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Ratman's Notebooks Page 7
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But Jones cheated me. The curtains were across and I couldn’t see a thing. Worse still. The lights were on in the garage and the door was closed. Jones must be in there, working. Footering about more likely. If he stayed there long I’d just have to turn round and go home again.
At first I didn’t know how to shift him. Then I thought of a ruse. I remembered a telephone box on the main road, near the bus-stop. I was now about fifty yards past Jones’s house. I’d keep on walking in case of someone coming out and seeing a suspicious figure, palely loitering. But in fact the avenue was quite deserted. Extraordinary how quiet the suburbs can be at times. You could cut someone’s throat in the middle of the road and no one would notice. If he yelled they’d just think it was cats.
I walked down the avenue again very quickly. Time was getting on. I’d have liked to run. But you couldn’t tell. Someone peering from an upstairs window, might see me under a street lamp. A man with a bag, running. A suspicious character. Phone the police! As I reached the main road a bus went by quite empty. Even the conductor was sitting down reading the paper. The phone-box was empty too. Every house has its own phone. If you economised by doing without a phone, you’d economise by living somewhere else.
I had begun to feel the weight of the bag. I was quite glad to put it down for a bit inside the phone-box. ‘All right children,’ I said soothingly. ‘You’ll get out soon now.’ I decided to leave the bag open while I telephoned, in case the rats were too hot and needed air. There they all were good as gold. They hardly even moved when the light shone in on them, but I saw Socrates looking up at me, just waiting to be told what to do. Bless his little heart.
I know Jones’s number in my head. I’ve had to get it for him sometimes in the office, when the operator is out for her lunch or off sick or something. Of course Jones is too important now ever to get a number for himself. I dialled, heard it begin to ring and before anyone could answer put in my four pennies. The moment the receiver was lifted I pressed Button A. I held my nose so that when I spoke I’d have an American accent.
A woman answered, ‘Hello.’ Rather snooty. His good lady, as he calls her.
‘Hallo there,’ I said.
I waited a moment and Mrs. Jones said, ‘Hello,’ again. Not so snooty this time. My nasal voice had made her interested.
I went on, ‘Hallo there. That you Liverpool? New York here.’ I stopped again. Someone told me once that all the New York calls came through Liverpool. I don’t know why.
Mrs. Jones was really interested by this time. ‘Hello, hello! Hello?’
I didn’t want her to hang up yet. ‘Just a minute, Philadelphia. I’m talking to Liverpool here, Liverpool, England. Can you hear me, Liverpool?’
‘I can hear you very well,’ Mrs Jones replied, ‘but I’m afraid it’s not Liverpool.’
‘Sorry ma’am. I’m trying to get Liverpool to get me a Mr. Jones, but they’ve gotten hung up or sumf’n.’ Not good enough to convince an American perhaps, but Mrs. Jones and I have probably the same idea of an American accent. Why anyhow should she have been suspicious?
She wasn’t. She’s proud and British. It’s not every day she gets a call from New York. ‘This is the Jones residence.’
I hung up. I knew she’d have Jones in in two ticks. A call from New York coming through. He’d hang about waiting for it. He’d be tickled to death. He once did have a real call from New York and he didn’t stop blowing about it for ages.
I closed the bag, picked it up, and hurried back. All the houses just the same. Not a soul about. Nothing changed. Yes there was, though. Jones’s garage doors were open, the light streaming out. I looked at my watch. A quarter to ten. No time to waste. But Jones might still be there on the other side of the car, bending over it, or crouched down doing something to one of the wheels.
I’d have to chance it. I opened the gate. This time it squeaked like evermore. What if Jones heard and came popping out of the garage to see who was there? There was so much light he’d be bound to recognise me. Even if he didn’t and I turned and bolted, I didn’t stand a chance carrying that bag. He’d think it was The Marauder again and come tearing after me, yelling his head off to attract the neighbours. I’d have to face it out, think up some sort of excuse. ‘Oh hello, Mr. Jones. Very mild isn’t it for the time of year. I was looking for some people called McEllhenny, friends of ours. This bag belongs to them and Mother insisted on me coming over to return it.’ A bit awkward if there were McEllhennys next door. But it wasn’t likely. There aren’t an awful lot of McEllhennys about. Anyhow they could have turned out to be the wrong McEllhennys. I’d have said I was looking for the Theophilus McEllhennys. I’m sure they’d take a bit of finding.
