by John Halkin
Ginny began to pick them off, making sure each one was dead before throwing it aside, while the younger of the two men attempted to hold her face still as he took out her false teeth. The moth-saliva must have caught her full in the eyes, which stared upwards with a glazed, unseeing look.
They had removed all the caterpillars when Ginny noticed a wave-like movement on her bloodstained blouse. Tearing the flimsy material back, she discovered two more grubbing into her. Horrified, Ginny took a grip on them, one in each hand, and slowly drew them out through her punctured skin. At that very moment, the old woman’s body suddenly went limp.
‘She’s gone,’ the younger man said after pulling off his glove to feel for a pulse. ‘She wouldn’t have made it anyway.’
Ginny destroyed both caterpillars thoroughly, rubbing their tough bloated bodies against the edge of the trestle table until they tore open, spilling out their red-green fluid over her stained gloves. Her concentration was so intense that she didn’t at first notice the moths.
‘Christ Almighty, look at ’em!’ someone exclaimed.
They flew out through the open church door in a dense, fluttering cloud, hundreds of them endlessly streaming into the bright sunshine. Ginny stepped back in a mindless fear that left her shuddering from head to toe, thinking they were coming straight towards her. But – still moving as one – they climbed and wheeled in the direction of the close cluster of houses in the lower village.
There – well, they were hardly more than a smudge in the sky, so she couldn’t be too certain, but didn’t she see them gradually settling over those rooftops?
11
The Reverend Brian Davidson took the anorak which Ginny had worn and returned it to the garden shed. No doubt she would start preying on his mind again just as she’d done after her first visit, keeping him awake far into the night. His fault of course, not hers: she didn’t even realise she was doing it, naturally. Yet she was.
A silly old man, people would call him if they knew. His parishioners, particularly. Yet there was something in her manner which keyed into his own moods so exactly, it was impossible to deny it. Her face, too – so beautiful, he caught his breath each time he looked at her. The turn of her mouth, that quick warm contact with her eyes… oh yes, even her short, untidy blonde hair which betrayed a carelessness about her appearance which he found attractive…
In fact, a very stupid old man: though he could not help himself. This was his thorn in the flesh. He was in love. Dazzled by her. Not that she gave him a second thought, but that didn’t matter. These modern girls wanted young bodies, not decrepit seventy-year-olds. How long had it been now since his last little adventure? Ten years? With what’s-her-name – the one with brown eyes and thick lips at that lepidopterist conference in Dorchester… But that was different; that wasn’t love.
Humming to himself – a hymn tune, though he couldn’t imagine why – he set out a deck chair in the shade at the side of the house, then went inside to fetch Sunday tea: a segment of game pie, salad and a glass of McEwan’s Export. He placed the tray on a low garden table beside the deck chair and sat down. The pie was still cold from the fridge, so he left it a moment. In this heat nothing was cold for long.
Perhaps it was the weather, he mused. He’d always been more susceptible to women in the warmer months.’ Because they wear less, his wife had once told him. Scornfully, he remembered, God rest her soul. Strange to think that even in old age he should miss her bodily. In any case, her explanation was obviously wrong. Any randy male moth could tell her that. No, with moths it was temperature, so why not humans too?
None of which explained why at over seventy he should fall in love again. And go through hell again, no doubt.
He tasted the pie. It was now warmer so he began to eat, chewing carefully as he had to these days. Bodily functions deteriorated until they were an insult to dignity. Yet – he wondered – if Ginny were to respond, how would he get on with her? Would that bodily function too let him down?
King David, the Bible reported, was given a new surge of energy by the introduction of a nubile young woman into his bed. Maybe that’s what the National Health should prescribe instead of all these pills and injections.
She’d laugh of course, he knew that. Laugh in his face at the first move. Yet if he took it gently… perhaps…?
In the shade of the house, somewhere among the mass of plant pots, he noticed a quick movement. He put down his glass to watch more closely. Minutes passed without anything happening but he could wait. He kept absolutely still.
