Ratman's Notebooks Page 10

  I don’t know what to do about money. I thought again about writing to Uncle in Canada. But he never replies to letters anyway. And it might have the opposite effect to what I want. He might decide that I was shiftless and cut me out of his will—if I’m ever in it. So I just did nothing as usual.

  It is only now, forty-eight hours after the event, that I can write about it any way calmly.

  The night before last I was in desperation. I had only half a loaf of bread in the house and no money whatever. I could eat the bread myself and let the rats starve, or I could give them the bread and starve myself. Goodness knows we’re all half-starved as it is—or were. Things have now changed, for the time being at least. As they were then I realised it didn’t matter much who got the bread. We were all going to starve completely very soon. There would be no relief till the end of the month when my pittance is paid by the firm. Of course I could have robbed the till—‘Borrowed a bit from the cash drawer,’ is a nicer way to put it. I would have had no hesitation in doing this if I hadn’t felt almost certain I would be found out. Jones has made a rule that the Book-keeper must make a surprise check on the cash at least three times a month. It’s not that my cash has ever been out. I don’t know if Jones even suspects me of anything. I think it’s just part of the general nastiness that he calls ‘Efficiency.’

  As I sat there sipping a glass of cold water, and looking alternatively at the half loaf of bread and at Socrates, it occurred to me that a change had come over my moral outlook. I realised that if I could have stolen money from the firm without being found out, I would have. Nothing but fear, or prudence, kept me from being a criminal. This thought didn’t make me ashamed in any way. On the contrary I felt as if a door had suddenly been opened to me. It was as if in a game of golf I didn’t need to count any more the shots which my opponent didn’t see. Then it struck me that possibly Jones had discovered this a long time ago, and hungry as I was, I laughed. Socrates looked up quite frightened. I don’t often laugh.

  For some time I couldn’t think of how to take advantage of my new discovery. All sorts of grandiose schemes for robbing banks and mail vans flitted through my mind. After fifteen minutes or so I became more practical. What I want now, I said to myself, is food for myself and the rats. Fortune can come later. All about me there is food in plenty. My neighbours have food. The shops are full of food. All I have to think of is how to get possession of some without paying.

  The first thing that struck me was that if I could feed the rats I could eat the half-loaf myself. Of course only a temporary solution, but an urgent temporary solution was what I needed most. I thought immediately of Major Robinson. I don’t know why. He is not quite my nearest neighbour. But he is often away and more than once I have yielded to the temptation of helping myself from his garden. It’s so easy to get into, and quite a lot of what he grows never gets used in any case. It’s a pity to let it go to waste.

  The fact is I know Major Robinson’s garden and I know the back of his house. Indeed I have sometimes peered through the larder window. . . . There are two windows really. From one the glass has been removed and replaced by a fine wire mesh that not even a midge could squirm through. But it would be quite easy to knock a hole in it. My fist would probably do the trick, and there would be no noise, as there would be if I had to break glass. I could let the rats through the hole in the wire and they could eat as much as they liked. If anyone did come, which would be unlikely if I chose my time right, what would he do if he found the larder filled with rats all eating away as fast as they could manage? Scream, if it was a woman, run for help or a stick if it was a man—and in the interval I could get the rats out of the larder and sneak quietly away. Even a brave man might hesitate to tackle forty-nine rats with a stick. Nearly everyone is a little afraid of rats. I used to be till I learned how friendly they really are. Of course Major Robinson being a military man ought to be brave, but military men nowadays think of strategy and tactics more than blind courage. Major Robinson would probably think it more correct strategically to call in the police or the fire brigade.

  Before doing anything I decided to go and spy out the land. I put Socrates in one pocket of my waterproof and the half loaf of bread in the other. I was afraid, if I left it, it mightn’t be there when I came back. The rats have gnawed a hole in the cellar door and though I try to persuade them to keep in the cellar I never know that I won’t find them in the house.

  I went straight down the road to the Robinsons’. It’s built with its back to the road, and the vegetable garden is between the road and the house. There’s nothing simpler than to nip in any dark night and help oneself to a cabbage, a few potatoes, or even some tomatoes out of the greenhouse. The trouble is that there hasn’t been anything in the garden for the past month. Tonight it was reasonably dark and there was no light showing from the larder. I turned in at the gate without a qualm. I half-saw half-heard Nap, the Major’s dog, and put out my hand to give him a pat. I’ve always been on friendly terms with Nap. He usually stands beside me wagging his tail when I’m taking things from the garden. But tonight he jumped up on me and began to bark in an absolute frenzy. I had quite forgotten about Socrates in my pocket, till he began to wriggle about a little.

  ‘Down Nap! Quiet Nap!’ I ordered, but it wasn’t the slightest use. He is a biggish dog, a sort of mongrel Old English Sheepdog. He made no attempt to bite me, but he was determined to get Socrates out of my pocket, probably thought he was doing me a good turn. Imagined I didn’t know I had a rat in my pocket. I wasn’t so much afraid that he would get Socrates out. He’s too clumsy for that. I was afraid that his continual jumping up might injure Socrates. I was also afraid that the noise might bring out the Major to see what was wrong.

