by John Halkin
How it happened Ginny was not too clear, but she found herself following Lesley into the lounge and sinking gratefully on to the settee, while Phuong disappeared in the direction of the kitchen. Somewhere in the background she could hear the children’s voices: Frankie insisting shrilly on something she had to take with her to Auntie Mary’s. Then the clink of a cup as Lesley returned.
‘Here, I’ve put a drop of rum in it the way we used to. Bernie wouldn’t approve, but he’s not here, is he? Have a taste.’
Ginny could smell the rum already as Lesley held the cup towards her. She sipped it. Weak Indian tea with rum, just the way they once drank it during that cold winter together. It brought back memories. Gradually she felt herself begin to relax. That hard edginess slowly dissipated.
‘Another drop?’
‘Mm. Spoil me.’
When Ginny had finished the second cup, she became vaguely conscious of the children’s voices growing even more excited as Phuong took them out to the car. Lesley had already helped take off her boots. She stretched out contentedly, with no desire to move ever again.
‘We’ll be on our way,’ she heard Lesley say. ‘It’s a long drive. Do anything you want, Gin – you know that. Have a bath, use the spare room, plenty of food in the fridge… I’ll stop at the church to let Bernie know you’re here.’
‘How many did you say? Dead?’
‘Forty-nine. And about seventy in hospital. You saved a lot of those.’
Ginny shook her head, denying it urgently. ‘Not me. Oh God, I’ve never been so scared in all my life. Yes, you go, Les. Take the children somewhere those caterpillars can’t get near them. And phone, will you?’
How long she slept Ginny had no idea. When she woke, she could not remember having heard the car drive off. It was almost dark in the room, though she could just about see the outlines of the furniture. The air was stuffy too, smelling stale; all the windows were shut, firmly secured. Through the open door she could see a strip of light coming from the kitchen. Someone was in there, moving about. She padded over in her bare feet.
‘Hello, love! Sleep well?’ It was Bernie, crouched in front of the open fridge. With a satisfied grunt he extracted a flat packet of streaky bacon. ‘Thought I’d let you sleep. You looked as though you needed it. How are you now?’
‘Famished and filthy.’
‘I’m doing bacon and eggs for supper. If you’re really hungry I could throw in a couple of sausages.’
‘Urgh, I couldn’t face it! I’ll take some muesli if we’ve enough milk, and then a bath.’
Bernie sat at the table with her as she ate, deferring his cooking – as he said – till she was in the tub. His face was drawn, with deep shadows of tiredness under his eyes. It had been the worst day he had ever experienced, he told her. He’d been called to accidents before, but never anything as horrifying as this. There had been more deaths – two of them in ambulances on the way to Lingford – and more were expected before the night was over.
‘I don’t know if you’ve heard already, but ours was not the only incident, though none of the others were as had.’ He rubbed his hand across his forehead, then squeezed the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. ‘Isolated encounters, yet several people killed.’
‘D’you have a headache, love?’ she interrupted him.
‘So much pesticide was sprayed around the place, I think we all caught some of it. Make sure you rinse your eyes again. I’ll give you something mild and an eyebath.’
Bernie went to the bathroom with her, inspecting it thoroughly before permitting her to turn on the water. The windows were tightly shut with rubber insulation in the gaps, but he was particularly careful about the vents in the floorboards through which the waste pipes led, and also about the bath itself. Before he left she gave him the plastic bag containing her T-shirt.
He was taking no chances, she reflected as she lay back in the soothing water after having soaped herself all over. From now on, that was the way they would have to live. Tapping out shoes before putting them on. Looking out for tell-tale signs in every corner. Wire gauze over the windows. She had even left the bathroom door ajar in case – just in case – she needed to scream for help.
The bath water was dirty and she let it run out, using the hand-shower to rinse off the suds. The only shampoo Lesley had left was an unpleasant, highly-perfumed concoction which she’d won in a raffle. Ginny sloshed a generous amount over her matted hair, sticky from the fluid the moths had spat at her. To her relief it washed out easily without taking the hair with it, though the shampoo smell lingered.
