The Twyning (22 page)

“A rat,” I say. My words hang in the air, like the most stupid and obvious thing that has ever been said. “A beast.”

“He’s alive.” She lays the rat near the candle. Malaika now emerges from the tip and sniffs at the newcomer.

I notice that each of its paws is raw and pink. Its skin is loose on its body, as if it has not eaten for some time.

“Caz.” I speak quietly. “This is a wild rat.”

“An animal’s an animal. It needs help.”

There is no arguing with Caz Lewis when she is in this mood. I look closer at the rat. I notice that there is blood on its mouth, like those I carried in the sack.

“It’s been gassed,” I say. “Don’t give it water.”

Caz picks up the limp body and lays it in her lap. Malaika moves closer to the wild rat. It is as if she knows it.

“That’s right, Malaika,” Caz says. “He needs warmth.”

We are there, not moving, for half an hour. I watch. Caz murmurs softly, all the while stroking the sick rat. We must make a strange sight.

Eventually, the rat stirs and tries to get to its feet. Too weak, it slumps back.

“We’ll help you, Efren,” Caz whispers. “You are among friends now. Sleep, rest.”

“Caz . . .”

She smiles, looking down at the wild rat. “This is Efren. He’s with us now.”

. . . Efren, Malaika, Peter, and Caz.

“Together?”

— Together.

. . . has survived. Too scared to be in our little room at the heart of the tip, he is now a neighbor, living deep in the rubbish no more than a yard from where Caz and I sleep.

Caz has cleared a narrow passage to where the rats are living. There she has made a home, with a plate of water, scraps to eat, rags for a nest — everything a rat could need.

Late at night, we can hear Malaika and her new friend rustling in the rubbish that surrounds us. There are times when I wonder about what my life has become.

Caz, though, is happy. She still works, dancing for pennies in town, but she hurries back as the light is fading, eager to see her beasts. Caring for something, even a rat, makes her more alive. There is a light in her eyes. She is chatty. She laughs more than she used to.

What do we do next? We learn rat, of course.

At first, when Caz tells me she is hearing voices, I keep my thoughts to myself.
Yes, Caz
, I think,
of course you are.

But then it goes on. She tells me what Malaika is saying to the sick rat. Sometimes she goes quiet, but her eyes are alive with a conversation she is having.

In her brain.

With a rat.

To tell the truth, it begins to annoy me. She used to talk to me all the time. Now she sits in silence with a crazy smile on her face. Sometimes she laughs at some kind of ratty joke.

Then, after a while, I begin to worry. What if my Caz is going soft in the head? What will I do then? What can I do to bring her back to me?

But it is not only rats’ thoughts she can read.

“You don’t believe me, do you, Peter?” she says one night.

I’m trying to sleep after another long evening of silent rat conversation.

“They must be really interesting, those rats.” There’s a hardness in my voice that takes even me by surprise. “You’ve more to say to them than to me.”

“Efren’s getting better. He is strong. Sometimes when he reveals, it’s so loud that it hurts my head.”

“Reveals what?”

“I’ve told you. That’s how rats talk to one another — by revelation.”

“So why can’t I hear his voice?”

“Perhaps you have to believe. If you believe, you’ll hear.”

I really don’t like this talk of believing. Caz is beginning to sound like a priest.

“Listen to them, Peter. Just try.”

“Maybe they can tell me where the beasts are hiding.” I laugh. “So I can help kill them tomorrow.”

Caz is silent. Maybe she’s talking to rats; maybe she’s just upset.

As I drift off to sleep, I hear her voice.

“You don’t understand.”

The fact is, there is so much going on during my daytime life that there is not enough room in my brain for the idea that I should be chatting to beasts.

A few days after the meeting outside the town hall, I return there in the company of the doctor.

There is no sack of dead rats this time, no speeches. Instead, we go straight into the building. With the new cheerful, loud voice that I have noticed he uses these days, the doctor announces himself to the man behind the desk in the big entrance hall.

Soon afterward, Mr. Robinson, the younger man who had been with us when we visited the sewer, descends the stairs. He shakes hands with the doctor and, without a glance in my direction, leads us upstairs and through some double doors.

A group of men in dark suits — there must be almost twenty of them — is seated around a long table. Among them, I notice Mr. Petheridge. At the head of the table is Mr. Woodcock, the other man who visited the sewer with us.

“Dr. Ross-Gibbon,” he says. “Very good of you to join us.”

“Gentlemen.” The doctor’s smile takes in the whole room. He sits in a chair beside Mr. Petheridge.

“Ah.” Mr. Woodcock’s smile grows a little colder. “You’ve brought the boy. Strictly speaking, he shouldn’t —”

Mr. Robinson, seated beside him, murmurs something. I pick up the word “simple.”

