The 14th Pan Book of Horror Stories

THE RAT TRAP Myc Harrison

Everywhere he looked there was work to be done, fences to mend, fields to plough, hedges to cut back and a multitude of lesser chores long since neglected in favour of more pressing jobs. Despite the neglect there was an air of precision, of overall neatness, around the old farm, with its cobbled courtyard and ancient barn.

He surveyed the scene lazily, standing alone in the early morning August sunshine, sipping the sharp, sweet air, slightly drunk on its heady bouquet. Across the dappled, patchwork fields he could see the long, brown, furrowed earth as it dipped away beyond the hill, a dark scar in the north field; he knew there were many days of ploughing ahead.

The old barn door shuddered and splinters of wood cracked against the cobbles as he dragged it open, filling the barn with swirling beams of sunlight. He went first, to the bulky metal rat trap. It was tightly sprung but empty of last night’s bait. In his sudden, early morning anger he kicked out, spinning the trap across the barn. It made a sharp crack which disturbed the horses as it sprang shut.

He fed the restless horses, bringing a bale of fresh hay from the rear of the barn and dividing it between them. He had enough bales in the barn to last through the coming winter and he fed them generously, mindful of the work they would do that day. They were cart-horses, two big, grey beasts, gentle with age yet still strong enough to pull the iron plough. They replaced a broken tractor, its engine rusting away in the far corner of the barn. Progress matched with a failing economy provides many a poor substitute.

A voice called him back to the farmhouse, a nasal, childish whine. ‘Jed! Your breakfast’s ready, Jed.’ The voice whined on. ‘Jed! Where are you, Jed? Your food’s on the table, Jed. When’s Mother coming home, Jed? When’s Mother coming home?’ He was a pathetic figure. At twenty-eight, he was three years younger than his brother, Jed, with the same red-brown hair and wiry frame, but the resemblance stopped there. The speaker was a simpleton, almost mongol, with narrow eyes and a broad face. He stumbled across the courtyard towards the barn, his progress unstable and gauche. Jed came out to meet him.

‘Jed? Jed?’ the voice continued. ‘When’s Mother coming home?’

Jed watched his brother with compassion. There was no answer to his question, at least, none he could give which would make sense to the other’s simple brain. Their mother had died three years before; the doctor had said old age, but Jed knew better. She’d worked herself to an early death, bringing up three children single-handed, after their father had run off with another woman. Knowing no other life, the brothers had stayed on to nurse their land and to run the farm as best they could. But it wasn’t an easy life, least of all for Jed. His battle for survival did not end as the sun went down, did not end at the close of day. For him there was his brother, Matthew, a child in a man’s body, who needed watching over, needed love and friendship beyond belief. But most of all he needed the protection of Jed’s compassion to ward off the scorn and cruel contempt of Luke, the eldest brother.

Jed held his brother’s hand as they walked back for breakfast, thanking Matthew for his help in the clean, scrubbed kitchen. Finally, the first meal of the day over, Jed asked Matthew cautiously, ‘Where’s Luke today? Is he up yet?’

Matthew held his silence. Eyes wide and fearful, for even the mention of Luke’s name held untold terror. Jed shrugged. It didn’t matter. Luke did as he pleased, coming home at all hours, drunk and noisy, never helping on the farm, never lifting a finger to earn his keep. Matthew hated Luke, feared him as a child might fear the dark and deadly night. Yet Jed held no hate; in his compassion and fairness there was no room for it. Besides, they’d all loved one another many years ago and Jed lived on the hope provided by past memories.

Thoughts of the day’s work ahead drove Jed from the farmhouse out into the barn, where he made ready the horses for their toil. Matthew had wanted to go with him, pleading, whining like the child he was, yet Jed had been firm. There was a time when Matthew had helped him in the fields. He’d insisted on working the plough and Jed had allowed him to share the work. Everything had gone well for the first hour, with the men working well together. Then, slowly, Matthew had become bored, sullen, walking behind the plough, the leather straps across his thin shoulders dragging him on. He hadn’t taken up the slack, letting the horses have their way. The plough had begun to tilt in the hard, baked earth, twisting under him, turning over, the bright, sharp blade flashing in the sunlight. And then Matthew had gone down, stumbling forward, shouting, and the horses, frightened, ears forward, had rushed ahead, pulling Matthew over the deadly blade. Bright red blood had gushed forth, staining the earth crimson, and Jed had bandaged the raw, open wound as Matthew screamed continuously. So now Matthew stayed behind, watching Jed lead the two grey horses across the north field to where he’d left the plough.

