Monty and Me. Louisa Bennet

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      I follow the columns of names, addresses and phone numbers:

      A Nice

      Benjamin Nice

      Mrs CE Nice

      Then nothing. Just teeth marks and a circular hole.

      ‘Oops,’ she says. ‘Did I eat Larry Nice?’

      ‘Oh dear.’

      ‘I never thought I was actually going to need to use it.’

      Betty looks sheepish, if it’s possible for a rat to look sheepish.

      I sit and consider our situation. ‘I guess we’re going to have to use Rose’s laptop, but I’m a klutz with the keyboard. I’m going to need some help.’

      ‘Don’t look at me,’ says Betty. ‘I can’t spell and I wouldn’t know one end of a computer from another. There wasn’t much call for reading in them tunnels.’

      ‘Then we need Dante. He’s really fast with a keyboard.’

      ‘Dante!’ Betty laughs. ‘Jeez, he must fancy himself with a name like that.’

      ‘Well, he is a magpie.’

      Betty jumps back as if she’s touched hot metal. ‘Magpie! What you doing being friendly with those devils? They’re nasty buggers.’

      ‘Dante’s all right. He can be a bit snappy sometimes and he thinks he’s a bit of an intellectual, but he’s helped me out before.’

      ‘A magpie?’ Betty spits on the floor, although the gob is so small I can barely see it. ‘Nah, I’ll never trust one of them. They lie and steal and he’ll probably try to eat me. Can’t you use the laptop without him?’

      ‘Why don’t you give him a chance?’

      ‘You guarantee my safety?’

      ‘I’ll keep you safe. But first we have to contact him.’

      ‘So how do we do that?’

      ‘A torch will do.’

      ‘Where do we find one of them, then?’

      ‘Paddy used to keep his in a cupboard under the sink.’

      The kitchen cupboard doors have small circular knobs and I manage to pull them open, but there is no sign of a torch. There are two bins under the sink: everyday waste and recycling. Betty has crawled onto my shoulder and we both inhale the left-overs. Before I know it, Betty has dived head first into the general waste bin as if it were a swimming pool. I can’t resist any longer and shove my nozzle in and ferret around for left-over chicken. I lick my muzzle. Now what was I doing?

      I shake my head, realising I got side-tracked. Again.

      ‘Betty, we must stay focused. Get out of there, will you?’

      ‘You’re one to talk,’ she replies, part-buried under scraps.

      It takes all my willpower to turn away but just as I’m free of the bins, the larder starts calling to me. Before I know it, my nose is stuck to the door as if it were a magnet. Ah, those biscuits smell so good.

      ‘Come on,’ Betty says, suddenly by my side, a little slimy with soy sauce in her fur. ‘We’ll have a big feast later. Let’s keep looking for that torch.’

      I plod from room to room, with Betty at my side. She has to run to keep up. I discover a dusty dining room that hasn’t been used for years; a cosy sitting room with faded sofa and armchairs; a very messy study with piles of books on the floor like mini skyscrapers; and an under-the-stairs loo. The toilet is making gurgling noises.

      ‘Should it be doing that?’ I ask.

      Betty shrugs. ‘No idea, mate.’

      I peer up the stairs. I know they creak but I don’t know where to tread yet to avoid the noise. I prick up my ears to check Rose is still asleep. Her breathing is slow and steady with the occasional little snore. Luckily, she’s a deep sleeper.

      ‘Best you don’t come up, Betty. If Rose hears me, all she’ll do is send me back to the kitchen. But, if she sees you, I’m not sure how she’ll react.’

      ‘I’ll wait here then,’ Betty replies, and plonks down on a threadbare section of carpet and starts licking the soy sauce off her fur.

      I creep up, as quiet as a mouse – or a rat – although Betty has to be one of the chattiest rats I’ve ever met. I’m making good progress when the tread of a middle stair makes a rasping sound. I lift my paw and freeze. Rose’s breathing is still a slow rhythm. She hasn’t heard. I continue and hit another loose floorboard and this one makes a terrible screech. Again I freeze, paw raised. Rose’s breathing pattern remains unchanged.

      On the landing, I find only one door is shut: Rose’s bedroom. There are three other rooms. One is a bathroom – I smell drains, toilet cleaner and fruity shampoo. I tiptoe in to find an ancient bath and basin in a very stylish yellow, something like the colour of vomit, and a toilet with a split wooden seat. Dangling from the chain-pull is a rubber basin plug instead of a wooden handle. There’s a mirror above the basin, the surface mottled with damp. I peer up at some shelves littered with lotions. But I can’t see a torch. A silvery face suddenly appears at the bathroom window and I jump backwards, almost knocking over the bin. It’s that same squirrel again, tail flicking aggressively. What is his problem? To confuse me further, I swear I can hear him humming the theme tune for Mission: Impossible. I remember it from the time Paddy and I watched the movie together on TV.

      I back out and am about to enter an empty bedroom when I detect something I’ve only ever come across once before: the smell of a human sickness that causes people to waste away and die. It’s not easy to describe but it’s like a mix of sunburnt human skin and rust. I back away. I really don’t want to go in there and it takes all my willpower not to whimper. It’s faint so I know the person isn’t there any more. I pace round in circles, willing myself to get on with the search, and, holding my breath, I enter.

      The room has curtains and a bedspread in matching florals. The double bed has a carved wooden bedhead. Dolls in dresses, with glass eyes and long eyelashes, are arranged on the bed near the pillows, and a tasselled lampshade over a reading lamp sits on the bedside table. On that table are two gardening books and on top of them are some reading glasses. I breathe.

      I’m drawn to the many photographs on a chest of drawers, some faded, some in colour, some black and white. In them, the number of people gets fewer and fewer, as the woman who is in all the photos gets older and older. One particular photo stands out. It is of two women arm in arm and both look to be about Rose’s age. One is tall with dark curly hair, wearing dungarees that flare out at the bottom. The other is of petite build, with mousy brown hair that flicks outwards on either side of a central parting, and pale blue eyes. She’s wearing chunky gold earrings and a skirted fawn suit with huge shoulder pads. I am struck by the similarity between this last woman and Rose. But this image was captured a long time ago. I sniff this photo and pick up the aroma of decaying rose petals – the smell of sadness. The wardrobe is closed but I know that the clothes hanging inside belonged to a woman who smoked cigarettes and СКАЧАТЬ