Willard (Ratman’s Notebooks) Page 14

  Today the girl came into the Cash Office and said she’d heard a scuffling noise from the Bookroom when she was in the Ladies’ next door. Were there mice in there? I said it had always been full of mice, but that there was sheet iron nailed on to the partition between it and the Ladies’ so that no mice could get in. This satisfied her. Of course there’s no sheet iron, and I don’t know if there have ever been any mice either. But I think it was rather clever of me to dream all that up on the spur of the moment. It’ll stop her making a complaint to Jones or the Book-keeper, and it will probably prevent her, or any of the other girls ever venturing into the Bookroom. Of course she couldn’t get in without the key. But she’s pretty nosy and might easily have found some excuse to get the place opened up.

  Saying she’s nosy doesn’t mean I don’t find her attractive. I do. In fact if I were differently situated, that is to say if I had sufficient money and there were no rats, I would probably ask her to marry me. I only realized this today just after I had told her the tale about the mice. Of course what she really heard was Ben, or Socrates, or both.

  I said to her, “Oh, there’s a little mouse on the floor now!” She immediately gave a shriek and jumped on to a chair. Perhaps I thought that would happen. Perhaps I wanted it to happen. At any rate, she looked very pretty up there, and appealing. She has shapely legs, just a shade on the thin side, I suppose, by Beauty Queen standards but there’s something about her knees . . . Anyhow, I had a good stare. Then I told her I was only joking. She gave me a sort of arch look and stepped down very daintily. I’m quite sure she didn’t mind a bit. Any chance to show themselves off. That’s what girls like. In fact I can’t see how modern girls need to worry about mice. It might have been different when they were afraid of mice running up inside their skirts, but it would be a very athletic mouse who could ever reach a modern skirt, a pole-jumping mouse perhaps, if you can imagine such a thing—and I can quite easily.

  The girl, by the way, is still very interested in me. I’d just have to say the word and she’d come for a drive in the car like a shot, tea or no tea.

  I can hardly bear to write down what’s happened. But I will. It was the girl’s fault. Her and Jones. Jones did it.

  I didn’t hear any shriek, not from the girl I mean, but I’m sure there was one. The first I noticed was a bit of commotion in the passage. Nothing much. One or two people hurrying and talking, and one of them was the girl. I know her voice. I didn’t pay any attention. I went on with my work.

  Next I heard Jones proceeding down the passage. I know his step, always a little more dignified. This was enough for the Book-keeper. If Jones was going he was going too. Out he went. I was feeling rather contemptuous and stand-offish, determined not to follow the crowd, ready to say in a languid voice when they got back, “Well, and what was all that fuss about?” All the same, I wondered very much what was up and was having quite a fight with my own curiosity.

  Then suddenly it occurred to me, “Has someone gone into the Bookroom and found Socrates?” Till this moment the two rats hadn’t entered my thoughts. I had grown so accustomed to leaving them in the Bookroom every day, without anything happening. And I felt sure no one but myself had been in the Bookroom for years.

  I jumped up and rushed down to the back. There they all were, Jones, the Book-keeper, the whole staff. The door of the Ladies’ was open—not the actual w.c. door, but the place where they wash their hands and make tea, and I suppose, actually do powder their noses. Inside were Jones and the girl, both looking up. “Here,” Jones said. “Someone get me a long stick or a rod or something. I’ll soon fix it.”

  At first I couldn’t see anything, but I’d awful forebodings. I edged a little closer, pushing past the Book-keeper, who seemed to be drawing back. High up on top of the wall behind the basin in a little recess between two rafters was Socrates. He was quite still and you’d wonder the girl had noticed him. Of course that’s the sort of her. Notices everything.

