The Hamster

I knew something was wrong with the hamster when he started paying council tax.

Not because hamsters aren't capable of financial responsibility. I'm not a zoologist.

It was more the fact that he was paying it in cash. Every Thursday morning, he'd climb out of his cage, walk into the kitchen and leave £14.62 on the table.

The first time it happened, I assumed it was a coincidence.The second time, I assumed someone had broken into the house, robbed me, and then decided to pay my council tax.

By the third week, I was beginning to suspect the hamster.

I confronted him.

“Is this you?”

He looked at me.

Then he looked at the money.

Then he looked back at me.

He had the expression of a man who had just been asked a very stupid question by someone he had previously respected.

“Right,” I said.

He nodded.

I called the council.

They weren't particularly helpful.

“Is the hamster named on the account?” the woman asked.

“No.”

“Then he can't make payments.”

“He's been making payments.”

“Has he got a reference number?”

“He's a hamster.”

There was a pause.

“Yes, but has he got a reference number?”

I looked at the hamster. He was eating a carrot.

I asked him.

He nodded.

He then disappeared into his bedding and returned with a laminated card. It had his photograph on it. Underneath were the words:

BRIAN HAMSTER

PROPERTY SERVICES

I decided this was above my pay grade.

Things escalated quickly after that.

Brian started holding meetings.

At first they were small.

He'd sit at the kitchen table with two other hamsters I'd never seen before and they'd discuss things in hushed tones. Occasionally one of them would point at me. I didn't like that. Then they bought a printer. A week later, I received a letter informing me that my property had been deemed unsuitable for human habitation.

I went downstairs. Brian was waiting for me. There were four hamsters now. One of them was wearing a tiny hi-vis jacket.

“What's going on?”

Brian pointed at the ceiling. I looked up. There was a man standing on it. He was wearing a suit.

“Who the fuck is that?”

The man shrugged.

“I work for Brian.”

“Brian's a hamster.”

“Yes.”

“So what do you do?”

“I'm his solicitor.”

I looked at Brian. Brian looked at me. The solicitor handed me a document. It was an eviction notice.

“You can't evict me from my own house.”

The solicitor smiled.

“I wouldn't worry.”

“Why?”

“Because Brian doesn't own it either.”

There was a silence. From upstairs came the sound of someone drilling.

“Who does?”

The solicitor checked his paperwork.

“The guinea pigs.”

At that exact moment, every light in the house went out. Brian stood up. He walked towards the cage door. For the first time since I'd known him, he looked genuinely frightened.

He whispered three words.

“It's begun again.”

Then the wheel started turning.

Nobody was in it.

And somewhere beneath the floorboards, something very large squeaked.