Ratman's Notebooks Read online

  Mrs. Malcomson has been interviewed on her release from hospital. They are to stay with friends for a few days, before deciding whether to continue with their holiday or not. There is a photograph of her clasping Toby. Toby is licking her face. But that’s not the point. She insists that there was one huge rat as big as a man, which crawled slowly across the floor from the door to the bed. Obviously the interviewers didn’t know what to make of this. There’s a headline, ‘Rat as big as man,’ in one paper, and another has, ‘Rat Monster.’ It goes on, ‘Asked what the Rat monster looked like, Mrs. Malcomson said it was “Quite obscene”.’ This of course is me. What does she mean, ‘Obscene?’ Incidentally Hubby didn’t see any ‘Rat Monster.’ The way it’s put in the interview makes it plain that he doesn’t think his wife did either, though he’s polite enough not actually to say so.

  Only today did I realise the significance of the appearance of Toby in the photograph with Mrs. Malcomson. As usual the information came from Jones via the Book-keeper. Jones is enjoying a kind of double fame at present. First of all he knows the Malcomsons. That’s quite something these days. And as the Malcomsons are so well off it gives you a standing socially as well as conversationally—and of course he’s a rat victim himself. That ensures immediate attention. He says if he’d known what was happening to his tyres he’d have gone out and laid about him with a stick. ‘They’re quite easy to deal with if you don’t lose your head. A cut with the stick, and you snap the backbone. Just like that.’

  ‘But are you not afraid of them going for your throat, Mr. Jones? They say they can tear your throat out with their teeth and you’re dead in a matter of seconds.’ This from the girl, looking at Jones as if he was her hero. It’d sicken you. Jones and the Book-keeper standing talking in the middle of the Cash Office. The girl gazing up adoringly and openly eaves-dropping.

  ‘I don’t think any rat would go for my throat,’ declared the brave and gallant Jones. ‘It would have short thrift if it did.’

  It appears that the dog Toby was booked for the gas chamber while sweet Wifey and Hubby were hitting the high spots in London. They were fond of poor Toby and he wasn’t particularly old. But they couldn’t afford to pay for him in boarding kennels while they were away. The R.S.P.C.A. was going to keep him for a week free. Then, if nobody wanted him, put him down painlessly. The Malcomsons would have got a new puppy after they came back and had time to settle down. Far more fun than placid old Toby.

  Now remorse has struck. Toby was uneasy the night before the raid. Perhaps even then the rats were prowling and about to strike. Brave dog Toby rushed out barking without a thought for his own safety and drove them off. So brave dog Toby, protector of dear Master and Mistress, who really love him deeply, is to be preserved to an honoured old age. This of course didn’t appear in the papers, but all the Malcomsons’ friends, who it seems are in the habit of dealing with their own dogs in the same way, have been talking about it. So I saved Toby’s life.

  The idea of a rat monster has been taken up seriously by two of the Sunday papers. ‘What did Mrs. Malcomson see?’ The other, more effectively, I thought, ‘What Mrs. Malcomson saw.’ Fair makes your flesh creep, don’t it! What she saw, it appears, was a monster half-human half-rat. ‘Scientists have long been aware that legendary creatures, such as the mysterious “Monster of Glamis”, really do exist. Their occurrence fortunately is rare, but when they occur they present a fearful menace to humanity. In the present instance it would seem that such a creature is loose in our midst, a monster rat-man. . . .’

  There was a whole lot more, all pseudo-scientific in a very crude sort of way. I don’t know how much faith anyone puts in it. Probably the less educated swallow it whole, while the highbrows reject it absolutely. No matter. But everyone has started to talk of ‘Ratman’, and whether they really believe in Ratman or not, everyone’s on the look-out for him.

  The girl certainly is. ‘What do you think of Ratman?’ she asked me.

  I determined to be bold. The way to throw them off the trail is certainly not to pretend I don’t believe in Ratman. ‘I think he’s hiding somewhere.’

  ‘D’you reely?’

