The Deptford Mice 3: The Final Reckoning (17 page)

Somewhere a gong was booming. Coloured spots and flashes dazzled him and his head throbbed, threatening to explode. Piccadilly stirred and groaned in agony. His tongue was stuck to the roof of his mouth. The darkness was damp and his face was pressed against a grit floor that cut into his bruised cheek. The dots and blurs that danced before him subsided and he tried to focus his eyes. He took in where he was. It seemed to be a shallow pit beneath one of the Tube rails. The city mouse lifted his head and discovered that the booming gong was actually his brain.

‘Oh,’ he grunted putting a fragile paw to his forehead. He winced and screwed up his face as he felt a lump the size of an egg. Piccadilly raised himself slowly and checked his condition. Thankfully no bones were broken. He decided to try and stand. ‘Gently does it,’ he told himself. His pounding head made him sway unsteadily and his legs felt like jelly. Resting against the side of the pit he tried to remember what had happened to him. He had been running, tripped, hit his head and fallen down. Piccadilly suddenly felt very hungry. He must have been out cold for hours, perhaps even a whole day. ‘He licked his dry lips and spat the horrible taste of stale blood and bitter oil from his mouth. It was then he remembered whom he had been running from.

‘The rats,’ he cried, and glanced fearfully down the dark tunnel, but it was empty and quiet as the grave. ‘They can’t have seen me trip,’ he concluded gratefully. ‘The twerps must have run right over me without realizing.’ The smile that had formed on his lips froze and he sucked the air in sharply.

‘Holeborn!’ he exclaimed, panic-stricken. ‘What has happened? Did the rats attack?’ He hoped Marty had got back in time to warn everyone.

He hauled himself out of the pit and made for the station ahead. How still everything was, no foraging parties or lookout scouts anywhere. An uneasy feeling descended on his spirit and his steps quickened.

He hastily made for the main entrance to Holeborn, his mind racing and his heart missing every other beat – if only this could be some horrible nightmare. He was close to tears as he thought of all the harmless mice trembling with fright in their homes or fighting to the death against the rat army. He gripped his knife. If the war had begun then he was ready; no rat would stand before him as long as he had the strength. He would make sure they never feasted on mouse suppers.

A noise round a blind corner brought him to an abrupt halt. There came the sound of shambling footsteps – it was unmistakably a rat. Piccadilly leant against the grimy tunnel wall and wished he had been more cautious. What if there was a whole band of rats camped outside the main doors? He would have run straight into them! He held his breath and listened fearfully. How many could he handle at once, he wondered. A cold gleam flashed off his little knife as he drew it slowly from his belt and readied himself.

‘’Tain’t
right, let’s us run while we can an’ leave ’em to it. We don’t want none o’ it do we? No, no more lumps on me ’ed.’

Piccadilly relaxed and lowered his knife; it was only Barker and he was sure to be alone. The mouse waited for the barmy creature to turn the corner and before he knew what was happening Piccadilly had grabbed and pinned him against the wall.

‘Aiiee!’ screamed the rat in surprise. He made such a terrible noise that Piccadilly had to put his paw over his mouth.

‘Ssshh,’ he hissed, ‘if I hear you so much as breathe I’ll give you so many lumps you won’t be able to count them. That’s better. We don’t want your mates comin’ to see what all the fuss is do we? Now, what happened?’ he snapped through snarling teeth, ‘Where is everyone – did they get away or what?’

Barker stared at him with a mad, terrified look in his eyes and wildly shook his head. ‘Tweren’t Barker,’ he denied quickly, ‘he ’ad nowt to do wiv it, ’tweren’t him, no!’

Piccadilly felt sick. His eyes grew large and fearsome, so dreadful to look on that the rat cowered down and whimpered. ‘Tell me!’ he exploded. ‘What happened to all the mice in there – they got away didn’t they? The place was empty when your lot arrived, wasn’t it?’

Barker snivelled and opened his mouth to cry. He twisted his old, bony head on his scrawny neck and shivered miserably, ‘Tweren’t Barker,’ he insisted, ‘he wouldn’t touch mousey meat.’

Piccadilly stood back and choked. He stumbled and gaped, unable to believe his ears. The rat watched him warily and looked for an opportunity to escape. ‘You’re lying,’ Piccadilly said at last and his face hardened. He lunged forward and caught hold of Barker’s throat. ‘Tell me you’re lying!’

Barker’s bottom lip quivered and he coughed and spluttered. The mouse was throttling him. The rat’s eyes nearly popped out of his head and he wheezed and gasped as Piccadilly’s fingers squeezed the breath out of him.

