She goes back to her nest. Sometime later there is a stormy feeling in the air, sounds of confusion and men’s voices, things having gone out of joint. She lets them wash into her ears and away again like a tide. Later still she emerges, turning her head from side to side as if she can hear someone calling. No one is calling. Nevertheless she finds herself creeping out into the open. She has food and water in her nest – the kitchens were well-stocked, so she took as much as she could, enough to be able to hide for days – but she can’t stay there. It is too like being small again, watching the roof inch down towards her open eyes. Is that how Simon feels? It gives her a strange, seasick feeling to wonder what he’s thinking, as if she’s spilling out of her body.
A rat wouldn’t take the risk. But she keeps moving. And although she takes a roundabout route, she gets closer and closer to the room under the eaves. Her mind is blank; she doesn’t have a plan, or even an intention. She wants to see Simon, that’s all.
And then she rounds a corner and the fat dark-haired man is standing there. She turns to stone, except for her heart. She is safe in the bars of light and shadow, camouflaged by a cage of moonlight. In a moment he will look away and she will run.
Then he speaks. He says, ‘Simon Charpentier. Yes?’
A split second. A wave of vertigo goes through her as though he might be addressing her. No. But for the first time she feels the absence of her own name. She isn’t Simon, but who is she? Her mother’s voice: darling, sweetheart. But those aren’t names. She has time to feel a kind of human, unfamiliar panic. What injury is this, that she hasn’t noticed before?
Another voice answers.
‘I – yes. Who are you?’
Simon. He’s there, at the far end of the passage. His voice is thin and hoarse, as though his windpipe has begun to corrode. He steps into a patch of light. He is shaking, and pale; his shirt is spattered with bile-coloured flecks. What is he doing here? He should be hidden. She wants to call out to him, to warn him: the only clever thing is to run. But he won’t.
‘You know people thought you’d got lost in the mountains?’ The man leans his elbow on the banister and looks at him sideways. ‘Where have you been lurking? I suppose someone’s been helping you. Bringing you food and so on.’
‘I’ve been … I found some. Enough.’
‘Ah, I thought Léo Martin was taking an interest. Or was it Magister Dryden?’
‘No.’ His croak barely reaches the Rat’s ears. Run, she wants to say, run.
The man smiles. ‘In any case,’ he says, ‘I’m glad I’ve finally tracked you down. How about we get you to the infirmary? No offence, but you don’t look like you’re in tip-top condition.’
‘What?’
‘You can’t go on like this, Simon, can you? Now don’t worry, I’m not going to get the police involved. They’re thugs. I understand why you wanted to avoid them.’ He chuckles, and the Rat’s lips curl away from her teeth. ‘Let’s get you checked over, and then we’ll see what we can do to get you home.’
‘I can’t.’
‘Ah yes, your papers. That’s all sorted out.’ He laughs, extends his hand to Simon, white fingers like maggots in the moonlight. The Rat wants to bite them off. Surely Simon won’t be foolish enough to trust him? ‘Come on, old chap. It’s all right now. Think of me as a Good Samaritan.’
Simon’s eyes are wide. He shifts from foot to foot. He looks like a child.
An ache sweeps from the Rat’s feet to her gut and into her throat. This is her fault. She should have helped him. If she had done more, he wouldn’t be standing there, hovering on the edge of danger. The fat man with yellow teeth is going to eat him alive. She should have given in sooner to the silent call in her head. Should have. Her fault. No rat would think like this, but she can’t stop herself.
‘Come on then.’ The man clicks his fingers. ‘So when did Léo Martin spot you? Bit of a cold-hearted bastard, isn’t he, to let you struggle like this?’ Somewhere – beyond human hearing – the Rat hears the faint soft sound of a trap being set.
‘He promised to help. He said he’d get me some more papers,’ Simon says. ‘He was the one who told me not to go with the police.’
‘Oh?’ The man grins. ‘It was Martin, then. Splendid.’ The invisible trap snicks shut. Then he reaches out. His plump pale fingers are alert, thirsty.
She doesn’t mean to move. A rat wouldn’t move. But it’s as though the floor collapses under her feet, and the only way not to fall is to throw herself forward. She stands between Simon and the fat man, breathless, exposed.
There’s a silence. She has her back to Simon but she can feel him staring. She wills him to take the opportunity to run away; but he doesn’t.
‘My word,’ the man says, and he laughs. It’s a bubbling spasm of laughter, full of bravado. ‘I thought I saw you … You survived this long, did you?’
She doesn’t move. She doesn’t want him to touch her with those maggoty fingers; but she won’t get out of the way. She lets him look at her, even though every rat-instinct is screeching in her ears.
‘Ha!’ He wipes his mouth on his sleeve. When he speaks again it has a grating, jocular note. ‘I must say, if you had a bit more flesh on your bones you’d be the spitting image of your mother. And a bony thing like you won’t have to worry about taking precautions … If someone gave you a going-over with a scrubbing brush, I wouldn’t say no.’
She hears Simon draw in his breath. She’s glad. It’s the sound of him realising that he’s in danger.
‘Get out of my way,’ the man says. ‘Get – out – of – the – way.’
She swings round. She grabs at Simon – whiff of vomit and empty-stomach-sour breath – and pushes him ahead of her. He gasps and staggers and she slams her hands into his back, driving him onwards. At the bottom of the stairs he starts to stumble upwards: but that leads to his lair, and a dead end. It’s not safe any more. She grabs the back of his clothes in her fists and drags him back down and along. He makes a sound of protest, but she ignores it. Why is he so stupid? He’s saying something now but she doesn’t stop to listen. Behind them the fat man is laughing.
It’s hard to keep them both moving. She shoves Simon sideways and through an archway. She isn’t thinking clearly. Panic flares, exploding in bright colours as she fights for breath, catching at her heels. A rat would know where to go but she has left her rat-self in the fat man’s hands and now she is cloudy-headed and helpless. They climb a winding staircase, up and up and up, and the bright blood-flowers in her vision are blinding her. Another step, another breath. The man is gaining on them. She swerves to one side, through a little door and a dusty felt curtain, and beside her – she can’t keep him in front – Simon trips and fumbles in the dark. Her arms ache as she steers him past her. Another staircase, a stone spiral with no exit. A trap. She should have known better. There is nothing to do but keep going and hope.
They pass a narrow window. At their backs there’s heavy breathing and the clip of leather soles on stone. And then, abruptly, they come out into the open air. The flat roof is bare, surrounded by low battlemented walls. Simon bends over, puts his hands on his knees, and stares at her, panting.