The Rat Eater

by Anand Ranganathan

  ‘You go in, Dad. I’ll come along with Andy and Maggie. Please?’

  ‘Aouuright, but no goin’ niya the pier. And ten minutes sweetheart, oukayeee?’

  ‘Thanks, Dad. Byee.’

  ‘Bye, darlin’…Come on’en Mattyboy—and listen mayt, ’member wough I toldjya.’

  Matty tapped his nose. ‘Mums the word, son.’

  ‘Gudi-gudi-goood. Come.’

  The gents made their way in, sliding shut the balcony door behind them. They skipped down the spiral stairwell humming and whistling as they went to meet their better halves in the lounge below.

  ‘There. There’s the two of ya,’ said one better-half. ‘’Ave been shoutin’ ‘oarse all this time. Where whirr ya?’

  ‘Evenin’ layidies. Have been showin’ Matt ’round the pad. He seems to like-ee, inni Matt?’

  Matt chipped in while eyeing Johnny’s football figures collection. ‘Yaa—you’ve gaugh a nice thingy iyaa, Say-raa.’

  ‘Think souugh?’

  ‘Tis like bein’ on a ’oliday all ear long, inni.’

  ‘Telit to John, iyaa. Haven’t been on an ’oliday for months.’

  ‘You don’t need to now, doouya?’

  ‘That’s what he bleedin’ keeps sayin.’

  Johnny protested playfully. ‘Wough-me?’

  The women giggled. ‘Nee-way, come in boys. Coffee. Tea.’

  ‘Tea please, Chrissie. Sou. What’ave you-oo hens bin up to, ’en? Hope Chrissie’s not given waai too many secrets, have you, Chrissie?’

  ‘As a mat-aah of fact, was just mentionin’ to Say-raa bout the fay-yaa you’ve been ’avin’ backin Croydon.’

  Matty felt a bit dizzy. ‘What. Oyee!’

  ‘Just kiddin’, daalin’.’

  Matty changed the topic swiftly. ‘…Anything good on the telly, girls? By good, aamin footie.’

  ‘You wish, lads.’

  Johnny extended his right hand, revealing St. George, a werewolf, a mongoose and a snake, all busy in the process of killing each other, in that order. The rest of the emotional scene would have come into view had he removed his T-shirt and lowered his trousers. ‘Give us the ’mote, luv.’

  ‘Stay away, you,’ said Sarah smacking Johnny’s hand away. ‘Now, let’s see…’

  ‘…The…hyeenaa, has found, his prey...’

  ‘…No, that’s not what I’m asking minister...’

  ‘…Three!...and the next number is...’

  ‘…Oh gaawd. O-my-gaaad. Now that’s aa hooge punch by the underta...’

  ‘Neville!...now to Giggs…Keane…now to Van Nistelrooy…three men back…Van Nistelrooy! Oooh, fingertip save, that...’

  Both Matty and Johnny jumped. ‘Ya. Ya, that’s it. Stay, Say-raa.’

  ‘You wish, lads. Aren’t you ev-aa fed up of-ee. Aamin Des Lynem’s all fine, but...’

  ‘…This whole business of overcharging...’

  ‘…Are you saying, then, Sir Rupert, that the House of Lords...’

  ‘…Well, there’s my lad. Two balls left, just two red ones, ladies and gentlem...’

  ‘A singer…a pop star…and now an activist…’

  Sarah couldn’t believe her ears. ‘Blimey, George Michael. Chrissie. That’s Jorji on Hardtalk. Hurry up, luv.’

  ‘…but just how is he…’

  The lads gave out a collective groan. ‘Oh, no.’

  Sarah was festive. ‘Oh, yes. The- zappa- ’as- found- its- prayee. Didjya know Johnny, I had a huge crush on George back in them days...Chrissieee. Are you coming daalin’?’

  ‘…George Michael, a very warm welcome to the progr...’

  ‘Really. That’s strange. I thaw even aar Mattyboy, too...’

  ‘Thank you. Nice to meet you Tim.’

  ‘Shut it, you tossa.’

  ‘Why Iraq? ’Cos it’s fashionable?’

  Chrissie came thundering in, ‘Shh. Easy now, you two…Iyaa, take your cuppa and be quiet.’

  ‘Oh God, no. I have absolutely no desire to be here today. I’ve got absolutely—I’m really reluctant to be here.’

  Johnny protested. ‘O come-awnn, ladies. We can’t sit through this now, can we Matty? Not after what the bugger did to me hand that nigh.’

  ‘Why?’

  Sarah asked, eyes glued to the TV. ‘What bugger? What hand?’

  ‘Simply because—in all honesty, I was kind of first out of the trenches...’

