On the other side of the bed, by a fireplace from which a hundredweight of rusty soot had spilled like dust from a cold volcano, was a handsome brown owl, its eyes staring as if I had no right to come into its headquarters without a permit. First rats, and now an owl. Crosswise, it was almost as big as I was, and far too big even lengthwise to be out of a zoo. He was unmoving, as if my only hope was to sit down and talk matters over calmly and sensibly.
When I made a gesture with the pistol it flapped straight for me. I ducked. It clattered around the room, scored a channel through the bank of soot, knocked over two bottles and positioned itself by the door so that I couldn’t get out. It had fed on the choicest rats — and now me. There was something human about its actions, so I couldn’t shoot. One of the windows was open, and I edged forward in a dance, hoping it would have the sense to go out the way it had come in.
Maybe I shouldn’t have frightened it, I thought, as it flew over the trees and I closed the window. Since it came every night and ate a dozen rats I should have kept it for a companion. It was just like me to scare away what would help me.
Consoling myself with a large breakfast, I thought what a good place this would be for Bill Straw to hide in, even though it belonged to Moggerhanger who was out for his guts — far better than being locked up in Blaskin’s rafters where his skeleton would be discovered in fifty years’ time when the block was knocked down for redevelopment.
It was blinding with rain, so I stayed inside. A band of trees along the course of the brook kept the place dim, and low clouds didn’t help. I had the light on all day. A shelf nailed to the wall held a score of paperbacks, stained and full of grit, and as I shook each one separately I saw they were written by Sidney Blood. One of them, called The Crimson Tub, had underlinings and comments in the margins which proved that Kenny Dukes had been to Peppercorn Cottage.
The light lasted only a few hours in that hidden cleft of land. After a cowboy’s lunch I lay on the bed and fell asleep for two hours, and was wakened by a rat running over my chest. I would suggest to Moggerhanger that the next courier to Peppercorn Cottage should bring a couple of tomcats from Stepney. I made tea and ate a packet of cakes, wondering how soon it would take me to go mad if I had to stay in this hotel forever.
Wearing wellingtons and oilskins I walked up the track, though now that I dressed for the rain, it stopped. Smoke came from the chimney of a farm about a mile away. I went into a field. A rabbit, young but fully grown, looked at me, and just as it thought to move, I pressed the trigger.
The isolation of Peppercorn Cottage had inspired me to do a bit of living off the land. The rabbit ran a couple of yards, then stopped and began to spin, so I grabbed its back legs and delivered the chop that killed.
I sharpened a knife on the doorstep, drew out the guts and stomach, cut off the head, skinned and jointed it. For a stew I threw in potatoes, carrots and onions, and a few bay leaves from a bush by the door. I stoked up the fire, feeling like a cannibal, and swung the black pot over the flames.
The light from the beam didn’t quite reach the four walls, so that the blazing fire turned the place into a cave. Perhaps the rats turned against me mostly because I wouldn’t allow them to get too friendly. Some people say they are very intelligent creatures. I heard more squeals of resentment as I chewed at my broiled rabbit and threw the bones into the fire than I had while devouring salty and tasteless sausages. But I refused to share my delicious and plentiful food. They were big enough to go out and catch their own rabbits.
Shadows moved on the walls. I saw rats everywhere. I turned and fired the pistol and, because I shot out of malice instead of self-preservation, a ricochet struck my ankle. I swear to God the little bleeders laughed in chorus. When I took my sock off there was a dark bruise, and I hopped around the room till there was more ache in my foot from the cold than the bullet.
I was stuck till someone came for the packages. Maybe they wouldn’t turn up for a month. I preferred not to think about it, as I pulled a stone from the fireplace and hurled it at a rat by the stairfoot door. I got it right on the arse, but a convenient hole swallowed it up. They were getting bolder.
The gap in the clouds when I stood at the open door showed brighter stars than I’d ever seen. One rat ran outside and another ran in. Then the one that ran out came in again. How long would they put up with me? I stood aside so as not to interfere with the traffic. All the same, I liked the isolation of the house. If it was mine I would set rat traps and lay poison, buy more lamps to hang up, bring stoves to heat the place, nail pictures on the wall, spread new carpets, install a battery television and record player, get a generator, and a pump to draw water from the stream, as well as fix a toilet in the shed by the side of the house and open a radio telephone line to the local exchange. I would clear the vegetation and lay out an ornamental garden, build a terrace and sun porch, and excavate a swimming pool. I would give parties and invite all the young girls from miles around.
I spat. Too expensive. Might as well buy a house in Clapham. When I slammed the door I almost trapped another rat on its way in. I decided to spend the night in the car which, seen from the window of this mud-smeared rat-infested hole in the hillside, seemed the height of civilisation. I wondered if being sent to this place wasn’t Moggerhanger’s notion of a test to see whether I wouldn’t turn grey-haired or go mad. I filled a flask and made bacon sandwiches. Several trips were necessary to transfer provisions, blankets and the gun to the car. I was careful to lock the cottage door after me.
The stars beamed, trees swayed, water rippled a few feet beyond the fender. I was full and content, though not particularly drowsy. There was little rain. I was comfortable, yet felt more vulnerable in the car than I had in the house, in spite of my squeaking and scurrying friends. I listened to the radio, ate, drank tea, and got out now and again for a stroll, careful to open and close the door quickly. At ten o’clock there was nothing to do but sleep. Then I felt a rat run over my hand.
No, it was a corner of the blanket tickling me. But, I said to myself, blankets don’t have little cold claws and damp noses, even at the corners. The tickling of a blanket is like that of a butterfly or moth, or even at the worst a bluebottle. In no possible way could even the edge of a blanket be compared to the snout of a fully fledged Shropshire rodent.
I jumped up, banged my head and the little bleeder ran squeaking under the steering column. To shoot in such a confined space would be foolhardy, and Moggerhanger wouldn’t like slug scars all over his interior decoration. I dived across the seats to get at the rat with my bare hands, hoping it hadn’t brought its mate as well, otherwise they would have at least two families by morning.
If I wasn’t safe in a Rolls-Royce, where would I be safe? I had to put a stop to the invasion. A live rat in a car was no joke. I lit a fag and took a few minutes to think the matter out and to lull the rat into a state of over-confidence. I wasn’t born yesterday.
I pulled on leather gloves from my overcoat pocket. The rat was near my boot, sniffing the leather. The light was on, and I could see it clearly — about eight inches long and quite pleased with itself. I actually saw its teeth, and felt them against the side of my boot.
That rat was never more surprised in its life — what was left of it. Neither was I. I gripped it like a vice around the soft belly then opened the window and threw it towards the stream. I listened for the splash, but to my chagrin it landed on the further bank, and then I heard the splash as it began swimming back. I battened all hatches and made as good a search as could be done with my torch, till I knew I was alone. I laughed like Boris Karloff after he’d strangled his seventh victim. I was safe from the rats, but even so, now and again through the night I heard one or two running over the roof of the car, and they sounded as if they had it in for me.