The Deptford Mice 1: The Dark Portal (16 page)

Further in they strode. ‘I can see an opening in the side up ahead,’ said Oswald, his sharp pink eyes scanning the area in front of them. ‘Shall we take a look?’

When they reached the hole Piccadilly sniffed it to check.

‘You know,’ he said thinking aloud, ‘I don’t think this passage is used by the rats very much – if at all. I just get the feeling that no one knows about this place.’

‘What about this opening?’ asked Oswald. ‘Do we try it? How does it smell?’

‘It’s odd.’ Piccadilly breathed in deeply, filling his nostrils with the air of the hole. He tried to explain it to his friend. ‘Well it’s sort of musty – very dry, salty even, I’d say.’

‘Ought we to go in then?’ Oswald asked doubtfully.

Piccadilly frowned. ‘It whiffs strange. What does it remind me of?’

‘Maybe it’s the sea,’ suggested Oswald. ‘Master Oldnose says that smells salty – only I can’t remember why.’

‘The sea’s not round here,’ scoffed Piccadilly. ‘Nearest we’ve got’s the river an’ I don’t think that’s salty. No, I was thinkin’ more of . . . yes that’s it. Once, when I was in the city I found some of those cringin’ rats with a salted fish. Don’t know where it came from. It were all dried and brittle – they didn’t know what it was. They’d licked it and were gaspin’ for water. I gave ’em a good bit of chat special for the occasion.’ He laughed at the memory of it.

‘I don’t understand,’ said Oswald. ‘What’s salted fish doing down here?’

‘I only said it smelled like it. Perhaps we’ve stumbled across someone’s secret larder. It was a joke, but Piccadilly did not realise how right he was.

Oswald shivered. ‘I hope not. They won’t like it, whoever it is, if they know we’ve been there.’

‘I suppose it must be nasty stuff if it’s in the sewers,’ Piccadilly said slowly. ‘Rat hoard, most like.’ He gave Oswald a quick, mischievous look.

‘Fancy a butchers?’

‘No! I don’t want to see dried rat food. It might be anything. No, I’ll stay here and keep watch.’

So Piccadilly cautiously passed through the opening. There was a narrow passage beyond which abruptly opened out into a small chamber, the walls of which were very rough. It had been dug out with claws and teeth. The room was small and it was filled with all sorts of rat booty. Some chocolate biscuits were still in their wrappers; a bag of sticky, fluff-covered boiled sweets lay on the floor; there was a large bundle of dark sacking or cloth in one corner; several bundles of knotted, tangled string; a tall jar with a few shrivelled lumps in it; and a squashy tomato that was gradually acquiring a green fur coat.

Piccadilly looked distastefully at the bizarre collection. The things rats collected: it was peculiar to say the least.

A movement behind made him swing round suddenly.

‘It’s only me,’ said Oswald. ‘I didn’t like it out there on my own. Gosh, look at all this crazy stuff!’ He gazed around with interest and repulsion. ‘It’s perfectly horrid. Oh yuk!’ He looked down at his foot. ‘I’ve trodden in something sticky – those sweets have oozed over the floor.’ Oswald hopped about as he examined his tacky foot.

‘There’s some cloth or sacking over there,’ giggled Piccadilly. ‘I’ll get it for you to wipe that off.’ He clambered over the biscuits, avoiding the mouldering tomato.

Oswald leaned against the wall. ‘I suppose it could be worse,’ he said. ‘I might have stepped in that tomato thing. Oh it’s disgusting! Is that what was making that funny smell you were talking about? Shouldn’t be at all surprised. Have you found that cloth yet? Fancy us being in a rat’s larder, makes me shudder. Piccadilly?’

The grey mouse was standing stock-still and staring at the crumpled dark material in his paws. Oswald became concerned. It wasn’t like Piccadilly to be so quiet. ‘What is it?’ A hint of fear crept into his voice: there was something about his friend that made him uneasy. ‘Don’t tease.’

‘Oswald,’ Piccadilly muttered thickly. ‘Come see.’

The white mouse forgot all about the sticky substance on his foot and hurried over to see what the other had found. Piccadilly turned a drained, shocked face to him. His eyes were wet and his lashes blinked the tears away.

Not knowing what to expect, Oswald fearfully looked down at what Piccadilly was holding.

It was not cloth or sacking as Piccadilly had first thought it was a mouse’s skin. It had been a brown mouse with a splash of white on the breast; the ears were missing and Oswald felt sick as he recalled the rats’ passion for them fried and crispy. His bottom lip trembled – what a horrible thing it was! There were holes where the eyes had been and the paws and feet had been chewed off. It was a macabre trophy. Oswald began to weep. ‘There was a mouse,’ he stammered through his tears, ‘who disappeared when I was young. He lived on the landing and he . . . they . . . they used to call him Bib because of a white patch on his chest.’ His voice broke up chokingly.

