And we might need this too...

Tins of tuna and tomatoes were stacked four high in the wobbling shopping cart. Bags of apples, packets of chips and at least four cartons of milk were laying underneath twelve boxes of cookies and a giant watermelon. Annie Atkinson's trembling hands pushed the cart, swerving left to right across the aisles, apologising profusely to the woman whose backside she just ran into. Silvia Jackson was stacking packets of spaghetti in aisle two. She smiled at Annie and dug about in her apron pocket for her phone to call Michael Atkinson. Michael sighed heavily, thanked Silvia and put on a jacket to come collect his mother from the store.

"Oh, Michael. Thank goodness you're here,” his mother trilled. “This silly girl is saying I don't need to buy my groceries. The nerve of her. Doesn't she know I have four children at home? Michael, tell her so." Annie's face twisted with angst. She pointed a gnarled, trembling, arthritic hand at Silvia, who was holding the cart and stopping Annie from going through the checkout. Annie was living ten years prior to the present, thinking her children had not all grown up and left home. All except Michael, that is. Michael put his arm around his mother and apologised to Silvia who had to return all the groceries to the shelves. He whispered in Annie's ear, urging her to remember that everyone else had gone away and it was just the two of them now. She didn't need all that food. Annie finally nodded, trembling and allowed Michael to lead her away through the automatic doors. Silvia watched them go, shaking her head sadly. Annie had been her fourth grade school teacher and Michael had been her school crush. It was awful to see them this way.

Michael led Annie by the elbow, making sure she didn’t trip on the cracks in the concrete. Their home was only a block from the store. Michael lifted and swung the garden gate on its broken hinge and helped his mother up the porch steps. He unlocked the door and shouldered it inwards, pushing aside accumulated junk. As soon as they entered, the nauseating stench of rotting food enveloped them. Roaches scuttled from darkened spaces. The faeces of mice littered every space and nests had been created in the cushions of the sofa. Annie wandered in, asked Michael for a cup of tea and sat on a stool. Michael made the tea and served it to her. Annie immediately asked why he had made her a cup of tea. Michael sighed. He knew his mother was getting worse. He wanted to call Dr Fraser but he knew the doctor would make a house visit and if he saw how they were living, Annie would be put in a home. Then he wouldn’t get money for caring for her and he would have to pay for her hospice. That would mean getting a job.

“Don’t think so,” he said to a roach that was crawling across the television screen. The roach appraised his landlord’s level of laziness with a wave of his antennae and a judgemental stare from its beady eye. He was worried. Sure, the state of the house was lovely for a roach. However, rarely did human houses get left in a state of roach paradise for long.

Michael fed his mother a lukewarm tin of baked beans on the least mouldy slice of bread he could scrounge from the loaf. Annie wanted a shower, but the bathroom was full of boxes and broken furniture so she settled for a toothbrushing with a dog-eared brush and Michael gently combed her hair. “You’re such a good boy to me, Samuel,” she murmured. Michael tugged the brush through her hair before slapping it on the wooden arm of the sofa. “Michael, not Samuel. He dumped you long ago with me, stupid woman.” But he only spoke that way to her because he knew she had already fallen asleep. He really did love his mother.

Michael lifted his mother’s near weightless frame and laid her on the sofa bed amongst the dirty washing and empty chip packets. She didn’t move as he adjusted the pillow beneath her head. He sat down beside her and watched infomercials on television until two am. Finally, he fell asleep without eating dinner. Benjamin Roachdale rubbed antennae with Sandra Roachdale and so on and so forth until entire families of roaches were summoned to meet on the kitchen floor.

Benjamin Roachdale rubbed his hairy front legs together and the subdued conversation about the kitchen floor settled into silence.

“Roachdales, Roachsmiths and Roachsons, I know living with Annie and Michael has been like heaven for our kind. Annie buys too much food for her and Michael to eat, Michael is too lazy to clean and neither of them can afford or can be bothered to organise a pest inspector. Essentially, we have a kingdom for roaches and are provided for by humans. But I fear we may have reached a tipping point. I fear Dr Fraser may come and be horrified by what he sees as the conditions of this house for a human to live in.” Antennae bristled about Benjamin as roaches began to echo his concerns. Dr Fraser’s name was synonymous with pest eradication.

“So, what are we to do, Benjamin?” asked Linda Roachson.

“I think we have to help Michael clean up,” said Benjamin.

The roaches looked at each other, antennae writhing to express their feelings. Roaches don’t clean. Roaches take advantage; they eat and poop and live and let live.

“Michael will not do this unless we prompt him and we need to help him get started. I think we need to convince the mice tribe to join us as our allies in this,” Samantha Roachdale called out to the crowd.

“Yes, mice need to help.”

“They live here too.”

“We can’t do it all.”

The mice had been loitering on the edge of the meeting, hiding behind the kitchen cupboards, listening to the commotion.

“If we have to help, then the cats living underneath the house have to help too. How will you keep us safe if they are in the house, Benjamin Roachdale?” asked a brown and white mouse with piercing, red eyes.

