The Deptford Mice 3: The Final Reckoning (20 page)

Amid the churning, half-drowning mob, Smiff and Kelly glowered. ‘I’ve ’ad it wi’ that lousy mongrel!’ Smiff ranted and he swam ashore. His fur was matted with icicles and frost but he paid it no heed – there were other things on his mind. Kelly waded up after him, shivering despite his bulk and whistling through his chattering teeth.

Morgan saw them approach and sniggered at the sight. ‘Look what the cat’s dragged in,’ he cackled. Neither of the rats smiled. Their faces were grim and menacing.

Morgan eyed them with suspicion; they were planning something. ‘What’s got into yer scurvy heads?’ he barked, playing for time.

‘You ain’t no boss,’ hissed Smiff, ‘you’re just some jumped up little nasty what don’t know when he’s well off.’

Morgan’s eyes flicked sideways. The rest of his army were shaking themselves out of the water a second time and would soon be here. ‘What’s this mutinous talk Smiffy lad? Ain’t I led you to good pickin’s?’

‘Maybe,’ replied Smiff grudgingly, ‘but we don’t I like what’s goin’ on now. Where’s all these squeakers you said Deptford was full of? And why is it so perishin’ cold round ‘ere? You tryin’ to get rid of us or wot? There’s summat not right about you now Stumpy. Yer not the same as before -you got a crazy look in yer gogglin’ eyes. I don’t trust yer no more.’

‘That’s right boy,’ growled Morgan. ‘I ’ave got summat up my sleeve and rest assured you’ll be the first one to get it when the time comes and then all my gallant lads will know what it’s like to serve a true master.’

Smiff gaped as his low cunning grasped Morgan’s words. ‘Then the stories were true you pox sucker! You’ve brought us ’ere to grovel before Him!’

Morgan cackled triumphantly.

‘Kill ’im’ rumbled Kelly, sucking his fangs.

Smiff leapt forward and pounced on top of Morgan, knocking him backwards and clamping his hands around his throat.

‘Rip ’is head off,’ urged Kelly tittering into his claws.

The breath rattled in Morgan’s throat as his teeth snapped at Smiff’s arm and tore a chunk out. Smiff squeaked and released his stranglehold. Seizing his chance, Morgan kicked him off his chest. He glanced round. The other rats were coming ashore now and he raised his voice for them to hear. ‘Like to see yerself as leader would ya Smiff?’ he shouted, winding the other with a terrific thump to the stomach.

Smiff crumpled up and gagged. ‘I’d be a better one ’an you!’ he coughed. The army gathered behind him but he was unaware of them, all his consuming hatred was focused on Old Stumpy. The other rats looked at him and their leader curiously, wondering what was happening.

Morgan smirked. This would be easy. ‘Tell me again,’ he gurgled, ‘repeat what you just said, as how you an’ Kelly there would kill me an’ make the lads do as they was told, nicking the best pickin’s fer yer own greedy guts an’ makin’ ’em do yer dirty work.’

Smiff straightened and stared at Morgan as though he had gone mad. ‘I never . . .’ he began, but Kelly tapped him on the shoulder and he whipped round to see the hundreds of steaming rats champing furiously at him. ‘No,’ he protested innocently, ‘don’t you see he’s connin’ yer? This is just . . .’

But they did not let him finish. Morgan had cleverly let them overhear Smiff’s desire to be leader and that was enough for them. With a mad yell they dived forward and fell on Smiff and Kelly. Morgan stepped back and let his loyal, misguided followers deal with the mutineers. A slow grin spread over his face as he listened gleefully to the racket.

Smiff screamed as the army clawed and hacked at him. Kelly put up a good fight, charging through them as far as he could until a knife flashed out and stuck in his neck. Screeching, he crashed to the snowy ground, squashing the life out of one who could not get out of the way. The skirmish did not last long; a spear was soon raised and brandished aloft to the wicked cheers of all. Mounted on it was Smiff’s head.

‘Well done lads,’ cried Morgan, ‘well done. That’s put paid to those lousy scum. Now where’s Vinny?’ The small rat came scurrying out of the jubilant crowd and took up the standard. ‘To glory and war!’ Morgan shouted. ‘Follow me!’

The army waved their claws in the air and cheered. The fight with Smiff and Kelly had got their circulation going again and the taste of delicious, burning blood on their tongues made them forget the cold altogether. ‘War,’ they echoed in a frenzy.

Morgan scampered up the shore, trudging through the deep snow that lay along the sloping jetty. Behind him came his army – wild-eyed and gnashing, eager for murder with death dripping from their claws. Smiff’s head waved above their ears and they tramped Kelly’s blood into the snow till it was a mire of pink slush.

