Willard (Ratman’s Notebooks) Read online

  WHERE YOUR NIGHTMARES END . . .

  WILLARD BEGINS.

  Rats—one of Man’s deadliest enemies. They can outbreed him. Kill him with the plagues they carry. Strip the flesh from human bones with their needle-sharp teeth and claws. No wonder the hero of George Orwell’s classic 1984 found contact with rats the ultimate torture.

  But if there was a man who didn’t find rats repugnant . . . if, on the contrary, he had such power over them that he could lead them on a campaign of escalating revenge against those humans he hated—then the world would see such a mind-wrenching horror as it had never seen before. WILLARD is the story of just such a man. And just such a horror . . .

  DON’T MISS WILLARD!

  A sensational motion picture distributed by Cinerama Releasing starring Bruce Davison, Sondra Locke, Elsa Lanchester, and Ernest Borgnine.

  A LANCER BOOK

  WILLARD

  Copyright © 1968 by Stephen Gilbert

  All rights reserved

  Printed in Canada.

  This Lancer edition is published by arrangement with The Viking Press, Inc. Its large sale in the high-priced hardcover edition makes possible this inexpensive Lancer reprint.

  Lancer Books edition: March 1973

  ISBN: 75189-095

  LANCER BOOKS, INC. 1560 BROADWAY

  NEW YORK, NX 10036

  Mother says there are rats in the rockery. “You’ll have to do something about them,” she says, “or they’ll overrun the whole place.”

  It’s all very well her talking. I’m at business all day. I don’t know what she thinks I can do about it. I’m afraid of rats. I don’t mind admitting it. What was she doing up there anyhow? She’s hardly been in the back garden since Father died. It annoys her to see how neglected it’s got.

  Saturday afternoon, so I thought I’d better investigate.

  The rockery is at the very top of the garden. When Father was alive it was a sort of a show place—very pretty, rare flowers. All that sort of thing. He used to bring along his gardening friends to show it to them. There was a pool in the center of the rockery, and he meant to put a fountain in the center of the pool. He was working at it shortly before he died. In those days we kept a full-time gardener. But Father always looked after the rockery himself.

  I hadn’t been in the back garden for ages. The state of it quite shocked me. Not that I’ll do anything. I’m only surprised Mother got as far as the rockery. There are brambles right across the path. In one place there’s even a tree, quite a sizeable tree, growing out of the very middle of the path. It just shows. Mother’s as tough as old nails really, or can be when she chooses.

  After Father died we couldn’t afford a gardener. I suppose we should have sold the house and moved somewhere smaller, but neither Mother nor I liked the idea. Mother wrote to Uncle in Canada and told him how badly off we were. Uncle’s a bachelor, and supposed to have money. But he didn’t even reply. So we paid off the gardener and stayed on, hoping for better times. Uncle can’t last forever. I keep the front garden looking fairly decent. The back’s gone wild.

  For the first few summers it was rather attractive that way, with the flowers fighting it out among themselves and rambler roses sprawling all over the place. In winter it got a horrible derelict look and I didn’t go there much. After four years or so most of the flowers had gone, even in summer, though there were still a good many roses of one kind or another and various flowering shrubs.

  I think it must have been about the third year after Father’s death, one very wet night, that the pool in the rockery overflowed. The water ran down the whole length of the garden and under the back door into the yard of the house. Fortunately there’s a drain in the middle of the yard and the water got away without doing much damage. I stayed at home next morning to dear up. I found the outlet of the pool had got blocked with dead leaves and rubbish. I cleared it easily enough, but I didn’t want more trouble. So I cut off the water and let the pool run dry.

  It was after eleven when I arrived at the office, and Mr. Jones gave off at me for being late. I tried to explain what had happened, but he just said, “Remember you’re only an ordinary employee here.” I’ve remembered it ever since, though I’m quite sure most of the ordinary employees would have got away with it without a word. He gets at me because he doesn’t like remembering that Father was once his boss and that he started as little more than a working man. Now he’s sole proprietor.

