I swung the beam of the torch, saw something streaking at me through the air, and threw up my arm.
The brute bit into my sleeve, just missing the flesh and hung, its feet scrabbling at my arm.
I dropped the torch, grabbed at its neck, missed, fumbled, and felt its teeth snap into my hand. As it snapped again, I got my grip and broke its back. I tossed it through the remaining gap in the wall and lifted the last box, pushed it into position, sealing the wall.
Paula picked up the torch and came over to me. We examined the wall of boxes. The rats were scrabbling at them, but they were holding.
‘Come on,’ I said. ‘One more row and we’ll be safe.’
‘You’re bleeding.’
‘Never mind. Let’s get one more row in place.’
We dragged more boxes across the floor and piled them into position. We were both practically out on our feet, but we kept on somehow until the third row was built up. Then we both flopped down on the floor, exhausted.
After a few moments, Paula made an effort and sat up.
‘Give me your handkerchief and let me fix your hand.’