The Deptford Mice 1: The Dark Portal Page 18

  Thomas cleared his throat. He had been astonished by Mrs Chitter’s behaviour and remembered one of the reasons why he had gone to sea in the first place. He had always found hysterical ladies difficult to cope with. Now he stepped forward and said briskly, ‘Arthur, how many mice are there here who would follow me into the sewers?’

  Arthur thought for a moment, but the question was answered by Mrs Chitter.

  ‘None, you fool. No one here is as mad are you obviously are. Why, there’s not one mouse prepared to go through the Grille.’

  Thomas eyed her coldly. ‘And yet through that same grating has your son gone, madam. I wonder where he gets his madness from?’

  Mrs Chitter spluttered but could not think of anything to say.

  ‘I’m afraid she’s right,’ said Mrs Brown sadly. ‘We’re all too frightened to go near the Grille. When we are children we are told how dangerous it is to even go into the cellar. There are powers, you see, enchantments that dazzle the senses. You lose your head, and before you know where you are, you’re lost in the sewers.’

  ‘And the peeler gets you,’ added Mrs Chitter knowingly.

  Thomas twitched his snowy whiskers. ‘There must be someone who’ll come with me,’ he sighed, tapping his sword on the floor.

  ‘I will,’ chirped Twit cheerfully. ‘The Grille do frit me but I’m willin’ to go sewerin’ again.’ The fieldmouse had grown to respect and trust Thomas so much that he would have followed him anywhere.

  ‘I knew I could count on you matey,’ laughed Thomas, clapping the fieldmouse heartily on the back.

  Arthur glanced quickly at his mother. Mrs Brown looked at him fearfully but before he could say anything a grey storm crashed in on them.

  ‘Stop! Stop!’ it cried.

  Piccadilly had run hard. He had dodged Leering Macky and Vinegar Pete and dashed up to the Grille. Hastily he scrambled through the rusted gap and darted across the cellar floor. Up the steps he jumped and then bolted into the Skirtings.

  The other mice were startled but waited for him to catch his breath. Mrs Brown heated up some more milk and honey and he drank it thankfully.

  ‘It’s Oswald,’ he gasped eventually.

  Mrs Chitter gripped the table for support, stood up then sat down again.

  Gwen ushered the city mouse to a seat. ‘What about Oswald dear?’

  ‘He’s been caught – oh it’ll never work, he’s sure to be found out and then—’

  ‘Now now lad,’ Thomas interrupted. ‘Who has got Oswald and what won’t work?’

  Piccadilly tried to explain. ‘Rats have got him!’

  Mrs Chitter began to wail. ‘Oh my baby – my poor darling, Oswald, eaten by rats.’

  Thomas threw her a despairing glance. Piccadilly shook his head. ‘No, he’s not been peeled – not when I left him anyway.’

  Thomas’s eyes narrowed.

  ‘That’s mighty queer: ratfolk usually eat owt – there’s nothing nicer to them than a young tender mouse.’

  Piccadilly found it difficult to make himself heard above the lamentations of Mrs Chitter. ‘But that’s just it! You see, the rats don’t know he’s a mouse – they think he’s a young rat and have, taken him to dig in a great big mine. It can’t work – they’ll twig sooner or later. What’ll he do when they find out?’ Piccadilly’s anxious face looked from Thomas to Arthur.

  ‘Well, that’s a tale and no mistake,’ said Thomas. ‘I’d be interested to find out anything Oswald may have learned in those mines. Are you willing to venture down there again?’

  In a grave, faltering voice Piccadilly slowly replied, ‘If we could help Oswald then I’ll go down again.’

  ‘We may help many,’ mused Thomas darkly.

  Mrs Chitter, who had not really been listening to the conversation, suddenly exclaimed, ‘Oh save my baby.’ She drummed her paws on Thomas’ chest and flung back her silvery head. ‘Oh Oswald. Save him, someone!’

  The midshipmouse untangled himself from her and handed her to Mrs Brown.

  Twit shook his head. It was hard to believe sometimes that his mother and Mrs Chitter were sisters. He looked up to Thomas expectantly. A plan was brewing. He could tell that the midshipmouse had made up his mind to do something.

