Squelch

by John Halkin

  It bit into her again, whatever it was; as she tried in the gloom to get hold of it, something stung her fingers, piercing through them into her hand. Then she sensed a second one on her ankle; and a third, higher up her leg on the rounded flesh of her calf.

  ‘No…’ she sobbed, trying to brush them off, but not succeeding because more were coming. The whole bed was crawling with them. ‘Get off! No! No!’

  It didn’t matter what she did, they clung to her like leeches, forcing themselves into her flesh. She could feel their little mouths chewing at her, nibbling their way. Agonisingly pushing herself up to the head of her bed, she groped wildly to take hold of the light cord. At first it escaped her hand, but then it swung back and she managed to catch it.

  At the sight of those caterpillars grazing over her body like so many sheep, blood already trickling down over her skin, and yet more caterpillars approaching slowly over the crumpled sheets, she broke down into a bout of insane shrieking.

  ‘Kit? Kit! KIT!’

  But Kit never came. Nobody came. She was quite alone, lying naked on that bed, living fodder for these vicious slugs. The pain as they chewed into her abdomen was already passing, as though some local anaesthetic were taking effect. She had no legs, of course; they’d gone. She realised that with an odd sort of clarity, quite free from fear or shock. Vaguely she recalled hearing about caterpillars attacking people – on the telly that evening, wasn’t it? While she was washing up?

  Please, not my neck… no…

  Another scream: it was her own voice, she thought. No more plucking chickens at that place… what was it called? No more what was it? Couldn’t think.

  Couldn’t breathe.

  Oh, where was Kit, why didn’t he come home – her little baby?

  10

  Ginny woke up the following morning drenched in sweat, wondering why on earth she’d gone to sleep with the window shut. Then her eye fell on the pesticide aerosol on her bedside table and she remembered.

  She sat up and looked nervously around the room. Everything was as it should be, and that fact alone made her feel distrustful. Before putting them on she tapped out her slippers; they were clean too. From the window she checked the garden which was bathed in bright sunshine. It all seemed so normal. Several trees had lost a significant proportion of their fresh leaves, but that damage had mostly been done while she was away in London.

  Upstairs and down the cottage gave the impression of being totally deserted by all insect life; even the spider among the rafters had gone. Even the midges from around the potted plants, but she had no complaints about that. She opened a couple of windows, then went into the kitchen to ladle pans of cold water over herself to wash off the salty sweat. Drying herself, she noticed how the reddish patches on her skin from the moth-saliva seemed to be clearing up already, but she put some more of Bernie’s cream on them before dressing.

  The kettle was boiling for coffee when she heard the Mini drive up. Bernie strode in, looking a lot less worried than the previous evening.

  ‘Seems they’ve all gone!’ he informed her after a good-morning peck on her cheek. ‘We’ve already had a party out searching in all the obvious places, but there’s no sign of them.’

  ‘I don’t like it. They can’t just disappear.’

  ‘They can move on.’ He took the cup of coffee she offered him and helped himself to toast. ‘I’ve a message for you. The Reverend Davidson phoned to say he’s trapped a large moth, if you’re still interested.’

  ‘More than ever – aren’t you?’

  ‘I’m going into Lingford this morning. They’ve set up an Emergency Committee and want me there. But the answer’s yes, if it’s still alive. We’ve several dead ones already, but no living specimen yet. But be careful with it, won’t you?’

  She laughed affectionately, running her fingers through his hair. ‘Don’t worry, Bernie.’

  ‘Not to damage it, I meant.’

  ‘Bastard!’

  They drove back to his house where she could use the phone. On the way Ginny was struck by how empty the village seemed. At this time on a Sunday morning people would normally be strolling over to the church and the bells would be ringing. Today she passed only one man walking his dog and the church itself remained locked. The sole traffic was Bernie’s Mini just ahead of her, already turning into the drive.

  ‘A service has been arranged for this afternoon,’ he said when she mentioned it to him before going into the house. ‘They say the bishop is coming over for it. I’ll probably go myself if I’m back in time.’

