Bubble and Squeak

‘How much is it worth again, Pa?’

     ‘Ten cents, and no more. That’s enough for you.’

     ‘Is it enough for you as well?’

     ‘Never mind your cheek.’ Tommy held up a rat by the tail. It squirmed and squeaked. He took a rock to it, and it stopped squeaking. ‘Throw it in the bucket,’ directed his father. A hurricane lamp threw a fitful light over their faces. Tommy’s father held it up, and shadows fled before it. The damaged sewers of San Francisco rose up around them, a captive city released, the lost hanging gardens of Babylon into the open air. There was the pollution of the stench, broken pipes, fallen snakes, endless snakes, their heads crushed yet still roaming free. And their servants, the rats. Tommy held another, smaller lamp. He swung it to and fro. The shadows waltzed. ‘Don’t do that,’ said his father sharply. ‘You don’t want it to go out.’

     ‘Aw, Pa! D’you reckon we’ll see the Suns take on the Mudcats again, like we did last week?’

     ‘That was before the earthquake,’ said his father grimly, leading the way. ‘The baseball field’s been used for the casualties since then.’

     Tommy’s ears were alert for another squeak. ‘Must be a family of them over here, Pa. The big mammies are worth more, eh?’

     ‘Fifty cents, son.’

     ‘That’s get me a… season ticket, sweets, ciggies?’

     ‘Don’t let me hear you’ve taken that up, at your age. Worth another beating.’

     ‘Bruce and the other kids do. Behind the-‘

     ‘I don’t want to hear it.’ Tommy set his lamp down. The darkness rippled and squeaked. He struck fast with a wooden stick, behind the pipe. ‘Mind your fingers, son. You don’t want to get bitten by those brutes.’ There was one final squeak. Tommy picked up his bucket again.

     ‘And if I killed plenty mammy-rats, I’d get dollars…’

     ‘Us or them, son. You know why we’re here.’

     ‘Sure. Defending our family. Protectin’ the neighbourhood.’

     ‘That’s right. Plenty people died in that earthquake, without this… as well.’

     ‘Why do people die like that, Pa? The coughing, the boils, the swellin’ like cabbages?’

     ‘Plague, son. Maybe like a visitation from God. This city has its sins, you know. Things no-one ever sees, but God knows about. Sometimes he has to punish them for it. Like you and the bicycle last year.’

     ‘Oh. Like that, eh?’

     ‘Yeah. Just like that. So be warned.’

     ‘Sure will.’ Tommy lagged behind for a moment, swinging his lamp more vigorously. His father turned a corner. Tommy tripped, and broke his lamp. ‘Pa? Where are you?’ There was an echo, a rustle, and a squeak.