King Rat (15 page)

to stop, but I’m pissing in the wind, it’s a done deal.

‘They step off the stone walls of the bridge into the water.’

‘The most almighty cacophony of squeals starts up from below the bridge, but none of the sisters and brothers can hear it. They’re still listening to the dance of the sugarplums and bacon rind.

‘The next in line jump on their comrades, and more and more - the Fisherman’s is seething. I can’t bear it, I can hear the screams, every one a blade in my gut, my boys and girls giving up the ghost in the water, fighting to keep their Crusts over the waves, good swimmers all but not built for this. I can hear wails and keens as bodies are swept downriver, and still my goddamn fucking legs keep moving. I pull back through the ranks, trying to turn round, going a little slower than the others, feeling them pass me, and the squire on the bridge looks at me, that infernal flute still clamped to his gob, and he sees who I am. I can see him see I’m King Rat.

‘And he smiles a little more, and bows to me as I march on past onto the bridge and into the river.’

Loplop hissed and Anansi breathed something to himself. The three were locked into themselves, all staring ahead, all remembering.

‘The Fisherman’s was icy, and the touch of it cleared the bonce of nonsense. Every splash was quick-echoed by a screech, a wail as my poor little minions fight to keep their I Supposes in the air, thinking What the fuck am I doing here? and busy dying.

‘More and more bodies jumping in to join them, more and more fur becoming waterlogged, feeling the tug of the river, slipping below the caps, raking their claws every which way in panic, tearing each other’s bellies and eyes, and dragging brothers and sisters into the freezing cold under the air.

‘I kicked my pegs to get away. There was a frantic mass of us kicking up froth, an isle of rat bodies, fighting and killing to climb atop, the foundations dying and disappearing below.

‘Water plugged my lugs. All I can hear is the in-out of my breath, panicked and disjointed, gulping and retching and breathing in bile. The waves are smashing me around, tossing me against rocks, and on all sides rats are dying in thousands and thousands. I can just make out the noise of the flute. It’s stripped of magic here in the Fisherman’s, just a whining noise. I can hear the splashes of more rats leaping in the water to die; it’s endless and merciless. Screams and choking are everywhere; stiff little bodies bob past me like buoys in hell’s harbour. This is the end of the world, I think, and the stinking water fills my lungs, and I sink.

‘Everywhere are corpses.

‘They move with the swell, and through my half closed eyes I can just clock them, all around me, suspended under the water, above me as I sink and below me too, blobs of brown approaching. And there in the murk, as the last bubbles of air spew out of me, I can see the charnel house under the river, the killing fields, those sharp black rocks an abattoir for ratkind, pile upon pile of cadavers, little skinless babies and old grey males, fat matron rats and pugnacious youth, the fit, the ill, an endless mass of death shifting with the torrent above.

‘And I alone stared this holocaust in the face.’

Drowned rats seemed to hover before Saul as he listened. His ears pounded as if his lungs fought for air.

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King Rat’s voice came back, and the dead tone which had crept into his descriptions had gone.

‘And I opened my eyes and said, “No.”

‘I kicked suddenly, and left that cataclysm behind. I didn’t have no air, don’t forget, so my lungs were screaming murder, whipping me one stroke for every heartbeat, and I climbed out of the quiet into the light, and I could hear the cries through the river above me, and I moved out and away, and finally pushed my face into the air.

‘I sucked it in like an addict. I was eager.

‘I turned my Crust and it was still going on, the deaths still continuing, but the spume was a sight lower by now and there was no more ratkind falling out of the sky. I saw the man with his flute walk away.

‘He didn’t see me watch him.

‘And I decided, as I watched, that he had to die.

‘I dragged myself out of the river, and laid myself down under a stone. The cries of the dying continued for a while, and then they went out, and the river swept all the evidence away behind it. And I lay and breathed and swore revenge for my Rat Nation.

‘The poet called me a Caesar, who lived to swim across. But that wasn’t my Rubicon. That was my Styx. I should’ve gone. I should be a drowned rat. Maybe I am. I’ve thought of that. Maybe I never made it, and maybe it’s just hate that seeped into my bones that keeps me up and scrapping.