‘There’s more over there,’ said Piccadilly quietly. ‘Mostly greys like me and from the size of two of them, rats as well.’

Oswald shook his head in disbelief. ‘They even do it to themselves? What sort of creatures are they?’

‘The creatures of Jupiter,’ replied Piccadilly coldly. ‘Sshh!’ he hissed suddenly. ‘There’s someone coming.’

Oswald’s tear-stained face broke into a despairing picture of misery. His lips wobbled with the wail that was about to surface.

Piccadilly grabbed his scarf and shook him angrily. ‘Look!’ he said sternly. ‘If you don’t want to end up like good old Bib in here you’d best come and hide with me, and not a sound, right?’

‘But where? There isn’t a place to hide in here,’ Oswald gibbered.

‘In there!’ Piccadilly pointed at the bundle of dried mouse skins. He dragged his horrified friend towards them. Morgan came tramping in. A sack was on his back. ‘Ach,’ he cursed. ‘What now? Why all the way up there?’ Morgan looked around the room. This was his own special place; somewhere to think out his dark schemes; somewhere to hide his treasures, creamed off the offerings made by the lads to Jupiter; somewhere for his bitterness to fester. It was a secret – nobody came here.

Morgan dumped the sack on the floor and plonked himself down next to it. He had just been ordered by His Majestic Darkness to go to Blackheath and this sack had been waiting on the altar for him to take along. Things were changing and Morgan didn’t like it. His Lord was planning something and he couldn’t figure out what it was.

Morgan stretched out a claw and dipped it into the putrid tomato. He scooped up a dripping lump, mould and all, then sucked his claw clean.

‘Mmm,’ he grunted contentedly. This was a good place – a private realm of his own where everything belonged to him. He had only popped in for a moment though – just to think by himself with no fiery eyes watching him. What was he going to Blackheath for? He wondered what was in the sack.

Morgan twirled something in his claws. One of Jake’s party had returned, drenched and bedraggled. Apparently the water that had gushed from the pipe had drowned most of the rats that were pursuing Piccadilly and Oswald. The survivors then involved themselves in blame-laying, and fighting ensued. Only one young rat had returned to the altar chamber to tell the tale and bring this odd thing with him. Morgan threw it up into the air and caught it again – it was the divining rod!

He cackled. Jake was going to get it in the neck from His Highness for letting that grey escape – he couldn’t last long.

Morgan looked doubtfully at the sack again. He was suspicious of that round, heavy lump in there.

He licked his teeth and, cast his eyes on the rest of his bounty. His gaze rested on the fluffy sticky sweets. He grasped one and flicked it into his waiting jaws. The sweet squelched and stuck between his teeth, clinging in gluey lumps. Morgan picked at them with his sharp claws amidst appreciative sucking noises.

Under the pile of mouse skins Piccadilly and Oswald huddled together, hardly daring to breathe. It was the skins that reeked of salt. It had been rubbed well into the newly peeled flesh to preserve them. So dense was it that when Piccadilly moistened his, lips he could taste the salty tang. Oswald had closed his eyes. The thought of their situation was too horrible for him. Here he was wrapped in dead mouse flesh. It was, a chilling, gruesome thing; the pawless arms dangled around and touched him so softly that it was like being tickled by the dead and caressed by ghosts. At this thought Oswald nearly jumped out of the skins and shouted, ‘I’m here! Eat me. I’m here.’ Anything to be out of them! It said much of Oswald’s courage that he did not do this, but the hairs on his neck were tingling and standing on end.

Piccadilly peered out from the mound of the dead. In the deep shadows his eyes twinkled. He saw Morgan and recognised him from the altar chamber. This was the rat who had caught Albert, and here he was feeding his ugly face and sucking his yellow teeth. Piccadilly’s jaw tightened. He knew that he would feel no remorse if he killed Morgan – the murderer! In fact the city mouse had no doubt that he would actually enjoy it.

Unaware of the hidden mice, Morgan decided it was time to go. He dared not linger; Jupiter had ordered and he must obey. The rat swung the sack on to his back, mouthing obscenities at the humiliation of manual labour.

With one last sigh as he glanced around his secret place, Morgan lumbered out, dragging his stumpy tail behind him.

The mice remained where they were in case Morgan should return unexpectedly. They stayed there, crouched amongst the dry skins which crackled like parchment, and waited. Oswald was terrified but Piccadilly was lost in his own thoughts.

It was Oswald who eventually forced them out of hiding. A cramp in his legs suddenly became too much to bear and he shot out of the skins, limping and stamping for all he was worth.

Piccadilly let the furry scraps fall about him. His face was stern and he resolved to kill Morgan – one day that piebald Cornish rat would be his. He promised himself that.

