"Hey! Helmet," Fender said reaching down into the front floor-space where the tutor had carelessly thrown the headgear.
"Oh, Christ. Is it still necessary?" Whittaker complained.
"Carry it. You never know."
Whittaker took the plastic-visored helmet and tucked it under his arm.
He gazed around him, fingers scratching his beard.
"It's so bloody peaceful," he said. "It seems impossible that it all happened such a short time ago."
Fender closed the car door, and smiled grimly. "Let's hope it stays this way," he said.
They walked towards the gate, carefully negotiating their way across the metal cattle-grid. Fender released the catch and swung the gate open a few feet, lifting it clear of the rutted earth at its base. The tutor passed through and Fender made sure the entrance was closed properly before catching up with him. They trudged along in silence, the track becoming muddier as they went The rat catcher examined the rough soil on either side.
The pigs don't leave much, do they," he commented.
"No, they eat anything and everything. That's what makes them so cheap to keep. These free-rangers virtually look after themselves."
"I don't see any," said Fender, craning his head round.
They'll be up at the house in the shelter there. We can look in on them to set your mind at rest."
The mud began to pull at their boots now, making walking awkward.
"I'm surprised this hasn't dried up," Fender said, 'with all the bright weather we've been having."
"It's become too water-logged over the years. It'll never dry up now.
It gets worse further on."
Once more there was a silence between them as they plodded through the oozing mud, and Fender felt the tutor's resentment towards him. He'd been conscious of it before, on the other days he and Whittaker had teamed up as a search-party, and had ignored it. The tutor hadn't actually said anything antagonistic towards him, nor indicated his feelings over Jenny and Fender's relationship it was more an underlying animosity tempered by the fact that Fender had pulled the rat from him during the attack, possibly saving his Me, or at least saving him from serious injury. But it was coming, and Fender could sense it.
He almost smiled when Whittaker said, "Look, Luke, about Jenny..."
Fender kept walking, his eyes searching the empty windows of the building ahead. "What about her?" he said.
"You know she's in a confused state at the moment. This business with the rats has upset her terribly."
Fender remained silent.
"What I'm trying to say is, she's very vulnerable right now ... I don't think she knows her own mind."
"I don't agree. She seems to me to be very clear-minded."
Whittaker reached out a hand and brought the rat catcher to a halt.
"Look, what I mean is, I'd hate to see her taken advantage of when she's in this state."
Fender faced him. "Listen," he said through tight lips. "I understand your problem, but it is your problem. It's nothing to do with Jenny and me. Jenny's neither confused nor being taken advantage of. I could explain to you how we feel about each other, but that has nothing to do with you."
There was a flush to Whittaker's face. "Before you came along..."
"Before I came along nothing! Jenny told me you were good friends, but that was all. Anything else was what you assumed yourself."
The tutor wheeled away, his boots making sucking noises as he stomped towards the house. Fender hurried after him.
"Hey, Vie, I didn't mean ..."
But Whittaker marched on, ignoring Fender's words, and the rat catcher fell silent once more. When the tutor's foot slipped and he went down on one knee in the mud, Fender reached out for him and, suppressing a grin, helped him to his feet.
Whittaker looked at him sullenly. "Okay, maybe I did imagine much of it. But I do care about her, even though I've got my own ...
responsibilities. I don't want to see her hurt."
"I understand, Vie, believe me, I understand. I've no intention of hurting Jenny; I'm in too deep for that I'm sorry you're the loser, but try to see: you were never really in the race."
Whittaker shrugged slowly. "Perhaps you're right. I don't know.
She'll make up her own mind."
You poor idiot, Fender thought. She already had. And strangely, right at that moment, so had he. When he left the forest, his work done, Jenny would be leaving with him.
"Come on," he said, 'let's look at the house."
They continued their journey, boots squelching noisily as they sank deeper into the mud. A low, barbed-wire fence appeared on their left, presumably to keep the pigs from the lush vegetation on the other side.
That was part of the gardens," Whittaker explained, not looking at Fender, his voice low. They stretch right back and around the house itself. It's like a jungle round there."
By now they were close to the gutted manor house and Fender was surprised at its true size. He had only had a side-view as they approached along the track but now, as the rough-hewn road swept on past the entrance, he could see the whole frontage. The large ground-floor windows and arch-shaped door were barricaded with corrugated iron, decorated with mindless, sprayed-on graffiti. Rubble was heaped against its walls as though, year by year, more and more brickwork had dislodged itself from the upper floors and formed a defensive barrier around the perimeter. The first- and second-floor windows were no longer black and ominous, for he could see the sky through them, as most of the building's roof was completely demolished.
