At the end of the last entry, I had left to go to work with what I believed was the protagonist of this diary series locked in my bathroom. I planned on titling the next piece ‘Ratman Returns’ written in the spirit of joy and comedy that readers have come to expect from these things, and then would come the next, something else in the fashion of what has gone before, focussed on the latest development in the seemingly never-ending cycle of events taking place between me and the rat, in this flat. But no, here the tale comes to a bitter end, the nature of which I had not forseen.

Ratman did return the next day and found nothing. I had expected he would have turned up, in prime rodent executioner garms and eliminated the poor rodent there and then, returned my key and taken his traps, thankfully never to be seen or heard again. But the rat is full of surprises, and nothing ever happens quite how you expect it to, reality is too complex for that. I spoke to the feckless brute on the phone and he explained that the rat must have escaped through a gap next to the bath, and made its way back to its recreational pad through the secret pathways under the floorboards or between the walls.

“He got away this time, but I’ve laid a few extra traps now, he shouldn’t last long.”

“You’ve laid a few extra traps? It’s Israel Palestine now., and we will take no hostages”

He chuckled, “Israel, Iran shall we call it?”

“Yeah.”

He was right to inflate the status of Rattus in such a way.

“I’ll be in touch next week,” he said

Again, the days passed without remark. I saw nothing of my furry squatter, until one evening I made my next error. I added some detritus to an already overflowing bin, and did not have the energy nor the desire to take the bin down two flights of stairs, deposit it in the wheely bins and replace it with a new one. Therefore I left the rotating lid, which previously the rat did not know was a lid, ajar. Next day I found mounds of soil from a plant pot dashed across the window cill, evidence that the rat had navigated across this and taken a plunge into what it will surely have perceived as rat heaven, bathing in my divine refuse.

*

The Wednesday evening, about eight. As I write it is Saturday, so this was around ten days ago now, though I remember it well. I was going to heat up some curry for dinner, and to do this I needed a pan from the cupboard, which I planned to wash thoroughly first, as it had been in Rattus’ abode. Thinking about it now, this cupboard was a lot like a rat’s cage, with many levels for the creature to climb and enjoy. There were still scraps of rock-hard sour dough from those many weeks ago hiding in the corners. I hadn’t tackled it with cleaning products yet, while he still remained, what was the point?

“Fuck, fuck , fuck!” I said as I opened the door and the rat was right there, sat on the desired pan, a ruler’s distance away frome me. We caught eyes for a split second, then I retreated, pathetically.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” the rat said, mentally, and he also retreated, though less pathetically considering the size difference, and he scampered across the flooring towards the hole in the back of the cupboard, right where Ratman had placed another of his wicked contraptions.

At this moment I discovered that Ratman’s traps were not designed to kill, but to maim and entrap their prey, and the next moment it became clear that what I had now was an injured animal trapped in my kitchen cupboard.