RAT GIRL
The dirty duvet I was sleeping under slipped off, revealing my bare chest as I blinked myself awake and rolled onto my side. It wasn’t unusual for me to sleep naked, the radiator in my bedroom had been stuck on high for years. Plus, it cuts down on laundry. Snaking my hand through the collection of dirty dishes and empty cans on my bedside table, I grabbed my phone. The only notification was a message telling me that my subscription to a budgeting app I’d never used had expired because my payment had been declined. Dismissing it, I started to read my horoscope for the day until a noise from my living room made me jump. Pulling myself onto my elbows, I strained my neck around the stack of still unpacked boxes to see what it was. I sighed and fell back onto my mattress at the sound of glass bottles rolling across the floor. My cat must have been getting into the garbage, disturbing the pile of empty wine bottles leaning against the already full recycling bin. Hauling myself out of bed, I made my way as carefully as I could between the boxes and piles of dirty laundry, frowning at the sound of definitely non-cat footsteps. When I entered the living room, I found my landlord crouching in front of the thin panel of plywood which hid the bathroom plumbing. He turned to look at me when I let out an involuntary yelp. He stood up smiling and put his hand in his pockets.
“What the fuck!?” I yelled.
“Urgence,” he said, still smiling. Seemingly unperturbed, he didn’t move or take his hands out of his pockets.
“Get the fuck out!” I walked awkwardly towards him, using my hand to cover myself.
As I got closer, I began to kick at his legs. He yanked his hands out of his pockets and extended his open palms towards me, stepping back over his bag of tools. When my foot connected with his shin he started to hop, fumbling behind him for the handle of my front door and wrenching it open. Dropping my hands from my body, I grabbed his shoulders and twisted him around before shoving him out the door. I locked it behind him and he screamed something I didn’t care to understand. Alone, I let out a frustrated scream and leant against the door.
The wine bottles I’d heard falling earlier were scattered across my combined living room/kitchen. I picked one up and noticed mold growing in the sour remains at the bottom. Through the glass, I spotted something new on the pile of unopened RBC envelopes I had started receiving a few months after my boss fired me for sending Ellie messages on LinkedIn.
My first reaction was a sinking feeling. My landlord had been leaving nasty notes about the four months rent I owed him. I assumed he had delivered the envelope before I woke up. Usually though, these notes were on scraps of A4 paper, written in an incomprehensible mix of French, English and Romanian. He had never used an envelope, especially not one as nice as this. Made out of thick brown paper, I turned it over in my hands and read my name through the small plastic window. Curious, I forgot the wine bottle and ripped it open.
The letter addressed me as Ms. Ruby Larson, informing me that the tax return I’d submitted last year had been reassessed and I now had a balance of $1348 on my account for unpaid taxes. I almost threw it onto the floor before I noticed several odd printing errors above some of the words.
I walked into my bedroom to read the rest of the letter. From the corner of my dresser, a red eyed statue of a black rat tracked my movements. Glued to a mirrored base and sitting on a bed of moss, it seemed almost to smirk through a mouthful of the hot glue I’d used to affix a plastic baby there. A dozen or so more babies were stuck around the rat’s body, covering its back and climbing through the moss under its belly. I had no clear vision when making it, but the sculpture appeared to depict some kind of life or death dominance struggle.
The statue was meant for Ellie, the love of my life. After our first date, I was sure she was the one. So, when her texts began to dry up a few weeks in, I became suspicious. One evening, after waiting half a day for her to confirm she wanted to see me again, she sent a text that simply read “100%.” This stood in stark contrast with the paragraphs we had been exchanging up to this point. When I googled her message, the first result was the anti-defamation league’s hate symbol database, where I learned that “100%” was a right wing dog whistle for “100% white.” I began to question whether her messages were being intercepted and modified before reaching me.
Over the course of a month, I broke down each of her messages into their component parts and pasted them into an AI chatbot for semantic analysis. The inclusion of the letters “r c m p” at the beginning of at least one word in all of them led me to believe the Mounties were involved. Eventually, the bot and I became convinced she was hiding clues to a puzzle that, if I could only solve, would lead me to a passphrase. The bot suggested that if I sent her a message containing it, I might be able to turn off the monitoring software I assumed was responsible for her dry texts. However, after trying all possible combinations of the phrase “mother rat sees babies climbing in the mossy mirror” to no avail, I decided to try something more creative. Perhaps the puzzle was visual rather than verbal. I sketched out some possibilities and went to Dollarama for the appropriate materials. Once complete, I placed the sculpture in the most well lit area of my apartment, angled it according to the AI’s instructions and took a photo. After I sent it, I stared at the picture set against the black chat background and noted the rat looked almost god-like. For the next week, I checked every morning to see if she had seen it, but it remained unopened and unseen. Eventually I unsent it, afraid the RCMP might catch on to what I was doing.