  That was seven years ago, the pool overflowing and me getting into a row with Mr. Jones. Things haven’t improved any at the office in the meantime, but I do my job as well as I can and try not to annoy him.

  I didn’t expect to see any rats straight off, and I didn’t. I had brought an old waterproof with me. I spread this out on the long grass and lay down to watch. The sun was shining. I like this time of year, half-spring, half-summer. I’d just had my lunch. I felt warm, comfortable, and a bit drowsy. I let myself fall asleep. After all I had the whole weekend before me. It didn’t matter which particular moment I watched the rats. They would either appear or not appear.

  I don’t think I slept very long. Maybe half an hour. Maybe only five minutes. It doesn’t matter. When I awoke they were there—a father rat, a mother rat, and a whole family of young ones. At least that’s what I supposed. I don’t really know which was the father and which the mother, but there were two big rats and about eleven little ones. My first feeling was a mixture of fear and disgust. What if the whole place was alive with them and I should suddenly find another family running over me? Perhaps they would attack me. I have heard that a cornered rat will fight. I have heard of babies being bitten by rats. I didn’t feel safe. I waited for a moment or two thinking what I should do. Then I stood up suddenly, meaning to run at full speed down to the house. But the moment I was on my feet I felt more sure of myself. I decided not to run, till I should see what the rats would do.

  The rats stopped playing. The two big ones immediately, the little ones a few seconds later. For a quarter of a minute or so everything froze, me standing like a statue, the two big rats watching me, the eleven little rats snuggled against stones or plants trying to make themselves invisible. Then one of the adults must have given some order. All the little ones scurried away under the big juniper bush, which grows in sort of layers close to the ground. The big ones followed, A few seconds later there wasn’t a sign of any of them. I was still rather frightened. I tip-toed over and peered under the juniper bush. I couldn’t see anything, but in the ground round about there are several holes which I’m sure must be rat-holes. There must be a whole colony of them. I wondered what we should do.

  I went back to the house. I’d the front grass to cut, and if I’d any time afterwards I meant to do a bit of hoeing at the weeds in the drive. I keep the lawnmower in the w.c. in the yard. Mother doesn’t like it there. She’d like everything to be the way it was when Father was alive. But as there’s no maid now to use that w.c., I don’t see any harm in keeping the tools there. It’s much handier than having to run up to the old tool shed at the top of the garden every time you want anything.

  Mother saw me the moment I came into the yard. I think she must have been on the look-out for me. I didn’t want to talk, but she rapped on the kitchen window and I had to go in and speak to her. She wears a diamond engagement ring, a gold wedding ring, and another ring with emeralds in it, so that when she raps on the window it is a very peremptory noise which I can’t pretend not to hear.

  “I wish you wouldn’t keep the mower in that place,” she started off.

  I said nothing. It’s the only way with her. Sometimes she’ll go on for quite a long time and if I talk back I find myself being argued into promising thin
gs. Then she gets at me later for not keeping my promise. So it’s best to say nothing. This time she didn’t go on about the lawn-mower because she wanted something else. “Did you do anything about the rats?”

  “No. What could I do?”

  “I’m sure your father would have done something. Did you even go and look at them?”

  “Yes. I’ve been watching them.”

  “Did you see them then?”

  “Yes, I saw them.”

  “They’re all over the place.”

  “I don’t think so. I think there’s only one family of them, and they’re just about the rockery so far as I could see.”

  “Yes, but they grow up in no time at all and they breed very fast. If you don’t do something about it they’ll be over the whole place.”

  “I don’t know what I can do.”

  “You’ll have to do something.”

  I nearly said I would think about it while I was cutting the grass, but I stopped myself in time. That would have been a promise to do something as soon as the grass was cut. I just said, “I’m going to cut the grass.”

  I managed to keep out of her way for the rest of the afternoon, but at tea-time she started again about the rats. “I’m sure your father would have known what to do.”

  “Father would probably have got a professional rat-catcher.”

  “Well, why don’t you get a professional rat-catcher?”

  “A rat-catcher’d cost money.”

  In our family, even before Father died, you could stop nearly any suggestion by saying it would cost money. We never had money to spare, and now of course it’s even worse.

