Squelch

by John Halkin

  In any case, Bernie might not be back yet, she thought illogically. In every way it was better she went to her own cosy home where she could feel secure.

  Trying to track him down by telephone from the vicarage had proved abortive. The hospital didn’t know where he was but had given her a number for Jameela. She had then called the golf club and a couple of Bernie’s friends, still without finding him, so in the end she’d rung Jameela after all who had said she’d take everything in hand and Ginny was to wait at the vicarage until someone turned up. Rather than remain in the same room as the dead man, she had gone into the work station, thinking she might use the time to examine the specimen moth they had caught that morning. She had found the cage empty. The hardboard had been removed, and there was a long tear in the double netting over the top.

  At the cottage she sat for a few moments in the car, too exhausted to get out. The thoughts tumbled through her mind. Nothing made any sense.

  Before opening the car door she struggled into the stained blouson once more and reached for the hat and mask. Whatever was waiting for her out there, she was going to be ready for it. No way was she going to end up like the Reverend Davidson.

  Getting out of the car she was struck by the silence. None of the usual birdsong was to be heard, nor the hum of insects. On the flower bed beneath the cottage window lay a dead thrush, yet no ants or midges swarmed around it as she might have expected. Jeff’s spraying must have taken a terrible toll.

  In the cottage itself she explored every corner before she felt confident enough to take off her gloves and mask. It was exactly as she’d left it, quite untouched by all that had happened. Unreal, even. She switched on the radio to bring a bit of life into the place, but after the events of that day it all sounded so futile. She preferred silence.

  Yet – what next? Eat something, perhaps? Make a start on writing up those notes?

  She was much too worn out to do anything. Looked it too, when she caught sight of herself in the mirror. She got some ice out of the fridge, struggling with the plastic tray over the sink to release the cubes. Then she fetched the whisky from the sideboard and poured herself a drink. It did nothing for her; her stomach rebelled against it.

  Need some food, she tried insisting to herself, but she had no appetite. Still, she had to keep going so she took a banana from the bowl, peeled it down and bit into it. After the second mouthful, the whisky began to taste better. As she chewed, she washed hastily, feeling very vulnerable to be standing there in the kitchen only partly dressed. It was a relief to get into fresh clothes.

  The banana left her hungry. Hunting through the fridge, she decided on toast and scrambled eggs with a couple of tomatoes mixed in. When it was ready she poured herself another whisky to go with it. Ideal, she discovered. It was a wonder none of the good food writers had stumbled across it.

  Whisky and scrambled eggs: she’d mention it to Bernie.

  ‘Right! Work, Ginny Andrewes!’ she proclaimed aloud, getting up.

  From the window, the charm of her secluded garden – once so welcome – had now become a constant reminder that caterpillars might be lurking anywhere among those leaves. She had blocked the gaps beneath both doors, but she knew she’d never be able to concentrate fully downstairs. She rinsed her dishes, leaving them to drip, then took her Caterpillar files up to the bedroom. At least from there she had a better overview of the garden. She also had the advantage of being able to spread out her papers across the bed.

  Her first task, as she had discussed with Jeff, was to classify all they had observed about the moths and their caterpillars: their behaviour patterns, rather than the more scientific detail. This was more a job for Lesley, as she’d told him, but Lesley was not available.

  ‘Think of them as actors in one of your plays,’ he’d suggested as if that would be any use.

  The first paper she picked up was a description she’d written of The Visitation. Fancy calling it The Visitation – what an idiot she’d been! She settled down on the bed to read it, but already after the second sentence her mind began to wander, recalling the day she’d moved down to the cottage and how Jack had helped her.

  Jack had been one of the first to be attacked by the moths, and she hadn’t even believed him!

  Hadn’t even…

  She woke up with a start. It was so warm in that room with the window closed, and sleep seemed so inviting. Old Mr Davidson was asleep… flat on his back, his red eyes staring up at her… winking at her… his dead mouth smiling as his hand touched her knee… and she wanted to twist away… couldn’t… the grip of the dead held her vice-like and…

  Again she woke, this time to discover she had fallen back on the pillow. The paper she had been reading had slipped to the floor.

