The Deptford Mice 3: The Final Reckoning (8 page)

‘Lads,’ he shouted, ‘how pleased I be to see all yer pug ugly faces.’ The rats cheered and warmed to him immediately. Morgan stretched his arms open wide and began his speech.

‘You be here because of blood,’ he screamed. You have none! Where be the hot, burning blood of the ravenous rat? It don’t run in your veins – I should know, I comes from Deptford.’ The crowd murmured admiringly. Everyone had heard of the rats of Deptford and how vicious they were. ‘When I come ’ere,’ Morgan continued, ‘I couldn’t believe me eyes. There you were, you miserable vermin, fawning and scraping – afraid of mice and yer own shadders! It made me honk I were so disgusted.’

He pointed to Smiff and Kelly and a few other fierce-looking brutes. ‘See what can be done if’n you forget yer lily-livered ways and follow me. Turn to the path of Tooth an’ Claw. Let blood flow in the Underground.’

The crowd began to buzz. Some of the rats nodded eagerly and opened their slavering jaws. Morgan danced round the platform whipping his audience into a frenzy.

‘Why should us stay away from the puny mouse halls? What right have they got to the best pickin’s? Rats are strong – we are mighty. Our teeth bite an’ tear, we ’ave claws to slash and split open. Hear me you rats, have yer never ’ad the blood craze? Have yer eyeballs never burned with hate for everything save yerselves? Have yer never slaughtered and gorged on blood?’

The rats became possessed as Morgan’s hate and hunger consumed them like a raging fire. They waved their claws in the air, slashing furiously like tigers. Those near the platform banged their fists on it passionately.

Morgan grinned. It was all going according to his plans. Now he would rule an army of rats – just what he had always wanted. His beady red eyes flicked over his followers and he nodded with satisfaction. Suddenly a voice shouted from the far corner and all turned to see who it was.

A scabby-faced black rat was trying to make himself heard above the din. ‘Hang on, hang on,’ he cried. ‘What do we wanna listen to ’im fer? We’re ’appy enough ain’t we? So what if the mouseys call us names an’ ‘ave first claim to all the grub –I prefer the stuff they don’t want. We ain’t no killers. You should go back to Deptford where you belong instead of stirrin’ up trouble ’ere.’

The crowd looked at Morgan expectantly but he merely smiled, ‘Come forward friend,’ he said disarmingly. ‘Come up here where I can see you proper. I should like to talk with you.’ His stubby tail thumped impatiently on the platform.

The scabby rat pushed through the crowd and was lifted up next to Morgan.

‘Tell me,’ said the piebald rat smarmily, ‘what be it about me that offends you so?’

The rat shrugged, ‘Tain’t personal – it’s just that I don’t think we should go round murderin’ anyfink just for the sake of it. Why can’t we just go on as we always ’ave?’

Morgan whirled round and grabbed him by the scruff of the neck. ‘This is what makes me sick!’ he cried to the audience. ‘Cowardly weakling scum, he be no rat, he don’t deserve to live!’ He threw the astonished rodent down, leapt into the air and lunged at him. With one swift slash of his powerful claws he tore out the other’s throat.

Piccadilly and Marty covered their eyes and felt sick.

The assembly was in confusion, not knowing whether to be angry or afraid.

‘That is what happens to the weak and spineless!’ boomed Morgan, kicking his victim off the platform. ‘Follow me and you shall drink sweeter blood – mouse is better by far. A mouse’s flesh is tender and juicy and when fried his ears are good enough to die for.’

The rats went wild. They tore the dead rat apart and tasted what they could get their claws on.

‘We go to war!’ screamed Morgan triumphantly. ‘Death to all mice.’

‘Death, death, death!’ echoed the assembly licking their lips and feeling the hatred burn behind their eyeballs. Morgan had done his work well.

Piccadilly and Marty held on to each other in shock. Marty was pale and shook all over. ‘What are we to do?’ he wept. ‘They’re going to eat us all.’

‘We must warn them in Holeborn, Marty,’ said Piccadilly.

They began to ease back out of the narrow pipe but in doing so Marty dislodged some loose rubble. It fell into the chamber and the torches spluttered.

Every bloodthirsty rat looked upwards and saw Piccadilly’s startled face.

‘MOUSE!’ they screeched at the top of their evil voices.

‘Get him,’ commanded Morgan, ‘he’ll warn the others.’

The rats began to scramble up the wall towards the broken pipe. Piccadilly ducked out of sight but knew it was too late. He could hear their curses and their claws scrabbling against the bricks. Wildly he turned to Marty. ‘They haven’t seen you yet,’ you’ve got to get out and warn everyone at Holeborn. I’ll keep them busy here.’

