Hamster Gangster Read online

  ‘I highly doubt that.’

  ‘Well don’t. Why do you think the Big Cheese sent you here?’

  ‘Because the Big Cheese thinks that just ’cause he’s too daft to get the cheese out that trap, everyone else must be too.’

  Those last words were Tina’s, although I couldn’t have put it better myself.

  ‘Tina, will you please stop encouraging him?’

  ‘You can do it, Rocco! I know you can!’

  ‘Thank you. Would you like to come too?’

  ‘NO!!’

  While Nev holds back an enthusiastic Tina, I seize my chance.

  ‘I’ll be back in just a minute.’

  With that, I’m straight through the door and into Chef Claude’s kitchen. I find myself standing in the middle of a large orange square. It’s a tiled floor – very cold underfoot. But I ignore this, just as I am ignoring the angry whispers coming from the direction of Nev.

  I am still hidden from the cooks’ view by the open door, but their voices are very close by. From the sound of it, there are three. One is mad with anger, while the other two keep saying, ‘Oui, Chef!’ as if pleading for their lives.

  I am three tiles away from the mousetrap. Creeping closer, I can see the metal arm that is poised to snap home should I try to snatch the cheese. I shiver: Nev was right. I had no idea humans could be this cruel.

  I am more determined than ever to get that cheese. But how?

  As the shouting gets louder, I hurry under a nearby work table. From here I can take in the whole scene above me. Other than the tiles on the floor, the entire kitchen seems to be made out of stainless steel, from the work surfaces and the refrigerator to the giant pots and rows of fearsome knives. Various utensils hang from hooks at one end of my table. Perhaps one of them could be useful to me in my task.

  But my mind is annoyingly – and unusually – blank.

  From my present hiding place, I see Chef Claude only as a pair of large clogs, partly hidden beneath his baggy checked trousers. From the sound of it, there is some kind of problem with les petits pois. A pair of skinny legs comes into view, wearing grubby trainers and hauling a large white bag of something. Chef Claude strides towards the owner of these skinny legs. His huge hands grab hold of the bag and lift it from the floor.

  ‘ZEY ARE FROZEHN?!!’

  As the other chef squeaks an apology, Claude hurls the white bag to the floor. It bursts open and a thousand green balls spill across the tiles, bouncing on the hard surface. I recognise them at once: these are peas. And they must be a force for good, because Gary hated them, and loudly refused to eat them.

  I grab one as it rolls past. As my fingers close around the freezing-cold vegetable, a bolt of pain shoots up my arm, triggering the urge to drop it and, at the same time, lighting the spark of genius in my brain. With a yell of agony heard only inside my head, I leap into the air and release the pea in an impressive overarm throw, aimed at the jaws of the mousetrap.

  The pea misses and hits the wall with a soft tap. No matter. With lightning speed I scoop up an armful more, and fling them one by one at the trap.

  I need to perfect my aim. On the count of three: one … two …

  I release a pea. It misses. I take aim and throw another. It misses. And another …

  This time the pea bounces in the middle of the mousetrap – and the metal arm of evil closes with a snap.

  The pea is squashed flat. The chunk of cheese remains.

  I am about to dash towards it – but another light bulb flicks on in my brain. Quickly I scoop up a few more armfuls of peas, one hand feeding them into my mouth at a speed I never knew hands could move at.

  Now I’m ready. I run towards the trap. All I need to— Whoa, hold on one second, there are THREE chefs in this kitchen! I forgot about the third, but seeing him out the corner of my eye, coming this way, is a helpful reminder.

  I dive behind a sack of potatoes. This chef is a tall man in a tall puffy hat. Obviously, he has heard the sound of the trap. He stares at the squashed pea. He looks around at all the other peas scattered across the floor, and shrugs. With that, he hurries back to his chopping board.

  I pounce on the trap, wrestle the cheese free, run for the door. No looking back.

  As I take a flying leap into the morning sun, Tina rushes to greet me, pounding the air with one fist. Nev looks from the cheese, to me, and back to the cheese again.

  I run straight past and keep on going. The others are right behind me.

