Hollow echoes of a frightful shriek clung desperately to the foggy air, plummeting through the mist, but stopping by the time they met the water. The surface of the Thames parted for a second, then resealed itself. Now all that remained was the rippling of raindrops disturbing the flat of the river, and the grim tolling of Big Ben. When the last stroke of ten faded out into nothing, all was still. Not a second thought was given for any of this; the only response was one of solemn satisfaction, which took the form of four sighs of relief from far above.
A cluster of balloons held fast by the Union Jack carried three grateful mice, hearts thumping in their chests but gradually relaxing. A fourth, equally on edge, pulled himself into the basket off a makeshift helicopter, and was received with frantic excitement. It was Basil, and his life had come too close to ending for him to enjoy the pleasant turn of events just yet. It was enough for him to see the admiration in the eyes of his partner in crime-solving, Doctor Dawson. It was enough to see in the eyes of Mr. Flaversham and little Olivia a fondness that could not be articulated. To make the result greater, Basil knew he had succeeded in protecting the only child he had ever cared about.
What he had done this night was more than a personal vendetta ended as he had hoped and he saved the crown from a fall into unfit clawed hands. He had kept a father and daughter, who had only each other, from being separated. This was not his most monumental accomplishment of the evening, but it was the most rewarding. Now, Basil, Dawson, Flaversham, and Olivia were on their way home, back to the safe and comfortable refuge of Baker Street. This departure, filled with embraces and warm words exchanged between the four betrayed the bitter state of the misty air down, down below them, and growing farther from their minds.
In the distance, the balloon and its four passengers disappeared into the mist veiling the River Thames. Completely unaware were they of the burst of activity down below. Falling raindrops obscured the bubbles rising to meet the air. These shrank until they quite nearly ceased to appear. Suddenly, and with grave urgency, the surface of the Thames was broken, only this time, it was not by a bubble or a raindrop. First a nose, then a face, followed by a head and shoulders and finally a gasp for breath. Rendered unrecognizable in this moment was Professor Ratigan.
Gone was the well-to-do gentleman, and here instead was a disheveled animal, trapped in a whirl of disorientation and shock. Analyzing his surroundings in the blink of an eye, he thrashed at the water violently in attempt to gain control of the current that gripped him tightly, not wanting to let him go. Clearing his head, he managed to maneuver somewhat in the river, pulling himself in the direction of the riverfront. It was not far from him, only a matter of feet.
To Ratigan, it looked like miles. Making his body move at all was enough of a task; all his muscles seemed to tense up from the terror of knowing he was hurtling through the air with nothing below to break his fall, save the unforgiving river. It felt to him not that the current was pushing him along, but that something was pulling him down. That he was to be held underwater and dragged down, a drowned rat, until his consciousness faded away and his heart almost burst. Energy derived from his terror was all that kept him moving forward toward the riverfront, the closest resemblance to a safe haven he had to speak of.
How dramatically Ratigan had changed in appearance: from the royal robes he had worn for his staged coronation which he had believed to suit him perfectly, he had been reduced to this, his present state. With one hand, he clawed at the tall dirt bank on the side of the Thames, trying to take hold. Upon finding his foothold, he used the remains of his strength to drag himself out of the lapping edge of the river to rest on a ledge of dirt shaded by the dock. Wild-eyed with fury and dread, Ratigan refused to look up from where he had fallen. It was too soon to look up at the face of Big Ben, which beamed down on his back, gloating at his plight. From there he had free-fallen, up in the crack in the face where the wreckage of his dirigible still hung, irretrievable. His pride was left behind also.
Even so, admitting that he had feared for his life and recognized that he, Professor James Ratigan, was mortal. He had yet to see the headline in the paper reading, "Time Runs out for Ratigan." Henchmice of his had learned to associate the ring of a bell with time running out, the timer on their lives. His turn had come to be face to face with death. Gathering his awareness to accept that he was really there, still living on earth, he spat in a whisper, "No one should come that close to death and live to remember it."
