Squelch (8 page)

She took her time over tidying up, feeling she should have insisted on Bernie taking her home. There was something indefinably obscene about coming to eat in a place like this directly after that business in the mortuary. It was pagan: a heartless funeral feast with the victims still cold on their slabs, not yet even buried.

In the bar, Bernie handed her the large printed menu and left her to study it while he bought her a drink. Whisky again. Why she was drinking whisky these days, she didn’t know; she’d never done so before moving into the cottage. At a table near the bar sat the lean-jawed man from the corridor. Bernie seemed to know him, she
noticed; they exchanged a couple of words before he brought the whisky over.

‘He was at the hospital visiting our caterpillar patient,’ he explained as he sat down. ‘Cheers!’

‘Cheers,’ she responded automatically, but even after the first sip she felt it doing her good already. ‘How’s the patient? I haven’t asked you how he’s getting on. He was with Mrs Kinley, wasn’t he?’

‘He was there with Harry Smith. A Mr Ferguson – a fertiliser salesman, apparently. Quite severe bites on his forearm. In fact he might have bled to death if the constable hadn’t applied a tourniquet.’

‘And fever, same as Lesley?’

‘Not quite so bad. But yes, the same symptoms.’

The head waiter came to take their orders, recommending the specialities of the day. Ginny declared again that she was not hungry. Reluctantly she yielded to his suggestion that she might try the shrimps, just to keep Bernie company. How he could even think of eating after all that had happened she could not understand.

When the head waiter returned to call them into the restaurant she discovered they had been allocated a small table in a corner where they could at least talk privately. Bernie was obviously hungry judging from the way he tucked into his pâté and curly toast. He was accustomed to big meals and probably missed Lesley’s cooking.

The shrimps were gathered like pink caterpillars on a pair of large lettuce leaves. She poked at them halfheartedly with her fork, almost expecting them to bite back. They were both arthropods, she remembered Lesley explaining: these shrimps and her moths. She had made some joke about flying prawns. At that time neither of them had suspected how dangerous these creatures could be.

‘Aren’t you going to eat up?’ Bernie enquired, concerned for her.

‘Why not?’ she declared, plunging her fork into a shrimp. ‘They do it to us.’

‘Shrimps?’ He looked puzzled.

‘Caterpillars.’ She bit into it.

They tasted good too, she thought as she chewed their firm but delicate flesh. She was hungry after all, she began to realise. Perhaps the wine brought her appetite back. A Sylvaner of Alsace, Bernie informed her as he refilled her glass. Not that the name meant anything to her. Perhaps when all this business was over and she was earning her fortune writing TV scripts she should do some real research on wine. Quite a few wine journalists in the serious papers seemed to be women.

‘I’ve decided I’d like some of that after all,’ she announced to the waiter serving Bernie’s second course. ‘What is it?’

‘Breasts of chicken done in lemon sauce, madam.’

‘It looks delicious. Sorry to mess you around, but I seem to have worked up an appetite.’

The waiter fetched a second plate and divided Bernie’s portion between them, adding that he’d order more right away. Bernie smiled at her.

‘Thought you’d approve of this place,’ he said, filling her glass again. ‘We both needed a break, you know.’

She tasted the chicken. ‘Bernie, I think you’re seducing me into evil ways. I’ve hardly touched meat for months, at least at home in the cottage, but tonight I feel positively carnivorous.’

That brought the conversation round to caterpillars again. They reviewed the situation calmly as they ate; to her own amazement she now felt far too hungry to allow the topic to upset her. Many insects were carnivorous, he pointed out. What was unusual about these caterpillars was their manner of burrowing into the flesh. But they should know more about them in a day or two now they had a few specimens for laboratory examination.

‘Dead, unfortunately,’ he added. ‘The landlord of the Bull had the initiative to collect them up after his pesticide spraying, though he told me most of them mysteriously disappeared. They creep away to die, I imagine. It would help if we could get hold of some alive.’