* * *

‘Barker tired, his arms drop off,’ whinged the unhappy rat.

Piccadilly sighed wearily. His companion had not stopped moaning since they had set off. Their little red boat sailed round the old docks and the shores of Deptford came in sight. ‘At last,’ the city mouse said, relieved. ‘Look Barker we’re nearly there now. That’s Deptford and I think that hill beyond is Greenwich, yes, that must be the observatory, do you see?’ He was getting excited now that he was nearing the home of his friends. He wondered how Oswald was doing in this weather. He’d surely have another cold and Arthur would probably be having snowball fights in the yard and coming off worse as usual. Piccadilly did not stop to think of Audrey. He had decided to let that situation take its own course.

Barker paddled miserably. He had lowered his face when Greenwich was mentioned. ‘Ain’t goin’ there,’ he muttered, ‘an’ mousey boy can’t make Barker.’

Piccadilly laughed. ‘Don’t worry, we don’t have to go that far, anywhere round here will do.

Presently the plastic bowl nudged the edge of the ice where Old Stumpy’s raft forlornly bobbed up and down. Piccadilly used his wooden spoon to keep his vessel steady. ‘We have to get out here,’ he told Barker. ‘Careful though or we’ll both be in the drink.’

Barker shivered at the prospect. ‘Poor Barker,’ he whimpered, staring at the sloshing water and the smooth, brittle ice.

Piccadilly leaned out of the bowl and signalled for the rat to do the same. Gingerly they put paw and claw on the tingling ice and pulled themselves slowly out. Without their weight, the empty bowl popped up and tumbled over, quickly filling with freezing water and sinking without trace.

Barker did not like the ice. He gave it a cautious lick to see what it tasted like and spat. ‘Yak yak yak!’ he gargled disgustedly.

Piccadilly struggled to his feet and balanced precariously on the slippery surface. After a few tentative steps he grinned and started to slide about as though he had done it all his life. ‘Get up,’ he said to the rat as he circled neatly round him.

‘Pah!’ snivelled Barker, watching the mouse show off. He flicked his knobbly tail and tried to stand. With a loud smack he fell down again and rubbed another lump that was rising on his head. The ice was as smooth as polished glass and try as he might the rat failed to stand up for long. Several attempts and countless bruises later he decided it would be best if he slid along on his belly, it was much safer that way. With a sweep of his claws he shoved off and the frozen river flashed under him. Piccadilly smiled as he skidded by the rat-sledge. Barker began to enjoy it and chuckled as he mastered the art, ‘Wheeeee!’ he sang, zooming over the ice at breakneck speed. Unfortunately he had given no thought to how he would stop and as the shore loomed up he realized his mistake. The rat shot off the river with a howl and ploughed straight into a snow drift.

Piccadilly skated to the shore. Barker was buried and his mournful voice spoke desolately out of the snow drift. ‘Wah, ohh,’ he cried self-pityingly. The grey mouse laughed and waited for him to emerge. ‘Poor Barker,’ mumbled the rat shaking the snow out of his ears, ‘poor old thing, always ’appens to ’im don’t it?’ But Piccadilly was not looking at him now. He had seen two dark shapes on the bank and was walking over to them.

Barker stumbled out of the snow and followed him curiously. The bodies of Smiff and Kelly were sprawled on the ground before them.

‘Ach,’ sniffed Barker coldly, ‘Kelly got his after all.’ He looked at the other, headless body and twisted round trying to see who it was. ‘Must be Smiffy,’ he decided, spitting on them. ‘No more lumps for Barker, he always reckoned he’d outlive ’em.’

Piccadilly felt nothing. He had no pity for the dead rats but he did not like Barker spitting on them. ‘Don’t,’ he scowled, ‘they’re gone now, let them rest in whatever peace is due to them. Wonder what they were fightin’ about though?’

Barker giggled, ‘They ain’t gonna find no peace where they’ve gone – Barker knows, hah hah.’ Piccadilly looked away and walked slowly to the jetty. When he was out of earshot Barker stooped down and whispered in Kelly’s ear, ‘Now you’ll pay. Your torment has only just begun! Tell Hobb I sent you.’ And he made a curious sign in the air over the body.

‘There are tracks over here,’ Piccadilly called out. He was studying the footprints made by Morgan’s army. The snow was already covering them and in another ten minutes they would have disappeared. ‘They went up there,’ he said, pointing up the jetty. ‘If I hurry I might be able to catch them up and see what they’re doing.’ The mouse took hold of Barker’s claw and shook it vigorously. ‘Thanks for helpin’ me get here chummy, but you don’t have to come with me now.’

