The Rats Page 7

  A thin, sallow-looking round-shouldered man in an open- necked, short-sleeved, floppy shirt, camera hanging on his flat chest: ‘Are you coomin’,’Ilda?’

  The droning reply, from a plump, bespectacled woman emerging from a shop doorway, clutching a dozen Stratford-on-Avon postcards. ‘Wait, oop,wait oop.’

  An obvious Yank, short-cropped hair, checked jacket, inevitable camera: ‘Will ya look at that, Immogene. Quick, while I take a shot.’

  Immogene posing self-consciously before an oaked beamed shop with a thatched roof, licking an ice cream, magnified eyes peering through blue-tinted butterfly glasses:

  ’Wilya’ hurry up, Mervyn, I feel stupid.’

  They arrived at the Theatre, a heavy depressing building, and found it closed.

  ‘Let’s take a boat down the river,’ Judy suggested tentatively sensing Harris’ disappointment. But the river itself was swarming with punts, canoes and row-boats.

  ‘Let’s have a drink.’ Harris turned towards the nearest pub, passing windows full of people devouring meatpies and sausage, egg and chips. They entered a dark bar, all wood and stone floors. The barmaids were wearing period costumes and smiling cheerfully as they coped with the crowds.

  This is more like it, he thought, ordering a pint of Brown, a red wine and two ham and tomato sandwiches, and took the wine over to Judy who was sitting on a bench seat at an old round oak table and returned for the beer. Sitting next to her, he squeezed her hand to show her his mood was no reflection on her.

  ‘This isn’t so bad, is it?’ He turned to study a large square timber coming from the floor and supporting the low ceiling.

  He reached out to let his fingers run along the deep grain.

  Plastic. ‘Shit?

  As they left the pub, it began to drizzle with rain. Although it was a fairly light shower, shop doorways became crowded with people. Plastic macs appeared and were draped over heads and shoulders, Harris and Judy were bumped by tourists running for cover.

  ‘Let’s go, Jude,’ said Harris, taking her arm firmly and leading her into the road. They quickly walked back to the car, both fighting the feeling of claustrophobia. They sat in the car and caught their breath.

  Harris was halfway through a cigarette when the sun came out and the rain stopped.

  People emerged from their shelters, laughing and calling to one another. A coach pulled up on the opposite side of the road and unloaded a stream of sightseers, all stretching and yawning, and looking for the toilets.

  ‘Look at those women,’ the teacher said in amazement.

  ‘They all look the same. They’re all fat, and they’re all wearing glasses. I don’t believe it!’

  Judy burst into laughter. He was right. They did all look alike. For some reason, he felt better. At least he saw the joke of his shattered illusion of Shakespeare’s birth-place.

  He drove out of the crowded town, heading into the country.

  As they left the town behind he felt a deep sense of relief.

  He could breathe again. He didn’t fully understand why the crowds had affected him so much. He’d had a feeling of revulsion towards the people, not as individuals, but en-masse. Strangely enough, it had been slightly akin to the revulsion he’d felt towards the rats. As though they were a threat.

  ‘Jude, I’m not becoming a head-case am I?’

  ‘No, darling. You just came into contact with too many people at the wrong time and in the wrong place.

  The point of coming here was to get away from it all and we ran slam-bang right into the middle of it again.’

  The quieter the roads became, the freer he felt. Ahead they spotted a high-curving hill the top crowned with trees and cultivated fields below, its shades ranging from the brightest yellow to the deepest green.

  Sheep grazed on the wilder middle slopes.

  ‘Fancy a climb? Harris’ asked Judy.

  ‘Okay.’

  He pulled over on to a grassy verge and locked the car.

  They climbed a fence and skirted around the edges of the field, Judy explaining the difference between wheat, corn and barley, Harris enjoying his ignorance.

