Squelch (16 page)

As it turned out, Ginny was not one of those involved in the spraying. The Chief Inspector chose two of his tallest men, both dressed in overalls, riot helmets and Civil Defence gas masks. Her first impression that everything was under control had been wrong. Most of the victims were still inside the church; only eight or ten had so far been brought out and taken to the village school hall where an emergency centre had been set up.

‘It’s different from yesterday’s attack,’ the Chief Inspector said, his voice cool and brisk. ‘This time the moths hit first, blinding people. Then the caterpillars followed. So watch out in there, won’t you, miss?’

A couple of young ambulance men came running back from the school, preparing to enter the church again.
Ginny went with them, silently swearing at herself for not having stayed in safety with the Reverend Davidson. Why did she always have to stick her neck out? Now here she was, scared and probably no use to anyone.

It was like entering some mysterious temple in which an orgy of sacrifice had recently taken place. The sun was soaking through the tall, narrow stained glass windows behind the altar and along the length of one aisle, casting long, straight beams of red, yellow, green, blue… Dozens of giant moths fluttered through the air which already carried a musty odour from the first whiffs of pesticide. Among the straight lines of pews their victims lay twisted grotesquely, for the most part silent, their faces and arms a mass of open wounds.

Ginny refused to be sick, however insistently her stomach churned. She must do something to help, she knew – but how? This whole, hellish sight had an enervating effect on her. The two young ambulance men were attempting to ease a woman out from between the pews, managing well enough without her. Two others, older men, dashed past her as they carried someone out on a stretcher. In the transepts on both sides Jeff and the police officers were busy spraying, moving slowly towards the main body of the church. But she merely looked on.

Moths came to investigate her, constantly colliding with her net face mask. She did not even push them aside. But at last she stirred, hearing a whimpering from near the front of the block of pews. Brushing the moths away with her arm, she went to see what it might be. She found a small girl, maybe about eight or nine years of age, hiding her face in her arms and shaking with terror.

‘Come on, let’s get you out of here!’ Ginny said more brusquely than she’d intended.

In response, the child raised her head and screamed violently, leaving her face exposed to the moths which surrounded them both.

Ginny picked her up but she wriggled, hitting out with her fists, still screaming. Attempting to hold the girl’s face against her own shoulder, she hurried back down the aisle towards the door. A moth spat at them, splattering both with its saliva. The patterned tiles were crawling with caterpillars. Her foot slipped on them as she felt them squash beneath her boots.

But she got the girl outside at last and it was only then in the full glare of the sun that she saw the caterpillar at work on her leg just above the little white ankle sock, already streaked with blood. Ginny grasped it firmly with her gloved hand and killed it.

‘Put her down here!’

A policewoman indicated a rough trestle table which had been set up beside the path near the lych-gate. Each of the casualties was placed on it in turn to be checked for caterpillars before going on to the emergency centre. Ginny helped her examine the girl; miraculously, that caterpillar on her leg had been the only one.

‘Right, take her into the school now,’ the policewoman instructed as the two young ambulance men approached with a badly-wounded man who might have been dead already.

Ginny hoisted the little girl up in her arms again to carry her over to the school hall. Inside, gym mats had been laid out against one wall for the survivors. A policeman with his shirt sleeves rolled up was applying a tourniquet to one man’s leg, while a woman helper prepared dressings for another.

The girl’s screams had subsided by now, but she was sobbing uncontrollably. Her thin arms clutched at Ginny’s neck as she tried to put her down on one of the mats.

‘Here, let me have her!’ The policewoman had followed her for some reason Ginny could not at first grasp. ‘It’s all right. The Chief Inspector asks if you can
take over at the table while I work in here. He’s discovered I did a year’s nursing before joining the Force.’

Ginny nodded. ‘If that’s what you think.’

‘That’s right, it was my suggestion.’ The voice was young and businesslike, with a slight lilt to it. Turning, Ginny recognised Dr Jameela Roy. It was the first time they had met again since that evening in the hospital mortuary. ‘If you don’t mind, Ginny. The main thing is to make sure no caterpillars get in here.’

The policewoman took the little girl, gently untwining her arms from Ginny’s neck.

‘Now, let’s see who we’ve got here,’ Jameela went on, going over to the line of patients on the mats. ‘I understand the local GP was among those in the church?’

Outside, it was clear that the whole operation had entered a new phase. There were more police, and a fire engine had arrived. Its crew in full protective gear were on the point of entering the church. One of the two ambulances had already left but there was a blare of sirens as others approached.

