The Deptford Mice 1: The Dark Portal (9 page)

Twit and Oswald were taken aback. Oswald wondered if Audrey was quite well: visions of the Green Mouse were ‘not common in the Skirtings.

Nevertheless, a mousebrass was important.

‘I don’t know how we can help,’ he said.

‘But we’d like to,’ added Twit.

Audrey smiled at them gratefully.

‘I knew you would,’ she said. ‘But the thing is, I can’t go back down there. I had to promise Mother.’

Oswald gasped. ‘Oh surely you weren’t thinking of going back into the sewers Audrey! Wasn’t once enough?’

‘But that’s where it is,’ she insisted. ‘What am I to do?’

Little Twit blinked and shuffled his feet. He looked up at her and said timidly, ‘I’ll go back in there for you.’

‘Oh would you? That’s marvellous.’ Audrey was delighted.

Oswald knew that he could not refuse: he too would go down there. He gulped loudly.

‘If Twit goes, then I ought to as well,’ he said at last. ‘Besides, I’m the only one who can find it, aren’t I?’

They all knew what he meant. Oswald’s albino blood made him sensitive to lost objects. He had a divining rod shaped like a spindly catapult and with it he had found many things believed lost forever. He went to fetch it.

‘I’m glad Oswald is a-comin’,’ said Twit. ‘I ain’t too sure of the way.’

When he returned Oswald said hurriedly, ‘Mother’s on the rampage: she wants to know where we’ve been and asked me where my scarf was. I’d forgotten I left it down there.’

They crossed to the cellar door and were about to pass through when Piccadilly surprised them.

‘Hello Audrey,’ he said. ‘I’ve been looking for you.’

‘Well I don’t want to see you,’ she answered rudely.

Then he saw what they were doing.

‘Where are you going?’

‘It’s her mousebrass,’ said Twit. ‘Got lost in the scufflin’, it did.’

Piccadilly didn’t like it. He had seen far too much of the sewers to want to go near them again.

‘Please Audrey!’ he exclaimed. ‘Don’t go.’

‘I’m not going,’ was the curt reply. ‘I made that promise to Mother. Twit and Oswald are going.’ She paused and added, ‘They’re not afraid.’

Oswald wasn’t so sure about that but the accusation stung Piccadilly – he knew more about the tunnels than they did and realised the danger.

‘But two’s enough,’ said Twit hastily. ‘Only needs two of us.’

Audrey stared at Piccadilly – a hard stare that seemed to say, ‘Go on, prove you’re not a coward, go with them!’

The grey mouse battled with his fears. He remembered vividly the altar chamber and could never forget Albert’s last cries. There truly had been nothing he could have done, yet he felt that he should have tried.

‘All right,’ he said, ‘I’ll go instead of Oswald.’

‘But I’ve got to go,’ said Oswald miserably. ‘We won’t find it without dowsing for it.’

‘Then instead of Twit,’ said Piccadilly. ‘Now don’t argue, you said yourself it was a job for two.’

Reluctantly, Twit agreed and they descended the cellar steps. At the Grille they stopped for a moment. Audrey hesitated: she knew she was wrong. Twit tugged at his cousin’s elbow and wished them all luck.

‘May the green Mouse watch after ’ee,’ he said.

‘Fat lot of good he is,’ laughed Piccadilly. He looked at Audrey and said forcefully, ‘Keep your phoney Green Mouse. I don’t need him,’ and he slipped through the grating.

‘Oh my, oh my,’ squeaked Oswald, ‘he oughtn’t to say such things.’ He looked woefully at Audrey and Twit. He had never expected to pass beyond the Grille once and here he was twice in one day.

Audrey felt wretched making them do this for her.

‘I’ll stay here and wait for you,’ she said.

‘Oh my,’ was all Oswald could manage as he wriggled through the gap.

Twit and Audrey were left alone in the cellar. She hit her nails and felt guilty and afraid.

‘They be fine,’ assured the fieldmouse. ‘Cousin Oswald, he’ll find it in a trice an’ there ain’t no one who’ll know the way back better’n he.’

Still Audrey knew she had been unforgivably selfish and wished they had not gone.

In the sewers Oswald held his divining rod in outstretched arms.