  10

  Cheesed Off

  Let me just fill you in on what’s been happening since we got back to the lair, because frankly I need to tell it to someone before I’ll believe it.

  After giving me the meanest look a crooked-faced sewer rat can manage, Minestroni stomped off to the Big Cheese’s private quarters, taking with him my hard-won cheese. Honestly – not a single word of amazement that I’d managed to get it, or even a simple ‘well done’. And now that we’re awaiting the boss rat’s response, all the other members of the gang are looking at me not with admiration, but with even more nastiness than before.

  All we can hear are the usual angry whispers coming from the pipe. This has been going on for several minutes.

  ‘WOSS THIS THEN?’ says the Big Cheese, finally. ‘THE CHEESE FROM CHEF CLAUDE’S TRAP?’

  ‘Of course it is. That’s what you asked for.’

  ‘AND YOU COULDN’T ’AVE LAID THEM DAINTY PAWS OF YOURS ON SOMETHIN’ TASTY, COULD YA? YOU COULDN’T ’AVE BROUGHT ME SOME OF THAT HAUTE CUISINE THEY GOT LITTERED ABOUT THAT KITCHEN. NO. YOU ’AD TO BRING ME THIS RUBBISH.’

  ‘Yes! Because the whole point was to get out with that cheese. So that’s exactly what I did.’

  ‘That’s exactly what he did.’ Tina gets the words out just as Nev claps a hand over her mouth.

  ‘But since you mention it,’ I add grudgingly, ‘I did bring back something else.’ I spit the petits pois out quick-fire, like bullets. Thankfully they have defrosted in my cheeks, and the rats round about seem to think them rather good.

  ‘Thirty-six freshly frozen petits pois,’ I declare.

  ‘WELL, YOU’VE GOT SOME SHOPPIN’ BAGS, I’LL GIVE YOU THAT. BUT YOU’LL DO BETTER THAN RAW VEG NEXT TIME, IF YOU KNOW WHAT’S GOOD FOR YA.’

  I hope that he’s remembering our deal.

  ‘Does that mean I’m in the gang? I mean, as a mouse, yes, but as a rat as well?’

  ‘IT MEANS YOU’RE AT THE BOTTOM OF THE FOOD CHAIN, AND YOU’LL DO WHAT YOU’RE TOLD THEN MAKE YOURSELF SCARCE, IF YOU KNOW WHAT’S GOOD FOR YA.’

  I’ll take that as a yes – and a massive let-down. Is this really to be my triumphant moment of joining the gang? Have I beaten my fearsome housemates, ridden a four-wheeled death trap and been flushed through a sewer just to be put down by a greedy rat whose only threat is if you know what’s good for you?

  Apparently so. Everyone is drifting out of the chamber, including Nev and Tina, who are signalling me to follow. It’s enough to make anyone yearn for a cage full of sweet-smelling sawdust to sink into.

  But thankfully, I am not just anyone. I am Rocco, and I’ll make sure these rats get to grips with that if it’s the last thing I ever do.

  I like Nev’s family. His parents, Uncle Alfie and Cousin Pip, along with him and Tina, make up the gang’s entire mouse population. We are sitting in their home, the mouse house – little more than a collection of matchbox beds beneath a manhole – munching on Edam cheese. Everyone is looking at me with a great curiosity.

  ‘One thing I’ve always wanted to know about living in a cage,’ says Uncle Alfie, ‘is where do you go when you need to … you know … go?’

  ‘For goodness’ sake, Alfie, don’t ask such questions,’ says Nev’s mum.

  ‘It’s quite all right,’ I tell them. ‘You simply choose a corner of the cage, and go there
. Except for sometimes – quite often actually – when it’s more convenient to go elsewhere.’

  Everyone looks disgusted, which is a bit worrying given that they live in a sewer. Perhaps it’s time to change the subject.

  ‘So,’ I begin, ‘is everyone ready for the future? It’s going to be a bit less rat and a lot more hamster.’

  Nev’s dad looks interested. ‘You mean, going where we like?’

  ‘No. Well, yes. But I mean fewer death threats and more incredible heroics.’

  ‘But how?’ asks a wide-eyed Tina.