  ‘Yes. I expect he’s lying up, waiting to strike again.’

  Because of all the excitement I won’t bring Socrates and Ben into the office any more just at present. Someone might notice their droppings and then there’d be a general hunt. I miss Socrates when I’m working late—and that’s nearly every night, except Friday.

  When I went up to bed last night with Socrates I found Ben curled up in the middle of the eiderdown, sound asleep. At first I didn’t know what to do. Ben is a very different rat from Socrates. I don’t know why, but I have always felt slightly afraid of him. Wakened suddenly he might turn and snap. I’ve never been bitten by one of the rats yet and I don’t want to be.

  After watching Ben for a moment or two I put Socrates down on the pillow and gave the eiderdown a sharp tug. Ben awoke, sprang up, and glared at me most angrily. At first I was frightened. Ben looked as if he meant to fight it out. But I knew I mustn’t be frightened. If I started letting myself be frightened of the rats what on earth would be the end of it? So I said sternly, ‘Ben, you know very well you’re not allowed here,’ and picked him up as I was speaking. He did snap at me, but he took good care not to bite. I gave him a little tap on the head with my forefinger and repeated, ‘Bad Ben,’ once or twice. Then I carried him downstairs and put him into the cellar with the others.

  I went to bed, with Socrates beside me as usual, and fell asleep almost immediately. But when I awoke this morning Ben was back on the bed, under the eiderdown this time, on the opposite side of me to Socrates.

  I lay quiet for a little, thinking what to do. Apart from Socrates I don’t want to give the rats the run of the house. Particularly I don’t want them in my bedroom, and more particularly still I don’t want them all crawling over the bed. ‘I’ll teach you,’ I thought suddenly, and I gave a great big kick under the clothes just where Ben was lying. Ben shot out towards the middle of the floor landing there with a fair bang. ‘That’ll larn you to do what you’re told,’ I shouted at him.

  Next moment I was sorry. I was afraid that the fall might have done him an injury, but it didn’t seem to have. He looked stunned for a moment or two, but perhaps it was because he hadn’t quite wakened up. Then he gave me a look that was anything but cowed—in fact it was diabolical—and went slowly off behind the dressing table.

  I hadn’t time to do anything about him then. I had to hurry to get into work, but when I came home this evening he was back with the other rats in the cellar. It was obvious how he had got both out and in. There was a hole gnawed in the bottom of the cellar-door. I spent the evening patching it up. Then I covered the whole bottom of the door with tin—two old biscuit-tins which I cut up for the purpose and fixed on with tacks. We’ll see how he likes tin and tacks to sharpen his teeth on.

  This morning I again found Ben on the bed. He wasn’t asleep. He was watching me. For a while we both remained quite still, our eyes fixed on each other. A sudden kick would be no good this time. The slightest movement on my part would be met by a counter move. I wondered what he would do if I drew up my left leg so as to get it into position to give him a hefty kick like yesterday morning’s. Would he jump quickly over to my right side where Socrates was still sound asleep, or would he go at my throat which was uncovered, and try to kill me? I didn’t think he could succeed. I would get my hand up pretty quickly. Still it was a nasty thought. Ben looked very fierce. His teeth were slightly bared and his hair was standing on end. Perhaps the nips he had had at the Malcomsons’ toes had given him a taste for human blood. If Ben did attack would Socrates help me? I was sure at any rate that he wouldn’t join in against me.

  Keeping my eyes fixed on Ben I edged slightly over towards Socrates. Socrates woke up, uncurled and stretched himself. He licked his han
ds and began to wash his face. Ben dug his claws into the quilt and gripped it tightly. I realised at once that he had no intention of attacking me, only of holding on like grim death. Well I had no intention of projecting him into the middle of the floor a second time. I had no wish to hurt him.

