Ratman's Notebooks Page 5

  I lost my nerve and began to walk down the avenue that leads to the other bus-route. I heard a car behind me. A big car! A police car? I expected it to pull up beside me and policemen to jump out and start questioning me. I still had no idea what to say. The car went on. It wasn’t a police car. It wasn’t even particularly big. Then it came to me—what to say, I mean. I had been seeing a girl. No I was not prepared to say who she was. I’d get away with that all right. Everyone would believe me straight away—and Jones would think I was far more of a lad than he’d ever imagined.

  I walked on, but no one stopped me. I caught a bus on the other road and reached home safely without further adventure.

  Jones has been rather amusing about ‘The Marauder’, as he calls him. That means me of course. But Jones doesn’t know. He has two quite different stories, which taken together, don’t make sense. Whoever is listening to him is expected to believe both stories. One is that a sexual maniac made an attack on his daughter. Some chap with wild eyes and a beard. The other is that somebody was trying to get into his garage to steal his car. He likes both stories. So do I. The police haven’t a chance. They are looking for a wild-eyed man with a beard, whereas I am clean-shaven with mild, rather weak eyes. I don’t mean that I have to wear spectacles. Just if people look hard at me my eyes water and I feel uncomfortable. I’m the sort of person you’d think wouldn’t say ‘Boo’ to a goose, but you’d be wrong. I nearly always say ‘Boo’ to geese when I meet them, provided there’s no one else there of course.

  It appears that for the last few months some man has been frightening women all round Jones’s district. Whether the daughter jumped to the conclusion that I was the same man, or whether the parents put it into her head, I don’t know. She never saw my face, nor I hers. But the police need evidence. If it’s not there it has to be manufactured.

  One thing is obvious. I shall have to put off my attack on Jones’s tyres until the autumn. Jones is now alert. He and his neighbours are on the look-out for suspicious characters. I rather hope they catch the chap with the beard, or else that he gives up his little games. Meantime the whole district is unsafe for any man who can’t explain exactly what he is doing. But I’d have had to put it off till the autumn anyhow. I need darkness and I need to go and come in the bus. The buses stop shortly after eleven. About the end of October would seem to be the right time.

  The sex-chap has been caught. Just one week after my affair. I suppose this is a good thing for me. All the same I feel sorry for the poor blighter. What harm did he actually do anyone? Frightful scandal, of course, all hushed up. This means the whole town knows, but the police aren’t brought in. Some respected local resident, retired bank manager or something. I’m not important enough for Jones to tell me the story directly, but he told the Book-keeper. It appears the old boy hadn’t a beard any more than I have. Just wore a muffler, either to keep out the cold, or as a disguise. He’s to get psychiatric treatment.

  Jones is disappointed. He doesn’t think it’s the same man. The man who attacked his daughter had a black beard and wild eyes. He was a big, powerful chap and quite young. As soon as Jones appeared he took to his heels and made off like an Olympic champion.

  It’s funny how he won’t give up the idea of the attack on his daughter. I suppose there was more at risk. The car is property and insurable. The sex rights in his daughter are property too, but not insurable, or at any rate not insured. So it is more interesting that his daughter should have been at risk than his car.

  There is an old leather travelling bag of Father’s which holds nine rats quite comfortably. What I think is called an overnight bag. Nine, I have decided, shall be the team. Two rats for each tyre and Socrates in charge.

  Last night I had what I call a training session. I went up to the shed immediately after tea and put the nine rats into the bag. Then straight down the drive and out the gate. As I passed the house I heard Mother tapping at the window with her rings. She shouted, ‘Where are you going with Father’s bag?’ She does this every time I go out with the bag, but I pay no attention—and when I come in again she whines at me. She has got the idea that she is confined to the house. Something the doctor told her. It suits me well enough except that she spends all her time peering out of the windows, trying to find out what I’m up to. She’s still as much at sea as ever.

  I took a bus into the country, the bag on the floor between my feet. There wasn’t the slightest movement from it. None of the other passengers could have guessed it held anything living. Yet when I lift it I can tell from the feel that there are rats inside. It feels different from a bag filled with pyjamas and a spare shirt and shaving things. I smiled to myself going along in the bus. If the other passengers knew what was in my bag! If I opened it, what a scene! I was tempted to open it. I had the greatest difficulty in resisting the temptation.

  I got off at a spot which you might describe as truly rural. I walked up a pleasant country road. I looked for a nice, dry bank, where I could sit down and let the rats out for a little run. Almost anywhere would have done. All I needed was that there should be no one about. I walked on for a little, partly because it was a pleasant evening, looking for the perfect spot.

  I came round a corner and found a chap and a girl in a parked car. I felt annoyed. Either I had to go back a bit or go further than I had intended. I reflected on the situation. Some animals have a mating season, some like men and rats, keep at it all the year round. I walked past pretending not to peer in. I had lascivious thoughts. Then I thought, ‘Ha-ha. I’ll make them pay for their fun and games.’

