by John Halkin
After the past few days nothing of that sort would ever surprise her again. She tugged at Bernie’s arm, urgently wanting to discuss it with him. He kissed her passionately – still deeply asleep – then turned over.
She would have to wait.
First thing in the morning, while Bernie was holding his surgery, she drove out to St Botolph’s. A sober, dark brown Mercedes stood parked before the vicarage. Out of habit, she went around the back and found a thin, dry-looking man established in the living room. As she entered, he looked up from the papers he was studying and removed his glasses.
‘It is usual for visitors to ring the front doorbell before coming in,’ he remarked tartly, looking at her protective gear with some cynicism. She’d taken Bernie’s helmet.
‘Not here, it isn’t! He never answered. You’re the solicitor, are you?’ It was only a guess, but too obvious.
‘I am a solicitor, yes.’
Ginny introduced herself, explaining how she had been there when the Reverend Davidson died. Could she take a look around?
‘What exactly do you wish to see?’
‘The garden first,’ she explained. ‘Then his work station.’
‘Work station?’ His tone was distrustful.
‘Laboratory, if you prefer.’
The deck chair had not been moved since the previous afternoon; nor had the low table. Even his plate was still on the grass where she’d left it. Keeping an eye out for caterpillars, she began a slow search of the paved area.
‘If you’d tell me what you’re hoping to find, I might be in a position to help you,’ the solicitor said impatiently.
‘I don’t know.’
The shed, she thought. She was half-way across the grass towards it when she stopped, uncertain of herself. Of course he must have been sitting down in the deck chair, mustn’t he? That meant he’d see everything from a different angle. Turning on her heel she trudged back, tugged the deck chair to where she thought it had been standing when she first saw it, and sat down.
‘Really, I do have rather a lot to get through!’ the solicitor objected.
But then she spotted it, tucked away between two plant pots. Keeping her gloves on, she took hold of the limp brown tail and drew it out.
‘What would you say this is?’ she asked the solicitor, holding it up before his face.
He sighed. ‘You appear to have found a rather mutilated, dead lizard,’ he answered with obvious distaste. ‘Is that really so significant?’
‘Have you seen one before in this part of the country?’
‘I live in London. But I’m told they do exist in England. You’re not implying we’re about to be eaten by lizards as well as caterpillars, are you?’
‘Before he died he was trying to tell me something. I wish I knew what.’ She glanced at his dark business suit. ‘You’ve not met the caterpillars yet?’
‘Fortunately not.’
‘You should wear something to protect your head and hands,’ she informed him soberly. ‘You’re exposing yourself unnecessarily.’
In the work station she found a screwtop specimen jar and dropped the remains of the lizard into it. Perhaps it meant nothing at all, who could tell? The solicitor was hovering around, watching her anxiously and treating her now with rather more respect. He pointed to the rows of round, plastic ‘cages’ which still held the Reverend Davidson’s living specimens.
‘I’ve no idea what to do with these,’ he murmured forlornly. ‘My brother left no instructions. Perhaps I should give them to a zoo.’
So he was the Reverend Davidson’s brother, she thought. There was little likeness.
‘Kill them,’ she told him bluntly. Weren’t they the smaller cousins of the attackers? ‘If you can’t, then set them free. They’ll probably starve to death if you leave them where they are.’
Outside, she heard a light aircraft in the sky above and peered up at it, wondering if it might be Jeff. When she got back to Bernie’s house, she phoned him.
His name was painted on a neat little signboard near the gates: Jeff Pringle. The house was a wide-fronted, two-storey villa, obviously thirties-built, painted white with a green tiled roof. As her baby Renault coughed its way up the drive he came out to meet her.
‘Had this chariot serviced recently?’ he enquired by way of a greeting.
‘I keep meaning to.’
Getting her briefcase from the back seat, she followed him inside. The furniture was in a cool modern style. Nothing cheap, though rather too much dark leather for her taste. On the walls were souvenirs from Africa and his other various travels, mostly masks carved in black wood and colourful batik cloths. In one corner stood an electric fan, gently turning. The windows were open, their frames having been fitted with a protective wire mesh to keep out the enemy.
He offered her a drink and she chose lager. When it came, it was deliciously cold in tall, slender glasses. ‘Cheers!’ he said.
From her briefcase she produced the specimen jar containing the dead lizard and placed it in front of her on the dining table. ‘Something new you won’t know about yet,’ she explained, and told him about the Reverend Davidson.
When she had finished, Jeff opened the jar and shook out its contents on a sheet of white paper.
‘It’s quite small, as lizards go,’ he commented, examining it closely. ‘About the size of a gecko. It looks like something has been chewing it up. You don’t seriously think this thing attacked the padre?’
‘No,’ she admitted. She scooped it up into the jar again. ‘But the lab will tell us what it’s been eating. What’s their normal diet?’
‘Africa is about the extent of my experience of lizards. Some are vegetarians, but I believe most are carnivorous. That means insects, not people.’
‘Caterpillars? Tiny ones perhaps, not like ours?’
‘You may have a point,’ he agreed, making a note. ‘I think I know who to ask. Now let’s go through everything we’ve so far learned about these caterpillars, shall we? See if we can’t discover something the official committees might miss.’
