Hamster Gangster Page 2

  This is fascinating. I need to hear more, but first I must correct the squirrel on one point:

  ‘I’m not a pet hamster any more.’

  ‘Good luck explaining that to them. I’m talking about huge gangs of murderous rats, Rocco. Besides, they’re not the only ones you have to worry about. There are foxes, magpies, stray cats and dogs …’

  ‘Ah-ha! Then it’s just as well that cats and dogs are a speciality of mine. I happen to have plenty of experience defeating them.’

  Sweet Pea hesitates. I can tell that she is finally starting to realise I am a force to be reckoned with.

  ‘Then there are the humans,’ she says.

  Humans! As if I’ve never come across those before.

  ‘Lots and lots of humans. At war with everything else that moves. Trust me: in the city, if you’re not their pet, they want you dead.’

  ‘Then it’s fortunate indeed that I have already outsmarted the very worst of them.’

  There’s that sigh again. I think Sweet Pea has figured out that it’s pointless to argue against my superior good sense.

  ‘Did I mention,’ she says weakly, ‘that the city is dirty, and smelly, and loud?’

  ‘Tell me this: have you ever been stuck in a cage that hasn’t been cleaned out for a week, in a room with a small boy firing heavy artillery?’

  ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’

  ‘I didn’t think so. Now, can you please tell me how to get to the Big City?’

  ‘Of course.’ She scurries up the cherry blossom tree. I can see her perched among its lower branches. She is pointing … north. Or possibly south. ‘The city’s over there. You can see the taller buildings from up here.’

  ‘Very good.’ I don’t need to waste effort on climbing a tree; I’ll be seeing those buildings up close soon enough. Sweet Pea is demonstrating that she can also climb down a tree head first. If that sounds impressive, it really isn’t.

  ‘So,’ she says, ‘how are you going to get there?’

  ‘I don’t know yet. Feats of brilliance must often be spontaneous.’

  ‘I see. Well I suppose there’s nothing left to say, except good luck.’

  ‘Thank you. You’ve been most helpful.’ I mean by telling me about the Big City. Not by spoiling my chance to display my skills in plastic ball smashing.

  And so we part company. There’s not a moment to lose, so it’s straight round to the front of the house. This brings me beneath the open window of Evil Boy’s bedroom. His yelling is very loud, as is his mum’s on the subject of responsible pet ownership. Clearly, they are aware of my disappearance.

  It’s time to hit the city. And yep – you guessed it – I think I just found the way.

  4

  Hang on a Minute…

  There are two choices. The first is a van, City Slick Removals Ltd, parked outside the house opposite. I suspect it might stay there for quite some time, so I believe I’ll go with option number two: the Crash Course School of Motoring, currently braked to a halt in the centre of the road. Clearly, the person driving this car is taking a course of professional training. And you can see the difference that makes. They appear to be turning the car around in no less than twelve separate stages – a complicated manoeuvre indeed.

  All I have to do is grab on. Of course, I have to be careful as I hurry across the front lawn; don’t forget I’m right under Gary’s window. The shouting in his room has stopped. Is that worrying?

  Yes, it is. A sudden burst of gunfire, and I make a dash for the flower border. I lay low beneath the pansies. But fear not: Gary has merely returned to his video game, and is firing at someone else. This gives me eight minutes to make myself scarce.

  The trainee professional is still hard at work, easing the car backwards. With a burst of speed, they drive it up over the kerb and into a post. A curious thing to do, since the number plate is now hanging from the back of the car at an odd angle; but I suppose a real driver must learn to perform such advanced techniques, and a first attempt may be slightly flawed.

  Anyway, this is altogether helpful. So without further ado, it’s straight through the fence, across the pavement and on to the road. The car has turned around now, and is sitting still again. With a good … running … jump … I take hold of the hanging edge of the number plate. Now all I have to do is hang on.

  I’m ready and waiting. Go on – give it some revs! Or – okay then – quite a few revs … And we’re off!

