John Halkin - Squelch

‘Mark, you’re only eleven years old,’ the vicar had informed him patiently, as if he didn’t know already. ‘You’ll understand better when you’re older.’

But he had the answer to that one ready. ‘The children of this world are in their generation wiser than the children of light,’ he’d quoted triumphantly, leaving the vicar flummoxed.

They’d been doing Luke in scripture at school and he’d had to write that bit out a hundred times for talking in class.

He was not a bad old stick, the vicar. At least everyone knew he was a vicar, not like that trendy curate they had last year who fancied himself as a lead guitarist and went round in leathers, scaring the old ladies with his motorbike. A real flop, that one. No, if you’ve got to be a vicar you may as well be a real one, and he talked about those Bible stories as if they genuinely happened, which was good.

Mark stared around the church while the vicar’s voice droned on, reading prayers out of a book. Praying is talking to God, the scripture teacher had told them; he hadn’t mentioned reading. Last year his class had done a project on this church, how Oliver Cromwell’s men had smashed everything up, the bits they hadn’t pinched. He’d told Debs about it, adding a dash of gory detail to ‘fill out the background’ — something his English teacher was always rabbiting on about — and she’d cried, so he’d got into trouble over that as well.

It was the twelfth commandment: Whatever thou shalt do wilt land thee in the shit. Amen.

Above the pulpit was a canopy — Victorian, he’d learned from the project — and something was moving just above it. He nudged Debs to point it out, forgetting for a second that his mother sat next to him now. He pointed all the same, but she pursed her lips, shaking her head in disapproval.

‘A bird,’ he whispered.

It flew over to the choir stalls, landing on the decorative stone tracery (15th century: he’d got a mark for that) and a sunbeam from the stained glass window fell on its outspread wings.

‘Mum, it’s a butterfly!’ he breathed, nudging her again with his elbow. ‘A big one — look!’

His mother saw it and nodded, putting her finger to her lips as a warning to him not to continue chattering, but he noticed her eyes were on the butterfly now.

The next hymn was announced and the congregation stood up, fumbling through their books as the organ played the first few chords. The choir prepared to start, but once again Mrs Thompson beat them to it with a loud vibrato note.

Then she faltered and her note rose in pitch to become a high, raucous scream which brought out gooseflesh all over him. Everyone turned round.

‘What’s the matter with her?’ Mum demanded anxiously, stretching up on her toes to peer over the heads of the other worshippers. ‘Can you see?’

Mark scrambled on to the pew but not even Mrs Thompson’s hat was visible any longer. ‘Maybe she’s sitting down, Mum!’ he shouted, jumping up and down on the seat for a better view.

‘Mark, will you get down!’ his mother scolded him in her best I-can-take-no-more manner. He always thought she laid it on a bit thick. ‘I don’t know what people will think. You’re scratching the seat.’

‘No, I’m not!’ he defended himself cheerfully. Why did she have to make a fuss now ? ‘I’ve got my trainers on. See? The marks’ll come off.’

Over the dark, stained wood of the pew his footprints were clearly visible. He sat down and rubbed his bottom over them, wiping them away with the seat of his jeans.

Meanwhile all attempt to sing the hymn had been abandoned and the vicar had come down to enquire what was wrong. The buzz of conversation was loud, but Mark definitely heard someone say Mrs Thompson was on the floor under a pew.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, if you would kindly sit…’

The vicar’s words were drowned by a terrible, shrill wailing, worse than the banshees in that play the Sixth Form had put on. Then came a shriek from someone else which echoed through the parish church, and echoed again till the sound was coming from every side.

‘I’m going to find out what’s happening,’ Mum said firmly, pushing past him. ‘You two children stay here. D’you hear me, Mark?’

They had forgotten the big butterfly, but now there it was again, fluttering close to Mum’s hair. Then it flew straight into her face. She tried brushing it away — Mark saw her arm go up defensively — but it was joined by a second, also making deliberately for her eyes.

‘Mum!’

Mark climbed over the pews to get to her, knowing somehow he had to reach her before they blinded her. They were everywhere — three of them now… no, FOUR ! It was as if they wanted to peck her eyes out, but butterflies couldn’t do that, could they? Not like birds?

‘Mark!’ Her voice didn’t sound natural, but was more like a little girl’s. A little frightened girl. ‘MARK! HELP ME!’

Before he could get to her he saw one butterfly spit directly at her. The stuff came out in a stream, splashing across her face, and she was yelling with pain. He tried to wipe it away with her hankie, but it was in her eyes which were already bloodshot and bulging. Then another one spat at her, and some of it went on his face too.

Desperately he looked around, but the air was swarming with them. Somewhere he could hear Debs crying for him and he called out, but he couldn’t leave his mother now. He pulled off his shirt and wrapped it loosely around her head and face in an attempt to protect her from more attacks. Suddenly he heard a loud squeaking coming at him, like his bike wheel when it needed oiling, and a gob of spittle landed in his eyes.

Oh Jesus Christ, it hurt!

As if it was burning his eyeballs out!

He felt his knees give way… the impact of the hard pew against his skull as he fell… the softness of his mother’s body as he sprawled across her, her shrieks tearing at his heart…

A whole chorus of those squeaks was all around him, but Mark was in a grey half-world of his own already. Pain, burning into him like trickling acid, corroding his flesh… Must not give way : the moment of clarity came and went again. Something was crawling up his leg, gripping his skin with sharp needle-stabs. His face, too: he had a sudden, surreal vision of a cultivator blade cutting into the softness of his cheek.

Screaming, begging for the torturers to stop, he’d give them anything, pay any price…

What torturers? He realised it in a flash — hadn’t he seen it all on TV — those nature films — that great chain of feeding and being food? It was one second of lucid thought only, then the waves came up inside his head, and his life dissolved into blackening mist.

‘… are in their generation wiser than…’

Before leaving St Botolph’s Ginny fetched her own safety gear, such as it was, out of the little Renault and transferred it into Jeff’s larger car. While he drove, she struggled into her rainproof blouson jacket which she’d chosen because she could zip it right up to her neck and it had tight elastic around her wrists. Over it she wore the beekeeper’s hat and mask from Bernie together with the Reverend Davidson’s goggles. Despite it all, she felt far from secure.

‘It’s the headgear we must do something about,’ Jeff commented critically as he swung the Range Rover too fast around a tight bend and narrowly missed ending up with his wheels in a ditch. ‘Have you noticed, they go for the head and neck when they can?’

She disagreed. ‘I think they attack any exposed skin, it doesn’t matter where on the body, so long as they can sense the blood underneath.’

‘Feel the pulse, d’you mean?’

‘Not necessarily. More like dowsing: water-divining.’