  From overhead came the drone of a small plane. At first it was invisible against the brilliant blue sky, but then she caught a slight gleam, like stray tinsel. It must be coming down, she thought, guessing from the sound of the engine.

  ‘Your friend Jeff Pringle,’ Bernie commented, shading his eyes as he gazed up at it. ‘Another spraying mission, I’d imagine.’

  ‘From that height?’

  ‘Oh, he’s not all that high. It’s deceptive.’

  Bernie went off to Lingford almost immediately, leaving Ginny alone in the house. She took the opportunity to make a number of phone calls, first to the Reverend Davidson to arrange to see him after matins, and then to Lesley and Jack. The talk with Jack was the most difficult. He had not found out about the Spring Fête disaster until he’d seen the papers that morning. Being Sundays, they had only managed to squeeze a couple of paragraphs on to the front page of the later editions, but that was sufficient to make him anxious and possessive. He wanted to drive down right away to fetch her, saying she’d be safer in London. In the end her patience snapped.

  ‘Jack, if you don’t stop, I’m going to be very angry!’ she yelled at him down the phone. ‘I can’t stand being fussed over by you or anyone. I’m staying down here where I belong.’

  ‘But you don’t belong there.’

  ‘I do!’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘Because!’ she snapped. ‘How the hell do I know why?’

  Because of Bernie of course, if she were honest with herself: but she wasn’t going to say that to Jack whatever happened. Eventually she put the phone down and looked at her watch in exasperation. She was going to be late getting to St Botolph’s. Before leaving she tried Jeff Pringle’s number, only to be greeted by the answering machine again. But this time it did produce a recording tone and she left a message to say where she was.

  The Reverend Davidson was out on the lawn waiting for her when she at last drove up to his decaying Georgian vicarage. He held the door of her baby Renault as she got out.

  ‘Interesting cars, these. So practical.’ He eyed her pink jeans appreciatively. Indicating his own dark suit and clerical collar, he added: ‘I’m in uniform, I’m afraid. Sunday, you know.’

  ‘You’re sure you’ve caught one of our giants?’

  ‘Judge for yourself. It’s still in the trap.’ His eyes twinkled and he took her arm as he led her round the side of the house to the back garden. ‘It fits all the detail you supplied, so your observation was obviously accurate. But I thought I’d wait till you got here before taking it out.’

  ‘And it’s alive?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Just one of them?’

  ‘Just one.’

  The trap amounted to a deep circular dish made of some dark material together with a Perspex, cone-shaped lid through which a section of the giant moth’s wings was visible, revealing the scarlet and purple eye-shaped markings. In the centre of the lid was a hollow in which the mercury vapour bulb was inserted, with an electric cable leading down over the exterior.

  ‘I heard on my radio something of what happened in your village yesterday, and I telephoned a few people to see if I could help, though by then it was too late,’ he began to explain before touching the trap. ‘Then Dr Rendell this morning was able to fill in a few details. I can hardly tell you how distressed I was.’

  ‘There really was no way you could have helped,’ she told hi
m gently.

  ‘Oh, I realise I’m not young any longer, but I think I do understand something about moths. What Dr Rendell described is quite outside my experience. They’re normally such harmless creatures. I’ve never known a moth to hurt anybody.’

  ‘But these do.’

  ‘And we must respect that,’ he nodded. ‘Which is why we’re going to be particularly careful in taking this one out. If I’ve understood rightly, they spit a defensive fluid at people.’

  ‘They spit, yes. Whether defensive or offensive depends on your viewpoint.’

  ‘I expect it does, my dear. Either way we must watch our eyes.’

  From the garden shed he produced two pairs of safety goggles and an old anorak for her to slip over her blouse. For himself he found a paint-stained overall coat which he changed into, leaving his jacket hanging on a nail, then slung a faded college scarf around his mouth and nose.

  ‘I’d advise you to stand well back while I’m doing this,’ he said when they had returned to the trap. ‘One can never tell when things go wrong.’