  We’re building speed … I can feel a warm breeze rushing through my fur. It is absolutely—

  Whoa! I guess that’s how we take a corner! I’m still holding on, and I’m learning to move with the forces: swing my body this way … swing my body that way …

  Ow. The tyres just threw up a stone. I suppose that can’t be avoided, but – ahh! – please try! That one struck me in the stomach. My eyes are watering, my fingers slipping – just a little. We whirl around another sharp corner at top speed. I lean to the right, digging my claws into the plastic plate with all my strength …

  Did we just clip the kerb?

  I’m beginning to have serious doubts about this ‘professional’. It suddenly seems less likely that taking corners on the wrong side of the road counts as an advanced technique. I don’t know quite how to tell you this, but I am moments away from losing my grip. The person in charge of this car is a maniac.

  Now don’t panic, but the tyres are screeching and there’s smoke that smells of burning rubber and I’ve just been flipped into a handstand against the number plate. I can’t … hold on and I’m—

  —tumbling through the aaaiiiir!

  5

  The Mole

  My head hurts. I can’t tell how long I’ve been lying here by the kerb, but the sun seems to have dimmed a little. I wriggle my toes to get the feeling back into them.

  Normally I’d spring straight up on to the pavement, but at the moment I’ll just have to climb. Which, actually, is a very smart thing to do, since it allows me time to scan this way and that for any sign of trouble. There is none. I was wise to lay low for a while – even if I did happen to be knocked out at the time.

  At the far side of the pavement there are railings: tall, black, wrought-iron railings, with lots of bushes on the other side. Just a short distance away, the railings become gates. The gates are open. So I steal along the pavement and peer through the wide gateway.

  It is a park. A vast green space, dotted with trees. I’m sure there will be someone in here who can point me in the direction of the Big City. I will ask anyone who is not a squirrel.

  As I make my way across the park, I must confess that I am feeling rather small. You must remember that I have spent my whole life until now inside a cage, or rolling from one room to the next in a tiny plastic ball. Now I find myself thinking how huge and strange the world is.

  Of course, I have plenty of time to think, because being a hamster I have fairly short legs, and so my journey across this park is not a quick one. But not to worry – I can make out something of interest, right up ahead.

  What we have here is a cluster of mounds of earth, dotted around a large patch of the grass. The heap nearest to me keeps erupting like a tiny volcano, spurting clumps of dirt. I step back to avoid being showered in soil. As I do so, a huge paw like a spade with toenails sticks out from the top of the mound. It is just as I thought: these are molehills, and the critter with the foot is none other than the mole.

  And there’s his face. I cannot make out the eyes in his black velvet head, but he seems to be looking somewhere off to his left.

  ‘Hello there!’ I shout.

  The mole freezes. Then his whiskers twitch nervously, and his big, dirt-speckled nose sniffs the air. ‘Er, hello where?’

  ‘Down here, of course! Right in front of you!’

  Finally, he is looking right in front of
him. He’s a bit odd, this fellow.

  ‘What are you?’ he asks. Perhaps this is a game he likes to play.

  ‘A Syrian hamster, white and gold and fluffy, and free at last!’ I say, and chuckle. ‘And what are you?’

  ‘I’m just a mole! A simple mole!’ He claps one of those massive hands over his mouth and seems to be trying very hard not to say something more.

  ‘A simple mole. Exactly.’ Time to change the subject, I think. ‘Actually, I was wondering if you might be able to help me. I’m looking for some huge gangs of murderous rats.’

  His face – even without the eyes, which must be there somewhere – is a picture of total fear.

  ‘So – can you help me?’

  ‘Yes! I can!’ He is trembling. ‘You have to leave!’

  He disappears back into the mound. It is very peculiar; he admits he can help me, yet refuses to do so. I must learn all that he knows. So it’s into the mole hole, and away we go.

