Original subtitles

from the short story by ROALD DAHL

In the afternoon, the rat man came to the petrol station.

He sidled up the driveway with a soft, stealthy gait.

His feet made no noise at all on the gravel.

He had an army knapsack slung over one shoulder.

He wore an old-fashioned corduroy jacket with large pockets.

Corduroy trousers were tied around the knees with lengths of white string.

- Hello? - Yes?

Rodent operative.

His small, dark eyes moved swiftly over the premises.

- The rat man? - That's me.

He was lean, leathery, a sharp face,

two long, sulfur-yellow teeth

protruding from the upper jaw over the lower lip.

His ears were round and thin, set near the back of his head.

The eyes were almost black,

but when they looked at you, there was a flash of yellow in them.

- You've come quick. - Special orders from the Health Office.

And now you're going to catch all the rats?

- Yeah. - How?

Yes. How?

Depends what rats, where they is. Different methods for different rats.

- Trap them, I suppose. - What?

- Trap 'em. - Trap 'em?

The rat man snorted.

Won't catch 'em that way. Rats ain't rabbits.

He held his face up high,

sniffing the air with a nose that twitched perceptibly from side to side.

Rats is clever. You wanna catch 'em, you gotta know 'em.

You gotta know rats on this job.

You know what they do? They watch you.

Whole time you're preparin' how to exterminate 'em,

they're watchin' you.

This ain't a sewer job, is it?

No, it's not a sewer job.

- Tricky things, sewer jobs. - I shouldn't think so.

You shouldn't, should you? I'd like to see you do a sewer job.

Just exactly how'd you set about it, I'd like to know.

Poison them, I suppose.

And where exactly would you put the poison?

Down the sewer?

The rat man sparkled, triumphant.

Yeah, I knew it. "Down the sewer."

Know what'd happen? Get washed away completely.

All your poison. Sewer's like a river.

All right. Well, what would you do, Mr. Rat Man? On a sewer job?

The rat man advanced a step closer.

His voice became secretive and confidential,

the voice of a man divulging professional secrets.

You works on the understandin' a rat is a gnawin' animal, see?

Anythin' you give 'em, they gnaws on it.

So you got a sewer job on your hands. What d'you do?

His voice had the soft, throaty sound of a croaking frog,

and he seemed to speak all his words with a wet-lipped relish,

as if they tasted good on the tongue.

You go down the sewer

and you take along some ordinary brown paper bags

filled with plaster of paris powder. Nothin' else.

Then you suspend 'em from the roof of the sewer

so they hangs down not quite touchin' the water.

Just high enough so a rat can reach 'em.

Claud was listening, rapt.

Old rat comes swimmin' along the sewer, sees the bag. He stops.

Takes a sniff at it. It don't smell so bad.

- What's he do? - He gnaws it.

That's it! He starts gnawin' at the bag, and the bag breaks,

and the old rat gets a mouthful of powder for his pains.

Well?

Well, that does him.

- That kills him? - Stone dead.

- Plaster of paris... - It swells when you wet it.

Gets into the rat's tubes and swells right up

and kills him quicker than anythin' in the world.

That's where you got to know rats.

His face glowed with a shifty pride.

He rubbed his stringy fingers together, holding the hands up close to his face.

Now, where's them rats?

The word "rats" came out with a rich, fruity sound

as if he were gargling with melted butter.

In the hayrick across the road.

- Not inside? - Only in the hayrick. Nowhere else.

I'll wager they're inside too, gettin' in your food, spreadin' disease.

- Got any sickness here? - He looked pointedly at me, then at Claud.

- Everyone's well. - Quite sure?

- Quite sure. - You never know.

He'd taken upon himself the mantle of a public health officer,

disappointed we were not suffering from bubonic plague.

Nevertheless, the rats are in the hayrick. How will you remove them?

The rat man grinned a crafty, toothy grin.

He reached into his knapsack and withdrew a large tin,

weighing it up and down in his hands as he spoke.

Poison. Special poison. Deadly poison.

They'd put you inside if they caught you with even a spoonful of this.

There's enough here to kill a million men.

- Want to see? - Yes, please.

He took a penny and prized open the lid.

There it is.

He spoke almost lovingly of the stuff and held it forward for Claud.

Corn or barley, is it?

Oats. Oats soaked in deadly poison.

You take just one grain in your mouth and you're a goner in three minutes.

Never out of me sight, this tin.

He caressed the tin and shook it...

...so the oat grains rustled softly inside.

But your rats don't get this today. They wouldn't have it, anyway.

That's where you got to know rats. Rats is suspicious. Terrible suspicious.

So today they get some nice, clean, tasty oats

as will do 'em no harm in the world.

Fatten 'em up, that's all. And tomorrow, the same again.

And the day after that, and the day after that.

And it'll taste so good, all the rats in the district

will be comin' along soon enough.

Very clever.