  Whether they even noticed me I don’t know. At any rate I didn’t have the slightest effect on their goings-on. I realised suddenly that here was a perfect chance for a full-dress rehearsal. About twenty yards further up the road behind the car was a field-gate. I opened it and went in. Then I came back behind the hedge till I was just beside the car, with only the ditch between us. I opened the bag and let the rats out. For a few minutes I stroked them all, particularly Socrates, and let them run over me. Then I whispered, ‘Tyres. Tear ’em up,’ and lifted up Socrates so that he could see the car through the hedge.

  Socrates led the others through a little gap in the bottom of the hedge. The ditch was dry. They crossed in single file and the attack began, two each to three of the tyres, Socrates helping with the fourth. I watched to see how they would get on. They took it turn about, one gnawing and clawing furiously for fifteen seconds or so, then the other taking over, and so on.

  They didn’t go for the thick part of the tyres. They did what I had taught them to do on the old covers at home. They went for the tyre-walls, the thinnest part just above the bulge. And they worked on a very small area, so that they could make a deep cut surprisingly quickly.

  Everything was going well, the chap and the girl quite regardless of what was happening. Suddenly there was a great hiss. Socrates and his lot were through first. Not surprising seeing they’d an extra mouth on the job. ‘What’s that?’ said the chap.

  ‘Sounds like a tyre,’ said the girl.

  ‘Sisss, sisss, sisss,’ said the tyre.

  You could almost hear them listening to it. It’s funny what it takes to upset people. I nearly split myself trying not to laugh.

  The rats on the off-side back got through. Another hiss started up. A different note from the first one, fresh and vigorous. By this time the first one had begun to have a sort of dying fall. At any rate it was quite easy to distinguish that there were now two hisses instead of one.

  ‘I say, what is this?’ said the chap. ‘Is someone letting our tyres down?’

  He opened the door and peered out. At the same time the girl opened the window at her side and peered out too. ‘It’s rats,’ the chap exclaimed. ‘They’re eating the tyres.’ I liked the mixture of wonder and fear in his voice—awe.

  ‘Oh, Bert, it’s the same this s
ide. They’ll be eating us next.’

  Bert believed her instantly. He jumped out of the car and raced down the road.

  The girl burst into tears. ‘Oh Bert,’ she called after him. ‘You wouldn’t leave me to be eaten alive by rats.’

  But he had. When he got to what he thought a safe distance—and he was taking no risks—he looked round and found that the rats were not actually at his heels. In fact they were still at the car. He shouted back, ‘Shut the door so they don’t get in on you. I’ll get help.’

  I made a special noise, a sort of ‘Cluck-cluck-cluck,’ which you wouldn’t know was human. It means ‘Come to me at once.’ There was still one tyre holding out, but this time one didn’t matter. The rehearsal had gone perfectly. I don’t mean to do Jones’s tyres when anyone’s there. He’ll go for his car in the morning and find out then what’s happened to it.

  The rats came back through the hedge. The girl was now standing on the seat. I was terrified she’d catch sight of me. I lay very still. I don’t think she saw me. But she still saw the rats. ‘Bert,’ she called, ‘they’re going away.’ She hopped out of the car and rushed after him.

  Bert, all danger past, had at least the grace to wait for her. She flung herself into his arms and laid her head on his manly shoulder. ‘Oh Bert. I got such a fright.’

  I bet she did.

  Extraordinary. You’d think she’d have had enough of Bert. Not a bit of it. They went off with their arms round each other, all lovey-dovey, to look for help. All the same she’ll take it out of him once they’re married.

  I was afraid they’d come back to investigate and find me crouching behind the hedge. But no. Definitely not the stuff that heroes are made of.

  I put the rats back in the bag and started towards the main road to catch the bus home. After a bit I met Bert and the girl and a chap with a pitchfork. ‘Did you see any rats?’ the pitchfork-chap asked, giving a great yokel-grin.

  ‘Rats!’ I repeated, all innocence. ‘No. I don’t think so.’

  ‘They attacked our car,’ said the girl. ‘Hundreds of them. They’d have eaten us if they could.’

  ‘Really?’ I sounded quite incredulous.

  ‘That’s right,’ Bert said. ‘They ate the tyres off the car. It’d have been us next if they could have got us.’

  They actually believed there were hundreds of rats. It’s like Jones and his marauder.

  I took the bus home to Mother. As usual I had to listen to a lot of questions, but I told her nothing. She is getting very frail. I don’t think she’ll live much longer.

  It is strange how I have come to love Socrates. I sit for hours just playing with him and stroking his fur. Sometimes it seems to me that he is more intelligent than a human being. At any rate he is more congenial to me. Of course he’s no ordinary rat. I think that perhaps he belongs to a new species. The only difference I can be sure of is the tail. Ordinary rats have fleshy, scaly tails, which are rather horrid. Socrates, and one or two of the other young ones, have long, furry tails. They begin thin and pink, like a mouse’s tail, and get furry later. I think Socrates is proud of his. When he is moving about it is usually straight out behind him and slightly raised so that it doesn’t trail on the ground. At other times he carries it at an angle, rather like a cat, but Socrates’ tail is never quite straight up. He keeps it very clean, but then he is a very clean animal.