The two young ambulance men had returned with a frail old woman on their stretcher. Her mouth was working busily, trying to say something as they half-lifted, half-tipped her on to the trestle table. The reason for their haste was obvious. At least three caterpillars were visible on her legs and arms, and there were possibly more.

Ginny began to pick them off, making sure each one was dead before throwing it aside, while the younger of the two men attempted to hold her face still as he took out her false teeth. The moth-saliva must have caught her full in the eyes, which stared upwards with a glazed, unseeing look.

They had removed all the caterpillars when Ginny noticed a wave-like movement on her bloodstained blouse. Tearing the flimsy material back, she discovered two more grubbing into her. Horrified, Ginny took a grip
on them, one in each hand, and slowly drew them out through her punctured skin. At that very moment, the old woman’s body suddenly went limp.

‘She’s gone,’ the younger man said after pulling off his glove to feel for a pulse. ‘She wouldn’t have made it anyway.’

Ginny destroyed both caterpillars thoroughly, rubbing their tough bloated bodies against the edge of the trestle table until they tore open, spilling out their red-green fluid over her stained gloves. Her concentration was so intense that she didn’t at first notice the moths.

‘Christ Almighty, look at ’em!’ someone exclaimed.

They flew out through the open church door in a dense, fluttering cloud, hundreds of them endlessly streaming into the bright sunshine. Ginny stepped back in a mindless fear that left her shuddering from head to toe, thinking they were coming straight towards her. But – still moving as one – they climbed and wheeled in the direction of the close cluster of houses in the lower village.

There – well, they were hardly more than a smudge in the sky, so she couldn’t be too certain, but didn’t she see them gradually settling over those rooftops?

11

The Reverend Brian Davidson took the anorak which Ginny had worn and returned it to the garden shed. No doubt she would start preying on his mind again just as she’d done after her first visit, keeping him awake far into the night. His fault of course, not hers: she didn’t even realise she was doing it, naturally. Yet she was.

A silly old man, people would call him if they knew.
His parishioners, particularly. Yet there was something in her manner which keyed into his own moods so exactly, it was impossible to deny it. Her face, too – so beautiful, he caught his breath each time he looked at her. The turn of her mouth, that quick warm contact with her eyes… oh yes, even her short, untidy blonde hair which betrayed a carelessness about her appearance which he found attractive…

In fact, a very stupid old man: though he could not help himself. This was his thorn in the flesh. He was in love. Dazzled by her. Not that she gave him a second thought, but that didn’t matter. These modern girls wanted young bodies, not decrepit seventy-year-olds. How long had it been now since his last little adventure? Ten years? With what’s-her-name – the one with brown eyes and thick lips at that lepidopterist conference in Dorchester… But that was different; that wasn’t love.

Humming to himself – a hymn tune, though he couldn’t imagine why – he set out a deck chair in the shade at the side of the house, then went inside to fetch Sunday tea: a segment of game pie, salad and a glass of McEwan’s Export. He placed the tray on a low garden table beside the deck chair and sat down. The pie was still cold from the fridge, so he left it a moment. In this heat nothing was cold for long.

Perhaps it was the weather, he mused. He’d always been more susceptible to women in the warmer months.’ Because they wear less, his wife had once told him. Scornfully, he remembered, God rest her soul. Strange to think that even in old age he should miss her bodily. In any case, her explanation was obviously wrong. Any randy male moth could tell her that. No, with moths it was temperature, so why not humans too?

None of which explained why at over seventy he should fall in love again. And go through hell again, no doubt.

He tasted the pie. It was now warmer so he began to eat, chewing carefully as he had to these days. Bodily functions deteriorated until they were an insult to dignity. Yet – he wondered – if Ginny
were
to respond, how would he get on with her? Would that bodily function too let him down?

King David, the Bible reported, was given a new surge of energy by the introduction of a nubile young woman into his bed. Maybe that’s what the National Health should prescribe instead of all these pills and injections.

She’d laugh of course, he knew that. Laugh in his face at the first move. Yet if he took it gently… perhaps…?

In the shade of the house, somewhere among the mass of plant pots, he noticed a quick movement. He put down his glass to watch more closely. Minutes passed without anything happening but he could wait. He kept absolutely still.

Then another quick movement, and the flash of something – brown, was it? Like a long, thin tail. Not a rat… no, not a cord-like tail but more…

Again, only this time he saw feet.

In all the years he’d lived in Surrey, he’d never once seen a lizard, yet there could be no doubt that was what it was. As always, his field glasses were within reach on the low table. Moving very slowly, he picked them up and brought them to his eyes. About six inches long, he judged, ribbed brown with a long tapering tail. As he watched, its tongue flickered out to catch a housefly which must have been even more surprised by the lizard’s presence than he was.