There was plenty to do in the farmhouse and Matthew worked cheerfully, forgetting his brother’s refusal and busying himself with simple chores. He cleaned the kitchen, scrubbing the wooden table and sweeping the floor. He felt important, looking after the house in Jed’s absence. After finishing the kitchen he trudged upstairs, dragging the broom behind him. If nothing else, Matthew was more than able to keep the rooms tidy for, apart from the mess that Luke left behind him, there was very little to do. After making his own bed he went into Jed’s room, for they each had their own bedroom, and did the same for Jed. His progress was painfully slow, stopping every few minutes, staring off into space, lost within his own tragic fantasy. It was well past midday before he’d finished.

Jed called him down for lunch. He’d returned from his ploughing for a short rest and a bite to eat and Matthew, glad of his company, talked most of the time.

‘I’ve been good, Jed. I’ve been very good.’ He waved an arm around the kitchen. ‘I’ve cleaned up all the kitchen and my room and your room, Jed. I’ve cleaned your room, too. It wasn’t very dirty, though. Not like . . .’ he couldn’t bring himself to say Luke’s name out loud. A cold, invisible finger pressed down on his throat, making him swallow in discomfort. The familiar terror crept back into his very being.

Jed turned on him sharply. ‘Have you been in Luke’s room?’ Silence. ‘Matthew, I’m asking you a question, now have you been in his room?’ Matthew shook his head slowly. It hadn’t occurred to him to go into Luke’s room; for one thing, he never tidied Luke’s bedroom, and for another, there was no way of knowing if Luke was in there or not. He often came home in the early hours and slept the day away in a drunken stupor. Yet, now that Jed had asked him, Matthew began to feel curious; he wondered what Luke’s room would be like, for he had never seen it in over three years. The thought stayed with him long after Jed had gone back to work for the afternoon, nudging his curiosity into action.

Finally, silently, he crept back upstairs, fearful of what he would find. His curiosity was edged with fear. It was Luke he feared more than anything in the world, indeed, Luke was truly the only thing he feared. He did not reason out why he wanted to see Luke’s room, for that was beyond his comprehension. Yet he was dimly aware that if he were able to see the room, to stand alone and witness the way in which Luke lived, to come to terms with his brother’s possessions, then he would not be so frightened of him, for he would have scored, he would know a secret. The urge to desecrate that which he feared was strong within him.

He listened outside Luke’s door for a long time. Standing became tiresome and he slid down, squatting on his heels, arms wrapped around his shoulders, leaning against the door-frame. The room was silent. He moved slowly, standing up and turning the old wooden door-knob, pushing the door open by degrees. When the gap was wide enough, he peered round the edge of the door. The bed was empty, unmade. Confidence gave him courage and he pushed the door wide, yet still did not go into the room. He knew Luke—it could have been a trap. He squinted between the gap of the door and door-frame in case Luke was hiding behind the open door. He could see part of the unmade bed, a narrow strip of carpet, bare floorboards. The room was obviously empty. Nevertheless, he edged into it cautiously.

The first thing that struck his slow brain was the utter confusion within the small room. The furniture was thick with dust and clothes hung from every surface. There was a tall, dark wardrobe opposite the bed, its cracked door hanging open. Inside were dozens of empty bottles, and the smell of stale beer made Matthew feel sick. There was an overall stench of human sweat, for the windows were tight shut and the room was hot. The sheets on the bed were filthy, stained black and grey from human grime. Socks and underwear lay about the room in abundance, adding to the stench and squalor. On the small chest of drawers Matthew found an empty packet of contraceptives, yet he was unable to read and didn’t know what they were. An old glass ashtray was overflowing with cigarette ends, spilling ash across the top of the dusty drawers. Matthew walked round slowly, surveying the scene before him. The whole filthy mess served to confirm his hatred for Luke.

