Free The Deptford Mice 3: The Final Reckoning by Robin Jarvis

spluttered, struggling to keep afloat. He gulped the air as the sea dragged him under and closed over his head. The mouse plunged into the cold dark whence none return.
    Thomas fell from his bunk and hit the floor. With a grunt of alarm he woke up. The blankets were on top of him and for a moment he thought he was still dreaming. He rubbed his head dopily and blinked.
    ‘You daft old fool Tom,’ he sighed, shaking himself. But the terror of his nightmare was still with him and there were salty tears in his eyes. The midshipmouse got slowly to his feet but decided not to get back into bed. He crossed his small room and lit a candle. The inside of his figurehead glowed warmly but Thomas was troubled. With a pinch of tobacco he sat down and began filling his pipe.
    A low rumble vibrated through the Cutty Sark and Thomas scowled; there was a real storm passing outside. He drew on his pipe and reflected. The thunder rolled outside and then faded away.
    ‘Bad night,’ shivered Thomas, blowing blue smoke from the corner of his mouth. ‘Glad I’m battened under the hatches safe an’ sound.’ Yet he felt as if he wasn’t safe. Trouble was brewing somewhere – his whiskers were twitching and that was always a bad sign.
    ‘Tain’t no use,’ he muttered, putting his pipe down, ‘you’re no good to anyone like this, Tom. If you can’t sleep you might as well take a look at the weather.’ He pulled on his hat and tied a red kerchief round his neck. He did not admit to himself that he did not want to go back to sleep again and was just finding an excuse for not doing so.
    In its dry dock the Cutty Sark rested uneasily on her steel skewers. Thomas Triton stepped onto the deck and walked over to the rail, from where he surveyed the wintry world.
    The night was cold and the stars shone brightly in the clear sky. The river was calm and its voice whispered softly against the jetties. Far to the left the old power station at Deptford Green was wreathed in a grey mist. It hung about the old, empty building curiously, shrouding the blank windows and melting away at the water’s edge. The one tall chimney stuck out of the mysterious cloud like a long, white periscope. It held Thomas’s attention.
    ‘First there was thunder,’ he observed slowly, ‘when the sky’s as dear as day, an’ now there’s a fog lingerin’ yonder. Summat’s afoot I’ll wager . . .’ and he chewed his bottom lip thoughtfully.
    The air grew cold and a bitter blast blew from up river. The icy wind hurt Thomas’s lungs as he breathed. It was unnatural. He shivered and decided to return below decks where he could consider the problem in comfort.
    ‘A tot o’ rum’s what you need matey,’ he told himself as he descended the hold steps. He made his way to his figurehead, a white-painted girl wearing a turban of gold.
    ‘Hello Princess,’ he said, patting the wooden folds of her dress, ‘did you miss me?’ Thomas passed through the hole into his quarters.
    The small candle was still burning merrily. Thomas poured some rum from a flask into a bowl and sat on his bunk. He took a sip and swilled it round his tongue. The liquid warmed him all the way down to the tip of his tail and he wiggled his toes with pleasure. The sight of the power station wrapped in mist puzzled him; he could not remember seeing anything quite like it in all the years he had been at sea. Still, he had forgotten his nightmare, and before he could take another drink the midshipmouse yawned loudly. He took off his hat and kerchief, extinguished the candle then clambered into bed. The delicious tendrils of sleep crept up and closed his eyes. Thomas nodded and began to snore.
    TAP!
    The midshipmouse rolled over and ignored the sharp sound.
    TAP!
    He pulled the pillow over his ears.
    TAP !
    Thomas sat up crossly. There it was again, an annoying knocking on the hull of the ship.
    ‘What in thunderation is going on?’ he fumed. ‘Can’t a mouse get any kip?’ He threw off the