The Rats Page 4

  But she was amongst her own kind, crushed by life itself.

  She unscrewed the top and raised the bottle to her lips with a wavering hand.

  ‘What’s that you’re drinking, Mary?’ came a voice from the darkness.

  ‘Fuck off.’ Mary knew this would happen, that the others would see her booze and beg for some, just a little drop, one swig, but she couldn’t resist the impulse to come here tonight and gloat; to make men plead with her. She knew that they’d even make love to her for just a drop then she could mock them even more. The old men would forget her filth and she’d forget theirs, and they’d desperately try to get a hard-on with their ridiculously wasted pricks so they could fuck her and earn their drink. But they’d never managed it, and she would just laugh and enjoy the misery on their loathsome faces.

  ‘Ah, come on, Mary, what’s that you’re drinking?’ A figure crawled forward towards her.

  ‘None of your business, scum,’ Mary said, her voice still heavy with Irish, after so many years.

  Other heads lifted themselves from their stupor and turned towards her. The figure came nearer. Two rheumy, yellow eyes gazed at the bottle she now held with two hands.

  ‘Come on, Mary, it’s me–Myer.’ The eyes took on a crafty look as they realised it was nearly a full bottle of Scotch. ‘I know what you like, Mary, gimme a drop, and I’ll do it for you.’

  ‘You,’ Mary jeered. ‘You, I remember last time. You couldn’t even find it, could you?’ Mary began to giggle, her shoulders jerking with the effort. ‘You!’

  The old man began to snigger, too. ‘That’s right, Mary, but it’ll be different this time, you see.’ Grimy fingers began to fumble at his trousers.

  Mary laughed now, rocking backwards and forwards, drinking freely from the bottle.

  ‘Just a minute, Mary, I’ll soon have it.’ Myer was laughing, stopping now and then as a concentrated frown swept over his face. ‘Don’t drink it all, ‘Mary.’ His puzzled look turned into a smile of triumph as he finally produced the object of his search.

  Mary’s laughter reached a hysterical pitch as she pointed at his limp penis.

  ‘You couldn’t fuck a polo mint with that, you daft old sod,’ she cried.

  Just then, a hand grabbed at the neck of the bottle.

  ‘Give us that, bitch,’ a man loomed over her, his face almost hidden behind wild, curly hair and beard.

  But the hand had no strength and Mary was invigorated with the Scotch and the laughter. She pulled it back, crouching over it, clutching it between her thighs. The bearded man struck weakly at the back of her neck, but Mary laughed even more.

  Old Myer tried to grope between her knees to reach the bottle but she clasped it tightly. ‘Just one, Mary, just one,’ he pleaded.

  The other man suddenly kicked her, then grabbed her matted hair, pulling her head back, screaming obscenities.

  She struck out with one hand knocking him on to his back, but Myer made a lunge at the bottle. He doubled up in pain as a bony knee hit his groin.

  The three other old warders crouched and watched, slowly edging forward, eyes never leaving the bottle.

  The bearded man struggled to his feet and came staggering towards her, like a degenerated bull in rage, but she clawed at his eyes, drawing blood, sending him to his knees. She turned to face the other three and they drew back in fear.

  ‘Bastards!’ she shouted at them. She turned her back on all of them, Myer on all fours, tears streaming from his eyes, still pleading, the bearded man rubbing at his eyes, the three on the ground cringing. She sucked noisily at the bottle, then grabbed at her skirt, missed and grabbed again, hoisted it to her waist, and waved her bare arse at their faces. Then she disappeared into the bushes and all they could hear was her mocking laughter.

  She stopped by an old tomb, still giggling and muttering to herself. Men, she thought, all the same. All weak, every one of them. She’d enjoyed herself tonight, she’d made fools of them all. She thought of Myer and his tiny prick, like a little white worm in the moonlight. Pathetic. She’d never known any man who–no, there had been someone. Now who had that been? Years ago... she drank from the bottle and tried to recollect who it was that she’d once loved, who was it that had once given her something? But what? What had she been given? She couldn’t remember.