The rat blinked and shook his head. ‘But what will Barker do without mousey boy? Don’t send him away now, he don’t know where he is – he’ll freeze an’ starve on his own. Let him come with nice mousey, please, yes?’

Piccadilly smiled. ‘Okay, you can come, just follow me and don’t make a sound.’ He ran up the jetty and with a secret, sly grin the rat scurried after.

The jetty joined a narrow lane lined on one side by a block of flats and on the other by a high brick wall. This was pitted with curious craters and pockmarks as though blasted by some spiteful force. The damaged wall held a door barred by cruel-looking railings but Piccadilly and Barker ducked under these and gazed at the power station before them.

It was a solid, square building of old brick, surrounded on three sides by overgrown waste ground which the snow had transformed into a vast white plain. Behind it glistened the frozen river. It was a forbidding, lonely place, feeling the full brunt of the wintry gales, and Piccadilly had to shake his head to dispel the disquiet and fear which seemed to flow out from it.

Barker scrutinized the building keenly. He pulled a sneering face and muttered to his companion, ‘Look mousey boy, ’tis the shape of a gigantic moggy done in brick.’

The city mouse half closed his eyes and agreed. There was something about the power station that resembled a crouching cat. The arches at the front were the teeth and claws and the small windows its eyes, with the chimney as the tail. He put his paw to his mouth and pondered – something strange was going on here, perhaps he ought to go straight to the Skirtings.

Barker saw his indecision and sucked his gums patiently. Then with a soft whisper said, ‘Tracks lead that way mousey boy, what we do?’

That seemed to make up Piccadilly’s mind: His first priority had to be Morgan, ‘We go in there,’ he answered firmly. Barker bowed and chuckled to himself.

* * *

The gale ravaged down, driving the snow into Morgan’s streaming eyes. An icicle hung from his earring and he held grimly on to the shining pendant around his neck. He leaned into the biting wind and waded through the heavy drift. Not far now, he told himself. He had led his army over the waste land and round the back of the power station where he knew there was an entrance.

His followers said little. It was enough to force their way through the howling blizzard without trying to make themselves heard. They bent low and pressed forward. The deep snow made their legs ache and they wished they had brought those mouse skins with them to wrap around their frozen ears. Vinny was blown to and fro as the storm snatched the standard and tried to tear it from his claws. Wailing and squealing the short rat staggered backwards, then sidewards as the banner madly flapped and flailed above his ugly head. He, like everyone else, was trying to guess why the boss was taking them to this forsaken place – and where were all the promised mice? Some of them began to suspect that maybe Smiff and Kelly had been right all along. The one carrying Smiff’s head glanced up at it apologetically. The beating snow that drove between them played tricks on him and the dead, ghastly face appeared to wink in a ‘told you so’ sort of way then stared accusingly down, its nose still running. With a yell, the fearful rat threw the trophy away and nibbled his claws nervously, waiting for something awful to happen.

Morgan waddled over to a low, broken window and squeezed himself inside. As he stared about him his ears were still ringing from the gale and he shook the snow from his shoulders.

Inside the power station was an impossibly huge chamber. Morgan’s panting breath was caught up and sent echoing round the wintry walls. Slanting shafts of light grubbed through the filthy upper windows but failed to illuminate the immense gloom. The derelict building was crusted in frost and savage spears of blue ice were suspended from the lofty ceiling, transforming it into an immense cavern of crystals. Morgan grinned. Truly this was an appropriate palace for his lord – a frozen cathedral of inverted, glassy spires, a fortress of cold, withering death. He peered into the glimmering distance to see if he could catch sight of his god but all was still and silent.

‘Let us in!’ bawled his army stamping outside the window. ‘We’re catchin’ our deaths out ’ere.’

Morgan tutted. That would never do – not after he had brought them all this way for his master’s pleasure. He stepped aside and let his army surge past. In poured the rag-bag, snowy bodies. They coughed and spluttered, shaking their claws and blowing clouds of steam from flaring nostrils – it seemed colder inside than out. Vinny swore as he tried to worm his way in. He cursed the standard as it got itself stuck in the window, and as those behind him raised their voices impatiently, the air turned even bluer. With a heave and a shove the pigmy rat shot through and went scooting across the floor with a squeak.

‘Welcome lads,’ cackled Morgan, herding them inside. ‘That’s right, get you in ’ere.’

When they had recovered from the gale outside, the shivering rats began to look about them. They whistled at the cruel beauty of the icicles and stared at the frost-blistered walls. ‘Wot’s all this then?’ they asked. ‘Where’s ’em whisker twitchas?’