The Deptford Mice 3: The Final Reckoning by Robin Jarvis

rat collapsed in a woeful heap. He thought of the chocolate that had been his and threw back his head letting out a tremendous bitter howl of anguish and despair.
    * * *
     
    ‘What’s that?’ Marty clutched Piccadilly’s arm in fright as the terrible wail rang through the deserted Underground like a pronouncement of doom. Piccadilly shivered. It was a sound of misery and hopelessness. The pain and resentment in the tortured voice cut into his heart and left him breathless. ‘I don’t know what it is Marty,’ he admitted, ‘but we’re going to find out.’
    The two mice followed the sound of the dreadful wailing. Piccadilly went first with his little knife clutched tightly in his paw, ready for anything. Marty pattered behind him, his eyes wide with fear and excitement. He had never done anything like this before and all his senses were alive with tingling thrills. He wondered what lay ahead. Would he see great dangers and have fierce battles? Marty hoped that he would be brave whatever happened – he did not want to disgrace himself in front of his hero Piccadilly. They came to a turning; the source of the noise was just around this corner. Piccadilly tightened the grip on his knife and peered round. Marty held his breath anxiously but was surprised to see his friend relax and chuckle.
    ‘What is it?’ he hissed.
    ‘Nothing to worry about,’ replied Piccadilly disappearing round the corner.
    Barker’s tears had dried up and now his wailing had deteriorated to a rasping whine. His body was slumped over the torn chip papers, he was exhausted and his bony chest ached from sobbing. Through sore, red eyes he stared at the oval stone and mournfully licked his solitary tooth.
    ‘Poor Barker,’ he croaked hoarsely, ‘he never gets nowt – only lumps. Lumps on ’is ’edan’ lumps o’ stone to eat. Poor Barker.’ Slowly his knobbly tail began to tap the platform as a thought came to him. ‘But one day, one day Barker’ll show ’em won’t he? He’ll learn ’em an’ they’ll all be sorry. If only they knew . . .’ he sniggered harshly in a voice that was not quite his own. He did not notice Piccadilly creep up behind him.
    ‘Wotcha Barker old chum!’ shouted the mouse.
    The rat squealed and buried himself under the chip papers where he trembled and dithered.
    ‘It’s all right, it’s only me!’ Piccadilly tried to reassure him. A bleary eye peeped cautiously out from the greasy bundle.
    ‘Mousey boy,’ said the rat. ‘That you? You on yer lonesome?’
    ‘No, I’ve brought a friend of mine to see you. Come out Marty.’
    With a rustle the papers shuffled backwards apprehensively as the small figure of Marty came onto the platform. The young cadet eyed the shaking pile nervously.
    ‘This is Marty,’ announced Piccadilly.
    Barker’s head rose above the chip papers and his whiskers quivered. The rat scrutinized Marty with suspicion and frowned as he smacked his gums. He stepped from his cover and walked slowly over to the cadet. Marty looked helplessly at Piccadilly but the older mouse made a sign telling him to stay still.
    Barker sniffed the air about Marty and paced all round him.
    ’He’s a friend,’ said Piccadilly.
    The rat scratched his ears. ‘So you says mousey boy, so you says, but Barker don’t like him. This whelp has freak mark branded on his spine.’ He pointed to the lightning pattern on Marty’s back. ‘He’ll let you down one day mousey boy, Barker knows. Don’t trust him with anything important he’ll go his own way and bring ruin on all, especially himself.’
    Marty opened his mouth in protest but Piccadilly was smiling and told Barker to be quiet. ‘I’ve come here to see you,’ he said.
    The rat blinked and forgot his concern about Marty. ‘You come to see Barker mousey boy? What fer – he ain’t done owt wrong?’
    ‘I want to have a chat that’s all.’
    Barker shook his head tetchily. ‘No chat, we no chatter chin wag,’ but then he remembered his