Drying herself, she wondered what to do next. Spending the night alone in this house with Bernie had not been what she’d had in mind. There had to be a certain trust between sisters, hadn’t there?
She dressed in the fresh clothes she had brought with her – new salmon-coloured jeans, plus a long-sleeved, high-necked cream blouse and different boots – then went downstairs. That was something else they would have to adjust to: keeping well-covered as a protection against these caterpillars.
Bernie was in the lounge, stretched out in one of the armchairs. He stood up as she went in.
‘Drink?’
‘Whisky. Sorry I took so long. How was the egg and bacon?’
‘Fine.’ He poured her a generous couple of fingers. ‘We haven’t seen that outfit before. You look absolutely gorgeous.’
‘Bernie, we have to get one thing straight. I’m not spending the night here. I’m going back to the cottage.’
‘You’re crazy!’ He stood stock still, her glass in his hand. ‘Have you thought what that means?’
‘It means, my love, that you sleep here and I sleep down there.’ She took the glass away from him. ‘Cheers!’
‘If that’s all you’re worried about you can stay in me spare room and lock the door.’
‘If I stayed in the spare room I wouldn’t want to lock the door.’
‘Ginny, for God’s sake, these things are all around us. For all I know we’d not even get as far as the car. What if they’re waiting in the car? Let alone the problems of getting into your cottage and checking it’s okay.’ Looking pale with worry, he poured himself another drink, but remained standing by the sideboard without tasting it. ‘D’you really imagine anyone is going to venture out in this village tonight?’
‘You would,’ she said calmly, sitting down. ‘The moment that phone rang and a patient called for you. You’d go through nuclear fall-out to see to some old dear’s rheumatism.’
‘Half my old dears died today. Those well enough to go to the Spring Fête usually went early.’
They both fell silent, regarding each other sullenly. He was right of course, she knew that much; if only she hadn’t fallen in love with him she’d have accepted staying in the spare room with no argument. He suggested phoning around to a few people to find out what was happening in the village – but who? The local constable would have been the obvious man, but he was dead. So was the vicar, and the scout master; and Johnson who ran the garage had lost his wife.
‘What about the woman from the Garden Centre?’
‘Mrs Agnew? She’s one of those in hospital. I don’t want to upset people more than necessary, so we have to choose someone fairly level-headed.’
In the end he risked a call to the landlord of the Plough. His two nephews who had been staying with him had both been killed, but at least he was known as a hard, sensible sort of man, not easily upset. As it turned out, no one answered.
‘I’m going to the cottage,’ Ginny stated firmly, downing the rest of her drink in one gulp. ‘A phone call first to Jeff Pringle about tomorrow, then I’m off.’
She found his number in her diary, dialled it and got a recording machine which instructed her to leave her message after the tone. The tone never came. Eventually there was a click, then the line went dead.
‘So much for that,’ she said, turning back to Bernie. She began to unbutton her blouse. ‘Don’t get t
oo excited. I’m consulting you now as a doctor. That stuff the moths spat at me seems to have left a bit of a rash. It’s patchy, where it soaked through the T-shirt.’
‘Does it hurt at all?’
‘No.’
‘Itchy?’
‘It was smarting a little in the bath. Like sunburn.’
‘What about your back?’
She slipped out of the blouse. ‘Much the same, isn’t it?’
‘Mm.’ He swivelled her around again and she felt her nipples hardening under his gaze, yearning for him to touch them. ‘You can get dressed now. I’m going to give you some calamine cream to use when you get home. But I’d like to see you again tomorrow.’
‘Any time, doctor,’ she murmured ironically.
He was gone for almost five minutes. When he returned he had with him a selection of protective gear to wear during the drive to the cottage: a hat each, with a loose gauze face mask of the type beekeepers use, gauntlet gloves and rubber surgical gloves for underneath them. He helped her put them on.