They became so completely immersed in discussing the caterpillars, listing everything they knew about them – which was not a lot – that Ginny hardly noticed the time passing. In the end, they were among the last guests to leave the restaurant.

The rain had stopped, though it was not at all cold. From among the trees and bushes came a whisper of discreet sounds. Water dripping from leaves. A movement among the branches overhead. A sudden rustle.

Ginny slipped quickly into Bernie’s car and slammed the door to shut it all out, imagining caterpillars all round her.

During the drive home neither of them spoke. Perhaps they had exhausted everything they wanted to say; or perhaps Bernie, too, could sense the restless activity among those fields and woods.

The house was dark when they arrived. She had her own key and could have gone in to switch on the lights; instead, she chose to stay with him as he retrieved his bag from the back seat, then locked the car. Inside, they paused briefly at the foot of the stairs.

‘I feel so much better,’ she confessed. ‘I was in such a tense mood, I could’ve snapped.’

‘But you didn’t.’ His eyes wandered over her face; his hand rested on her arm. ‘You’re really a very strong person, Ginny. And don’t imagine I’m not grateful for all your help.’

He leaned forward to kiss her goodnight, his lips aiming for the edge of her mouth; the ‘brother-in-law kiss’, as someone had once described it. Without thinking, she turned her face to his. Her lips parted. Her
arms went around him, holding him tight. She felt a tremor passing through his body and knew he wanted her.

But she broke away. ‘Thank you, Bernie, for a lovely evening,’ she said softly, almost whispering. ‘See you in the morning.’

Bernie nodded, an enigmatic smile crossing his face. ‘Goodnight, sister-in-law. Sleep well.’

In her room she undressed quickly, then stood for a few minutes at the window looking out across the dark garden. By now the clouds had gone; the sky was a mass of hard stars. This time she’d no guilty feelings towards Lesley. They had parted virtuously downstairs, hadn’t they? Nothing had happened. Almost nothing.

Before getting into bed she raised the sash window a little higher and poked her head out to check yet again that the creeper was not too close. There were more caterpillars out there, she could feel it in her bones. Probably thousands of them. Perhaps they didn’t always attack. The one exploring her tummy while she was sunbathing had done her no harm; even the rash was disappearing.

But then she thought of Lesley in hospital, and Mrs Kinley, and the others, and she closed the window firmly despite the warmth of her room. Climbing into that high, creaking bed, she wished Bernie could be with her.

6

Pete Wright stood in front of the tarnished mirror in the men’s washroom and pulled a comb through his long hair. Not too long – he kept it cut straight, reaching his neck and partly covering his ears. He was no slob. His
fingers still had the letters H-A-T-E tattooed across the knuckles, first done when he was fifteen, and he wondered idly how he could have it removed. It was his birthday today, and at twenty-four years of age he somehow felt he just didn’t need that stuff any more.

Like words painted on his leathers, all that old shit – I beg your pardon: ‘rubbish’. Nothing wrong with it for kids, but he’d grown out of it by now.
His
black leather jacket was studded, but there was nothing stupid on it. His open-necked black shirt was an expensive, fashionable make and he’d paid the full trade price for it. No cheap tat on his back.

He was on his way.

Up to where the big money was waiting – where else?

The fact that it was his birthday he’d kept secret. No one else’s business, was it? If he let it out, the whole crowd would be wanting to drag him down to the pub for a spot of high-speed boozing. That was the last thing he wanted with this new chick in tow ripe for the plucking. Maureen, she called herself. He’d got the van outside, too; everything ready for the sex olympics. Passing his hand over his crotch he hitched himself up before going out into the passage to wait for her. From inside the disco came the amplified voice of the DJ introducing his next choice. Then the deep, heavy beat started, shaking the glass in the window frames.