Their discussion was thorough and businesslike, much to Ginny’s relief. They went through the life cycle of the giant moths, at least those stages they had so far observed; then their feeding habits – factually, without sentiment – plus their general behaviour patterns. Jeff took notes as they talked, reading each summary aloud for her approval. She brought up the way the caterpillars and moths seemed able to coordinate their attacks.
‘Can we be sure about that?’ Jeff pressed her. ‘It was not the case at the Spring Fair.’
‘But it did happen at the church, and there’ve been other reported instances too. Perhaps –’ She paused, frowning as she thought it through. ‘I was going to say perhaps it’s coincidental, but there’s more to it. I think their tactics are changing.’
‘Which means we’re witnessing these moths actually learning from experience.’
‘That makes them even more dangerous. And what about the pesticide we’re using? Does it kill them, or merely make them sluggish for a time?’
‘It’s pretty deadly stuff,’ he told her. ‘A lungful of that would bring the strongest man down.’
‘Not relevant. So would nuclear fall-out, yet they say insects could survive it.’
He picked up his pencil and inscribed a big question mark by the side of what he had just written. ‘So we need more on the pesticide. There must be some laboratory tests available by now. It seems to be killing everything else.’
‘You’ve heard that we now know where they come from?’ she asked.
‘It has been confirmed?’
‘This morning.’
On her return from St Botolph’s Bernie had told her that a laboratory technician at Lingford University Research Institute had now definitely identified the caterpillars. They had been bred in the Institute itself, the third generation of a sequence of mutations resulting from advanced experiments in genetic engineering. Work on the project had been s
topped the previous year and the people involved were difficult to contact. The research assistant, Adrian Burton, had been appointed to a lectureship in Australia and chosen to travel out by sea. The woman scientist who set the whole thing up was now in America engaged on a US Government contract which, she apparently claimed, did not permit her to comment.
‘Sophie Greenberg,’ Jeff nodded meaningfully. ‘That’s Sophie all right. She worries about the wrong things.’
‘You obviously know her.’
‘I did once. Perhaps they haven’t told her what these slugs of hers are getting up to.’
‘According to the technician,’ Ginny went on, ‘they’d an accident in the lab last year. Something to do with a cat. A couple of caterpillars got out and were never seen again. The others died, which was when she scrapped the whole thing. The last straw, he said.’
‘What about her notes?’
‘Bernie was told she took everything with her.’
‘Helpful.’ He drained his glass, then stood up. ‘Another drink? These are thirsty days.’
Ginny welcomed the break. While Jeff was getting more beer from the fridge she went over to the bow window to look at the louring sky, already illuminated by the first flickers of distant lightning. In a minute it was going to pour down.
The telephone rang and Jeff called to ask her to take it for him. It was an African voice, a man with an unfamiliar accent. She twice had to ask him to repeat what he said before she understood.
‘Won’t give his name.’ She held out the receiver to Jeff when he came back into the room. ‘Mystery man – he insists on speaking to you personally.’
‘Client, more likely. Caterpillars permitting, I still have a business to run.’
Of course he still flew to Africa, she remembered. Mostly freight, he’d explained to her. He was a bit of a mystery man himself, but he seemed to know quite a few people in key places. Perhaps it was absurdly optimistic to think they could get action on the caterpillars more effectively than the official committees, but someone had to try. At least Jeff might be able to drop words in the right ears. She tried to listen in on his phone conversation, but it was largely one-sided: seldom more than monosyllables from him, and then in French. That accounted for the accent.
‘Sorry about the interruption,’ he apologised, putting the phone down. ‘That man’s been on at me for five weeks now but he still can’t give me a firm date. Maybe in ten days, he says.’
‘Oh?’
‘West Africa,’ he enlarged. ‘A quick return trip, nothing exciting. Now where were we?’
A crash of thunder exploded directly above them like a bomb, almost scaring her out of her skin. She took an involuntary step back and her foot caught on the edge of the carpet. If he hadn’t grabbed her arm she might have fallen. In an attempt to cover her fear, she made some joking remark about the Third World War starting, and smiled at him, embarrassed. His face was close to hers. He’d kissed her before she realised what he was up to.
‘Sorry!’ She twisted away, ducking under his arm. ‘That’s the last thing I need. I’m involved with someone else, Jeff.’
‘I wondered why you were looking so delicious,’ he said lightly. ‘Then I’ll wait. Who knows?’
‘I do – so don’t bother!’
Before he could reply, the phone rang again. His face darkened as he listened. He glanced towards her, as though implying that the call concerned her too.
‘Bloody hell!’ he swore softly as the person at the other end went on. ‘Of course… Yes, I’m sure. What’s the name of the road again?’
He wrote it down on a pad, asked for directions, then rang off.
‘Lingford – a primary school. I’m afraid there are a hell of a lot of casualties. The children were outside for playtime when the attack happened. Moths first, then caterpillars.’ He began putting on a close-fitting zippered jacket as he spoke. ‘Normal emergency services are already there, but they’re asking for people experienced in handling caterpillars. I said we’d both be along. D’you mind?’