That was as much as he would admit. Coming to accept the possibility that his life could have ended at Basil's hands was too much to take in. At the moment, he was grateful for the lack of reflective surfaces about him. Having once admired his reflection on the glossy flat side of a cut ruby, he had no desire to look on himself now and see what had become of him.
Defeated. There was no avoiding the association of the unthinkable word with himself now. Just as Ratigan imagined, he did look the part. The fur on his face was matted and dripping murky river water. His bare back was a mass of tangled brown fur, and his shoes were missing, revealing large bestial feet. Stripped from his back during the tussle inside the mechanics of Big Ben was his cloak, which he had sacrificed to the gears after nearly having it choke him and grind him into the clockwork. Ratigan winced. One ear was torn and bloody. This wound was likely self-inflicted during his lashings out with claws for something – anything – to stop his fall. When nothing presented itself, he was left to plunge with great force into the River Thames.
Nursing the wound to his ear, he shook violently, reluctantly twisting to gaze dizzily up at the glaring clock face from which he had dropped. Briefly, he was thankful for the minimal extent of his injury, but soon dissolved back into the realization that his life had all but ended. His career, if any law-abiding mouse could have called it one, was over. Never mind how his henchmice would react to him meeting defeat at the hands of Basil, the contemptible Basil of Baker Street. Eventually, Ratigan would go back. He knew he would have to. Over the years he had made a name for himself, to the point where even Basil had thought of him as nefarious, worthy of his attention and opposition. The underground was his kingdom even if the London above the streets could not fathom what went on beneath. It was a part of him, in the blood, as it was said to be in the blood of rats.
Rats, he thought resentfully. The word alone made his hair stand on end. Bristling at its unpleasant sound, he knew he had learned to hate it. The word even sounded hateful, like a spitting snarl: rat, which was what he was. Worse still, it dominated his name. Although he ravished the sound of his name when it was followed by a string of praises he could not escape the sound as it rang in his ears to the tolling of the bells: "Oh Ratigan! Oh Ratigan! You're one of a kind" For him, there was no shaking the nagging notion that he was being covertly mocked in the cruel irony of his family's name. He could never really know.
The sides of the river lapped at the banks, swollen from the spell of rain. Ratigan, regaining his power, scurried up the dirt wall to a safe distance from the water. More time collected between Ratigan and the chase as the time on Big Ben neared ten thirty. The sting began to wear off, but he was still mindful of the dull ache in his chest and the sharp pulsation of his ear. There were so many things he wanted to do, and far more that he wanted to say. With Basil out of reach, there was nothing to be done.
In his chest, the ache nagged him, and it came not so much from any physical trauma as from a regret. "If only," he breathed hoarsely, "if only I had not said goodbye. Not so soon." Had he taken the initiative to attack Basil in point blank in his underground lair before his host of followers, there was no doubt that the would have come away the victor. With a sardonic chuckle, he chided himself, "I should have leapt for him, for his throat, when the chance was mine."
Hearing unforgiving Basil bark out the words, "Ratigan, no one has a higher opinion of you than I have. And I think you are a slimy, contemptible sewer rat!" was enough to have pushed him to fly at Basil in a rage, and mentally he was. But at that moment, he kept his emotion squashed inside, unwilling to set it free. At that moment he was not about to let Basil see him agitated. "Much as I love revenge, I wish I had taken the first step. Then there would have been no need for it." The words served to keep his mind off his next biggest mistake, from adding insult to injury. Leaving Basil unattended allowed a chance, however slim, for him to escape from an otherwise flawlessly designed death trap. Not that there was any use in thinking about it further. The damage had been done.
Mind made up, Ratigan lugged his tired body up the bank, the muscles in his shoulders bulging from the strain. Approaching the top, he knew his days of masquerading had come to a defined end. Whether he liked it or not, he was what he was, and there was nothing to be done about it. He stumbled bent over to the edge of the street until he was standing over a grate. Licking his wounds deeply, both those physical and emotional, Ratigan slipped between the bars and into the sewer.