Then another quick movement, and the flash of something – brown, was it? Like a long, thin tail. Not a rat… no, not a cord-like tail but more…
Again, only this time he saw feet.
In all the years he’d lived in Surrey, he’d never once seen a lizard, yet there could be no doubt that was what it was. As always, his field glasses were within reach on the low table. Moving very slowly, he picked them up and brought them to his eyes. About six inches long, he judged, ribbed brown with a long tapering tail. As he watched, its tongue flickered out to catch a housefly which must have been even more surprised by the lizard’s presence than he was.
This near-tropical temperature must be responsible, he assumed, although that didn’t explain where the lizard had come from. If only he had his camera to hand!
He was so fascinated by the lizard, he didn’t at first notice the caterpillar. It was poised on the window sill, about half-way along, the whole front portion of its body raised in the air like a green sphinx. Immediately below it were the plant pots.
It dipped its head again and began to crawl vertically down the brick wall until – more rapidly than he had imagined possible – it reached the nearest pot.
Attracted by the seedlings, he thought as he watched. He focussed the field glasses on it. Those little black eyes seemed so intent on what it was doing as its head turned this way and that, he felt sure it hadn’t even noticed him. If Ginny was right about them sensing blood, over what sort of distance would the information carry?
The caterpillar didn’t even pause at the seedlings. It made a steady progress around the edge of the pot, then on to the next rim, and from there on to the third which was directly above the spot where the lizard was lurking.
The lizard swung around so quickly, he hardly even saw the movement. In the same instant, the long green caterpillar dropped down, brushing the lizard’s back. A rapid twisting and tumbling followed; then they froze, facing each other.
What he saw next was something any naturalist would give ten years of his life to observe. What wouldn’t Gilbert White have written about that struggle! The lizard’s tongue shot out to seize this new prize, but the caterpillar was far too hefty and had weapons of its own. Recoiling, the lizard seemed on the point of running away; instead, it made a stand.
Why?
Did it instinctively realise this was one enemy which had to be defeated whatever the cost? Or was it merely too greedy to let such a fat, delicious caterpillar escape? If so, that was a mistake.
Darting forward, the lizard renewed its attack only to find the caterpillar suddenly pinning it down, its mandibles working into the loose neck-skin while its two rear claspers held the victim steady.
Through his field glasses he followed every move until the lizard was left dead and mutilated on the stone paving. So absorbed was he by every detail of the fight, he forgot the risk to himself. Even when he realised that one of those giant moths was hovering over his beer glass not a foot away from him he was still oblivious of the danger, despite all Ginny had told him.
Only few moths were visible in daylight, he mused. Until now he’d assumed – from what he’d heard – that this was not one of them. He waited, hoping it would settle on the rim of the glass; instead, it fluttered down to his plate, and then moved off somewhere behind his deck chair.
He twisted in his seat, trying to follow it, only to meet it face on. It seemed as startled as he was himself and be
gan circling his head, uttering a series of piercing squeals. His eyes! He had been so taken up with observing it, he’d quite forgotten about the goggles and scarf which were still in the house.
The burning fluid squirted into his eyes even as he brought up his arm to protect himself. The agony was unendurable. Despite himself he let out a long, broken bellow, clasping his head in both hands, doubling up on the deck chair until he fell forward on to his knees and began rolling on the hard paving.
Other pains attacked him now. On his legs… on his wrists… But the most intense was that acid corroding his eyes, eating slowly into the nerve ends, freeing his mind through the exquisite torture of his body. Fleeting images came to him now, tumbling madly through his shifting awareness. His wife Alice when they were young, smiling at him with Ginny’s eyes; then her older, drawn face against that hospital pillow; twenty years dead, yet her smile was so peaceful, so understanding.
She’d understand about Ginny, wouldn’t she?
*
The Chief Inspector gave Ginny a lift to St Botolph’s vicarage where she had left her car. On her lap she held the gauze mask, stiff in parts with dried moth-saliva. Her salmon jeans, newly bought from the little Lingford boutique, were now stained and filthy, as was the rainproof blouson. Overalls would have been more sensible, she thought wearily.