  The seafarer gripped his sword with one paw and placed the other on Piccadilly’s shoulder. Solemnly he stared at the city mouse. ‘You’re a brave lad. You’ve seen a lot of bad things that one your age shouldn’t have seen, and still you’re keen to go into the sewers again. One last time to save a friend. We’ll find Oswald – or avenge him, and the young lass too.’

  ‘The lass?’ Piccadilly did not understand. He looked about them. For the first time he realised that Audrey was not with them. ‘You mean Audrey’s down there?’

  Mrs Brown nodded.

  Twit jumped up. ‘When we off, Thomas?’ he asked excitedly.

  ‘I’m off now matey – if you’re still of a mind to come you’d best find something to defend yourself with.’

  Arthur turned to his mother. ‘I can’t stay here,’ he told her gently; ‘not while all my friends are in such danger – please Mother, understand.’

  For a moment Gwen’s eyes met his and Arthur wondered what she was thinking. Suddenly she made the slightest of gestures with her head. He had her permission. Then Mrs Brown turned on her heel and ran to her own little room.

  Thomas watched her leave. ‘A fine mouse, your mother,’ he said to Arthur. ‘But now we must leave – there’s no time to waste. Find a weapon, each of you, and follow me.’

  Arthur searched around until he found two heavy sticks. He passed one to Piccadilly and smacked the other into his paw experimentally.

  ‘Right, let’s be off.’ Thomas brandished his sword and made for the hall.

  ‘One moment,’ pronounced a voice behind the sober group. They all turned. There was Mrs Brown. All emotion was drained from her – she was like a statue of cold, hard marble. No soft gentle light flickered in her eyes. She was resolute and determined like a warrior going to war. In her pink paws she held a long rapier, and around her neck, alongside her own mousebrass, hung Albert’s.

  Thomas began to protest but Mrs Brown took no notice. ‘All my family have gone, Mr Triton. If Arthur is to go then there is nothing left for me here. I have made up my mind and no one, not even you, will prevent me.’

  The midshipmouse realised that he could not dissuade her and consented to her joining them, although he grumbled all the way into the cellar.

  Mrs Chitter watched the party disappear behind the cellar door. She had never gone near it herself and marvelled at how they could pass through into that dreadful place. Even now, with her son’s life at stake, she knew that she could not bring herself to join them. Mrs Chitter did not reprove herself, she was not made to be brave. The quality that makes a mother stand and fight extreme dangers to protect her children was not present in her. She may have regretted this but tried not to show it – how could she change?

  All alone, without even the cold company of the moonlight, Mrs Chitter sat outside the Skirtings and waited. A great, silent tear welled up and slid down her cheek. She bent her head and prayed.

  13. Dark Rewards

  Finn passed Oswald an old bent spoon. ‘’Ere Whitey, use this to dig with,’ he said.

  They had marched into the rat mine. The entire shift had poured through a small door set into one of the mine walls. It had then been locked behind them. The mine shaft was immensely long, and wound and twisted gradually upwards. Burning torches were fastened on the walls and lit the way with orange tongues of light. All around were the signs of labour: makeshift shovels, pieces of sharp glass, sacks full of earth. Evidently there had been cave-ins, for the roof was supported here and there by crude wooden struts.

  The air was stale with the rank smell of sweat and blood. With horror Oswald noticed several bodies amongst the rubble. They were old, wizened rats – too thin to be of any more use. They were kicked out of the way and lay in the dust with
their noses in the dirt. The albino mouse felt very sorry for them, but he tried to remain ratlike and displayed no emotion.

  Finn rubbed his claws together, spitting on his palms. ‘Another slog,’ he sneered, ‘and not enough in me to keep a bluebottle goin’.’

  Oswald was avoiding the evil stares that some of the other rats were giving him as they brushed past. He heard some of them sniggering.

  ‘How yer keepin’, Finn?’ asked one with amusement.

  ‘Stick it!’ rapped Finn.

  ‘What’s that then? A piece o’ chalk?’

  Oswald blinked, but said nothing.

  ‘It’s death warmed up.’ The rats were laughing at the albino, and their jeers stung him deeply.

  ‘Ho, Wishy Washy.’

  ‘Like yer head scarf.’

  ‘What a pasty milksop!’

  Oswald gritted his teeth against the remarks and insults but every one of them found its mark.

