Squelch (18 page)

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 went 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?

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 stopped 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.