As he returned to his armchair he accidentally kicked over the can of Guinness and had to open a new one. He lit a cigarette and then noticed the one he had begun earlier. He smiled up at the ceiling but then he started in surprise. Scratching? What is this scratching? The mouse? Oh no. Surely not? That bastard is dead. Killed a week ago with a rolled up Sporting Life. The bastard. Definitely a scratching. Under the bed in the recess. Must have been two of them.
Peter lay back on the chair with his eyes closed, nursing the cold tin of beer. The scratching began once more. God, to be deaf. He slowly opened his eyes and placed the beer up onto the mantelpiece. He grinned malevolently. This bastard shall join his comrade. Sporting Life! Call to arms. Consider yourself conscripted once again.
He dropped down to his knees on the floor and blinked into the shadows beneath the bed. His heart jumped. A strange harsh taste hit the roof of his mouth. He gulped. He bounded back into the chair and stretched his feet out onto the coffee table.
Jesus Christ Almighty. How many? How many? How many more? He leaned over, tucking his trouser bottoms into his socks like a cyclist then knelt back down on the floor. He watched hypnotized as half a dozen mice went scuttling and leapfrogging around the wall and far leg of the bed. His flesh crawled. His scalp itched. The blood thundered and thumped through his heart and into his temples. Perhaps the hebee jebees were upon him. Maybe the shaking pink elephants would attack next. On five pints and a half a can of Guinness? No. Surely not.
Again Peter returned to the chair where he lit a cigarette. He noticed one still smouldering on the ashtray with quite a lot to be smoked. Whose? The other stubbed-out unsmoked fag lay beside it. He broke it into two pieces and played with the loose strands of tobacco, then lay back, smoking peacefully for a few minutes. He moved his head nearer the edge of the chair and glanced over, and watched the tiny mice cavort in circles roundabout the front side of the bed. He started counting them. He stopped at seven and began a recount. He stopped again. Ten? A dozen? How many? Christ! How many in a litter? Could it be a new litter? He ran a clammy hand through his hair. His scalp felt oily and was almost unbearably itchy. Perhaps if. . What?
He returned to the toilet, shutting the kitchen door on the way. He turned on the tap of the wash-hand basin and washed his head in the ice-cold water. Much better. Much much better. He paused in the lobby and pulled on his old heavy boots leaving his trouser bottoms inside his socks. To battle! To battle with the bastards! Onward! The glorious struggle.
From the cool of the lobby into the now-warm kitchen. He gazed at the floor beneath the bed and then at his armchair and quickly he jumped onto the bed and lay across it with his head over the side looking under. They appeared to be playing hide-and-seek. He crawled to the corner where the action was in progress and peered down. He could make out their shapes in the shadows here quite easily. One now seemed to be crawling up the leg of the bed with its back against the wall for support. Jesus! Oh Jesus.
He sat up, cross-legged with his right hand ready to wield the Sporting Life. He waited patiently, staring down at the edge of the bed.
Bastards. Okay, come on then. Come on then you creepy little bastards. Me and this paper. Come on you bastards.
He sat there waiting. He thought he heard the crawler fall back but lacked the courage to look. Perhaps they had started crawling up the legs at the opposite side of the bed, the ones behind him? Jesus Christ! He could feel their presence. He felt them there right behind his back. Then suddenly he relaxed. His mouth gaped open as the tension and strain eased from his limbs and body. He breathed in and then out, swivelled his head around. Nothing! Nothing at all.
He looked down over the bed and saw a mouse go hurtling across the floor towards the cooker and the pantry. No grub there anyway! Ha ha ha you bastard, nothing there.
God. Oh God. A shape under the candlewick bedspread moved steadily in his direction. He stared glassy-eyed for about ten seconds then screamed. He flew off the bed, picked up the carry-out, cigarettes and matches and bolted into the lobby slamming the door behind him. He leaned against the wall gasping and spluttering saliva down his chin. The Sporting Life? Must have dropped it in the rush. He looked about the place then noticed the container of blue paraffin. He grabbed it up and smiled slyly. He opened the kitchen door gently and slowly sprinkled the paraffin over towards the floor at the bed then lit a match and carefully threw it. The carpet burst into flames.
‘Ha you little bastards!’ he screamed. ‘Ha ha now you bunch of bastards!’ Then he locked himself into the toilet.
The firemen found him there half an hour later after breaking the door in. He stood with one foot in the pan and the other balanced on the seat. He appeared to have been plunging each one in alternately and pulling the plug every so often. He punched his chest when they told him that everything in the kitchen was destroyed.
Sunday papers
Tommy had lain awake for almost ten minutes before the alarm finally shattered the early Sunday morning peace. He switched it off and jumped out of bed immediately, dressing in seconds. He opened the bedroom door, padded along the lobby into the kitchenette. A plate of cornflakes lay beside a bottle of milk and bowl of sugar from which he poured and sprinkled.
When he had finished eating the door creaked open and his mother blinked around it: ‘Are you up?’ she asked.
‘Aye mum. Had my cornflakes.’ He could not see her eyes.
‘Washed yet?’
‘Aye mum, it’s a smashing day outside.’
‘Well you better watch yourself. There’s an orange somewhere.’
‘Aye mum.’
‘It’s yes.’
He nodded and stood up, screeching the chair backwards.
‘Sshh. .’ whispered his mother, ‘you’ll waken your dad.’
‘Sorry,’ whispered Tommy. ‘See you later mum.’
‘At eight?’
‘Don’t know,’ he said, stooping to pick up the canvas paper-bag.
‘John’s always in at eight for something to eat,’ said his mother.
‘Okay!’ He swung the bag onto his shoulder the way his brother did.
‘Don’t say okay,’ said his mother frowning a little, eyes open now, becoming accustomed to the morning light.
‘Sorry mum.’
‘Alright. You better go now. Cheerio!’
‘Cheerio!’ he called as she disappeared into the dark curtain-drawn bedroom.
Immediately her head reappeared around the door: ‘SHH!’
‘What’s going on,’ grunted a hoarse voice from the depth.
‘Sorry mum!’ Tommy could hear his father coughing as the bedroom door closed. He washed his face before quietly opening the outside door. He stepped out onto the landing and kicked over an empty milk-bottle but managed to snatch it up before the echo had died away. A dog barked somewhere. Hurrying downstairs not daring to whistle he jumped the last half flight of steps then halted, hardly breathing, wondering if he could have wakened the neighbours by the smack of his sandshoes on the solid concrete.
Out the close he clattered down the remaining steps to the pavement, not caring how much noise he made now that he was out in the open. Crossing the road he leaned against the spiked wooden fence looking far across the valley. So clear. He could see the Old Kilpatricks and that Old Camel’s Hump linking them with the Campsies. He whistled as loudly as he could with two fingers, laughing as the echoes pierced across the burn and over to Southdeen. He turned and waved the paper-bag round and round over his head; then he began trotting along the road, swinging it at every passing lamp-post. He kept forgetting the time and day. It was so bright. He felt so good.