Read Online The Deptford Mice 3: The Final Reckoning by Robin Jarvis - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Robin Jarvis
Tags: Fiction
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no Green Mouse. Trust in yourself lad that’s how you’ve managed before. I’ll give those rats a run for their supper.’
He took hold of his little knife and stuck his head out of the pipe once more. The walls were smothered in heaving bodies, each trying to be the first to catch him.
‘Oi, dung for brains!’ Piccadilly yelled to them, ‘Here I am – what are you waiting for?’
On the platform Morgan recognized the city’ mouse and his temper flared. ‘Kill, kill, kill!’ he stormed.
Piccadilly hurled rocks down at the oncoming rats. He hit one right between the eyes and it dropped to the ground stone dead. But there were too many of them and Piccadilly was running out of missiles. When they were within range he lashed out with his knife, claws splintered and flew but the mouse could not keep it up, his arm ached and he decided it was time to leave.
‘Marty should be clear of the ratlands by now,’ he thought, so with one final chop that lopped off a huge spotty ear, he darted down the pipe and into the tunnel.
‘Where’s ‘e gone?’ wailed the rats in dismay.
‘He’s escaping down the tunnel you fools,’ screamed Morgan impatiently. The curtain was tom down and the rat army trampled over it.
‘There he is,’ they cried, ‘get ’im.’
Piccadilly charged as fast as he could; He raced down the tunnel like a bullet. The stones cut his feet but he did not care – the rats were directly behind and that was all that mattered. He shot through the slimy passages and out into the Underground, leaping over the track and not daring to look back.
The harsh cries of the rats rang in his burning ears as they hunted him. Piccadilly saw an arch of light ahead; he was coming to a station. He could lose them there if only he could make it. With his heart pounding desperately he raced nearer. Then he made his mistake.
He glanced over his shoulder and saw thousands of flaming eyes pursuing him –he was doomed. There was no way he could escape them. But he could not stop running. A sharp stab of pain seared through his foot as it struck the rail and twisted awkwardly. Piccadilly howled, lost his balance and fell headlong onto one of the concrete sleepers. His head struck the corner with a mighty ‘crack’ and he rolled unconscious beneath the track. A suffocating blackness engulfed him and he knew no more.
4. Murder in the Park
Thomas Triton stirred in his sleep and dreamed deeply. Silver armoured fish flashed over his bed, and splashed into the wooden wall whilst his forehead rippled and rolled. Green waving weeds spilled over the blankets and salty bubbles blew up through the pillows. Seagulls cried down to him as he drifted through the night on his raft of bedclothes. They wheeled and circled high above, their voices becoming faint and mournful.
Out onto the ocean of the dark the midshipmouse sailed, his white whiskers spread out into foamy waves, frothing and curling in the bedraft’s wake. Shadowy faces shimmered out of the black water, faces from the eddies of Triton’s past when he was young and the spray was still fresh on his cheeks.
‘Woodget,’ he called out in his slumber, grasping the empty air with tormented paws.
Like the Sirens of old, the haunting faces lured the sleeping Thomas to them. The sea tilted, swelling and churning as the rain battered down from the ceiling sky. Amid the woodgrain clouds another face loomed over him, a squint-eyed, evil phantom, riding on a serpent’s scaly back and laughing with the tempest’s fury.
‘No, no!’ beseeched the midshipmouse, grappling with the bedsheet sails that flapped in tatters and ripped out of his fingers.
The storm ravaged down and the bed spun. Drenched by the thundering waves Thomas clung to the pillows wretchedly. Pale, spiny fish with luminous eyes rose from the depths to snap at his tail as the gale trumpeted in his ears. A huge, white crested wave smashed down on him and the bed foundered.
‘Help, help,’ he
He took hold of his little knife and stuck his head out of the pipe once more. The walls were smothered in heaving bodies, each trying to be the first to catch him.
‘Oi, dung for brains!’ Piccadilly yelled to them, ‘Here I am – what are you waiting for?’
On the platform Morgan recognized the city’ mouse and his temper flared. ‘Kill, kill, kill!’ he stormed.
Piccadilly hurled rocks down at the oncoming rats. He hit one right between the eyes and it dropped to the ground stone dead. But there were too many of them and Piccadilly was running out of missiles. When they were within range he lashed out with his knife, claws splintered and flew but the mouse could not keep it up, his arm ached and he decided it was time to leave.
‘Marty should be clear of the ratlands by now,’ he thought, so with one final chop that lopped off a huge spotty ear, he darted down the pipe and into the tunnel.
‘Where’s ‘e gone?’ wailed the rats in dismay.
‘He’s escaping down the tunnel you fools,’ screamed Morgan impatiently. The curtain was tom down and the rat army trampled over it.
‘There he is,’ they cried, ‘get ’im.’
Piccadilly charged as fast as he could; He raced down the tunnel like a bullet. The stones cut his feet but he did not care – the rats were directly behind and that was all that mattered. He shot through the slimy passages and out into the Underground, leaping over the track and not daring to look back.
The harsh cries of the rats rang in his burning ears as they hunted him. Piccadilly saw an arch of light ahead; he was coming to a station. He could lose them there if only he could make it. With his heart pounding desperately he raced nearer. Then he made his mistake.
He glanced over his shoulder and saw thousands of flaming eyes pursuing him –he was doomed. There was no way he could escape them. But he could not stop running. A sharp stab of pain seared through his foot as it struck the rail and twisted awkwardly. Piccadilly howled, lost his balance and fell headlong onto one of the concrete sleepers. His head struck the corner with a mighty ‘crack’ and he rolled unconscious beneath the track. A suffocating blackness engulfed him and he knew no more.
4. Murder in the Park
Thomas Triton stirred in his sleep and dreamed deeply. Silver armoured fish flashed over his bed, and splashed into the wooden wall whilst his forehead rippled and rolled. Green waving weeds spilled over the blankets and salty bubbles blew up through the pillows. Seagulls cried down to him as he drifted through the night on his raft of bedclothes. They wheeled and circled high above, their voices becoming faint and mournful.
Out onto the ocean of the dark the midshipmouse sailed, his white whiskers spread out into foamy waves, frothing and curling in the bedraft’s wake. Shadowy faces shimmered out of the black water, faces from the eddies of Triton’s past when he was young and the spray was still fresh on his cheeks.
‘Woodget,’ he called out in his slumber, grasping the empty air with tormented paws.
Like the Sirens of old, the haunting faces lured the sleeping Thomas to them. The sea tilted, swelling and churning as the rain battered down from the ceiling sky. Amid the woodgrain clouds another face loomed over him, a squint-eyed, evil phantom, riding on a serpent’s scaly back and laughing with the tempest’s fury.
‘No, no!’ beseeched the midshipmouse, grappling with the bedsheet sails that flapped in tatters and ripped out of his fingers.
The storm ravaged down and the bed spun. Drenched by the thundering waves Thomas clung to the pillows wretchedly. Pale, spiny fish with luminous eyes rose from the depths to snap at his tail as the gale trumpeted in his ears. A huge, white crested wave smashed down on him and the bed foundered.
‘Help, help,’ he
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