  To anyone but me, Socrates would probably have seemed quite unruffled. But his hair was all standing on end and I knew he was very frightened. I guessed at once what had happened. Rafters run across under the roof of the Ladies’ and into the wall which divides it from the Bookroom. Both are one-story additions to the main building which jut out into the yard behind the offices. The wall is two bricks thick, but for some reason there is no top row of bricks on the Ladies’ side. This makes a row of little recesses and one of them goes right through to the Bookroom. In fact there’s one brick missing from the top row on the Bookroom side as well. All this of course I’ve discovered since. Socrates must have come through the hole, possibly looking for water. I’d never thought of leaving them water. On the wall above the basins was a big old mirror about four feet broad, with a thick black wooden frame, three to four inches deep. After coming through the tunnel from the Bookroom, Socrates must have jumped down on to the top of this, run along it, and by a series of small leaps got down to the basin for his drink. On the way back—perhaps he had been flustered by the girl coming in and turning on the light—he had missed the tunnel and gone into the recess next to it, a dead end. All he had to do now to escape was to come out, jump down again on to the top of the mirror, run along five or six inches, hop up into the next recess and run through to the safety of the Bookroom. Well, would be safe for the time being. They’d have a job finding him in there among hundreds of old books, receipt files, bags full of old letters . . .

  I didn’t know what to do. I could have spoken to Socrates, calmed him, told him to come out quickly before it was too late and run along the top of the mirror to the next recess. For I knew that the office junior had gone off to look for the rod or stick that Jones had demanded. I could even have climbed up on to the top of the basins and coaxed Socrates out. I could have pretended I was trying to catch him and then pretended to be angry when he wriggled out of my hands and escaped through the tunnel. I didn’t think of that. Not till afterwards, when it was too late. But I did think of speaking to him. I didn’t dare. Everyone at once, as soon as they saw that Socrates understood my instructions and obeyed them, would have known that there really was a Ratman, that I was Ratman. So I stood in an agony of dither and fear, and said nothing.

  The boy came back with a metal rod, a thin tube of some kind, about six feet long. “The very thing!” Jones exclaimed.

  He took the rod and made a sort of exploratory poke, not very hard, into the recess. And then I knew that he had seen me—I mean that Socrates had seen me. He threw me a sort of look as if to say, “Aren’t you going to stop him?” And of course I could have stopped him. I’m bigger than Jones—and a good deal younger.

  But I did nothing. I didn’t even say, “Stop!” I was afraid. I was a coward.

  The next poke, though still only experimental, was a little harder. Socrates drew back into the recess and made himself smaller. You’d hardly have known he was there. At the third poke Socrates screamed.

  The scream seemed to excite Jones. “I’ve got him now,” he said. “He doesn’t like that. I’ll give him a bit more of the same medicine.” And he began to prod at Socrates quite furiously.

  At last Socrates tried to come out, first at one side of the little recess, and then at the other. But Jones, by a sort of brilliant exhibition of swordsmanship, drove him back. And every time Jones prodded Socrates screamed. When he drew back after the second attempt to get out the screaming became continuous.

  “Oh, do stop, please, Mr. Jones,” the girl exclaimed suddenly.

  Jones was astonished. “Why do you want me to stop?” he asked.

  “Just it’s too horrible. It’s cruel.”

  “It’s not cruel at all,” Jones replied. “Rats are vermin. Got to be exterminated.” He went on prodding.

  The next time I saw the end of the rod it was covered in blood. But Socrates wasn’t dead. He was still screaming. I drew back. I couldn’t bear to watch any more, but I couldn’t go away. I felt that even if I didn’t dare to do any
thing it would be wrong to go away. I had to see Socrates dead. He took a long time to die.

  The screaming stopped. “Has he kicked it?” the boy asked—the boy who’d brought the rod. You could see he was thoroughly enjoying it all, grinning all over his face.

  “Not a bit of him,” Jones answered. “There’s one of his legs still moving. But I’ll soon finish him off now.”

  There was no more screaming, just the prodding, and soon that stopped. Jones was satisfied that Socrates was dead.

  “How are you going to get him out?” the boy asked.

  “Oh, I’ll get him out all right.” He thrust the bloody rod once more into the recess and pushed hard. Then he drew it out again and impaled on the end of it was a mess of blood and fur and guts. For a moment Jones forgot his dignity and brandished it at the girls. “How do you like that?”