  The rock’ struck her exposed throat as her head tilted far back to drink from the bottle. She fell forward and the bearded tramp pulled it from her grasp. He drank deeply, while the others kicked the moaning form on the ground.

  Myer took the bottle next and greedily gulped at the fiery liquid only releasing it to another when the burning in his throat caused him to splutter and choke. The man with the hairy face swayed from side to side and looked at Mary’s writhing body. He knew this bitch, seen her laughing at his friends before, even laughed at him once when he’d tried to do her a favour. He picked up a large brick and brought it down hard on her face.

  He grabbed the bottle off a thin little man who’d only just got it into his possession, and drank. They all sat round in a circle, only a few feet from Mary’s still body, finished off the Scotch and then returned to their meths.

  Mary Kelly wasn’t quite dead, but she was close to it. Her skull had been fractured by the brick, and was bleeding profusely. Two ribs were broken and her throat had a deep gash in it. She had lain in the dirt for a long while, her life-spirit slowly ebbing away, and in a short while she w6uld be dead. All that moved were her lips which seemed to be saying some soundless prayer, over and over again and her fingers that tried to count to ten endlessly.

  Quite nearby lay the slumped bodies of her five companions, huddled together in disturbed slumber.

  The first rat approached her cautiously, the smell of blood overcoming any fear, but never blurring its cunning. It was much larger than the other rats that followed it, and darker in colour. When it was a few feet away from Mary it stopped, its hind-quarters bunching up, its whole body tensed and quivering.

  Suddenly it leapt at the open wound in her throat, sinking its huge incisors deep and drawing out the blood with violent spasms of its powerful body. Mary tried to stir, but she was too weak from blood already lost, the rat now biting deep into her vocal chords. Her body shook, but suddenly another furry form buried half its head into the matted hair over the wound in her skull. Her back arched as her nerve-ends mutinied and she fell forward again. Another rat pulled at her ear. Suddenly, her whole body was covered, teeming with squealing creatures as more scurried from the darkness, the smell of blood much stronger than it had been before. So Mary Kelly’s unfortunate life ended. The priests had never managed to save her soul, but then it had never really been lost. Only her mind.

  The rats drained her body of blood and gnawed her flesh until not much more than bones and pieces of skin remained.

  It didn’t take long, for there were many of them. So many, that not all had been fully-gorged. Their hunger for human flesh had been merely inflamed–they wanted more. There were several larger rats amongst them now, and those began to move towards the five human shapes sleeping nearby.

  There was no caution now as they swarmed over the bodies. Two men had no chance, for their eyes were torn from their heads as they slept. They crawled blindly around amidst the carnage that was taking place, rats clinging to their bloody flesh.

  The bearded man had risen to his feet, pulling a wriggling body from his face and tearing mostly hair from his cheek in the process. But as he stood, one of the larger rats leapt at his groin, pulling away his genitals with one mighty twist of its body. The tramp screamed and fell to his knees, thrusting his hands between his legs as if to stop the flow of blood, but he was immediately engulfed and toppled over by a wave of black, bristling bodies.

  Another dishevelled figure buried his head in his hands and rolled himself into a ball, his frail body rocked with sobs and pleadings. The rats bit off his fingers and attacked the back of his neck as well as his exposed behind. He stayed in his foetal po
sition as the rats ate him, still half-alive.

  Myer ran. He ran faster than he’d ever run before and he almost made it. But in the dark, and in his panic, he ran into a gravestone. He somersaulted over it, landing on his back.

  At once, the rats were upon him, their razor-sharp teeth soon tearing his feeble old body to shreds.

  Outside the ruin, on the main road, a crowd had gathered.

  They’d heard the screams and the commotion but none dare enter the dark churchyard. They couldn’t see through the foliage, but they knew the type that made those old bomb-sites their homes and were not too anxious to investigate.

  Eventually two policemen arrived, closely followed by a squad car. A powerful searchlight was directed into the undergrowth, and three policemen with torches went in.

  They emerged again three minutes later, all deathly pale.

