King Rat by China Miéville Read Free Book Online Page B

shook his head in horror, his hand still clamped firmly over his mouth.
    ‘When was the last time you puked?’
    Saul furrowed his brow at the question. King Rat wiped his wet hand on his trenchcoat, adding to the camouflage-pattern of stains hidden in its dark grey. He poked at the food.
    ‘You can’t recall,’ he said, without looking at Saul. ‘You can’t recall because you’ve never done it.
    Never spewed nothing. You’ve been ill, I’ll bet, but not like other Godfers. No colds or sneezing; only some queer sickness making you shiver for days, once or twice. But even then, not a sign of puke.’ He finally met Saul’s eye, and his voice dropped. He hissed at him, something like victory in his voice. ‘Got the notion? Your belly won’t rebel. No sicking up Pig’s, no matter how plastered, no sweet sticky chocolate bile on your pillow the night after Easter, no hurling seafood across the tiles, no matter bow dodgy the takeaway. You’ve got rat blood in your veins. There’s nothing you can’t stomach.’
    There was a long moment of silence as the two stared at each other.
    King Rat continued.
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    ‘And there’s more. There’s no grub you don’t want. Said you were starving. I should coco; it’s been a while. Well here we go. Sitting comfortably? I’m going to teach you what it is to be rat. Look at all this scran your uncle sorted you out with. Said you were starving. Here’s breakfast.’
    King Rat picked up the fruitcake without taking his eyes from Saul. He raised it slowly to his mouth.
    Moist chunks dropped from his hand, sultanas made juicy from their long marinating in black plastic. He bit into it, crumbs bursting out of his mouth as he exhaled in satisfaction.
    He was right. Saul could not remember a time when he had thrown up. He had always eaten a lot, even for his frame, and had never been able to sympathize with people put off their food. Stories about maggots told over risotto left him unmoved. He had never suffered after too much sugar or fat or alcohol.
    This had never occurred to him before; he sympathized with others when they complained that something made them feel sick, never stopping to ask what it meant or if it was true.
    Now he was sloughing off those layers of habit. He stood watching King Rat eat. The wiry figure would not take his eyes from him.
    It had been hours and hours since Saul had last had food. He investigated his own hunger.
    King Rat continued chewing. The stench of slowly collapsing food was overwhelming-Saul gazed at the leftovers and remnants heaped in front of the bags, the flecks of mould, the bite marks, and the dirt.
    He began to salivate.
    King Rat kept eating.
    When he opened his mouth wet chunks of cake were visible. ‘You can eat pigeon-meat scraped off a car-wheel,’ he said. ‘This here’s good scran.’
    Saul’s stomach growled. He squatted before the pile of food. Gingerly, he picked out the unfinished burger. He sniffed it. It was long cold. He could see where teeth had torn through the bun. He brushed at it, cleared it of grime as best he could.
    It was damp and clammy, still shiny with spit where it had been bitten.
    Saul put it near his mouth. He let his mind play over the filth of the dustbin, waited for his stomach to turn. But it did not.
    His mind still rang with admonishments heard long ago - don’t touch, it’s dirty, take it out of your mouth but his stomach, his stomach remained firm. The smell of the meat was enticing.
    He willed himself to feel ill. He strove for nausea.
    He took a bite. He wriggled his tongue into the meat, pushed apart the fibres. He probed, tasting the dirt and decay. Lumps of gristle and fat split open in his mouth, mixed with his saliva.
    The burger was delicious.
    Saul swallowed and did not feel ill. His hunger, piqued, demanded more. He took another bite, and another, eating faster and faster all the time.
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    He felt something slipping away from him. He drew his strength from the old