The Great Automatic Grammatizator 22 страница
"You've almost got to be a rat yourself," I said. It slipped out in error, before I had time to Stop myself, and I couldn't really help it because I was looking at the man at the time. But the effect upon him was surprising.
"There!" he cried. "Now you got it! Now you really said something! A good ratter's got to be more like a rat than anythin' else in the world! Cleverer even than a rat, and that's not an easy thing to be, let me tell you!"
"Quite sure it's not."
"All right, then let's go. I haven't got all day, you know. There's Lady Leonora Benson asking for me urgent up there at the Manor."
"She got rats, too?"
"Everybody's got rats," the ratman said, and he ambled off down the driveway, across the road to the hayrick and we watched him go. The way he walked was so like a rat it made you wonder–that slow, almost delicate ambling walk with a lot of give at the knees and no sound at all from the footsteps on the gravel. He hopped nimbly over the gate into the field, then walked quickly round the hayrick scattering handfuls of oats on to the ground.
The next day he returned and repeated the procedure.
The day after that he came again and this time he put down the poisoned oats. But he didn't scatter these; he placed them carefully in little piles at each corner of the rick.
"You got a dog?" he asked when he came back across the road on the third day after putting down the poison.
"Yes."
"Now if you want to see your dog die an 'orrible twistin' death, all you got to do is let him in that gate some time."
"We'll take care," Claud told him. "Don't you worry about that."
The next day he returned once more, this time to collect the dead.
"You got an old sack?" he asked. "Most likely we goin' to need a sack to put 'em in."
He was puffed up and important now, the black eyes gleaming with pride. He was about to display the sensational results of his catch to the audience.
Claud fetched a sack and the three of us walked across the road, the ratman leading. Claud and I leaned over the gate, watching. The ratman prowled around the hayrick, bending over to inspect his little piles of poison.
"Somethin' wrong here," he muttered. His voice was soft and angry.
He ambled over to another pile and got down on his knees to examine it closely.
"Somethin' bloody wrong here."
"What's the matter?"
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He didn't answer, but it was clear that the rats hadn't touched his bait.
"These are very clever rats here," I said.
"Exactly what I told him, Gordon. These aren't just no ordinary kind of rats you're dealing with here."
The ratman walked over to the gate. He was very annoyed and showed it on his face and around the nose and by the way the two yellow teeth were pressing down into the skin of his lower lip. "Don't give me that crap," he said, looking at me. "There's nothing wrong with these rats except somebody's feedin'
'em. They got somethin' juicy to eat somewhere and plenty of it. There's no rats in the world'll turn down oats unless their bellies is full to burstin'."
"They're clever," Claud said.
The man turned away, disgusted. He knelt down again and began to scoop up the poisoned oats with a small shovel, tipping them carefully back into the tin. When he had done, all three of us walked back across the road.
The ratman stood near the petrol‑pumps, a rather sorry, humble ratman now whose face was beginning to take on a brooding aspect. He had withdrawn into himself and was brooding in silence over his failure, the eyes veiled and wicked, the little tongue darting out to one side of the two yellow teeth, keeping the lips moist. It appeared to be essential that the lips should be kept moist. He looked up at me, a quick surreptitious glance, then over at Claud. His nose‑end twitched, sniffing the air. He raised himself up and down a few times on his toes, swaying gently, and in a voice soft and secretive, he said: "Want to see somethin'?" He was obviously trying to retrieve his reputation.
"What?"
"Want to see somethin' amazin'?" As he said this he put his right hand into the deep poacher's pocket of his jacket and brought out a large live rat clasped tight between his fingers.
"Good God!"
"Ah! That's it, y'see!" He was crouching slightly now and craning his neck forward and leering at us and holding this enormous brown rat in his hands, one finger and thumb making a tight circle around the creature's neck, clamping its head rigid so it couldn't turn and bite.
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"D'you usually carry rats around in your pockets?"
"Always got a rat or two about me somewhere." With that he put his free hand into the other pocket and produced a small white ferret.
"Ferret," he said, holding it up by the neck.
The ferret seemed to know him and stayed still in his grasp.
"There's nothin'll kill a rat quicker'n a ferret. And there's nothin' a rat's more frightened of either."
He brought his hands close together in front of him so that the ferret's nose was within six inches of the rat's face. The pink beady eyes of the ferret stared at the rat. The rat struggled, trying to edge away from the killer.
"Now," he said. "Watch!"
His khaki shirt was open at the neck and he lifted the rat and slipped it down inside his shirt, next to his skin. As soon as his hand was free, he unbuttoned his jacket at the front so that the audience could see the bulge the body of the rat made under his shirt. His belt prevented it from going down lower than his waist.
Then he slipped the ferret in after the rat.
Immediately there was a great commotion inside the shirt. It appeared that the rat was running around the man's body, being chased by the ferret. Six or seven times they went around, the small bulge chasing the larger one, gaining on it slightly each circuit and drawing closer and closer until at last the two bulges seemed to come together and there was a scuffle and a series of shrill shrieks.
