by John Halkin
Was she hell, Charlie thought.
He looked back to find Harry Smith on his knees beside her, slowly drawing the caterpillar out of her mouth. There must have been a couple of inches down her throat at least, judging from the length of it. The cavalry twill slicker stood just behind him, watching with interest, obviously unmoved, though Harry Smith himself sounded unusually tender when he spoke. Not that Liz Kinley would ever hear him again.
‘Harry, she’s dead,’ Charlie tried to tell him as gently as he could.
‘Who says so?’ Harry Smith’s face, flushing even redder than normal, peered up at him angrily. ‘You go an’ ring the fuckin’ ambulance instead o’ standin’ there like a prick. I’ll give her mouth-to-mouth. Let’s hope to God it works.’
‘Be careful they don’t get you while you’re at it!’
In her agonising death throes, Liz had ended up directly beneath the old apple tree. As Harry Smith bent forward to try to revive her, something fell from one of the overhanging branches. It might have been a leaf, but then Charlie knew that leaves never plummet straight down; nor, landing on the back of that red bull-neck, would a leaf have immediately uncurled and started crawling.
Charlie dashed forward to help him. ‘Come on, get it away from his neck!’ he yelled at the slicker who stood there looking on, uselessly.
The caterpillar began to chew into the soft patch beneath Harry Smith’s ear. He fell forward, bellowing in anguish. At the same time, more dropped out of the tree. Two of them joined the first, concentratedly penetrating his neck at the base of the skull.
For protection, Charlie wrapped his handkerchief round his fingers. Then he grabbed one of them, tugging it away from its feeding ground, intending to throw it aside; but it wound itself rapidly around his fingers and its head reared up like a snake’s.
He didn’t pause to discover what it might do next, but squeezed hard, digging his short fingernails into it through the handkerchief until its fat body burst under the pressure. A tacky green slime spread over his hand.
‘Urgh… A ca-ca-ca-…’
The cavalry twill slicker – a fertiliser salesman, wasn’t he? – reeled across the garden towards him, holding out his arm, terrified. At first Charlie thought the caterpillar on his wrist must be only a small one; then he realised the greater part of it had already moved into the sleeve of the man’s hacking jacket.
‘Ca-ca-caterpillar!’ he was burbling hysterically.
‘Oh, for Chrissake!’ Charlie snapped at him.
But it was no use; he had to help him. Charlie hesitated for only a second, uncertain what to do, before grasping the man’s forearm with both hands and squeezing hard. Despite the thick tweed of the jacket he could feel the caterpillar squirming as he tightened his grip. He’d always had strong hands – in the army he’d been heavyweight champion for a year – but it took all his strength to squash the thing to death. He sensed the squelch as its resistance finally gave way.
‘Take your jacket off and wash your arm,’ he ordered wearily, giving the man a shove to get him moving. ‘Not inside, you fool. Use that tap over there by the shed.’
Harry Smith was dead, that was obvious. He lay sprawled across Liz Kinley’s body, his leg over hers, as though they had died together while making love on the grass. Which, in a strange, distorted way, they probably had. God alone knew how many caterpillars were still feeding on them. Charlie looked away, too sick to count them.
From beyond the trees came the steady, wasp-like drone of a light aircraft. Crop-spraying. That told him what he had to do, distasteful though it was.
But his wife Mary had the idea before him. She came hurrying out through the back door with those short steps of hers. In her hand she held the old-fashioned pesticide spray she always used.
‘I’ve phoned the constable, and there’s an ambulance on the way,’ she informed him briskly. She pushed the spray gun at him. ‘Here, you deal with that while I look after the customer. Must say you were a bit rough on him. He’s bleeding.’
‘Didn’t know you were back, love,’ he said automatically.
He felt so drained out by the shock of what had happened, he was more inclined to walk away from it all than do anything more. Over by the garden tap he could see the fertiliser salesman had collapsed; a patch of blood spread from his arm over the new cavalry twill. Jesus, the place looked worse than a battlefield.