But Jones didn’t appear. I got off the crunchy gravel and approached the garage door stealthily. I put down the bag. I got right down flat on the ground and peered into the garage. No feet, no legs showing on the far side of the car. All clear in fact. He must have gone to the phone. I picked up the bag and walked boldly in. I opened the bag and took out the rats. ‘Tear it up! Tear it up!’ Two rats to each tyre. ‘Tear it up! Tear it up.’ I kept Socrates with me. Whatever happened I didn’t want him hurt.
I looked at my watch again. Ten to ten. I’d been quicker than I thought. All action of course.
I went out again and hid behind a bush in the garden where I could see the front door, and at the same time get clear away to the gate if I had to run for it. I watched and waited, stroking Socrates and whispering to him to pass the time. ‘He’s a bad cruel man, Socrates. He deserves everything that happens to him. He wouldn’t let us have enough to eat if he had his way. He only pays starvation wages. And look at the way he lives himself. Doesn’t skimp when it comes to looking after Mr. Jones as you can see for yourself.’
Five to ten. I thought it would have been more. Was Jones still hanging about the phone? Perhaps he was reading the paper to put in the time. But how long would he wait before he decided to go back to the garage and finish whatever he was doing, or else close up for the night? ‘Dear me,’ he’d say to Mrs. Jones any minute now. ‘That call’s a long time. I’ve left the garage open, and the light on! I think I’ll just pop out and lock up. Give me a shout if they come through again.’ ‘Yes certainly, dear,’ Mrs. Jones would say and out he’d come all fuss.
Ten o’clock. Surely the rats should be nearly finished by now. Of course rubber’s tough and there are only two of them to each tyre. I never timed them before. I suppose I should have. I’d have been better to do only one tyre. It would have been quite enough to impress Jones. I could have let them go at it in shifts. All the same four tyres ruined will impress him even more.
Five past ten. I could bear it no longer. I went in to see how they were getting on. Air hissing. They’d done it. I should have realised they’d go on gnawing till I told them to stop, puncture or no puncture. I checked quickly. One tyre flat. One almost flat. One just through and doing most of the hissing. One not quite through. I pulled out my pocket-knife and administered the coup de grace to that one myself. We’d been too long already.
And then I heard a door close. I’d never heard it open. Jones’s step on the gravel. In another second he’d be in on top of me. And no amount of McEllhennys could explain this away. I noticed a small door at the back of the garage. Perhaps we were saved. ‘Stop!’ I whispered desperately to the rats. ‘Here!’ They came. But what slow movers they are. Even at full speed rats are slow. I almost threw them into the bag. Socrates was there already. All in. I closed the bag, nipped through the small door, and found myself in Jones’s back yard. Dark. I felt about, tripped over the bin, discovered another door, opened it—and emerged into the garden. I tip-toed round the back of the garage. What was Jones doing? Ah! The open gate had caught his eye, and annoyed him no doubt, careful householder that he is. He had closed it and was now approaching the front door of the garage. Would
he close that also and go away without noticing his ripped tyres? I froze. He closed one half. The light was still on. He had to step inside to switch it off.
‘What the hell!’
He’d noticed. What next?
For a long time he did nothing. His footsteps had stopped. He must have been just staring into the garage wondering what had happened to his car. ‘It looks odd, doesn’t it, Mister Jones? Sort of sunk down.’ Ah! A step. He’d gone in a little. Not very far. Some maniac had slashed his tyres. The maniac might still be lurking near, ready to jump out and rip up Jones as well as his tyres. Jones was frightened. So was I. If I made the slightest movement Jones would hear me and shout for help. I had cramp in one foot, but I didn’t dare more than flex my toes.