  But she was determined to work. She picked up the sheet of paper and took it, together with the rest of the file, over to the window. The hard, upright chair should keep her awake. Again she began to read her own account of that first day, jotting down notes of points that might be useful.

  Reaching the bottom of the page, she looked up and stared out of the window, trying to recall her own attitude at that time. She had been so delighted, she remembered; hard to imagine that now. From this same window she’d watched them settling on her garden like a dark veil.

  Like…

  She leaned forward. The sun had already set but there was still enough daylight to see everything quite clearly. That movement on the flower bed was surely not…? No, she could swear it was not green. A darker colour, then: more like an autumn leaf. Brown?

  A few inches from it something else shifted slightly. A different shape, she thought at first, straining her eyes to see it; but then she was not so certain. Even as she watched it was changing in contour, and beginning to resemble the first one.

  Another dream, her mind insisted. Moths growing out of the ground? It’s a nightmare, nothing more. You’ll wake up and find it’s all nonsense! Pure nonsense! Unadulterated –

  She did wake up with a jerk, blinking her eyes to convince herself that she bad been dreaming, but those shapes were still there. Striding apprehensively across the room, she pressed the light switch, then went back to the window. Had she been deceiving herself? She cupped her hand against the glass pane, but it was difficult to see.

  Downstairs by the window in the unlit lean-to kitchen, Ginny was forced to accept the truth of her nightmare. Half-asleep she may have been, but those shapes on the flower beds were moths. Others were slowly emerging from the dark soil, gradually unfolding their broad wings, then resting.

  For a few seconds she could do nothing but stare at them in complete disbelief. She had a confused image of the fully-armed soldiers of Greek legend springing out of the earth where dragon’s teeth had been sown. But this was the twentieth century, and these were moths.

  They were still not moving, as though waiting for something. A dozen of them, at least; maybe more.

  Ginny changed back into the clothes she had discarded earlier – everything: boots, surgical mask, goggles, hat, gloves, the lot. Before opening the door, she checked the food was under cover, then sprayed the kitchen with pesticide, enough to discourage them.

  Then she went out, closing the door behind her. The sky was darkening, but the rectangle of light from her bedroom window was bright enough. Against the wall was an old, rusting hoe. It must have been there for years and Ginny had intended to throw it away. She picked it up.

  Calmly she went about the task of slaughtering those moths one by one, bringing the hoe blade sharply down on each to sever the wings and crush the body. They made no attempt to fly off, not even the slightest quiver. No regret on her part either as she destroyed those rich, soft, delicate creatures which had so fascinated her when she first saw them.

  ‘Killers, that’s all they are.’ Her voice was muffled by the surgical mask, but it gave her some satisfaction to speak the words aloud. ‘Ruthless killers. Well, humans can be ruthless too.’

  She brought
the hoe down once again and felt it slice into the emergent moth’s tubby body. That seemed to be the last one, yet who could say what lay hidden beneath the topsoil? Starting at the shed, she began to work her way around all the flower beds, hoeing vigorously, determined that not one square inch would escape her.

  Bernie arrived just as she was finishing and came into the garden to find her. Save for the light from the cottage windows everything was in darkness.

  ‘Odd time to start gardening!’ he greeted her cheerfully. Coming over, he put his arm around her shoulders. As far as she could see he was wearing a motorcyclist’s helmet with rubber masking across his face. ‘You all right, love?’

  She showed him the fragments of wing from the moths she’d killed.

  ‘Came out of the soil,’ she explained.

  ‘They what?’

  ‘Oh, let’s go inside where we can talk. I’ve finished out here.’

  Leaving the hoe outside in its old position, she led the way in through the kitchen door. There she stripped off her headgear and discarded her stained blouson. Bernie put down his helmet on top of it and took her in his arms. No hesitation about their kissing this time.