Taking the spray, he went back to the obscene lovers beneath the apple tree. At least it was all over for them, he thought; nothing more could harm them now. He began pumping the chemical spray over their remains, determined to kill every single one of those caterpillars.
5
Ginny was washing up after the children’s tea when Bernie came in with the news about Mrs Kinley’s death. She stood stock-still, the plate in her hand dripping with the foam-bubbles of the washing up liquid.
‘When?’ she asked him, stunned.
‘Lunchtime today.’ He recounted the details in a dry clinical manner which was untypical of him, as though afraid of betraying his true feelings. ‘It’s getting bad, Ginny. Worse than we feared, even.’
Ginny rinsed the plate and put it in the rack to dry. Then she let out the water and began to clean the sink vigorously. If only she’d kept her promise to visit Mrs Kinley again… taken her that half-bottle of gin she’d asked for… anything to cheer her up… A couple of minutes’ conversation at the bedside: it wouldn’t have needed more than that. A quarrel, even. It would at least have been a moment’s human contact. But no, she’d been too busy, too self-centred, and she blamed herself bitterly for it.
‘I never did go back to see her,’ she confessed miserably as she peeled off Lesley’s pink rubber gloves and draped them over the side of the sink. ‘Oh, Bernie, I wish I had.’
‘I think you need a drink,’ he told her gently, ‘And so do I. Come on, there’s still another fifteen minutes before surgery.’
The night before, they had neither of them had much sleep. Ginny had sat up in the lounge in front of the flickering television screen until the last of the late-night movies had ended, reluctant to go to bed in case Bernie rang. Twice she had phoned the hospital herself – the first time to pass on a message from a querulous patient, the second because she just couldn’t bear waiting any longer – but she’d been unable to speak to Bernie. The girl at the switchboard had taken messages, then transferred her to the night sister’s office. No news. Only a kindly reassurance that Lesley was still alive, condition unchanged.
Eventually she’d fetched herself a light blanket and curled up on the sofa to try and get some sleep. The phone was on the small table beside her; she’d only to stretch out her hand to pick it up. But sleep proved impossible. Her mind was too restless, full of thoughts of what might happen if Lesley died. Mother would have to be told, which meant telephoning Australia, only she might not be at home, she seldom was, always travelling.
Then the funeral. She must have dropped off for a second or two, because she saw it all so vividly: the open grave in that little village churchyard, the vicar in his cassock, reading the last words as dozens of huge moths fluttered overhead in a beautiful, eerie tribute.
The phone rang. She sat up, startled, trying to see in the darkness.
‘Ginny? It’s Bernie. Sorry to ring in the middle of the night, but I know you’re anxious to hear the latest.’
‘She’s dead,’ Ginny exclaimed. He sounded so downcast. So utterly exhausted. ‘Oh Bernie…’
‘No! She’s going to be all right. She’s asleep.’
‘Are you sure? Oh, of course you are, or you wouldn’t be saying it! Oh, I’m so…’ She couldn’t finish the sentence, ‘I’m crying. I was so convinced that Les… Oh, thank God!’
‘Ginny, listen.’ His voice was calm and patient. ‘I shall sleep at the hospital, but I’ll be home first thing tomorrow morning as soon as I can get a mini-cab.’
‘You need to stay with her?’
‘No, she’s going to get
better, Ginny. The worst is over. I’ll explain some other time what we found, but she’s responding well. And of course Dr Sanderson is here. She’s his patient.’
‘You are telling me the truth?’
‘Would I lie to you?’ He was infinitely patient, but his voice sounded so metallic on that phone, it was not like talking to the real Bernie at all. ‘Look, you’d better get some rest. I’ll see you in the morning.’
‘No.’ She made up her mind suddenly, realising what she had to do for her own sake, if not for his. ‘Stay there, I’ll come and pick you up. It won’t take me long to drive at this time of night.’
Before Bernie could object she had put the receiver down. Then, thinking the children might be disturbed if he rang again after she’d gone, she took it off the hook. The keys to his car were on the hallstand.
