The Unbelievers by Alastair Sim Page A

Russell was now straining and barking in the direction of the Staffordshire. Tiny stood up, yawned, and sauntered over in the direction of a pile of rats. As he approached the pile the rats dispersed to either side.
    â€œThat dog’s been doped!” shouted the soldier.
    Tiny looked up in the direction of the man who was shouting. He stretched his paws in front of him, yawned again, and looked from side to side at the rats. The Jack Russell yelped incessantly at him.
    Damn, thought Allerdyce, that’s another shilling wasted.
    Without warning Tiny ran hard against the wooden side of the pit. The impact of the dog’s head against the wood sounded like someone had struck it with a mallet. When the dog turned round he had a rat between his teeth. He shook it from side to side then let it drop, looking for the next victim.
    The rats were cowering, more thinly distributed now, against the bottom of the wood. Tiny started to chase them round and round the ring, doubling back on himself every few seconds, each time catching a rat who’d failed to turn quickly enough. One by one he massacred them, the white patches on his muzzle turning bloody.
    â€œThat’s more like it!” shouted the soldier above the cries of the crowd.
    The rats were thinning out now. Only about twenty survived. As if by common agreement they changed their tactic, dispersing themselves thinly over the floor of the pit, except where they were in range of the yapping and snarling Jack Russell.
    The tactic failed. Tiny stopped and looked around, before choosing a particular rat, launching himself at it with an explosive burst of his bulky muscles. Despite his bulk, he could twist and turn to match any rat and soon another handful were dead on the sawdust, a couple of them still with limbs twitching desperately despite their broken backs.
    Allerdyce fingered the change in his pockets, anticipating his winnings. Maybe he could treat Alice to the special edition of the Water Babies with coloured engravings.
    Pay attention, he thought. You’re not here to enjoy yourself. You’re here to find a missing person. He turned his attention away from the ring and back to the crowd. For an instant, his eyes met those of man he hadn’t seen before. He nudged the sergeant.
    â€œLook, over there. Far side of the ring. Do you think it could be him?”
    â€œWhere, sir?”
    â€œAbout five rows back. Seven people in from the right.”
    â€œHard to say, sir. Might be.”
    â€œKeep an eye on him. Best be discreet – we’ll try to get him at the end of the bout. But if he makes a move before that we’ll have to catch him.”
    He looked back at the carnage in the ring. The surviving rats appeared to look at each other before reverting to forming a single writhing pile against the wood. Tiny launched again and again into the pile, each time pulling out a single rat, crushing it in his jaws, and tossing it aside.
    Finally only one living rat, a thin black creature whose rapid breaths were visible in its sides, faced Tiny. Tiny launched himself against the wood at it, but the rat jumped up and seized the dog’s muzzle. It sank its teeth into Tiny’s nose and blood flowed down. Its front claws clung to the dog’s cheeks while its rear feet and tail swung from side to side as the dog shook its head to dislodge the rat, banging his head against the wood.
    â€œHere,” shouted the farmer, “get that rat away from my dog. It’s not a farm rat, it’s a sewer rat! It’ll give him blood poisoning!”
    The rat clung on as the Staffordshire tried to paw it off. The Jack Russell barked and jumped, pulled back to the centre of the ring by his leash.
    The bell rang and the master of ceremonies stepped back into the ring.
    â€œLadies and gentlemen, after a fair fight I declare that Champion Tiny has failed to clear the ring of fifty rats in the prescribed time. All bets are