  ‘Oh Bernie, I’m so glad you’re here,’ she murmured, still holding him tight. ‘I tried to ring you this afternoon. No one knew where you were.’

  ‘I kept imagining you’d been killed.’ He ran his fingers through her short hair. ‘Like a recurring nightmare, all the way back from London. They took some of us up to Whitehall to brief the Minister, not that it did much good, I’m afraid. I heard you were involved in that business in the church.’

  ‘That’s not all,’ she told him, sitting down to pull off her boots. ‘The Reverend Davidson’s dead. I was with him.’

  She tried to explain briefly what had happened, but then stopped in mid-sentence. ‘Oh shit!’ she exclaimed. ‘Not now! Let’s get out of these things and have a drink. I don’t think I want to go over it all again. Bernie love, the whisky’s on the sideboard.’

  When she joined him in the living room she wore only her light housecoat. He had the drinks ready but she merely smiled when he held one out for her, and kissed him instead. It was all she wanted at that moment – a long, savouring kiss to take away her tensions.

  ‘I love you, Ginny,’ he told her softly, stroking her back through the housecoat. ‘Though I probably shouldn’t.’

  ‘Mm-m.’ She nuzzled him sensuously, then slowly found his lips again. Breaking away from him, she said: ‘I was working upstairs before I saw those moths outside. I’ve got papers scattered all over the bed.’

  ‘Let’s go and clear them up then, shall we?’ His eyes laughed as they caressed her face. ‘Mustn’t interrupt your work.’

  No doubts lingered in her mind any longer. At that moment she wanted him more than ever; nothing would make her turn back now. If she was being unfair to Lesley, that was how it crumbled. She couldn’t help falling in love, could she? Besides, Lesley need never know. After this business with the moths was over she’d move back to London and that would be the end of it. She’d be the only one to suffer. Not Lesley, if she could help it.

  She glanced in the mirror before following Bernie upstairs. A slightly flushed, very guilty face stared back at her. Oh shit, she thought unhappily; if only it could be different.

  In his arms, her self-doubts disappeared again. It seemed so right for her to be with him and no one else. He made love gently at first, then with increasing urgency until at last they lay back, completed, yet knowing this was only the start.

  She sat up, twisting around to look at his face and run her finger down his chest. ‘I’m very much in love with you,’ she said quietly, almost as if speaking to herself. ‘But if the day comes when this ends, promise me you won’t make a fuss.’

  ‘What a depressing thought!’

  ‘Promise?’

  ‘I promise I’ll try. D’you intend it to end?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘You’re very beautiful, Ginny.’

  ‘Rubbish.’

  ‘It isn’t rubbish.’ His eyes flickered down to her chest. ‘That trouble cleared up, then?’ He laid his fingertips over the area where the ‘sunburn’ had been.

  ‘Yes, doctor!’ she laughed at him. Taking his hand, she placed it over her breast. ‘A small thing, but mine own. You’re in a lady’s bed, not a consulting room.’

  They made love again: a celebration of their new relationship because that was what she was experiencing. They were meeting afresh, as though they had never known each other before, and were conscious of neither past nor future: only an eternal present.

  But at last Bernie said he should return home to the house. He wanted her to go with him, but she was reluctant. She sat on the edge of the bed thinking about it. Lesley’s house.

  ‘Can’t we stay here?’

  ‘I’ve not been back since morning,’ he explained apologetically. His hand lightly touched her thigh, keeping their physical contact. ‘There may be messages on the machine. I am the village doctor, don’t forget. Please come with me.’

  ‘I’m not sleeping in Lesley’s bed.’

  ‘Agreed.’

  ‘I’ll get dressed then.’

  Had circumstances been different, she’d have chosen that long Indian cotton dress she’d bought last time in London, simply to luxuriate in being feminine. Instead, she pulled on her jeans, then the rest of her protective outfit, making sure not an inch of skin was exposed.

  ‘That’s what it was!’ she exclaimed suddenly just as they were ready to leave. She took off her mask and goggles again, then began to hunt among her books. ‘I knew I’d read something like it.’