  ‘Freak face.’

  ‘Dolly eyes.’

  ‘You don’t pay no mind to ’em! Snot-gobblers they are,’ said Finn. ‘No, it’s the likes of ’im you don’t wanna bring yerself to the attention of.’

  A huge rat had gone by. He was strong and his coat was a sleek dark brown.’ Oswald looked at the newcomer’s face and gasped. ‘His mouth . . . he stammered.

  Finn hushed him quickly. ‘Look as though yer doin’ summat, ‘fore he sees yer.’

  The rat moved on. His great claws were long and sharp, his thick, mighty tail swished behind him. But as for his face . . .

  The rat had a permanent ghastly grin which showed all of his cruel teeth. It was a frightening expression that he could never change.

  ‘That’s Smiler, but don’t you let him hear yer call him that. One of the best diggers he is uses ‘is bare claws: that’s why he stays up at the front at the mine face.’

  ‘But what happened to his mouth?’ asked Oswald appalled.

  Finn smiled twitchingly. ‘When ’e were a youngun he lied to Morgan so the old stump had his lips sliced off. Bet he regrets it now though, seein’ as how Smiler turned out so big an’ strong. Doesn’t half give Morgan dirty looks when he goes past. Yer should see the Cornish goon tremble. No, keep to yerself, Whitey lad, don’t go makin’ no trouble fer yerself.’

  Oswald stared at Smiler’s broad back as he stomped away.’ The world of the rats was a nightmare of vicious backstabbing. Oswald could not believe that he was stuck in the middle of it. He wondered how long his disguise would last. How long would he be able to keep up the pretence of being a rat?

  The gong boomed and echoed through the mine.

  ‘Start, diggin’, lad,’ said Finn, throwing a sack over his bony shoulder. ‘I lug the freshly dug stuff away from the face. See yer later. Just keep yer head down.’ Finn tramped away.

  Oswald struck the ground with the spoon. He made no impression on it whatsoever. The soil was hard and stony. He pushed the spoon and bashed it on the floor but nothing gave. He looked around him. All the others were working busily, striking the ground and gouging out the earth. The slow work song began. It was so dismal that Oswald was lost for several minutes in its melancholy words. As backs bent and arms toiled the chant flowed like a poisoned stream that wound in and out of each of their hearts.

  Faces were scrunched up in exertion as stones were dislodged and tangled root knots were loosened and cut away.

  At the mine face Oswald could see Smiler on his knees, slashing out great clumps of earth with his claws. The rat was like a machine: nothing got in his way, and even large chunks of brick were excavated and tossed aside like pebbles.

  Amongst the many sweating rats Oswald spotted Skinner, using his peeler to plough deep into the ground. Oswald patted his head where he could feel Audrey’s brass beneath the scarf and hoped it would not fall out. He prayed that Skinner wouldn’t recognise him. He had no wish to end up like Spiker.

  ‘Work lad!’ Finn had come up to him. The sack on his back was full now and he staggered under the weight of it. ‘You’ll feel the bite of the whip if you dawdle like that.’

  ‘Where do you take all that soil?’ asked Oswald.

  ‘We dumps it into the water – right at the beginnin’ of the mine shaft there’s another way in. It don’t have no door on like the one we come through, but yer can’t get out that way see. There’s only a narrow ledge out there an’ water swirls all about, and there’s summat worse to stop yer scarperin’. Some of ’em tried once – nobody tries any more. That’s where we dumps this stuff – right into the water. Well, yer can’t eat it can yer?’ Oswald felt sure that Finn spoke from experience. The rat turned and plodded off down the tunnel.

  Oswald returned to the spoon, thinking of this watery entrance. He wondered what was so dreadful out there that frightened all the rats. He hacked at the ground. A small stone showed signs of budging, so he gave this his full attention.

  The end of the spoon dug into his soft paws till they blistered and bled but at last the stone moved. It popped out of the ground and hit Oswald on the nose. He rubbed it and moaned – his poor nose had seen a lot of punishment lately.

  It was a while before Finn returned. He trotted up with his now empty sack flapping behind him. ‘That’s right, Whitey,’ he said, ‘no slacking.’

