The Deptford Mice 3: The Final Reckoning (7 page)

Barker tore open the greasy paper then blinked. The slow realization that he had been tricked dawned on him. For there was no fishcake within – only an oval, grey stone. The old rat collapsed in a woeful heap. He thought of the chocolate that had been his and threw back his head letting out a tremendous bitter howl of anguish and despair.

* * *

‘What’s that?’ Marty clutched Piccadilly’s arm in fright as the terrible wail rang through the deserted Underground like a pronouncement of doom. Piccadilly shivered. It was a sound of misery and hopelessness. The pain and resentment in the tortured voice cut into his heart and left him breathless. ‘I don’t know what it is Marty,’ he admitted, ‘but we’re going to find out.’

The two mice followed the sound of the dreadful wailing. Piccadilly went first with his little knife clutched tightly in his paw, ready for anything. Marty pattered behind him, his eyes wide with fear and excitement. He had never done anything like this before and all his senses were alive with tingling thrills. He wondered what lay ahead. Would he see great dangers and have fierce battles? Marty hoped that he would be brave whatever happened – he did not want to disgrace himself in front of his hero Piccadilly. They came to a turning; the source of the noise was just around this corner. Piccadilly tightened the grip on his knife and peered round. Marty held his breath anxiously but was surprised to see his friend relax and chuckle.

‘What is it?’ he hissed.

‘Nothing to worry about,’ replied Piccadilly disappearing round the corner.

Barker’s tears had dried up and now his wailing had deteriorated to a rasping whine. His body was slumped over the torn chip papers, he was exhausted and his bony chest ached from sobbing. Through sore, red eyes he stared at the oval stone and mournfully licked his solitary tooth.

‘Poor Barker,’ he croaked hoarsely, ‘he never gets nowt – only lumps. Lumps on ’is ’ed
an’ lumps o’ stone to eat. Poor Barker.’ Slowly his knobbly tail began to tap the platform as a thought came to him. ‘But one day, one day Barker’ll show ’em won’t he? He’ll learn ’em an’ they’ll all be sorry. If only they knew . . .’ he sniggered harshly in a voice that was not quite his own. He did not notice Piccadilly creep up behind him.

‘Wotcha Barker old chum!’ shouted the mouse.

The rat squealed and buried himself under the chip papers where he trembled and dithered.

‘It’s all right, it’s only me!’ Piccadilly tried to reassure him. A bleary eye peeped cautiously out from the greasy bundle.

‘Mousey boy,’ said the rat. ‘That you? You on yer lonesome?’

‘No, I’ve brought a friend of mine to see you. Come out Marty.’

With a rustle the papers shuffled backwards apprehensively as the small figure of Marty came onto the platform. The young cadet eyed the shaking pile nervously.

‘This is Marty,’ announced Piccadilly.

Barker’s head rose above the chip papers and his whiskers quivered. The rat scrutinized Marty with suspicion and frowned as he smacked his gums. He stepped from his cover and walked slowly over to the cadet. Marty looked helplessly at Piccadilly but the older mouse made a sign telling him to stay still.

Barker sniffed the air about Marty and paced all round him.

’He’s a friend,’ said Piccadilly.

The rat scratched his ears. ‘So you says mousey boy, so you says, but Barker don’t like him. This whelp has freak mark branded on his spine.’ He pointed to the lightning pattern on Marty’s back. ‘He’ll let you down one day mousey boy, Barker knows. Don’t trust him with anything important he’ll go his own way and bring ruin on all, especially himself.’

Marty opened his mouth in protest but Piccadilly was smiling and told Barker to be quiet. ‘I’ve come here to see you,’ he said.

The rat blinked and forgot his concern about Marty. ‘You come to see Barker mousey boy? What fer – he ain’t done owt wrong?’

‘I want to have a chat that’s all.’

Barker shook his head tetchily. ‘No chat, we no chatter chin wag,’ but then he remembered his hunger and looked at Piccadilly hopefully, ‘unless nice mousey boy has present for Barker – biscuit perhaps, yes, no?’

Piccadilly could have kicked himself for not, anticipating this. ‘Sorry Barker,’ he said, ‘I haven’t got anything with me.’

The rat pulled a disappointed face and snorted. ‘But if you tell me what I want to know,’ Piccadilly continued hurriedly, ‘I’ll give you’ enough biscuits to last a lifetime.’

But Barker was not impressed. ‘Barker want grub now, not next time or tomorrow –he say nowt!’ he folded his arms and shut his mouth resolutely.