  Cautiously he went down on one knee in front of the trap. In his left hand he held a large butterfly net; with his right he removed the transparent Perspex cover. The giant moth remained motionless, gorgeous to look at, while he held the net ready to prevent it flying off. He stretched his hand slowly underneath it ready to grip its tubby body.

  Then suddenly the moth set up an alarmed fluttering, attempting to escape, its wings becoming ever more agitated as it felt the net restraining it. And it spat: directly at the Reverend Davidson’s face.

  ‘There!’ he exclaimed in triumph, pulling off his goggles and stripping the college scarf away from his face. ‘Now we’ve got it!’

  He held up the net. The giant moth’s struggles were already diminishing as it accepted its fate. Its saliva had been accurately aimed, splashing across the scarf and goggles.

  ‘Won’t it spit again?’ Ginny asked anxiously, not wishing to get too close to it even now.

  ‘For the time being I imagine it’s expended its poison, though it’ll be busy making a new lot. That should give us long enough to take a look at it. Let’s go into the house.’

  Out of curiosity she crouched down for a moment to take a closer look at the trap. Inside the bowl-shaped base he had placed torn sections of supermarket egg-boxes and four or five other moths – small ones mostly, no larger than a couple of postage stamps – were peacefully dozing in the indentations. Other insects were in there too, crawling aimlessly about.

  He was waiting for her, so she ran over the grass to catch up. It amazed her, after the hectic days of her television job when there had never been a moment to think, that he could have lived here quietly year after year and actually been paid for doing it.

  ‘Let’s go to the work station, my dear,’ he said, smiling at her. ‘I’ve prepared a cage for our friend here – something a little larger than usual, though it’ll still be a bit cramping. Have you decided what you want to do with him?’

  ‘Is it a “he”?’

  ‘We’ll see if we can find out.’

  Once in the work station – his name, she remembered, for the large back room he used as a laboratory – he fished inside the net and carefully extracted the giant moth, holding it by the body between fingers and thumb. Ginny’s mouth went dry as he invited her to take a closer look at it.

  ‘Nothing to be afraid of, my dear.’

  ‘Don’t be so sure!’ she said, swallowing.

  ‘I want to show you the antennae. In a butterfly these would be smooth with a slight swelling at the ends, but in this moth you can see they’re like feathers. It’s a beautiful example, don’t you think?’

  ‘Yes,’ she tried to agree with him. Yet when they had first met only a few months ago she’d have been so enthusiastic, she thought. Now she wished he’d put the thing away, and quickly.

  Instead, gripping the moth with his left hand, he took hold of a slight protuberance with his right and gradually unwound it, showing it to be a slim, thread-like tentacle a couple of inches long.

  ‘Know what this is?’

  ‘No.’ Again she swallowed. ‘Please – is it safe?’

  ‘Oh yes! I hope.’ He grinned at her, an old man’s impish grin, knowing he was taking a risk. ‘This is the proboscis. He can poke this down inside a flower, or even into a honeycomb, and suck up his food. And I think I told you this is what produces the whistling sound. Now – sex. Mmm.’

  Outside, a car drove up and a horn sounded to announce its arrival. The Reverend Davidson glanced at Ginny with a resigned, half-annoyed look on his face. He carried the moth over to a large glass aquarium tank on the laboratory bench and dropped it inside, immediately covering it with a rectangle of double netting held in place by a draw-string.

  ‘Only temporary,’ he explained apologetically. ‘Now I wonder who our visitor can be? I do hope it’s not the men from the County Council again.’

  Through the window she caught a glimpse of Jeff Pringle. He obviously knew his way around and had come down the side of the vicarage, thinking to find the Reverend Davidson in the garden.

  ‘You there, padre?’ he called out.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Ginny apologised hastily. ‘I left a message telling Jeff I was here.’

  ‘We are old acquaintances,’ the old man said drily. ‘I suppose I’d better let him in. No doubt he will be interested in our prisoner.’

  Jeff was brisk and businesslike. He greeted Ginny and stooped to view the giant moth through the glass, remarking how useful it was to have a live one to supply to the university. Then he straightened up and suggested they should go into the living room where he could spread things out on the large table.