  As you probably know, we hamsters are excellent diggers, so following my new friend into his underground home is no trouble at all. In fact, the mole has done a wonderful job of creating smooth, spacious tunnels. It’s really quite a maze. Thankfully, little shafts of daylight are cutting through the molehills above, so I can just about see where I’m going.

  I reach a junction between six different tunnels. I have no idea which way the mole went, so I pick a tunnel and head off down it.

  Another junction. I’ll take a right.

  Now a crossroads. I’ll go … left. No – straight ahead. The path there looks better trodden.

  Now right again. Now left.

  I am lost.

  So I stop and listen. And then I listen harder.

  Is that the sound of someone panting? Yes, it is. It’s coming from behind me.

  As I turn around, my face collides with the mole’s big snout. He lets out a gasp.

  ‘I’m Rocco,’ I tell him. ‘I’m sorry to barge in like this, but you did say you can help me.’

  ‘I did.’ He sounds completely defeated.

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘It’s …’ Either he can’t remember his name, or he’s trying very hard not to tell it to me. ‘Dwayne!’

  ‘Hi Dwayne.’

  ‘Look – I haven’t seen any gangs or rats or gangs of rats!’

  ‘But you know where they live?’

  ‘YES!’

  ‘Well that’s great.’

  Silence.

  ‘So where do they live?’

  ‘There are gangs of them everywhere in the city.’

  ‘Okay.’ I think for a moment. ‘So where’s the biggest gang?’

  ‘The biggest? The most feared …?’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  He sighs. ‘Well that’s the Big Cheese’s gang.’

  The Big Cheese. Such a mysterious name: it speaks of fame, and power, and … cheese. Dwayne has stopped again.

  ‘And where do they live?’

  ‘Down by the docks!’ He clenches his trembling fists. ‘AARRGH!’

  Another silence.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Please! You must promise not to tell them I talked to you.’

  ‘Of course. I promise.’ Exactly what the panic is, I can’t be sure. ‘Really, there’s nothing to worry about,’ I tell him. ‘Once I join the gang and I’m chosen as leader, we will live in harmony with all peaceful folk.’

  It’s hard to make out Dwayne’s expression in the near-dark, but I can tell that it is one of surprise and, doubtless, admiration.

  ‘Just … don’t tell them.’

  Dwayne seems more than happy to lead the way out of the maze, and I congratulate him on his excellent tunnels. He was, after all, very helpful, if a little hard work. In any case, I know now exactly where it is that I need to go.

  I look forward to my first glimpse of the docks.

  6

  Drained

  I must have left the park on the opposite side from where I entered, because this is definitely not the same street. It is a broad, straight road – and despite the spell of warm summer weather we’ve been having, it is streaming with water. To my left, I can see the reason why. A burst water main is sending a frothy plume high into the air. With the sun behind it, the water is like a sparkling golden fountain.

  Looking downstream, I can make out a distant line of trees marking the end of this street, and beyond those trees, tall buildings. I’ll bet that, right there, is the way to the docks. Of course, I’ve no way of knowing how far there is still to go – so I’m already on the lookout for my next transport solution.

  The torrent of water is rushing in the same direction that I need to go. I watch it bubbling around the drains. As I hurry along the kerb, I can hear it gurgling and gushing below. I stop by the next drain. I watch various bits and pieces – leaves, small twigs, a chocolate wrapper – sail by on the current before dropping through the metal grating.

  It might be highly dangerous down there, but you don’t get to be fantastic by worrying about such details. So I hold my nose, and jump.

  And then I let go of my nose, because although, in theory, I just dived easily through the grating, in actual fact I am wedged between two metal bars, staring into a watery nothingness while my rear end is warmed by the evening sun.

  Fear not. With some determined wriggling, I can already feel myself slipping through. Now all I have to do is breathe in …

  It’s work—!