  One went to the side of the road and vomited.

  Chapter Six

  Harris woke with a start and automatically reached for the shrilling alarm. The ringing always shocked him when it caught him unawares. Lately, he’d got into the habit of waking just a few minutes before the alarm went off, waiting for the first explosive ring, and shutting it off immediately with a fast-moving hand.

  Then he’d doze for twenty minutes or so.

  But this morning, it had caught him in a deep dream. He tried to remember what it had been about.

  Something to do with teeth. Sharp teeth. Tearing.

  Bloody hell, he thought, it was rats. Thousands of them.

  He’d looked out his window, he remembered, it was night-time, and there below him were thousands of rats, all perfectly still, just staring up at him in the moonlight. Thousands of wicked looking eyes. Then they’d surged forward, crashing through the front door, scurrying up the stairs. Thank God for the alarm.

  He turned over with a groan and put his arm around the curled-up figure lying next to him.

  ‘Morning, Jude.’ The girl curled up into a tighter ball, murmuring softly.

  Harris ran his tongue down her naked back, making her squirm with pleasure. He put his hand between her arms and drawn-up thighs and lightly stroked her smooth stomach.

  She languidly turned around to face him, stretching her arms and legs as she did so.

  ’Hello,’ she said as she kissed him.

  He drew her close and they both stretched against each other.

  ‘It’s late,’ he said.

  ‘Not that late.’

  ‘Oh yes it is.’ He ran his fingers along the inside of her thighs, teasing her. ‘Didn’t you have enough last night?’

  ‘No.’ She began to closes his eyelids.

  ‘Well, I did.’ He laughed as he whipped back the covers.

  ‘Now get out in that kitchen and rattle those pots and pans.’

  ‘Pig.’

  He watched her as she slipped on her dressing gown and disappeared into the kitchen. As the sound of cupboards being opened and closed, water filling the kettle and Radio One music came through to him, he lay thinking of Judy.

  They had lived together for six or seven months now and their love seemed to grow stronger by the day.

  She was a dress designer, a good one too, and they’d met at a mutual friend’s party. They’d slept together that first night, but she hadn’t let him make love to her. He’d tried of course, but she’d gently discouraged him, and to his amazement the next morning, he was glad she had. Weeks later, when they realised they were both in love with each other, he’d asked why she’d let him stay that first night but hadn’t let him make love. She couldn’t explain because she didn’t really understand herself. Not the fact that they hadn’t made love, but that she’d let him sleep with her. She’d never slept with anyone before, and although she’d been engaged for two years, her love-making had been confined to touching only.

  It was just that she’d felt something ‘stir’ inside her that night. She’d almost felt sorry for him in a strange way. He appeared on the surface to be self-sufficient, confident, but underneath he was the proverbial

  ‘little-boy-lost’. He’d smiled and said that was his usual trick with women but she’d nodded and replied:

  ‘Yes, that was quite apparent. But even underneath that, there really was a little lost soul roaming around.

  You, Harris, are a man of many layers.’

  He’d been impressed. Flattered that anyone should be interested enough to try and ‘suss’ him out like that. She’d gone on to explain that she couldn’t let him go that night, that she wanted to be close to him, but she couldn’t let the final barrier down until she was sure of him. And herself.

  A few months later they rented a flat in the King’s Cross area and moved in together. They’d talked about marriage and decided it wasn’t important just yet. They would live together for at least a year and then decide. Either for – or against.

  Sometimes, usually when he was alone, the old hardness would come creeping over him, and he’d say to himself:

  ‘Harris, you’re on to a good thing here, son.’ But when he was with Judy, walking, holding hands, making love, tender-ness would sweep away any harshness from his feelings.

  Judy’s voice from the kitchen interrupted his thoughts.

  ‘Okay, lazy, breakfast’s almost ready.’ He leapt out of bed, shrugged on an old blue bathrobe and went into the toilet on the landing. Then he went down to the front door to collect the paper. When he returned, he kissed Judy’s neck and sat down at the small table.

  ‘Good thing you called me when you did, I thought my bladder was going to burst.’