The many chimney stacks were perched precariously on inner walls, rising above the main shell like solemn sentinels. A balustrade ran round the roof-top, joined at the centre by a triangle of grey stonework that stood above the projecting wall of the main frontage.
From where they stood, the whole structure seemed to dominate the surrounding countryside.
"It must have been some place in its day," Fender said.
Whittaker made no comment, but turned off the main track, taking an even muddier path that ran alongside the building.
There are old stables around the side here," he called back. They've been converted into pig-pens."
Fender followed, treading warily through the mire, clutching his protective helmet in one hand. He concentrated on one foot at a time, choosing the firmer patches of mud and avoiding the water-filled troughs. When he looked up, the tutor had disappeared round the corner of a wall jutting out from the side of the main building which obviously formed the outer wall of the stables. As he rounded the corner, he saw Whittaker with his back to him, looking into the gloomy interiors of two facing stable blocks. The floors of both sections were covered with deep layers of straw and, as Fender narrowed his eyes to pierce the shadows, he saw bulky, pink shapes lying amongst it, their bodies half-concealed. He almost choked on the nauseous smell and wondered how even an animal could live with such a stench.
Whittaker turned his head towards him. There they are," he said.
"Sleeping like babies."
"What a lovely life," said Fender, moving past Whittaker for a closer look.
"If you like muck and dirt," the tutor said. He saw Fender suddenly stiffen. What's wrong? What is it?"
Fender's voice was low, almost a whisper. Take a closer look."
Whittaker frowned and peered into the gloom. "I can't see..."
"Closer. Look, just over there. That one." Fender was pointing at a nearby recumbent form. The tutor edged forward until Fender grabbed his arm. "No further. Can't you see from here?"
This time it was Whittaker who stiffened. "Oh God," he said. "It looks like blood."
"Look at the others. There's no movement, no breathing. And listen there's no noise at all."
Whittaker slowly shook his head. They're dead."
The rat catcher moved forward, his senses alert, eyes searching for dark-haired shapes among rough bedding. He knelt down and pulled at the straw, clearing an area around one of the stil
l bodies. The pig had been torn to pieces, its neck ripped, the head almost severed from its body. There were only stumps where its legs had once been and the stomach was punctured with large holes from which its insides had been dragged through, presumably to be devoured. Fender now realized that the terrible stench had come from corrupted flesh. The pigs had been dead for a long time.
Whittaker was uncovering another decomposing body and as Fender stood, his eyes becoming accustomed to the gloomy interior, he saw they were littered all around the stable, a carnage of destroyed animals. Most of the bodies were shrivelled, bearing little resemblance to the creatures they once were, the flesh of their underbellies gone.
The rats must have attacked them at night while they were sleeping,"
Fender said. They had no chance at all. Not even to get out into the open."
"But they're only half-eaten. Some of them..."
The rats have probably been feeding off them since they were killed."
He paused, then added wryly, Their own private supply. Jesus." He surveyed the area in disgust. "Come on, I think we'd better get out of here."
But Whittaker's eyes were transfixed on something ahead of him.
"Fender, one of them is breathing. It's still alive."
That can't be." Fender looked in the direction of the tutor's gaze and saw that the body, unlike most of the others, was still grossly swollen. And there was a slight movement from it.
We can't help it now," he said. "Let's go."
Wait, wait. We can at least put it out of its misery. Let me have the gun."
"No. The sound would arouse anything else that might be lurking around here. Leave it be."
But Whittaker was insistent. "Please, I can't leave it like this."
Fender reluctantly undid the flap of the holster and handed Whittaker the Browning. Tush it into its neck try to muffle the sound. And make it quick."
He watched anxiously as the tutor removed his glove and curled his finger through the trigger guard, making towards the unfortunate animal. The mystery was how the pig had managed to survive all this time.
Tender, look at this." Whittaker was crouched over the pink, bloodstained body. The rat catcher quickly joined him, eager to be away from the place. He frowned when he saw the long, gaping tear in the bloated belly.
"It's dead. Nothing could survive that," he said.
"But look, the lungs are moving. It's breathing."
Fender bent forward. The skin was undulating, yet the rest of the body was stiff with rigor mortis.
He realized what the movement was just before the sleek, black head pushed its way through the jagged slit in the pig's stomach.
Whittaker screamed as the rat scrabbled its whole body through the opening, leaping at the tutor as he fell back into the straw. Fender, too, fell back in surprise and for a moment could only watch the struggling bodies in frozen horror. Then he was on his knees shouting at Whittaker, trying to be heard over the man's screams.
The gun! Use the gun!"
But the weapon was no longer in the tutor's hand; it was hidden somewhere in the straw, released in shock. Fender quickly searched for it, but it was no use, the gun had disappeared.