Examining the printing errors in the letter further, I noticed the first five marks appeared to be arrows pointing at letters in the opening paragraph. Grabbing a pen, I wrote them in order of appearance on the back of the page. The word produced read “lilee.” I squinted at it for a moment, trying to divine a meaning from the non-word. Maybe I had to rearrange the letters. “E” was closest to the start of the alphabet, so I rewrote it first. Continuing in that vein, the word now read ‘eeill” but its proximity to “evil” warded me off this solution. Remembering from grade 4 phonics that ‘i’ comes before ‘e’ except after ‘c,’ I moved the ‘i’ forward one spot. This produced “eiell” but I knew from the linguistics courses I had taken in university that, phonotactically, no words in English began with “eie” and, in any case, the “l”s at the end still made it too close to “evil.” Moving the double “l”s towards the beginning, I dropped my pen and gasped when I realized I had written “Ellie.”
I flipped the paper over and searched for further marks. I found one over the word “meet” and another above “at” in the sentence “If you do not meet the requirements at this time...” As I continued to search, I found two more, one over the word “placed” and the other above “assessments.” I wrote the words in order below Ellie’s name on the back of the page and frowned. “Meet at placed assessments” didn’t make any sense to me. Returning to the text of the letter, I examined each word more closely. I noticed the words grew fainter towards the bottom of the page, as if the printer had been running out of ink. Holding the letter an inch from my face, I saw that the “a” and “e”s, along with the final “s”, in “assessments” were slightly darker than the rest of the letters. The message now read “meet at placed aemes.” Puzzled, I read it out loud to myself several times before it clicked.
“Meet at Place D’Armes,” I exclaimed, my pen slipping out of my grip as I flung my left arm outward. It hit the wall and clattered to the floor. I felt a sudden panic when I realized I still didn’t know when we were supposed to meet, until my eyes jumped to the bolded deadline near the bottom of the letter. It was today's date. I needed to get ready.
Ignoring the rat staring a hole into the side of my head, I assess my makeup in the mirror. My eyeliner is fine, Ellie won’t care if I look a bit messy. Anyway, I doubt the RCMP allowed her to bring makeup to whichever prison they were keeping her in and, even if they did, she probably had to leave it behind when she escaped. Turning to grab my bag from the floor, I catch the babies' empty black eyes looking back at me blankly. They don’t seem so sure.
Outside my building, I mount the steps to the street two at a time and feel a surge of nausea as I reach the sidewalk. Pausing there, I almost vomit the bottle of merlot I drank for breakfast and notice the trees lining the street are barer than usual for August. I feel in my pocket for the letter to check the date again but a corner of one of the pages cuts into my thumb and I pull my hand back quickly. Placing it in my mouth to stop the bleeding, I picture Ellie waiting for me at the church and start to speed walk to the metro. As I descend the stairs onto the platform, an unusually empty train pulls up. The only other passenger on board is an older woman sitting in a seat facing away from me, one car down.
Engrossed by something in her lap, her body is slouched against the wall of the car. As we pull into Place Saint-Henri, I turn my attention to the empty red brick platform until I notice her standing up out of the corner of my eye. Turning to look at her, I catch a glance of her face and feel a shiver go down my spine. No, it couldn’t possibly be Ellie. For one thing, Ellie is much younger than this woman and for another, she’s getting off at the wrong stop. Unsettled, I turn to face the opposite end of the car as the train picks up speed, reassuring myself that I often see Ellie in the faces of strangers. The only sighting I can be sure of was in the months before I was fired. As I stepped onto rue Peel, I found Ellie standing directly in front me. Every part of my being wanted to say something, to reach out and grab her, if only to make sure she was real. Instead, I just stared as she floated away, her white summer dress glowing in the sunlight.
Frozen from my encounter with probably-not-Ellie, I close my eyes and wait to hear my station announced. Climbing the stairs from the platform, I shake my head and smile. No matter what she looks like, Ellie and I will be reunited soon. On the street, I notice dark clouds have formed and snow is falling. I shove the thought that it definitely isn’t August anymore to the back of my mind and hurry on my way. When I arrive at Place D’Armes, I find it empty. This is odd.
Looking up at the church’s towers, the snow and the stone façade give the whole scene a cinematic quality. I feel the presence of a camera in the opposite corner capturing my long strides and hear music swelling as I squint for any figures in front of the basilica’s large wooden doors. Not finding Ellie, I sprint over with a growing panic to touch each of the cool bricks, making sure Ellie hadn’t somehow camouflaged herself. Finding nothing, I half sit, half fall onto the steps leading to the church’s entrance and twist to get another look at the falling snow. A statue of the Virgin Mary blocks my view.
"What the fuck good did you ever do?" I say aloud. But the Holy Mother remains silent, her pursed mouth and unseeing eyes all the more stern for my use of language. “Fuck this, it’s too cold out here. If Ellie is coming, I might as well wait for her inside.” I sneak another look at the statue as I stand, but her gaze remains focused on a spot in the middle distance.