  Judy placed bacon and tomatoes before him and sat down to her hard-boiled egg. He hated eggs first thing in the morning.

  He unfolded the Mirror to look at the headlines. He usually read the paper on the bus on the way to school – he loved to leave it around the staff-room, to the disapproval of his colleagues who thought any newspaper other than The Times or the Guardian were comic-books–but he always glanced at the headlines at breakfast.

  ’Christ, listen to this,’ he mumbled through a mouthful of bread. ‘Six tramps eaten alive by rats. Late last night, police were called to a bomb-site in Stepney after passers-by had heard screams and the sounds of violent struggle coming from the ruins of the old St Anne’s churchyard. On investigation, the police officers discovered the remains of six bodies, apparently killed by rats, a few of which were still feeding on the corpses. The area was immediately cordoned off, and police, wearing protective clothing and assisted by a leading pest extermination company, combed the ruins for the rats’ lair but were unable to discover any trace of- the vermin. Earlier in the day, Karen Blakely, aged thirteen months, and her dog, were attacked and killed by rats in their home. The girl’s mother, Paula Blakely, is still in hospital under sedation and is now said to be seriously ill

  An inquiry committee will be set up to...’ Harris finished reading the article in silence and Judy came round and leaned over his shoulder.

  ‘It’s awful.’ She shuddered and pressed close to him. ‘How can that sort of thing happen in this day and age?’

  ‘I know there’s still some terrible slums left, but I didn’t realise that they were bad enough to breed anything like this.’ He shook his head in puzzlement. ‘That must be the woman I saw in hospital yesterday. And Keogh. He said he saw two enormous rats. Perhaps he wasn’t exaggerating after all.

  What the hell’s happening?’

  They both got dressed and left the fiat. As they were both

  going in opposite directions, Harris to the East End, Judy to the big department store for which she

  ‘created’ fashions in the West End, they kissed goodbye in the street and went their separate ways.

  On the bus Harris pondered on the question of rats and wondered if the three incidents were connected.

  ‘Was it just coincidence or were they tied up in some way? Could it have been the same rats or were they different groups? He decided he’d question Keogh furthe
r about his two rats when he remembered the boy wouldn’t be in that day. Well, nevermind, tomorrow would do.

  But there wasn’t a tomorrow for Keogh. When Harris reached the school he was called into the principal’s office and told that the boy had been rushed to hospital the previous night with a severe fever and was at that moment in a critical condition. The hospital had rung and asked if anyone else had been with him when he’d been bitten by the rat?

  And could the teacher who had brought him to the hospital yesterday come along to see them?

  ‘Yes, I’ll just get my class organised and I’ll go over right away,’ Harris said to the worried-looking Mr Norton.

  ‘No, I’ve seen to that,’ said the headmaster. ‘You get going now. They insisted it was urgent. Try not to be too long.’

  Harris left the school and made towards the hospital at a brisk pace. When he arrived he began to explain who he was but the receptionist had been expecting him and immediately took him to an office near the rear of the building where he was asked to wait. He had barely sat down when the door opened and three men strode in.

  ‘Ah, you’re the boy’s teacher?’ enquired the first man, walking around to the desk. His portly figure lowered itself into a chair with a weary slump and his tired eyes barely flickered towards Harris. He waved his hand at the two others before Harris could reply. ‘Doctor Strackley’ – the doctor nodded -

  ‘and Mr Foskins from the Ministry of Health.’ Foskins stretched a hand towards the teacher who shook it. ‘And my name is Tunstall, I’m the Hospital Group Secretary.’ The man behind the desk finished his introductions glancing through a sheaf of papers. He stopped at one in particular, seemingly studying it closely, but at the same time asking, ‘Your name?’

  ‘Harris. How is Keogh?’

  Tunstall looked up from his document. ‘You haven’t been told?’

  Harris froze at the tone of the group secretary’s voice, ’I’m’ afraid he died during the night.’

  Harris shook his head in disbelief. ‘But it was only yesterday that he was bitten.’