The Deptford Mice 3: The Final Reckoning (6 page)

‘I can see you point Ned,’ mused the Thane, ‘but for some time now I have been growing uneasy. We must not be idle.’

‘Then tell the foragers to work harder so we can start stocking up.’

‘Don’t you say anything against my foragers Ned Fidjit,’ warned the Minister for Supplies.

‘Gentlemen please!’ interrupted the Thane kindly. ‘I do believe someone has something to say on this matter.’ He pointed to the back of the room where an arm had been raised waiting to be seen. ‘You there, what is it you have to say?’

The mouse in question rose. ‘Good heavens,’ said the Minister for Supplies, ‘that’s one of my lads – Piccadilly. Good worker he is.’

The Thane bent down and asked softly, ‘Isn’t that the one who disappeared some months ago and came back with a fantastical tale?’

‘That’s the one.’

The Thane straightened himself and muttered, ‘Well he might have something worth listening to then.’ He drummed his fingers on the sides of his chair and called out, ‘Speak boy.’

Piccadilly had been listening to the debate with growing impatience. He wanted to tell them what had happened to him. All this talk of closing the door and keeping the rats out was ludicrous. Bursting with frustration he had stuck his paw into the air, much to the surprise of Marty.

‘Put it down,’ his young friend had hissed at him.’ Then the Thane had noticed him and it was too late. Marty buried his face. ‘You’ve done it now,’ he said as Piccadilly got to his feet.

Now Piccadilly was standing and every mouse in the hall was staring straight at him. He coughed nervously but lost his fear as soon as he began to speak.

‘’Scuse me ’Enry,’ he said, ‘but I think you ought to know what happened to me tonight.’ The Thane chuckled at the young mouse’s forthright manner and waved him to continue.

‘Well, it were like this,’ Piccadilly began and he told them about his meeting with Barker, what he had learned from him about the ‘new blood’ in the rat population and how he felt that it was all down to ‘Old Stumpy’ – whoever that was.

When he had finished the Thane thanked him and turned to the Minister of Dwellings. ‘Well Ned, do you still doubt the ferocity of the rats?’ The Minister shook his head glumly. ‘No,’ resumed the Thane, ‘now we must really consider the possibility of war.’ He pointed to the Minister of Craft and said, ‘You must start making weapons Sid. The old heirlooms we have won’t be enough. Make spears, knives and anything else you can think of that will give a rat the bashing of his life. We must also begin training ourselves in the devilish art of warfare. Rationing of the supplies must start tomorrow but the foragers will continue to go out until it is too dangerous.’ He sighed wearily. ‘What else can we do? I’m afraid I am not well versed in this – perhaps I should consult the chronicles of my celebrated forebear – he loved a skirmish he did.’

‘’Scuse me,’ a voice called out.

The Thane looked up. ‘What’s this, you again?’ Piccadilly was waving his arm in the air once more. ‘Tell us what it is you have to say this time. Do you have something to add?’

‘Quite frankly I do,’ said Piccadilly standing up again. ‘I can’t believe that’s all you can think of doing!’

Everyone in the hall raised their eyebrows at this rude outburst but the Thane took it with good humour. ‘And what would you have us do?’ he asked.

‘Well, you could put extra sentries on our borders for starters and then begin makin’ a better door. That one’s so old a determined worm could bash its way in.’

The Thane leaned forward. ‘What else?’ he asked and all the humour had left his voice. He spoke as though it were one of his Ministers he was addressing and not a cheeky young mouse.

Piccadilly continued. ‘If I were you I’d get Ned Fidjit to start extending the East Way beyond our boundary.’

The Minister for Dwellings spluttered with indignation at the suggestion. ‘The East Way!’ he exclaimed. ‘What has that old tunnel got to do with anything? The lad’s potty.’

‘Let him finish,’ said the Thane.

‘Look,’ explained Piccadilly, ‘in Holeborn we have lots of little entry points and secret exits but only one main door. The rats know where that is and if they come charging through it we don’t stand a chance, they’ll have us cornered. We can’t all squeeze through those small openings in time.’

‘I see what you mean,’ said the Thane. ‘If the East Way is extended and opened we would have what amounts to a large back door that the rats know nothing about.’

‘Now you’re catchin’ on.’

The Thane chuckled. ‘What an extraordinary young chap you are. Is there anything else you can suggest?’

‘Actually ’Enry there is. What we could do is discover the rat’s plans and stay one jump ahead of them.’