  So I gave up and began to make for home. I had to keep twisting and turning and at the same time pushing Nap off. I was terribly tempted to kick him, but I didn’t want to make an enemy of him. I knew I’d want to use the garden again sometime. Then the lights went on at the back of the Robinsons’ house and the next thing was the Major’s authoritative, military voice. ‘Nap! Nap! Come home, Sir. At once.’

  ‘Go home,’ I whispered, giving him a sort of half-kick. He yelped and, by a miracle, turned tail and went.

  I ran for home—on tip-toes so as to make no noise.

  I heard the Major and Nap meet. ‘What’s the matter, boy? What are you barking at? What’s all the fuss?’ I knew he would come strolling out to the gate to investigate.

  I raced up our own drive, and in through the yard and the back door. I felt safe. I was quite sure the Major hadn’t seen me. Of course even if he had, he couldn’t have done anything. I’ve as much right to be on the road as he has. All the same he would have thought it strange, if Nap had started to jump up at me again, barking in that hysterical fashion.

  Fancy calling a dog ‘Napoleon’, because that’s what Nap’s short for. The Major apparently has always been a great admirer of the Emperor, admires his strategy. . . . Bit out of date, you’d think. Maybe that’s why he only got to be a Major. I mean, even in the army. . . .

  I went out again in about fifteen minutes. This time I left Socrates though I still kept the lump of bread in my pocket. I didn’t intend to try the Major’s again, though by now Nap was probably safely shut in. That didn’t say he wouldn’t start barking away again like mad the moment I got near the house. But there are several other houses in our road—and then it suddenly struck me. A new grocer’s shop has started up just opposite the end of our road. There’s the shop in front, just a little back from the main road, and behind it there’s a big store. The door between the shop and the store was open once, when I was in the shop, and I got a glimpse of what was inside. It seemed to be just crammed with stuff, mostly food. Someone told me that the man must have more money than sense, starting a shop there and carrying such a stock. But I don’t know. He seems to be getting on all right.

>   I went down to the main road. The shop was shut, but there was a dim light shining through it. I realised it came from a little office near the back. Probably the grocer totting up his books to see how he was doing. I went round to the very back. Quite easy because there’s waste ground on either side. There’s only one window at the back. It has iron bars across it, no glass. I heard that he had glass in at first. But the local hooligans kept throwing stones through it and he had to give up and put bars instead. The bars are too close for a hooligan to get through, but a rat could manage comfortably. There was no light in the store.

  I went back home for the rats. I put twenty-five rats in the bag I used when I went to do Jones’s tyres. I carried it down and left it at the back of the grocer’s store, not just under the window, but a little way off in a bunch of nettles, where even if anyone did come along it wouldn’t be seen. ‘Quiet,’ I said. ‘I’ll be back.’ I’d never left them like this before. I hoped it would be all right. I kept Socrates in my pocket. I didn’t like to leave him in case anything went wrong. I went home and brought the rest in a suitcase.

  As soon as I got to the waste ground again I opened the bag I’d left and found the rats all huddled together in the bottom. They hadn’t tried to get out. Probably they were frightened. I took them all to the window, and put them in through the bars, one by one—Socrates first to show the way. ‘Food,’ I told them. ‘Eat food.’ I said that to each one of them as I placed it on the window-ledge between the bars.

  I don’t suppose it took more than two or three minutes to put them all in. After that I could see nothing. It was quite black inside the store. I had no idea what was going on. I wondered how long I should leave them—one hour, two hours?

  I ate some of the bread, but not much, because my mouth was dry and there was no water.

  I hid the bag and the suitcase in the nettles and went round to the front to look at my watch in the light from the shop. It was ten past nine. I thought I might leave them till ten past eleven. By that time I would want to go home to bed. Besides I was afraid to leave them too long in case they all got tired of eating and went to sleep.

  I returned to the back and leaned against the wall under the window. I thought I was safe there. If I hung about in front someone might notice me. Not that anyone could say anything. Still you never know. After a bit I went to the front again and had another look at my watch. Twenty-five to ten. I was bored stiff. If only I could have seen the rats. All I knew was that there was an occasional rustling of paper, an occasional slight fistling noise.

  I had an electric torch at home. I wished I had brought it. I thought of going back for it. It would only mean leaving the rats for ten or fifteen minutes, and it would help to put in the time.

  And then something fell inside the store. It didn’t make much noise. It might have been a packet of cornflakes falling from a shelf four or five feet from the ground. I wondered if the grocer would hear it and wonder. Was the door between the shop and the store open or closed? Was the door of his little glass office open or closed? I didn’t know. I hesitated. Should I call the rats back quickly, before there was any chance of discovery, or was I being too jittery?

  The light went on in the store. At the same time there was quite a loud noise. I don’t know what sort of noise. I think it was the noise of the grocer flinging open the door. I expect he tried to open the door and switch on the light almost simultaneously, with the idea of surprising the burglars. I am sure he had no idea what sort of burglars were there.