  No need— for alarm— Water’s very— fast. Keep getting— pushed under— Deep breath and— back in a minute—

  … Just a second … till I get my breath back …

  All of that may have sounded like a hamster in peril, but there was nothing to worry about. You see, Gary’s mum once gave me a bath after Gary tried to turn me into a radioactive superhamster with the help of some bright green paint. So I do have experience when it comes to underwater survival.

  And now I have a crushed cola can to hold on to, which is pulling me along at a fair speed. Now, if there’s one valuable thing that my time with Gary has given me (other than the ability not to drown), it’s the knowledge gained from that great window on the world: the television. And of the many things I saw while watching Gary’s television, the sport of surfing is now on my mind.

  All I have to do is climb on top of the flattened can, and take control …

  Which is harder than it sounds, actually. As I try to scramble on, the can keeps tipping up and flipping over, so that I end up underneath it and back under the water. Finally, I haul myself on top. Then, very slowly … I stand up. Yes, I stand on my two back feet, just like a top human surfer. Well, not exactly like a top human surfer, because I’m not so much poised on my paws as resting on my rump. But if I hold my arms out, like so, the effect is pretty much the same.

  You get the idea. The point is, the water is still moving fast, but I’m balancing. And now I can see light up ahead.

  I seem to be gaining more and more speed as I whizz towards the end of the pipe. So this is it: the moment of truth. I would hold on tight if there was anything to hold on to, but as there isn’t, I’ll make do with closing my eyes … I can feel the fresh—

  Aaaaah!

  Oomph.

  I’m lying face down, in a stream of water that is less than pure.

  I sit up painfully. The water from my drainpipe is pouring into what looks to me like the sea. Which is good, because I do know that dock equals water. I also know that the giant buildings looming over me are a sure sign that I’ve arrived, at last, in the grimy city, just as the sun is going down.

  I am wet, and I am grubby. But I’ve come a long way to get here, and I’m ready to begin.

  7

  Nev

  It is completely dark. I’m sniffing my way around an alley –
the thirty-third that I’ve explored tonight. I’ve been searching non-stop for any signs of life (although I did take a quick bath in a doggy water bowl outside a pub, because first impressions will be very important when I meet the gang). I am admirably clean, impressively fluffy, and totally bored.

  Worst of all, suddenly it seems like the first grey glimmer of dawn is reflecting off the bins. As I pick a path between the potholes in yet another broken backstreet, I’m beginning to wonder if I might as well go to sleep and wait for daylight. After all, we hamsters always take care to get plenty of sleep. Maybe I’ll just curl up for a bit, right over—

  Wait. What was that? There it is again. It is a little beam of light, flickering close to the ground among the rubbish from two overflowing bins.

  As I creep closer I can make out a small figure beneath the beam, scurrying to and fro. Is it a mouse? Yes, it is: a rather skinny grey mouse. The light is coming from what looks like a tiny torch, tied to his back with a piece of string.

  ‘Excuse me!’ I shout.

  The light goes out. The mouse has disappeared, but I know he’s there somewhere. I’ll try a different approach.

  ‘Hello? I don’t mean to interrupt, but I was hoping you might be able to help me. I’m lost, you see.’

  The light is back. It is shining from under an upturned cardboard box. I can see the mouse’s face peering out, but he now looks more puzzled than wary.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he says, ‘but … aren’t you a hamster?’

  ‘I sure am. My name’s Rocco.’

  ‘Oh. I’m Nev.’

  ‘What are you doing there, Nev? With the light, I mean.’

  ‘I’m foraging.’

  ‘Foraging?’

  I don’t know what that means. It’s not a good feeling.

  ‘Yeah.’ He comes out from under the box and looks at me closely. ‘Oh, I’m sorry. I forgot you’re a pet. Foraging means looking for food.’

  ‘Actually, I am not a pet. Not any more!’ I puff out my chest. ‘Just yesterday, I escaped from the worst small human you could ever imagine and journeyed here, all the way from the suburbs. So I would very much like to join you in a spot of foraging.’