  ‘Dinchya knou? That bugger. George bloody Michael, you muppet.’

  ‘…in terms of entertainers that were going to get behind something which would divide—which at the time was so divisive...’

  Sarah swung round, open-mouthed. ‘You’ve met-im? Nouuu!’

  ‘…that if you’re approaching a subject as divisive as Iraq was six or eight months ago, then...’

  ‘Well, not exactly. I wozat Earl’s Court when the plonka was strumming his guitar an’ all, innay.’

  ‘…then you’re taking a big risk as an entertainer; because you’re going to...’

  Matty objected. ‘That woz ages ago, you bugger.’

  ‘…alienate a lot of people, and I did...’

  ‘Yaa, but it’s fresh Mattyboy, fresh as a bleedin’ daisy, I tell ya.’

  ‘…very, very quickly. And I was completely pilloried...’

  ‘Why, what did he do, dear George?’ asked Sarah.

  ‘…really for having the audacity to be a pop star...’

  ‘Bugger tould everyone to raise their arms an sway’em left an effin’ righ—like this...’

  ‘…who’s in the mainstream, as opposed to a rock star...’

  ‘And you refused?’

  ‘…or, you know, some kind of protest singer.’

  Johnny gave Matty a dirty stare. ‘No, you stewpee, wankaa. It was quite a sight actually, ’til some plonk-head near us propoused we click aar lighters on, too...’

  ‘But there’s no such thing as bad publicity, is there?’

  Matty now looked very fascinated. ‘Say-raa daalin’, this is interesting luv, coodjya lower the volume please, hen?’

  ‘There is...’

  Sarah did so grudgingly. ‘Jus-a bit, then...There, is that oakayee?’

  ‘Particularly if your record sales are falling?’

  ‘Ta luv, that’s fine. Ya, so wayaa woz u, lie-aa lamp.’

  ‘Did you see my publicity? Did you see...’

  Johnny continued. ‘Well, it got me too, the lietaa bit, aa-min. And then—it could only’ve been a couple-aa minnets—me bleedin lighter blew in me hand.’

  ‘…any of it? It was absolutely dire. And I’d like to add—I have absolutely no...’

  ‘Jesus.’

  ‘…my record sales are not falling...’

  ‘Nough-aaf, maai. Ended up in the burns ward at St George’s, I did.’

  ‘…I released two singles six years after my last album. And my fans are now thirty-five, on average...’

  ‘Wough. He was so kind as to take ya to his ’ospital? That’s so typical of him, that George.’

  ‘…right? There was a piece on Channel Four about three or four months ago...’

  Johnny punched Matty in the stomach. ‘No, you stupid plank, stop taking the piss—it ain’t ’alf funny, you git.’

  ‘…where an artist was challenging Woolworth’s because they were not stocking...’

  ‘Awe-i, awe-i, Jonnyboy. So waugh ’appened, then?’

  ‘…their records, and so they had a representative of Woolworth’s on...’

  ‘Couldn’t use me left hand for a week, that’s waugh ’appened.’

  ‘…and this woman said, well we’ve done our market research for Woolworth’s and...’

  Matty asked in all seriousness and with suitable gestures: ‘So, how didjya—aamin—you no-whataamin…Black n’ Decker—right hand then, was it. Faugh a houul week?’

  ‘…we know that the singles market of two-thousand-two is teenage girls...’

  ‘You stewpee git, shut-ee.’

/>   ‘…between the ages of twelve and—no eleven and twelve, that was as wide as it got—eleven and twelve! The only reason...’

  ‘Nuff lads, quiet.’

  ‘…I have to release singles, as someone with an audience of thirty-five plus...’

  ‘Ya awe-i, take it easy girls. We nouu you fine-im lovely, now dountchya?’

  ‘…is that if you don’t release them as a single in Britain...’

  ‘Very…listen, Johnny, just please find out ’bout them kids.’

  ‘…you can’t get them on the...’

  Johnny waved his hand, picking up the thread where St George had just speared the werewolf with the sharp end of a flagpole. ‘They’re busy playin’ on the beach.’

  ‘…radio. I don’t want to compete with, you know...’

  ‘Well they’ve been out a long time, inni. Please, Johnny.’

  ‘…pop idol and the carious young people...’

  ‘Ya awe-i…Andieee? Maggieeee?’

  ‘…in the charts that are roughly half my...’

  ‘Not from iyaa, Johnny. Loudaa, they can’t ear ya.’

  ‘…age right now. I’d rather just release my albums...’

  ‘Awe-I, awe-i…’

  Johnny went reluctantly and opened a French window.

  ‘But you say you’re happier to have a big debate than a hit single. Really?’

  ‘…Andieee? Oiii. Oiii!’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘I said, oiii!’