  Yesterday was Sunday and I got up early so as to have plenty of time with him before church. We had been out late the night before and he didn’t hear me when I went into the shed. For quite a time I just stood there watching him sleeping, his tail curled round him. It seemed cruel to wake him. I reasoned with myself a little before I did so. Sleep is temporary death. For Socrates life is good. He likes it when I play with him. Therefore I should wake him up, bring him from death to life. And of course this morning I too had been glad to wake, because it was Sunday and I should have a long time with Socrates. Most mornings I would rather be asleep than awake. I hate getting up and going into business. Does that mean I prefer death to life?

  Anyhow I decided to wake Socrates. I whistled. Socrates opened his eyes. His tail uncurled slowly. He stood up and stretched. Then he saw me. I knew he saw me by the expression on his face. It was a rather comic expression, a mixture of sleepiness and reproach, and a sort of shamefacedness at not being up and about—as if he were saying, ‘Well you know the way it is. We all sleep in occasionally.’

  However he was not going to neglect his toilet on my account. He sat down and began to wash his face. It was no skimped wash either. He went from his face to behind his ears, to his back, to his sides, to his tummy, licking his hands all the time to keep them wet. Next he licked his hind feet and scratched himself with them. So he went on till he got right down to the end of his tail, licking and biting that. Not till every minute portion of him was licked or scratched or bitten did he consent to come over to me and let me talk to him and stroke him.

  I have never felt towards any human being as I feel towards Socrates. I had the same feeling towards a dog we had when I was a child. The dog was poisoned eventually. Something I never forgot, or forgave. That dog was my best friend. I used to let him lick my face for five or ten minutes at a time. It was delightful. I can still remember the warm, rough-smooth feeling of his tongue, the way I had to dry my face with my handkerchief when it was over.

  When I was even smaller I loved Mother with a love that was very intense. I suppose I still love her, but I am not conscious of it. She irritates me extremely. For years, it seems, she has done nothing but nag at me. Any feelings of tenderness and love I have are therefore directed towards Socrates. There is no one else.

  I have made a house for Socrates. A sort of doll’s house, I suppose you’d call it. Anyhow it’s inside the tool-shed, and it’s got electric light. It’s wonderful what you can do if you try. I’ve no experience of carpentry or working with electricity, but there it is. It’s not really separate like a doll’s house. You can’t lift it up and take it away. It’s built into a corner of the tool-shed, on the bench. It’s even got heating. I bored holes in the bench with a brace and bit and fitted a sort of box below. Inside the box I put a tin with an electric light bulb in it. When you switch on, the bulb heats the tin and warm air flows up through the holes in the bench into the house. I had some difficulty getting switches which would turn on and off easily enough to be worked by a rat. However by dint of fiddling with them a bit I have managed to fit switches that Socrates can work. I have had to be very careful. I don’t want any short circuits which might start a fire. Another difficulty was to make Socrates understand about the heater. He learned to work the light switches very quickly, because these gave instant results. But it’s quite a time before the heater begins to take effect. I had to demonstrate it time after time. He tumbled to it in the end, but what a job! The whole electricity supply comes from a plug in the garage. I’m sure the electricity people wouldn’t approve of it, but they shan’t ever see it. There’s nothing wrong with it really. The part outside is lead-covered cable and I’ve put it underground.

  There’s Mother calling, I wonder what she wants now. She thinks I should spend all my spare time with her, running little messages, listening to her reminiscences.

  You’d think that by this time I should be able to write a book about rats, but in fact I know very little about them. Of course I know Socrates very well, and from time to time, I still see his mother. Apart from that there are about twenty other rats which I can recognise as individuals. All of these are, I think, males. I can’t be sure, because I still can’t see any difference between males and females. It’s just that none of them has ever had any appearance of carrying young.

  All these rats I have tried to train. With about a dozen I have had some success. The others are failures who keep coming to the shed in the hope of getting a share of the scraps I bring.
I would like to get rid of the failures, but I don’t like actually to chase them. The rats obviously trust me and I don’t want to destroy that trust, though eventually I shall have to make some sort of selection.

  The successful rats have all one physical characteristic in common, furry tails. I don’t know if this means that there are normally two different types of rat, one with furry tails and one with scaly tails, or whether the furry tails are just a peculiarity of the Socrates family. Socrates’ mother has the ordinary scaly tail and so I think have his brothers and sisters. The trouble is I don’t know which are his brothers and sisters. I’m inclined to think all the scaly-tailed rats who hang round are brothers and sisters, but I’m not sure. This leads me to wonder if all the furry-tailed rats are Socrates’ children. It is certainly Socrates who brings them along. At least I think it is. I don’t see them arrive. From time to time I come in and find a new young rat with Socrates. The new one stays close to Socrates for a day or two. Then it joins the others. Perhaps he just brings along the brightest rat out of each litter. Horrifying thought! This would mean that Socrates would have had a dozen families in the comparatively short time I have known him.

  There is one other thing about the furry-tailed rats which I think is different. I think they have slightly larger heads and perhaps larger eyes, but I’m not sure. I don’t know how you’d set about measuring the size of their heads—and eyes would be impossible to measure.