‘I got some small satisfaction, the first part only, from the bastard sons and daughters of Hamelin. The stupid, stupid fuckers tried to put one over on the Piper and I had the pleasure of watching the gurning cunts, who’d clapped as we took our leave, screaming in the alleys, stuck like glue while their Kinder pranced away to the tune of the flute. And I had the small joy of smiling when the queer cove made the mountain split open for those little Godfers, and they skipped on in. Because those little Dustbins went to bell, and they hadn’t even died, and they hadn’t even done any wrong, and their bastard parents knew that.

‘That was some pleasure, like I say.

‘But it was that damnable minstrel himself I wanted. He was the real culprit. He’s the one who has a certain reckoning due.’

Saul shivered at the viciousness of King Rat’s tone, but he stopped himself from remonstrating about the innocence of the children.

‘He sucked all the birds out of the sky and taunted me, till I grew mad in my impotence.’ Loplop was speaking in the same dreaming tone as King Rat. ‘I fled to Bedlam, forgetting myself, thinking myself nothing but a madman who thought himself King of Birds. For a long time I rotted in the cage, till I remembered and burst away again.’

‘Him clear all the scorpion and my lickle pickneys from the palace in Baghdad. Him call me in with him piccolo, and my mind was gone, and him rough me, mash me up, hurt me bad. And all the lickle spiders them saw.’ Anansi spoke softly.

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The three were emasculated, casually stripped of power by the Piper. Saul remembered the contempt, the spitting of the rats in the sewer.

‘That’s why the rats don’t obey you,’ he murmured, looking at King Rat.

‘When Anansi and Loplop were caught, some lived to see them suffer, saw Loplop lose his mind, saw Anansi tortured. They bore witness to the martyrdom of the monarchs. It was plain for every Jack with eyes to see.

‘My rats, my troops, they saw nothing. Every one was taken. And drowning leaves no marks, no scars or stripes to illustrate engagement. Word spread to the towns and dews-a-vill around that King Rat had run, left his people to the swollen river. And they dethroned me. Stupid shits! They’ve not got the nous to live without me. It’s anarchy, no control. We should run the Smoke, and instead it’s chaos. And I’ve been without my crown more nor half a thousand years.’

When he heard this, Saul thought of the entreating, pleading rats who circled him below the pavements.

He said nothing.

‘Anansi and Loplop, they still rule, bloodied maybe, bowed and cowed, but they’ve got their kingdom. I want mine.’

‘And if,’ said Saul slowly, ‘you can defeat the Piper, you think the rats will come back to you.’

King Rat was silent.

‘He roams around the world,’ said Loplop flatly. ‘He has not been here for a hundred years, since he cast me into the birdcage. I knew he had returned when I called all my birds to me a night not long ago, and they did not come. There is only one thing can make them deaf to my command: the damnable pipe.’

‘Sometimes the spiders rush away from me like them do another’s bidding. The Badman back in town, fe true, and him want the rattymon bad this time.’

‘None’s ever escaped, you see, sonny, except me,’ said King Rat. ‘He let Loplop and Anansi go, after shaming them, letting them clock who’s the bossman, he reckons. But me, he wanted my hide. I’m the one that got away. And for seven hundred years he’s been trying to make good his mistake. And when he found I had a nephew, he came looking for you. He’s on the skedge for you now. Anything to square accounts.’

Anansi and Loplop looked at each other, looked down at Saul.

‘What is he?’ breathed Saul.

‘Him greed,’ said Anansi.

‘Covetousness,’ said Loplop.

‘He exists to own,’ said King Rat. ‘He has to suck things in to him, always, which is why he’s so narked at me for having pulled a disappearing trick. He’s the spirit of narcissism. He’s to prove his worth by guzzling all and sundry in.’

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‘Him can charm anything,’ said Anansi.

‘He’s congealed hunger,’ said Loplop. ‘He’s insatiable.’

‘He can choose, see?’ said King Rat. ‘Will I call the rats? The birds? The spiders? Dogs? Cats? Fish?

Reynards? Minks? Kinder? He can ring anyone’s bell, charm anything he fancies. Just choose and he plays the right tune. Owt he chooses, Saul, except nor one thing.

‘He can’t charm you, Saul.

‘You’re rat and human, more and less than each. Call the rats and the person in you is deaf to it. Call to the man and the rat’ll twitch its tail and run. He can’t charm you, Saul. You’re double trouble. You’re my deuce, Saul, my trump card. An ace in the hole. You’re his worst nightmare. He can’t play two tunes at once, Saul. He can’t charm you.