Throughout this performance the ratman had stood absolutely still with legs apart, arms hanging loosely, the dark eyes resting on Claud's face. Now he reached one hand down into his shirt and pulled out the ferret; with the other he took out the dead rat. There were traces of blood around the white muzzle of the ferret.
"Not sure I liked that very much."
"You never seen anythin' like it before, I'll bet you that."
"Can't really say I have."
"Like as not you'll get yourself a nasty little nip in the guts one of these days," Claud told him. But he was clearly impressed, and the ratman was becoming cocky again.
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"Want to see somethin' far more amazn'n that?" he asked. "You want to see somethin' you'd never even believe unless you seen it with your own eyes?"
"Well?"
We were standing in the driveway out in front of the pumps and it was one of those pleasant warm November mornings. Two cars pulled in for petrol, one right after the other, and Claud went over and gave them what they wanted.
"You want to see?" the ratman asked.
I glanced at Claud, slightly apprehensive. "Yes," Claud said. "Come on then, let's see."
The ratman slipped the dead rat back into one pocket, the ferret into the other. Then he reached down into his knapsack and produced–if you please–a second live rat.
"Good Christ!" Claud said.
"Always got one or two rats about me somewhere," the man announced calmly. "You got to know rats on this job, and if you want to know 'em you got to have 'em round you. This is a sewer rat, this is. An old sewer rat, clever as buggery. See him watchin' me all the time, wonderin' what I'm goin' to do? See him?"
"Very unpleasant."
"What are you going to do?" I asked. I had a feeling I was going to like this one even less than the last.
"Fetch me a piece of string."
Claud fetched him a piece of string.
With his left hand, the man looped the string around one of the rat's hind legs. The rat struggled, trying to turn its head to see what was going on, but he held it tight around the neck with finger and thumb.
"Now!" he said, looking about him. "You got a table inside?"
"We don't want the rat inside the house," I said.
"Well–I need a table. Or somethin' flat like a table."
"What about the bonnet of that car?" Claud said.
We walked over to the car and the man put the old sewer rat on the bonnet. He attached the string to the windshield wiper so that the rat was now tethered.
At first it crouched, unmoving and suspicious, a big‑bodied grey rat with bright black eyes and a scaly tail that lay in a long curl upon the car's bonnet. It was looking away from the ratman, but watching him sideways to see what he was going to do. The man stepped back a few paces and immediately the rat relaxed. It sat up on its haunches and began to lick the grey fur on its chest. Then it scratched its muzzle with both front paws. It seemed quite unconcerned about the three men standing near by.
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"Now–how about a little bet?" the ratman asked.
"We don't bet," I said.
"Just for fun. It's more fun if you bet."
"What d'you want to bet on?"
"I'll bet you I can kill that rat without usin' my hands. I'll put my hands in my pockets and not use 'em."
"You'll kick it with your feet," Claud said.
It was apparent that the ratman was out to earn some money. I looked at the rat that was going to be killed and began to feel slightly sick, not so much because it was going to be killed but because it was going to be killed in a special way, with a considerable degree of relish.
"No," the ratman said. "No feet."
"Nor arms?" Claud asked.
"Nor arms. Nor legs, nor hands neither."
"You'll sit on it."
"No. No squashin'."
"Let's see you do it."
"You bet me first. Bet me a quid."
"Don't be so bloody daft," Claud said. "Why should we give you a quid?"
"What'll you bet?"
"Nothin'."
"All right. Then it's no go."
He made as if to untie the string from the windshield wiper.
"I'll bet you a shilling," Claud told him. The sick gastric sensation in my stomach was increasing, but there was an awful magnetism about this business and I found myself quite unable to walk away or even move.
"You too?"
"No," I said.
"What's the matter with you?" the ratman asked.
"I just don't want to bet you, that's all."
"So you want me to do this for a lousy shillin'?"
"I don't want you to do it."
"Where's the money?" he said to Claud.
Claud put a shilling piece on the bonnet, near the radiator. The ratman produced two sixpences and laid them beside Claud's money. As he stretched out his hand to do this, the rat cringed, drawing its head back and flattening itself against the bonnet.
"Bet's on," the ratman said.
Claud and I stepped back a few paces. The ratman stepped forward. He put his hands in his pockets and inclined his body from the waist so that his face was on a level with the rat, about three feet away.
His eyes caught the eyes of the rat and held them. The rat was crouching, very tense, sensing extreme danger, but not yet frightened. The way it crouched, it seemed to me it was preparing to spring forward at the man's face; but there must have been some power in the ratman's eyes that prevented it from doing this, and subdued it, and then gradually frightened it so that it began to back away, dragging its body backwards with slow crouching steps until the string tautened on its hind leg. It tried to struggle back further against the string, jerking its leg to free it. The man leaned forward towards the rat, following it with his face, watching it all the time with his eyes, and suddenly the rat panicked and leaped sideways in the air. The string pulled it up with a jerk that must almost have dislocated its leg.
It crouched again, in the middle of the bonnet, as far away as the string would allow, and it was properly frightened now, whiskers quivering, the long grey body tense with fear.
