Authors: John Halkin
Down through the water he carried her, gripping her tight as they left all sounds far behind.
Lesley had been able to do nothing to save Phuong and blamed herself bitterly for it. Pondering it afterwards while Mary fussed around her, trying to comfort her when all she wanted was to be left alone, she could no longer grasp how quickly it had all happened. She had gone into the kitchen and seen Wendy with the spring cabbage. Even as she was shouting her warning – or that’s how it seemed – Phuong had knocked the cabbage
out of Wendy’s hand and was picking the caterpillar off her T-shirt. Sacrificing herself, because she knew the dangers well enough.
Then suddenly she was rolling on the floor and Frankie dashed into the kitchen, wanting to get the caterpillar off her, grabbing it as she’d grab a handful of sand and screaming hysterically.
Oh God, it was all so confused! Somehow, Lesley remembered, she’d got the caterpillar away from Frankie and crushed it under the rubber tip of her walking stick till its guts squelched out. Frankie, bleeding and unconscious by now, she’d hoisted on to the kitchen table.
Only then had she noticed that two more caterpillars had emerged from the heart of the cabbage and were attacking Phuong’s throat. It was too late to prevent them.
The doctor had wanted to keep her in hospital, pointing out – with the medical profession’s gift for understatement – that she’d had a shock. Phuong was dead, though Frankie was expected to do all right. But how could she stay in hospital with Wendy and Caroline still at home? She wanted Bernie – the old Bernie from before any of this had happened – but of course he wasn’t there. Gone for good.
In a dream the previous night she’d been naked in bed with Bernie and Ginny together, not doing anything, but in a close, warm embrace as they floated with me bedclothes around them. Then she’d woken up, to lie awake working out how to kill herself without upsetting the children.
Not possible, of course. She had to go on.
Mary went into her own room to telephone, leaving her alone. Wendy and Caroline were in bed, having cried themselves to sleep at last. Then Mary came back to say she intended putting the emergency plans in hand for the
transfer of the whole school to Scotland. She had discussed it with the chairman of the governors and she had agreed. Several individual caterpillar attacks had now been reported in the county. It was best to make the move before the panic started.
There was no news. Ginny rang Jeff’s house two or three times and at the last attempt Alan answered. All the equipment was in working order, he assured her. No, he’d received no confirmation yet that the plane had left West Africa. The arrangements were vague. Either there would be a telegram delivered directly, or else a phone call from some unnamed office in London. All he knew for certain was that Jeff planned an overnight flight to arrive early in the morning; if there were any delays taking off even that might not happen.
‘I’m sleeping here at Jeff’s house,’ Alan assured her as they discussed all the possibilities. ‘If he calls in on the agreed wavelength I’m bound to know.’
‘Let’s hope it’s soon,’ Ginny said fervently.
The situation was getting considerably worse and it was only the necessity to wait for Jeff which kept them in the village. Bernie’s surgeries had long since been abandoned, and there were few emergency calls any longer simply because most people had already left. Streets were deserted; farms untended. An outbreak of burglaries had resulted in the teenage gang concerned dying horrible deaths. They had been found – three girls and four boys – lying mutilated on what had once been a wealthy stockbroker’s well-kept lawn. The caterpillars had been crawling over them as thickly as ants.
From London too the news was not good. The jumbo jet which had crashed on Feltham shopping centre had been bound for New York with a full complement of passengers. Not one survived, and there was a high
casualty rate on the ground. It had now been confirmed that moths in the jet engines’ air intake had been responsible.
That had been bad enough, but that same evening also saw the first attacks in the London Underground. A Piccadilly Line train arriving at Earl’s Court released swarms of giant moths on to the platform as its doors slid open. Waiting passengers ran screaming for the exits as the moths attacked them, but many were blinded. When rescue teams arrived they found more casualties in the centre three cars, though none elsewhere on the train. The following day saw more incidents as hundreds of moths invaded the tunnels. The accumulated filth blackened their wings. Soon not a single station in the central London area was free of them. Their dark forms came fluttering through the tunnels to greet every train and dart into the passengers’ eyes. The entire Underground system had to be closed down.
Ginny rang Jack’s number more often than she could count, but there was no answer. Had he been hurt, she wondered; or was he simply away somewhere? It was never possible to tell with Jack. But she kept trying, and each time could not help visualising the empty flat where there was no one to pick up the receiver.