  Watched by the sheep they climbed over a gate, the hill now becoming much steeper. As they got nearer the top, the exertion began to tell and they laughingly clung to each other, occasionally pulling the other down. Finally they reached the trees and found a path leading through them to the summit. Here was a plateau of still more fields, stretching across to the downward slopes and shading into woods again.

  Lying back on the grassy slope, they rested, taking in the surrounding hills, the tiny houses, the grey lines that were roads. A slight breeze stirred the otherwise warm air.

  ‘Better now?’ Judy asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Deep breaths.’

  He reached for her. ‘It’s so quiet. No people. It somehow puts everything into its right perspective.’

  A sheep, lost from its flock scampered past them. Once past, it turned and bleated at them, then ran off.

  ‘And you,’ shouted Harris. He turned to Judy and kissed her, first softly, small tender kisses, just touching her lips–then hard, urgent. His hand crept to her small, round breast beneath the jumper.

  ‘Harris, someone might come,’ she warned.

  ‘Up here,’ he scoffed. ‘You’re joking. Who’d be silly enough to climb all the way up here?’

  He pulled at the zipper of her trousers. She kissed his face, his neck, her love for him stirring her desire, pushing her body towards him in rhythmic motion. He tugged at the trousers, her body lifting to help him, then ran his fingers lightly over her smooth thighs. He bowed down to kiss them, his tongue creating thin moist trails along each limb. His hand began to stroke the fine material of her panties – then between her thighs.

  She moaned with pleasure and reached for him, loosening his clothes, setting him free. His hand crept slowly between her flimsy panties and soft skin, finding her private silky hair, then down, between her thighs, his fingers becoming wet from her. He pulled the panties gently down her long legs and lay them to one side with her now discarded trousers. He half-sat, gazing down at her, taking pleasure from the sight of her naked thighs against the rich green grass.

  She pulled him down to her. ‘Darling,’ she whispered, not really caring, ‘someone might see us.’

  ‘Not up here. Nobody can see us up here.’

  He moved into her, very gently, and very slowly. Then they clung to each other, her legs slightly bent, feet flat against the slope. He began to move back and forth inside her, their passion, as so often, equally matched. She thrust up at him, both now losing themselves in the sweetness of physical love.

  But as then’ motions became more frantic, so his toes and knees began to lose their grip on the grassy slope. He began to slip down. He wriggled forward again grabbing tufts of grass to pull himself up. But as soon as they resumed he began to slip down again, this time losing her. He wasn’t amused as she was.

  ‘We’ll have to turn around,’ he said, struggling back inside her. They carefully inched their way round, anticlockwise, desperately trying to keep together, now both laughing at the ridiculous spectacle they must have made.

  ‘I can feel the blood rushing to my head,’ she giggled.

  ‘I won’t tell you where it’s rushing to in me,’ he groaned, trying hard not to topple forward over her body. He held on to the grass, pushing against it now, the strain on his arms becoming more intense as their bodies sped towards their crescendos. She writhed under him, a couple of times nearly sending him over her and rolling down the hill. They reached their climax, Harris almost with relief, and, still together, let themselves slide languidly down a few feet, bodies turning.

  They rested for a few minutes, their bodies relishing the warm sun, enjoying the light breeze on their nakedness.

  ‘I love you, darling,’ Judy said.

  ‘Good, because I love you.’

  Reluctantly, they dressed, and Harris lit a ciga
rette, Judy settled back against him and they both studied the cobalt sky.

  A voice broke through their tranquil thoughts.

  ‘Susan, don’t go too far, poppet!’

  They both sat up and turned their heads towards the sound. A young girl of about seven came skipping over the brow of the hill, closely followed by a man and a woman who wondered why the young couple sitting on the hillside had burst into laughter.

  Chapter Nine

  Dave Moodie lounged against the wall of the dingy Underground platform, occasionally tilting his head back and drinking from a carton of milk. I’m pissed off with this lark, he told himself, peering into the gloom of the colourless station. Seeing the same girl, three times a week, for two months now, was a bit strong. Pictures Wednesday, club Saturday, telly Sunday; and now she wanted him to cut out his Friday night football. Some chance! It wasn’t as though they were even engaged, but Gerry was becoming more and more possessive, laying down the law about his friends, finding fault in his clothes, picking him up on his language.