  Mother kept quiet for quite a while, and her next remark was on what seemed to be a different subject. “I think it’s ridiculous that they haven’t made you a director.”

  “I don’t see why they should,” I mumbled sulkily. I know very well that I’m never going to be a success in business, and I didn’t want to talk about it.

  “Well your Father was head of the firm. That should surely mean something.”

  “It means I don’t get the sack.”

  “Nonsense. They simply make use of you. They know very well that you’re trustworthy. They wouldn’t get anyone else they could trust with the money for anything like what they pay you.”

  “I’m sure they could get someone else if they wanted.”

  “Then you should have a better job.”

  This sort of talk makes me feel embarrassed and ashamed of myself. So I didn’t answer. Presently she got back to the rats. “I could pour boiling water down the rat-holes and when they came up you could kill them with a stick. You can break their backs very easily, I believe.”

  For a moment this idea thoroughly scared me. I didn’t want any cornered rats jumping up and tearing out my throat Then I saw it wouldn’t work. “If you’d enough water you might drown them,” I suggested, “but boiling water’s just going to run away into the ground.”

  “Then you could get a hose and let it run into one of the holes. You’d block the others. Any that tried to come up you’d kill with your stick.”

  “It wouldn’t work. They’ve far too many holes. You’d never find them all.”

  “You don’t want to do anything at all,” she retorted. “You’re bone-lazy. That’s the trouble. You’re probably lazy in business too, and that’s why you don’t get on.”

  “Very probably,” I agreed. “I wonder which side of the family I get that from.”

  In spite of all this, the talk of drowning the rats gave me an idea, and later in the evening, when we were on speaking terms again, I mentioned it to her. “You know the pool in the rockery.”

  “I thought it had been drained.”

  “So it was, but if we could entice the rats in there and then fill it with water, they’d drown all right.”

  This idea pleased her. “I knew you’d think of something if I kept at you. All you need is a little prodding. What you want’s a wife to keep after you the whole time. I’m getting too old for it. It would help you in business too.”

  Of course she knows very well that I can’t afford to get married, even if I wanted to. And if she saw any chance of it she’d fight tooth and nail to stop me.

  I never work in the garden on Sundays. Mother wouldn’t approve. I started on the pool this evening, Monday, immediately after tea. It’s going to be a much bigger job than I thought, but it’s the sort of job I can enjoy. I don’t mean actually drowning the rats—probably I shan’t look at that—but all the preparations. It’s turning out to be a really dirty job, and there’s something about dirty jobs, once you get stuck into them.

  I started off with a shovel and wheelbarrow. The pool is silted up with a sort of black sludge, a mixture of earth and water, half-rotten leaves and broken twigs. I can’t simply shovel it out. It’s full of growing things, plants of all kinds, grass, and young trees. The roots are tangled together. Each time I thought I’d got a shovelful, whatever was on the shovel was dragged off before I could pitch it into the barrow. I tried cutting through the roots with a spade, but that wasn’t much good either. I was afraid to use it too energetically for fear of breaking the concrete. I don’t think it’s very thick. If I cracked it, the water would drain away and the rats wouldn’t get drowned. So I mucked in and dragged out the growing stuff with my hands. I’ll have more use for the shovel and spade later, when all the roots are gone and there’s only mud to clear.

  I got into the house tonight at half past ten. I was black from head to toe. Mother hardly knew me. I had to have a bath straight away.

  Well the first part’s nearly done. I’ve got the pool itself more or less the way it was when Father left it. It’s about twelve feet across and the island in the center is about three feet. The island is made of old paving stones piled on top of each other. I’ll take off the top two layers, so that the island will be below the level of the edge of the pool. It’s essential that the island should become completely submerged when I let the water in.

  The next thing is to clear the channel which brings the water from the old mill-pond in the field at the back. This needn’t be a thorough job. I’ll just have to make sure the water flows once the sluice-gate is opened.

