Authors: John Halkin
They both fell silent, regarding each other sullenly. He was right of course, she knew that much; if only she hadn’t fallen in love with him she’d have accepted staying in the spare room with no argument. He suggested phoning around to a few people to find out what was happening in the village – but who? The local constable would have been the obvious man, but he was dead. So was the vicar, and the scout master; and Johnson who ran the garage had lost his wife.
‘What about the woman from the Garden Centre?’
‘Mrs Agnew? She’s one of those in hospital. I don’t want to upset people more than necessary, so we have to choose someone fairly level-headed.’
In the end he risked a call to the landlord of the Plough. His two nephews who had been staying with him had both been killed, but at least he was known as a hard, sensible sort of man, not easily upset. As it turned out, no one answered.
‘I’m going to the cottage,’ Ginny stated firmly, downing the rest of her drink in one gulp. ‘A phone call
first to Jeff Pringle about tomorrow, then I’m off.’
She found his number in her diary, dialled it and got a recording machine which instructed her to leave her message after the tone. The tone never came. Eventually there was a click, then the line went dead.
‘So much for that,’ she said, turning back to Bernie. She began to unbutton her blouse. ‘Don’t get too excited. I’m consulting you now as a doctor. That stuff the moths spat at me seems to have left a bit of a rash. It’s patchy, where it soaked through the T-shirt.’
‘Does it hurt at all?’
‘No.’
‘Itchy?’
‘It was smarting a little in the bath. Like sunburn.’
‘What about your back?’
She slipped out of the blouse. ‘Much the same, isn’t it?’
‘Mm.’ He swivelled her around again and she felt her nipples hardening under his gaze, yearning for him to touch them. ‘You can get dressed now. I’m going to give you some calamine cream to use when you get home. But I’d like to see you again tomorrow.’
‘Any time, doctor,’ she murmured ironically.
He was gone for almost five minutes. When he returned he had with him a selection of protective gear to wear during the drive to the cottage: a hat each, with a loose gauze face mask of the type beekeepers use, gauntlet gloves and rubber surgical gloves for underneath them. He helped her put them on.
‘Thanks.’ With that gauze in front of her face she could not even kiss him goodnight, she thought. It made her feel unusually virtuous. ‘Should we go?’
He opened the front door. Before he could object, she had already stepped outside ahead of him. The night was uncannily quiet, as though holding its breath. Gripping an aerosol pesticide spray in one hand, she stepped
cautiously on to the driveway. Somewhere in those deep shadows she was convinced the caterpillars must be lurking.
Bernie was only a pace or two behind her. When she got to her car he shone his flashlight inside, searching even under the seats to make certain it was safe. Ginny squirted pesticide into the likely corners, but nothing moved.
‘Okay, I’ll get in and start the engine,’ she decided at last. ‘But, Bernie, promise me you’ll be careful checking the Mini. Don’t skimp it, there’s no hurry. Flash your lights when you’re ready.’
‘You fuss too much, sister-in-law.’ As an attempt to make a light remark it failed.
‘Lesley doesn’t want to lose you,’ she retorted.
Nor do I, she added to herself, silently.
It seemed like eternity before the Mini’s lights flashed. She breathed a sigh of relief as she engaged first gear and slipped off the handbrake. So far, so good: the caterpillars were leaving them alone. The air was clear in the headlights too, as though every single insect had agreed to desert the village that night, giant moths included. Perhaps with all the pesticide they had used it was not surprising, though she found it hard to believe.
‘No, I doubt if that’s the reason,’ she said aloud, more to keep her courage up than anything. ‘They’re unpredictable, it’s no more than that. Round the next corner – who knows?’
The narrow lane with its overhanging trees was an obvious danger spot. The farther she drove along it, doing no more than 15 mph, the keener became her doubts about the wisdom of returning to the cottage. All that picturesque greenery around it seemed now like a death trap. At every sound she wondered whether those curled up caterpillars weren’t dropping on to the car roof.
She drew up on her usual spot, marked by the oil patch,
and turned the engine off but left her headlights on. The Mini arrived almost immediately after her. Getting out, she hurried over to speak to Bernie.
‘No, stay in the car, love,’ she told him. ‘I’ve worked out exactly what to do. I’m going into the cottage and if everything is okay I’ll give you a wave.’
‘And if not?’
‘Don’t even think about it,’ she said.
Unlocking the front door, she pushed it partly open and stepped inside, every sense alert. A faint odour of pesticide lingered on the air from Jeff Pringle’s spraying; otherwise everything seemed quite normal. Raising her arm slowly, she groped in the dark for the light switch, half-expecting to see giant moths poised on the furniture waiting for her. But no: there was nothing.
She closed the front door again, then turned on the kitchen light, checking all the obvious places. That evening there was not even a cockroach to be seen. And upstairs was the same: no trace of an insect of any kind.
Going to the downstairs window she waved to Bernie in the Mini. He flashed his lights in acknowledgement and slowly drove away.
The sight of her files on the sideboard reminded her that she should really sit down to write her notes on all that had occurred during that terrible day, but she just couldn’t face it. Instead, she cleaned her teeth perfunctorily at the kitchen sink, then went up to the bedroom.