Another step. Jones had gathered up a little courage. No he hadn’t. He was coming out of the garage, not going further in. I heard the gravel crunch again. He was going back to the house to ring the police. Now should be my chance. As soon as the front door was closed I’d dash out and down to the bus-stop. No one was was going to worry about a respectable young man—well fairly young, and I look younger than my age—standing at the bus-stop with a leather travelling bag in his hand, and once I was on to the bus I’d be safe, whirled away into the city, able to get off wherever I liked.
But the front door didn’t shut. Still on tiptoe I got to the side of the garage where I could have a clear run to the gate. The light was streaming out from the hall across the little bit of lawn between the house and the road. ‘Emily dear, would you come and look at this, please.’ Wish he’d learn to speak like that in the office.
Home is Emily’s office. ‘Look at what? Don’t you know I’m busy?’ None of the sweet dignity with which she coos to transatlantic telephone operators.
Dare I run for it? I might have got to the gate without being seen, but any moment he might have turned and caught sight of me. Then the chase would have been on. The click of the latch on the gate, the crunch of my foot on the gravel, anything might have attracted his attention. I couldn’t run fast with the bag. Better wait a little.
‘I want you to look at the tyres on the car. They’ve been slashed.’
‘Slashed! How do you mean slashed?’
‘I mean slashed, cut down the sides.’
‘Well what good’s it going to do, me looking at them? You’d better phone the police.’
Jones pondered over this for a bit. Perhaps he couldn’t really believe his tyres had been slashed. Afraid of calling the police and finding that it had all been an illusion. ‘Would you not phone them?’ he said. ‘I’ll stay here and watch. There may still be someone hanging about.’
That was enough for me. Now or never. I’d have to make a bolt for it. Maybe I could get through the hedge at the back and into the garden of a house in the next avenue.
Jones’s garden isn’t big, but when I got to the back hedge I couldn’t hear any longer the conversation between Jones and his sweet Emily. This made me nervous. Though I knew it wasn’t possible yet, I felt that the police might be here any second. Perhaps Police H.Q. might already have radioed to one of their roaming patrol cars which might just happen to be in the next avenue. At any moment would come a scream of sirens to alert the whole district.
The hedge at the back wasn’t very thick. I burst into it, not caring what harm I did. But there was barbed wire—just one strand, I think. The rest must have rusted away. My trousers caught. I stopped very deliberately, put down the bag in front of me, and unloosed myself. Wouldn’t do to have torn pants. Not respectable. Attract attention immediately. More time gone. I felt increasingly frightened. I almost panicked.
Free at last, in among trees and bushes. A bigger garden than Jones’s, classier. I stepped forward cautiously, but caution wasn’t much good. I was walking on broken branches and twigs.
‘Yap-yap-yap-yap-yap-yap-yap-yap-yap-yap-yap-yap-yap.’ The full-stop doesn’t mean it did stop. It went on. One of these blasted little dogs. A cairn or something, all yap-yap and fury, signifying that it knew jolly well I shouldn’t be there and wanted to warn the neighbourhood. I peered out through rhododendrons. I saw a big, square, detached house. There was a broad lawn on one side and the gate on to the road was clearly in view. I couldn’t see what was on the other side, probably a yard and garage with more dustbins to trip over. The dog was on the back lawn, about six feet away. He was afraid to come into the shrubbery because of the awful monster lurking there. I tried to think what to do. I could either dash straight across the lawn to the gate and get clear, with the chance that someone might open the front door, just as I was passing, and see me. Or I could creep round the other side and perhaps come up against something I didn’t expect. In either case I’d have the dog yapping at my heels. Perhaps a good kick would quiet him. On the other hand he might nip me. I didn’t want that. I had to make up my mind pretty quickly. If the police came they’d hear the dog yapping and find me straight away. I decided on the quick dash. One, two. . . .
A door opened in the side of the house. Light shone out across the lawn. ‘Woofles! Woofles! Don’t be nasty to the hedgehogs.’
So I was a hedgehog was I? Better behave like one and stay in the rhododendrons with my bristles up.