It had been an odd drive through those empty country lanes with her headlights throwing surrealistic patterns of light and shade on the moving green foliage. Among those leaves more caterpillars must be lurking, she’d thought. Biting her lip, she had tried to concentrate on the twisting white line down the centre of the tarmac. Tomorrow she’d have to get some really effective pesticide to spray both gardens. Bernie’s first, of course, because of the children.
On the way back Bernie took the wheel, tired though he was. It had not been easy, she gathered; her fears that Lesley might die had been only too justifiable. They had taken blood samples and God alone knew what else before finally deciding that they were dealing with two separate factors.
‘There’s bacterial infection,’ Bernie explained tersely as he drove. ‘The bacteria are clearly visible under the microscope. Sanderson has put her on antibiotics. Whether there’s a link between that and the caterpillar bite is hard to say.’
‘That’s when she fainted.’
‘Not surprising when you see how deep the wound is. Sanderson did some emergency work on the foot but she’ll need another operation when she’s well enough. There are also traces of something else in the blood, some kind of insect venom, I imagine, but very thinly diluted. It may have no long-term effect. We’ll have to wait and see.’
‘I think these caterpillars are the larvae stage of my moths.’ She had been brooding over it all evening. ‘In fact, I’m convinced.’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘Just a horrible feeling that I’m right.’
They had arrived back at the house. Keeping her voice down in order not to disturb the children she offered to make him something to eat. No, he’d had a bite at the hospital, he told her, adding that they’d both better get to bed. It was three-thirty by the clock in the hall, which meant it was almost certainly even later than that.
As she turned to the stairs, somehow she stumbled against him – certainly not deliberately – and grasped his arm to steady herself. For a few seconds they stood in a close embrace, her head resting against his chest. It was such a comfort having him there; so reassuring after all the tension. He kissed the top of her forehead.
‘Go on now, love,’ he said gently. ‘See you in the morning. Think I’ll have a nightcap before I go up.’
Feeling light-headed and slightly guilty towards Lesley, she had gone up to her bed in the spare room to try to sleep. Not that she’d meant anything by that moment of weakness. It was just that… well, she was so relieved that everything was going to be all right, it had gone to her head like a shot of LSD. In that mood she’d have hugged anyone who happened to be there, even Dr Sanderson. The gelding, as Mrs Kinley had dubbed him.
As for the caterpillars, she thought as she sank gratefully on to the pillow, a spot of spraying would soon deal with that problem. She’d do both gardens in the morning. They’d been unlucky, that’s all. The chances of being so severely attacked by any insect were one in a million. It was not likely to happen again, she had decided, closing her eyes.
But she had been wrong.
Terribly wrong.
She sat in one of Bernie’s deep armchairs, trying to come to terms with his news of Mrs Kinley’s death. The man with her had died too, he said. It seemed unbelievable.
Bernie poured her a generous dose of his best whisky. She should drink it slowly, he instructed. Doctor’s orders. Instead, she gulped it down. It burned in her throat, kicking her back into the present.
‘I feel so guilty about her!’ she burst out. ‘Oh, if only I hadn’t promised to go back it wouldn’t be so bad. But I did promise.’
‘There’s nothing to blame yourself for. I’m sure she wasn’t really expecting you.’
‘I let her down.’
‘Mrs Kinley was tougher than you think, Ginny. Believe me.’
‘You don’t understand, Bernie.’ How could she explain, she wondered desperately. She couldn’t even put it into words for herself. Not adequately. ‘In my TV series – the soap opera – we had characters like her. Alcoholics, shoplifters, people with mental problems. It was a policy decision to include them.’
She spoke bitterly, realising for the first time how they had all been deceiving themselves.
‘Oh, we thought we were doing a great job!’ she rushed on before he could say anything. ‘Giving the series a social conscience. You should have been at those meetings we had about it. You’d have vomited. Then, when you asked me to see Mrs Kinley, I didn’t really know what to say to her. I failed.’
‘Ginny, you’re torturing yourself unnecessarily.’
