Saul caught a glimpse of the newcomer: thin and very pale, with red hair, a sharp hawkish nose and wide eyes. Saul was borne towards his destination, a huge steel container like a vast skip ten feet high, over which loomed a yellow structure something like a crane.
His eyes flitted about as he was carried, he saw the cars all flattened around him, and he realized that this was a car-crusher, that the lid of the dark container would bear down on whatever was inside, and squeeze it, press it like a flower into two dimensions. And as he was borne inexorably towards it Saul’s eyes widened in horror and he began to struggle, to shout through his gag.
He flopped pathetically in the man’s arms, tried to roll out of his grip, but the man held him firm and kissed his teeth in disgust, did not break his stride, no matter how Saul emitted frantic humming protests and jack-knifed. The man hauled Saul over his shoulder, Saul staring for a moment into the insane looking eyes of the redhead behind them. Saul was held, bending and unbending at the waist pathetically, till the tall man heaved him upwards and he sailed over the edge of the ominous grey container… hung silent and still for a moment… fell, passing into the shadow of its metal walls, feeling the air cool and still, slamming into the pitted floor.
He landed hard on the shards of metal and glass which littered the dark.
Only because he was a rat was he not unconscious or dead, he decided, as he lay moaning. He struggled to sit upright, trickles of blood discolouring the cords which held him. Something approached him, footsteps clanging on the metal floor, and he tried to turn, and fell again, banging his head, only to feel himself grabbed around the shoulders and pulled upright. He opened his eyes and stared into a face glaring balefully at his, a dark face, darker than the shadows in the deadly car-crusher, a face boiling with anger, teeth gritted hard, scoring lines around the mouth, and the familiar stink of old wet animals and rubbish made acrid with anger.
King Rat looked at him and spat in his face.
Chapter Twelve
The spittle slid down around Saul’s nose. His gaze was bouncing off the walls of the crusher, vibrating back and forth, trapped. King Rat stared at him unflinching and angry. Why was he angry, Saul wondered frantically, the thoughts crowding around each other in his head. What was happening? They’d both been caught by the Ratcatcher, that was why they were here, about to be crushed, so why was King Rat still? He wasn’t trapped like Saul. Why did he not leap out of the container and save them, or flee?
With his breath fast and ugly in his ears, Saul saw the suspended weight of the lid hovering above them, hideous with potential energy, full of pent-up momentum. King Rat was trying to hold Saul’s eyes, was muttering something, but in his panic Saul stared briefly at his uncle, then up at the lid, back down and up again, waiting for it to descend.
King Rat shook him and growled, a quiet bellow of rage.
‘What by damn do you reckon you’re playing at? Off I go for my constitutional, on the lookout for some victuals, leave you akip like a babe, and what happens? You up and piss off.’
Saul shook his head frantically and King Rat impatiently yanked at the rope around his face, tearing it free. Saul spluttered, breathed deeply, spraying mucus and spit and a little blood at King Rat.
King Rat did not move, did not wipe himself clean.
Instead he slapped Saul in the face.
Saul felt so abused, so sore and bloodied, the sting of it was nothing to him, but his anger and confusion overflowed. He exhaled, and the breath turned into a long shout, a yell of incoherent frustration. He wriggled and felt his muscles bunch up against his bonds.
‘What are you doing?’ he yelled.
King Rat pushed his hand over Saul’s mouth.
‘Stow your parley, you little fucker. Don’t come the misunderstood. Don’t ever be fucking off on your tod, got it?’ He was motionless, staring at Saul, pushing him hard with his hand, driving his point home. ‘Care to share the whys and wherefores of your little exhibition, eh?’
Saul’s voice emerged muffled from behind King Rat’s hand.
‘I wanted to look about, that was all; wasn’t looking for trouble. I’ve been learning, haven’t I? No one saw me, and I climbed like… you would’ve been proud.’
‘Enough of your crap!’ King Rat bellowed.
‘Trouble’s got its eyes peeled for you, sonny. There’s a roughneck out there wants you dead. Like I told you, you’re wanted, you’re prey, someone’s out for your hide… and mine.’
‘So fucking tell me what’s going on,’ spat Saul, suddenly jutting his chin into King Rat’s face. There was a long silence. ‘You go on and on, talking in riddles like you think you stepped out of a fucking fable, and I don’t have time to wait for you to tell me what the moral of it is! Something’s after me? Fine. What? Tell me, explain to me what the fuck is going on, or shut up.’
The silence returned, stretched out.
‘He’s right, rattymon. He have to know wha’appen. You can’t keep him in the dark. He can’t protect himself.’
The voice of the man who had carried him from the Westway dropped from above, and Saul glanced up to see him crouched like a monkey on the corner of the car-crusher. As he watched, the redhead appeared, arriving suddenly next to the black man, with his legs dangling into the container, as if he had jumped up from below and landed perfectly on his bum.
‘And who are they?’ said Saul, jerking his head at the watchers. ‘I thought the Ratcatcher had caught me. I’m walking along and suddenly that geezer’s got me trussed up, tripped up. I thought he was going to crush me in this thing.’
King Rat did not look up at the men sitting on the rim above, even as one of them spoke.
‘Not just Ratcatcher, you know, bwoy. The one want you, him the Ratcatcher and the Birdcatcher and the Spidercatcher and the Batcatcher and the Human catcher and all tings catcher’
King Rat slowly nodded.
‘So tell me,’ said Saul. ‘Listen to your mate. I need to fucking know. And get me out of these!’
King Rat reached into an inside pocket and pulled out a flick-knife. It emerged from its case with a snikt, and he shoved it under Saul’s bonds and pulled. The ropes fell away. King Rat turned his head and paced to the far end of the container. Saul opened his mouth to speak, but King Rat’s voice emerged from the darkness, pre-empting him.
‘I want nary word fucking one to emerge from your gob, boy. I’ll give you the whole spiel then, my old son, if that’ll quell your hankering.’
Saul could dimly see that he had turned to face him. The three men now faced him in a row: the two above — one squatting, one swinging his legs like a child and the one below glowering in the corner.
Saul pushed the ropes away from him and backed into the opposite corner, pulled up his knees like protection for his brutalized body, listened.
‘Meet my mates,’ said King Rat. Saul looked up. The man who had caught him was still motionless on his haunches.
‘The name Anansi, pickney.’
‘The old China Anansi,’ interjected King Rat. ‘The gent who most likely saved your skin from the ruffian out there on the hunt for you.’
Saul knew the name Anansi. He remembered sitting in a hushed circle, surrounded by other tiny bodies all sucking lukewarm milk out of tiny bottles, listening to his Trinidadian teacher tell the class about Anansi the spider. He could not remember any more.
The redhead was standing now, balancing without effort on the thin metal edge. He gave an exaggerated bow, sweeping one arm out behind him. He wore suit trousers in burgundy, tightly pressed and perfect, a stiff white shirt and dark braces, a floral tie. His clothes were immaculate and stylish. Again he spoke in that peculiar accent, a composite of all the European intonations Saul could think of. ‘Loplop presents Loplop,’ he said.