Brian Jacques - The Ribbajack

Eric was thumping his boot on the floor, and calling for her. “Girl! Where in the name o’ blazes has that idle scut got to?”

When Miggy appeared, Eric pressed four pennies into her hand. “Go to the Maid of Erin. Ask Aggie the barmaid for four penn ’orth of dark Jamaica rum. Shift y’self, girl, an’ don’t dare spill any, d’ye hear?”

Miggy bobbed a curtsy. “Yes, Uncle Eric.”

Atty, carrying a pail of rubbish out, escorted Miggy to the door, calling out scornfully, “Hah, four penny of Jamaicy rum, only fool drink that for sick belly. That rum burn holes in man’s gut. Here, I give you two more pennies, get six pennies of Jamaicy rum, finish Eric off proper, for good!”

The girl trotted off up the cobbled avenue with Eric’s voice echoing in her ears as he bellowed at the cook, “You mind your own business, ye heathen poisoner! If I want Jamaica rum, I’ll have it. I know what’s best fer me!”

Down in the cellar, Sailor had tired of his play-things. Scampering up into his perch among the ceiling beams, he amused himself by gnawing at the wooden planking overhead. Sniffing the kitchen odours of frying food and molasses from above, Sailor began ripping earnestly into the wood, thinking there might be eggs up there—his favourite food. The little creature’s teeth and claws went furiously to work. He was determined to assess the egg situation of the Mersey Star’s kitchen. Within half an hour, Sailor could see daylight showing through the pine boarding. He redoubled his efforts cheerfully.

A thick fog fell over the waterfront that evening, enveloping the Liverpool coast in a pall of impenetrable mist. The dining room was empty save for Eric, still ensconced in his corner chair. With a jug of hot water and a bottle containing the dregs of his rum, the boardinghouse keeper sprawled ungracefully, his chin resting on his chest, snoring aloud. Atty and Miggy had crept off, down to the cellar, to feed Sailor. There was not much for him—a few crusts, spread with lard, dipped in sugar. The mongoose stayed up in the rafters, busy at his work. Atty had tried climbing up to coax Sailor down.

But the mongoose would have none of it. Miggy stared up into the dark shadows, brushing away at the splinters which drifted down on her. “Sailor, come down here this instant! Be a good boy and come down, there’s nice supper for you. Come on, Sailor!”

The mongoose ignored her for once. It was Atty who came scrambling down, brushing wood splinters from his hair. “No can get near Sailor, him little naughty beast, nearly bite Atty’s finger again. Not listen to you, Miggs.”

Stretching on tiptoe, the girl peered up into the rafters. “But what’s he doing up there? Sailor, Sailor, come dow—”

Her voice was drowned out by an almighty bang—the snapping of wood—and Eric McGrail bellowing like a wounded buffalo.

Sailor had completed his task. He had burrowed through the ceiling, up into the dining room. The problem was that he had been digging directly alongside the leg of Eric’s chair. With the weight of the big fat man, the damaged floor broke. One of the chair legs broke through the weakened timber.

Sailor shot through the gap just in time as Eric fell awkwardly sideways, the furniture collapsing beneath him. Kicking and howling, he lay on the floor, trying to extricate himself from the wreckage of the chair. Sailor nimbly dodged the thrashing legs. He skipped up Eric’s body, over the swollen stomach, across the chest, hopping across the horrified man’s face. Miggy and Atty came rushing upstairs. Eric’s voice rose to a panicked screech.

“Eeeeeeyaaaah! The big rat! Ooooowaaaahhh, ’elp!”

Disturbed by the noise, Sailor went shooting round the room like a furred rocket. The girl and the cook had Eric half on his feet when he knocked them roughly aside and thudded off after the mongoose.

He chased Sailor round the dining room, aiming kicks and curses at him. Miggy screamed, “Leave Sailor alone! Don’t hurt him, Uncle Eric, please!”

Upsetting chairs and tables, Eric pounded on, his face the colour of a beetroot. Sailor skipped nimbly ahead of him, always just out of reach. Miggy, seeing the mongoose coming her way, held out her arms to it. “Here, Sailor, come on, boy!”

He leaped into her arms. Holding her pet close, Miggy ran to the door, grappled with the latch, then sped free, out into the fog. Eric booted a table aside and went after her. Like a flash, Atty Lok was blocking the doorway in front of him.

“Leave girl alone, beast not rat, only mongoose, not harm you!”

Eric charged him, flooring the smaller man with windmilling fists and hefty boot kicks. He stepped over the cook’s crumpled form, snarling at him, “I’m goin’ to kill that rat, then I’m goin’ to give that brat the beltin’ she deserves, before I drag ’er off to the parish work’ouse. An’ you, huh, you’re finished round my place. Pack yer bags, an’ be gone afore I gets back!”

Miggy was not sure which way to run, the fog was so dense out on the quayside. Clutching Sailor to her, she hurried about in the cocooning whiteness. Completely lost, the girl ran straight into an iron bollard. A yelp of pain escaped her lips as she staggered to one side, holding her bleeding kneecap. Miggy fell right into her uncle Eric’s bulging stomach. He was standing with his belt off, holding up his trousers with one hand.

His face was livid with rage as he swung the broad, brass-buckled belt at her. “Gimme that dirty rat, or I’ll skin the hide off yer!”

Miggy crouched and covered her head with one arm, protecting Sailor with her body, crying out as the belt struck her.

The force of the blow knocked Miggy off balance. The mongoose jumped from the girl’s shoulders just as Miggy fell backward, hitting her head on the cobbles. The last thing she saw before she blacked out was her uncle Eric. He was gurgling horribly, grabbing at the mongoose, which had him tight by the throat.

Atty Lok heard the splash and limped forward, his bacon knife in one hand, the other holding down a swelling on his forehead. Ice-cold dock water sprayed into his face, causing him to stop right on the edge of the quay. The Siamese cook peered dazedly about him. He saw Miggy lying on the damp cobbles to his left. There was no sign of Eric McGrail, nor the mongoose.

A tall, gaunt man wearing a battered top hat and carrying a sack over one shoulder materialised through the swathes of fog. He saw Atty trying to pick Miggy up, and went to help. “What’s been goin’ on round ’ere? I’m Tommy Dyer, the rat catcher. Where’s big Eric from the boardin’ouse? I’ve got business t’do with him.”

Atty nodded urgently toward the Mersey Star. “Help me get girl inside, I tell you all about it.”

Three minutes later, Tommy Dyer was at the top of the avenue, shouting around the Dock Road, “Man in the dock! Man in the dock! Help, help!”

In a short time, several folk emerged from the fog. One of them, a constable, took charge of the situation. “Right, someone get ropes and hooks, lanterns, too. Quick as you can. Now, sir, where did the man fall in? Take us there. You stop here, sonny, show the men with the ropes which way we’ve gone. Move sharp now, the tide’s on the ebb!”

Miggy lay on the dining room counter. Atty was dabbing her knee with a solution of salt stirred into boiled water. She tried to rise, but he pushed her back, whispering instructions. “You not speak, hear nothing, see nothing. If anyone ask you, stay quiet, Miggs, let Atty do all talkin’.”

It was quite a while before anyone came into the boardinghouse. Sounds of ropes and grappling hooks splashing could be heard amid the shouts from the quay as the constable entered. He was accompanied by Tommy Dyer, two Lock Gate Keepers, an overweight washerwoman, and a well-dressed old gentleman with a carriage driver attending him. Miggy closed her eyes, feigning unconsciousness. She listened to what was going on. The constable spoke first.