THE RATS
James Herbert
Prologue
The old house had been empty for more than a year. It stood, detached and faded, next to a disused canal, away from the road, screened by foliage gone wild. No one went there, nobody showed much interest anymore. A few windows had been shattered by the neighbourhood kids, but even they lost interest when nothing more than silence responded to the crash of broken glass. In fact, the only interest that had ever been shown by others was on the day they took the old woman away.
They knew she’d been living alone since her husband had died, never went out, and was only rarely seen peering from behind lace curtains. She never parted the curtains, just gazed through them,so only a hazy, spectral form could be seen by anyone interested enough to look. Her groceries were delivered every week and left on the back step. Powdered milk was included amongst them. The local grocer said the old woman’s bank paid her bills regularly every three months with never any queries as to the contents of his delivery.Which suited him. He’d been given a list at the beginning for a regular order, but if he forgot to include a pound of butter or two pounds of sugar now and again, no one noticed- no one complained.
Still, he was curious. He used to see her occasionally when her husband was alive, but even then she didn’t have much to say. They were a couple of queer old birds, her and her old man. Never going out, never having company. But well off because they’d’ been abroad for years and since their return the husband never seemed to work. Then the old boy had died. The grocer wasn’t sure of what but it had been a recurrence of some tropical disease he’d caught whilst abroad. The old woman was never seen after that, but the grocer had heard her. Nothing much, just the scraping of chairs or a door dosing. He’d once heard her shouting at someone, but never discovered who.
People had begun to wonder about her. Some heard wailing coming from the house one night. Laughter another.
Finally, complete silence for over a month.
It was only when the grocer found his previous week’s delivery still on the doorstep that he reluctantly reported the matter to the police. Reluctantly, because he feared the worst and hated to see a nice little, regular order come to an end.
Anyway, it turned out she wasn’t dead. A policeman was sent to investigate and then an ambulance arrived and took her away. She wasn’t dead, just a lunatic. As far as the grocer was concerned she might just as well have passed on because that was the end of his little number. It had been too good to last.
So the house was empty. Nobody came, nobody went,nobody really bothered. In a year it was barely visible from the road. The undergrowth was tall, the bushes thick and the trees hid the upper storey.
Eventually, people were hardly aware it existed.
Chapter One
Henry Guilfoyle was slowly drinking himself to death. He’d started six years ago, at the age of forty.
He’d been a successful salesman for aMidlandpaper company and was ready to become area manager.
The trouble was,he’d fallen in love late in life. And unfortunately, he’d fallen for one of his junior salesmen. He’d trained young Francis for five weeks, taking him on his business journeys up and down the country. At first he wasn’t sure if the boy had the same inclinations as himself but as he grew to know him, the shyness, and the quiet loneliness of his protégé seemed slowly to dissolve that incredible gap he’d always felt with other men.
Why Francis had decided to become a salesman he’d never discovered. He wasn’t the type. Guilfoyle could hold his own in the company of any group of men. He could be the typical bluff salesman; the dirty jokes, the sly wink, the back slapping, the professionalism of his trade hiding any imperfections in his maleness. He was a good actor.
Francis was different. It seemed the shadow of his homosexuality dampened his natural spirits, guilt tainting his moods. But he wanted to prove himself, to be accepted, and he had chosen a career that would make him forget his own personality by reflecting that of others.
The third week they’d stayed in a small hotel inBradford.
Only double rooms were available, so they shared one with single beds. They’d been drinking most of the afternoon with a client, after lunch, taking him to the usual local strip club.
Guilfoyle had watched Francis in the darkened basement called a club because it had a bar and a membership fee.
The boy had watched the girls all right, but not with the exaggerated look of lust shown on the face of their client - and on himself, of course. And when the final sequinned garment of the girl had been thrown aside, he slapped the boy’s thigh, under the table with skilful heartiness, letting his hand linger, just for a moment, but long enough for their eyes to meet. And then he knew - oh, that glorious moment when he really knew.
There had been signs after the first week of course. Little tests Guilfoyle had set. Nothing daring, nothing that could cause even slight embarrassment if rebuffed. But he’d been right. He knew. He’d seen the smile in the boy’s eyes, no surprise, not even apprehension, and certainly not alarm.
The rest of the afternoon passed with a dreamlike quality.
His heart beat wildly every time he looked at the boy,But still he acted superbly. Hisvulgar, and ugly -
most definitely ugly - client never suspected. They were men, in a man’s world, leering at big breasted, deformed women. The boy was a bit green of course, but they’d shown him how real men acted when they were confronted by naked thighs and fleshy tits. Guilfoyle emptied his glass of Scotch, threw back his head, and laughed.
When they got back to the hotel - the hotel Guilfoyle had chosen for special reasons - the boy was sick.
He wasn’t used to drink, but Guilfoyle had plied him with whisky all after-noon. Now he began to have regrets. Perhaps he’d overdone it. Francis had been sick in the cab on the way back from the club, and then again in their room, in the sink. Guilfoyle had ordered black coffee and poured three cups into the half-conscious boy. Them was a mess on the boy’s coat and shirt so Guilfoyle tenderly took them off and scrubbed the worst spots in hot water.
Then Francis began to cry.
He was sitting on his bed, head in his hands, his pale shoulders shuddering convulsively. A lock of fair hair fell over his long, thin fingers. Guilfoyle sat next to him and put his arm over the boy’s shoulder. The boy’s head leaned into Guilfoyle’s chest, and then he was cradling him in his arms. They stayed like that for a long time, the older man rocking the younger one back and forth like a five-year-old until the sobbing faded into an occasional whimper.
Guilfoyle slowly undressed Francis and put him into the bed. He gazed at him for a while then undressed himself.
He got in beside the boy and closed his eyes.
Guilfoyle would never forget that night. They’d made love and the boy had surprised him. He wasn’t the innocent he had seemed. Nevertheless, Guilfoyle had fallen in love. He knew the dangers. He’d heard the stories of middle-aged men and youngboys, knew their vulnerability. But he was happy. For the first time, after making love to another man, he felt clean. Purged was the feeling of guilt, gone was the feeling of self-contempt, disgust. He felt free- and alive,,more alive than he’d ever been.
They’d gone back to their company after collecting a fair-sized order from their client inBradford, and all had gone well for a while.
Guilfoyle expected to be area manager in a few weeks, large orders were coming in, and he saw Francis every day and most evenings.
Then, slowly at first, things began to change. The younger lads seemed to be losing their respect for him.