  They all shrieked and drew back, but they weren’t really horrified. Some of them even smiled a little.

  “You’ve made an awful mess of our cloakroom,” one of the typists said. “Who’s going to clean it up?”

  “You are,” Jones said. “If you don’t know how to use a mop it’s about time you learnt.”

  They all seemed in doubt for a moment, but the girl went off and got a mop from the cupboard under the stairs—and I saw one of the typists with a bucket. The rest of us went back to our work.

  I didn’t work late tonight. To tell the truth I could hardly work at all. But I had to wait till all the others had gone before I could fetch Ben out of the Bookroom. I felt almost like leaving him behind. I didn’t want to have anything to do with him, anything to do with anything that had to do with what had happened. But of course I couldn’t leave him.

  And when I went to the Bookroom I was suddenly sorry for him. Poor Ben was terrified. No wonder. He was even terrified of me. If he hadn’t seen everything he had heard everything—and after all who had prodded him with a stick and a poker in the bedroom at home? Who had stood by and done nothing while Socrates was prodded to death? Who had brought them both into this dangerous place?

  So Ben looked at me fearfully. Obviously he wanted, it must want, to go home, away from this gruesome place. But could he trust me to take him, or would I deliver him up to be done to death as I had let Socrates be done to death? Perhaps I would even kill him myself.

  It took half an how of coaxing to get him into the bag, and then of course I took him straight home. I’ve spent all evening with him trying to soothe him. I never really liked him before, but now Socrates has gone I feel a new affection for him. I see that he may even come to take the place of Socrates with me.

  Last night after I went to bed I lay awake wondering if Ben would come and join me. It would show whether he trusted me or not. For a long time I was alone. Then I heard a slight noise and knew Ben was under the dressing table. I lay and waited. It crossed my mind that if he didn’t trust me Ben might gather an army of rats there, wait till I was asleep, come out and tear my throat. I went on listening. But there was no sound of other rats.

  At last I heard Ben crossing the floor. Though I had left the blanket hanging down for him specially, it was a long time before I felt the slight tug as he jumped and caught it and began to climb up. But he came in the end. I felt him curl up and settle himself beside me. I put out my hand and stroked the fur along his backbone with one linger, the way I had been accustomed to do with Socrates.

  I hate Jones.

  I hate Jones. I hate him very much.

  I hate Jones. He has killed the only creature in the world I ever really loved.

  I hate Jones. Somehow, some day I am going to kill him.

  Today the girl and I discussed Jones. We were alone together in the Cash Office in the lunch-hour. “Do you like him?” I asked bluntly.

  “I wouldn’t like to be married to him,” she answered surprisingly. At least I was surprised at first. I was surprised she should say such a thing to me at all. I thought this was the sort of thing girls said to other girls. She had obviously considered what Jones would be like as a husband—in spite of the fact that she knew there was a Mrs. Jones already. I took it therefore she meant exactly the opposite to what she had said. In fact she wished she could be married to Jones, but as she knew she couldn’t she was saying she wouldn’t like to be.

  I tried to think what a female confidante would have said in the circumstances and quickly hit upon what I think was the right reply. “Of course he’s too old for you.”

  She sighed. “He’s such a brute.”

  “He’s a sadist,” I retorted, and then, as that didn’t seem to mean anything to her, “He delights in being cruel.”

  “He’s very masculine,” she said. “I think men are cruel.”

  “Not any more cruel than women. He’s debased, perverted . . . Did you see the way . . . ?” And then I stopped. I couldn’t go on. I almost burst into tears. Shame. Grief. I don’t know which was the strongest.

  “You mean killing the rat the other day?”

  I nodded.

  “Yes. That was brutal—but that’s what I mean.”

  “You tried to stop him,” I reminded her.

  “I know—and I couldn’t. He didn’t understand. He wasn’t being sadistic. He was just the dominant male, the fighting male smashing his foe. If it had been another man it would have been just the same.”