‘Naughty Woofles. Woofles come to Mother.’
‘Yap-yap-yap-yap-yap-yap-yap-yap-yap-yap-yap-yap-yap.’
‘Woofles dear, come to Mother. Dear little hedgehogs never harm anybody, only eat up nasty slugs and snails.’
‘Yap-yap-yap-yap-yap-yap-yap-yap-yap-yap-yap-yap-yap.’
Woofles’ mother gave up. The door closed. I allowed a few seconds to make sure she wouldn’t change her mind. Now for it, I thought. I ran across the lawn with the bag in my hand, Woofles yapping and snapping all the way. I reached the gate and got out. I shut the gate in Woofles’ face, but Woofles has a hole in the hedge just beside the gate and was out almost before I’d time to turn round. I was puffed. I couldn’t run any more. I began to walk slowly down the avenue towards the main road.
The beastly dog was still with me. ‘Woofles, go home!’ He paid no attention. He kept jumping at the bag, snapping at it rather than me. He must have smelt the rats. If the police came along in one of their big cars they’d be sure to stop to investigate.
‘I wonder Sir, would you mind opening your bag and let me see what’s inside it.’ Not a question, a command. Perhaps he wouldn’t even say, ‘Sir.’ Probably they just put that in books to make everybody think how nice the police are.
‘Yap-yap-yap-yap,’ and ‘Snap-snap-snap-snap.’
Woofles was driving me mad. ‘All right,’ I shouted suddenly. ‘Get in if you want to.’ I put the bag down on the pavement and opened it, but Woofles didn’t leap bravely in. Not a bit of him. He drew back a little and looked in—and barked more furiously than ever. I stood and watched. He got a little closer to the bag. You could hardly see the rats, all huddled in one corner, probably scared out of their wits. But all my better feelings had been lost. I made a dive and grabbed Woofles by the scruff of the neck. I shoved him into the bag with the rats. ‘Tear him up!’ I said. ‘Let the best animal win.’ I was quite sure it wouldn’t be Woofles. He wouldn’t know what to do, shut up in the bag, in the dark, with the rats crawling over him. I walked on a few steps feeling pleased with myself. ‘That’s fixed you, you little bastard,’ I told him. ‘No more yappy-yap from you.’
Then I began to feel sorry. Maybe Woofles wasn’t such a bad little dog after all. He’d only been doing his duty. To be torn apart by rats would be a horrible death. What would I find when I opened the bag? A half-eaten, dead dog? I put the bag down quickly. Not a sound from inside. I hoped Woofles was still all right. I opened the bag. Woofles jumped out and streaked off home. You never saw a small dog move faster, and not a yap left in him. But what about Socrates and the other rats? I peered in anxiously. All all right. I stroked S
ocrates for a little. Apparently nobody attacked anybody.
I closed the bag, walked quickly down the avenue and caught a bus which arrived at exactly the right moment. As I took my seat I saw a police car turning into Jones’s avenue. Neat enough. Safe enough. Safe home and no more trouble.
Mother is dying. She knows. Indeed I haven’t made any attempt to hide it from her. She wouldn’t wish me to. The doctor says she may last a week or ten days, not more. The sooner the better. If we had sensible laws the doctor would have chloroformed her last week as soon as he knew she couldn’t recover. In this we are kinder to our animals than ourselves.
Watching a person die is tedious. It is also interesting. Mother would like to think that her life had been worth-while. All she leaves behind her, the only tangible evidence of her struggle with the world, is me. And she is disappointed in me. I am not the sort of person I myself would have liked to be. Something has gone wrong somewhere. But Mother would like to pretend that it hasn’t. She would like to arrive in heaven with a solid record of achievements in her hand, and material achievements at that. ‘Look at my son, down there,’ she’d like to be able to say, ‘built the business up to double what it was when his poor father died, and goes to church twice every Sunday as well. Not that his father didn’t do very well, thanks to having a good wife to look after him and comfort him when he needed it.’ Of course I do go to church twice every Sunday, but once she’s dead I won’t go at all. I just go now to save argument.