These days that happened so often. Bernie too had commented on it. You dialled a number but no one replied. Were they even alive any longer?
Jeff glanced out at the white Alpine peaks immediately beneath the Boeing 707, then grinned at Enoch in the co-pilot’s seat beside him. On a passenger flight they
would be crowding at the windows by now, the more optimistic among them clicking their cameras through the scratched Perspex. It was Perspex they fitted in these rattling old crates, wasn’t it?
Not that he disliked 707s; they were first-class planes. He’d flown thousands of miles in them, till the controls felt like natural extensions to his own limbs. Only this old lady creaked with arthritis in every joint. It was lucky her four aged Rolls-Royce Conway 508 engines co-operated so courageously. Perhaps they guessed they were on their way home to the country which created them; or else, with the name Rolls-Royce, they couldn’t bear to lose face.
They had stripped out most of the seats to make space for as many crates of monitor lizards as they could squeeze on board. That had caused some delays at Douala, but fortunately their Paying Guest was also late. In fact, this ‘flying ark’ operation was much better cover for him than their original suggestion. Everyone felt happier about it.
At that first meeting in London a couple of months earlier the idea had been that Jeff would ferry the plane back to the UK for overhaul with the Paying Guest travelling as crew. It had sounded a flimsy way of smuggling the ex-president of a neighbouring country out of Africa, but they assured him the right palms had been crossed with silver, so there should be no trouble.
But this lizard plan, they agreed when he put it to them, was far superior.
He’d also been lucky when it came to recruiting the real crew. Enoch he’d known in Nigeria and would have been quite capable of handling the whole operation alone. Pierre as third pilot, from Senegal, was less experienced but totally reliable. They had been together on several less-than-official runs before. Plus a few that were above board.
‘I’m going back,’ he said, getting out of his seat. ‘Need to stretch my legs.’
Enoch nodded.
In the first-class passenger cabin they had left a couple of rows intact. Fred, the expert animal handler who had been sent out ahead by Andrew Rossiter to organise the lizards, lay sprawled in a window seat on the starboard side, fast asleep. On the port side, the Paying Guest sat upright, contentedly turning over the pages of a magazine. Jeff dropped into the seat next to him.
‘Everything okay?’
‘Oh yes!’ He was an unashamedly fat man and his face wrinkled as he smiled. ‘I can’t tell you what a relief it is to get away! There were two attempts by their agents to kidnap me. To take me back over the border for one of their show trials.’
‘Well, that’s all behind you now,’ Jeff assured him. ‘But I need a word about what happens when we land.’
‘Don’t worry! I’ll request political asylum. They won’t refuse me. The Prime Minister is one of my dearest friends.’
‘I was really talking about the lizards.’
‘They smell, my friend. Can’t you smell them? I assume I shall disembark first.’
‘It may not be that easy,’ Jeff told him, and began to explain about the caterpillars.
The old scoundrel, he thought as they talked. If anyone deserved to be put on trial he did, considering the amount of development aid money he probably had tucked away in his Swiss bank accounts. Jeff had known him well in his old West African days. As a young man he’d been in a key position to influence the granting of building contracts and had made a fortune out of backhanders. When he was President that fortune doubled.
‘But there’s no need to worry,’ Jeff explained confidently. ‘We’ve brought safety clothing for you
which you’ll be wearing, and in any case you stay on board until we’ve checked everything is clear.’
‘I don’t like it.’ The man’s flabby cheeks were actually trembling. ‘I prefer to land at Heathrow.’
‘The situation at Heathrow is worse,’ Jeff lied. ‘As I said, I take full responsibility for your safety.’
‘You had better, my friend. I’m paying you enough.’
Jeff got up, nodding to Fred who had just woken. He went back to the flight deck. At any rate, he thought, the ex-President was right about one thing. Those lizards in their crates did smell.
‘Is he okay?’ Enoch asked as he slipped back into his seat and adjusted his headset.
‘I guess he is. We’d better call up our private control room to see how things look on the ground.’
At least there would be no trouble with either Enoch or Pierre. With them he’d laid his cards openly on the table, explained what the lizards were expected to do, shown them the safety gear and offered them double the agreed fee. They had accepted.
