The Apple. Michel FaberЧитать онлайн книгу.
a dismal place. In fact, it suited her better. Despite its subterranean location, it seemed less claustrophobic than the drinking den upstairs, and was much better lit, with a dozen oil lamps at strategic points. The rough stone walls were painted white, to enhance the illumination.
The cellar was mainly given over to the rat pit. There were several rows of wooden seats pushed against the rough stone walls, but no-one was sitting in them. All the spectators – some twenty in all – stood around the edge of the pit, which was more like a raised wooden tub. It was octagonal, waist-high, and about nine feet in diameter. The publican made his way over to a barrel almost as tall as himself, a barrel made for flour rather than wine or beer, to whose lid he laid his ear. Not quite satisfied, he peered into one of several holes drilled in the lid, squinting clownishly.
‘Seventy-five of the best in there,’ said a man wearing a top hat without any top on it.
‘We could use a hundred,’ said the publican.
‘A nundred of these beauties takes more than one man to catch.’
‘You used to catch a hundred for us.’
‘That was before himprovements in sanitation.’
‘Well, I hope these are big ones.’
‘Big? Comb their fur a different way and they could pass as ferrets.’
Mr Heaton laid a finger against Clara’s upper arm to get her attention.
‘I’m going to fetch Robbie now,’ he murmured near her ear. ‘Things will move fast from here on in. Remember what I’ve asked of you.’
She nodded.
‘Take your glove off, then,’ he reminded her.
She looked down at her hands, self-conscious at the idea of removing her gloves in a public place: everyone would instantly assume she was a woman of low breeding. But then she realised she was the sole female in the cellar, and that each man must surely already have judged her to be a whore. She pulled off her gloves, finger by finger, and no-one took a blind bit of notice. She could have thrown her skirts over her head, and still the assembled spectators might have kept their attention squarely on the business at hand. Some of the men were already leaning their elbows on the rim of the rat-pit, jostling shoulder-to-shoulder. Clara wondered how it was decided who should lean on the rim of the pit and who should goggle over their shoulders; did it depend on how much they’d paid for admission? Several of the customers were rather handsomely dressed, with shiny buttons on their coats, immaculate hats, fashionable cravats that cost fifty times more than the grubby cotton scarf worn by the rat-catcher. Clara doubted these gentlemen would ever set foot in a place like The Traveller’s Rest, were it not for the scuffling, squeaking contents of the keg.
‘All right, gentlemen,’ announced the publican when Mr Heaton had disappeared into an anteroom beyond the cellar. ‘We have two dogs this afternoon, Robbie and Lopsy-Lou. Less rats than we might’ve hoped. How shall we divvy up the day’s proceedings?’
This provoked a roisterous babble of bets and disputation.
‘A shilling on Robbie to kill five in fifteen seconds!’
‘Two shillings on Lopsy-Lou to kill twenty in fifty seconds!’
‘Here’s a shilling says twelve of twenty’s still kicking after half a minute!’
‘If we’ve only got seventy-five rats, it should be three matches of twenty-five each.’
‘That muddles everything!’
‘Twenty is a good number.’
‘It don’t go into seventy-five.’
‘All my bets is calculated on twenty.’
‘We know all about your bets. You expect to see blood for sixpence.’
‘We can’t have three matches with only two dogs.’
‘’Course we can. Best of three.’
‘Put out thirty-seven rats each match, and god damn the one left over!’
‘Lopsy-Lou is heavier than Robbie; she should have a handicap. I say Robbie kills ten for Lopsy’s fifteen.’
‘Why should a Manchester terrier have it easier than a London one?’
‘Let’s weigh the dogs! Each kills as many rats as he weighs in pounds. The dog that kills his quota quickest is the winner.’
‘I don’t see no scales.’
‘A public house with no scales?’
‘Keep the times and rats the same number, but give Robbie smaller rats!’
‘What bollocks! If he can’t kill his share, he shouldn’t be here!’
‘Why not set a fixed time – half a minute, say – and see which dog kills the most?’
‘I won’t bet dog against dog. It should be dog against rat.’
‘Anyway, what would you do after the thirty seconds was up, and there was still rats alive?’
‘Pull the dog out of the pit, of course.’
‘That’s cruel!’
‘Gentlemen!’ barked the publican. ‘We must begin. Let’s have twenty in the pit for Robbie and see how the first match pleases you.’
This seemed to satisfy the majority, and the bets were swiftly laid, and the money collected. During this process, Mr Heaton emerged from the shadows, holding his dog by a leash, very close to its collar. It was indeed a beautiful dog, a silky black animal, somewhat smaller than Clara had anticipated. It was placid, standing patiently at its master’s side, looking up at him for approval – until the publican opened the lid of the barrel and started doling rats into the pit. Then Robbie reared up, lunging against the leash, and Mr Heaton had to pull him hard against his thigh.
The publican worked swiftly but carefully. Using a pair of metal tongs designed for removing buns from an oven, he selected the squirming rodents one by one from the keg, and deposited them gently into the pit. The rats (a little various in size, which caused mutters of complaint among the spectators) seemed healthy specimens of their kind, as sleek as kittens and as nimble as cockroaches. They immediately attempted to scuttle to freedom, but the sides of the pit were smooth, and the pit’s rim had a lip of metal screwed onto it for extra security. The sound of tiny claws scrabbling against polished wood was marvellously distinctive. The way the rats slid back down to the chalk-whitened floor was comical. Clara licked her lips.
Mr Heaton made his way, with some difficulty, to her side. His limp was one problem, the barely suppressed frenzy of poor Robbie another. The dog was making little whining sounds, deep in its throat – plaintive whore noises. Seventeen, eighteen, nineteen rats had been doled out into the pit. Mr Heaton stood close to Clara, his hip almost touching her waist. The unscarred parts of his face were shiny with sweat, and the muscles in his neck were bulging, a phenomenon with which Clara, in her new profession, had become increasingly familiar. The moment was almost nigh.
At the drop of the twentieth rat into the ring, a tall man with a stopwatch started a short countdown to Robbie’s release. Those five seconds were the longest Clara had ever endured.
The instant the dog’s collar was unfastened, he shot into the pit and began killing rats. Contrary to Clara’s expectations, he didn’t chase them round and round the enclosure, feinting and dodging and hesitating like a cat with a mouse. He killed with the efficiency of a machine. The rats swarmed helplessly to and fro, clustering together in corners of the octagonal arena, or dashing across to the opposite side. The dog didn’t waste time chasing individuals. He pounced on groups, picking off the rat nearest him, dispatching the squealing creature with a single bite. One snap of his jaws seemed enough. He didn’t bother even to give his kill a triumphal shake, but merely let it drop to the floor as soon as his teeth had stabbed through the soft flesh.
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