Whittaker had a hand clamped inside the rat's mouth, his fingers curled round the lower jaw, and blood was flowing down his wrist as the creature's teeth sank in. Claws were frantically raking his chest, scoring the suit's material, threatening to penetrate at any moment.
Fender crouched, then leapt forward, grabbing the giant rat at the back of the neck with one hand, the other going beneath its jaw. He pulled back with one mighty heave, trying to snap its neck, but the mutant twisted, spoiling the leverage. It momentarily released Whittaker's hand and the tutor pulled it clear, his head swimming with the pain.
Fender lifted the rat, keeping his arms outstretched, using all his strength, holding the squirming body with its lethal teeth and claws away from him. He lost his balance, the struggling weight too much for him. He crashed down into the muddy yard between the facing stables, falling on top of the rat, crushing it with his own weight. He clung desperately to the thrashing creature's neck, pushing the head down into the ooze in an attempt to suffocate it. The wet earth flew furiously in all directions as the rat panicked and Fender knew he did not have the strength to hold it there for long.
"Find the gun!" he yelled at the tutor who still lay in the straw moaning in pain. "Shoot the bloody thing!"
Whittaker scrambled around on hands and knees, but could find no sign of the weapon.
"It's not here! I can't find it!" he screamed.
The mud was making Fender's gloved hands slippery and he could feel the creature forcing its way loose, pushing its haunches down and pulling its neck up. Fender squeezed, trying to choke the rat to death.
Then Whittaker was slivering in the mud next to him, something held in his uninjured hand.
"Hold its head out, Fender! Hold it where I can reach it!"
Fender allowed the creature to raise its head from the well it had created in the mud, and Whittaker struck down hard with the brick he had found, bringing it down on the small, pointed skull. The rat squealed but continued struggling, almost breaking free of Fender's grasp.
"Again!" Fender shouted. "Again!"
Once more the brick descended, but the mutant's struggling became even more frantic.
"Again!" Fender was almost screaming now. The heavy weight struck.
"Again!"
The rat stiffened momentarily.
"Again!"
They heard the crunching of bone. Yet still it moved.
Fender leapt to his feet, dragging the limp body with him and, without pause, swung the rat by the neck against a stout wooden beam supporting the stable roof. He felt the snap in the creature's neck and let it fall to the ground, its body twitching in death throes.
Fender collapsed on to one knee and drew in deep gasps of air. His face and body were caked in mud, but that was the least of his concerns. Whittaker sat hunched in the slime, clutching his injured hand in his lap.
"Are you okay?" Fender asked.
"I can't... move ... my fingers. I think all the tendons ... are gone." His face was screwed up in agony, tears running freely down his face into his beard.
Fender staggered to his feet and put a hand beneath the tutor's shoulder. "Come on," he said, pulling him up. We'd better move fast.
No telling how many others are around here."
The two men stumbled from the stable yard, helmets forgotten, fear giving them impetus, the mud making them slip and hold on to each other for support. They rounded the corner and made for the track leading from the house to the car on the other side of the field. As they reached the front of the building, Fender now half-supporting the injured man, they bolted down the gentle slope leading away from the house towards the open fields. And something made Fender pause to take in the peculiar circular tree copse in the middle of the nearest field.
The trees seemed to be quivering with hidden life, the branches moving, shedding leaves, trembling as though shaken by a swirling wind. It seemed to be almost thrumming. A coldness gripped him as he saw the hundreds of black shapes pour from the copse and come streaming up the slope towards them.
EIGHTEEN
"Run! Get moving!" Fender shouted as Whittaker stood mesmerized by the advancing horde. The tutor stumbled forward, intending to run towards the parked car, but Fender caught his arm and swung him round.
"No! Towards the house! We'll never make it to the car -they'll cut us off."
He pushed Whittaker towards the old building, giving one last look at the black vermin streaking across the field. The two men soon reached the piled bricks and rubble which sloped up the side of the house, and they clambered over it, the rat catcher slipping and rolling back down, the heavy clothing preventing any severe damage. He clawed his way up to the top again and saw Whittaker pushing against the iron sheeting that covered one of the large ground-floor windows. The rat catcher add
ed his weight, using his shoulder to push against one corner of the corrugated iron.
He turned to see the black shapes darting beneath the two-strand wire fence that bordered the field, their bristling bodies momentarily lost in the undergrowth, then bursting forth, racing across the widened track that formed the frontage to the ruin. He stooped and picked up a brick, throwing it at the leading rodent, which swerved to avoid the missile.
Then it seemed as though every square foot of the frontage area was covered in black bodies, the air filled with their high-pitched squeals. Fender began using his boot on the metal barrier just as the first rat reached the bottom of the slope.
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