He opened the drawers of the chest one at a time, yet did not touch anything inside. They were full of books, magazines with lurid covers, some faded snapshots of Luke as a child, incongruous in their surroundings. He closed the drawers behind him. At the foot of the bed lay a box of matches, their bright packaging catching Matthew’s eye. He stooped down and picked them off the floor, studying them with childish delight. He opened the box—it was half full—and then went back to studying the picture on the front. It showed a ship with white billowing sails, in a blue sea. He couldn’t read the caption underneath, yet the picture held his attention. He decided, there and then, that he would own a ship like the one on the box when he grew up.

The sound of running water, splashing from the outside tap across the cobbles, made his heart race, beating fiercely within his chest. For he knew that Luke had returned. He hurried from the room, clutching the box of matches in his haste, unaware of anything save the desperate urge to escape the confines of this filthy hovel before Luke found him there. He pulled the door closed behind him and ran for the safety of his own bedroom. Before he could reach it, Luke’s voice boomed out from below.

‘Matthew! Matthew! Damn you, Matthew, you answer me or else, you no-good idiot.’ His voice sounded like a deep roar from the very bowels of the earth. Matthew froze, terrified of his brother’s fury.

‘I know you’re up there, do you hear me? Matthew! You come down here and get me something to eat.’ Luke was at the bottom of the stairs, yelling at the top of his voice. Matthew knew what would happen to him if he ignored his brother: one cannot ignore the very voice of Satan.

Matthew reached the top of the stairs, remembering the match-box almost too late.

‘So there you are, you sly devil,’ said Luke, as Matthew looked down on him, seconds after thrusting the match-box deep into his pocket. Matthew came slowly down the stairs, staying close to the wall as though there was not enough room on the whole staircase for his thin body. Luke urged him on, his thick, heavy voice echoing off the bare walls.

Luke was a giant of a man by anyone’s measure. Well over six feet tall with broad, heavy muscles, he expressed with his every movement the arrogance of strength. His hair was darker than his younger brother’s, the eyes more vivid, a pale blue, glazed now in perpetual drunkenness. He swayed slightly, lunging forward, catching Matthew round his thin wrist and dragging him down the stairs by sheer brute force.

‘Lemme look at you, Matthew,’ he teased, his words slurring against his wet mouth. ‘What you bin doing, eh? What you bin doing?’

‘Nothing. I haven’t been doing nothing, Luke.’ Matthew prayed for Jed to come and quieten Luke, for he was good at that. He used words, almost soothing Luke out of his drunkenness, and he would go quiet and climb the stairs to his own room. But Jed was out of sight of the farmhouse, beyond the ridge in the north field.

‘Your whining gets on my nerves, Matthew. Now, shuddup and make me something to eat.’ Luke swung his body round sharply, dragging Matthew round with him, slamming him up against the wall. Matthew fought to hold back the tears, for he knew he could expect no mercy from Luke. His lungs were empty, the breath forced out of them by the impact. He couldn’t speak, but nodded his head dumbly, hating Luke, fearing him, wishing him dead in his own, childish conception of death. Not the death he’d heard Jed speak of in regard to their mother, but a much more personal kind of death in which he, Matthew, could be the instrument of destruction.

He followed Luke back into the kitchen, warily, waiting for the next violent assault. He did not have the capacity to understand Luke’s hatred, but only knew that he hated Luke even more because he was unable to demonstrate his loathing. He went the long way round the kitchen table, avoiding Luke’s clutches, to prepare the other’s food. Despite his hatred, he made the meal with care, not wishing to give Luke reason to hit him once again. He slid the plate across the table to where Luke sat. It held chicken, cold but fresh, onions and a piece of cheese. On a side plate he laid out the bread, dry, for there was no butter.

Luke ate like a man starved, tearing the white meat from the bone, thrusting bread into his over-full mouth and watching Matthew all the time. When he’d finished with the chicken bone he threw it, deliberately, on to the kitchen floor. Matthew watched it fall.

‘Pick it up.’ It was a quiet menace from Luke.

Matthew shuffled forward, shaking now, for the act of picking up the bone would bring him close to Luke, and as he bent to retrieve it Luke shot up, knocking the carved wooden chair over behind him, swinging his foot hard under the squatting form that was Matthew. The foot caught, projecting its momentum forward, knocking Matthew down in a heap, rolling him across the hard kitchen floor. Luke could hardly contain his sadistic mirth, coughing and laughing, his whole body shaking from the uncontrollable effort. Matthew stayed where he was, lying like a whipped dog, whimpering with pain and humiliation.

