The Betrayals(118)
‘I can’t.’
‘Ah yes, your papers. That’s all sorted out.’ He laughs, extends his hand to Simon, white fingers like maggots in the moonlight. The Rat wants to bite them off. Surely Simon won’t be foolish enough to trust him? ‘Come on, old chap. It’s all right now. Think of me as a Good Samaritan.’
Simon’s eyes are wide. He shifts from foot to foot. He looks like a child.
An ache sweeps from the Rat’s feet to her gut and into her throat. This is her fault. She should have helped him. If she had done more, he wouldn’t be standing there, hovering on the edge of danger. The fat man with yellow teeth is going to eat him alive. She should have given in sooner to the silent call in her head. Should have. Her fault. No rat would think like this, but she can’t stop herself.
‘Come on then.’ The man clicks his fingers. ‘So when did Léo Martin spot you? Bit of a cold-hearted bastard, isn’t he, to let you struggle like this?’ Somewhere – beyond human hearing – the Rat hears the faint soft sound of a trap being set.
‘He promised to help. He said he’d get me some more papers,’ Simon says. ‘He was the one who told me not to go with the police.’
‘Oh?’ The man grins. ‘It was Martin, then. Splendid.’ The invisible trap snicks shut. Then he reaches out. His plump pale fingers are alert, thirsty.
She doesn’t mean to move. A rat wouldn’t move. But it’s as though the floor collapses under her feet, and the only way not to fall is to throw herself forward. She stands between Simon and the fat man, breathless, exposed.
There’s a silence. She has her back to Simon but she can feel him staring. She wills him to take the opportunity to run away; but he doesn’t.
‘My word,’ the man says, and he laughs. It’s a bubbling spasm of laughter, full of bravado. ‘I thought I saw you … You survived this long, did you?’
She doesn’t move. She doesn’t want him to touch her with those maggoty fingers; but she won’t get out of the way. She lets him look at her, even though every rat-instinct is screeching in her ears.
‘Ha!’ He wipes his mouth on his sleeve. When he speaks again it has a grating, jocular note. ‘I must say, if you had a bit more flesh on your bones you’d be the spitting image of your mother. And a bony thing like you won’t have to worry about taking precautions … If someone gave you a going-over with a scrubbing brush, I wouldn’t say no.’
She hears Simon draw in his breath. She’s glad. It’s the sound of him realising that he’s in danger.
‘Get out of my way,’ the man says. ‘Get – out – of – the – way.’
She swings round. She grabs at Simon – whiff of vomit and empty-stomach-sour breath – and pushes him ahead of her. He gasps and staggers and she slams her hands into his back, driving him onwards. At the bottom of the stairs he starts to stumble upwards: but that leads to his lair, and a dead end. It’s not safe any more. She grabs the back of his clothes in her fists and drags him back down and along. He makes a sound of protest, but she ignores it. Why is he so stupid? He’s saying something now but she doesn’t stop to listen. Behind them the fat man is laughing.
It’s hard to keep them both moving. She shoves Simon sideways and through an archway. She isn’t thinking clearly. Panic flares, exploding in bright colours as she fights for breath, catching at her heels. A rat would know where to go but she has left her rat-self in the fat man’s hands and now she is cloudy-headed and helpless. They climb a winding staircase, up and up and up, and the bright blood-flowers in her vision are blinding her. Another step, another breath. The man is gaining on them. She swerves to one side, through a little door and a dusty felt curtain, and beside her – she can’t keep him in front – Simon trips and fumbles in the dark. Her arms ache as she steers him past her. Another staircase, a stone spiral with no exit. A trap. She should have known better. There is nothing to do but keep going and hope.
They pass a narrow window. At their backs there’s heavy breathing and the clip of leather soles on stone. And then, abruptly, they come out into the open air. The flat roof is bare, surrounded by low battlemented walls. Simon bends over, puts his hands on his knees, and stares at her, panting.
‘What are we doing here?’
She stares back. And then the fat man appears in the doorway. His cheeks are shiny with sweat. The sly good humour has left his face: now his eyes are like needles.
‘You little wretches,’ the man says, breathless. ‘Charpentier, come with me now. And as for you …’
‘No.’ Simon’s voice is faint. ‘Leave me alone. I’m not hurting anybody.’
‘Conspiracy to conceal a registered dissident, procurement of false papers, obstruction of police duty. Do you want to go to prison for that? Or shall we put Léo Martin there instead? Your choice.’
Simon shakes his head. He glances at the Rat and away again, a tiny movement. It’s an appeal for help. But what can she do? She feels the burn of failure in her lungs and eyes.
‘You’d rather go yourself? You’ll change your mind. Be a good chap now and do what you’re told.’
Simon clenches his fists. A gust of wind catches his shirt and presses it against him, showing his ribs. She knows he is trying to be brave. He knows he’s in danger, but he is trying to be good. Whatever you do, darling, you must not. Then she looks at the fat man and she can see how he was, when Mam – when – before … Avid. Malicious. There are too many things in her mind now, too many things that aren’t real, aren’t here. She rubs her eyes.