by Charles FitzGerald
Desperation smells like curdled milk. A persistent, rancid odour which sits in nostrils, clings on clothes and spreads like oil. Tessa could smell it on the rat sitting before her. He’d been trying to chat her up for the past five minutes.
“What college?” was the grand opener. Tessa glanced up from her pint of Kopparberg – an hour old and lukewarm. She was a little bemused at what stared back at her. A pale-faced rat, dressed in a tanned Schöffel, tattersall shirt and club-stained Reeboks.
“Uh…”. Tessa’s mind went blank. She’d never spoken to a rat before. “Mildert”, she lied.
“Fuck. Unlucky”, his underbite rattled back. He took a seat opposite Tessa, his marble eyes fixed on hers. “I’m Hatfield”.
“Right. Yeah, no, I’m just waiting for my friend, so…”. An age’s worth of spilt alcopops glued Tessa to her seat. She reached for her phone.
“What’s your name though?”, the rat inquired. Tessa couldn’t decide what was more terrifying – being propositioned by an anthropomorphic rodent in Britain’s saddest nightclub, or having to dust off the freshers’ week pleasantries (“what course?”, “where you from?”, “Surrey? No way!”, et al). Before she could choose, Tessa found herself answering his question. “Tessa? I’ve literally never heard that name before in my entire life. I’m Ollie”. He extended his paw – bearing a signet ring and Patek Phillipe watch. Tessa shook it, shivering at the caress of his claws. “Do I smell a Northern accent, perchance?”.
“Uh, yeah. Liverpool”. Tessa took a long, strained blink. Some respite from Ollie’s sharp gaze.
“Fuck’s sake, sorry to hear that,” Ollie sighed with an eerily genuine earnestness. “I mean, least you’re fit though, right?”. He scratched his nose with his arm, leaving a snail-trail of snot across his sleeve. “What you drinking though? Looks shit – lemme get you something. Treble?”
“I’m alright, thank you”. Tessa attempted a carefully calibrated smile. Musn’t lead this twat on, she mused. She glimpsed around for any sign of her housemate, Georgia, who’d been led astray by a stranger’s promise of ketamine ten minutes before. No luck.
“Where are your mates?” Ollie hissed across the table. “You on your own?”.
“No”. The smell was growing too pungent. Tessa stood up. “Excuse me”. Without missing a beat, Ollie rose from his seat. His wiry frame towered over Tessa like a palm tree in the wind.
“Which is it, then? Mine or yours?”, he squeaked, flashing his snaggletoothed grin. “You what?”. Tessa backpedaled.
“Well, I mean – we’re obviously gonna shag, aren’t we? Mine or yours?”, Ollie queried with a bizarre tinge of sincerity. He reached for her hand.
“You’re fucking vile”, Tessa scoffed, slapping away his coarse paw. “Piss off”. She spun and made a beeline for the smoking area, beads of sweat dripping down her forehead. A packed dance-floor stood in her way – a teeming scrum of paralytic students, swaying in vague rhythm to Sugababes’ About You Now. To her horror, Tessa could not shake the stench. It seemed to only grow more potent.
A searing pain suddenly exploded in Tessa’s neck, hurling her down to the ground. Her head hit a puddle of cheap spirits and lemonade, as she shrieked with agony. Tessa’s peripheral vision was dominated by Ollie – his front teeth sunk deep into her skin, effortlessly tearing through muscle. Her screams slowly dissipated through a fountain of blood, as her eyes fluttered up towards the crowd.
Through muddied vision, Tessa made out a slender figure – swaying with the music. Another rat, his chestnut loafers a foot away from Tessa’s drained face. Passionately kissing a half-conscious Georgia. Leisurely moving towards her neck.