‘Thank you for your help, Miss Andrewes,’ the Chief Inspector said, breaking the silence. They had probably both felt too worn out to want to talk. ‘It hasn’t been a pleasant experience for any of us, but we are grateful. I’d like you to know that.’
She nodded. What was there to say?
Half of those they had rescued from the church had died before reaching hospital. Of the rest, only two or three seemed likely to survive. One – thank God! – was the little girl she’d found.
‘The attacks are spreading, aren’t they?’ she asked abruptly. ‘Almost like a planned campaign.’
‘Oh, I doubt if it’s planned,’ the Chief Inspector disagreed. He was a blunt, businesslike man, probably not yet forty. In some ways he reminded her of Jeff, though he was taller, with boxer’s shoulders. ‘Think of it like greenfly. They cluster in some trees, not in others. We’ll get on top of it, there’s no doubt about that.’
‘I wonder,’ she said.
As if to reinforce her fears, the Lingford Control Room called up the Chief Inspector on the car’s radio to report a major incident in South Croydon, the first in a built-up area. She looked at him queryingly as he acknowledged the message and replaced the microphone, but he only shook his head thoughtfully, making no comment.
The old Georgian vicarage came into sight. Her shabby little Renault stood where she had left it, though no longer in the shade. He drew up alongside to let her out.
‘You’ll excuse me if I rush on,’ he said briefly, leaning across her to open the door. ‘I’m sure you understand. And thank you again.’
Ginny unlocked the Renault and tossed the beekeeping hat and mask on to the passenger seat. She was about to get in when she remembered it would be only polite to say hello to the Reverend Davidson. Of course he’d offer her tea or even a drink, so she’d have to make it clear right away that she couldn’t stop. There was something rather pathetic about the way he couldn’t keep his hands to himself. Thank God she wasn’t a choir boy, she thought wickedly, suddenly grinning.
‘Hello!’ she called cheerfully. ‘Mr Davidson?’
She went directly around to the back garden, feeling sure that was where he’d be. Her unexpected vision of him with the choir boys continued to amuse her; she laughed aloud, though it was probably very unfair to him, the poor man. Nor was it very funny, she told herself severely, failing to prevent another laugh bursting out. It was the relief after all those hours spent with the dead and dying. A whiff of hysteria as the spring wound down. She tried to get a grip on herself.
‘Mr Davidson? Are you there?’
Rounding the corner, she saw in one glance what had occurred. The Reverend Davidson lay on the paved area nearest the house. Around him were fragments of a smashed glass. A foot or so away stood an empty deck chair with a low garden table next to it.
Ginny still had the goggles in her pocket. She paused long enough to put them on, together with her bloodstained gloves, then hurried over to investigate. Two caterpillars were busy on his legs; their hindquarters protruded, dripping blood, from the bottoms of his black clerical trousers. Opening the clasp knife Jeff had lent her, she ripped open the seams on both legs; then, one by one, she disposed of the caterpillars.
Some blood trickled down his forearm – his sleeves were rolled up – but that might not have been caused by a caterpillar. There was certainly no sign of one. She tore both sleeves, then checked the legs again, ripping the trousers high above his white, knobbly knees, but found nothing more. His eyes had that terrible bloodshot look she’d noticed on the victims in the church.
Miraculously he was still alive, groaning and muttering to himself in that strange delirium she had first known when Lesley was attacked. Moving the plate away from the low table, she managed to prop him up on it, then catch him when he slumped forward over her shoulder as she half-knelt in front of him.
Gradually she stood up, staggering under his weight, though compared with Lesley he was quite frail and nowhere near as heavy. Holding on to him grimly, praying that she wouldn’t drop him, she succeeded in getting him into the house.