It was eight a.m. when Alan rang to report he’d established contact with the plane, three days late. The expected call from London had never materialised, nor had the telegram. Ginny had begun to doubt if Jeff would ever return.
In the kitchen she found Bernie had started to tidy up. His face looked strained and tired, not only from overwork. Lesley was still refusing to talk to him, and Mary had been downright aggressive on the phone. It was telling on their own relationship too. Over breakfast they’d picked up last night’s argument about how much longer they could put off moving out and had ended by shouting at each other.
‘That was Alan,’ she told him. ‘I have to get over to Gatwick. The plane’s coming in this morning.’
‘I’m coming with you.’
‘After all?’ She felt a flood of pleasure, and stood on tiptoe to kiss him as he leaned over the sink. ‘We’ll have to hurry!’
Separate cars, they had agreed. Just in case anything went wrong. Ginny drove the Range Rover, followed by Bernie in a large black BMW he’d rented a few days earlier, wanting something more robust than the Mini in this situation. Ignoring the route signs for the terminal building, they headed for a side gate they had discovered on their first recce. It gave them direct access to the cargo apron. Bernie had used wire cutters on the chain holding the padlock and it still hung there unrepaired.
Adjusting his protective helmet, he went to the gates and pushed them open. Then he came over to the Range Rover and Ginny wound down the window.
‘The place seems deserted,’ he remarked quietly. ‘I’ve never come across anything so dead. No people, no animals, no insects. I wonder if the airport authorities are right not to have at least a skeleton staff here. Or at least a daily check on what’s happening.’
‘We’ll go where we can see the runway,’ she decided. ‘Then I’ll call Alan.’
Ginny waited until Bernie was safely back in his car before driving slowly into the cargo area. Everything had been abandoned in the middle of a busy work shift. Truck-loads of air freight parcels, containers and lorry trailers stood where they had been left. Only the dead and injured had been moved. She manoeuvred the Range Rover through the obstacle course and across the apron, checking in her rear mirror to make sure Bernie was still behind her.
When she stopped he drove around her, ending with the two cars parked side by side facing opposite directions. He wound down his window. They were only inches apart.
‘It’s all clear, love.’
With Jeff’s field glasses she scanned the airfield but saw nothing on the runway, nor in the untended grass on either side. She reached for the car phone which Alan had doctored to plug into CB equipment, providing a direct radio link with the house.
‘Descent check, please,’ Jeff requested.
‘Roger, descent check, captain,’ Pierre responded immediately. ‘Window heat?’
‘High,’ said Enoch.
‘Number two auxiliary pump.’
‘On.’
‘Hydraulics?’
‘Checked…’
So far it felt good, Jeff reflected as Pierre continued through the checklist. Ginny’s report had been precise, closely following the short list of questions he’d supplied. As he’d feared fuel was low; poor maintenance work on the engines meant they were burning more than they should. But there was no doubt they would make Gatwick comfortably. Not that he had any alternative. Alan had passed on the information that both Heathrow and Stansted were out of action; incoming flights were being diverted to Manchester and even Dublin.
‘Flying ark. Acknowledge. Over.’
‘Go ahead, Alan. Over.’
‘Ginny reports caterpillars on runway. I can now put her through to you. One minute.’ A hard click cut through the static, hurting his ears. Then came Ginny’s voice, recognisable despite the distortion. ‘Jeff, this is Ginny. Do you read me? Over.’
‘Loud and clear, Ginny. What’s this about caterpillars? Over.’
‘Caterpillars gathering on runway,’ she said slowly. ‘Large number. Coming out of the grass. Over.’
‘Okay, Ginny. I read you. Ask Alan, can he keep this channel open? Over.’
‘Wilco, Jeff!’ came Alan’s young, eager voice.
Ginny put the field glasses to her eyes again. It was an incredible sight. The caterpillars on the runway must now number several hundred, yet their progress was so slow, she was hardly aware of any movement. She was grateful to be sitting inside the Range Rover with the windows up. In the BMW alongside, Bernie gestured to her. She glanced back to see what he was pointing at. It was two giant moths, fluttering around each other near the wide, open hangar entrance. Bernie did a quick mime with his hands and pursed his lips, imitating a kiss – a courtship dance? Was that what he was trying to say?
‘Hello, Ginny!’ the car phone crackled. ‘Come in, Ginny, over.’
