China Miéville - King Rat

‘He was the man with the plan, built the whole maze in the time of the last queen. People owe him their flush crappers, and me… I can thank him for my underworld.’

‘But all this…’ breathed Saul. ‘This room… why did he build this room?’

‘Mr Bazalgette was a canny gent.’ King Rat snickered unpleasantly. ‘I had a few whids, burnt his lugholes, told him a few tales, sights I’d seen. We had a conflab about him and his habits, not all of which were unknown to me.’ King Rat winked exaggeratedly. ‘He was of the opinion that these tales should remain undisclosed. We came to an arrangement. You’ll not find this here burrow, my cubby-hole, on any plans.’

Saul approached King Rat’s throne. He squatted on all fours in front of the seat.

‘What are we doing here? What do we do now?’ Saul was suddenly weary of following like a disciple, unable to intervene or shape events. ‘I want to know what you want.’

King Rat stared at him without speaking.

Saul continued. ‘Is this about those rats?’ he said. There was no answer.

‘Is this about the rats? What was that about? You’re the king, right? You’re King Rat. So command them. I didn’t see them showing any tribute or respect. They looked pretty pissed off to me. What’s this about? Call on the rats, make them come to you.’

There was no sound in the hall. King Rat continued to stare.

Eventually he spoke. ‘Not… yet.’

Saul waited.

‘I won’t… yet. They’re still… narked… with me. They’ll not do what I tell them just yet.’

‘How long have they been… narked?’

‘Seven hundred years.’

King Rat looked a pathetic figure. He skulked with his characteristic combination of defensiveness and arrogance. He looked lonely.

‘You’re… not the king at all, are you?’

‘ I am the king!’ King Rat was on his feet, spitting at the figure below him. ‘Don’t dare talk to me like that I’m the King, I’m the one, the cutpurse, the thief, the deserter chief!’

‘So what’s going on?’ yelled Saul.

‘Something… went… wrong… Once upon a time. Rats’ve long memories, see?’ King Rat thumped his head. ‘They don’t forget stuff. They keep it all in the noggin. That’s all. And you’re involved, sunshine. This is all tied up with the one that wants you dead, the cove that bumped off your fucking dad.’

Fucking dad, said the echoes for a long time afterwards.

‘What… who… is it?’ said Saul.

King Rat looked balefully at him with those shadow-encrusted eyes.

‘The Ratcatcher.’

Almost as soon as Fabian had left, Pete had appeared. His alacrity was suspicious. In another mood it would have pissed Natasha off, but she felt like forgetting about Saul, just for a short time.

She and Fabian had sat up late in her small kitchen. Fabian always commented on Natasha’s rather self-consciously minimalist approach to decor, complaining that it made him feel uneasy, but that night they had other things on their mind. The faint strains of Drum and Bass filtered through from the stereo next door.

The next morning Natasha rose at eight, regretting the cigarettes she had shared with Fabian. He rolled out of the sleeping-bag she had lent him, when he heard her stir. They had no more words to say about Saul. They were numb and tired. Fabian left quickly.

Natasha wandered out of the kitchen dripping night-clothes, pulling a shapeless sweater over her shoulders. She turned on the stereo, slipped the needle onto the vinyl on the turntable. It was the best of last year’s compilations, now some months old, rendering it an ancient classic in the fast-mutating world of Drum and Bass.

She ran her hands through her hair, pulling brutally at the tangles.

Pete rang the bell. She guessed it was him.

She was tired but she let him in. As he drank her coffee, she leaned against the counter and peered at him. She considered him ugly, his pale skin and thin limbs. He was hardly a style guru, either. The world of Jungle could be elitist. She smiled slightly at the thought of the rudeboys and hard-steppers in the club AWOL being presented with this under-sunned apparition, complete with flute.

‘How much do you know about Drum and Bass?’ she asked.

He shook his head. ‘Not much, really…’

‘I can tell. When you played yesterday it was impressive, but I’ve got to tell you it’s a weird idea playing flutes or shit like that to Jungle. If it’s going to work, we’re going to have to figure it out carefully.’

He nodded, his face comical with concentration. Natasha almost wished for a repeat of his extraordinary performance of the previous day, his sudden knowing smile. The alternative was so cringing, so desperate to please, that it all but nauseated her. If this day didn’t go well, she decided, she wasn’t having any more of it.

She sighed. ‘I’m not cutting anything with you without you knowing something about the music. Just because General fucking Levy gets a single in the top ten, and some art-school wankers start writing about Jungle, and the next thing you know anything with a backbeat’s "Jungle". Even Everything But The fucking Girl!’ She folded her arms. ‘Everything But The Girl aren’t Jungle, alright?’

He nodded. It was clear he had never heard of Everything But The Girl.

She closed her eyes and bit back a grin.

‘Right. There’s a lot going on in Jungle: there’s intelligent Jungle, there’s Hardstep, Techstepping, Jazz Jungle… I like ’em all, but I can’t cut Hardstep tracks. All the darkness edges. You want Hardstep, go to Ed Rush or Skyscraper or something, OK? I cut tunes more like Bukem, DJ Rap, stuff like that.’ Natasha was enjoying herself enormously, lecturing him, watching his eyes dart frantically around. He had no idea what she was talking about.

‘DJs have started bringing musicians to gigs; Goldie brings in a drummer, and stuff like that. Some people don’t like it, they reckon Jungle should be digital or nothing. I’m not down with that, but I got no immediate plans to be dragging you on stage either. What I’m interested in is maybe playing with you for a while and sampling some of your flute for the top end. Loop it and cut it and stuff.’

Pete nodded. He was fumbling with his case, assembling his flute.

Saul woke in the throne-room under the city. He sat curled up in the cold, below the unmoving shape of King Rat, stiff on his throne. As soon as Saul’s eyes opened, King Rat stood up. He had been waiting for Saul to awake.

They ate and left the chamber by the brick ladder which crept up behind the throne, emerging by means of another hidden door into the main sewer. Saul followed King Rat through the tunnels, and this time he paid attention to his location, his movements, he created a map in his head, he tracked himself.

The water rushed around them as drizzle hit the urban sprawl above and poured into their recesses. It slid around the bricks, transporting a sudden deluge of oil. The walls here were coated with fat, thick with translucent white residue.

‘Restaurants,’ hissed King Rat as he plunged on, and Saul picked up his feet to avoid the slippery muck. He could smell it as he ran past, the stench of old frying and stale butter. It made him hungry. He ran a finger along the wall as he moved, sucked the glutinous mess he had picked up, and laughed, still amazed and excited by his hunger for old food.

Saul could hear things frantically escaping their path. The corridors were thick with rats, nibbling at the walls and the abundant edible detritus, fleeing as they approached. King Rat hissed and the path ahead of them cleared.