You got to be clever on this job, cleverer than a rat.

And that's saying something.

"You've almost got to be a rat yourself."

It slipped out before I could stop myself.

I couldn't help it, I was looking at him at the time.

The effect it had on him was surprising.

- That's it! - ...he cried.

Now you got it, you really said somethin'.

A good ratter's gotta be more like a rat than anythin' else.

Cleverer even than a rat,

and that is not an easy thing to be, let me tell you.

Well, let's get on with it.

Lady Leonora Benson's asking for me urgent up at the manor.

She's got rats too?

Everybody's got rats.

The rat man ambled off down the driveway.

The way he walked was so like a rat, it made you wonder.

That slow, almost delicate, ambling walk with a lot of give at the knees

and no sound at all from his footsteps on the gravel.

He hopped over the gate, and walked quickly 'round the hayrick,

scattering handfuls of oats onto the ground.

The next day he returned and repeated the procedure.

The day after that he came again, and the day after that,

and finally, on the fourth day, he put down the poisoned oats.

But he didn't scatter these. Instead, he placed them in little piles

at each corner of the hayrick.

- You got a dog? - Yes.

Well, if you want him to die a horrible, twisting death, let him in that gate.

The next day he came to collect the dead.

Get me an old sack. I'm gonna need one to put 'em in.

He was puffed up and important now, the black eyes gleaming with pride.

He was about to display the results of his catch to the audience.

Claud fetched a sack and we walked across the road.

The rat man prowled around the hayrick,

bending over to inspect one of his piles of poison.

- Something wrong here. - ...he muttered.

His voice was soft and angry.

He ambled over to another pile and got down to examine it closely.

- Something wrong here. - What's the matter?

He didn't answer, but it was clear the rats hadn't touched his bait.

"These are very clever rats here," I said.

The rat man was annoyed

and showed it on his face and nose and by the way the two yellow teeth

were pressing into his lower lip.

- Don't give me that crap. - ...he said, looking at me.

Nothing's wrong with these rats, somebody's feedin' 'em.

They got somethin' juicy to eat somewhere, plenty of it.

No rats in the world will turn down oats unless their bellies is full to burstin'.

The rat man turned away, sullen.

He knelt down again scooping up the poisoned oats with a small shovel,

tipping it carefully back into a tin.

When he had finished, all three of us walked back across the road.

The rat man stood by the petrol-pump,

a rather sorry, humble rat man now

whose face was beginning to take on a brooding aspect.

He had withdrawn into himself over his failure,

the eyes veiled and wicked,

the little tongue darting out to one side of the two yellow teeth.

He looked up at me, a surreptitious glance,

then over at Claud.

His nose-end twitched, sniffing the air.

He raised himself up and down on his toes, swaying gently,

and in a soft voice, soft and secretive, he said...

You want to see something?

He was trying to retrieve his reputation.

- What? - You want to see something amazing?

He put his right hand into the poacher's pocket of his jacket

and brought out a large, live rat clasped tight between his fingers.

Good God!

That's it. You see?

He was crouching slightly and craning his neck forward

and leering at us and holding this enormous brown rat,

one finger and thumb making a tight circle around its neck,

clamping its head so it couldn't turn and bite.

Do you go around with rats in your pockets?

Always a rat or two about me somewhere.

He put his free hand into the other pocket and produced a small, white...

- Is that a ferret? - The rat man snickered, hissing.

The ferret seemed to know him and stayed still.

Nothing will kill a rat quicker than a ferret.

He held the two animals close in front of him

so the ferret's nose came within six inches of the rat's face.

The pink beady eyes of the ferret stared at the rat.

The rat struggled, trying to edge away from the killer.

- Now. - ...he said.

Watch.

His khaki shirt was open at the neck,

and he lifted the rat and slipped it down inside,

next to his skin.

His belt prevented the rat from going lower than his waist.

He slipped the ferret in next.

Immediately, there was a great commotion inside the shirt.

It appeared the rat was running around his body, chased by the ferret.

Six or seven times they went around, the small bulge chasing the larger one,

gaining on it slightly each circuit, drawing closer and closer

until at last the two bulges seemed to come together,

and there was a scuffle and a series of shrill shrieks.

Throughout this performance, the rat man stood absolutely still,

legs apart, arms hanging loosely,

dark eyes resting calmly on Claud's frozen face.

Finally, he took his hand and reached down into his shirt

and pulled out the ferret.

With the other, he took out the dead rat.

There were traces of blood around the white muzzle of the ferret.

"Not sure I liked that very much," I said.

You never seen nothin' like it before, I'll bet you that.

Can't say I have.

You'll get a nasty nip in the guts one of these days.

...Claud told him, but was intrigued, and the rat man was becoming cocky again.

You want to see something far more amazing?

Something you'd never believe unless you're seeing it with your own eyes?

I glanced at Claud more than slightly apprehensive.