  And all this performance; running to catch his last train, racing down those treacherous steps of Shadwell tube, a couple of times missing one and nearly breaking an ankle.

  He wouldn’t mind but he’d spent the whole evening groping and trying to get her worked up but getting nowhere, and then, when it was time to go, she’d suddenly turn on and start getting fruity. His mates had told him she was a P.T., prick-teaser, but he hadn’t believed them, in fact, he’d even belted one of them.

  ‘Maybe I’ll give her the shove next week,’ he said to himself, voicing his thoughts for extra assurance. He began to whistle. But it was funny how he looked forward to seeing her by the time Wednesday came round. He stopped whistling. She always looked good, always dressed smart. Her mother got on his nerves, but he rarely saw her. Her father was a lazy old bastard too. Not like his mum and dad. He got on well with his own parents. He always had a freshly- ironed shirt for Saturday night, always a good hot dinner waiting for him after work, and the old man could always be tapped for a quid or two towards the end of the week. He supposed his being an only child had a lot to do with it.

  After his older brother had been knocked down and killed by a car seven years ago, his parents had seemed to turn all their affection on to him. He didn’t mind–he liked them.

  He could always bring his mates round for a party, his father would always chip in for the beer, his mother would always dance with the boys. The old man would even chat up the birds. No, they weren’t like Gerry’s parents. Miserable old sods.

  His thoughts were interrupted by footsteps descending the long flight of stairs. A coloured station-worker came into view and walked towards the other end of the platform, entering a door marked ‘private’.

  Dave’s thoughts returned to his present situation. Where’s the bloody train? For once he’d got down there early only to be left hanging around in the gloom. Gerry would always come to the door with him to say goodnight, her passion becoming stronger as his thoughts of missing the last train became stronger.

  She’d finally let him go and wait at the door till he was out of sight.

  He’d nonchalantly turn and wave back at her two or three times and she’d blow kisses but as soon as he turned the corner, he was off like a shot, his lungs soon sore with the sudden exertion of running. He invariably arrived at the station with a painful stitch in his side, dashed through the barrier without paying, took the stairs two or three at a time, and was usually just in time to leap through the closing doors of the train. It was a good thing Gerry never heard his curses if he wasn’t in time. It meant a long walk home down the trouble-filled Commercial Road. There was nearly always a mob on some street comer, or a ‘perve’ lingering in a doorway. Dave wasn’t chicken but it was a drag.

  Something moving caught his eye. A dark shape was moving along between the tracks. He walked to the edge of the platform and peered down the track into the gloom.

  Nothing. Then he noticed the shape had stopped. Realising it must be a rat, he threw the empty milk carton to see if he could make it scamper back into the darkness of the tunnel, but it merely shrank beneath the electric rail. The boy looked up sharply as he heard noises coming from the dense black cave of the tunnel. It sounded like the rash of air, but not the sound caused by an approaching train. He glanced nervously back at the form lurking in beneath the track and up again as the noise grew louder. As he did, hundreds, it seemed, of small black bodies came pouring from the tunnel, some between the tracks, others up the ramp and along the platform.

  He turned and ran even before he realised they were rats, much larger than normal, and much faster. He reached the stairs, a long, black river of vermin almost at his heels, and flew up them, three at a time. He slipped once, but quickly regained his balance, grasping at the hand-rail by the side, pulling at it to gain momentum. But a rat had raced ahead of him, and his next step was on its back, causing Dave to stumble once more. As his hand went to steady himself, sharp teeth snapped at his fingers. He shouted in fear, kicking out wildly, sending two of the bristling bodies back down over the backs of their companions. He lurched onwards, now weighed down by rats that had attached themselves to his clothes and his flesh.