She stared morosely into the bottom of the cut crystal glass she held cupped in her hands. ‘It doesn’t help her now, anyway.’
Bernie put his own glass down. ‘I’m sorry, love. It’s time for surgery. Take another drink, if you want.’
She shook her head.
‘No, I said I’d play hide-and-seek with the children and then read them a story. I’d better at least do that.’
‘I’ll be going to visit Lesley after surgery,’ he told her, pausing at the door. ‘Like to come along?’
‘Please.’ She smiled at him ruefully. ‘Sorry I’ve been so silly.’
They talked again about Mrs Kinley as they drove into Lingford in Bernie’s car. As far as he knew there was no Mr Kinley. She had lived alone – divorced, he imagined; certainly there was no one else of that name on his list. As for her being one of the ‘problem’ characters Ginny had talked about, he definitely could not agree.
‘A sharp tongue, yes,’ he conceded, breaking into a laugh. ‘I asked her once if she had a drink problem. Well, she had by all normal standards, but she denied it of course. Oh no, doctor, drink’s no problem, she said, ’cept for the prices they charge. Her real trouble was she didn’t like getting old.’
‘Where is she now?’
‘The body? In the hospital mortuary. We’re doing an autopsy tomorrow morning.’
‘D’you think…’ Ginny hesitated, uncertain what she herself really wanted. It seemed ridiculous, but Mrs Kinley’s death nagged at her conscience. ‘Could I see her?’
‘Aren’t you being a bit morbid?’
‘No. A bit old-fashioned if you like. I feel I should pay my last respects. That’s the least I can do for her.’
‘I’m sure that can be arranged with the undertaker. I’ll see if I can find out which one is –’
‘No,’ she stopped him firmly. ‘I’d like to do it today. I don’t want any involvement with family, or anything like that. I just want to… well, you know. Discreetly.’
‘The damage around the mouth and particularly the throat was fairly extensive. It’s not an attractive sight, Ginny. I strongly advise you against it.’
‘Bernie, please? I’m not squeamish, except for creepie-crawlies and that’s only because they move. What I’m trying to say is that I know it’s not going to be nice and I hate the thought of it, but I do owe it to her. I’ll not stay more than a few seconds. I promise.’
To Ginny’s relief, Bernie seemed to give in. At least, he said he’d have a word about it with whoever was in charge. He probably thought sh
e was being hysterical; perhaps she was, although that was not how it felt. The more she went over it in her mind, the more convinced she became that she had to do it. Not only was it a debt she had to settle with the old woman for not going back to visit her again; there was also that story of her having been deliberately attacked by the giant moths. Ginny had not taken that seriously. She’d been as bad as the others.
Everything pointed to there being a link between the moths and these caterpillars. They were numerous, they were both large and they had never been seen before in the area. If Mrs Kinley’s account were accurate, both were hostile to human beings. Would it be so surprising to discover that they were in fact identical: two stages in the same life cycle?
It was still daylight when they arrived at Lingford Hospital. As Bernie guided her through the corridors, he explained that he would leave her alone with Lesley after a while in order to find out if it would be possible for her to view Mrs Kinley’s body.
‘They could well refuse,’ he warned her.
They found Lesley propped up on her pillows, looking pale and exhausted but very much alive. Her thick auburn hair lay in profusion around her face like a slightly tarnished halo.
‘Hello! Are you two getting on well together?’ she joked when they entered her room, but her voice lacked its usual bounce. ‘Hope you’re keeping him out of mischief, Ginny!’
‘Hello, darling! How’ve you been feeling?’ Bernie kissed her. Ginny stood aside as her sister held him close. When she released him, he went to the foot of her bed to glance at her chart. ‘Oh, you’re doing well!’
‘I’m bored,’ she said.
‘You’re obviously on the mend.’
‘Paul Sanderson is a very good doctor. You’ll have to watch out!’
She gave a brief, tired laugh, then leaned back against the pillows again.
‘The children send their love,’ Ginny told her. ‘Phuong is absolutely wonderful with them, but I’m staying on for the time being. I think they miss their Mummy.’