John Halkin - Squelch

‘Those moths actually exist? That size? In the tropics perhaps — but here ?’

‘They match the ones I saw, so they obviously do exist. She was frightened, don’t you understand? Anyway, I must be off now. You’re the doctor, so you sort her out.’

Outside, it was raining again.

She had genuinely intended to pay Mrs Kinley a second visit, but what with one thing and another she never got round to it.

Jack, when she rang him from the call box in the village, turned out to be on the point of flying to Spain for a fortnight’s filming. Needed the money, he said cheerfully, after that massive penalty he’d had to pay for damaging the van. What about joining him for a few days on the sunny Costa del Sol? No? Well, he’d be in touch when he got back. Missed her though, he added.

When she mentioned it to Bernie, he didn’t think Mrs Kinley really expected to see her again. In his view, that one brief chat had amply served its purpose in restoring her self-confidence. Dr Sanderson, he implied — though he voiced no open criticism — had got her into such a state that she’d no longer felt sure whether what she remembered was dream or reality. And not only about the moths, either.

But if Ginny really wanted to go back, he suggested, there was no reason why she shouldn’t.

Before she could make up her mind, the man came to rewire the cottage. For the best part of a week she had to endure stale cigarette smoke, non-stop music from his cheap, tinny radio, and several clumsy attempts to chat her up. She was tied to the place, for she was certainly not going to leave him there on his own to poke around among her belongings. She tried to work, but ended up throwing away most of what she’d written on the witchcraft idea. The electrician’s undisguised curiosity irritated her.

But at last he finished and power was connected. She celebrated by opening every door and window to give the rooms a thorough airing, then drove into Lingford where she bought a trendy cream-coloured television and ordered some storage heaters. The telephone would take longer, they informed her when she called in to ask why nothing had happened yet. Six months at least, they estimated.

It rained most of the winter, though it was never really cold. She found herself beginning to long for the sun. And, of course, for a decent bathroom. She had to go to Lesley’s for a proper bath, which she was forced to share with the assortment of plastic ducks, fishes, submarines and other flotsam belonging to her three nieces. The only alternative was to strip off and wash in her own tiny lean-to kitchen.

One evening during a downpour she tucked her hair under a shower cap, clutched a new bar of soap and ventured out naked into the garden. The rain was bitterly cold and she was soon back in the cottage again, her teeth chattering. It took a good two hours in front of the fire and several large glasses of whisky before she could stop shivering.

But it was that same evening that the Great Idea for her television proposal came to her in a flash: her Road-Back-To-Success, she dubbed it in her own mind.

Moths, of course — why hadn’t she thought of it before?

She’d already made copious notes while working her way conscientiously through the fat books Lesley had brought her, and visited the British Museum of Natural History, but all that had been for her own satisfaction. The riddle of what her moths really were remained unanswered.

But the Great Idea was something quite different. Not a documentary — that would be too tedious and, in any case, she wasn’t a documentary person. No, this would be a six-part drama serial with top casting and centred on a village where on certain evenings the dead rose from the churchyard in the form of giant moths, not to haunt, but actually to take over from the living.

It needed a lot more development, naturally; in the meantime it would be best to keep her thoughts to herself, though she did try it out on Bernie next time she saw him. He was very encouraging.

In fact, during that winter Bernie took to dropping in occasionally on his way home, slipping off his jacket and sitting down for a quiet chat before — as he put it — plunging back into domesticity. And if Ginny didn’t mention these visits to Lesley, it was simply because she’d have hated her sister to get the wrong end of the stick.

Ginny lay on a rug on that patch of rough grass she called her lawn and browsed through House and Garden in search of inspiration. Somewhere beneath the other magazines was her abandoned bikini top. No one could overlook her here. That, she constantly reminded herself, was one of the joys of a country cottage.

The mild winter had given way to an almost tropical spring. A couple of weeks’ hot sunshine punctuated by short, heavy rain-showers had brought the whole countryside to life again. Her garden stirred with fresh green shoots and the first exploring insects. Its fruit trees were like brides in their veils of blossom.

She let the magazine slip from her fingers and turned on to her back, luxuriating in a sensation of well-being as the sun’s warm rays soaked into her. Her television proposal was ready and she had made an appointment to take it in person to a highly recommended London literary agent she’d met while still working on that tedious tea-time soap opera. On the whole she was satisfied with the way it had turned out. The character sketches were lively, she felt. The plot peaked in the right places. And the whole thing was visual , that was the main point.

Mm, it was so lovely lying in the sun after that damp, miserable winter. No wonder Bernie had said rheumatism was the commonest complaint among his patients.

She felt an odd, prickly movement on her tummy but took no notice of it at first. It persisted, as though someone were tickling her with a blade of grass. She opened her eyes, imagining for a second that someone must have crept up on her for a joke, though there had been no sound of a car. No one there. Raising herself on one elbow, she glanced down to see what it was.

‘Urgh!’ A shudder went through her, bringing gooseflesh. ‘ Oh hell —!’

A hideous green caterpillar was shuffling slowly across her abdomen just above the line of her bikini briefs. Oh God, she’d always hated caterpillars. Once when they were children Lesley had put a couple in her bed as a joke. Ginny had actually been in bed and had already said goodnight when she discovered them. The shock had been so great, she’d screamed hysterically, locking herself in the bathroom where she’d stayed until the family doctor was called. The sight of that hairy caterpillar on her skin brought it all back.

Now, Ginny Andrewes, be sensible! she told herself firmly. It can’t harm you.

She tried forcing herself to think about it calmly. Phobias took people in different ways. Some couldn’t stand spiders but she didn’t mind them. It was these long, hairy things she hated, like amputated fingers, but alive, undulating in every joint, able to squirm into any crevice in her body. Such as her navel.

Oh, not her navel, please !

The front end of the caterpillar moved around inquisitively while the rear remained stationary. Then it began to crawl forward, its little legs working rapidly as it circled around her navel, heading towards her ribs.

‘Oh, go away,’ she prayed. ‘Please go away.’

Almost as if in response, it turned and went back to its first position on the rounded swell of her abdomen. She should get rid of it, she knew. It needed only a little mental effort to overcome her scruples sufficiently to pick it up and fling it towards the bushes.

But what if it curled around her finger? What if it clung to her?