The loudest thunderclap there has been so far jars the decaying timbers of the house, and one of the lizards drops its tail suddenly, just missing Dog Head’s drink. Although it hasn’t fallen into the glass, the sight of the tail wriggling madly all round it, before jerking itself off the table and on to the floor, irritates him; he wants to chastise the presumptuous lizard, whose tail he is grinding under his naked heel; but he can’t even make out which lizard it belongs to. He feels frustrated, insulted. And now that he’s interrupted his heavy drinking, he is in need of an outlet for the violence drink always builds up in him.
He takes the tennis racquet into the next room, where the rats, as disturbed by the storm as the lizards, are immediately in evidence. Constant flashes of lightning increase the distortion caused by the feebly fluttering light, so that the game is extremely chancy. The additional hazard is all on the side of the rats. All the same, it gives the man a fresh thrill, although he has difficulty in following their swift moves, his own movements less coordinated than usual owing to the amount of whisky he has consumed, which also seems to affect his judgment. Over-estimating the reach of the racquet, he misses the first rat completely, and has to suffer the humiliation of watching it escape into the rafters. But he makes up for this failure by dispatching the next candidate with one driving blow.
Hardly has he kicked the corpse under the wardrobe and out of sight than a new rat appears, so enormous that he can scarcely believe his eyes. It disappears in the shadows, and he supposes the distorting properties of the inadequate light must have magnified it to such vast proportions. But no, there it is again; now he sees it quite clearly — a monstrous great brute, with a lion’s mane of coarse hair and a tail like a sjambok. Never in all his days has he seen such a colossal rat; it must be the father of all the rats in creation.
He half recalls the ‘rat-king’ legend, and that the monster is said to appear to evil-doers when the monsoon breaks; but he at once forgets the story in his excitement, and starts stalking the creature. It won’t come into the open, gliding from one piece of furniture to the next, difficult to distinguish from the tremulous shadows. Before long, however, he drives it into a corner, where it crouches under a table, and he knows he’s bound to get it when it emerges. ‘Come out of there!’ he shouts, furiously banging his fist on the jail-made table, that looks the colour of blood. The rat defies him by refusing to budge, remaining motionless and invisible, except when the occasional gleam of its reddish eyes betrays its presence.
‘I’ll soon settle you!’ he yells fiercely. The wild excitement by which he’s possessed has given him unnatural strength; he swings the table bodily into the air with one hand, while the other twirls the racquet high over his head and brings it down with tremendous force, administering the coup de grace. The beast contorts itself with a shrill blood-curdling scream, then rolls over and lies quite still.
He’s rather disappointed by this easy victory. The brute ought to have put up a better fight. Is it dead? As it’s still in deep shadow and practically hidden he can’t be certain, merely assuming it is, as it doesn’t move. He steps forward to make sure and to examine the monstrosity.
But before he’s had time to look, something moves behind him turning, he sees a rat of ordinary size calmly crossing the floor, in full view, as if it owned the place. Such unheard of impudence immediately makes him forget the other; he goes in pursuit of this newcomer, hoping to hit it first time, before it takes cover. But again he’s misled, either by the flickering light or his own faulty judgement, and the beast eludes him. Now of course it’s very much on the alert, and turns out to be almost fiendishly cunning. It persistently keeps out of reach, and when it does emerge from one hiding place to dart to another it’s always too quick for him. Exactly as if it were playing with him, it leads him on to exhaust himself to no purpose, while economizing its own strength, making only such moves as are absolutely essential to avoid his blows.
At first he curses it with all the swear words in his vocabulary; but gradually he falls silent, conserving his breath. He is panting; sweat pours off him in streams; the contest already seems to have lasted for hours. Again and again he’s on the point of dealing the fatal blow, but each time something puts him off his stroke — and there’s the devilish rat, still waiting for him as large as life.
His excitement wears off by degrees. His blows get wilder and fall wide of the mark. He stumbles once or twice, no longer quite steady on his feet. Though he won’t admit it, he’s tired, he’s had more than enough of the bloody rat, and wishes it would take itself off to hell. Deliberately giving it a chance, he pauses to mop his face. But instead of flying up the wall to the security of the rafters the diabolical creature continues to lead him on, darting here, there, and everywhere, always evading him. Not once has he even managed to touch the brute.
All at once it vanishes under the table, swallowed up by the shadows. But its eyes give it away, glinting malevolently as they reflect the light’s fluctuations. He waits for it to move, breathing in hoarse gasps, but with a triumphant face. At last the rat’s made the same mistake as its predecessor, and will meet the same end as soon as it comes out. He does nothing to hasten the fate of this one, glad of the respite in which to collect what remains of his strength for the final effort.
The moment the beast starts to slide out of the corner he lunges at it with all his force, savagely shouting, ‘Got you!’
But he never knows whether he really has killed, or even hit it, for at the same time he staggers wildly, losing his balance, his arms flailing. Unable to save himself he falls headlong, sprawling full length on the floor, face downwards, on top of the object that’s tripped him up. He must be slightly stunned, in his drunken state, by the heaviness of the fall, for he doesn’t get up immediately, doesn’t know what he’s fallen over. An inexplicable, indescribable movement rouses him: hairs coarse as wire are scratching his chest, neck and chin. With sudden horror, he realizes that he must have tripped over and be lying on top of the monster rat, which he’d completely forgotten until this moment. And the beast’s moving… it’s come to life… Its cold sharp claws scrabble at his chest, becoming entangled in its furlike growth, as he struggles desperately to get hold of it somehow, he’s unable to throw it off; there’s no power in his hands, which can’t get a grip on its body…
Precisely as in a nightmare, he feels its teeth sinking into his throat. He can’t see it properly, though its heavy limp inert shape dangles in front of him, hanging on by its teeth and claws… while he beats at it ineffectually, his blue eyes frantically glaring about the room — he shouts for help, but nobody answers…
He must get up in order to get a firmer grip. But his strength is going, and though he makes a terrific effort he only succeeds in dragging himself to his knees. Blood is streaming over his chest, mingling with the river of sweat.
After a final flicker, the light goes out. Seeing only some huge black object looming above him, he clutches it to pull himself up. The wardrobe starts to wobble and sway before he gets to his feet; his fingers, sticky with blood, adhere to the tacky surface, pulling it down on him. Like a giant coffin, it falls with a crash, imprisoning him in stifling darkness beneath in the dustbin to which he consigns his victims.
As if the bottom has fallen out of the sky, rain comes down with a thunderous smash. Pounding on the roof, the vast mass of water adds its continuous battering boom to the ponderous roar of great thunder-wheels rolling loose in the blackness outside.
All lesser noises are hopelessly lost in this ceaseless bludgeoning of tumultuous noise.