It was but one of many such incidents that had taken place over the years. Luke despised Matthew for his weakness of mind and body, and the drink served to release his spite. He found pleasure in bullying, secure in the knowledge that Matthew would never strike back.

Luke was growing bored with his game now as the drink began to wear off and the beginnings of a headache unsettled him. There was a familiar noise outside in the yard, yet he couldn’t place it. Drumming, like a thousand tin soldiers. He lurched out of the kitchen into the afternoon heat to investigate.

The tap was on, just as he’d left it, spilling precious water in a fine spray across the cobbles, a large, muddy pool spreading around the base of the tap. He’d turned it on to wash the sweat and grime from his hands and face before calling Matthew to make him his dinner. He turned the tap off now, splashing about in the filthy water, still laughing quietly at the kick which had sent Matthew sprawling. The barn door was open in front of him and he could see inside quite clearly. As he stood there, rubbing the heat of the sun from the back of his neck, he became aware of a minute, a tiny stirring within the barn.

He waited, watching silently, seeing the movement again and again, yet failing to see what it was that moved. Then, suddenly, he knew. He saw the grey-brown body, the ringed, flickering tail as the rat nosed among the loose hay, unaware of being watched. Luke’s blood raced. He sensed another form of sport, equally if not more satisfying than the game with Matthew. For this game would be played to the death.

Cautiously, his drunkenness gone now, the headache forgotten, Luke moved towards the barn. The rat, engrossed in its search for food, remained unaware, and Luke reached the barn door undetected. His mind worked quickly, formulating a plan of attack. At that moment, Matthew opened the farmhouse door and stepped out into the courtyard. The door slammed shut behind him.

The rat, alerted, froze momentarily. It was many feet from the barn door, half concealed under the loose hay. Flight was still possible. Luke moved quickly, stepping into the barn, his huge bulk blocking off retreat. The rat moved then, darting into the shadow towards the horse-boxes, stark and empty with the horses away. Luke hissed his anger, swearing at Matthew, calling him over to help. Matthew came forward, uneasy, not knowing of the rat’s presence.

‘Get in here!’ Luke demanded. ‘There’s a rat in here somewhere. You’re going to help me kill it.’

Matthew flinched. He hated rats for the damage they did, for the trouble they caused Jed on the farm. Yet he detected a note of sadistic pleasure in the way Luke had spoken, knowing that Luke hated the rat for an entirely different reason. He hated it for being a rat, for just being born. He would kill it slowly, with excitement, savouring the moment of death in obscene pleasure. To Matthew the rat was vermin, an enemy of the farmer, to Luke it was an object of contempt, a victim in his gruesome game of death.

Between them, they closed the barn door, aware of the gaps along the bottom where the timber had rotted away with constant use. Luke waved Matthew towards the rear of the barn where the bales of hay were stacked, with familiar precision, almost to the roof.

‘Matthew. Bring some bales down here. Lay them along the bottom of the door, close up so it can’t get through the holes.’ Luke began his game.

Whilst Matthew dragged the bales across the floor, leaving a string of loose straw behind him, Luke traversed the barn, eyes accustomed to the dim gloom, looking for the rat. A long, iron bar stood against the wall of the barn alongside the horseboxes and, as Luke picked it up to use as a weapon, he saw the rat on the floor of the horse-box nearest him. It was huge, much bigger than he’d thought when he’d first seen it. A king rat—he remembered reading about them many years before. Big, powerful tyrants among the rodent family, vicious. A worthy opponent for Luke’s own viciousness.

Matthew had finished his task. The door was well sealed against retreat. He lagged back, not wishing to be involved in what was to come.

Luke held the iron rod at arm’s length, moving round into the mouth of the horse-box. The rat backed off, trapping itself in the corner. Luke bent slightly, keeping his feet well spaced to avoid falling and jabbed the iron rod forward towards the rat. He was sweating, the line of his brow soaked, spilling into his eyes. He raised his arm, wiping the sweat away. The rat took it as aggression and hissed dangerously. It reared up on its hind legs, top lip split tight back against its teeth, two rows of razor-sharp fangs. It gave off the scent of fear, catching Luke on the intake of breath, making him feel sick inside.

