RATBUSTERS

Let’s call him Georgio. That’s not his name, but we’ll call him that. Georgio the Ratman. From Ratbusters.

No ectoplasm tank, no screeching Cadillac. No hose-burst of rat poison or splintered fences. Georgio wore a woolly hat, a company fleece-jacket, high-vis trousers and a pair of extremely sturdy boots. He carried with him a sort of open toolbox with lots of mysterious little plastic bags in the tray. 

“All external is it?” he asked. I said it was and led him round the side passage to the garden. Something was telling me it would be ‘unhelpful to marital harmony’ to take those sturdy rat-busting boots (not to mention a tray of actual poisons) through the house.

I explained where we’d seen rattus, and when. Georgio set up three traps along the back fence.

“It’s important to speak with your neighbours,” said he, “To tell them not to feed the wild birds for the next two weeks. Then, I come back. There is enough bait in there,” he gestured, “… to finish off a small army of rats, yes?”

The three boxes looked serious. At one end, a rodent-sized hole. Inside, the mystery plastic bags that had been in the tray. I don’t even want to think about it.

Georgio told me he’d be back in two weeks and then phoned Ratbusters HQ to confirm the appointment. Sleety rain sputtered from the sky. I shivered a little. Not, I imagined, as much as the rats would.