  He fell again, hitting the bridge of his nose on the sharp comer of a step, causing blood to spill down his face and on to his white long-collared shirt.

  He kicked and screamed but they pulled him back down the stairs, roiling to the bottom with him, ripping his body, shaking him as though he were a toy doll. His screams echoed through the old station. He half rose and before his senses blacked out completely he cried for his mother.

  Errol Johnson pulled the door marked ‘private’ open and rushed out. He’d heard the screams and assumed someone had fallen down the long Stairway to the platform. He knew it would happen some day–those stairs were too badly lit.

  If he ever became station-master, if coloureds ever became station-masters he’d clean it up and make it a respectable station. Just because it wasn’t used by many people didn’t mean it should be badly kept.

  He stopped dead at the spectacle before him, his mouth hanging wide.

  Millions of rats swarming all over the station. And big ones, like those he’d seen in his own country, but even bigger.

  His mind didn’t even stop to evaluate, He ran, without looking back. There was only one place for him to go, the stairs being cut off by a struggling mass of vermin. Without hesitation, he ran down the ramp and into the dark womb of the tunnel. His fear drove him straight into the approaching train, mercifully killing before he was aware of death’s presence.

  The driver, who was braking anyway, slammed them on even harder, pitching his~ few passengers forward in their seats. As he emerged from the tunnel, the train’s wheels screeching in high-pitched protest, the scene before him caused him to react instinctively, thereby saving the lives of his passengers and himself. He released the brakes and drove on.

  The rats became still and glared at the huge intruding monster. Those beneath the tracks crouched low as it rumbled over them, the squealing from its wheels freezing them.

  The passengers stared down through the window, horror struck, wondering if the train had found its way down to the corridors of hell. One fell back as a dark furry body hurtled itself at him only to bounce off the window and back on to the platform. As the train began to gather speed, more of the creatures leapt at the windows, some falling between the train and the platform to be sliced by the grinding wheels.

  A rat broke through the window of one carriage and immediately attacked its solitary passenger. The man was strong and managed to pull the frenzied creature from his throat. It tore at his hands with teeth and claws, causing him to shout out in pain, but he still held its neck and body.

  His terror gave him added strength and speed; he threw it to the floor and brought his heavy boot swiftly down on its head, crushing its skull. He picked up the limp body, amazed at its size, and threw it through th
e broken window into the black tunnel that the train was now in. He sank into his seat, shock spreading through his body, not knowing that within twenty-four hours he would be dead.

  The station-master choked on his tea as he heard screams coming from the stairs. He spluttered as he tried to regain his breath. Not another fight. Why was it that his station always attracted hooligans on weekends? Especially Saturday nights. Underground stations always attracted trouble on Saturday nights from the yobbos and drunks, but Sundays usually weren’t too bad. He hoped that daft ape Errol wasn’t involved. Always interfering. Making suggestions about how to run the place. Helping drunks instead of booting them out. Where did he think it was–Chafing Cross?

  Shadwell suited the station-master. It was quiet compared to most stations and that suited him fine. Of course it was dirty, but what could you do with an old dump like this?

  Anyway, it helped keep the people away.

  When he’d recovered his composure, he slipped his jacket on and stepped out from the ticket office.

  Without rushing he ambled towards the top of the stairs to Platform One.

  ‘What’s going on down there?’ he bellowed, squinting as he tried to see through the dim lights. He heard one cry of what sounded like, ‘Mum’ and saw one black, thrashing shape. He moved cautiously down a few steps and stopped again. ‘Come on, who is it?’

  The black slope seemed to break op into little shapes that began mounting the stairs towards him. He heard a train grinding to a halt downstairs, and then suddenly, for some unknown reason, the whine of it picking up speed again and carrying on through the station without stopping. Then he heard the squeaks that sounded like hundreds of mice. He realised that the creatures were coming up the stairs towards him.

  Not mice–but rats. Horrible big rats. Black, ugly.