Wynand Louw
Human & Rousseau
For Driaan, Pieter, Katja and Anja
1
Rat Attack
Pete’s big adventure started during History. Maths and Biology were okay, but halfway through History he got bored. Miss Peach was droning on about some war or other and a guy called Alexander.
Pete stared out of the window at the grey sky behind the high brick wall that separated the schoolyard from the city beyond. He hated school: the cold, bleak corridors, the dirty old desks, the peeling paint and the chalk dust that made his nose itch, the smell of old pee in the boys’ room. And the teachers who didn’t seem to be interested in kids at all.
A grey pigeon circled high above.
He often wished he could fly. Like a pigeon. Or better still – a gargoyle. A gargoyle would fly really well. There was one on the roof of their building, just outside the window of the dingy third-floor bachelor’s flat he shared with his dad. It had a magnificent pair of stone wings. According to Mr Humperdinck it even had a name: Babyface Rockbottom. Not that it really had a baby face, by human standards at least. But then (according to Mr Humperdinck), not everybody had human standards, or human babies in mind when they called someone “Babyface”. So a gargoyle named Babyface could still look pretty mean.
Miss Peach had reached Julius Caesar when Freddy Mortimer threw a note on Pete’s desk. He glanced at Freddy, who pulled a face at him. Freddy was his best friend. He was also a genius, although most people (especially his teachers) didn’t know this.
“There’s a bogey on your lip,” the note read. Pete slipped it into his schoolbag under his desk without giving it a second thought.
“SMITH AND MORTIMER!” Miss Peach’s voice was like a thunderclap.
“Miss?”
“Stand up!”
They both obeyed.
“Mortimer, did you just pass a note to Smith?”
Freddy’s face went red. Even the roots of his brush-cut blond hair went red, making his scalp look like a pig’s skin.
“Well, Miss, technically …” he began.
“I suppose that means yes?”
“No, but you might …”
“Well, I saw it!” she barked, and walked to Pete’s desk where she picked up his old canvas schoolbag. “It’s right in here, isn’t it, Smith?”
Pete knew that nothing he could say would save him. When he failed to answer, Miss Peach stuck her hand into his bag.
Chaos.
It was Miss Peach’s scream he remembered best afterwards. The large rat that dangled from the end of her index finger as she withdrew her hand from his bag also made quite an impression. But that scream was a masterpiece. The rat let go of her finger and dropped to the table the moment it realised it was out in the open. It jumped onto Ralph Sommers’s back (he screamed), and then on Sarah Livingstone’s head (she also screamed). Sarah hit the rat with her exercise book. It fell on the floor, scurried across the room and disappeared under the cupboard in the corner. By now, half of the children in the class were screaming. Some were hysterical, like poor Ralphie who couldn’t handle too much excitement, and others were screaming and jumping about just for the sheer joy of it.
Having delivered her momentous scream, Miss Peach quietly passed out: flat on her back between two rows of desks, her finger bleeding. Pete sat down at his desk, his hands in his unruly red hair, too shocked to think. How could he not have noticed something like a rat in his bag? But then, it was so full of books and junk that there must have been ample hiding place.
By the time old Schiz, the headmaster, came into the classroom Freddy had organised a rat-lynching party of all able-bodied boys and girls who knew how to wield a ruler or a compass in battle. They were plunging their weapons into the dark depths of the space under the cupboard. Miss Peach was almost awake, and choked on a cup of water Mary Symington was forcing on her. Everyone knew Mary wanted to be a nurse when she grew up, so this was the ideal opportunity for her to prove herself.
“SILENCE!”
Schiz packed enough authority and command into the single word to stop an army. Everybody froze.
“To your seats, immediately!”
Within two ticks of the clock, everybody sat at somebody’s desk.
“Miss Peach, what-is-the-meaning-of-this-ANARCHY?”
Miss Peach was just coming to her feet.
Her face was as white as a sheet.
Her hair was a nightmare.
Her dress was wet and stained with blood.
“Ah … Ah … Ah … Ahrrr …”
Schiz took her hand to help steady her. For a moment their eyes met, and Pete thought he could hear a church organ play somewhere.
“It was a RAT, Sir!” Mary jumped up and down like an excited Chihuahua. “As big as a dog, and it was in P … Ouch!”
Freddy had kicked her on the shin.
“A rat? Well, well. Miss Peach, come to my office. We need to discuss this,” Schiz commanded. He turned to the Maths teacher who had just arrived. “Brophy, please phone for an ambulance. And the exterminator.” He cast a last deadly glance at the frightened children. “That-will-DO!”
With that, he did an about-turn and marched Miss Peach out of the door, straight to his office.
The bell rang for break. As they filed out of the classroom, Mannie Mouton shouted, “Patchwork Pete’s had it! He’s dead meat!” Since the day Pete came to school with a patch on the bottom of his pants, Mannie had been calling him “Patchwork Pete”.
Had Pete not grabbed Freddy’s arm, he would have punched Mannie right on the nose.
“Leave him, there’s enough trouble already,” warned Pete.
Mannie started chanting, “Patchwork Pete’s dead meat! Patchwork Pete’s dead meat!”
Pete and Freddy ignored him. When he saw that they were not going to take the hook, he tried different bait. “That rat must be a pal of his dad’s. The old man’s always drunk and in the gutters.”
Mannie should have seen the blow coming. Pete’s fist hit the bigger boy squarely on the nose, drawing blood on impact. For a moment Mannie was stunned, and then he started screaming. A whole new riot erupted, and Pete and Freddy escaped to the playground.
“Mannie Mutton has a point,” Pete said a little while later as they stood on the tarmac in the schoolyard, throwing pebbles at a row of empty tins. “I’m dead meat. With a record like mine, there’s no way Schiz is going