  ‘Like what?’ He waited, half-amused.

  ‘Those moths crawled out of the earth as though someone planted them there.’

  ‘Dragon’s teeth,’ he suggested.

  ‘Too late – I thought of that one first! No, it’s here, look!’ She found the book and hastily turned over the pages. ‘The Death’s Head Hawk Moth! The caterpillar burrows into the ground to become a chrysalis, and when the moth emerges it has to wait till its wings dry out before it can fly. Which explains why they didn’t try to escape. They couldn’t!’

  ‘Know thy enemy!’ Bernie quoted approvingly. ‘Though it doesn’t bring us anywhere near a solution. Come on, love. Let’s go.’

  12

  That night she slept in Lesley’s bed after all.

  When they got to the house Bernie decided he was hungry. While he checked through the phone calls, she dug some lamb chops out of the freezer and boiled some potatoes. For a vegetable she had a choice of courgettes or a tin of artichoke hearts. The courgettes reminded her of caterpillars, so she chose the artichokes.

  ‘D’you realise it’s after eleven?’ Bernie announced, entering the kitchen with a bottle of his best claret in his hand. He hunted in the drawer for the corkscrew. ‘Lesley left a message to say they’re all fine. Send their love. Mrs Blakemore’s arthritis is troubling her again and she needs to renew her prescription. Oh, and two messages for you. Jeff Pringle wants you to ring him. And Jack. You’re in demand!’

  ‘Me? I’m tied up here!’ she retorted. ‘I hope!’

  ‘So do I!’ He leaned over to kiss her as she tended the chops. ‘Or I shall be jealous!’

  He drew out the cork, sniffed it, then put the bottle to one side ready for the meal.

  ‘There’ve been a couple more incidents, it seems, in –’ he started to go on.

  ‘I don’t want to know,’ she interrupted him firmly. ‘Not tonight, Bernie. Please? The meal’s almost ready, so I’ll just go and change. God, I’ve been wearing boots all day!’

  This was one evening the caterpillars were not going to ruin, she was determined, whatever might happen later. She had brought the full-length Indian cotton with her and went up to the bathroom to change. It felt so good as it slipped over her head and she smoothed it down. It clung to her figure in all the right places. By the time she w
ent downstairs again Bernie was setting out the plates.

  What time it was when they went to bed she’d no idea. On the stairs – both of them a bit tipsy from all the wine – she made some suggestion about the spare room, but they found the mattress stripped bare of bedclothes. So narrow, too. The children’s beds were out of the question, and it hardly seemed fair to use Phuong’s room. Which left Bernie’s king-size double bed.

  Lesley’s bed. Yet it didn’t seem to matter so much any longer. That border had been crossed.

  Eventually they fell asleep, still naked, with only a light sheet covering them because of the heat. The windows were firmly closed, of course. How long she slept she could only guess, though when she opened her eyes it was still dark in the room. She reached out and touched Bernie’s shoulder, but he merely grunted without waking.

  Without the caterpillars this would never have happened, she reflected drowsily. Blame them, if anyone. Outside – somewhere – hundreds more must be assembling for their next orgy of human blood. In one village or other, unsuspecting people were quietly sleeping, unaware of the danger they were in. Perhaps she herself would not survive.

  She’d been sweating. She ran her hands down over her skin, feeling – oh, so alive, it was unbelievable! Surely Lesley wouldn’t begrudge her just a small share of him? Discreetly? It was strange how much better sex could be if you were in love with the person.

  Suddenly she thought of the Reverend Davidson – that poor old man, now at peace. Maybe it was the heat reminding her of that holiday in Greece where she’d been so delighted to watch the lizards at play on the wall. Had he really meant lizards, she wondered. Or was Liz a person?

  Then a particularly horrifying idea struck her. This hot, wet weather had turned everything upside down. Plants flowering out of season, swarms of insects, these vicious caterpillars, previously unheard-of… Had it brought lizards too? Was that what he’d been trying to say, that he’d been attacked by a lizard?