  I slipped out of bed at the right-hand side disturbing Socrates as little as possible. Socrates continued the regular routine of his grooming. I had no time to deal with Ben just then. It’s always a rush getting out of the house in the morning. I suppose I should train myself to wake up earlier. Ben will have to be taught who’s master, but it will have to wait till tomorrow morning. Now I know he doesn’t mean to attack me I know exactly what to do. I am going to take up Father’s old walking-stick when I go to bed tonight. I shall leave it across the end of the bed behind my pillow, where I can reach it in the morning almost without moving. Ben’s in for a nasty surprise. Not that I shall do him any harm, just teach him a lesson.

  But I don’t know how he got out. The tin’s still there on the bottom of the door.

  The walking stick was effective. I set myself to wake up much earlier than usual and was successful. There was Ben lying on the quilt at my left side. He was awake too. I pulled myself up sharply in the bed and grabbed the stick. Ben dug his claws in, prepared to hold on. I don’t think he had any idea what I was going to do. I got into a half-kneeling position and gave him a first quite gentle prod with the stick. Ben snapped at it. I prodded him again a little harder—and then harder, and harder. . . . He tried to get hold of the stick in his mouth, but he couldn’t. He kept on snapping. He tried to dodge round the point of the stick—there was a ferrule on it—but I kept making quick, whippy movements with my wrist so that he couldn’t get past. Inexorably I forced him back towards the end of the bed, careful all the time to do him no real damage. I could see he was furious. Given half a chance he would have counter-attacked with teeth and claws. But I gave him no chance and all of a sudden he realised he couldn’t win. He turned and ran down a piece of hanging blanket, jumping the last six or nine inches to the floor. Then he went under the bed.

  Now what to do? If I settled down and went to sleep he’d be up again in a moment. I’d have to get him right out of the room, teach him that this was no place for him. If I got up in the ordinary way I felt quite convinced that as soon as my toes came dangling down the side of the bed Ben would have a go at them, nipping them as he’d done with Malcomson. Incidentally my bed’s pretty high, higher even than the Malcomsons’, an iron bed with brass knobs at the corners so that there’s normally quite a bit of dangling time before my feet reach the floor. Incidentally again, I’m sure it’s much easier to make than a modern bed, because you don’t have to bend down so far.

  I decided to leap suddenly into the middle of the floor. Grasping the stick firmly in my right hand I leaped (leapt?). I turned round quickly and crouched down, facing the bed. At the side nearest to me the bedclothes had slipped right down to the floor so that I couldn’t see underneath. Socrates, who had slept all through my duel with Ben, had at last woken up. He came to the edge of the bed and peered down at me, looking rather puzzled. I advanced to the bed, swishing the stick backwards and forwards, or rather sideways and sideways, along the floor, watching every minute for Ben to jump out from under the bed and renew the battle. Ben didn’t show himself. I swished the stick right along under the edge of the clothes. I felt nothing. I swished again, a little further in. Again nothing. I advanced a little more, thrust the whole length of the stick under the bed, and waggled it furiously. Sound of stick against china. I caught the hanging blankets and sheet with the point of the stick and flicked them one by one on to the top of the bed. This a little inconvenienced Socrates, who found himself getting covered in bedclothes and had to retreat to my pillow where his view of the proceedings was not nearly so good. I peered under the bed. There was no one there—nothing in fact but Edgar Allan, which I hardly ever use because of the nuisance of emptying it. Well he might be in there. It’s a nice flowery one with a handle. I reversed the stick, attached the crook to Edgar’s handle and pulled. No. Ben wasn’t there. He must have scurried out the opposite side during the time it was hidden from me by the bedclothes.

  I spent nearly an hour searching the room for Ben. I didn’t find him. When at last I got back to bed it was within half an hour of getting-up time and I didn’t get any more sleep. As I usually do, unless I’m very late, I made my bed before going down for breakfast. I left the stick along the top behind the pillow as before, but perhaps tomorrow morning I shan’t need it.

  Last night I was late getting to bed. I was home late after working in the office till nearly ten, and I suppose being tired slowed me down. I took longer than usual dealing with the rats in the cellar. Also in writing my notes. After that I fell asleep in my chair. Socrates woke me up by scratching my hand with his paw—very gently at first so that I dreamed that there was a fly walking over my hand and then that I had been bitten by a clegg. I thought that there would be no harm in taking him into the office again—and Ben too of course to keep him company. All the talk about rats seems to have died away and the plan for a great rat-purge put forward by one of the papers has been forgotten.