Before getting undressed she hesitated for a second. In that flimsy nightdress she knew she’d feel so vulnerable, she’d never be able to sleep. She chose her most sensible pyjamas instead, tucking the top firmly into the elastic waistband, catching the reflection of herself in the dark window as she did so. Perhaps she should draw the curtains, she thought: but then she’d only wonder what was lurking behind them.
It was then she saw the giant moth. Brushing against the window from the outside, it fluttered briefly, then landed, flattening its wings against the glass. She recognised those velvety colours again – the browns, and purple, and rich pools of red.
Attracted by the light, obviously – yet did she have the steel nerves it needed to switch off and lie there in the dark? It took all the will-power she could summon up. She arranged her torch and the aerosol can side by side on the bedside table, then stretched out and pressed the switch, plunging the room into darkness.
One thing was certain, Elaine thought as she lay on the bed trying to fan herself with that old copy of the
Daily Mirror
she’d picked up. Wherever he was, Kit had gone for good. Like his father. Like
her
father, come to that.
Like every man she’d ever known. It was something that got into them. They just had to keep on moving. Couldn’t settle, least of all with her.
It had caught Kit younger than most. Hardly twelve he’d been when he disappeared. Seven months ago, was it? Well, he’d never get in touch, that was for sure. Of course she’d expected it to happen one day; not so soon though. Kit had always clung to her more than other boys might have done; not many friends in spite of always going on about Lenny and the gang. He’d never really been what you could call popular. He’ll stick it at home till he’s sixteen, she’d once forecast confidently when talking to the women in the canteen. Sixteen, that’s the tricky age.
Twelve.
She no longer worried so much. Whatever he’d gone through had happened by now. Probably living in some hostel under a false name like that boy she’d seen on the telly. Male prostitution, that’s what they said went on. What men saw in
that
, she couldn’t imagine. Dirty
buggers. But the shock would be over, like a road accident. All he had to do now was survive.
Though with any luck, that might not have been it at all. What if he’d been picked up by some woman who fancied little boys? A fat woman, over forty, smelling of powder between her flabby boobs. That sort of thing existed; she’d read about it.
Jesus, it was hot!
She refolded me
Mirror
, trying to make it into a more effective fan, but it fell apart, the sheets slipping on to the floor. Sighing, she heaved herself off the bed and went barefoot down to the kitchen where she held a flannel under the tap, then wiped it over her face and neck to cool down.
It was the fault of that tree outside the bedroom window. Thicker than ever this year. It stopped the breeze getting through so the room got hotter than she’d ever known it. Tapped the glass too when a real wind got up, like some bloody ghost trying to get in.
Bending her head, she squeezed the flannel out over the back of her neck. God, that did her good! She could feel the heat just oozing out of her. Again she soaked the flannel and put it on her neck, closing her eyes at the sheer pleasure of it.
Wet her nightie too, so she drew it off over her head and spread it over the maiden to dry. People laughed at her, having one of those old maidens, but there was nothing more useful.
Going back towards the stairs she became suddenly self-conscious about her nakedness. Not ashamed – no, nothing like that. She straightened her shoulders, stepped proudly, imagining some man playing Peeping Tom at the window. She’d have something to show him!
Who should it be now? Fred, the landlord at the Pigeons, had quite an eye for her, with more than a touch of genuine intent behind his banter. Sense of humour as
well; she liked a sense of humour in a man. Then what about the local constable – she’d caught him eyeing her. Those evenings after Kit vanished he’d sat down there night after night supping tea.
Back in the bedroom she stood briefly by the window, almost wishing somebody
would
stare in at her. Make a change after all those years. Here she was, thirty-five getting on for thirty-six, and it was over ten years since any man had touched her. Not that plenty hadn’t wanted to – or
said
they did, anyhow – but there’d always been Kit to think of.
She dropped back on to the bed, stretching herself out to stay as cool as she could. Three men was all she’d ever had, she reflected calmly, which must be well below the national average for a woman of her age. The full what’s-it, like; not counting the fumbles. The first was Bill out in the shed, only he went to Manchester. Then that soldier after a dance who gave her his mate’s name instead of his own, only she didn’t let on she knew.
Then Trevor who got her pregnant, so she married him. When he went off without saying, leaving her with a two-year-old kid, she’d sworn that was it –
finito
! No more bloody men were going to meddle in her life.
But now?
She ran her hands down over her smooth skin, enjoying the sensation. Perhaps if she got the doctor to put her on the Pill. Indulge herself, why not? Men did, and she could be just as much a bastard when it suited her.
Her foot was itchy, so she pulled her leg up to rub it. Her fingers touched something unexpected: a thick, hairy lump over her toes. Then the pain sliced into her, aiming with a terrible precision into the soft flesh between the big toe and the rest.
‘Shit!’ Walking barefoot through the cottage she’d picked up some kind of insect, she realised. But what the hell could it be?
‘Oh, Jesus Christ!’
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?
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 him 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 from 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.’