James Herbert - Fluke

Mind you, they were brave, some of those rats, loathsome as they were. The sight of nice juicy puppy flesh may have had something to do with their fearlessness, and in those early days my life was often in jeopardy, and it’s thanks to Rumbo that I’m still in one piece today. (Of course, he soon realised what wonderful rat-bait he possessed, and it wasn’t long before he’d coaxed me into acting as such.) As the months went on, my meat became more stringy — thin I think you’d call me, despite our scavenging — and my legs longer, my jaws and teeth stronger. The rats no longer regarded me as dinner but as diner and treated me with much more respect.

We never really ate them. We’d tear them to pieces, we’d break their bones — but their flesh just wasn’t to our taste, no matter how hungry we felt at the time.

Rumbo loved to taunt them when he had them cornered. They’d hiss and curse at him, threaten him, bare their cruel teeth, but he would only sneer, taunt them all the more. He would advance slowly, his eyes never leaving theirs, and the rats would back away, bunch up their hindquarters, their bodies tensed for the leap forward. They’d make their move and Rumbo would make his. Dog and rat would meet in midair and the ensuing fight would be almost too frenzied to follow with the eye. The outcome was always inevitable: a high-pitched squeal, a stiff-haired body flying through the air, and Rumbo pouncing triumphantly on his broken-necked opponent as it landed in a nerve-twitching heap. Meanwhile, I was left to deal with any of the unfortunate vermin’s companions, and this I learned to do almost as ably — but never with quite as much relish — as Rumbo.

We almost came unstuck one day, however.

It was winter, and the mud in the yard was frost-hard. The yard itself was locked and deserted — it must have been a Sunday — and Rumbo and I were warm and snug on the back seat of a wrecked Morris 1100 which was acting as a sort of temporary bedsitter until more suitable accommodation came along (our previous lodgings, a spacious Zephyr, having been broken up completely and sold as scrap). Rumbo’s head shot up first and mine was a close second; we’d heard a noise and that familiar rank smell was in the air. We crept silently from the battered car and followed our noses towards the odour’s source, in among the jumble of wrecks, through the narrow alleyways of twisted metal, the rat scent drawing us on, the occasional scratching against metal making our ears twitch. We soon came upon them.

Or rather, he came upon us.

We had stopped before a turn in the path through the cars, aware that our prey lay just around the corner, the strong smell and the scratching noises our informant, and were tensing up for the rush when, suddenly he appeared before us.

He was the biggest rat I’d ever seen, more than half my size (and I’d grown considerably), his hair was brown and his incisors were long and wicked-looking. The creature was just as startled as us by the sudden confrontation and disappeared instantly, leaving us to blink our eyes in surprise. We rushed round the corner, but he was gone.

‘Looking for me?’ came a voice from somewhere high up. We looked around us in bewilderment then spotted the rat together. He was perched on the roof of a car and looking down at us contemptuously.

‘Up here, you mangy-looking curs. Coming up to get me?’ he said.

Now rats aren’t generally given much to conversation, most of them just spit and swear or scowl a lot, but this was the talkingest rat I’d ever come across.

‘I’ve heard about you two,’ he went on. ‘You’ve caused us a lot of problems. At least, so the ones who’ve managed to get away tell me.’ (You can’t catch ‘em all.) I’ve been wanting to meet you both — especially you, the big one. Think you’re a match for me?’

I had to admire Rumbo’s nerve, for I was set to run and hide. The rat may have been smaller than me, but those teeth and claws looked as though they could do a lot of damage to tender dog-meat. However, Rumbo spoke up, not a trace of nervousness in his voice: ‘Are you going to come down, mouth, or do I have to come up and get you?’

The rat actually laughed — rats don’t laugh much — and settled himself into a more comfortable position. ‘I’ll come down, cur, but in my own time; first I want to talk.’ (Certainly no ordinary rat this.) ‘What exactly have you got against us rats, friend? I know we’re loved neither by man nor animal, but you have a special dislike, haven’t you? Is it because we’re scavengers? But then aren’t you worse? Aren’t all captured animals the lowest scavengers because they live off man — as parasites? Of course, you can’t even dignify your existence with the word "captured" because most of you choose that way of life, don’t you? Do you hate us because we’re free, not domesticated, not… ‘ he paused, grinning slyly,’… neutered as you are?’

Rumbo bridled at this last remark. ‘I’m not neutered, rat-face, they’ll never do that to me!’

‘It doesn’t have to be a physical thing, you know,’ the rat said smugly. ‘It’s your mind I’m talking about.’

‘I’ve still got a mind of my own.’

‘Have you, have you?’ The rat snorted. ‘At least we vermin run free, no keepers for us.’

‘Who the hell would want you?’ Rumbo scoffed. ‘You even turn on each other when things get rough.’

‘That’s called survival, dog. Survival.’ The rat was displeased. He rose to his feet. ‘You hate us because you know we’re all the same — man, animal, insect — all the same, and you know rats live an existence others try to hide. Isn’t that so, dog?’

‘No, it’s not so, and you know that!’

There were a lot of ‘you knows’ flying around. Unfortunately, I didn’t know what they were talking about.

Rumbo advanced towards the car, his coat bristling with rage.

‘There’s a reason for rats living the way they do, just as there’s a reason for the way dogs live. And you know it!’

‘Yes, and there’s a reason for me to tear your throat out,’ the rat spat at Rumbo.

‘That’ll be the day, ratface!’

They ranted at each other for another five minutes before their anger finally boiled over. And it boiled over in a strange way.

Both rat and dog went suddenly quiet as though there were nothing left to say. They glared into each other’s eyes, Rumbo’s brown and bulging, the rat’s yellow and evil; both pairs were filled with hate. The tension between them mounted, a screaming silence, a building of venom. Then, with a squeal, the rat launched himself from the car roof.

Rumbo was ready. He leapt aside so that the vermin landed heavily on the hard earth, then struck out for the rat’s neck. But the rat squirmed away and turned to meet Rumbo’s charge. Teeth clashed against teeth, and claws dug into flesh.

I stood there, stunned and fearful, watching them try to tear each other to pieces. Growls, snarls and squeals came from the struggling bodies, but it was Rumbo’s yelp that set me into action. I rushed forward, shouting at the top of my bark, trying to find the rage to give me the courage. There wasn’t much I could do, for they were locked together in a writhing embrace, rolling over and over, flaying each other with their feet, biting, drawing blood, ripping skin. I could only lunge in whenever I caught sight of that stinking brown fur, nipping at it with bared teeth.

Quite suddenly, they drew apart, panting, beaten, but still glaring into each other’s eyes. I saw that Rumbo’s shoulder was badly torn and one of the rat’s ears was shredded. They crouched, bodies quivering, low growling sounds at the backs of their throats. I thought perhaps they were too exhausted to carry on, but then I realised they were only regathering their strength.