Piccadilly suddenly realized what he was doing and he pulled away sharply. He stared at his paws as though they belonged to some other creature. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said slowly. ‘I didn’t know what I was doing. Please, tell me what happened.’

Barker rubbed his neck and croaked like a frog. ‘The battle didn’t last long,’ he admitted warily. ‘Barker stayed to one side – he don’t like no fightin’ an’ rough stuff.’ He half closed his wrinkled eyes and an expression of pity crept over his weary face. ‘We thought you had reached the mouse halls mousey boy,’ he continued. ‘Old Stumpy urged us on and we charged into them. The lads were mad wiv the blood craving an’ when Barker looked into their faces he were right scared. There was a bad, crazed light in their eyes an’ it made Barker wanna run right back where he came from – but if he had they would’ve tore ’im to bits, sure as muck is muck. It were like being swept along by one o’ them movin’ stepways; no way could he slip off an’ hide till all was done.’ With his back against the side of the tunnel Barker sank down onto his haunches and took hold of his head. ‘Them mouses hadn’t a clue what were happenin’,’ he said. ‘The lads burst in on ’em and pounced on all they could; they was took totally by surprise. Your folk should’ve got ready an’ armed ’emselves lad. It were sickenin’ seein’ how easy they was cut down – like straws the fell.’

At this point Barker covered his ears and a large tear fell from his snout. ‘I can still hear them,’ he wept to himself, ‘they were squeakin’ and cryin’ for help but all that came runnin’ were got like them. All them small, high voices still ring in me ears make ’em stop, it weren’t Barker, please mouses I’se so sorry.’ For some minutes the rat sobbed and was unable to say any more.

Piccadilly felt cold. A dull wave of shock washed over him and his stomach lurched inside. He put out a paw and touched Barker’s tear-drenched claws. It did not occur to him how bizarre the situation was, that he should be comforting a rat who had been part of an army which had slaughtered all his friends. ‘Are they all dead?’ he asked thickly.

The rat raised his head and gazed sorrowfully at the mouse. ‘The ground was scarlet! Old Stumpy made all of us check out all the halls and tiny rooms, and there were awful yells as families were dragged out and taken away to be peeled. Now Old Stumpy’s callin’ himself King of the City.’ The rat buried his face in his claws and cried his eyes raw.

A terrible look came over Piccadilly, his jaw tightened and the colour of his eyes matched the steel of his knife’s blade. He would not rest until he managed to fulfil the oath he had sworn long ago: Morgan had to die.

* * *

Kelly chuckled to Smiff as he draped a mouse skin over his shoulders and twirled round, ‘Ain’t I luvverly?’ he said, dribbling all down his front. “The belle o’ the ball – that’s me.’ And he swished down the hall dragging the forlorn skin behind him.

Smiff hooted and threw another crispy mouse ear into his jaws. What a fight it had been! Never could he remember having such a marvellous time. And the feast! Mouse ears and juicy mouse meat succulent and tender, not too well done, roasted ever so slightly until the outside was brown but the inside was still rare. He had never tasted such things before, but they seemed to stir some ancient, dormant spirit in him that lusted for more. Even though he was stuffed he still had the craving.

He thought longingly of the brawn gravy they had made and his mouth fell open as he drooled at the memory. Old Stumpy had told them the best ways to eat mice and how right he had been! What a marvellous general Old Stumpy was. Smiff picked up his bowl and drank a toast to his leader, mmm, warm fat – delicious.

Nearly all the rats were in the main hall, the one in which the mice had held their meeting just a few nights before. They caroused and slapped each other on their backs as only conquerors can. No-one regretted joining up and this, their first campaign, had been an outstanding success. Only five of their number had died when a small group of elderly mice had leapt out of nowhere with sticks and swords in their paws, shouting war cries and charging defiantly into the rat horde. The stand had not lasted for very long and the mice were soon skinned. The grey fur Kelly was sporting had been one of them. The rats told crude stories and cracked wicked jokes at their victims’ expense. Three black-hearted vermin seized some skins and used them as grisly puppets, acting out parts of the battle, relishing the killing and torment. A crowd gathered about them and raucous laughter shook the hall. Nearly everyone took up a mouse fur and placed them on their heads like ghastly hats. They peered through the blank eyeholes and poked their tongues out of the mouth spaces. They were a debauched, disgusting sight.

Morgan sat on the Thane’s throne and sniggered to himself – what a day this had been! This was what he had always longed for: to lead and be in control of a vast army. His hatchet face smirked from ear to ear as he thought of it. If only some of his old lads could see him now. For a moment he thought back to his former days in Deptford; he was well out of that. He could still not understand how Jupiter had duped him all those years, pretending to be a rat god when all the time he was just some mangy old cat getting fat from his labours.