‘Does that work?’ asked a sceptical Piccadilly.

‘Oh yes, every time.’

They set off, Oswald, leading the way, the rod giving an occasional twitch.

The two mice did not know that at that moment in the chamber of Jupiter, news of their escape had reached Morgan’s ears from the rat with the broken teeth. Gingerly Morgan approached the altar. Jupiter had to be told. He looked up and saw that the eyes already blazed out of the dark portal. Morgan abased himself before them.

‘You have news,’ said the voice.

‘Oh my Lord, word is those mice bandits escaped.’

Morgan hid his face.

Jupiter’s voice boomed out of the blackness.

‘Is there nothing I can trust you with, you spotted Simpleton?’

Morgan blocked his ears against the deafening roars.

‘Send the best of your scurvy lads. I want those mice here!’

Morgan crawled away to give the orders.

Piccadilly felt a little better than he had done the last time he was in the sewers; Mrs Brown had given him a good meal and now he had a chance to show Audrey he was not a coward. It might even let him rest easier.

The tunnels were familiar to him now: the wet brick arches, the strange slimy moss which grew in the dark, and the turgid water that swilled around below. He wondered if anything lived in it – what fish would swim in the muddy currents? Perhaps no fish at all, but scaly toad monsters with big pale eyes sightlessly groping in the dark, hunting for food. Piccadilly pulled himself together and rebuked himself severely – thoughts like that led to panic. Oswald was concentrating on Audrey’s mousebrass, picturing it before him, recalling every detail. The image was translated through his veins, travelled down his arms and entered the wood of his divining rod. It searched for the brass, jerking in agitation whenever they took a wrong turn. Oswald was an accomplished dowser.

‘Is it far do you think?’ whispered Piccadilly.

‘Shshsh. You’ll spoil my concentration. Actually I can’t tell – it’s quite odd.’

Suddenly Piccadilly gave a cry of discovery. ‘Look, look,’ he called. ‘It’s a scarf!’

Oswald lowered the rod. ‘That’s a relief anyway,’ he said. ‘Mother hates it when I lose something she’s made.’

He picked the scarf off the ledge – it was slightly damp but he wound it round his neck just the same.

‘This is the place where the rats got us,’ he said. ‘Audrey’s brass must be here somewhere. Have a look will you?’

They searched everywhere. Piccadilly even felt in some slime for it but the mousebrass could not be found.

‘Do you think it might have fallen down there in the water?’ he asked.

They both looked over the edge and gazed at the black stream below.

‘Oh dear we’ll never find it in that,’ Oswald despaired.

Piccadilly wiped the mud from his paw.

‘It’s no use – it’s totally lost,’ he said.

Oswald had to agree. He shook his head when he thought how unhappy Audrey would be. They were about to return to the Skirtings when the divining rod gave an almighty leap.

‘Oh my!’ exclaimed Oswald. ‘Piccadilly look, we’re not done yet. The mousebrass can’t be in the water, it must be down that tunnel. Come on.’ He dashed off, darting into a tunnel they hadn’t been down before.

‘Hang on Oswald,’ said Piccadilly. ‘We’ll get lost if we don’t stick to the same route. Oswald come back!’ he called:

‘OSWALD!’ But Oswald was too far ahead to hear. Piccadilly ran after him.

Audrey waited anxiously in the cellar with Twit. They found it difficult to speak about their departed friends. Dread and guilt weighed heavily on Audrey’s mind – what had she done?

Twit sat on the ground, his head cradled in his paws and his knees tucked under his chin. He knew he shouldn’t have let his young cousin go down into the sewers. He tried to hum a little tune but the mood stifled it. He looked at Audrey and smiled weakly.

So preoccupied were they in their thoughts that the two mice did not sense the change of air flowing from the Grille or detect the muffled movements of body against body on the other side.

Audrey sat down and sighed. The picture of Jupiter that Arthur had painted seemed to leer at her; she had had enough of faces that grinned at her and turned her back to it. Now she was directly in front of the rusted gap, unaware of the plans being made behind the ironwork.

A voice called her name in the hall. It was Arthur looking for her. ‘Can you fetch him, Twit?’ she said. ‘I said I would wait for them here.’

