China Miéville - King Rat

"A genuine contribution to Londons subterranean mythologyIts humane and delinquent. And it bites"

"Full of the rank energy of Jungle rhythms, China Mivilles ratsnest of a book gives a new meaning to the term alternative London,a kingdom we didnt know wed inherited. KING RAT goes down assweetly as week-old garbage, to leave the reader eyeing speculativelythe manhole covers of Soho and Battersea. A knotted, toothy, thoughtprovoking read."

"China Miville is an intriguing new voice in British fantasy.Hes inventing a language for Jungle London thats both ancient andpart of the citys future."

"A story so compelling you almost havent time to notice how finethe writing is: a dark myth reinvented for our time and for London inparticular with great wit, style and imagination"

"King Rat takes us out of the high courts of fairy tale, away fromthe romanticised city streets of many current fantasies, down intothe sewers And his characters are fabulous, even the bitplayers This is a riveting, brilliant novel. The language sings,the concepts are original and engrossing an utter delight"

To Max

Thank you to everyone who read this in the early stages. All mylove and gratitude go to my mother, Claudia, for all her support,always; and to my sister, Jemima, for her advice and feedback.

Deep love and thanks to Emma, of course, for everything.

My heartfelt thanks to Max Schaefer, who gave me invaluablecriticisms, hours of word-processing help, and great friendshipduring a generally rubbish year.

I can never thank Mic Cheetham enough. I am incredibly lucky tohave her on my side. And thanks to all at Macmillan, particularly myeditor Peter Lavery.

I owe too many writers and artists to mention, but respect isespecially due to Two Fingers and James The Kirk for their novelJunglist. They blazed a trail. Many thanks also to Iain Sinclair forgenerously letting me keep the metaphor I accidently stole from him.Jake Pilikian introduced me to Drum and Bass music and changed mylife. Big up to all the DJs and Crews who provided a soundtrack. Aweand gratitude especially to A Guy Called Gerald for the sublime Gloc:old, now, but still the most terrifying slab of guerrilla bass evercommitted to vinyl. Rewind. A London Sometin

I can squeeze between buildings through spaces you cant even see.I can walk behind you so close my breath raises gooseflesh on yourneck and you wont hear me. I can hear the muscles in your eyescontract when your pupils dilate. I can feed off your filth and livein your house and sleep under your bed and you will never know unlessI want you to.

I climb above the streets. All the dimensions of the city are opento me. Your walls are my walls and my ceilings and my floors.

The wind whips my overcoat with a sound like washing on a line. Athousand scratches on my arms tingle like electricity as I scaleroofs and move through squat copses of chimneys. I have businesstonight.

I spill like mercury over the lip of a building and slither downdrainpipes to the alley fifty feet below. I slide silently throughpiles of rubbish in the sepia lamplight and crack the seal on thesewers, pulling the metal cover out of the street without asound.

Now I am in darkness but I can still see. I can hear the growlingof water through the tunnels. I am up to my waist in your shit, I canfeel it tugging at me, I can smell it. I know my way through thesepassages.

I am heading north, submerged in the current, wading, clinging towalls and ceiling. Live things scuttle and slither to get out of myway. I weave without hesitation through the dank corridors. The rainhas been fitful and hesitant but all the water in London seems eagerto reach its destination tonight. The brick rivers of the undergroundare swollen. I dive under the surface and swim in the cloying darkuntil the time has come to emerge and I rise from the deeps,dripping. I pass noiselessly again through the pavement.

Towering above me is the red brick of my destination. A great darkmass broken with squares of irrelevant light. One glimmering in theshadow of the eaves holds my attention. I straddle the corner of thebuilding and ease my way up. I am slower now. The sound of televisionand the smell of food seep out of the window, which I am reachingtowards now, which I am rattling now with my long nails, scratching,a sound like a pigeon or a twig, an intriguing sound, bait.

The trains that enter London arrive like ships sailing across theroofs. They pass between towers jutting into the sky like long-neckedsea beasts and the great gas-cylinders wallowing in dirty scrub likewhales. In the depths below are lines of small shops and obscurefranchises, cafes with peeling paint and businesses tucked into thearches over which the trains pass. The colours and curves of graffitimark every wall. Top floor windows pass by so close that passengerscan peer inside, into small bare offices and store cupboards. Theycan make out the contours of trade calendars and pin-ups on thewalls.

The rhythms of London are played out here, in the sprawling flatzone between suburbs and centre.

Gradually the streets widen and the names of the shops and cafesbecome more familiar; the main roads are more salubrious; the trafficis denser; and the city rises to meet the tracks.

At the end of a day in October a train made this journey towardsKings Cross. Flanked by air, it progressed over the outlands ofNorth London, the city building up below it as it neared the HollowayRoad. The people beneath ignored its passage. Only children looked upas it clattered overhead, and some of the very young pointed. As thetrain drew closer to the station, it slipped below the level of theroofs.

There were few people in the carriage to watch the bricks risearound them. The sky disappeared above the windows. A cloud ofpigeons rose from a hiding place beside the tracks and wheeled off tothe east.

The flurry of wings and bodies distracted a thickset young man atthe rear of the compartment. He had been trying not to stare openlyat the woman sitting opposite him. Thick with relaxer, her hair hadbeen teased from its tight curls and was coiled like snakes on herhead. The man broke off his furtive scrutiny as the birds passed by,and he ran his hands through his own cropped hair.

The train was now below the houses. It wound through a deep groovein the city, as if the years of passage had worn down the concreteunder the tracks. Saul Garamond glanced again at the woman sitting infront of him, and turned his attention to the windows. The light inthe carriage had made them mirrors, and he stared at himself, hisheavy face. Beyond his face was a layer of brick, dimly visible, andbeyond that the cellars of the houses that rose like cliffs on eitherside.

It was days since Saul had been in the city.

Every rattle of the tracks took him closer to his home. He closedhis eyes.

Outside, the gash through which the tracks passed had widened asthe station approached. The walls on either side were punctuated bydark alcoves, small caves full of rubbish a few feet from the track.The silhouettes of cranes arched over the skyline. The walls aroundthe train parted. Tracks fanned away on either side as the trainslowed and edged its way into Kings Cross.

The passengers rose. Saul swung his bag over his shoulder andshuffled out of the carriage. Freezing air stretched up to the greatvaulted ceilings. The cold shocked him. Saul hurried through thebuildings, through the crowds, threading his way between knots ofpeople. He still had a way to go. He headed underground.

He could feel the presence of the population around him. Afterdays in a tent on the Suffolk coast, the weight of ten million peopleso close to him seemed to make the air vibrate. The tube was full ofgarish colours and bare flesh, as people headed to clubs andparties.