‘Tell me about Old Stumpy you barmy old snot gobbler,’ said Piccadilly sharply. ‘What are his plans?’

Barker fell back dismayed. ‘No, Barker not spill beans – he want no more ’ed lumps, you keep away from Barker mousey boy. He knows nowt!’

Piccadilly rushed forward and caught hold of the rat’s shoulders. Barker flapped his arms wildly, trying to escape.

‘Last time you were going to tell me who Old Stumpy was,’ cried Piccadilly angrily, ‘why can’t you tell me now?’

Barker gasped and yammered, wriggling and twisting like a worm on a hook in his desperate efforts to escape. ‘We been told to say nuffin’ till He tells us to. There’s big secrets in dark places Barker not like them. Let him go mousey boy, Barker got to go now, mustn’t be late.’

‘You’re staying put until you tell me what I want to know.’

The rat was horrified and in a panic he screamed, ‘No, no! Barker must go, all must be there for the meet. He says all have to go or we get our throats cut.’ And with a tremendous burst of strength he broke free of the mouse’s grasp and leapt off the platform into the tunnel.

Marty ran over to Piccadilly who was tapping his feet in annoyance.

‘What was that all about?’ he asked staring after the crazy rat running along the rails. ‘What did he mean about meetings? I’ve never heard of them doing that before. He really is barmy.’

Piccadilly spun round and took hold of his friend’s paw urgently, ‘This is it!’ he exclaimed. ‘This is our chance to discover what is going on. If we follow Barker to this meeting we could learn who Old Stumpy is and listen to his plans.’

‘Oh,’ murmured Marty in surprise, ‘but isn’t that terribly dangerous?’

‘You don’t have to come if you don’t want to Marty,’ said Piccadilly as he jumped off the platform.

Marty wished he was at home with his three sisters. Now it came to it he didn’t feel like being brave and fearless at all. He dithered on the edge of the platform not knowing what to do, when suddenly he found that he had stepped off it and was standing between the shining Tube rails.

‘Knew you’d make it,’ said Piccadilly by his side. ‘Now, let’s go.’

* * *

Smiff held a flaming torch high above his head and peered into the chamber. Everything was ready. A platform of bricks and boxes had been made in the centre for the speaker to address them. Torches had been placed all round and their brazen light licked over the grimy walls with lurid, dancing tongues. Everyone would be able to see their glorious leader.

The chamber was a forgotten service passage lined with thick, heavy-duty pipes and cables which ran from floor to ceiling. A ragged, foul smelling cloth had been hung over the entrance and Smiff found himself clucking with anticipation. Soon Old Stumpy would divulge his plans.

He sniffed violently and the two green candles which had been dangling from his nose shot back up his nostrils. There came the sound of many feet dragging on the ground, accompanied by the sweep of half as many strong, thick tails trailing behind. Smiff yanked the curtain aside and the entire rat population of the city poured in like a colossal flood of fur.

Even Smiff was amazed at the number of rats. He had never seen so many of his own kind gathered in one place before. There were young rats and old, strong ones, bony ones, and wizened, hatchet-faced old sinners who cursed and swore. Numerous shady characters shifted uneasily, on their guard in case of treachery. Nobody knew everyone there and no-one was sure of the purpose of the meeting. A small group at the back began a gambling game and foul words filled the already polluted air. The atmosphere was tense but expectant.

Eventually every single one of the vile creatures had squeezed into the foul den. Some had climbed up the wall and perched themselves on the cables for a better view of the platform. There were several thousand evil, gleaming eyes in the chamber and all of them reflected the flickering torchlight like a treasury of hellish jewels. The stench of all their filthy sweating bodies was atrocious.

Smiff leaned against the wall, glad to have pushed the stragglers into the packed chamber. He put his claws into his mouth and blew a loud whistle to tell Kelly to escort in their leader.

A frantic pattering caught Smiff’s attention and he looked crossly down the passage wondering who would dare arrive so late.

‘You poxy slug!’ he bawled when he recognized Barker puffing up to him. ‘Where you been? We told you not to be late,’ and he dealt the old rat a cruel blow with his claws. Barker yelled and ran through the curtain cowering and yelping.

Piccadilly and Marty had followed Barker at a safe distance – he had no idea they were following. They pursued him down pitch black passages and tunnels, splashed through ice cold puddles of stinking water and squelched through ghastly stretches of thick mud. They knew that they were deep in the heart of rat territory; bad smells hung about like mists and slithery slime dripped from the walls and oozed over the ground.