  ‘You’ve heard about the attacks last night?’ he asked Ginny as they went through. ‘I spent a couple of hours with the Chief Constable – he’s a member of the Flying Club, so we see quite a bit of each other – and he’s been in touch with both the Min of Ag and the Home Office. We’re going to need your cooperation too, padre. As a naturalist you’ll be more used to recognising insect behaviour patterns.’

  The Reverend Davidson cleared away his books and papers from the living room table to enable Jeff to spread out his map. It showed the whole of Surrey with the edges spreading into neighbouring counties. On it he had drawn crosses and circles in various colours.

  ‘This indicates the distribution of the insects as evidenced in actual attacks and reported sightings. Red crosses are deaths from caterpillar attacks. Thanks to work by Dr Rendell and Dr Sanderson – with of course help from the laboratory staff – it is now reasonable to accept that the cause of death is usually loss of blood due to the severance of an artery. The infection suffered by most survivors appears to come from a parasite.’

  ‘Oh yes, many caterpillars have parasites,’ the Reverend Davidson confirmed, studying the map closely. ‘These must be moth sightings in blue.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘They are fewer.’

  ‘They were fewer,’ Jeff corrected him. ‘Those tiny figures in ink give the dates as far as we know them. They show a marked increase in the past two days.’

  ‘Naturally.’

  ‘I don’t understand why!’ Ginny joined in vigorously. ‘Unless you mean more people are reporting them.’

  ‘When a caterpillar has eaten its fill it ceases to exist as larva but becomes a chrysalis. In that stage, inside the cocoon, its cell structure breaks down and reshapes itself to emerge as an imago – a moth.’ He gave his explanation patiently, as though to someone totally ignorant of the subject. ‘I’m sorry, my dear. I thought you knew all that.’

  ‘I do!’ she retorted, feeling a sudden spurt of anger at his condescension. She tapped her fingers on the map. ‘It’s you who don’t understand. The numbers of caterpillars have increased at the same time! You’d expect them to go down.’

  He bent over the map again, then examined the pages listing reported sightings which Jeff produced fro
m his briefcase. ‘Yes, you’re right,’ he admitted, sucking his teeth as he thought about it. ‘Absolutely remarkable.’

  ‘The authorities have to decide what to do about it,’ Jeff went on. ‘As you can see, most of Surrey is affected except the built-up areas. There’s some talk of evacuating the population – though keep that to yourselves, will you.’

  ‘The caterpillars would follow them,’ Ginny stated her opinion bluntly. ‘They’ll not stay behind without food.’

  ‘We’re thinking along the same lines, Ginny. I favour leaving the food supply where it is. It’s the best way to contain the problem.’

  ‘By “food supply”,’ the Reverend Davidson intervened, his disapproval undisguised, ‘you presumably mean human beings.’

  ‘Myself included,’ he pointed out. ‘However, what in fact they’re planning is nothing less than chemical warfare. Large-scale spraying to start at dawn tomorrow. People will be warned to stay indoors and keep their windows closed.’

  The old man shook his head sadly.

  ‘That means killing everything!’ Ginny exclaimed as the full import of his words sank in. ‘Most insects, anyway. Birds will be poisoned, crops will have to be destroyed, and there are bound to be human casualties too, whatever the precautions.’

  ‘Now you understand why I’m telling you,’ Jeff said calmly. ‘I don’t like it any more than you do, but what other solution is there? People are dying. Well over a hundred already.’

  The bleeper at his belt began to sound suddenly, cutting into the moment of terrible silence which had followed his words. He asked the Reverend Davidson if he could use his telephone and followed him through to a room at the front of the vicarage, leaving Ginny alone.

  She examined the map again, comparing it with the photocopied pages of ‘sightings’, as the attacks were euphemistically headed. Thank God Lesley had taken Phuong and the girls off to Wiltshire, well from the caterpillars’ hunting grounds. Because that’s what the map was indicating – hunting grounds, with human beings as the prey.