  ‘I don’t know yet. But don’t worry about that. In my experience, if you go looking for adventure, things happen. Pretty soon I’ll be famous, and ours will be the gang that everyone wants to join and no one wants to mess with.’

  Tina has a faraway look in her eyes, but Nev’s look is boring straight into me. Thankfully, though, we’re all being distracted by Cousin Pip, who has brought a half-eaten chocolate éclair from a nearby café.

  As we share out the éclair, a vague, fleeting memory of my mother and my five brothers and sisters flashes in my head. I don’t know why; I suppose it’s just being with the mice that made me think for a moment of my own long-lost family.

  11

  On Friends and Foes

  Today is my first day as a gangster. Last night after we polished off the chocolate éclair, Nev filled me in on a few details about the gang’s business. It’s a simple but very clever one of giving protection to less indestructible animals in exchange for some kind of payment. Now get this: our single biggest client is a group of foxes … I’ll let that sink in a moment … That’s right – foxes! Of course, you’re wondering why big, cunning foxes need to be protected by rodents.

  Come to think of it, so am I. But I guess we’ll find out soon enough, because right now my fellow rats and I are out on patrol, and we’re marching right into the foxes’ territory. It’s a wide yard with a pair of disused sheds on one side. Naturally, we are armed with the most terrifying stolen weaponry, including spatulas and dessert spoons.

  Okay, so the first thing I’m noticing is that these foxes seem to love seafood, probably collected from the fine seafood restaurants round about. There are old ice cream tubs brimming with anchovies, baskets of things in shells, a tray full of silver fish many times my size.

  One of the foxes steps out of the nearest shed. I spring on to my haunches, waving my pastry brush (yes, okay, so the others grabbed all the scarier weapons). But the fox is approaching at a dainty trot, and is clearly not a threat.

  ‘Good afternoon!’ he says brightly. ‘You are more than welcome. We have collected a great deal of seafood this lunchtime, and are in need of your help to put the thieves off thieving.’

  Put the thieves off? The Hamster Gangster did not come here to put enemies off, but to defeat them in some serious action.

  There’s a lot of squawking overhead, which is really annoying me right now.

  I look up.

  Hmm. It seems the foxes are not the only ones who like a well-cooked mussel. At least a dozen seagulls are circling up there, determined to thieve everyone else’s food rather than find their own. Clearly, the reputation of the Big Cheese’s gang is enough to keep these bullies away. So we’re standing perfectly still, while the foxes stash their smelly leftovers in the sheds.

  There’s a sudden flash of movement in the sky. Wait a second – big feathery—

  ‘DIVE-BOMBERS!!’ I yell.

  Four of them!

  Heading straight for us rats!

  Sunlight flashes on stainless steel. Gulls are screeching, feathers flying. They flap their wings hard, trying to beat us back. I hop up and down, jabbing upwards with my pastry brush. But I can’t reach high enough, because the rats are hemming me in.

  One of them leaps up, armed with an ice cream scoop.

  He lands right on top of me.

  As I stare between the rats’ legs, I count eight more seagulls, gathered around a crate of fish. As soon as the rat scrambles off me, I grab my brush between my jaws and crawl out of the fray. Now I can see them clearly: a flock of big gulls, busy plucking fish from the crate while their friends keep the rats distracted. Four foxes sit glowering in the rats’ direction, clearly intent on complaining about poor service rather than doing anything about it themselves.

  I sprint towards the crate, swift and silent … Now I’m right alongside one of the gulls. I take my pastry brush from between my teeth … and whack him with the handle across his big ugly beak. He wails, and spreads his wings – but I’m already off and running.

  ‘OVER HERE!!’ I shout to the rats. ‘THEY’RE ATTACKING TO CREATE A DIVER—’

  Okay. So one of the gulls has just dropped a large fish on me, and once again I am pinned down. It’s dark, and a bit stinky under here. But I can hear a muffled commotion all around.

  There is nothing to do but wait.

  And wait.

  The commotion has stopped.

  Still waiting.

  The fish is lifted off me. I jump to my feet – but there is no sign of the gulls. The rats stand about with satisfied faces. I turn to the fox who lifted away the fish, the same one who greeted us. Naturally, because I rescued the situation, it would be wrong for me to thank him. So instead I’ll simply finish what I was saying:

  ‘A diversion.’

