Little Rat

The Strand was beautiful by night. The oil lamps burned and twinkled like little
diamonds as their warmth mingled with the cool air. At least I thought they looked like
diamonds, I’d never seen a diamond.
The sun would be up soon, and I could imagine explaining to a police officer why
I was on the roof in the early hours of the morning would be a task indeed. I crept along,
careful not to make any noise, or more importantly slip on the roof tiles that had been
sprinkled with rain not two hours earlier. A fall to the street below would ensure my
death. At least stealing just put me at risk of being tucked up.
I slowly lowered myself onto a balcony at the back of an expensive house
overlooking a small courtyard. My stomach growled and I wished for it to be quiet. It
only then occurred to me that the last thing I had to eat was some watery porridge the
day before.
I tried the handle on the door. Locked. Have it your way.
I pulled the lock pick out of the pocket of my tattered coat. One shot. Fail and the
lock seizes.
I carefully lifted the tumblers, felt around and click; Some time in Whitechapel
would tell one all they needed to know about how to pick a Chubb’s lock, though
nobody would admit how it was done.
Inside the dimly lit room, the wooden floorboards groaned under my weight.
There were blankets over the furniture and a fine layer of dust. I assumed nobody had
been in this area of the house for a long time and headed towards the ostentatious door
across from me, grabbed the handle and slowly pushed down. This time it was open. I
moved through the opulent hallways and down several carpeted staircases until I
reached the scullery. Lucky for me nobody locks their pantries.
The kitchen was lit only by the moonlight that found its way through the smoggy
cloud cover and window. The backdoor is the secondary escape.
Inside the large wooden cupboard, I searched for something that would make a
fulfilling addition to watery porridge and wouldn’t be easily noticed if it were to
suddenly disappear. A quarter of a loaf of bread, some cheese and… chocolate? I really
shouldn’t. But to see the look on Archie’s face when he sees that his big brother brought
back chocolate would be better than any lamps sparkling at night. I added it to my
pockets.
Having made my way back out onto the balcony, I carefully descended the
downpipe into the courtyard where some unknown substance splattered across my worn
boots. Even though it was The Strand, it still smelt terrible.
I’d heard that John Grant had been imprisoned with one year hard labour for
stealing less, and I wasn’t going to be next. My feet pounded the ground through alley
ways, across Waterloo Bridge, past the docks and warehouses of Southwark and then
over Southwark Bridge. In the middle of the City of London, between the Post office and
the Bank of England was my Master’s house.
Lord James Edward Harrington, third baron of the house of Rothwell. That was
his name. He was never particularly kind to us, and always showed favour to his
children. His wife Lady Clara always ignored us; I often wondered if she even knew of
our existence. It’s not exactly something I could complain about freely lest I want for us
to be thrown out. He gave us a roof over our head, and food in our bowls. Even though
it wasn’t a lot, that was what mattered. It was better than going to an orphanage, not that
one would accept me.
 I walked down the stone steps that lead to the cellar where a small room had been
allocated to Archie and I. The stone was covered in a small amount of hay which in turn
was covered in hessian blankets to keep us warm at night. I took off my threadbare coat
and hung it on a nail that protruded from the wall.
“Wesley!” My brother ran over to me and hugged me. He was only eight years
old, much younger than me. If my mother had still been alive she would have seen me
married by now.
“Aren’t you mad as hops; I really wasn’t gone that long. Are you hungry?” I
pulled the bread and cheese out of my pockets and split it between us taking the smaller
portions for myself.
“It’s been a while since we had cheese. Where’d you get it?”
“Keep it down a little Archie. We’re not supposed to have it.” He gave me a
quizzical look and opened his mouth to ask a question, then thought better of it.
“I’ve got another surprise for you.” I went back to my coat on the wall and pulled
out the small amount of chocolate. I cracked the tiny block in two even pieces and
handed one to him. His face said it all. He knew what it was.
“Don’t tell anyone.” I made myself very clear, and he nodded.
The chocolate was smooth, rich, sweet. Its decadence made us forget about the
cellar. In that moment we were kings, wealthier than any baron. Once the taste of the
chocolate had melted away our minds returned to the small stone room.
“Wesley, do you have anymore?” His big blue eyes pierced right into my soul. I
didn’t want to tell him ‘no’. I promise you Archie, at some point you’re going to be studying in a
public school with the wealthiest of children.

“Wesley!” Mrs Barker, the cook, shouted. “Wesley!” Her shrill voice rang out
again, closer this time. She came down the stairs and stopped at the archway into the
cellar, took one look at my muck covered boots and shook her head.
“You went out an’ stole again didn’t you?” She put her hands on her hips. Among all the
people in the manor, she was the only one that knew about my early morning escapades.
“Not at all.” I replied sarcastically.
“Bollocks, don’t sell me a dog. You know if you taught your brother how to steal
he could be a real Tyburn Blossom.”
I was obviously never going to teach my brother to be a dipper, but she was right;
little hands make for better pickpockets.
“By the way Lord Harrington wants you to chase off the tosspot sittin’ on the
front step.” She began to turn to go back up the stairs.
“Why me?”
“Well you certainly ain’t pigeon-livered. Now go on.”
I grabbed my coat off the hook and rushed up the stairs past her. It usually wasn’t
a good idea to keep her waiting.

I pushed open the heavy, wooden doors to a breath of icy cold morning air and a
large, black carriage with bars on the windows. Two men wearing blue uniforms, batons
at their sides looked back at me.
One of them grinned.
“So we finally caught you, you little rat.”
Artistic Statement
Within the short story I used slang in order to create and develop character but also
atmosphere. I felt that for a story written in the 1800’s in London is something that
should have slang in it. One character in particular, Mrs. Barker, uses more cockney
slang in particular and was written in such a way to highlight the fact that she has an
accent.
In terms of things that have been changed since workshopping I have removed the use of
‘I’ from the start of some paragraphs and the use of ‘I’ from within longer paragraphs. I
have also edited the grammar and overall paragraphing structure of the work. I titled the
work “Little Rat” to tie in the ending of the story.
The way that the character Wesley had been thieving was something that I tried to
change by adding in more thoughts and more description of certain places that he went
to in order to add a sense of alertness. His character was one that was designed so that
the reader would empathise with him and his situation.