Maureen came out of the Ladies smelling of eau de cologne. She’d touched up her green lipstick, he noticed; probably added some glitter to her cheeks, too. Sixteen, he guessed; no virgin, though. He hoped not: too much like work. If he had his way, he’d send all virgins to their family doctors to have it fixed before they were let loose on the world. Wash all the stuff off this one and she’d be just your ordinary mousy girl, but she knew how to do herself up a treat with that green punk hairstyle, brown leather mini-skirt and open shortie waistcoat with
fringes. Every time she swung around you could see her hardened nipples through the almost-transparent green blouse she had on. Green tights as well, to match.

Dressed up to kill, his old auntie would have said. He grinned at her, passing his tongue over his lips. Wait till he got her in the back of the van; she’d die before he did.

‘Yer ready?’

‘Yeah.’ She snuggled up close to him. ‘Come on, let’s go before my friend comes out an’ sees us. She ain’t ’alf nosy, an’ it’ll be all over the village once she starts talkin’.’

‘Who cares?’

‘Yeah, who cares? Only you don’ come from round ’ere, see.’

‘An’ that makes a diff’rence?’

‘They’re funny round ’ere. Funny that way, any road.’

He led the way to where he’d parked his van, stepping carefully around the dark, muddy pools of rainwater left by the storm, holding her hand to guide her so that she didn’t get those green tights in a mess. Real bloody gentleman he was, that night. A right git, some of his other girlfriends would’ve thought. But Mo seemed to like it. She gave a pleased little giggle.

‘Think I’ll call you Mo,’ he said as he unlocked the door and held it open for her. ‘Maureen’s too long, an’ Mo suits you. I once knew a top model called Mo. It’s got more class, like.’

‘Yeah. Mo. Mo.’ She tried it out a few times while he went round to the driver’s side and let himself in. ‘If yer want. I don’ mind.’

He slipped the key into the ignition but before he could turn it she was leaning over, her arms around him, pulling him towards her. Her lips clamped on to his greedily, and her tongue probed, exploring… inviting… suggesting…

‘Hey!’ he laughed, trying to break away from her. ‘Let’s get away from this place an’ find somewhere quiet.’

‘I like it ’ere,’ she pretended to pout. She took his hand, placing it on her leg beneath that short skirt. ‘And ’ere.’

‘What if yer friend comes out?’

‘Oh, ’er! She’s no angel ’erself. Used to play with ‘er little brother’s willy. Claimed she didn’t but everyone knew she did.’

‘Bet you did the same!’ he teased her as he started the engine.

‘Never ’ad a little brother, did I?’ she retorted. Then, with a laugh: ‘Yer dirty bugger!’

Pete had worked out exactly where to take his new find. About three miles along the main road was a lane leading to the University of Lingford Research Station where he’d sometimes delivered packages in his van. He’d been lucky to get the van, he knew. Bought if off the delivery firm he’d worked for till they went bankrupt. Knew their list of customers by heart, he did, so he picked up a lot of their small business once he struck out on his own. This place was one of them. Not much traffic down that way even in the daytime. Hardly any after dark.

The lane twisted and turned like a restless snake. It was pitch black. Overhanging trees blotted out much of the sky. He found the short rump of track which served a rusting five-barred gate and tucked his van into it, then switched off the lights.

Before he could say anything, her hands were touching his chest and shoulder, tugging him towards her. With her lips she explored his face, brushing his eyelids, his nose, and at last homing in on his mouth.

‘We’ll be more comfortable in the back,’ he suggested when he could breathe again.

He flicked on the interior light to let her see the torn old mattress he used to cushion some of his more fragile deliveries now that the van’s springs were no longer up to much.

‘Come prepared, didn’yer?’ Kicking off her shoes, she
braced herself against the seat back, lifted her bottom and peeled down her tights. ‘No, leave the light on, else I can’t see where I’m at.’

Before he could suggest an easier way, she was crawling back somehow between the two seats. Her tiny mini-skirt covered nothing.