This near-tropical temperature must be responsible, he assumed, although that didn’t explain where the lizard had come from. If only he had his camera to hand!

He was so fascinated by the lizard, he didn’t at first notice the caterpillar. It was poised on the window sill,
about half-way along, the whole front portion of its body raised in the air like a green sphinx. Immediately below it were the plant pots.

It dipped its head again and began to crawl vertically down the brick wall until – more rapidly than he had imagined possible – it reached the nearest pot.

Attracted by the seedlings, he thought as he watched. He focussed the field glasses on it. Those little black eyes seemed so intent on what it was doing as its head turned this way and that, he felt sure it hadn’t even noticed him. If Ginny was right about them sensing blood, over what sort of distance would the information carry?

The caterpillar didn’t even pause at the seedlings. It made a steady progress around the edge of the pot, then on to the next rim, and from there on to the third which was directly above the spot where the lizard was lurking.

The lizard swung around so quickly, he hardly even saw the movement. In the same instant, the long green caterpillar dropped down, brushing the lizard’s back. A rapid twisting and tumbling followed; then they froze, facing each other.

What he saw next was something any naturalist would give ten years of his life to observe. What wouldn’t Gilbert White have written about that struggle! The lizard’s tongue shot out to seize this new prize, but the caterpillar was far too hefty and had weapons of its own. Recoiling, the lizard seemed on the point of running away; instead, it made a stand.

Why?

Did it instinctively realise this was one enemy which had to be defeated whatever the cost? Or was it merely too greedy to let such a fat, delicious caterpillar escape? If so, that was a mistake.

Darting forward, the lizard renewed its attack only to find the caterpillar suddenly pinning it down, its mandibles working into the loose neck-skin while its two rear
claspers held the victim steady.

Through his field glasses he followed every move until the lizard was left dead and mutilated on the stone paving. So absorbed was he by every detail of the fight, he forgot the risk to himself. Even when he realised that one of those giant moths was hovering over his beer glass not a foot away from him he was still oblivious of the danger, despite all Ginny had told him.

Only few moths were visible in daylight, he mused. Until now he’d assumed – from what he’d heard – that this was not one of them. He waited, hoping it would settle on the rim of the glass; instead, it fluttered down to his plate, and then moved off somewhere behind his deck chair.

He twisted in his seat, trying to follow it, only to meet it face on. It seemed as startled as he was himself and began circling his head, uttering a series of piercing squeals. His eyes! He had been so taken up with observing it, he’d quite forgotten about the goggles and scarf which were still in the house.

The burning fluid squirted into his eyes even as he brought up his arm to protect himself. The agony was unendurable. Despite himself he let out a long, broken bellow, clasping his head in both hands, doubling up on the deck chair until he fell forward on to his knees and began rolling on the hard paving.

Other pains attacked him now. On his legs… on his wrists… But the most intense was that acid corroding his eyes, eating slowly into the nerve ends, freeing his mind through the exquisite torture of his body. Fleeting images came to him now, tumbling madly through his shifting awareness. His wife Alice when they were young, smiling at him with Ginny’s eyes; then her older, drawn face against that hospital pillow; twenty years dead, yet her smile was so peaceful, so understanding.

She’d understand about Ginny, wouldn’t she?

*

The Chief Inspector gave Ginny a lift to St Botolph’s vicarage where she had left her car. On her lap she held the gauze mask, stiff in parts with dried moth-saliva. Her salmon jeans, newly bought from the little Lingford boutique, were now stained and filthy, as was the rainproof blouson. Overalls would have been more sensible, she thought wearily.

‘Thank you for your help, Miss Andrewes,’ the Chief Inspector said, breaking the silence. They had probably both felt too worn out to want to talk. ‘It hasn’t been a pleasant experience for any of us, but we are grateful. I’d like you to know that.’

She nodded. What was there to say?

Half of those they had rescued from the church had died before reaching hospital. Of the rest, only two or three seemed likely to survive. One – thank God! – was the little girl she’d found.

‘The attacks are spreading, aren’t they?’ she asked abruptly. ‘Almost like a planned campaign.’

‘Oh, I doubt if it’s planned,’ the Chief Inspector disagreed. He was a blunt, businesslike man, probably not yet forty. In some ways he reminded her of Jeff, though he was taller, with boxer’s shoulders. ‘Think of it like greenfly. They cluster in some trees, not in others. We’ll get on top of it, there’s no doubt about that.’

‘I wonder,’ she said.

