Ratburger. David WalliamsЧитать онлайн книгу.
the TV …”
Raj thought for a moment, and then looked Zoe straight in the eyes. “You must never give up on your dreams, young lady …”
“But Gingernut is dead …”
“But your dream doesn’t need to die. Dreams never die. If you can train a hamster to breakdance, Miss Zoe, just imagine what you could do …”
“I suppose …”
Raj looked at his watch. “But as much as I would like to, we can’t stand here chatting all day.”
“No?” Zoe loved Raj, even if he didn’t know a tadpole turned into a frog, and never wanted to leave his messy little shop.
“You better be off to school now, young lady. You don’t want to be late …”
“I suppose so,” mumbled Zoe. Sometimes she wondered why she didn’t just bunk off like so many of the others.
Raj beckoned with his big hands. “Now, Miss Zoe, give me the chocolate bar please, so I can put it back on sale …”
Zoe looked at her hands. It had gone. She was so hungry she had devoured every last morsel, save for one tiny square.
“I am so sorry, Raj. I didn’t mean to. I really didn’t!”
“I know, I know,” said the kindly man. “Just put it back in the wrapper. I can sell it as a special diet chocolate to someone fat like me!”
“Good idea!” said the little girl.
Zoe went over to the door, and turned around to face the newsagent.
“Thank you, by the way. Not just for the chocolate. But for the advice …”
“Both are free of charge for you any time, Miss Zoe. Now run along …”
Raj’s words went round and round in Zoe’s mind all day at school, but when she returned home to the flat she felt the same sense of absence. Gingernut was gone. For ever.
Days went by, then weeks, then months. She could never forget about Gingernut. He was such a special little hamster. And he brought her so much joy in a world of pain. From the moment he died, Zoe felt as if she was walking through a storm. Very slowly, as the days and weeks passed, the rain became a little lighter. Though the sun had still not shone.
Until one night, months later, when something completely unexpected happened.
Zoe was lying in bed after another insufferable day at school at the hands of the bullies, and the dreaded Tina Trotts in particular. There was shouting from next door as usual. Then, out of a brief moment of quiet in the night, came a tiny sound. It was so soft at first it was almost imperceptible. Then it became louder. And louder.
It sounded like nibbling.
Am I dreaming? thought Zoe. Am I having one of those strange dreams that I am lying in bed awake?
She opened her eyes. No, she wasn’t dreaming.
Something small was moving in her bedroom.
For a mad moment, Zoe wondered if it could be the ghost of Gingernut. Lately she’d found a couple of what seemed like droppings in her room. No, don’t be crazy, she told herself. Must be funny-shaped clumps of dust, that’s all.
At first all she could see was a tiny shadowy shape in the corner by the door. She tiptoed out of bed to have a closer look. It was little and dirty and a tad smelly. The dusty floorboards creaked a little under her weight.
The tiny thing turned around.
It was a rat.
When you think of the word ‘rat’, what is the next thing to come into your head?
Rat… vermin?
Rat… sewer?
Rat… disease?
Rat… bite?
Rat… plague?
Rat… catcher?
Rat… a-tat-tat?
Rats are the most unloved living things on the planet.
However, what if I told you that what Zoe found in her room that night was a baby rat?
Yes, this was the cutest, sweetest, littlest baby rat you can imagine, and it was crouching in the corner of her room, nibbling on one of her dirty hole-ridden socks.
With a tiny pink twitching nose, furry ears and huge, deep, hopeful eyes, this was a rat that could win first prize in a vermin beauty pageant. This explained the mysterious droppings that Zoe had recently found in her room: it must have been this little mite.
Well, it certainly wasn’t me.
Zoe had always thought she would be terrified if she ever saw a rat. Her stepmother even kept rat poison in the kitchen, as there was always talk of an infestation in the crumbling block of flats.
However, this rat didn’t seem very terrifying. In fact, if anything, the rat appeared to be terrified of Zoe. When the floorboard creaked as she approached, it skirted the wall and hid under her bed.
“Don’t be scared, little one,” whispered Zoe. Slowly she put her hand under the bed to try and stroke the rat. It shivered in fear at first, its fur standing up on end.
“Shush, shush,” said Zoe, comfortingly.
Little by little, the rat made its way through the garden of dust and dirt under Zoe’s creaky little bed and approached her hand. It sniffed her fingers, before licking one, then another. Sheila was too idle to cook, and Zoe was so starving she had stolen a bag of her stepmother’s dreaded prawn cocktail crisps for her dinner. The rat must have been able to smell them on her fingers, and despite Zoe’s grave misgivings about the snack, which bore no relation to prawns or indeed cocktails, the rat didn’t seem to mind.
Zoe let out a little giggle. The nibbling tickled her. She lifted her hand to stroke the rat, and it ducked underneath and raced to the far corner of the room.
“Shush, shush, come on. I only want to give you a stroke,” implored Zoe.
The rat peeked at her with uncertainty, before tentatively, paw by paw, making its way over to her hand. She brushed its fur with her little finger as lightly as she could. The fur was a lot softer than she imagined. Not as soft as Gingernut’s, nothing was. But surprisingly soft nonetheless.
One by one, Zoe’s fingers lowered and soon she was stroking the top of the rat’s head. Zoe let her fingers trickle down its neck and back. The rat arched its back to meet her hand.
Most likely it had never been shown such tenderness before. Certainly not by a human. Not only was there enough rat poison in the world to kill every rat ten times over, but when people saw a rat, they would generally either scream or reach for a broom to whack it with.
Looking at this little tiddler now, though, it was hard for Zoe to understand why anyone would want to harm him.
Suddenly, the rat’s little ears shot up and Zoe quickly turned her head. Her parents’ bedroom door was opening, and she could hear her