‘Thanks.’ With that gauze in front of her face she could not even kiss him goodnight, she thought. It made her feel unusually virtuous. ‘Should we go?’
He opened the front door. Before he could object, she had already stepped outside ahead of him. The night was uncannily quiet, as though holding its breath. Gripping an aerosol pesticide spray in one hand, she stepped cautiously on to the driveway. Somewhere in those deep shadows she was convinced the caterpillars must be lurking.
Bernie was only a pace or two behind her. When she got to her car he shone his flashlight inside, searching even under the seats to make certain it was safe. Ginny squirted pesticide into the likely corners, but nothing moved.
‘Okay, I’ll get in and start the engine,’ she decided at last. ‘But, Bernie, promise me you’ll be careful checking the Mini. Don’t skimp it, there’s no hurry. Flash your lights when you’re ready.’
‘You fuss too much, sister-in-law.’ As an attempt to make a light remark it failed.
‘Lesley doesn’t want to lose you,’ she retorted.
Nor do I, she added to herself, silently.
It seemed like eternity before the Mini’s lights flashed. She breathed a sigh of relief as she engaged first gear and slipped off the handbrake. So far, so good: the caterpillars were leaving them alone. The air was clear in the headlights too, as though every single insect had agreed to desert the village that night, giant moths included. Perhaps with all the pesticide they had used it was not surprising, though she found it hard to believe.
‘No, I doubt if that’s the reason,’ she said aloud, more to keep her courage up than anything. ‘They’re unpredictable, it’s no more than that. Round the next corner – who knows?’
The narrow lane with its overhanging trees was an obvious danger spot. The farther she drove along it, doing no more than 15 mph, the keener became her doubts about the wisdom of returning to the cottage. All that picturesque greenery around it seemed now like a death trap. At every sound she wondered whether those curled up caterpillars weren’t dropping on to the car roof.
She drew up on her usual spot, marked by the oil patch, and turned the engine off but left her headlights on. The Mini arrived almost immediately after her. Getting out, she hurried over to speak to Bernie.
‘No, stay in the car, love,’ she told him. ‘I’ve worked out exactly what to do. I’m going into the cottage and if everything is okay I’ll give you a wave.’
‘And if not?’
‘Don’t even think about it,’ she said.
Unlocking the front door, she pushed it partly open and stepped inside, every sense alert. A faint odour of pesticide lingered on the air from Jeff Pringle’s spraying; otherwise everything seemed quite normal. Raising her arm slowly, she groped in the dark for the light switch, half-expecting to see giant moths poised on the furniture waiting for her. But no: there was nothing.
She closed the front door again, then turned on the kitchen light, checking all the obvious places. That evening there was not even a cockroach to be seen. And upstairs was the same: no trace of an insect of any kind.
Going to the downstairs window she waved to Bernie in the Mini. He flashed his lights in acknowledgement and slowly drove away.
The sight of her files on the sideboard reminded her that she should really sit down to write her notes on all that had occurred during that terrible day, but she just couldn’t face it. Instead, she cleaned her teeth perfunctorily at the kitchen sink, then went up to the bedroom.
Before getting undressed she hesitated for a second. In that flimsy nightdress she knew she’d feel so vulnerable, she’d never be able to sleep. She chose her most sensible pyjamas instead, tucking the top firmly into the elastic waistband, catching the reflection of herself in the dark window as she did so. Perhaps she should draw the curtains, she thought: but then she’d only wonder what was lurking behind them.
It was then she saw the giant moth. Brushing against the window from the outside, it fluttered briefly, then landed, flattening its wings against the glass. She recognised those velvety colours again – the browns, and purple, and rich pools of red.
Attracted by the light, obviously – yet did she have the steel nerves it needed to switch off and lie there in the dark? It took all the will-power she could summon up. She arranged her torch and the aerosol can side by side on the bedside table, then stretched out and pressed the switch, plunging the room into darkness.
One thing was certain, Elaine thought as she lay on the bed trying to fan herself with that old copy of the Daily Mirror she’d picked up. Wherever he was, Kit had gone for good. Like his father. Like her father, come to that.