Again Luke jabbed with his iron rod, missing by inches and again the rat hissed its warning, yellow teeth sharp against its greying muzzle. Then, suddenly, it was down on all fours, darting across the back of the horse-box to the opposite corner as Luke swung the iron bar hard, ringing it loudly on the concrete floor. The noise echoed off the walls of the horse-box, making his ears tingle and vibrate. The rat made another turn, back to its original corner. This time Luke thrust forward, smashing the rod down hard, feeling the sting in his hand and arm as it hit the floor. The rat squealed as the rod severed its tail in half.

Back and forth across the horse-box darted the rat, twisting, turning, barely escaping Luke’s clumsy thrusts. The rod, inches from its skull, threatened death with every blow. Luke, angry, frustrated with his own inability more than with the rat’s skill, began to tire. The rod was heavy, his arm muscles ached, forcing him to back off, to rest a few moments. Yet he wouldn’t leave the horse-box, wouldn’t give the rat a chance to escape and hide in the bales of hay. He turned to face Matthew, having almost forgotten the other’s existence for a moment.

‘Get me a box,’ he gasped. ‘Anything that’s big enough to put over it. Move, you idiot! Do you want it to escape?’

As Matthew hunted round the barn, he admitted to himself that he did indeed want the rat to escape. He felt a deep pity for it, knowing how it felt to be the victim of Luke’s calculated anger. He found a cardboard box half buried in the corner of the barn, close to the door. He dragged it out, turning it over to check its strength. Jed had used it to store some small parts of the tractor engine long ago. He tipped them out across the floor, noticing for the first time the hole in the barn wall, by the floor, that the box had been covering up. He hoped it was big enough for the rat to escape through, if it got the chance.

‘Hurry up, Matthew,’ Luke barked.

Matthew handed the box over, feeling traitorous towards the rat. He stood closer now, as though his presence might give the rat added strength. Luke juggled with the box, holding it out easily in front of him, ready to drop it over the cornered rat. He poked his iron rod experimentally. The rat moved halfway across the stall, keeping close to the barn wall. Luke moved the box in slowly, nudging the rat with the rod. It backed up, not seeing the upturned box descending until too late. It tried to rush forward as Luke slammed the cardboard prison downwards, closing over the grey-brown mass. The rat had its head out, under the box and Luke fought to contain it, pushing it back with the pole. The rat scrabbled furiously at the sides of the cardboard, twisting over on its back. Luke could feel the soft insides as the edge of the box squeezed down its belly. One final thrust, cruel and stinging and the rat was trapped in the cardboard cage. It squealed continuously, running round and round, hurling itself against the sides in desperation. Luke held the box with his foot across the top.

Triumphant now, he looked up at Matthew. ‘I’ve got it, Matthew. I’ve got myself a rat. Now, Matthew, go over there,’ he pointed back to where Matthew had found the box, ‘and bring me that can, near the tractor engine. Hurry, for God’s sake! It’s tearing the box with its teeth!’

Matthew hurried over, picking up the can. It had a lid screwed down and Matthew wondered what was in it. He brought it back to Luke.

‘No. You hold it whilst I unscrew the lid.’ Luke was still holding the iron bar. The lid gave slowly, rust peeling from it as Luke unscrewed, the muscles of his forearm glistening with sweat. As the lid came free, Matthew felt a strong, heady vapour in his nostrils, stinging slightly. It stirred a long-forgotten memory—the can, the vapour—and then he had it. Jed had used it several years ago, before the tractor broke down. It was fuel, like petrol, and Matthew remember something else. Jed had once used the fuel to light a bonfire, and angry flames had burst into life as the vapour ignited. And now he knew what Luke intended.

‘No, Luke! You can’t. You mustn’t! Please, Luke, let it go. Please don’t kill it, Luke, please.’ But Luke wasn’t listening, consumed in his lust to kill.

He lifted the iron rod and brought it down on top of the box, splitting a hole in the cardboard. He grabbed the open can from Matthew, handing him the iron rod to hold. The liquid glugged, splashing down upon the box, pouring in through the hole. The rat struggled more violently now, fighting for its life as the deadly liquid soaked through to its skin. Luke threw the can behind him, tumbling it over and over across the floor. Quickly, he pulled a box of matches from his pocket, keeping his foot firmly on the box. He fumbled to open the box, fingers heavy, clumsy from holding the rod.