Yes.

The rat man slipped the dead rat into one pocket

and the ferret into the other.

Then he reached into his knapsack and produced a second live rat.

Holy Christ!

Always got one or two rats about me somewhere.

You got to know rats on this job,

and if you wanna know 'em you gotta have 'em around.

This is a sewer rat, this one. An old sewer rat, clever as buggery.

See him watchin' me all the time, wonderin' what I'm gonna do next?

- See him? - Most unpleasant.

"What will you do?"

I had a feeling I'd like this demonstration less than the last one.

- Fetch me a piece of string. - Claud fetched a piece of string.

The rat man looped it around the rat's hind leg.

The rat struggled, but the rat man held it tight.

Now, you got a table inside?

"We don't want the rat inside," I said.

Well, I need a table. Or somethin' flat, anyway.

We walked over to the petrol-pump and he put the sewer rat on top.

He attached the string to a post so the rat was now tethered.

At first, it crouched, unmoving and suspicious,

a big-bodied gray rat with bright black eyes

and a scaly tail that lay in a long curl on the metal surface.

It was looking away, but watching him sideways

to see what he was going to do.

The rat man stepped back a few paces, and immediately the rat relaxed.

It sat up on its haunches

and began to lick the gray fur on its chest.

Then it scratched its muzzle with both front paws.

It seemed quite unconcerned about the other men standing nearby.

- How about a little bet? - ...the rat man said.

"No, thank you." I said.

- It's more fun if you bet. - What do you want to bet on?

I can kill that rat without using my hands.

I'll put 'em in my pockets and not use 'em.

It was apparent the rat man was out to earn some money.

I looked at the rat that was to be killed and began to feel sick,

not because it was going to be killed,

but because it was to be killed in a special way,

with a considerable degree of enthusiasm.

- No arms? - No arms, no legs, no hands neither.

- You'll sit on it. - No squashing.

- Let's see it. - Bet me a quid first.

Don't be bloody daft. Why should we?

- What'll you bet? - Zero. Nothing.

All right. Then it's a no-go.

- He made as if to untie the string. - I'll bet a shilling.

The sick sensation in my stomach was increasing.

But there was an awful magnetism about this business.

I found myself unable to walk away or even move.

- You too? - No.

Want me to do this for a shilling?

- I don't want you to do it. - Where's the money?

Claud put a shilling on the petrol-pump.

The rat man laid two sixpences beside Claud's money.

Bet's on.

Claud and I stepped back.

The rat man stepped forward, put his hands in his pockets

and inclined his body from the waist toward the rat.

The rat was crouching, alarmed.

It seemed it was preparing to spring at the rat man,

but then it began to reverse away,

dragging its body backwards with crouching steps

until the string tautened on its hind leg.

The rat man leaned further towards the rat,

following it back and forth with his eyes. Suddenly...

- It panicked. - ...it panicked and leapt into the air.

The string pulled it up with a jerk that must've nearly dislocated its leg.

It crouched again at the edge,

as far away as the string would allow, whiskers quivering,

the long gray body rigid with fear.

At this point, the rat man again began to move his face very slowly,

closer and closer.

I wanted to cry out for him to stop, but I couldn't speak.

Something extremely unpleasant was about to happen, I was sure of that.

Something sinister and cruel, but I had to see it now.

Not more than the length of a man's hand was separating the two.

The rat pressed its body flat, tense and terrified.

The rat man was also tense,

but with a dangerous active tensity that was like a tight-wound spring.

The shadow of a smile flickered around the skin of his mouth.

Then, suddenly, he struck,

as a snake strikes,

darting his head forward with a swift knife-like stroke...

...that originated in the muscles of the lower body...

...and I had a glimpse of the mouth opening wide...

...two yellow teeth...

...the whole face contorted by the effort of mouth-opening.

More than that, I did not care to see.

I closed my eyes, and when I opened them again,

the rat was dead,

the rat man was slipping the money into his pocket

and spitting to clear his mouth.

And that's what they makes licorice out of.

Rat's blood's what the big factories and chocolate-makers use to make licorice.

Nothin' wrong with a drop of rat's blood.

You are absolutely disgusting.

But that's it, you see. You eaten it many a time.

Penny sticks and licorice bootlaces all made from rat's blood.

We don't want to hear another word, thanks.

Boiled up in great cauldrons, bubblin' and steamin'

and men stirrin' it with long poles.

One of the big secrets of the chocolate factories,

and no one knows about it, except the ratters supplyin' the stuff.

Suddenly he noticed his audience was no longer with him.

Our faces were hostile and sick-looking and crimson with anger.

He stopped and turned away without another word.

We watched as he sloped onto the road with a slow, delicate, ambling walk.

His footsteps didn't make a sound, not even on the gravel.

Strange.

The rats never ate the poisoned oats.

There must be something nutritious in the hayrick.