As if to reinforce her fears, the Lingford Control Room called up the Chief Inspector on the car’s radio to report a major incident in South Croydon, the first in a built-up area. She looked at him queryingly as he acknowledged the message and replaced the microphone, but he only shook his head thoughtfully, making no comment.

The old Georgian vicarage came into sight. Her shabby little Renault stood where she had left it, though no longer in the shade. He drew up alongside to let her out.

‘You’ll excuse me if I rush on,’ he said briefly, leaning
across her to open the door. ‘I’m sure you understand. And thank you again.’

Ginny unlocked the Renault and tossed the beekeeping hat and mask on to the passenger seat. She was about to get in when she remembered it would be only polite to say hello to the Reverend Davidson. Of course he’d offer her tea or even a drink, so she’d have to make it clear right away that she couldn’t stop. There was something rather pathetic about the way he couldn’t keep his hands to himself. Thank God she wasn’t a choir boy, she thought wickedly, suddenly grinning.

‘Hello!’ she called cheerfully. ‘Mr Davidson?’

She went directly around to the back garden, feeling sure that was where he’d be. Her unexpected vision of him with the choir boys continued to amuse her; she laughed aloud, though it was probably very unfair to him, the poor man. Nor was it very funny, she told herself severely, failing to prevent another laugh bursting out. It was the relief after all those hours spent with the dead and dying. A whiff of hysteria as the spring wound down. She tried to get a grip on herself.

‘Mr Davidson? Are you there?’

Rounding the corner, she saw in one glance what had occurred. The Reverend Davidson lay on the paved area nearest the house. Around him were fragments of a smashed glass. A foot or so away stood an empty deck chair with a low garden table next to it.

Ginny still had the goggles in her pocket. She paused long enough to put them on, together with her bloodstained gloves, then hurried over to investigate. Two caterpillars were busy on his legs; their hindquarters protruded, dripping blood, from the bottoms of his black clerical trousers. Opening the clasp knife Jeff had lent her, she ripped open the seams on both legs; then, one by one, she disposed of the caterpillars.

Some blood trickled down his forearm – his sleeves
were rolled up – but that might not have been caused by a caterpillar. There was certainly no sign of one. She tore both sleeves, then checked the legs again, ripping the trousers high above his white, knobbly knees, but found nothing more. His eyes had that terrible bloodshot look she’d noticed on the victims in the church.

Miraculously he was still alive, groaning and muttering to himself in that strange delirium she had first known when Lesley was attacked. Moving the plate away from the low table, she managed to prop him up on it, then catch him when he slumped forward over her shoulder as she half-knelt in front of him.

Gradually she stood up, staggering under his weight, though compared with Lesley he was quite frail and nowhere near as heavy. Holding on to him grimly, praying that she wouldn’t drop him, she succeeded in getting him into the house.

As he had explained to her during her first visit, he lived these days mostly on the ground floor, the old vicarage being far too big for him. His bed was in the front room. With relief she let him fall back against the pillows, then stood up to rub her shoulder, wondering if she’d dislocated it.

The wounds on his legs were wet with blood. Using Jeff’s clasp knife she tore several strips from one of the sheets and bound them up before telephoning for an ambulance. It took her five minutes to get through, only to be told there would be a long wait and couldn’t she bring the patient in herself?

‘Ginny…’

His voice was weak, the syllables only half-formed, yet she definitely heard him call her name.

‘Yes, that’s right. I’m here.’ She bent over him as he mumbled something else which she couldn’t understand. ‘I’ll get some water. Clean you up a bit.’

She fetched the water in a tall enamel jug which stood
beside the tap. Back in his makeshift bedroom, she removed her blouson top and pushed up her blouse sleeves.

‘Now let’s get some of this muck off your face,’ she said, though she’d no way of telling whether he understood or not. ‘Just lie still now and let me do it. There’s no need to worry now. You’ll be looked after.’

With a piece of sheet as a face flannel she patiently wiped away some of the dried moth-saliva. His skin was inflamed.

‘Liz,’ he pronounced suddenly, and it sounded terribly urgent. ‘Liz… liz… liz…’

‘She’s someone you know, is she? Liz?’

‘Liz…’ He drew in a deep, uneven breath. ‘… ard…’

‘Lizard?’

He seemed to relax, his eyelids quivering as though he wanted to close them but couldn’t. Should she wash his eyes, she wondered. They were so hideous and she was scared of doing anything wrong. She dabbed them gently and he shuddered violently as though in severe pain, so she desisted, still uncertain. Perhaps she should ring the hospital, or Bernie, and ask advice.

As she leaned over him her forearm brushed against his hand and his fingers immediately closed over her wrist.

‘Gin…’

‘Yes, it’s Ginny.’

‘Gin… liz…’