‘I won’t leave you, Piccadilly,’ squealed Marty.

‘You must, but promise me you’ll take the longer route to the East Way. The rats are sure to be watching the main entrance to Holeborn.’

‘I promise,’ said Marty and he gave his hero a final hug. ‘Green save us,’ he prayed.

Piccadilly pushed him away. ‘Hurry up!’ Marty slithered down the pipe and was gone. ‘Green save us indeed,’ Piccadilly shook his head, ‘I don’t believe in no Green Mouse. Trust in yourself lad that’s how you’ve managed before. I’ll give those rats a run for their supper.’

He took hold of his little knife and stuck his head out of the pipe once more. The walls were smothered in heaving bodies, each trying to be the first to catch him.

‘Oi, dung for brains!’ Piccadilly yelled to them, ‘Here I am – what are you waiting for?’

On the platform Morgan recognized the city’ mouse and his temper flared. ‘Kill, kill, kill!’ he stormed.

Piccadilly hurled rocks down at the oncoming rats. He hit one right between the eyes and it dropped to the ground stone dead. But there were too many of them and Piccadilly was running out of missiles. When they were within range he lashed out with his knife, claws splintered and flew but the mouse could not keep it up, his arm ached and he decided it was time to leave.

‘Marty should be clear of the ratlands by now,’ he thought, so with one final chop that lopped off a huge spotty ear, he darted down the pipe and into the tunnel.

‘Where’s ‘e gone?’ wailed the rats in dismay.

‘He’s escaping down the tunnel you fools,’ screamed Morgan impatiently. The curtain was tom down and the rat army trampled over it.

‘There he is,’ they cried, ‘get ’im.’

Piccadilly charged as fast as he could; He raced down the tunnel like a bullet. The stones cut his feet but he did not care – the rats were directly behind and that was all that mattered. He shot through the slimy passages and out into the Underground, leaping over the track and not daring to look back.

The harsh cries of the rats rang in his burning ears as they hunted him. Piccadilly saw an arch of light ahead; he was coming to a station. He could lose them there if only he could make it. With his heart pounding desperately he raced nearer. Then he made his mistake.

He glanced over his shoulder and saw thousands of flaming eyes pursuing him –he was doomed. There was no way he could escape them. But he could not stop running. A sharp stab of pain seared through his foot as it struck the rail and twisted awkwardly. Piccadilly howled, lost his balance and fell headlong onto one of the concrete sleepers. His head struck the corner with a mighty ‘crack’ and he rolled unconscious beneath the track. A suffocating blackness engulfed him and he knew no more.

Thomas Triton stirred in his sleep and dreamed deeply. Silver armoured fish flashed over his bed, and splashed into the wooden wall whilst his forehead rippled and rolled. Green waving weeds spilled over the blankets and salty bubbles blew up through the pillows. Seagulls cried down to him as he drifted through the night on his raft of bedclothes. They wheeled and circled high above, their voices becoming faint and mournful.

Out onto the ocean of the dark the midshipmouse sailed, his white whiskers spread out into foamy waves, frothing and curling in the bedraft’s wake. Shadowy faces shimmered out of the black water, faces from the eddies of Triton’s past when he was young and the spray was still fresh on his cheeks.

‘Woodget,’ he called out in his slumber, grasping the empty air with tormented paws.

Like the Sirens of old, the haunting faces lured the sleeping Thomas to them. The sea tilted, swelling and churning as the rain battered down from the ceiling sky. Amid the woodgrain clouds another face loomed over him, a squint-eyed, evil phantom, riding on a serpent’s scaly back and laughing with the tempest’s fury.

‘No, no!’ beseeched the midshipmouse, grappling with the bedsheet sails that flapped in tatters and ripped out of his fingers.

The storm ravaged down and the bed spun. Drenched by the thundering waves Thomas clung to the pillows wretchedly. Pale, spiny fish with luminous eyes rose from the depths to snap at his tail as the gale trumpeted in his ears. A huge, white crested wave smashed down on him and the bed foundered.

‘Help, help,’ he spluttered, struggling to keep afloat. He gulped the air as the sea dragged him under and closed over his head. The mouse plunged into the cold dark whence none return.

Thomas fell from his bunk and hit the floor. With a grunt of alarm he woke up. The blankets were on top of him and for a moment he thought he was still dreaming. He rubbed his head dopily and blinked.

