The Final Port

Hanging high above the city the sun sends shimmering glints of light across the river’s surface. A mile away a young lad vaults over the sharp jagged edge of crumbling plaster that threatens to block his entrance into Cheapside Street. Squeezing close to the wall in the narrow alley, he avoids crossing paths with the shiny black rat scampering across the rough cobblestones. Not moving, the rat stares unblinkingly at the unexpected intruder. Glints of saffron sparkle where pinpoints of sunlight find pathways into its calm beady eyes. Standing firmly over its meal, the rat fears the trespasser less than the youth fears him. Shivers run down John’s back as he withdraws one step at a time. Pressing his sweaty forehead against the cool brick wall, he tries to erase the unwanted memory of awakening one recent morning to find a rat sniffing at Tristram’s face. He had whacked the rat with a piece of firewood - a quick kill. Years later, John could still remember the look of dread on his brother’s face, his vulnerability. Tristram was just one of thousands of children bitten by the ubiquitous rodents freely roaming the streets of London. Their numbers had steadily increased since the Lord Mayor’s order to kill all the city’s dogs and cats; pets not excepted. With the decrease in the numbers of their natural enemy, rats boldly roam the streets.