side out of the pub. Mr Heaton hailed a cab at once, and for a moment Clara was afraid he would leave her standing on the footpath while he sped away. But he opened the cabin door for her, with stony-faced courtesy, and waited for her to climb in.
‘You broke your promise,’ he said, as soon as they were seated and the vehicle was in motion.
‘I forgot, sir,’ she said.
‘I reminded you,’ he said. ‘Twice.’
‘I couldn’t take my eyes off the dog and the rats, sir. It was my first time.’
He sighed deeply, and looked out the window. Night was falling. Shopworkers were hurrying home. A lamplighter was doing what seemed like callisthenics, stretching his back and arms in preparation for the task ahead.
‘I’m sorry, sir,’ said Clara. She surmised that Mr Heaton was too much of a gentleman to demand his ten shillings back, but thought it was just as well to show contrition, so that he might take pity on her.
‘What’s done is done,’ he said, in a tone of bitter melancholy. He seemed to be retreating into a world of his own, a place where he alone could go. Clara found this more discomfiting than if he had loudly chastised her in the street.
‘I’m sorry, sir,’ she said again, peeking surreptitiously at whether he was softening towards her. He appeared not to have heard.
The cab joined the traffic bound for Westminster, rattled across the bridge, passed the houses of Parliament. The tall buildings blocked out the sun, bringing on the night all the quicker. Mr Heaton unfastened his overcoat, unbuttoned the coat he wore underneath, and pulled out a tobacco tin from an inside pocket. He rolled himself a cigarette and lit it. Inhaling for what seemed like a very long time, he tilted his head back against the back wall of the cabin. It was then that Clara saw the deep scar on his neck, just under his beard-line, running almost from earlobe to earlobe. The scar was perfectly semicircular in shape, except for a hiccup caused by the Adam’s apple. It was punctuated all around by other scars: cross-shaped white dots where someone had crudely stitched the gaping flesh back together. The dots looked as if buttons had once been sewn there and fallen off unnoticed.
‘What happened to you, sir?’ Clara asked.
He exhaled smoke until it hung around his head like a fog. He stared up at the ceiling, blinking his gleaming, bloodshot eyes.
‘Happened?’ he murmured absently.
‘Someone hurt you, sir.’ She pointed at his neck, almost touching him. He smiled but didn’t respond.
‘Was it robbers, sir?’
Again he smiled. ‘You might say that.’ He took the deepest possible puff of his cigarette, making it glow fierce in the dimness of the cabin.
The hansom rattled on. Through the window on her side, Clara saw a landmark she recognised from that lost period of her life when she used to meet with another lady’s maid called Sinead at a tea-room near Charing Cross Station. She knew where she was now, more or less. It wouldn’t be very long before they were back in St Giles, so she started rehearsing what her parting words to Mr Heaton ought to be, whether she should affect a breezy tone or a solemn one; whether a third apology might melt him or whether she’d milked contrition for as much as it was worth; whether she ought to suggest that they attempt to do this again next month, despite her honest intention never to clap eyes on him again. Just when she was deep in thought, debating the wisdom of perhaps giving him some sort of kiss on the cheek the instant before sprinting to her freedom, he spoke again.
‘I was in the Battle of Peiwar Kotal.’
‘How terrible, sir. Was that in India?’
‘Afghanistan.’
Clara had never heard of the place. Admittedly her schooling had been scant and she’d entered into service almost immediately afterward, and her mistress, for all her wealth, knew nothing about anything. Clara strained to recall if Mr William Rackham, her mistress’s husband, had ever uttered any informative pronouncements about Afghanistan in her earshot. But thinking of the pompous windbag who’d dismissed her with a damning letter of reference – a letter of reference so poisonous that she’d spent more than three years trying to get decent employment with it, only to be driven to her current line of work – made her deaf, dumb and blind with anger.
‘I don’t know much about history, sir,’ she said.
He flicked his cigarette out of the window. ‘It was last year, actually.’ Turning his face close to hers, he examined her features as though evaluating, for the first time, her desirability as a woman. ‘You think I’m an old man, don’t you? I’m younger than you are, I’ll wager.’