‘You daft old fool Tom,’ he sighed, shaking himself. But the terror of his nightmare was still with him and there were salty tears in his eyes. The midshipmouse got slowly to his feet but decided not to get back into bed. He crossed his small room and lit a candle. The inside of his figurehead glowed warmly but Thomas was troubled. With a pinch of tobacco he sat down and began filling his pipe.

A low rumble vibrated through the Cutty Sark and Thomas scowled; there was a real storm passing outside. He drew on his pipe and reflected. The thunder rolled outside and then faded away.

‘Bad night,’ shivered Thomas, blowing blue smoke from the corner of his mouth. ‘Glad I’m battened under the hatches safe an’ sound.’ Yet he felt as if he wasn’t safe. Trouble was brewing somewhere – his whiskers were twitching and that was always a bad sign.

‘Tain’t no use,’ he muttered, putting his pipe down, ‘you’re no good to anyone like this, Tom. If you can’t sleep you might as well take a look at the weather.’ He pulled on his hat and tied a red kerchief round his neck. He did not admit to himself that he did not want to go back to sleep again and was just finding an excuse for not doing so.

In its dry dock the Cutty Sark rested uneasily on her steel skewers. Thomas Triton stepped onto the deck and walked over to the rail, from where he surveyed the wintry world.

The night was cold and the stars shone brightly in the clear sky. The river was calm and its voice whispered softly against the jetties. Far to the left the old power station at Deptford Green was wreathed in a grey mist. It hung about the old, empty building curiously, shrouding the blank windows and melting away at the water’s edge. The one tall chimney stuck out of the mysterious cloud like a long, white periscope. It held Thomas’s attention.

‘First there was thunder,’ he observed slowly, ‘when the sky’s as dear as day, an’ now there’s a fog lingerin’ yonder. Summat’s afoot I’ll wager . . .’ and he chewed his bottom lip thoughtfully.

The air grew cold and a bitter blast blew from up river. The icy wind hurt Thomas’s lungs as he breathed. It was unnatural. He shivered and decided to return below decks where he could consider the problem in comfort.

‘A tot o’ rum’s what you need matey,’ he told himself as he descended the hold steps. He made his way to his figurehead, a white-painted girl wearing a turban of gold.

‘Hello Princess,’ he said, patting the wooden folds of her dress, ‘did you miss me?’ Thomas passed through the hole into his quarters.

The small candle was still burning merrily. Thomas poured some rum from a flask into a bowl and sat on his bunk. He took a sip and swilled it round his tongue. The liquid warmed him all the way down to the tip of his tail and he wiggled his toes with pleasure. The sight of the power station wrapped in mist puzzled him; he could not remember seeing anything quite like it in all the years he had been at sea. Still, he had forgotten his nightmare, and before he could take another drink the midshipmouse yawned loudly. He took off his hat and kerchief, extinguished the candle then clambered into bed. The delicious tendrils of sleep crept up and closed his eyes. Thomas nodded and began to snore.

TAP!

The midshipmouse rolled over and ignored the sharp sound.

TAP!

He pulled the pillow over his ears.

TAP
!

Thomas sat up crossly. There it was again, an annoying knocking on the hull of the ship.

‘What in thunderation is going on?’ he fumed. ‘Can’t a mouse get any kip?’ He threw off the bedclothes, pulled on his woollen hat and stormed out of the figurehead.

‘I’ll teach whoever it is not to go welkin’ a fellow up in the middle of the night like this. For mercy’s sake will they never cease that racket?’ He strode onto the deck once more, only this time his face was angry and his bushy brows bristled sternly.

TAP!

Thomas flew in the direction of the sound. He stared over the side of the ship and peered at the concrete floor below. What he saw made him stutter with a mixture of confusion, anger and wonder. For there, cowering in the shadows, was a timid squirrel meekly throwing stones against the ship. ‘What in Davey Jones are you doin’ lad?’ barked Thomas.

The squirrel squealed in surprise and with a flash of his tail disappeared behind a railing and into some bushes. The midshipmouse sighed and drummed his fingers impatiently – squirrels were always jittery. He wondered why one should have come from the park to get him out of bed.

A frightened face appeared through the leaves. ‘Mr Triton,’ it ventured in a low whimper, ‘is that you?’

Thomas muttered under his breath, ‘Course it’s me you stupid Nelly!’ but he called out, ‘Aye, it’s Triton. Come out of them bushes – you’re in no danger here.’

The squirrel stole into the light and crept over the concrete. He looked up at the towering black shape of the Cutty Sark and fluttered his paws. Shaking fearfully all over he said, ‘You must come . . . I . . . She wants . . . We, oh dear this has never . . . It’s so dreadful – oh, oh . . .’ he began to cry dismally.