Читать книгу Monty and Me - Louisa Bennet - Страница 9

I rest my jowl on one paw and try closing my eyes. I am tired, but can’t sleep. I miss Paddy so much and want to be with him. My eyes spring open at the pitter-patter of tiny claws on the floor. I smell dustbins on a hot day, rotting fruit, greasy food wrappers and, strangely, a hint of hot metal, engine oil and rubber, just like the train. It can only be one thing, though: a rat. I creep towards the source of the sound. It is dark but I don’t need lights to see where I’m going. There is a small hole in the skirting board to the right of the larder door. Sticking out of that small hole is a rotund rat’s bottom. Its back legs are scrabbling on the lino’s worn and slippery surface. I can hear muttering.

‘Need to go on a diet,’ she says, with a high-pitched squeak, tail wriggling like a worm. Or what’s left of her tail. She appears to have lost half of it. I’m guessing in a trap.

I was a young pup when I discovered how much big’uns hate rats. I’d been fostered to a family who were preparing me for guide dog school. This was in Windsor and my foster dad, John Collum, was a gardener at the castle. You may know something about Windsor Castle’s history – prisoners in towers, political intrigues, sieges, royal weddings, and the 1992 fire that was supposedly an accident; the canine wee-vine says otherwise. But most big’uns don’t know about the doggie shenanigans both past and present. The royal Corgis are master conspirators and escape-artists who regularly make a break for McDonald’s on the high street. The footmen have to disguise themselves as ordinary folk and catch them before they make headlines in the Sun. How do I know this? When the Family wasn’t in residence John let me join him in the castle grounds. That was when I first met the royal canines and first saw rats in traps, many dead or dismembered. I’ll never forget it.

‘Are you stuck?’ I ask the fat, furry bottom.

Her squeak is ear-splitting and she bursts out of the hole, stubby tail first, like a cork from a champagne bottle. She sees me and does the kind of turn I’ve seen stunt car drivers do on TV – a hand-brake turn I think it’s called. Then she bolts.

‘Wait! I won’t hurt you. Just want to talk,’ I say, jogging along after her at a leisurely pace.

She tries to escape through a gap under the door, fails, and makes a dash for it in the opposite direction. This goes on for a while, backwards and forwards across the lino until I decide to sit in the middle of the kitchen and just watch her scurrying to and fro, a bit like watching a tennis match. Eventually she stops darting about and leans against a table leg, gasping for breath.

‘Mate, you’re killing me,’ she says.

‘I’m not going to kill you,’ I reply. ‘I’ve been sitting here, just watching, in case you hadn’t noticed.’

Her bulbous, ball-bearing eyes assess me. ‘What do you want, then?’ she asks, her nose and gossamer whiskers twitching constantly.

‘Nothing, really. My name’s Monty and Rose adopted me today.’

‘What you done then? Got kicked out, did you? Sent to the pound?’

Her breathing is less frantic and she rests her pink paws on her pot belly. But her stare is penetrating.

I look away. ‘My master was killed by another big’un,’ I say. ‘I tried to defend him. I really did …’

I howl. I have to. I don’t know any other way. It’s just what we do. In the distance, another dog hears me and howls back, in an Oprah-like, I-hear-your-pain way. When I look down again, the rat is sitting near one of my paws and stroking my fur. Because she is so small, it feels like a feather, and it’s very relaxing.

‘There, there, you poor thing,’ she says. ‘I’m really sorry to hear that. You lot are very loyal to your masters, so this must be hard for you, but I’m sure you did everything you could.’

I still can’t find words. Careful not to squash my new friend, I place my muzzle between my two front paws on the floor. She continues to stroke my fur.

‘Name is Betty Blabble. Nice to meet you, and look, sorry I was so suspicious earlier, but you’re sorta big, you know. Even for one of your lot. Gave me a shock, is all.’

‘I don’t kill other animals. No need, since I’m always fed. Might have had fun chasing a few in my time, but that’s all. You’re safe with me.’

She peers into one of my eyes. It occurs to me that she can probably see her full reflection.

‘You know, I think you’re a good egg,’ she says, nodding.

Her twitching whiskers touch my muzzle. My ears wriggle, as they do whenever I feel ticklish. She laughs, which sounds like nails scratching a chalk board, but it cheers me up.

‘Just so happens you’re in luck,’ she continues. ‘Rose might work for the filth, but she’s a good ’un. First copper I ever met who is. I only moved here a few days ago so I’m still getting to know the place, but she always has enough food in the pantry and doesn’t seem bothered with a few house guests, including yours truly.’

I lift my head, intrigued. ‘Why don’t you like the police?’

‘Well now. That’s a long story, but all I’ll say is that I’ve had a few run-ins with the Law. In my Eurotunnel days. Turned over a new leaf since,’ she announces, nodding once for emphasis.

‘Which Law?’ I can’t help asking. ‘French or English?’

I haven’t met a Eurotunnel rat before but from her slight Kentish twang I’m guessing she’s spent more time at the British end of the tunnel. Who hasn’t heard of the vicious tunnel turf wars? Big’uns believed the damage caused by the bitter rodent rivalry was due to human vandalism. How wrong they were.

There’s a hard glint in her eyes as she makes the zip-it sign across her mouth. I take the hint and change the subject.

‘Rose is going to find the man who killed my master. She’s working the case. And she rescued me from the vet’s. So in my book, she’s the best.’ Betty nods, whiskers tickling my nose again, my ears twitching in response. ‘I want to help her find Paddy’s killer, but don’t know where to start.’

‘So, this killer. Did you get a good sniff of him?’ she asks. ‘A him or her?’

‘Definitely male. And I got a good smell and taste. I took a chunk out of his arm.’

Betty holds up her tiny paw to high-five me. I lift mine, so my black pads hover near her. She smacks hers onto mine.

‘Good on ya,’ she says. ‘Proud of you.’

‘So if I could get near enough to sniff the suspect, I’d know immediately if he was Paddy’s killer.’

‘Now we’re talking,’ says Betty. ‘Can’t understand why big’uns don’t use your lot more often to solve crime. Your super-snorters could save a hell of a lot of time. I say, let the police dogs get on with it and fire all those useless coppers.’

I decide not to point out that Rose would be one of those coppers getting fired.

‘Paddy once told me we have the best sense of smell of any mammal, except for a bear.’

‘I’ll have you know, Mr Monty, rats can beat dogs in one sniffing category. Landmines.’ She nods her head again for emphasis.

I am taken aback and shift my paws, unintentionally knocking Betty over, who tumbles like a roly-poly Weeble.

‘I’m sorry, are you okay?’

She brushes her fur down. ‘Take more than that to worry me. Just try not to do it again, will ya?’

‘So what did you mean about sniffing landmines?’

‘Rats are the best at finding landmines. Don’t know why, but it’s a scientific fact. I know ’cause a mate of mine works for the army and he finds them.’

‘Never knew that.’

‘So,’ Betty says, sitting up on her hind legs, nose raised as if she has the scent of a plan. ‘Next question: do they have any suspects?’

‘I don’t know. I’ve been at the vet’s since it happened.’

Betty stares at the gash of seventeen stitches; my chest fur has been shaved.

‘Well, mate, if we’re going to catch us a killer, you’re going to need to tell me everything.’

Seems like we are now a criminal-catching partnership. My heart lifts. I have a buddy to help me. Then it drops like a stone in a pond. I don’t want to relive the worst moment of my life. It makes me feel sick. I get up and pace around the table.

‘I can’t.’

‘Go on love, tell me what happened.’