‘No, you he just wants to kill.’

No one spoke. Three pairs of unclear eyes transfixed Saul.

‘But no need to panic, sonny. Things are going to change around here,’ King Rat suddenly spat. ‘See, my mates and me are pissed off. We’ve had enough. Loplop owes the Piper for his brainbox that was Tea Leafed off him. Anansi here got tortured, still feels it sore in all his pegs—and in front of his own people. And me ... I owe the fucker because he stole my nation and I want it back.’

‘Revenge,’ said Loplop.

‘Revenge,’ said Anansi.

‘Revenge is right,’ said King Rat. ‘Piperman fucker better steel himself for some animal magic.’

‘The three of you ...’ said Saul. ‘Is that how many there are? To take him.’

‘There are others,’ said Loplop, ‘but not here, not to do the job. Tibault, King of the Cats, he’s trapped in a nightmare, a story told by a man called Yoll. Kataris, Queen Bitch, who runs with the dogs, she’s disappeared, no one knows where.’

‘Mr Bub, Lord of the Flies, him a shifty murderer and me can’t work with him,’ said Anansi.

‘There are others but we’re the ones, the hard core, the sufferers, who’ve scores to settle,’ said King Rat. ‘We’re bringing the war back to him. And you can help us, sonny.’

What woke Kay was the drumbeat of blood in his head. Each stroke that landed on the back of his skull sent vibrations of pain through the bone.

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His eyes cracked a seal of rheum. He opened them and saw nothing but black. He blinked, tried to focus on the vague geometry he could glimpse in the shadows. He felt that something stretched away in front of him.

Kay was freezing. He groaned and raised his head, a motion accompanied by a crescendo of aches, rolled his neck and tried to move. His arms hurt and he realized they were stretched out above him, held fast, and stripped of clothing. He opened his eyes more and saw coils of thick dirty rope around his wrists, disappearing into the gloom above him. He was suspended, his weight dragging him hard, pulling the skin of his armpits taut.

He tried to twist his body, to investigate his position, but he was suddenly constrained, his feet refusing to obey. He shook his groggy head and looked down. He saw that he was naked, his cock shrivelled and tiny in the cold. He saw the same rope around his ankles, spreading his legs. He was caught tight in a petrified star-jump, he was an X hovering in the dark, the pain in his wrists and ankles and arms beginning to register. Gusts of wind pulled at him, raised goosebumps.

Kay winced, blinked hard, tried to work out where he was, lowered his eyes again to his feet. As the cold air began to cut through the muck of pain in his head he became aware of the dim diffuse light around him. Shapes clarified in the shadow below his dangling toes: sharp lines, concrete, bolts, wood.

Railway tracks.

Kay’s head wobbled up. He tried to throw it behind him, to see over his shoulder.

He gave a yell of shock which bounced back and forward in its enclosed environs.

Behind him, illuminated by half-hearted little bulbs dribbling beige light, stretched an underground platform covered in dust and small pieces of rubbish. The darkness before him stopped sharp above Kay’s head, where the bricks of the tunnel began. Those bricks arced down on both sides of him. To his right was a wall, to his left the platform edge. The ropes which bound him stretched out to that arch, wound around huge nails driven roughly into the old brickwork.

He hung cruciform at the entrance to the tunnel, from where the trains emerged.

Kay’s scream echoed around and around him.

He shook ineffectually, tried to wriggle from his bonds. His fear was complete. He was utterly vulnerable, suspended nude in the path of the locomotives.

He screamed and screamed, but no one came.

He twisted his head around as far as he could. Kay’s eyes frantically skipped from surface to surface, searching for some clue to tell him where he was. The trimmings of the station were black; the line above the poster spaces - all empty - was black. This was the Northern Line. At the edge of his limited field of vision he saw the curved edge of an underground sign, the tell-tale red circle bisected by a blue line containing the name of the station. He pulled his head over, ignoring the pain in his neck and skull, trying to push his shoulder out of the way with his chin, desperate to see where he was. As he vibrated to and fro the sign moved in and out of his view. He caught glimpses of the two words it contained, one above the other.

gton ent... ington scent. .. rnington rescent. ..