‘How do you propose we do that?’

‘Simple. We spy on ’em.’

The Thane looked at all his Ministers and came to a conclusion. ‘Young mouse,’ he said, ‘come here.’ Piccadilly weaved through umpteen rows of mice and stood before the dais. The Thane rose and clapped his paw on the mouse’s shoulder. ‘Piccadilly,’ he announced grandly, ‘I name you the official Minister for War.’

A rush of whispers and shocked looks ran through the assembly. The seven other Ministers began to protest in the strongest possible terms but the Thane silenced them.

‘You have been appointed because you excelled at organizing one thing or another,’ he said. ‘This youngster has more than proved that he is capable of the post. He has imagination and courage. We are too old and settled in our comfortable ways to give thought to battles and strategies – let the young take over where they can.’ He stared Piccadilly squarely in the eye and asked if he would accept the office.

‘Sure thing ’Enry.’

The Thane held up his paw and declared to the thousands of gathered mice. ‘Here is your new Minister for War!’ A young cadet at the back of the hall led the cheers and applause.

‘Well, what will your first act be as a Minister?’ asked the Thane.

Piccadilly clicked his tongue, mulling over the various options. Finally he said, ‘The most important thing is to discover who Old Stumpy is and see how strong the rats are.’

‘It will be a brave mouse who goes into the rats’ lair,’ observed the Thane.

‘Or a foolish one,’ added Ned Fidjit. ‘Tell me Minister, who did you have in mind for this perilous mission?’

‘Me,’ answered Piccadilly soberly.

From the back a tiny voice shouted, ‘And me.’

The last Underground train closed its doors and pulled out of the station. The cold white light shining from the carriage windows receded down the dark tunnel. Somewhere, far above, the station gates rattled shut and an eerie quiet descended.

The platform was empty. Only discarded sweet wrappers moved on it, rolled by the draught that swept down the escalators. One of the papers fell off the edge and gently spiralled downwards towards the shining rails.

Out of the darkness a claw flashed and seized the wrapper eagerly. An unpleasant sucking and licking sound followed, then the scrunch of paper being chewed.

‘Ting!’ a small, soggy pellet was spat out and smartly hit a rail.

‘Garr!’ snarled a voice. ‘Nowt on that.’

Smiff’s ugly head reared over the side of the platform. The two snotty lines once again ran from his piggish nose. In
one quick movement he was standing on the platform with his tail thrashing and eyes hungrily glaring around.

A second head appeared and Kelly hauled his fat body slowly over the edge. His long red tongue dangled from his mouth between yellow, sharpened fangs and licked the fur round his jowls.

The other rat sniffed the air cautiously then darted to the far side where an overflowing litter bin was fastened to the wall. With an eager yell Smiff hurled himself against the side and clawed his way to the top. There he shoved his snout down into the mass of old newspapers, orange peel, chocolate wrappers and used tissues.

His croaky voice echoed strangely inside the bin as he cried, ‘Aha!’ There we has it my lovely!’ and his brown furry body fell head first into the rubbish.

Kelly waited impatiently below. Smiff had found something tasty and wasn’t sharing it. Kelly growled and looked about for something to bang the bin with. He picked up a grey, oval stone and smashed it against the side. ‘What you got in there Smiff you stink bag? Bring it out ’ere.’

Kelly gave the bin another might
thwack
till it boomed like a gong and a startled yelp issued from inside. Smiff peered down at Kelly with a look of injured innocence on his dreadful face. ‘Kelly mate, what were that fer?’

‘Bring it out ’ere Smiff!’ the fat rat demanded. ‘Don’t bother to deny it, there’s chips all round yer mush.’

Smiff grumbled to himself and reluctantly fished out a greasy bundle of white paper. He threw it down and jumped after it.

Kelly was already on his knees tearing it apart. Inside was a cold, clammy clump of chips and a half-eaten sausage. When he saw this Kelly crowed with delight and crammed it into his mouth.

Smiff scuttled over and guzzled with him. Soon they were licking the papers clean and searching for more. The two rats belched contentedly. Their whiskers were matted down with grease and their claws glistened slimily. Kelly picked his fangs and stared into the darkness of the tunnel. He saw something move and he elbowed Smiff who stiffened immediately.

‘Who’s there?’ he snapped. ‘Come ’ere! Or shall I come an’ get yer?’ As he said this he raised his claws and their savage points shone menacingly.