And his clumsiness cost him his life, for he dropped the unopened box on the floor, out of reach. Matthew had his eyes screwed shut, not watching, ready to run from the barn at any second. Luke was screaming at him. The words reached Matthew’s brain without meaning.

‘The matches, Matthew! For God’s sake give me the matches!’ Luke was raging now, his face a mass of red veins, pulsing violently. Matthew heard him then, not thinking, acting on impulse, not questioning how Luke knew he had his matches. He pulled them from his pocket, the picture of the ship meaning nothing to him now. Luke snatched them from him, fumbling them open before he realized.

‘These aren’t the same ones I dropped. Where did you get these from?’ Matthew stood silently, head bent forward to hide his guilt. ‘You’ve stolen them, haven’t you?’ Matthew nodded blindly. ‘Where from? Where did you steal them from? Damn you, Matthew. Where from?’ Luke was screaming, rage tearing through him. ‘You’ve been in my room, you thief, you stole them from my room!’ Matthew could only nod, not understanding anything any more.

In that moment of time, Luke forgot the rat, forgot his evil purpose in the barn. His whole vile temper turned, then, on his brother Matthew. He swung his fist hard, giving Matthew little time to ward off the blow. It was a hard, cruel swing which caught Matthew high across the back of his neck and shoulders, spinning him round across the barn, felling him to the solid, concrete floor. The iron rod clanged down beside him. Through his tears, Matthew felt the hard, vice-like grip of murderous intent take shape in his mind.

Luke watched him fall, clearing his head, turning back to the rat. His revenge on Matthew would wait. As he struck the match he didn’t see Matthew getting up, staggering forward, the iron bar raised above his head. Luke stepped back, into Matthew’s range, flicking the burning match into the corner of the horse-box. As the heady vapour whoofed into blazing, orange life, Matthew brought the iron rod down across Luke’s skull, the soft, sharp pop deadened by the fierce, crackling flames. Luke staggered, knees buckling under him, a stain of crimson blood pouring out across his head and neck, and then pitched slowly forward, face down on the concrete floor.

Matthew watched, head aching from Luke’s last blow. The fire began to spread, getting out of control. As Matthew turned to run for a water-hose, he saw a sight which made his blood run cold. The rat had overturned the box and had charged out, a raging ball of fire, smashing into Luke’s prostrate body, bouncing off, brushing against his, face, leaving a slur of burning flesh. The stench was overwhelming. It raced towards the rear of the barn, colliding with the bales of hay, setting them alight in a dozen places. Its eyes were boiled dry in their sockets, blinding the creature, its skin bulging as the heat began to boil its blood.

Matthew screamed, a high-pitched siren of terror and revulsion at this seething mass of incomprehensible life. He ran backwards, coughing from the smoke and flames, as the rat rushed towards him, the skin of its mouth burnt bare, teeth, locked together, grazing his leg as it passed, scrambling along the bales of hay near the door, some sixth sense directing it now towards the hole in the corner of the barn, near the rusty remains of the tractor. The acrid, blinding smoke swirled thicker, engulfing Matthew, filling his lungs, choking him. He staggered forward to the barn door, pushing for his life, falling headlong into the late afternoon sunshine as the door swung open. Grey smoke poured out through the door behind him.

He pulled himself up, moving back, away from the barn. Luke was dead, yet he could not grasp the terrible sight he’d seen within the barn. He felt no guilt, indeed he felt relief, that Luke had died when he’d struck him. A dense cloud of smoke swirled over the barn, blotting out the sun. And then Jed arrived, panting, sweat tsaining his entire body.

‘Matthew! Matthew! What in the name of God has happened? How did it start, Matthew? What happened?’

Jed was shouting at the top of his lungs, swallowing deeply, in the burning hot air. Yet Matthew could not answer him as he stared down into the puddle around the outside tap, eyes wide, mouth beginning to foam as his jaw fell slack. With trembling hand he pointed down into the muddy water.

The rat was moving, swollen, burnt stubble splitting as the skin lifted from the bone, somehow still alive, crawling its blind and agonizing way up and out of the slimy water.