  I could almost find it in my heart to do the whole thing properly. Seeing it like this reminds me of it at its best. It really was quite attractive. All I’d have to do would be to clear the little path round the pool, and of course weed the rockery . . . I suppose I’d have to put in fresh plants to take the place of the ones that have disappeared, and then go on weeding it once a week or so—every night, more likely. Once a week would never keep up with it, seeing I keep the front as well.

  Mother’d be delighted, but I shan’t do it, I hate any job I must do again and again. I hate cutting the grass and hoeing endlessly at the weeds in the drive. I’d let everything go completely if it wasn’t for Mother. She keeps at me. It’s not as if she ever did a stroke in the garden herself. She says she wears her fingers to the bone looking after the house, but I never see much sign of it.

  Tomorrow’ll be Saturday again and everything is ready for the execution. The pool is empty and dry. All that is now necessary is to ensure the attendance of the victims. There’d be no sense in trying anything too soon. I’ll throw a few scraps into the bottom of the pool tomorrow afternoon and see if they get taken.

  Another week’s gone by and the whole scheme is working out much better than I expected, that is to say than I expected recently. At first I hardly thought out any details.

  I threw in some scraps on Saturday afternoon. The rats can’t even have seen them. They were still there on Sunday morning. On Sunday afternoon some sparrows found them. On Sunday evening I put in more. By Monday evening they were all gone, but I wasn’t sure if it was rats or sparrows. So I got lumps of bread from the house, threw them in, and waited. After about a minute I saw Ma Rat looking out at me from under the edge of the juniper bush, or whatever it is. We watched each other. Soon I got
tired and sat down. Ma Rat went on watching me. After another five minutes or so she moved slowly over to the empty pool and peered down at the lumps of bread lying on the bottom. Then I noticed the young rats. They appeared first at the edge of the bush. Then one by one, in short rushes, a yard or so at a time, they lined up beside their mother. They all peered down at the bread in the pool. Suddenly one of the young ones half-jumped half-scrambled down the side of the pool. At the bottom he paused and looked round cautiously. Ma looked round too. Next minute they were all at the bread. Ma was the last. She jumped down very awkwardly and heavily. It looks as if she were in the family way again. No sign of Father Rat. I wonder has he deserted.

  Well everything is ready now. I’ve got the top two layers of slabs off the island, which I forgot about before. I’ve got the rats quite into the habit of feeding in the pool, or on the island, to be exact. I still put a few scraps on the bottom of the pool to attract them in the first place, and make the whole thing look casual. As if I was dumping rubbish there. But most of the food goes on the island. They’ll all be congregated on the island, eating, and won’t notice the water flowing in till it’s too late. At least that’s the idea. They’ll be quite undisturbed. Even I shan’t be there to watch—at the beginning. Of course I’ll be there before the end—in time to see them drown. It’ll be horrid, but I won’t be able to resist.

  Everything worked perfectly. Immediately after tea I went up the garden with a big bowl of scraps. True to tradition, the last meal of the condemned had to be good, nothing spared. Mother would have liked to come and watch, but she’s not been well the last day or two. She felt the walk up the garden might be too much for her. We were both excited. I promised to run down to the house and tell her immediately the deed was done.

  I threw the scraps on the island. Some of them dropped off into the bottom of the pool, and one bit of bacon rind dangled over the edge of the island. I paused just a moment to make sure the rats had spotted that it was “Grub up,” as I believe they say in the army. Then I hurried away to open the sluice-gate. The pond the water comes from is about seventy-five yards from the pool. The sluice-gate is wooden and runs in grooves. There is a long ratchet coming up from the gate. The teeth of the ratchet fit into a cog on a winch. I had the cog and ratchet well greased. I turned the winch handle and the sluice-gate—it’s only about a foot wide—rose slowly. In spite of the grease, the mechanism creaked a bit. It hasn’t been used for years. At first the water seemed reluctant to leave the pond. The bottom of the ditch isn’t deep enough to make the water rush out quickly. Even a bit of ragged robin growing across the ditch held it back for a moment as if it had been a dam. Then it trickled through, and gradually the flow became a little faster, more decided . . . Nothing much, but enough-provided it was getting through into the pool.