  I had to stand on tip-toes to see through the window. At first I didn’t see the grocer, or any rats. I suppose my eyes were dazzled. Then I saw everything. The store was bigger than I had imagined. The grocer was standing in the doorway, quite still, with his eyes wide open. The rats were quite close to him. They were all looking at him, as surprised as he was, stopped in the middle of whatever they’d been doing. Some had been crawling over a side of bacon, some digging a hole in a cheese. Others were surrounded by a sea of cornflakes. It was wonderful how much they had done in so short a time.

  The grocer slammed the door. He didn’t switch off the light. What will he do now? I wondered. I called the rats. ‘Socrates! All of you. Quick! Here! Out! Time to go home!’ They came crowding through the bars, jostling each other, the ones at the back shoving against the ones in front. I snatched Socrates, put him in my pocket and dashed to the bunch of nettles for my bag and suitcase. I should have done that, of course, before I called.

  I dropped the case a yard or two from the window and began to open the bag so that they could jump straight into it. There was a squeal from beneath my feet, and another. I was treading on rats. Those who had got to the window first had been pushed off the ledge by the ones behind. The ground was covered with rats. I knelt down, and began to grab them, thrusting them into the bag as quickly as I could. But I remembered to count. I couldn’t even see them. I grovelled about on the ground and whenever I could feel a rat I caught it and put it in. When I had twenty-four in the bag I closed it and began on the case. There were some still on the window-ledge. I could see them peering down at me. In fact they were the only ones I could see. I took them last. Forty-five, forty-six, forty-seven, forty-eight. . . . There must be one missing. I got down on the ground again and began to grovel. Was one of the rats I had stood on injured, perhaps killed. Suddenly I remembered. I hadn’t counted Socrates. I had them all.

  Now what? Where had the grocer gone? Was he in his little office telephoning the police? No. You wouldn’t telephone the police for rats. What would you do? I thought I had better investigate before I took any too precipitate action. If the grocer was out at the front, waiting for the police or the fire brigade, he would think it funny if he met me coming from behind his store carrying a suitcase in one hand and a leather travelling bag in the other.

  So I investigated, first putting the case and the bag back among the nettles. The light was still on in the shop, but I could see no sign of the grocer. Was he still in the office? There was a man’s hat there, but it didn’t move. Perhaps he was sitting down at the telephone. The front door was open. I couldn’t remember if it had been open before or not. I didn’t think so. Probably he had rushed out not bothering to shut it. The rats must have frightened him. He hadn’t even liked to wait to telephone. The hat must be empty, stuck on top of a filing cabinet or something.

  There was an easy way to find out. Walk in. If there was someone in the hat, tell them I had noticed the door open and wanted a packet of cigarettes. How’s he to know I’ve given up smoking? . . . and what business is it of his anyhow? If he does offer me cigarettes it’s time enough to discover I’ve no money with me and say I’m sorry for troubling him.

  So I did walk in. I searched the shop. There was no one there. The hat was empty. It was hanging on a peg as a matter of fact. But there were three bundles, each containing one hundred one-pound-notes, lying on a little table where he had been working. I took Socrates out of my pocket and put him on the table. I pointed at one of the bundles of notes, ‘Eat,’ I said. He took a nibble and didn’t like it. ‘Eat,’ I said again. This time he took a little more. The bundle now had a nibbled look. ‘All right,’ I told him and put him back in my pocket. I looked round. No sign of the grocer coming back. I went to the door of the store and using my handkerchief to turn the handle opened it slightly. Oh I haven’t read detective stories for nothing. I went back to the office. Still no sign of anybody. I picked up the two unnibbled bundles of notes, shoved them into my pocket (not the one where Socrates was) and ran.

  A bus went by without stopping and immediately afterwards two cars. I turned my back to the road. You never know who may recognise you. Where on earth had the grocer gone? Could I trust him to stay away another few minutes. I decided to chance it. I dodged round behind the store again and picked my suitcase and bag from among the nettles. It was less chancy taking them both at once than
coming back when the Fire Brigade and police might be all over the place. Fortune favours the bold. I got home without meeting a soul.

  Knowing that I am a criminal is like waking up and finding myself a millionaire. The main difference is that most millionaires don’t mind who knows they are millionaires. I can’t let anyone know I’m a criminal.

  For the first time since I made friends with the rats I see clearly what I ought to do. I was like someone with a business—plant, machinery, and so on—but no working capital. Now I have working capital—two hundred pounds. Not very much, but enough, I think, to start me.

  Of course I will have to lay my plans very carefully. I will require to make the best possible use of my assets. My chief assets are my money, my house and the rats. Previously I let the little money I had fritter away. That was because I didn’t think of becoming a criminal. This time I intend my money to start earning for me almost immediately. I will commit more crimes, crimes designed solely to earn money. I won’t rob any more grocery stores. To keep the rats well fed I would have to rob a food store every day. Very soon we would be found out. Ideally I would like to rob a bank, but so would every criminal. Perhaps I shall rob a bank eventually but to begin with I must attempt something easier. I think I know what.

  This evening I bought a car. A van would have suited my purpose better, but everyone would ask, ‘What on earth does he want with a van?’ The car itself cost £50, but by the time I have paid tax and insurance there’ll be about £80 down the drain. Never mind. I hope I’ll soon get it back and a lot more with it.