The Deptford Mice 3: The Final Reckoning by Robin Jarvis Page A

faint voice called his name from below.
    At the bottom of the long drop to the Skirtings the Starwife shouted crossly up at the midshipmouse and told him to make a cradle at the end of the rope. Then she sent several mice up to help him. Algy, Mr Cockle and Reggie and Bart from the Landings scrambled up as fast as they could.
    After a while a strange triangle descended from above. The end of the rope had been tied to a piece of wood just big enough to sit on and then knotted a little way above that to form a kind of swing. It was lowered gently to the ground where the Starwife struggled into it. Sitting on the wooden seat and still clutching her stick she grasped the rope with her paws and called to be pulled up.
    In the attic the mice took the strain and heaved on the rope. Slowly the Starwife was raised, ascending through the wall space, using her stick to stop herself bumping into the bricks. She seemed to be quite enjoying herself and hummed an ancient squirrel tune in the dark. Eventually she reached the attic and was helped out onto the roof.
    The afternoon came and wore on and the leaden sky began to turn black. Not content with waiting below, all the other mice wanted to know what was happening so the remaining husbands climbed up and their wives took turns in the Starwife’s cradle. In the end everyone was up in the attic or standing precariously on the roof where the Starwife began to tie the twigs into a pyramid shape.
    When the framework had been made the squirrel searched in the velvet bag she had brought from Greenwich. ‘Good,’ she muttered, ‘I have all I need.’ Clutching the bag close to her the Starwife raised her head and told everyone, ‘We shall not light the beacon till night falls; it will not be long.’
    Audrey was sitting next to her mother. She closed her eyes against the blustering wind and huddled closer to Gwen. Oswald was nearby and Mrs Chitter was fussing with his scarf, ‘Don’t you get a chill like that last one,’ she clucked.
    Arthur gazed at the world in astonishment. When he had been in Fennywolde he had climbed the corn stalks and enjoyed the feeling of being high above the ground but that was nothing compared to this. He did not feel the cold as he was too absorbed in the panoramic views. In the distance he could see the vague blur of the city and not too far away the tower of St Nicholas’s church rose between the buildings. Beyond that . . . Arthur put a paw over his eyes, the tall chimney of Deptford Power Station loomed out of a strange white mist. He frowned, scratched his head and shivered, but not because of the weather; there was something uncanny about that place. Arthur fancied that he was being watched – he did not like it and tried to look away, but the power station fascinated him. It seemed to have a presence – he could almost hear it breathing and waiting. Arthur shivered a second time.
    The short winter day was drawing to a close, deep shadows gathered under the surrounding houses and street lamps clicked and buzzed as they blinked on. The dusk fell and the mice on the roof had to strain their eyes to see each other.
    ‘It is time,’ said the dim shape of the Starwife.
    For an instant Thomas’s face was illuminated as he struck a light from his tinder box. He passed it to the squirrel and she bent over the beacon and waited patiently for it to catch.
    The twigs kindled and a warm yellow glow lit the circle of mice who drew instinctively closer to the welcome flames.
    The Starwife pulled from her bag a glass phial containing a dark red syrup, the juice of special berries. She sprinkled it over the fire and at once it spat and sparks flew out. The mice gasped and fell back in alarm. The flames then turned a rich, deep purple and tapered high over the roof tops.
    ‘Now, we wait,’ said the Starwife, crouching down.
    The beacon blazed furiously, yet the flames did not seem to be burning the wood. They remained in its fierce heart untouched by the heat. It