The Twyning (26 page)

. . . as I walk down the towpath the next day with the doctor and Bill Grubstaff. For a moment, the sound of them distracts me from my thoughts of Caz.

I have to keep working. Without pennies I will become hungry. Once hungry, I will steal. I am not made to be a thief — folk can read any thought of wrongdoing in my eyes. I will soon be in trouble. Then I will be of no use to anyone, least of all Caz.

The barking of the dogs echoes in the cold afternoon air. It sounds like something from another world. I have heard a pack of hounds before, when I was working with Bill in a wood outside town, but that was different — low, like the chiming of bells.

These dogs have a hundred different voices — yapping, howling, roaring — some with a bite in the sound, others with a gnaw and a nip.

“Ain’t no rat coming out tonight with that din,” Bill mutters.

“They’ll be forced out from the sewers.” The doctor’s eyes shine with the excitement of the moment. “The trick with
Rattus norvegicus
is to get him to panic.”

“Don’t happen often,” Bill mutters.

“You’re a prophet of doom, Bill.” The doctor actually gives Bill a playful punch on the arm.

We turn a bend, and there they are. There must be fifty or sixty setters, each with a dog, and some with two. Word of the hunt must have spread, because the numbers have been swelled by local people who have come along to have a look and join the fun. I see mothers with their children, old men bearing sticks. It is like being on a fairground.

“They’re all here,” says Bill, sounding surprised.

“Of course they are.” The doctor rubs his hands. “Money and sport. Who could resist that?”

The crowd is gathered near the bridge, and as the three of us approach, the buzz of conversation dies. The doctor pushes his way through and stands on the second step of the bridge.

“Welcome, ladies, gentlemen, and young folk. And welcome, dogs.” He laughs like a man unused to making jokes. “My name, for those of you who do not know me, is Dr. Ross-Gibbon. We are here today to do a great public work — to begin the extermination of the greatest threat to our great town.”

As the doctor makes his usual speech about how beasts are the scourge of all mankind, I look around the crowd. The regulars of the pit are here — Dashwood, Buckingham, the Barstow twins — and there are others, too, professional-looking men with dogs I have never seen before. There are some big animals on their leashes and chains, types that would be more suitable for a bear or badger pit than a rodent hunt, and a few scrawny miniature dogs that look as if they would have trouble finishing off a mouse, never mind a rat.

“Your council has been busy.” The doctor extends a hand in the direction of the field to our right. I notice now that, around the edge of the field, a wire-net fence has been erected.

“We shall deploy the dog handlers with their dogs within the fence. When you hear a blast on this whistle, you shall release the hounds to do their work.”

Beside him, Bill says something to the doctor.

“Ah, yes,” says the doctor. “I almost forgot. The first instinct of the rat when pursued will be to make for the safety of water. We shall need a line of defense along the path in case any of them break through the netting. Men, use your sticks. Children, use your feet.” There is laughter. “No rat must escape this afternoon.” The doctor glances at his timepiece.

“If you would now all like to take your positions, Mr. Grubstaff, myself, and council sewerage workers will flush the beasts out for your dogs to do their work.”

He steps down and walks toward me. “Mr. Smith,” he says, smiling. “Yours will be the most important job of all.” He places an arm around my shoulder and leads me to a drain, just within the fence netting.

“Bill tells me that this is the biggest rat run in the field,” he says. “When we clear the underground sewers, it is here that the rats will make their escape.” He points to a ditch half concealed by brambles. “When they bolt, you wait, and then blow this whistle as hard as you can.”

He hands me a small silver whistle.

“How long?” I ask.

A look of irritation crosses the doctor’s face. “What’s that, boy?”

“How long should I wait after the rats start coming out?”

He shrugs. “Say the Lord’s Prayer to yourself, lad. When you get to ‘Amen,’ blow with all your might.”

The light is growing dim as the setters with their dogs take up positions inside the fence. A row of men, women, and children stand on the towpath blocking the way to the river. The field is truly surrounded.

Satisfied that all is in place, the doctor and Bill leave us. There is no more joking now. I am aware of an empty, fearful feeling within me. What if there are no rats, or if I fail to see them, or I blow the whistle too soon or too late?

To take my mind off my fear, I practice saying the Lord’s Prayer.
Our Father, who art in heaven.
Just saying the words takes me back to my home — warmth, food, the smiles of my mother. They are things from another, half-forgotten world, memories I rarely allow into my head these days.

I stand alone, looking down at the hollow, aware that from the path and all around the field, eyes are watching me.

We wait. The dogs, sensing that something is afoot, are impatient, whining, yelping, and tugging at their chains.

The noise and the fear fade from my mind. My eyes are trained on the ditch, waiting for the slightest movement.

At some point, I think I can hear a sound from beneath the ground. Is it human? Is it a rat?