Like every man she’d ever known. It was something that got into them. They just had to keep on moving. Couldn’t settle, least of all with her.
It had caught Kit younger than most. Hardly twelve he’d been when he disappeared. Seven months ago, was it? Well, he’d never get in touch, that was for sure. Of course she’d expected it to happen one day; not so soon though. Kit had always clung to her more than other boys might have done; not many friends in spite of always going on about Lenny and the gang. He’d never really been what you could call popular. He’ll stick it at home till he’s sixteen, she’d once forecast confidently when talking to the women in the canteen. Sixteen, that’s the tricky age.
Twelve.
She no longer worried so much. Whatever he’d gone through had happened by now. Probably living in some hostel under a false name like that boy she’d seen on the telly. Male prostitution, that’s what they said went on. What men saw in that, she couldn’t imagine. Dirty buggers. But the shock would be over, like a road accident. All he had to do now was survive.
Though with any luck, that might not have been it at all. What if he’d been picked up by some woman who fancied little boys? A fat woman, over forty, smelling of powder between her flabby boobs. That sort of thing existed; she’d read about it.
Jesus, it was hot!
She refolded me Mirror, trying to make it into a more effective fan, but it fell apart, the sheets slipping on to the floor. Sighing, she heaved herself off the bed and went barefoot down to the kitchen where she held a flannel under the tap, then wiped it over her face and neck to cool down.
It was the fault of that tree outside the bedroom window. Thicker than ever this year. It stopped the breeze getting through so the room got hotter than she’d ever known it. Tapped the glass too when a real wind got up, like some bloody ghost trying to get in.
Bending her head, she squeezed the flannel out over the back of her neck. God, that did her good! She could feel the heat just oozing out of her. Again she soaked the flannel and put it on her neck, closing her eyes at the sheer pleasure of it.
Wet her nightie too, so she drew it off over her head and spread it over the maiden to dry. People laughed at her, having one of those old maidens, but there was nothing more useful.
Going back towards the stairs she b
ecame suddenly self-conscious about her nakedness. Not ashamed – no, nothing like that. She straightened her shoulders, stepped proudly, imagining some man playing Peeping Tom at the window. She’d have something to show him!
Who should it be now? Fred, the landlord at the Pigeons, had quite an eye for her, with more than a touch of genuine intent behind his banter. Sense of humour as well; she liked a sense of humour in a man. Then what about the local constable – she’d caught him eyeing her. Those evenings after Kit vanished he’d sat down there night after night supping tea.
Back in the bedroom she stood briefly by the window, almost wishing somebody would stare in at her. Make a change after all those years. Here she was, thirty-five getting on for thirty-six, and it was over ten years since any man had touched her. Not that plenty hadn’t wanted to – or said they did, anyhow – but there’d always been Kit to think of.
She dropped back on to the bed, stretching herself out to stay as cool as she could. Three men was all she’d ever had, she reflected calmly, which must be well below the national average for a woman of her age. The full what’s-it, like; not counting the fumbles. The first was Bill out in the shed, only he went to Manchester. Then that soldier after a dance who gave her his mate’s name instead of his own, only she didn’t let on she knew.
Then Trevor who got her pregnant, so she married him. When he went off without saying, leaving her with a two-year-old kid, she’d sworn that was it – finito! No more bloody men were going to meddle in her life.
But now?
She ran her hands down over her smooth skin, enjoying the sensation. Perhaps if she got the doctor to put her on the Pill. Indulge herself, why not? Men did, and she could be just as much a bastard when it suited her.
Her foot was itchy, so she pulled her leg up to rub it. Her fingers touched something unexpected: a thick, hairy lump over her toes. Then the pain sliced into her, aiming with a terrible precision into the soft flesh between the big toe and the rest.
‘Shit!’ Walking barefoot through the cottage she’d picked up some kind of insect, she realised. But what the hell could it be? ‘Oh, Jesus Christ!’