  ‘You must be the only one in the business then.’

  Andy looked up from his sandcastle and ran towards the house, screaming and shouting. ‘Uncle Johnny, look what I found.’

  ‘I think I probably am. I think...’

  Matty heard the commotion and joined Johnny at the door. ‘Whaugh. Wayaa. Wayz Maggie. Look, din-I warn ya. Din-i? Aye?’

  ‘…I probably am by now. I’ve had twenty years...’

  ‘No dad, you doan understand. I’ve found this—a bottle.’

  ‘…of this business. I’m never on the television...’

  Sarah, who could hear everything from across fifteen feet, barked. ‘You lot. Come iyaa.’

  ‘…never. I never do TV...’

  Andy trotted over, followed shortly by the keyed-up pair of Maggie and Clare. ‘Hi, Mum. Hi, Aunt Say-raa.’

  ‘…I’m phobic about cameras. I...’

  ‘Hi, boyz’n’gulls. What’s that in your ’and ’en?’

  ‘…have no interest in promoting my music beyond making videos.’

  Andy was beside himself with excitement. ‘A bottle.’

  ‘But you never protested at the height of your fame, did you?’

  Johnny and Matty joined in. The children were clapping their hands and jumping up and down. Matty ruffled Andy’s hair. ‘Show us a minnet.’

  ‘Well, of I didn’t. I was nineteen, twenty, twenty-one. What...’

  ‘Ear, dad.’

  ‘…were you doing when you were?’

  Matt inspected the bottle carefully. ‘Looks like a baugh-ul, Jonnyboy.’

  He shook the bottle and put his ear to it. ‘Luddy ’el, Jonny, it’s got some sort of paper inside…Co-blimey—a message.’

  ‘A lot of people at nineteen, twenty and twenty-one were on the streets marching, weren’t they? Against Vietnam, for instance.’

  Johnny cried out with all sincerity. ‘Sweet Jesus.’

  ‘Yes, I know, but I was too young for that. This is my time.’

  The ladies, who had only momentarily been distracted by the bottle and had turned their attention back to dear George, now demanded some quiet. ‘Shh. Hush, you two.’

  ‘There have been other wars since, haven’t there?’

  ‘Chrissie, Say-raa, you’ve gotta ’ave a look at this thin’ iyaa. An’ daalin, switch the plonka off, will ya?’

  ‘This is my time. I do understand what you’re trying to say. But the fact is...’

  ‘Awe-eye…’

  ‘…I really have no concern about being accused of needing...’

  Chrissie switched the telly off and plopped the remote in Sarah’s lap where it promptly got lost in the many folds. She turned dejectedly. ‘There…’appy now?’

  ‘Ta, hen. Now look.’

  ‘Wough. Wough-is-ee. Just a bottle, innit.’

  Matty was trying to uncork it. ‘It’s gaugh somethin’…Iyaa, lemme jus...’

  ‘Careful Matt, you’ll break-ee. Iyaa, waugh-uz it say on top. Old Monk...rum.’

  ‘Where’s it faum-en?’

  ‘Made in India. Blimey, maai.’

  Johnny was stunned. ‘The bleedin’ thins come up iyaa, all the way from thiyaa?’

  ‘Looks like, inni. Lemme uncork-ee…Jesus, seems to be stu– gosh it’s tight, maai.’

  ‘Careful, you git.’

  ‘’Bout to, ’bout to…Aaaaa—dunn-ee.’

  Johnny took possession of the contents. ‘Blimey. There’s sheets maai, luddy tons-of-um.’

  ‘Say-raa, Chrissie. Iyaa, ’ave a look at this stuff. Luddy, all the way fawm India.’

  ‘Waugh-iz-ee?’

  ‘Well, cow, tis a message, inni.’

  ‘Mathew. Language.’

  Matty apologised. ‘Sorry, luv. Aamin, you’ve gaugh-oo see this…Where didjya getit fawm, Andy?’

  ‘From the sea, Dad. I was runnin’ up to touch the boat when this thing hit me ankle. Read it, read it, Dad.’

  Johnny nudged Matty with his elbow. ‘Ya, waugh-uz-ee say, Matty....Nough a recipe for CTM, aa-hoap.’

  ‘Bettaa. Iyaa, listen t’ this...Mumbai…Thursday, eleventh March, nineteen ninety-nine…Blimey, duzzat mean tis taken fo years to get iyaa?’

  ‘I’ll be damned. Jesus.’

  ‘God almigh-e.’

  Matty shouted everyone down. ‘Lisonn...This may take a while to reach you. In any case, you will be the first to learn of when, how, and why, I murdered the ‘Pride of Bombay’ Mr Ramrao Apte. Let me begin with the answer to the first ques...’

