John Halkin - Squelch

‘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.’

‘The caterpillars would follow them,’ Ginny stated her opinion bluntly. ‘They’ll not stay behind without food.’

‘We’re thinking along the same lines, Ginny. I favour leaving the food supply where it is. It’s the best way to contain the problem.’

‘By “food supply”,’ the Reverend Davidson intervened, his disapproval undisguised, ‘you presumably mean human beings.’

‘Myself included,’ he pointed out. ‘However, what in fact they’re planning is nothing less than chemical warfare. Large-scale spraying to start at dawn tomorrow. People will be warned to stay indoors and keep their windows closed.’

The old man shook his head sadly.

‘That means killing everything!’ Ginny exclaimed as the full import of his words sank in. ‘Most insects, anyway. Birds will be poisoned, crops will have to be destroyed, and there are bound to be human casualties too, whatever the precautions.’

‘Now you understand why I’m telling you,’ Jeff said calmly. ‘I don’t like it any more than you do, but what other solution is there? People are dying. Well over a hundred already.’

The bleeper at his belt began to sound suddenly, cutting into the moment of terrible silence which had followed his words. He asked the Reverend Davidson if he could use his telephone and followed him through to a room at the front of the vicarage, leaving Ginny alone.

She examined the map again, comparing it with the photocopied pages of ‘sightings’, as the attacks were euphemistically headed. Thank God Lesley had taken Phuong and the girls off to Wiltshire, well from the caterpillars’ hunting grounds. Because that’s what the map was indicating — hunting grounds , with human beings as the prey.

When the Reverend Davidson did not return immediately, she decided to go back into the work station to take another look at their captive moth. Once again — as on the previous night — she found it poised close to the glass with its wings spread out to their full span, as if wishing to dazzle her with their magnificence.

(And hadn’t they succeeded on their very first encounter when they had swarmed in her garden to welcome her?)

If only she dared reach inside the tank to grab it and crumple it to fragments in her hand! Or trample on that tubby little body… squelch it under her boot…

Remembering how it was moths just like this which had actually conned her into admiring them, loving them even, she hated it all the more vehemently.

‘Ginny! Ah, there you are!’ Jeff came into me room, his face grim. ‘Prison visiting, I see.’

‘You could call it that.’ Obviously he too thought of them as more than mere insects.

‘Listen, I must go. There’s been another mass attack. On a church this time, during morning service. God knows how many people hurt.’

‘I’ll come with you!’ she blurted out without hesitation. Then a quick picture of yesterday’s nightmare flashed into her mind. ‘I may not be much use but —’

‘Rubbish! Of course you must come. The more experience we both acquire with these things, the better.’ He stopped to stare past her in astonishment. ‘Maggie Thatcher, look at that!’

Inside the glass tank the moth had become suddenly agitated. It flew up against the net in repeated attempts to get out, emitting a stream of urgent squeaks which sounded like desperate calls for help.

‘Oh dear! Excuse me!’ the Reverend Davidson exclaimed, pushing between them. He took a rectangle of hardboard from the heap of oddments under the bench and placed it on top of the tank. Almost immediately, the moth calmed down, settling on the bottom. ‘That cuts out the light, but unfortunately deprives it of air at the same time. I’ll not be able to leave it there too long.’

‘As if it understood!’ Ginny observed, fascinated.

‘Holy, holy, holy…’ the congregation of St Michael’s sang that Sunday morning, led — for her voice was a half-beat ahead of the rest — by Mrs Thompson, a confident soprano, from her regular pew towards the rear of the church.

‘Two full backs and a goalie!’ Mark joined in solemnly, nudging his sister Debs.

She giggled.

‘Will you two children behave yourselves?’ their mother hissed at them, red-faced with annoyance.

Mark put on his most earnest face and took another sideways look at his sister who was pressing her lips together trying not to laugh. Then he raised his eyebrows, imitating the vicar, and the laughter spluttered out of her despite herself.

Their mother looked daggers at them. He felt her hand grip his shoulder and — still singing the hymn — she steered him in front of her until by the A-a-amen she had succeeded in placing herself between them. As they sat down he realised the vicar’s gaze was on him. He knew what that probably meant — another talking-to, probably about showing respect in the House of God.

‘You mean God doesn’t want people to laugh?’ he’d argued last time, outraged at the idea. ‘Funny sort of God if you can’t laugh!’