‘Pah!’ he spat on the floor and glanced again at his new lads. What a joy they were, and so enthusiastic. Morgan tried to remember his first taste of mouse. He had probably reacted in much the same way. But the supply of those tempting scamperers had been meagre in the Deptford sewers. His Lordship had seen to that – any that ventured down were sent straight to Him. Morgan scowled, why was he dwelling on the past so much? He had been in the city for several months now and not once had he bothered to think of those horrible times when he had fawned and scraped to those burning eyes.

‘Cheers Stumpy!’ saluted a gorged rat waddling past the dais with a bowl of blood in his claws. Morgan returned the greeting and bent his piebald head to drink from his own bowl.

The slurp died in his throat as he stared down into the brimming bowl. His chisel-shaped snout was reflected in the swirling thick liquid, but only for a moment. Something strange began to happen. The blood became cloudy and ice spiked in from the edge into the centre until it was frozen solid. Morgan gasped but could not tear his eyes away. Somewhere, deep in the heart of the blood red ice, two points of pale, frosty light appeared.

‘
No
,
’
murmured the rat in disbelief, ‘not again.’ The glimmering, icy-cruel eyes filled the bowl until their ghostly radiance fell upon Morgan’s face and flowed out over his shaking claws. The eyes were a fierce blue, the dead colour of the terrible void and their eternal cold burned into the rat’s mind.

‘Morgan,’ called a distant, familiar voice.

The colour drained out of the rat’s face as he recognized the speaker. ‘It cannot be . . .’ he stammered, ‘you are gone – drowned deep.’

‘Morgan,’ repeated the voice in a whisper and the eyes in the ice seemed to look into his very soul.

‘My Lord?’ the hackles rose on Morgan’s back and a chill crept under his flesh. ‘Is that you?’

‘Verily ’tis I, Jupiter your Lord and Master,’ the voice spoke hollowly and with an edge to it as bleak as Death. ‘I have come to claim my lieutenant.’

Smiff looked up from his mess, wondering if he ought to be sick so as to fit in more grub. He smiled round at all the contented, mouse-hatted rats and raised his greasy claws to Old Stumpy. The salute was not acknowledged.’ What was he doing there? The general seemed to be staring into his bowl. Where was that queer blue light coming from? Smiff frowned and staggered to his feet -something odd was going on.

‘Listen to me,’ lulled the voice of Jupiter softly, ‘I have returned from the far reaches to Death and need my old, trusted friend by my side once more.’

Morgan’s will was slowly ebbing away. Every second he looked into those eyes and heard that dreadful voice the less he was able to wrench himself free. ‘No,’ he struggled to say through the spells that were being wrapped round him, ‘I won’t never work fer no damned moggy – not no more! I got me own life away from yer now an’ there’s no way I’ll come back – not if you be Hobb hisself.’

But it was hot easy to escape from Jupiter. Gradually the icy whispers needled their way into Morgan’s heart. The rat began to listen to Jupiter’s melodious words, for they had the same heady effect as strong wine. His lids drooped over his beady eyes and he fell victim once more to Jupiter’s powerful voice. He mourned when the words ceased – he wanted to hear them forever, he would die to hear them. A great passion swelled up in his breast; he would bind himself to this magnificent Lord and do whatever he wished. How could he have lived without him all this time?

‘I need you, Morgan. Come back into my service,’ said Jupiter. ‘I see you have fashioned an army for yourself – excellent. Bring them to me, let them be my beloved subjects and worship my beautiful cold. The Genius of the Black Winter wishes to be adored as his body once was.’

‘Anything you desire Majesty,’ Morgan answered with his old subservience, ‘I’ll round up the lads and take ’em to yer, we’ll kiss yer feet and never give you cause to doubt our love.’ Jupiter laughed softly and Morgan was enchanted by the cruel sound.

‘You all right Boss?’ asked Smiff by the side of the throne, as he eyed the bowl suspiciously. ‘You look a bit peaky like, what’s that funny light?’

Morgan looked up sharply. He saw Smiff as though he was looking through a black veil that twisted and distorted everything. ‘Nothing wrong with me lad,’ he replied mechanically. ‘Get yer things together an’ tell the rest of the boys we got to move on.’

‘What you talking about Boss?’ cried Smiff in astonishment. ‘We don’t ’ave to shift from ’ere yet. There’s plenty o’ nosh left an’ it’s not as if there’s owt to be afraid of. We’re on a cushy number ’ere, why don’t we stay?’