Let us leave now our amorous hero and his devil-may-care chaperone for a time, and follow, instead, the two scurrilous individuals who waylaid Phil Anbury in Derry Way. Yea, the very same watchers unseen from the shadows in the Lousy Duck but a page-flick past.

After all, we are well into our tale already, and those unfortunate few of you who have patiently remained with us must be wondering what exactly has happened to the novel’s namesake? You didn’t buy a work called Plague: the Shadow of the Rat King for the scintillating title did you? No, you be wanting for some disease! Or, in lieu, some majestic rodent, or, failing that, and at the very least, his umbra. Well fear, not! Dark forces are afoot. Afeet, technically, and they are currently using all four of them...

Yes, dear readers, it is come now that pivotal moment in every poorly written prose’s mid-cycle crisis where things have gotten so bad that the narrator feels the need to reassert themselves. To step into the light, and out of that echoing graveyard of an annex known only as the footnotes. To show a little leg, narratively speaking.

Now.

When one tries to conjure the sewers beneath London, one reaches for cavernous arches high enough to drive a hay cart through, helpful walkways trotting beside the flow to keep your feet dry, noisome waterfalls throwing pleasantly rippling patterns upon the perfectly tiled walls, all uplit in Burton blue from mysteriously unidentifiable light sources. But this was London, not Rome, and although the former bore the mark of the latter’s long-dead architects, Cloaca Maxima, it ain’t.

What was laid below the streets by the city’s ancient forefathers was little better than a pipe. There is no light. None. But it matters not: we know where we must go. How can we not? We cannot stand, and, even stooping, our head is brushing the ceiling. Our elbows knock painfully against the walls on both sides at once. And we are wet, for the entrance is now concealed well below the tideline, downriver from the Bridge, where no sensible human would ever go, much less survive.

The Third Bank of the Thames.

Fortunately, it is no longer a working sewer. It has been entirely forgotten.

Well, not entirely...

They are ahead of us.

Our toes scrape the tunnel side. A sound.

The movement ahead of us halts. Reverses. One of them is coming back to investigate. Imagine a pink nose aquiver in the darkness, black beady eyes aswivel beneath a wide-brimmed theodora, holes cut for upstanding ears.

Fortunately, it cannot see us. Not even a rat’s sharp senses can detect an omniscient narrator, after all.

At length, the gruff one called Scratchfella is satisfied, and scutters back down the tunnel to the other, the pinched one named Pinky. We still cannot see them, but they are just ahead, and their voices echo wetly down the walls towards us.

“Who was it, Scratchfella?”

“Just another omniscient narrator who thinks we can’t hear all that incessant monologuing.”

“Ha! Remember the last one?”

“Yeah. One word to his editor, and he was cut. Cut good!”

We tarry a while as the rats move ahead: a little more caution is demanded.

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At length, we feel safe to continue.

We can no longer hear them, and it is far too dark for prints. No matter. We have no need to track them.

Further up the tunnel, there is a smaller side entrance. This is a true pipe, bored and bent, and we must squeeze through upon our bellies. Again, we are fortunate: the slime upon which we must slide is mossy, but not the effluent of man. The true sewers of London have long since moved thunderously upmarket. We inch our way through, propelled by small movements in our toes, caterpillars with too few legs, and are finally born again into a new darkness.

Our eyes adjust. We can stand. There is a sliver of light: enough to paint a little definition. This is a larger chamber, and it is square. Wooden posts support the ceiling. There has been an attempt to decorate (garishly). There may even be stairs in a corner, though where they lead is anyone’s guess.

The twin shadows of Pinky and Scratchfella, one smaller, one larger and holding what looks like an instrument case from the shape of it, are waiting in the middle of the floor, and they are whispering.

“You knit-wit, Scratchfella! I told you the Undertaker would never go for it!”

“Ah! We should’a shown him the t’ird bank of the Thames!”

“Now, you see! That’s exactly what I’m talking about! Every time we meet someone new it’s always – ‘Ah! we should’a shown him the t’ird bank of the Thames!’ I mean… where’s the originality? And, besides, the boss…”

“…WANTED THE UNDERTAKER ALIVE!”

The onset of this new voice sent the two rats cowering into one another in a most unrodent-like embrace. Impatient, omnipotent, the sound boomed from a portal of deeper darkness at the far end of the chamber.

Pinky was the first to recover. She raised a shaking paw... “Er… hey Boss! How’s the weather been down here?”

“Wet! Wet! Don’t ask me about the weather, it’s always the same, it’s wet! Ok, it’s WET!”

Pinky winced. “Sorry, Boss!”

The unseen speaker sniffed. “Now I’m all depressed! Tell me some good news. Tell me you’ve got the Undertaker, tell me he’s in on the plan, and everything’s on the up!”

Pinky seesawed her paw, like a boat about to capsize. “Well, you see Boss... it’s like this. The Undertaker, he’s an old man – he’s stuck in his ways...”

Scratchfella added his piece. “Death-threats don’t work – death’s his business!”

Pinky nodded, “There’s his assistant – this Muldoon fella – but he’s… he’s...”

Scratchfella: “Myophobic.”

Pinky: “…yeah, he’s–” turning to Scratchfella “–what??”

Scratchfella shrugged. “It’s an irrational fear and hatred of rodents.”

The voice in the darkness was not impressed. “So, what you’re telling me, not to mince words, is that, ultimately, when you get right down to it... you failed.”

Pinky raised her paws and attempted a grin, “Well, only in the sense that we didn’t succeed!”

There was a long pause.

Finally, the portal spoke. “Pinky. I gotta tell ya – this kind of goof, I might expect from Scratch-Fella: the rat’s got one talent, it’s killing things – that’s it!”

“Thanks boss!” Scratchfella sounded chuffed.

“But you, Pinky, I t’ought you were the brains. You told me, ‘Don’t worry, boss, I’ll get it sorted!’ Well. Here we are! And it’s not sorted. So tell me now: what use to me is a rat, who tells me it’s sorted, when it ain’t? TELL ME?!?”

Pinky was still working her way through all the punctuation in the last paragraph, not to mention the inexplicable change of tense. “Well, er…”

“You don’t know? Oh! I’ll tell you then. I have NO USE for a rat, who can’t get things sorted!! I have been DOWN HERE for twenty-five years! I have tasted the MUCK of MEN, and their FATHERS, and their FATHER’S FATHERS! What are we, RODENTS? I’m tired of muck! We are on the brink of something BIG here! And you can’t even persuade a DOWN-ON-HIS-LUCK UNDERTAKER, THAT HELPING US IS IN HIS BEST INTERESTS!!! Pinky, you’re a waste. Scratch-Fella, do your thing...”

“Sure thing, boss!” Scratchfella thumbed the catches on his instrument case–

Pinky slammed an arresting hand on the lid: “Hey wait! WAIT! There may be another way! There’s a new guy, down at the Undertaker’s, a young guy, kinda innocent-like. And he’s in love… with the Alchemist’s daughter…?”

There was silence for a moment. Scratchfella had paused.

The voice returned, softer, mellifluous. “Pinky, you’re a genius! I always knew you’d come through! Never doubted it. Bring him here. I want him here. I want to see him. BRING HIM!”

Pinky gave Scatchfella a venomous look. “Don’t worry, boss. It’s sorted!”