  I gave a sarcastic sort of laugh. “Another man would have stood up to him. Anyone can be a hero fighting something as small as, as small as . . .”

  “As small as that rat. I don’t know. A lot of people are afraid of rats, ’specially since this scare. Jones didn’t hesitate a moment. I think he’s brave, you know. I didn’t notice that any of the other men were very anxious to do anything for us. And someone had to do something. We couldn’t leave the rat there, in the Ladies’. Someone had to kill it.”

  “Oh, yes, of course.” For a moment it had been on the tip of my tongue to say, “Why?” But that might have given me away. I added, “All the same it wasn’t necessary to kill it so brutally.”

  “I don’t think most men would have thought him brutal,” she answered, “You’re more sensitive than most men. He was just being manly.”

  To be called sensitive is not really a compliment. I’m sure the girl finds Jones’s brutality attractive. It gives her a thrill. She imagines herself clasped in the arms of the brutal Jones . . .

  Well, I’m going to be just as brutal as the heroic Jones one of these days. We’ll see how he likes a bit of brutality when he’s on the receiving end. He won’t like it at all, but he’ll never get a chance to tell anyone.

  I’m going to be short of money again, not immediately, but in four to six months. I see it coming. The car uses up an awful lot of money, but I need it. I couldn’t use the rats without it. And the rats themselves take money. I’ll have to keep doing things—to get money I mean. It’s no good waiting till I’m desperate. I’ll have to keep the supply going, make sure I’ve always something in hand. So I’m thinking out something else to do. It really should be quite easy. The thing is to make sure I’m not traced and caught. I’m making plans for Jones too.

  Today (Sunday) I was looking for fuse-wire. I remembered that Father used to keep some in a sort of odds-and-ends box he had. I couldn’t think where it had got to and then I decided to have a look to see if it was in some of the old trunks in the box-room. I got it in the end, but when I was looking for it I came across a rather odd thing. I didn’t know what it was at first. It’s a false head, like those false faces children wear, only bigger and more elaborate.

  I slipped it on. There are little eyeholes to look out by. I went to a looking-glass and looked at myself. I gazed for quite a long time before I realized what the head was meant to be. It is grotesque, and makes me seem taller than I really am. There are painted eyes (not the holes I look out of, which are quite cleverly concealed). In the centre of these eyes is glass which glitters and gives quite a ghastly effect. The snout is rather sharp and points up
wards. There are whiskers, each whisker stuck on separately, and ears made of real fur. At last I recognized what it is meant to represent—the head of a rat. In fact, apart from the size, which is many times too big, it’s most realistic. If you looked at it through the wrong end of a telescope you’d think it really was a rat’s head. If it hadn’t been for the size, I should have recognized it immediately.

  What puzzles me is why it should have been there at all. I suppose it was got for some fancy-dress party long ago. But I can’t remember any fancy-dress party. Or could it have been amateur theatricals. I seem to remember vaguely hearing about an amateur dramatic society in connection with the church—before I was born probably. I’ve got an idea Father and Mother had something to do with it. Perhaps they did The Wind in the Willows, which would have seemed quite modern in those days.

  I brought the rat-head down and put it on a chair in my bedroom. A vague idea was beginning to take shape in my brain. There was always the danger that on one of my raids I might be seen and recognized. Why not a disguise? And what better disguise than this? It would fit in with the Ratman legend, which was still lingering on. It would make things harder for the police. Should they believe in the Ratman theory, or reject it? What evidence could they believe? The more fantastic I could make things the more foxed they would be.

  Of course if I ever come under suspicion and the house is searched, the rat-head is going to make pretty damning evidence against me—if I’ve used it that is. But then the house is full of damning evidence. What would they make of the cellar?

  It can’t make things any worse to use it, and it might help a lot.

  After Socrates was killed, I thought for a bit that Ben might partly take his place. I knew I couldn’t immediately have the same feeling for him as I had for Socrates, but I felt affectionate towards him and hoped that he might begin to feel affectionate towards me.