‘I’m here, Jeff. Over.’
‘Request more detail about caterpillars. Are they… widely scattered… loose pattern… close… or… thick? Over.’
‘Jeff, they’re close but in patches. Do you read me? Over.’
‘I read you, Ginny. Any change, let me know, please. Over.’
Just my bloody luck, Jeff thought. No fire tenders. No foam. No rescue services of any kind. And he only had to put his wheels where the caterpillars were thickest to risk spinning off the runway.
‘A bit like landing in slush,’ he said with a wink at Enoch. ‘Filthy, half-frozen, mucky slush.’
‘Landing gear,’ Pierre intoned.
‘Down,’ came Enoch’s voice. ‘Three greens.’
‘Anti-skid.’
(God, we’re going to need that!)
‘On. Four releases.’
‘Flaps,’ said Pierre.
‘Give me forty, please.’
‘Forty selected. Moving. Forty checked. Two greens.’
Ginny’s voice came urgently through his headset, cutting across Enoch’s response. He could sense the fear as she spoke.
‘Jeff, I can see moths. A thick swarm of moths just visible in the field glasses. You’ll fly into them. Over.’
‘Roger, Ginny. Can’t spot ’em yet, but…’ He glanced at the fuel. There was still enough in the tanks to roast them all alive. Time to speak the unthinkable. ‘Ginny – any problems when we land, you and Bernie stay well clear. Okay? Over and out.’
Pringle’s luck – it couldn’t be anything else! All his life it had dogged him. Everything would go like a dream, then when he least expected it –
Wham!
Dropped in the shit. Like that time he’d dumped a plane-load of holiday makers into a potato field, overshooting the runway for Chrissake! No one hurt save for cuts and bruises, and that stewardess who’d lost the baby she’d told no one she was expecting. Not even his own fault, as the Inquiry established beyond doubt. Could have happened to anyone, but it didn’t. Happened to him: Pringle’s luck.
They were spot on for a perfect touchdown. There was the runway straight ahead. Then he saw the moths, bloody thousands of them directly in his approach path.
‘Oh-oh!’ he heard Enoch murmur alertly.
Ginny held her breath. The Boeing was over the end of the runway, its wheels seemingly – from where she was parked – only inches above the ground when the roar of its engines coughed and faltered. Despite this, the great aircraft touched down elegantly and began to race along.
For a second she relaxed, until she realised the Boeing’s ground speed was not reducing and its engines still
produced desperate choking sounds. Then came silence as they finally cut out. It left the runway, skidding through almost ninety degrees across the grass until at last it did a kind of bellyflop and came to rest on the far side of the airfield.
‘Jeff, are you okay? Over.’ She shouted into the mouthpiece hysterically. ‘Jeff, for God’s sake say something. Over.’
‘Ginny, what’s happened?’ Alan’s voice broke through. ‘Are they okay?’
She examined the Boeing through the field glasses, only too aware that it might blow up at any moment. Jeff had warned them. But nothing was happening. The aircraft was on its belly on the grass, motionless.
‘Alan, I’m going over there to take a look. Keep trying him, will you? Over and out.’
Winding down her window just a crack, she briefly told Bernie what she intended before setting out, keeping at first to the taxiway. It was like driving over a carpet of caterpillars, the wheels crunching them to death and slithering over the green juice they extruded. Coming along behind her Bernie seemed to be in even greater difficulty, at one point skidding on to the grass.
He waved to her through the windscreen, trying to indicate that the grass might be the easier option. She joined him and they drove side by side. The ground was soft after all the heavy rain and their tyres left deep muddy ruts. Moths flew against the windows and windscreen; she used her washer and wipers to try and keep them out of her line of vision, but they never let up for a moment.
She
was the intruder, they seemed to be saying; there was no longer any hint of welcome in their interest.
Every few seconds Alan’s voice came thinly from the handset, begging for a response from the Boeing. Its radio remained silent, as if the whole plane had died.
Some twenty yards away from the aircraft she stopped
the car and called Alan to describe what she could see. They were not far from the extreme end of the runway. Through the expanse of grass the Boeing had gouged a long, wide causeway of mud before coming to a final stop. She could see no one at the windows; no movement of any kind.
But – just as she was about to finish – the outer skin to the rear of the aircraft began to bulge and shift. She took the field glasses and focussed on it.