‘No, no,’ wailed a pitiful voice. ‘I’m a comin’!’

Barker, the old scrawny rat, trotted dutifully into the light. There were terrible bruises on his head and several painful-looking lumps about his temples. Kelly sneered when he saw who it was and coughed up a blob of spit.

Smiff grinned and beckoned to the old rat. As Barker clambered onto the platform Smiff winked at Kelly and quickly wrapped something up in the chip papers.

‘What you doin’ lads?’ Barker asked curiously as he eyed the bundle. He could smell the delicious aroma of cold, vinegary fat. Barker drooled and rubbed his groaning belly.

‘We been ’avin a feast, Barker mate, but there’s only a fishcake left – ain’t there Kelly?’

The fat rat chuckled and nodded his great head. Barker swallowed and gazed longingly down. Tears welled up in the old rat’s eyes. ‘I’ve ’ad nowt since yesterday an’ that weren’t much. Me belly’s flappin’ like an old sock. I’m real weak.’ He wrung his claws together and said, softly, ‘I’m right partial to fishcake an’ all.’

Smiff snorted, ‘We ain’t gonna give you our luvverly grub you old fool – not unless you got summat to swap.’

‘I got nowt,’ Barker admitted unhappily.

‘Then clear off!’ snarled Kelly.

Barker threw one last glance at the tantalizing bundle and shuffled miserably down the platform. The other two rats watched him go with smirks on their faces.

The unhappy, retreating figure paused near an untidy pile of rubbish and bent down. Smiff and Kelly frowned and strained their eyes to see what was happening.

‘He’s found summat,’ muttered Kelly sourly.

Barker was overjoyed. He clapped his claws together and rubbed his eyes in disbelief. There at his feet, amongst the colourful wrappers, was nearly a whole bar of chocolate, the kind with raisins and hazelnuts. Barker could not believe his luck and he cooed excitedly. He picked it up and Smiff’s voice roared next to him.

‘What you got there, Barker mate?’ The old rat jumped and held the chocolate tightly to his chest. ‘Nowt Smiffy,’ he replied timidly, ‘ain’t nuffin’ ’onest.’

‘Looks like chocklett to me,’ Smiff observed slobbering.

‘S’ only a grotty bit, trod on an’ spat at prob’ly,’ Barker whimpered glumly.

Smiff’s eyes gleamed lustily and Barker could see the chocolate bar reflected in them. ‘Don’t look too bad to me Barker, not bad at all.’

The old rat puffed and protested. ‘You can’t ’ave it, it’s mine, belongs to Barker, gimme as many ’ed lumps as you like but it’s mine.’

Smiff raised his claws to silence him. ‘Don’t worry, I’m not gonna thieve it. What do you think I am? I wouldn’t rob an old mate like you.’ He smiled and put his arm around Barker’s shoulders, ‘Us are pals aren’t we?’

Barker looked doubtful ‘Are we?’ he asked.

‘Course we are, course, and as a pal I don’t want to see you lose yer last toof –you’d get a shockin’ toof ache if you ate all that chocklett.’

Barker’s bottom lip trembled. ‘But Barker’s starvin’.’

‘Course you are, that’s why I thought we could do that trade I mentioned before. Wouldn’t you rather have a nice fish cake than all that sickly chockie?’

‘Fishcake?’ the old rat repeated uncertainly.

Smiff waved his claw before his face, ‘Yeah, a scrumschiss, sucklent fishcake. Imagine Barker – the crispy batter on the outside, all crunchy an’ greasy, an’ inside the soft mulsh of fish. Oh I can’t bear it,’ and he wiped invisible tears from his eyes.

A great bellow thundered from Barker’s stomach.

‘Ow,’ he moaned miserably.

Kelly appeared at a signal from Smiff carrying the bundle of chip papers. The fat rat ogled the chocolate with undisguised greed. The smell of the vinegary paper was too much for Barker and he yielded at once. ‘Take it, take it,’ he cried thrusting the bar into Smiff’s arms.

‘There’s ’andsome,’ grinned Smiff. ‘Now, give our pal the fishcake Kelly.’ The bundle was handed over but before Barker could open it Smiff held his claws and said, ‘Don’t forget Barker, Old Stumpy’s speakin’ to all of us later. You’d best be there if you value your head.’ With their mouths full of chocolate the two rats leapt off the platform and ran into the tunnel laughing.