Concentrate. Watch.

In the stillness, there is a rustle in the bramble. I see a dash of movement. The black eyes of a rat catch the light. I start praying.

By the time I get to
hallowed be Thy name
, there is no mistaking the scurried procession of beasts from the ground.

Soon there is a torrent of brown pelts pouring from the drain.

. . . on earth as it is in heaven.

The rats hear the barking of the dogs and tumble over one another in panic. In spite of my best efforts to concentrate, I find myself thinking of Efren, back at the tip.

The power and the glory . . .

The beasts, hundreds of them, are now dashing pell-mell into the field. The barking of excited dogs is deafening.

Forever and ever . . .

Still they scramble from the drain, more and more of them. I raise the whistle to my lips.

. . .
Amen.

. . . before I heard the barking of dogs or the sound of the enemy. It had awoken me as I slept in the roof of the abandoned house. Now the sound of a high note, so loud that it hurt my ears, reached me. It was not a human sound, nor did it come from a cat or a bird.

I hurried to a gap in the wall from where I could see the open space between where I was and the river.

Another long, painful note.

I crouched low. As I lay there, it was as if my whole body were being filled with noise. It was not from dogs and the humans outside, but from the world below.

Fear, rage, confusion. Something terrible was happening to the kingdom.

Outside, there was movement in the gloom. Dogs were now in the field below me, darting here and there. At first, I didn’t understand what they were doing.

Then I heard the screams. Inside my head, and outside in the world above, it was impossible to tell where revelations ended and noise began.

A terrible fight was happening out there. Rats are used to death, but this was different. It was not the few that were laying down their lives, the weak, the unlucky, the braver warriors. It was all of them. There was no escape.

It was roaring in my ears. It was the sound of death.

. . . the hunt of Fisher’s Field. Wherever people talk of the great deeds of foxhounds, deerhounds, or otterhounds, the work of the rat-catchers and their dogs in Fisher’s Field will be mentioned.

It is a massacre. As hundreds of beasts pour first from one drain, then the second, the dogs go to work.

Some of them, when let off the leash, are confused. A couple of them fight each other. Then they see their prey and forget about anything beyond killing rats.

Some rats make for the water, as Bill said they would. It is a bad mistake. The old men, women, and children gathered there, many of them bearing sticks, set up a mighty din. Almost all of the terrified beasts turn back into the field and into the jaws of one of the dogs. Several become tangled in the netting and are quickly dispatched by stick or boot.

A few — a very few — find a gap in the fencing and, ignoring the roars of those on the towpath, dash past them and plunge into the river.

Most of the killing takes place in the enclosed waste-ground. The dogs, cheered on by their setters and supporters, dart from one scuttling beast to the next. Those I recognize from the pit — Drongo, Kentish Lad, Drum — are quickest at killing, but others work cleverly in twos. Only a few of the dogs, confused and more excited than is good for them, chase the other dogs and bark at nothing in particular.

In the confusion, I see the doctor, pacing up and down behind the fence, his face red with excitement. Near to me, Bill watches in silence. I catch his eye and he looks away, almost guiltily.

Near the center of the field, a group of rats has been surrounded by dogs, and faces them. As if at a given signal, the beasts move together, so that they seem to become one big creature with eyes looking in every direction, still and strong.

For a moment, the dogs are confused by these rats that seem so fearless. They bark, but keep their distance.

Then a young cairn terrier, unable to hold back, lunges toward the group. At that moment, the beasts — there must have been well over a hundred of them — move toward the terrier. They are not afraid, and there is no panic in their movements. They are attacking. It is such a strange sight that the dogs stop barking. One or two of them whine anxiously.

Enraged, the men roar at them. Some of the dogs hurry off in search of easier prey. Others look at their owners, as if asking how to deal with a group of beasts that will not be separated.

The rats are heading for a corner of the field. Too late, the men realize that there is a gap in the line of defense.

The rat battalion moves faster. Men are running to head them off, but as the beasts reach the netting, something beyond wonder happens.

The lead rat, like some wingless bird, leaves the ground and soars over the fence. The others follow, almost every one of them. It is as if, for those few seconds, the beasts have borrowed the gift of flying.

The dogs finish off the few rats who have been unable to jump the fence, then bark helplessly in the direction of those who have escaped beyond the wire.

I turn to Bill. He is actually smiling to see a few beasts get away.

“They’re good leapers, them beasts,” he mutters.

. . . quickly. The shouts of humans were there, the barking of dogs, the screams as citizens fought and warriors and does and ratlings were caught, shaken, and crushed in the jaws of death.

There was a louder noise, one that filled every part of my body.

I heard the terror and confusion of the kingdom.

I heard revelations from the captains as they tried to gather their courts and lead them to safety.