Mr. Woodcock nods impatiently and points to a chair in the corner of the room. I take my seat and listen. Sometimes it can be useful being an idiot.

“The purpose of this meeting,” Mr. Woodcock announces, “is to put some detail on the plan of Mr. Petheridge to rid this borough of a great and growing menace to the health of our citizens — the rodent population. Mr. Petheridge, would you like to add anything?”

The politician looks bored. “I am not the rodent expert here,” he says. “I am but a humble servant of the people. What voters want — nay, what they demand — is a war on the rat. An end to the killing of their children.”

A man sitting across the table from the MP raises a hand. “Mr. Petheridge, we are a peace-loving borough,” he says. “Maybe the word ‘war’ is a little strong. May I suggest the phrase ‘eradication campaign’?”

“It’s a war.” The doctor sits forward in his seat. “And ultimately it is a war for the survival of mankind. A war that we must win.”

“So how would this war be waged?” one of the older councilors asks.

“There are various options,” says the doctor. “We could introduce a disease, but that would take time. I am confident that, with the manpower, we can use traditional methods — baiting, drowning, dogs, and so on — to solve the problem. But rats move from one area to another when attacked. If our campaign could be quick and effective, covering the whole borough, they will be panicked and vulnerable, making our task easier.”

“And how will you find them?” asks Mr. Woodcock.

“We have means. There are many rat experts — hunters, official and unofficial — in the borough. We shall use them.”

I am just thinking that matters are not going the way of the doctor and Mr. Petheridge when the conversation takes an alarming turn.

“For example,” says the doctor, “I happen to know that my assistant, Mr. Smith, occasionally works for a rat-catcher who supplies beasts for sport in certain public houses.”

Thank you very much, Doctor.

“Impossible.” Mr. Robinson speaks up. “Rat pits are illegal. If this young man has been a party to them, we should send him to have a word with members of the local constabulary.”

There are murmurings of agreement around the table. Then, to my surprise, Mr. Petheridge speaks up. “In war, sometimes one has to use people who are not at all times on the right side of the law,” he says.

“Out of the question,” someone mutters.

“Mr. Smith?” The doctor turns to me, then addresses the meeting. “Would it be acceptable to question the boy?”

Mr. Woodcock looks surprised by the idea that I am able to understand questions. “Make it brief,” he says.

The doctor beckons. I approach the long table and stand at the end of it, my hands behind my back. My thoughts are of one thing only: policemen. There is danger here for me and for Caz.

“Rat pits, boy.” Mr. Woodcock’s mustache bristles like the hackles of a dog about to attack. “Tell us about the rat pits.”

I remain silent.

“The lad has friends — accomplices, shall we say?— who regularly attend pit days at public houses,” says the doctor. “In those rooms, whether we like it or not, are gathered the men of the borough who know exactly where to find the beasts. They also have the dogs that have been trained to hunt and kill them.”

“A ready-made army,” adds Mr. Petheridge.

All eyes are on me.

“Boy?” said Mr. Petheridge. “Are you going to speak up? Or should we call a policeman right now?”

I am so afraid at that moment that my guts feel as if they are turning to water. I think of the pit, the men, the dogs. Anyone betraying the ratting fraternity is likely to meet a sorry end.

“I fear that this meeting is going nowhere,” says Mr. Woodcock. “The council can have nothing to do with lawbreaking.”

The doctor is looking as if at any moment he would stand up and throttle me.

There is no choice. I have to speak.

“I know a man,” I say. “He is a rat man.”

“Come on, lad. Spit it out.” Mr. Woodcock opens a timepiece on the table before him, glances at it, then snaps it shut.

“What do you mean by a rat man?” asks the doctor.

“He knows rats,” I say. “Where to find them. How to catch them. It’s his job.”

“Name, boy.” There is a dangerous look in Mr. Woodcock’s eye.

“Will he get into trouble?”

“Just give us the name. Or you’ll be in the hands of the police.”

“Will he get into trouble?” I repeat the words with more determination in my voice.

“If he is on the side of our campaign, no harm will come to him,” says the doctor. He turns to Mr. Woodcock, who seems to think for a moment, then nods.

“No notes will be taken of this part of the meeting,” he says.

I swallow hard, then say the words.

“His name’s Bill. Mr. Bill Grubstaff.”

. . . movement. It is why the citizens in the kingdom who can never move, those whose tails are forever entangled as part of a twyning, are loved and revered above all else in the kingdom. Fat and helpless, they have their own mystical wisdom, which is beyond any revelation or act. They remind every citizen of the dangers of staying still.