‘Come on, Pete!’ she cried out impatiently, sitting on the mattress and reaching behind her to undo the back buttons of her blouse. ‘Don’t be so
slow
!’

It was his birthday, he exulted as he rode above her, supporting himself on rigid arms so that he could look down on her laughing face, her eyes on his, her mouth open with sheer enjoyment. Her hips squirmed beneath him, responding to every little move, and he realised this was the best bloody birthday present he’d ever had in the whole of his life. She was glorying in it, every second.

When at last they rested, she leaned over him, running her fingertips over his skin, moving slowly down towards his soft flesh which was already stirring into life again. But now she was taking her time over it, chatting away as they lay there naked together in the tiny van.

‘Girl at school says the Pill makes yer fat,’ she said casually as her hand closed on him. ‘Not me, though. Feel that, I’m all bones. Yer can count me ribs.’

‘Still at school are yer?’
Christ!
he swore to himself. She was under age.

‘When I bother to go. Bloody waste o’ time.’

She didn’t seem worried at all, but then, but then it wouldn’t be her they’d slap the handcuffs on, would it? Mustn’t let her know what he was thinking, or she’d use it. Turn it all against him, the bitch.

‘My birthday today,’ he told her.

‘Yer birthday? Yer havin’ me on! Is it, honest? How old are yer then?’

‘Twenty-two,’ he lied. ‘An’ you?’

‘Fourteen.’ She added cosily, nuzzling against him:
‘Fourteen an’ twenty-two. That’s only eight years diff’rence, innit?’

Eight years in Maidstone Prison, he thought grimly. Just when he was getting somewhere with the van. His own business. Oh, Christ, that was just his bloody luck. Turning away from her, feeling sick in his stomach, he began to hunt for his clothes.

‘’Ere, what’s the matter?’ she demanded sharply. ‘What’s the ’urry all of a sudden? ’Cos I’m fourteen, is that it? Yer not the first, yer know, if that’s what worries yer.’

He tried to control his temper. ‘Yer really don’ understand, do yer?’

‘What can they do? Anyway, another year’n a half I’m sixteen.’

‘I’ll come back then.’

‘Yer’ll be wastin’ yer time then. Didn’t think yer was fuckin’ chicken. ’Ere, what if I tell ’em?’

‘Yer wouldn’t dare!’

‘I will if yer don’ come back ’ere,’ she taunted him. She was kneeling, still naked, and grabbing each item of his clothes as he reached out for it, throwing them behind her. ‘Come on, Pete, let’s ’ave another tango, or I swear I’ll tell ’em. An’ jus’ look at yerself, yer can’t say yer don’ want to.’

‘Give me those bloody clothes.’

She shook her head, laughing at him with a grim obstinacy.

Twice he hit her hard across the face. It was not what he wanted, but what else could he do? The bitch had him cornered, so he lashed out, then pushed her roughly aside and collected up his clothes.

‘Yer stupid bitch, why did yer make me do that?’ he lectured her as he pulled his things on. ‘Get yerself dressed an’ I’ll drive yer back. An’ listen – jus’ try tellin’ the fuzz, that’s all. First, I’ll deny it. An’ second, they’ll
put yer in care, that’s what happens.’

‘Shut yer face!’ Mo snarled at him in tears. ‘Jus’ you fuckin’ shut yer face!’

They got into the front and he gunned the engine, churning up the mud as he attempted to reverse into the lane. He had to get out and hunt around with a torch for something to put under one of the rear wheels before he could move. A flat slab of stone did the job and he was able to swing around, then drive back in the direction from which they had come.

In the passenger seat beside him, Mo was still sobbing. She dug a handkerchief out of her handbag and blew her nose. ‘I’ve torn me tights,’ she accused him. ‘An’ me blouse is filthy from this rotten van.’

‘I’ll give yer some money. Yer can buy new.’ That was a mistake; he knew it as soon as he spoke, but by then it was too late.