Oswald collected himself. The pins and needles were going now. ‘I’m glad he’s gone, whoever he was,’ he puffed.

Piccadilly stepped out of the skins. ‘That was Morgan,’ he stated flatly. ‘He gave Albert to Jupiter.’

‘Oh,’ Oswald said meekly. ‘Poor Mr Brown.’ He glanced back at the skins pathetically crumpled on the floor. Oswald felt terrible for disturbing them and he knew that he would be haunted by nightmares for years to come. ‘What shall we do about them?’ he asked.

‘There’s nothing we can do.’

‘Well, we might pray.’

Piccadilly baulked at that. ‘Who to? Your precious Green Mouse? Don’t bother! I don’t want to hear it. Believe all the stories you like, Oswald. Praying to a phoney myth won’t bring them back!’

Oswald returned to the untidy pile and folded them neatly and reverently.

‘No, you’re right there,’ he said softly, ‘but it may make their rest easier – wherever they are now.’ Oswald bowed his head and clasped his paws together. Piccadilly turned away. He did not want to hear Oswald’s prayer, but the gentle murmuring words came to him and in, spite of himself, the cynical city mouse felt a lump in his throat.’

He shuffled his feet and waited.

Oswald completed his prayer and raised his head. ‘I feel better for that,’ he said mildly. ‘I hope they do.’ He blinked, then stared past Piccadilly.

‘Look!’ he cried and ran to where Morgan had been sitting. The rat had left the divining rod behind. Oswald snatched it up, and flourished it proudly. ‘See,’ he bubbled excitedly, ‘I knew the Green Mouse wouldn’t desert us.’

‘Don’t be daft, Oswald. Morgan, not the Green Mouse, brought that.’ Piccadilly shook his head.

‘Well, it’s still here,’ Oswald muttered. He did not want to argue. ‘Shall we still try to find Audrey’s brass?’

‘I suppose so – it’s a shame to go back to the Skirtings empty-handed now.’

Oswald was already holding out the rod, waiting and concentrating. It jerked and jumped wildly. ‘It must be very close. Look at it!’

Piccadilly cast one last glance over the neatly arranged skins. Oswald had even folded the rat furs. They had all been victims of a horrible death and the white mouse had supposed that that united them in some way, and cancelled out whatever wickedness those rats had done in their lifetimes.

Oswald was jumping impatiently now. ‘Piccadilly, come on! We can find it and get out of here at last.’ He ran out of the chamber.

Piccadilly followed him from Morgan’s secret place, but in the tunnel Oswald was already a distance away, running for all he was worth.

‘Oh no!’ Piccadilly cried. A madness seemed to have gripped Oswald. The grey mouse ran after him.

Oswald hurtled along, stumbling and tripping in his usual ungainly manner. He paid no attention to the pain of his toes as they struck sharp stones or skidded in the puddles. His mind was full of Audrey’s mousebrass and the divining rod pulled him to it. He had no control over it now. It was all he could do to keep hold of it – how it tugged and wrestled to be free.

‘Not long now,’ he thought. ‘Then we can go home and Mother can scold me all she likes. I shan’t care.’

He did not see the passages he ran down or hear Piccadilly’s voice calling to him some distance behind. Oswald continued to run blindly on.

Piccadilly panted – he was surprised at how fast Oswald could run. It was as if all the rats in creation were snapping at his heels. He only caught glimpses of his friend far ahead. He was afraid he would not be able to catch up. Piccadilly was uneasy; he did not know where they were going but he felt it was dangerous – running like a stupid rabbit headlong into peril. If there was a Green Mouse, Piccadilly wished He would do something to help.

Oswald splashed across a murky pool, disturbing the oily scum on its surface. Then he slipped and fell. He cracked his jaw on the hard bricks but did not flinch at the blood which trickled down where a chunk of fur had been scraped out.

The divining rod had been knocked out of his paws and it danced and clattered on the ledge like a thing possessed. Oswald chased it, cornering the magic twitching thing as though it were alive, then he swept it up and set off once more.

It was enough of a delay, however, for Piccadilly to catch up. He tried to clutch at one of the ends of Oswald’s scarf which was streaming behind him.

But still Oswald ran. He had forgotten about the city mouse, only the mousebrass mattered now. He did not feel his heart thumping madly in his chest or hear his own difficult breathing wheezing in the echoing tunnel.

A piece of rag was stretched across the path, obscuring the way ahead. Oswald did not see it and crashed through regardless.

Piccadilly saw the dirty cloth and a twinge of wariness clutched suddenly at his stomach. He had to follow Oswald though, and he pushed the rag aside and ran on.

They seemed to be in a large chamber, littered with sacks; large bundles on the floor, hanging off ledges, piled in corners. Oswald was in the centre stooping. Piccadilly caught up with him, nimbly hopping over the bundles.