‘Of course I’ll help.’
Outside, the rain started pouring down as though all the taps had been turned on at once.
During the next few days the attacks multiplied and spread, yet few were as horrifying as the scene they found at that school. The children – none of them older than seven or eight – lay strewn over the hard playground and nearby grass, their blood diluted to a deathlike pink by the heavy rain. Some moaned and writhed in pain; some shrieked for their mothers; many were as pale and still as waxworks. Among them, their teachers had also been struck down, probably having been attacked as they tried to help.
Everywhere Ginny looked she saw green caterpillars, much longer and fatter than that pathetic little lizard, feasting on their helpless victims.
They did what they could. Ginny again concentrated on removing and killing caterpillars before the children were taken for first-aid treatment and then transported to hospital. How many she treated, she had no idea. The sweat ran down her face; her goggles misted up; she longed for each child to be the last, yet more were brought. Eighty altogether had been marked present on the school register; forty-three died before anything could be done for them. Of the rest, only seven were still alive the following morning.
Ginny went to the hospital to visit them. Passing an open door she caught a glimpse of Dr Sanderson sitting at his desk, his frameless glasses on the blotter before him as he wiped his eyes. His son was among those who hadn’t survived, Bernie told her later.
By that time the authorities were thoroughly alarmed. The attacks were too numerous to be regarded as merely isolated incidents which would not recur. They extended now across the whole of Kent, Surrey and Sussex. Emergency evacuation plans were instituted for everyone who wanted to get away, particularly families with children, though many preferred to stay put. Their arguments were various: it might never happen to them; they lived in a village which had never seen a caterpillar or moth; or – the most convincing of the lot – they’d be just as much at risk wherever they moved.
In Bernie’s living room Ginny cleared one wall of pictures and covered it with Ordnance Survey maps. A special mobile unit had been set up of people trained to handle the caterpillars, with herself as area leader. Every night the maps told the same story: the menace was spreading even farther.
Attacks were reported with increasing frequency from the leafy suburbs of Greater London. Occasional casualties occurred as far west as Reading, including a gardener discovered dead in the grounds of Windsor Castle. Moths were sighted, though no one hurt, at Pershore in Worcestershire.
Back in Sussex, at Gatwick Airport a major air disaster was only narrowly averted as a jumbo jet coming in to land skidded over thousands of caterpillars on the runway. Passengers were imprisoned on board the plane for more than six hours before it was judged safe enough to allow them to disembark. Among the ground staff the casualty rate was so high that the airport had to remain closed.
Reaction in the press and Parliament was vociferous. If only words alone could defeat the caterpillars, Ginny thought more than once. Government action was demanded, yet it was patently obvious that the Cabinet had not the slightest idea what to do. The tabloids carried blockbuster headlines such as – at their most sober – MANEATING CATERPILLARS HIT SCHOOL. One distinguished itself with FOREIGN CATTIES EAT OUR KIDS, and demanded a tightening of quarantine laws. Meanwhile, The Times reported how the caterpillar plague had also spread across northern France and was threatening Paris.
As for television – her own trade, she remembered wryly, though all that now seemed a thousand light years away – at first the news crews merely added a fresh twist to the emergency services’ job, though when a cameraman was tragically killed they became more cautious. They also tried an in-depth documentary followed by a studio discussion, roping her in as an expert, no less, but it came up with no solutions. It was after some location filming for that programme that she had dropped in at the
cottage and found a postal packet waiting for her. Somehow the post office had managed to deliver it despite the general chaos caused by the caterpillars, and the fact that their own postman was among those killed at the Spring Fête.
Opening the packet, she found it contained the manuscript of her proposal for that television drama series. The idea which had seemed so wonderful at the time! A covering letter from the agent commented that it might be rather difficult to place at the present time.
Ginny tossed it on to the little round table, but missed and it fell on the floor. She left it there and went back to Bernie’s house.
They saw very little of each other during those days, she and Bernie, except at night in that wide double bed. Any feelings of guilt towards Lesley had long since died. At last she understood what it must have been like in wartime. The normal conventions just didn’t apply: how could they when night after night she’d come back splashed with blood after yet another encounter with caterpillars? She didn’t even think of it any more.
‘I have squatters’ rights!’ she stated firmly on the one occasion when Bernie tentatively raised the subject. He’d just been speaking to Lesley on the phone and had come into the bedroom, his face troubled, to find her waiting for him. ‘Oh Bernie, let’s just live for today. What else can we do? When this thing with the caterpillars is over I’ll have to go away, you know that.’
In fact, it felt more like camping in the house than living in it. Neither knew when the other would be at home. Bernie attempted to keep up his normal consulting sessions, but there was such a demand for medics, he was also out for long hours at Lingford Hospital. When he did get back, invariably late, he was usually ravenously hungry and hardly human until he’d eaten. She kept the fridge stocked up with food they could cook quickly. First one home started the meal, and good stuff too, not convenience foods. Oddly, she found she no longer felt an antipathy to red meat. As for drink, he insisted on only the best claret and ordered it by the case, joking grimly that – who could tell? – they might both be dead by the time the bill was sent.