‘Yer don’ ’ave to pay me!’ she yelled at him. ‘What d’yer think I am? Keep yer stinkin’ money.’

‘Right!’ He concentrated on the road, taking each bend fiercely, the tyres screeching. ‘Right, I will!’

She started to sob again, saying nothing.

‘Well, d’yer want the money or don’t yer?’ he exploded. The van mounted the verge; he almost lost control of it.

‘’Ow much?’ she challenged him.

‘Ten. For yer tights an’ things, not for payin’ yer.’

‘Give it ’ere.’ She held out her hand.

‘When we stop. Oh shit, Mo, yer a bloody brilliant lay, I’ll say that. Best I’ve ’ad, honest. So why d’yer have to be only fourteen?’

Reaching the junction with the main road he kept his foot pressed on the accelerator, making no attempt to slow down as he swung the wheel over. Only as he felt his rear tyres begin to slither over the treacherous surface did he spot the army of green caterpillars on the road, shimmering
in his headlights.

Mo screamed and clutched his arm.

‘Oh Pete!’

He might even have succeeded in pulling out of the skid if she hadn’t grabbed his arm like that, but it was like driving over sheet ice: he missed the right moment and suddenly they were travelling side-on. Then the tyres gripped – for a second only – and that threw the van into a twisting frenzy.

Again Mo screamed, just before they hit some obstruction at the side of the road – he couldn’t see what – and overturned. The impact of the steering wheel in his belly knocked the breath out of him; then a blow fell square on his head and he blacked out.

Silly bitch was lying on him, groaning. Pinning him down with her full weight. Awareness returned to him slowly, like pushing through a mass of grey lace curtains, flimsy as butterflies’ wings: push one aside and there’s another… and another…

Accident, wasn’t it? Some silly cunt driving into him?

No, that wasn’t it. Remembered now – the skid… the van spinning round… then over… Those things on the road had looked like caterpillars: hundreds of the buggers forming a living carpet across the full width of the tar. ’Cept they were moving, he could swear to that.

The van lay on its side now – he managed to work that out, though consciousness came only in waves like that time he’d knocked himself out with a cocaine cocktail. He was in a bad way, he knew that much. Really smashed himself up. That girl on top of him as well – what was her name? Mo? Was that it? He could not remember. Good little fucker, though. Mustn’t lose sight o’ talent like that. Bloody genius, she was.

Jesus, he was in a bad way. Wheelchairs after this, boy. Really done it this time.

‘Pete, stop ’em!’ Her shriek was like sharp needles
suddenly piercing his brain, killing every thought and memory. ‘They’re crawling under my blouse… up my sleeves… I can feel them –!’ Another scream, even more agonised than the first.

Stupid cow, he was thinking.

Stupid bloody cow, screaming like that.

Then something moved across his face. He drew a quick breath. Something prickly it was; a line of tiny pin-pricks. If he could free his arm he’d be able to touch it; but no, there was no feeling in that arm, as if it didn’t exist any longer. As if – oh Jesus, how could he even think it – he was already dying limb by limb.

It poked into his nostril; he could feel it like some thick stubby finger. Then the sharp cut through the flesh, into the cavity above his mouth. It was all so terribly clear what it was doing: chewing into him as though he already lay dead under the earth, too greedy to wait.

His yells mingled with hers, though half-strangled in his throat; his mind shaped obscenities which he could no longer voice. She lay on him, a heavy living blanket writhing as if in ecstasy, the sexy bitch, until suddenly she slumped, limp, a dead weight. Vaguely he became aware he was screaming alone.

He wanted to comfort her, to hold her in his arms to make up for – well, whatever it was they’d quarrelled about he could no longer recall. No arms, anyway; just an odd deadness where his body should be and that painful, steady gnawing into his head. Some mad dentist attacking him, that’s what it was; drilling through into his skull.

Then the pain stopped unexpectedly in mid-scream, and he crossed the threshold into numbness. Slowly even his awareness dissolved, thinning into void.