At this point, the ratman again began to move his face closer. Very slowly he did it, so slowly there wasn't really any movement to be seen at all except that the face just happened to be a fraction closer each time you looked. He never took his eyes from the rat. The tension was considerable and I wanted suddenly to cry out and tell him to stop. I wanted him to stop because it was making me feel sick inside, but I couldn't bring myself to say the word. Something extremely unpleasant was about to happen I was sure of that. Something sinister and cruel and ratlike, and perhaps it really would make me sick. But I had to see it now.
The ratman's face was about eighteen inches from the rat. Twelve inches. Then ten, or perhaps it was eight, and then there was not more than the length of a man's hand separating their faces. The rat was pressing its body flat against the car bonnet, tense and terrified. The ratman was also tense, but with a dangerous active tensity that was like a tight‑wound spring. The shadow of a smile flickered around the skin of his mouth.
Then suddenly he struck.
He struck as a snake strikes, darting his head forward with one swift knifelike stroke that originated in the muscles of the lower body, and I had a momentary glimpse of his mouth opening very wide and two yellow teeth and the whole face contorted by the effort of mouth‑opening.
More than that I did not care to see. I closed my eyes, and when I opened them again the rat was dead and the ratman was slipping the money into his pocket and spitting to clear his mouth.
"That's what they makes lickerish out of," he said. "Rat's blood is what the big factories and the chocolate‑people use to make lickerish."
Again the relish, the wet‑lipped, lip‑smacking relish as he spoke the words, the throaty richness of his voice and the thick syrupy way he pronounced the word lickerish.
"No," he said, "there's nothin' wrong with a drop of rat's blood."
"Don't talk so absolutely disgusting," Claud told him.
"Ah! But that's it, you see. You eaten it many a time. Penny sticks and lickerish bootlaces is all made from rat's blood."
"We don't want to hear about it, thank you."
"Boiled up, it is, in great cauldrons, bubblin' and steamin' and men stirrin' it with long poles. That's one of the big secrets of the chocolate‑makin' factories, and no one knows about it–no one except the ratters supplyin' the stuff."
Suddenly he noticed that his audience was no longer with him, that our faces were hostile and sick‑looking and crimson with anger and disgust. He stopped abruptly, and without another word he turned and sloped off down the driveway out on to the road, moving with the slow, that almost delicate ambling walk that was like a rat prowling, making no noise with his footsteps even on the gravel of the driveway.
RUMMINS
The sun was up over the hills now and the mist had cleared and it was wonderful to be striding along the road with the dog in the early morning, especially when it was autumn, with the leaves changing to gold and yellow and sometimes one of them breaking away and falling slowly, turning slowly over in the air, dropping noiselessly right in front of him on to the grass beside the road. There was a small wind up above, and he could hear the beeches rustling and murmuring like a crowd of people.
This was always the best time of the day for Claud Cubbage. He gazed approvingly at the rippling velvety hindquarters of the greyhound trotting in front of him.
"Jackie," he called softly. "Hey, Jackson . How you feeling, boy?"
The dog half turned at the sound of its name and gave a quick acknowledging wag of the tail.
There would never be another dog like this Jackie, he told himself. How beautiful the slim streamlining, the small pointed head, the yellow eyes, the black mobile nose. Beautiful the long neck, the way the deep brisket curved back and up out of sight into no stomach at all. See how he walked upon his toes, noiselessly, hardly touching the surface of the road at all.
" Jackson ," he said. "Good old Jackson ."
In the distance, Claud could see Rummins' farmhouse, small, narrow, and ancient, standing back behind the hedge on the right‑hand side.
I'll turn round there, he decided. That'll be enough for today.
Rummins, carrying a pail of milk across the yard, saw him coming down the road. He set the pail down slowly and came forward to the gate, leaning both arms on the topmost bar, waiting.
"Morning, Mr Rummins," Claud said. It was necessary to be polite to Rummins because of eggs.
Rummins nodded and leaned over the gate, looking critically at the dog.
"Looks well," he said.
"He is well."
"When's he running?"
"I don't know, Mr Rummins."
"Come on. When's he running?"
"He's only ten months yet, Mr Rummins. He's not even schooled properly, honest."
The small beady eyes of Rummins peered suspiciously over the top of the gate. "I wouldn't mind betting a couple of quid you're having it off with him somewhere secret soon."
Claud moved his feet uncomfortably on the black road surface. He disliked very much this man with the wide frog mouth, the broken teeth, the shifty eyes; and most of all he disliked having to be polite to him because of eggs.
"That hayrick of yours opposite," he said, searching desperately for another subject. "It's full of rats."
"All hayricks got rats."
"Not like this one. Matter of fact we've been having a touch of trouble with the authorities about that."
Rummins glanced up sharply. He didn't like trouble with the authorities. Any man who sells eggs blackmarket and kills pigs without a permit is wise to avoid contact with that sort of people.
"What kind of trouble?"
"They sent the ratcatcher along."
"You mean just for a few rats?"
"A few! Blimey, it's swarming!"
"Never."
"Honest it is, Mr Rummins. There's hundreds of 'em."
"Didn't the ratcatcher catch 'em?"
"No.
"Why?"
"I reckon they're too artful."
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