Twit got to his feet and climbed over the rolls of paper till he reached the cellar steps. He was really too short to tackle them himself and his struggles to clamber up them brought the shadow of a smile even to Audrey.

In between the iron leaves of the Grille indistinct forms advanced and then beady yellow eyes blinked greedily in the dark.

When he reached the top step, Twit looked down at Audrey sitting next to the gap and then squeezed through the door. Arthur was wondering if he ought to try the landing when Twit came to him.

‘Oh hello,’ he said. ‘I’m looking for Audrey again – and that Piccadilly.’

‘She’m in the cellar,’ said Twit.

Arthur was furious.

‘What’s she doing there?’

Twit explained about the missing mousebrass, and how Piccadilly and Oswald had gone to look for it.

‘But they’ve been gone a while now,’ he ended sadly.

‘We really can’t have this,’ protested Arthur crossly. ‘If she lost it then it’s her own fault and she’s got no right to make Oswald and that grey go looking for her.’

He strode down the hall and barged through the cellar door.

‘Just you listen to me Audrey!’ he yelled, but she was not there.

There was no sign of Audrey anywhere, but Arthur and Twit guessed at once where she had gone. They knew nothing of the brief desperate struggle that had taken place moments before and how, overwhelmed and defeated, Audrey had been dragged through the Grille by sharp, snatching claws. Arthur thought the worst of his sister.

‘She’s gone back in,’ he gasped in disbelief. ‘She vowed to Mother she wouldn’t and yet as soon as she’s on her own what does she do? Ups and goes back down there!’

Unpleasant thoughts began to form in his mind. He thought how dishonest his sister was. Every little thing which irritated him about her was magnified unreasonably in his mind. He remembered any slight selfish act, recalled every small meanness. He was experiencing just one of the powers of the Grille: a wicked sorcery which turned friends into enemies and curdled innocence.

Arthur’s face turned sour and his plump; cheerful head became ugly with hate.

The humble charms daubed in great faith around the Grille were not strong enough to protect him.

Arthur sneered.

‘She can go to rot down there,’ he spat in a voice that was not his own. ‘I hate her and her precious, ribbons and lace. Stay down there Audrey, we’re better off without you!’

Twit was astonished. He had seen the change in Arthur’s face and it scared him. Some blight had stricken his friend and he was at a loss what to do. For a moment the little fieldmouse stammered and dithered, hopping about in a terrible state. Finally he jumped up and, giving Arthur a sharp slap, dragged him away.

Why the enchantments had no effect on the fieldmouse is not certain. Perhaps it was his own simple nature that saved him. Twit had never had an unkind thought about anyone and never held grudge, so the dark magic had nothing to work on. The spells broke against his natural defences.

At the foot of the cellar steps he paused. Pulling a bulky house mouse when you are a tiny fieldmouse is not easy.

Arthur was breathing strangely – like someone coming out of a fever he swayed and spoke thickly.

‘What was that? What did I say?’ He winced, ashamed at the memory of it. ‘Twit, I didn’t mean any of it – those things. Audrey’s not bad. What was I saying?’

Twit had calmed down. For a moment there he had thought his friend was going mad.

‘You sit down Arthur,’ he soothed. Arthur followed his advice, landing with a hard thump on the floor. ‘I reckon ’tis some nasty ’fluence comin’ out of yon grating.’

‘It was awful,’ spluttered Arthur. ‘I had all these horrible pictures of Audrey in my head and they just got worse until I really wished she’d come to a sticky end down there. I’m so sorry Twit, you don’t think a wish like that could come true, do you?’ He looked helplessly at the fieldmouse.

‘’Tweren’t your fault,’ Twit assured him. ‘That tricksy Grille been up to mischief.’

Eventually Arthur felt better but was not keen to venture near the Grille again.

‘I don’t really think she would have broken that promise,’ he decided. ‘Audrey has got some common sense for all her dreaminess. But if she didn’t go wilfully . . .’ he trailed off miserably.

‘Should we go down after her?’ suggested Twit. ‘I could rouse Algy and maybe old Tom; a few others might be persuaded to help.’

They considered this but knew that no other mouse from the Skirtings would dare pass through the Grille. They would rather jump into fire and have done with it.