As he had explained to her during her first visit, he lived these days mostly on the ground floor, the old vicarage being far too big for him. His bed was in the front room. With relief she let him fall back against the pillows, then stood up to rub her shoulder, wondering if she’d dislocated it.
The wounds on his legs were wet with blood. Using Jeff’s clasp knife she tore several strips from one of the sheets and bound them up before telephoning for an ambulance. It took her five minutes to get through, only to be told there would be a long wait and couldn’t she bring the patient in herself?
‘Ginny…’
His voice was weak, the syllables only half-formed, yet she definitely heard him call her name.
‘Yes, that’s right. I’m here.’ She bent over him as he mumbled something else which she couldn’t understand. ‘I’ll get some water. Clean you up a bit.’
She fetched the water in a tall enamel jug which stood beside the tap. Back in his makeshift bedroom, she removed her blouson top and pushed up her blouse sleeves.
‘Now let’s get some of this muck off your face,’ she said, though she’d no way of telling whether he understood or not. ‘Just lie still now and let me do it. There’s no need to worry now. You’ll be looked after.’
With a piece of sheet as a face flannel she patiently wiped away some of the dried moth-saliva. His skin was inflamed.
‘Liz,’ he pronounced suddenly, and it sounded terribly urgent. ‘Liz… liz… liz…’
‘She’s someone you know, is she? Liz?’
‘Liz…’ He drew in a deep, uneven breath. ‘… ard…’
‘Lizard?’
He seemed to relax, his eyelids quivering as though he wanted to close them but couldn’t. Should she wash his eyes, she wondered. They were so hideous and she was scared of doing anything wrong. She dabbed them gently and he shuddered violently as though in severe pain, so she desisted, still uncertain. Perhaps she should ring the hospital, or Bernie, and ask advice.
As she leaned over him her forearm brushed against his hand and his fingers immediately closed over her wrist.
‘Gin…’
‘Yes, it’s Ginny.’
‘Gin… liz…’
‘Is Liz your daughter?’
The suggestion seemed to upset him, but his voice croaked so in his throat; it was difficult to grasp what he wanted.
‘I’ll get some drinking water,’ she told him. ‘I’m sorry I’m such a bad nurse forgetting it. I should have given you a drink to start with.’
She eased his fingers away from her
wrist, but immediately he started producing a hurried gibberish as though he didn’t want her to go.
‘I’ll be back!’ she said tenderly. On an impulse, she stooped to kiss him on the side of the mouth just below the line left by the moth-saliva. ‘Shan’t be a sec!’
Before she could leave the room the old man began to fight for breath, groaning as he gulped in great draughts of air, one after the other without pause, until suddenly he let go. There was a slight whistling sound to be heard as the air slowly left his lungs, in pitch not unlike the squealing of the moths. She stood by him, unwilling to believe what was happening. She tried to find a pulse. When she didn’t succeed she blamed her own clumsiness and hunted for a glass to hold to his lips. No sign of breathing.
He was dead, she repeated to herself, squatting on her heels at the bedside, not knowing what to do next. Having seen what people do in the movies she attempted to close his eyes with her finger and thumb, but the eyelids resisted her, then sprang open again.
There was only one thing she could do. Picking up the phone again from among the clutter on the bedside table, she began to work her way through the four or five numbers where she might find Bernie.
It was late afternoon by the time she got back to her own village. She sensed the unnatural, haunted air as she drove through. There were more people about now, for the most part in small groups of two or three walking away from the church where the Bishop of Lingford had been taking the service of – well, how they had described it she didn’t know. Certainly not ‘thanksgiving’; and who would wish to remember the events of yesterday?
A service of survival: that would be the best name. She caught a glimpse of the bishop’s limousine driving away, but there was none of the usual gossiping among the departing congregation. No one appeared to be talking. They were all lost in their own thoughts, or else watching out for the first signs of another attack.
She had intended driving directly to Bernie’s house for a bath. Passing the church she changed her mind and took the road leading to the cottage. She needed to be alone, she realised; at least for the next few hours. Her hands shook on the wheel as she turned into the lane.