  ‘Quite right,’ says the fox. He holds out his paw towards me. ‘My name is Maurice.’

  I shake his claw. ‘Rocco,’ I tell him.

  I turn to the rats for some praise and congratulations, but most of them are already starting to leave. In fact, the only ones paying me any attention are Minestroni and a lanky rat behind him. Both are glaring at me with all the menace they can muster.

  Clearly, in this gang being brilliant is not the same thing as being popular.

  I’ve told Nev everything that happened today, although I left out the detail about Minestroni and the lanky rat, because he does get so nervous. When I first bowled into the mouse house, Nev was the only one home, and he greeted me with wide eyes, saying, ‘Rocco! You’re alive!’ in a very surprised tone of voice. But he has listened to my story with a kind of cautious approval, and says that my becoming trapped under a dead fish was very fortunate. I disagree with this, but I won’t argue, because I’m desperate to learn more from him.

  For starters, the foxes remain a bit of a mystery.

  ‘They’ve no interest in fighting,’ Nev explains.

  ‘And no talent for it either, I daresay.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And how do they pay us?’ I ask. ‘What do we get in return for helping them?’

  ‘Well …’ Nev sighs. It seems like he’s about to tell me something he’s been trying hard not to tell me. ‘Don’t get excited, Rocco …’ Now I’m really excited. ‘There’s a gang of alley cats. Big, mean critters, all scarred faces and chewed-off ears. They’re desperate to come in, wipe out the rats and take over the docklands. Yet they don’t even try.’

  ‘Why not?’ I breathe. ‘If they’re so tough, why don’t they try?’

  ‘Because the foxes pretend to be the rats’ sly and vicious allies. When they’re out and about, the foxes are not the twinkle-toed characters you saw today. They slink through the streets with toothy grins on their faces. That’s the price they have to pay for the rats’ protection.’

  ‘Wow.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘And are there any other enemies to look out for?’

  Nev thinks for a moment. ‘Well, there’s a shady pigeon named Francis Pigeoni. He spies on each gang’s every move and reports it to their rivals. The thing is, he does this to everyone; he’s spying on one gang even as he’s telling them the latest news about their enemies. Every gang would want to kill him for his double-crossing, if he wasn’t so … well, useful.’

  ‘B
ut he’s never found out what the foxes are really like? Otherwise he’d have told all of that to the alley cats.’

  ‘Exactly. The foxes keep a very careful lookout for him. Of course, he’d soon find out the truth if the seagulls had the brains to share it with him. We’re lucky they’re the dimmest wits in the docks.’

  Lucky indeed. All this incredible information is swirling in my brain – but there’s still room in there for a brilliant idea.

  ‘Why don’t we have our very own spy?’ I ask. ‘Someone who works for our gang, and our gang only?’

  ‘Ah, well. You remember Dwayne?’ Nev asks.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘He works for us. We rely on Dwayne for nearly all our intelligence.’

  ‘Is that a good idea? He didn’t seem very switched on when I met him.’

  ‘No,’ says Nev, ‘not that kind of intelligence. I mean we need him to gather intelligence. Find out everything we need to know about the other gangs, all over town. Dwayne’s our spy. His network of tunnels doesn’t just criss-cross the park, it reaches across most of the city. He spies only for the rats. If he were to talk to anyone else, the rats would be after him. That’s why he’s so nervous about speaking to strangers, you see. Dwayne is unable to tell a lie. He absolutely cannot stop himself from spilling the whole truth.’

  ‘Oh. That certainly explains a lot.’ Then I remember something. ‘Ah, but he can tell a lie. He told me that he’s never seen any gangs of rats. That can’t be true, not if he’s working for us.’

  ‘Actually, it can,’ says Nev. ‘Dwayne is completely blind.’

  ‘A blind spy?’

  ‘Yep. He sniffs the enemy out, then listens in on what they’re saying.’

  I’m so glad to hear that Dwayne is one of us, and I hope this means we’ll meet again soon. I’m sure he’ll be very happy to know that I have joined the gang. Speaking of which …