“You’re not safe from the cats at any time,” called out Lucius Roachsmith. “They’re always eating your babies because you don’t supervise your children like you should.” This statement incited a roar from the mice that caused the cat’s ears to prick up below the floorboards of the kitchen.

Twelve skinny feline shadows skulked through the back door that had been left ajar.

“Our ears are burning Benjamin Roachdale. What is this little rendezvous about?”

The mice scuttled about the kitchen, squeaking fit to burst.

“We’ll be killed. They will kill us all.”

“Queen Rachael Felinious is here.”

“My babies… my babies!” screamed a pregnant female.

“You haven’t even had them yet,” bellowed her husband.

“I know! Exactly! I haven’t even had the chance!” she squealed.

The cats began to lick their paws and rub their ears, clearing enjoying the panic their presence had incited.

“So,” Queen Rachel Felinious purred, above and louder than the din created by mice and roach. “You would like the royalty of this house to assist you, the idiotic slum dwellers to clean this house, because the imbecilic human occupants will not, in order for a pesticides officer to not be called and eradicate all of you…” she mewled.

The mice had eyes as wide as saucers and they sat on their haunches, stock still, as though mesmerised.

“What is in it for us?” she purred, winding her slim body left and right between the stunned rodents.

“The mice will gift your kind twenty percent of their live young, plus any born dead,” called out Samantha Roachsmith.

A roar of disapproval from the mice met the rubbing antennae approval of the roaches.

Lucius Roachsmith rubbed his hairy legs and called out, “They eat twenty percent of your young anyway. This is a great deal,” to the increased roaring animosity of the poor mice.

All the squeaking and meowing and leg rubbing must have been louder than the creatures had anticipated. Michael Atkinson’s grey tracksuit panted legs appeared at the door of the kitchen. At first, the mice, roaches and cats went to flee, but then, realising what a lazy sod Michael was, they simply sat on their haunches and stared at him, waiting for him to leave. Michael gulped water from the spout as there were no clean glasses, grunted at their presence and shuffled back to the living room. He dumped himself in an armchair and promptly drifted off to sleep.

“Given Michael’s reaction to our organised presence just now, I feel we may have underestimated the level of his laziness and we definitely need to band together to save our own skins,” Queen Racheal Felinious stated clearly for all to hear. “We agree to your terms. We will only consume the mice who are presented to us as a sacrifice and will not harm any others.”

The mice looked about at each other. There was a shared understanding that yes, the felines did consume about twenty percent of their young. This just meant the cats wouldn’t have to chase them down. Their babies would be presented on a platter rather than chased to a terror-filled end within the house.

“We agree,” the mice chorused reluctantly.

Immediately teams were organised, job lists finalised and creatures were spurred into action. Faeces cleansing, dust swabbing, urine scrubbing and rotten food clean-up crews selected rooms to begin work and set out their chores. Rubbish bags were filled and banded. The cats dragged them to position by the front door. By early morning, the kitchen and the toilet, the hallways and the sitting room were cleared of debris and sparkling clean.

The cats, mice and roaches all formed semi-circular ranks about the sleeping Michael. Queen Rachel Felinious clawed at Michael’s leg and jumped onto his lap. She clawed and mewled as loudly as she could, and it was still another five minutes before Michael was roused. The creatures crowded about him until he stood. They shepherded him to the front door until he stood before the rubbish bags. Michael scratched his head in confusion and looked about the clean kitchen and hallways, then at the rubbish bags by the front door. Queen Rachel Felinious weaved her body left and right about his legs, meowing for him to take the rubbish out. Michael scratched his bristly chin and turned to walk back into the loungeroom to sit down. Queen Rachel Felinious leapt upon his face, clawing at his eyes and cheeks, meowing in a fit of fury. Michael got the message. He gathered up the garbage bags and carried them out to the dustbins at the front of the house. He was so exhausted by the effort, he had to go back to the couch and lay down.

The animals celebrated and chorused congratulations at the enormity of each other’s efforts. The evenings plan was drawn up and the cats decided to enlist the help of the stray dogs who had been frequenting their street in order to remove some of the broken furniture in the bathroom. The cats figured that some of the meat Annie always bought from the butcher would win the dogs over. A weekly plan was drawn up for maintenance of the home. Roaches, mice, cats and dogs worked in teams to ensure Dr Fraser would not be taking Annie anywhere and Michael would be free to be her carer. And every litter of mice that was born into the world, twenty percent went to Queen Rachel Felinious and her subjects.

Benjamin and Samantha Roachdale hid by the door when Dr Fraser came to visit Annie. The house sparkled. Dr Fraser commented to Michael about how well he was doing. He adjusted Annie's medication, grasped his bag and turned to leave. He spotted Benjamin and Samantha Roachdale watching by the leg of the television set.

"You might need to call a pest inspector, Benjamin," he said. "You have roaches."

"Oh. they're special roaches, doctor. They're guests in my home."

Dr Fraser turned to look at Benjamin, put down his back and got out his instruments. "Now Benjamin, what your mother experiences is hereditary. I will need to run some tests.