Haggis The Rent-A-Cat And The Undermice Of London - Extract

Haggis the Rent-A-Cat is a work in progress. Meant for children and overgrown children, it is the story of a group of London Underground mice who get on the train to Scotland by mistake. Waiting at the other end of the line is Haggis the Rent-A-Cat, hunter, predator, and reluctant winner of Cat-A-Tonic Magazine’s special feline Weight-Watchers’ Furball Superchallenge. Will the Undermice defeat Scotlands most dangerous Feline Pest-Control Operative, or can Haggis save the world from imminent rodent meltdown AND manage to stick to his diet?

Extract

The mouse blinked and began to speak in a high, clear voice. ‘I am Bridie McSodden of the noble and ancient Clan Sodden of Sodden, Dame of the Squished Midge, Queen of the Pointless Long-Standing Grudge and Empress of the Windy Kilt. And you - ‘ she gave them a ferocious glare ‘ - are English.’
‘You tried to kill us!’ shouted Angel.
‘Of course,’ said Bridie. ‘You shocked me.’
‘What’s wrong with being English?’ Angel yelled.
In answer, Bridie rose up on her hind legs, brandishing the tip of her tail like a lasso over her head. ‘VERMIN!’ she yelled. ‘INFIDELS! PERVERTS!’
‘Yes, yes, we got that bit,’ said Fume impatiently, ‘But what’s actually wrong with us?’
There was a long pause. Bridie sat down. Then she got up again. Then she said, ‘UUuummmm’ several times in a high-pitched voice.
‘Well?’ said Angel, still angry. ‘Well?’
‘You come from the South,’ said Bridie in a rush. ‘And - ‘ she glared at them - ‘You’re not Scottish.’
‘But of course we’re not Scottish,’ said Tox. ‘We’re Undermice. Vastly superior, best-quality, genuine London Undermice.’
Bridie stared. ‘What’s an Undermouse?’
‘We live in the Black Cathedral,’ said Tox. ‘The Tube. The Tube is our home.’
‘A tube?’
‘No,’ said Tox. ‘The Tube. Not a tube, the Tube.’
‘A toothpaste tube?’
‘No, not toothpaste,’ said Tox. ‘A Tube underground with trains and people and the Great Power and us.’
‘But you’re black.’
‘Of course we’re black. All Undermice are black. Undermice ...’
He was interrupted by Fume, who had pushed himself to the front and now stood with his eyes closed and one front paw pressed sensitively to his chest. ‘We wear the black for the poor and the beaten-down,’ he began. His voice quavered slightly.
‘Living on the hopeless, hungry tracks in town.
We wear the black for the urban life of Doom,
For train-delays and only standing room.
We wear the black for the mice whose only crime
Was to be born on the useless Waterline (Angel kicked him sharply on the haunch. Fume ignored her)
We wear the black for those who waited and grew old
In the stations time forgot, like Sneezing Mould
We wear the black as the mark of the Outsider
With our natural kin: the crow, the rat, the spider
We wear the black for those who sidle through life’s cracks
Till all our lines get brighter, we’ll stay the Mice in Black.’

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