Pushing one of the doors open, I feel something run over my shoe and look down to see a rat running into the building. I pull my foot back quickly, tripping over myself and falling onto the door. As it opens wider, a larger shadow in the dark sanctuary catches my attention. I see the old woman from the metro moving quickly in the dim light illuminating the altar.
"Stop! It's me!" but the figure doesn't slow, climbing the stairs that lead to one of the towers on either side of the sanctuary. I move to follow her, weaving my way through the maze of pews. When I reach the staircase, I begin to take them two or three at a time. The same fear I felt when Ellie’s texts became dry gathers in my stomach, along with a surprising flow of energy. The rhythm of my breathing is easy and I feel no sign of muscle aches, despite the fact I’ve barely done anything for months other than carry tote bags of wine back home.
I leap past the final step and land in the middle of the room. The dim light of the sun through the clouds pours through the paneless windows on each of the four walls. Twisting around, I search for any sign of Ellie but the room is empty. I squeeze my eyes shut for a moment and take the letter from my pocket. Unfolding it, I open my eyes, searching for anything I missed, but the words are illegible through tears blurring my vision. I turn back to the stairs but don't see anything other than the black void leading back to the sanctuary. Taking a deep breath, I try to think. If Ellie was up here, there are only two ways out. No one could have passed me on the stairs, so that leaves the windows. I walk over to the nearest one and see the square spread out before me. It appears just as empty as it was earlier until I spot a figure moving away from the church.
“Ellie!” I wave my arms, frantically trying to get her attention. “Ellie!” but the figure makes no sign it hears me and keeps walking. I put one foot on the sill and lean out, holding the stone window-casing for support. “I’m up here!” then much softer “Please!”
As I watch, the figure turns onto a side street and starts to move beyond my view. Leaning out the window to try to keep her in my sight, I feel my chest tighten. There is no way I’ll find her in the maze of old alleys surrounding the square. If I want to catch her, I’ll have to move quickly. Pulling myself back into the room, the stone I’m holding starts to slip and a cold shock runs through me. My eyes still on Ellie, I instinctively reach to grab the top of the window but find only air. I try to scream her name but this turns into a shriek as my centre of gravity shifts and my back foot begins to lift. I clear the window entirely and as the cobblestones of Place d’Armes rush towards me, I wonder if Ellie will attend my funeral.
When I open my eyes, I am not a bloody mess in the square. Standing slowly, I can see a rectangle of sky out of the same window I had just fallen out of.
"Ellie?" I say half heartedly to the empty room. Walking over to the window and sticking my fingers in the hole left by the missing brick, I hesitate when I see Place d’Armes is now crowded. Packs of businessmen weave between the hordes of tourists gawking up at the basilica. One of them spots me and waves. I raise my arm weakly in response and turn to leave. At the top of the stairs I see an object I didn’t notice before. As I walk towards it, the little plastic babies are still crawling around the rat’s back, and its eyes are still an unsettling shade of red. I don’t acknowledge the sculpture, keeping my eyes on the stairs but just before it passes out of arms reach, my right hand stretches out to grab it.
As I walk to the metro and get on board, I can feel the eyes of the now plentiful commuters but my attention stays fixed on the rat in my lap. Did it always have fur? I lean back in my seat and let my vision unfocus, petting the statue absentmindedly until I feel a sharp pain. I pull my hand back and see my index finger is bleeding. The blood tastes bitter when I stick it in my mouth and feels cold on the back of my throat. When I get to my stop, my body rises and guides me home, weaving through pedestrians and side streets, then wine bottles and moving boxes, before dumping me onto my mattress. As my head hits the pillow, I feel the rat statue fall from my hand and watch it bounce into the nearest corner. When it hits the floor, I hear one of the babies shoot beneath my bed to join the other miscellaneous detritus of my life. Drifting off to sleep, I imagine it gathering dust there and make a mental note to glue it back on tomorrow.
Illustrations by Max Shoham.
REBECCA LAWRENCE LYNCH:
“RAT GIRL” was edited by Adrian D’Agnillo.
MAXWELL NORMAN’S ALBUM OF THE WEEK
Luxury Elite - World Class (2015)
Miami, or Manhattan. You wander the maze-like halls of some corporate no-place, a labyrinth of carpeted floors and glass interior walls. This music plays forever from some distant intercom, a carcass of American 80s capitalism that has long since rotted away into phantomhood, the slick sheen of its former prefab glory darkened into a vaguely threatening atmosphere. Kids these days always talk about “the Backrooms” as though vaporwave classics like World Class didn’t already predict the elemental infinitude of the white-collar. Every drum hit—blessed by gated reverb—feels like a punch from a pillow, every picked guitar and synthetic woodwind laden with the promises that modernity couldn’t keep. Funky and in some way life-affirming; yes, we are all still trapped in the post-Reagan easy-living panopticon. They’re playing songs like “Attitude,” “Blush,” and “Forever” in hell. Essential listening.
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