  I went upstairs. I hadn’t been in my bedroom since the morning and the first thing I did was to look for Father’s stick behind the pillow. In a way it was there, and in a way it wasn’t. It had been divided into little bits each not more than one inch long. There were smaller bits all over the place. I showed it to Socrates and you could almost see him shaking his head in disapproval. ‘That young rat will come to a bad end,’ he was saying to himself. I burst out laughing. You had to hand it to Ben. He was unbeatable. Or thought he was.

  Then I chuckled quietly to myself. Thought he had me beat, did he? Well he’d another think coming. I’d show him.

  I nipped downstairs and got the poker from the sitting room. It’s not used any more, because I’ve no time to light coal fires. So it was quite clean. I put it behind the pillow, where the stick had been. I undressed very quickly, got into bed and turned out the light. I intended to stay awake for a little, though not very long, because I was tired and meant to get my sleep. But I had an idea that before very long Friend Ben would turn up for a nice sleep on the eiderdown. I had a pretty shrewd idea that he got into my room through a hole in the floor under the dressing table. It was no good covering it with tin. He’d just make another hole somewhere else—and I couldn’t cover the whole floor with tin.

  At first I felt quite excited, but soon I began to get sleepy. I was thinking, ‘It’ll do just as well in the morning,’ and practically dozing off when I heard a scuffly sort of noise from the direction of the dressing table. ‘Here you come my boy,’ I thought, ‘and you’re in for a big surprise.’

  I heard his feet patter across the floor. No pause to reconnoitre. He was quite sure I was sound asleep by this time. Not that reconnoitring would have done him any good. I was pretending to be asleep. He jumped straight on to the bed. Not on to the top. Just high enough to get his claws in, and I felt the slight drag on the bedclothes as he scrambled up the rest of the way. Quite a jump all the same. Then he found the same place on top of the eiderdown and spent quite a time going round and round making a kind of nest for himself. When everything was arranged to his satisfaction he settled down for his night’s sleep. ‘Well,’ I thought. ‘Getting a bit careless, aren’t you? Don’t care if you wake me up or not.’

  I waited till I thought he’d just about be into his beauty sleep. Then I sat up quickly, turned on the bedside light and waved the poker over my head.

  You should have seen the expression on his face. It was ludicrous. He didn’t wait to argue. One look was enough. He didn’t want the poker in his ribs. Dive, and he was on the floor. He scuttled across it and under the dressing table. ‘And you needn’t come back,’ I called after him. ‘You won’t eat through the poker in a hurry.’
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  That was last night. Tonight—I don’t quite know why. I suppose just to make sure he hadn’t gnawed through the poker—I went straight up to my bedroom as soon as I got in. The poker wasn’t there. What’s more, there wasn’t a single poker in the whole house.

  There were tongs of course, brass curtain-rods, shovels. . . . But I decided to admit defeat. Whatever I choose as a weapon to take to bed with me will be spirited away during the day. An occasion may arise when I shall need a curtain-rail. There’s no sense showing Ben how a curtain-rail could be used.

  In any case I think I shall take both Ben and Socrates into the office tomorrow. All the fuss about rats seems to have died down. I don’t see why they shouldn’t be perfectly safe in the Bookroom. In fact they’d have been safe there all along. I’ve never seen anyone go in except myself—and I don’t think anyone has seen me. It’ll keep Ben out of mischief—and stop him from leading the other rats into mischief. Because I’m quite sure he couldn’t have purloined the poker all by himself. Even as a combined effort it was a considerable feat.

  For the last month I have been taking Socrates and Ben into the office with me every day except Fridays. I go in a little early in the morning and pop them into the Bookroom before anyone arrives. At night, when everyone else has gone, I bring them into the Cash Office with me and let them run about there while I work.