‘I think we’re nearly there,’ whispered Piccadilly, ‘there’s a faint light up ahead.’

They were viewing the entrance to the meeting chamber at some distance. They heard Barker’s rough treatment at the claws of Smiff and saw a brighter chink of light as the old rat dodged inside.

‘What was that whistle?’ asked Marty.

Piccadilly was not certain. ‘Sounded like some kind of signal – I wonder what for? We must find out what’s going on in there.’

‘But we can’t march right up and listen, there’s someone on guard.’

Their discussion was brought to an end when they heard a noise that froze their blood. Heavy rat footsteps were coming up the tunnel behind them.

Marty closed his eyes, waiting to be grabbed by rough claws, but Piccadilly caught hold of his paw and tugged him to one side. The rats drew closer and the mice heard Kelly’s voice speaking.

‘Everyone should be in there now Boss. They’re all dying to know what you’ve got to tell ’em.’

Marty scuttled fearfully along the wall, away from the approaching rats. He and Piccadilly were trapped with no chance of escape. Suddenly the wall against his back seemed to crumble and fall away.

Piccadilly wondered where his friend had gone. One minute he was at his side, the next he seemed to have vanished. He dared not call out, for Kelly and Old Stumpy had nearly reached him and would be bound to hear his voice. Something yanked Piccadilly’s tail and he went sprawling backwards into a hole in the wall.

Kelly and Old Stumpy passed by without noticing. Piccadilly had landed on top of Marty and the two mice rubbed their bruises. Piccadilly looked about him.

‘I think it’s some sort of pipe,’ Marty breathed when the rats were out of earshot, ‘what a piece of luck.’

Piccadilly wished that he had been able to see Old Stumpy but Kelly’s large bulk had screened him. Now he ran his paws over the pipe thoughtfully. ‘I wonder where this goes?’ he asked himself.

‘Never mind about that, let’s go home,’ Marty pleaded.

‘No, we still haven’t discovered anything useful. I’m going to see where this pipe comes out. I think I can see a light up there.’ He got to his knees, for it was a very narrow pipe, and began to wriggle along. Marty heaved a sigh of resignation and followed.

Piccadilly crawled over heaps of debris until he made it to the end of the pipe and his face was lit from underneath by lurid torchlight.

The meeting chamber was below him, he was looking out from high up in one of its walls. He was partially hidden from view by the thick cables which disappeared into the lofty ceiling. Piccadilly gazed down at the rat assembly in wonder and dread. He had never dreamt that there could be so many rats in all London. He shuddered and edged back into the pipe a little.

‘What is it?’ asked Marty catching up with him and craning his neck to peer over his shoulder. ‘Oh my!’ he exclaimed on seeing the chamber and its occupants. He felt his knees turn to water and he looked fearfully at Piccadilly.

‘Don’t worry,’ said his friend calmly, ‘they won’t see us up here, they’ll all be too busy looking at Old Stumpy.’

A commotion below made the mice look down again. The sea of rats near the curtain was parted as Smiff led their leader in.

‘Make way, make way,’ he yelled ploughing through the throng.

Smiff stepped onto the platform and wiped his running nose on his arm. ‘Brother rats,’ he called out proudly. ‘I ’as the ’onour to introduce to you our great leader, known to some of us lads as Old Stumpy!’ There was a tremendous roar as the rats cheered and banged their tails with approval.

Old Stumpy came onto the stage; somewhere in the crowd Barker cringed and high above, watching from the pipe, Piccadilly choked back a cry of shock.

Old Stumpy was an ugly piebald rat. He had a ring through one ear and something glittery hung round his neck. His tail was just a stump, hence his nickname. Piccadilly recognized him at once.

‘Morgan!’ he spat the name contemptuously.

Here was Jupiter’s old lieutenant – that master of slyness whom everyone had presumed had perished when his foul master’s tail had swept him into the sewer water. Piccadilly’s face hardened; he remembered that it was Morgan who had given his friend Albert Brown to Jupiter.

‘Do you know him?’ asked Marty in surprise.

‘I once swore I’d kill him,’ said Piccadilly. ‘I thought fate had cheated me of that but now . . . who knows?’ Marty saw the grim look on his friend’s face and was alarmed. He had never seen Piccadilly like this before and it frightened him.

Down on the platform Morgan greeted his subjects. He waddled across the stage rubbing his claws together.