  The men looked at each other.

  ‘I said, sweet bleedin’ Jesus.’

  ‘Effing el, Uncle Alb. What the...’

  ‘You gau-oo be kiddin’ me. Mother of God. Effin’…Didjya hear that? Aamin...’

  Chrissie cut the slang procession short. ‘Johnny. The kids! Language.’

  ‘Sorry, luv. But didjya...’

  ‘Andy. Maggie. Clare. Out. Now.’

  ‘No Mum, please.’

  ‘The beach, I said. Now. Mathew?’

  ‘Yeah, kids. Mum’s right iyaa. This ain’t no kid stuff, this.’

  ‘But, Dad...’

  ‘Pleaz, the beach, kids. We’ll call ya in when we’re dun ear, awe-I.’

  Andy stuck his lips out and dragged his feet. ‘O, this is soooo unfair.’

  ‘I knou, I knou. The beach, kids.’

  Heads down and shoulders slumped, the children made their way slowly out the doors.

  Johnny breathed a sigh. ‘Phew. Go on then, Matt.’

  ‘Awe-I…to the first question: when? This morni...’ Matt paused and looked up. ‘Good sweet Lord, I said.’

  ‘Carry on, you git.’

  ‘his morning. Ten-thirty. Presidential suite. Hotel Taj Mahal. So, the complete...’

  ‘Stop it, Matt. This is getting too much,’ Sarah interrupted.

  ‘Yaa, Chrissie’s right iyaa. Too weird is this.’

  ‘O come-awn, Say-raa; be a sport, hen. This is grayit. Carry on, Matty.’

  ‘…complete answer to the first question: I killed Ramrao Apte on Thursday, eleventh March, nineteen ninety-nine, at ten-thirty precisely—I confirmed. To the second question: how? I arrived at the Taj at nine sharp…’

  ‘Listen fellas, this is perverse!’

  ‘O come off it, Chrissie. It’s no such thing. For all you know, some Paki...’

  ‘Mathew!’

  ‘Sorry, luv...didn’t mean no harm…Maybe some Indian geezaa in Brighton roat it as a bee-aa-fun and threw the Aristo
tle in. Come-awnn luv, be a sport now.’

  ‘But still...’

  Johnny behaved as though the matter was settled. ‘Ya, ya, she’s fine, Matt; go on.’

  ‘…at nine sharp. I wandered along and got in among a bunch of tourists. Once inside, changed into an electrician’s overalls. Located the presidential suite. Waited for the room service to go and knock on the door. Mr Apte opened the door. A woman got out.’ Matty looked up from the scrolls.

  ‘Go on, git.’

  ‘…I went up to Mr Apte, said the air-conditioning needed to be looked at. Waited for the room service to leave. Went in the bathroom. Played around with a few switches. Then called for Mr Apte: “Mr Aapte? Sir, is this what is creating the problem?” He came in. The wire was around his neck in a flash. It was a matter of a minute. He was gone. I checked the time. Ten thirty. I then checked his pulse. Nothing. I waited for five minutes. Nothing. I went out the way I had come in. So you see…’

  ‘Phew maai.’ Matty took a breather.

  ‘Well, Matty, I gaugh-aa tell ya, this thins gaugh-me ’air standin’ up, alright. Who is this bugger?’

  ‘Don’t mention his name iyaa.’

  ‘Aamin, what cheek. As if the tossa doan care if he’s found-ouu.’

  Matty looked at the ceiling. ‘Maybe he...’

  ‘Wough.’

  ‘Maybe he wanted to be found out.’

  ‘Nouuu. The cold-blooded Indian tossa.’

  ‘A crime of passion, this. You awe-rye, girls? You two don’t look awe-rye t’ me—do they, Jonnyboy?’

  ‘Thee-hee. Carry on, mayt.’

  ‘Awe-rye then.

  ‘…So you see how easy it was. As easy as the way Mr Apte accumulated his billions. Now to the third and final, and perhaps the most important question: why? WHY? Because in the annals of corrupt Indians, the name of Mr Apte was written in gold. But it was not displayed; no, Mr Apte made sure of that…’

  Sarah had had enough. ‘Stop it, Matt.’

  Johnny clearly had not. ‘Carry on, git.’

  ‘…His name never came up—never seriously. It was whispered in cabinet meetings, murmured at evening parties, hinted at in underworld gatherings, gossiped at business lunches, muttered at police briefings, insinuated in the Vidhan Sabha, hushed in the Lok Sabha. At all of the above, it was also admired…’ Matty paused and looked straight at Johnny. ‘Iyaa—wozz this effin’ loukk subaa ’en, aye.’