  Oswald could not make Finn out. Could he trust him? The rat certainly seemed to be helping him – but why? From what Oswald had seen no rat helped another unless he was going to get something out of it. Oswald could not see what Finn’s motives were. Maybe he was being too suspicious and had stumbled across the only friendly rat around. But this he doubted. There was something creepy about Finn – an edge to his voice that made Oswald shiver and go goose-pimply.

  No, he could not work him out at all. He drove the spoon into the ground. The shift dragged by sluggishly. The endless chant droned on – time slipped by and still the chant was the same. Oswald learned the words quickly but would not utter them. He was shocked at the way the rats glorified death and sang about it in this way – murders, stranglings, guttings and roastings, all sorts of barbaric cruelties were chanted. Oswald grew very tired but the pace showed no sign of slowing.

  Smiler was still thrashing at the mine face relentlessly. Oswald had to marvel at his strength. He had himself managed to dig out a small heap of soil and he gazed at it proudly. But the others were still going strong. The earth they threw up was shoved into sacks and tins by the older rats like Finn and carted away. ‘That’s a neat little pile, Whitey lad,’ said Finn. ‘Put yer back into it a bit more though – that just ain’t good enough. Morgan’ll be here soon to see how things are going – you’d best have more dug by then.’

  Finn was about to leave with another full sack when Oswald asked the question that had been troubling him all along.

  ‘What are we digging for?’

  Finn cackled grimly. ‘Well, not heard the rumours, Whitey? No, maybe you wouldn’t. Some say one thing, others summat different. The way I guess it is that old Jupiter is after some treasure or other. Must be a fortune too for Him to go to all this bother to find it. Years we’ve been doin’ this, although they say it’s not long now till we finds whatever it is. ‘Bout time too, the trouble there’s been with this poxy mine, roof-falls an’ such. Must be a mile or longer now. Just hope it’s worth it.’ Finn trudged off.

  Oswald felt his paws. They were callused and blistered, and the dirt had got in them and stung. He felt that he would never be able to escape. Everyone seemed to remain at their posts all the time and if he began to wander he would certainly be challenged. He wondered when the next shift would start and theirs could end. By now he was very hungry – his tummy growled and rumbled. The lateness of the shift was getting to him too. Outside it must be nearly dawn. He had not slept since the previous night and his pink eyes had large grey circles around them. The dust blew into his face and clung to his fur. It clogged his skin and made him feel dirty and unkempt. He did not know how the rats could bear it.

&nbs
p; On several occasions he heard Skinner mutter to his fellows. He was obviously grumbling about the work and moaning at the loss of freedom to wander and murder.

  Oswald resumed his feeble digging; anxious about the prospect of Morgan coming to inspect the work he had done. He thought of the peeled mouse skins that he and Piccadilly had found in Morgan’s secret larder.

  ‘That ain’t big enough to bury yourself in,’ Finn remarked behind him. ‘Won’t do, yer know. I saw Morgan comin’ up ’e’s not in a good mood either.’ Finn winked and continued on to the face.

  Oswald kicked and bashed at the ground, frightened at what Morgan would say. Maybe he would be discovered as a mouse and eaten on the spot. He had not made much difference to the ground when Finn returned, his sack bulging.

  ‘None too good, is it lad?’ tutted the rat, eyeing Oswald’s poor efforts. ‘He’ll string you up he will, an’ you on yer first day – won’t make no difference too ’im though. Should see the stuff Smiler’s diggin’ out – takin’ six of us to keep up with ’im an’ even then it’s hard goin’.’ A sly twitch flitted over Finn’s face. ‘Tell you what, Whitey boy. As it’s yer first day on the job, and as I’ve got a heart soft as pig muck, I’ll help yer.’

  The rat took the sack off his back and emptied the contents on to Oswald’s small heap of soil.

  ‘There, that’s a decent size, Whitey. See, told you we’d be old cronies after our first shift.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Oswald.

  ‘Nowt to it lad, but if you could give us an ’and later with a load or two I’d be grateful.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘There now, that’s real pals we are.’ But Oswald did not like the smile that lit the old rat’s face. ‘Here comes stump-tail now. Catch yer later.’

  Finn bounded over to Smiler again. Morgan walked up the tunnel scowling and shouting. ‘Stop loafing you louts!’ he yelled. ‘You’re not supposed to be tickling the ground. Look lively there.’