him.
But then he caught some of the typists smirking behind his back at each other. Old Miss Robson, the office spinster, wouldn’t even speak to him.
A fear of rat
Finally, that fateful day. It was just after lunch, he’d returned from the local office pub where a table was always reserved for him when he was in town, and had gone into the staff toilet. He went into a cubicle, took his trousers down, sat and began to think about a new business venture he had in mind once he was area manager.
Then he glanced at the back of the door. He froze. It was covered with graffiti. All about him. Evidently, after the first one, it had developed into a game, for marks had been awarded to each one. The crude drawings were all of him (he assumed), and Francis, unmistakably Francis, because of the long hair that fell across his forehead and the gaunt features, cartoon drawings making his love ridiculous. Ugly drawings.
Blood rushed to his head, tears filled his eyes. How could they? How could they destroy their precious love like this?
Dirty little minds, coming in here, scratching on the door, sniggering.
He sat there for half an hour, quietly weeping. He finally realised how ridiculous, how pathetic he looked; a middle aged man in love with a young boy, sitting in a toilet with his trousers round his ankles, crying over words and drawings that understood nothing of his life.
He went home - he couldn’t face returning to the office and the smirks of his m-called friends. He drank a bottle of Scotch.
That was the beginning of his deterioration. He went back to work next day but now it was different. He was aware. He saw a jibe in every remark made.
He went home again that lunch time, buying a fresh bottle of Scotch on the way.
After two weeks he began to get a grip on himself but suddenly Francis left. He hadn’t said goodbye, just left a brief note saying he was sorry but couldn’t stand the persecution from the people he worked with any longer.
He went to the boy’s home but a hysterical scene with Francis’s mother made him realise it was finished.
Her threat of involving the law convinced him of this. Francis was very young.
His downhill plunge was rapid after this. He lost his chance of promotion, and was never quite sure if it was because of his reputation or the fact he was rarely sober now. Probably both.
He resigned and moved down toLondon, to lose himself in the quagmire of countless other disillusioned people. So for six years he hadn’t worked much, but had drunk steadily till his money ran out. He was thrown out of lodgings more times than he could remember. He did odd jobs now and then in the markets, mostly Spitalfields, pushing barrows, loadinglorries . With the few pence he made from this he bought cheap booze. He slept rough. At one time he’d been able to fulfil his sexual needs in dusty old cinemas, sitting next to men of his own kind. Only twice had he been threatened, once very quietly, with menace, the other time with much shouting and fist-waving, all eyes in the cinema centred on his shame.
But now he was too unkempt for even that. His clothes reeked, his body smelt of grime picked up in the market and the sheds where he slept. Any desire left in his body had been burned out by the cheaply concocted alcohol he now drank.
All he cared for now was saving up his meagre earnings to buy more oblivion.
Guilfoyle had worked hard that week. He’d conquered his craving for drink so that he could buy a complete bottle of cheap gin that Saturday. How he had survived, he never knew, but somehow he’d managed, the mental picture of a full bottle of gin ever-present in his mind. Now, as he shuffled along the dark streets by the docks, he drank until his head spun and his steps became more unsteady.
He climbed through a crumbling window of a house the slum-clearance people hadn’t yet cleared.
Staggering over rubble, he made his way to the back of the house to be out of the way of any lights shone in by policemen with nothing better to do.
He sat down in the comer of what must have once been the kitchen. Before the bottle was completely empty, he fell into a drunken stupor.
Hours later, Guilfoyle woke with a start. His befogged mind had registered something, but he didn’t know what.
He’d drained the rest of the gin before he felt the sharp pain in his left hand. As he jerked the hand up to his mouth, he heard something scuttle away. He threw the bottle after the sound when he tasted blood on the back of his hand. It began to throb and the taste of his own sticky blood made him retch.
He rolled on to his side as the gin began to pump from his body and laid there while his body shook.
Suddenly, he felt the pain again in his outstretched left hand. He shrieked when he realised something was gnawing at the tendons. He tried to get to his feet but only stumbled and fell heavily, bruising the side of his face. As he lifted his hand to his face again he felt something warm clinging to it. Something heavy.
He tried to shake it away, but by now it had a firm grip.
He pulled at the body with his other hand and felt brittle hair. Through his panic he understood what held him in this monstrous grip. It was a rat. But it was big. Very big. It could have been mistaken for a small dog, but there was no growling, no long legs to kick his body. Only what seemed to be razor-edged claws, frantically beating on his lower leg.
He tried to gain his feet again as he felt more pain in his leg. He screamed.
The blinding pain seemed to run up his leg to his very testicles. More teeth sank into his thigh.
As he stood he felt tiny feet running up the length of his body. He actually felt hot, fetid breath as he looked down to see what could climb a man’s body with such speed. Huge teeth that were meant for his throat sank into his cheek and tore away a huge flap.
His body poured blood now as he threshed around. Once he thought he’d found the door, but something heavy leapt up on to his back and pulled him forward on to the floor again.
Rats! His mind screamed the words. Rats eating me alive!
God, God help me.
Flesh was ripped away from the back of his neck. He couldn’t rise now for the sheer weight of writhing, furry vermin feeding from his body, drinking his blood.
Shivers ran along his spine, to his shocked brain. The dim shadows seemed to float before him,then a redness ran across his vision. It was the redness of unbelievable pain. He couldn’t see any more - the rats had already eaten his eyes.
Then, he felt nothing, just a spreading sweetness over his body. He died with no thoughts on his mind, not even of his beloved, almost forgotten, Francis. Just sweetness, not even pain. He was beyond that.
The rots had had their fill of his body, but were still hungry.
So they searched. Searched for more food of the same kind.
They had tasted theft first human blood.
Chapter Two
Here we go again, thought Harris as he trudged down the dusty road to St Michaels.
Another bloody week teaching those little sods. Teaching art to little bastards whose best work is on lavatory walls.
Jesus Christ!
He felt the same every Monday. The first three lessons in the morning were the worst. Around lunchtime his mood would gradually warm towards his pupils; there were one or two bright sparks amongst that crowd of scruffs. Thomas had brains. Barney had talent, and Keogh - well, Keogh had cunning. He’d never be a banker or an accountant, but he’d make money all right. Maybe not honest money, but he’d do well for himself.
Harris wondered what made one boy stand out amongst others. Keogh wasn’t actually clever in academic terms. He didn’t look much. Not big built, not slight. But at fourteen he had that cocky self-assurance that made him just that bit different from the rest. Hard up-bringing perhaps. But then, most of the kids in this place had tough home lives. What could you expect when they lived in dockland, fathers either working in factories or in the docks
