John Halkin - Squelch

They had removed all the caterpillars when Ginny noticed a wave-like movement on her bloodstained blouse. Tearing the flimsy material back, she discovered two more grubbing into her. Horrified, Ginny took a grip on them, one in each hand, and slowly drew them out through her punctured skin. At that very moment, the old woman’s body suddenly went limp.

‘She’s gone,’ the younger man said after pulling off his glove to feel for a pulse. ‘She wouldn’t have made it anyway.’

Ginny destroyed both caterpillars thoroughly, rubbing their tough bloated bodies against the edge of the trestle table until they tore open, spilling out their red-green fluid over her stained gloves. Her concentration was so intense that she didn’t at first notice the moths.

‘Christ Almighty, look at ’em!’ someone exclaimed.

They flew out through the open church door in a dense, fluttering cloud, hundreds of them endlessly streaming into the bright sunshine. Ginny stepped back in a mindless fear that left her shuddering from head to toe, thinking they were coming straight towards her. But — still moving as one — they climbed and wheeled in the direction of the close cluster of houses in the lower village.

There — well, they were hardly more than a smudge in the sky, so she couldn’t be too certain, but didn’t she see them gradually settling over those rooftops?

The Reverend Brian Davidson took the anorak which Ginny had worn and returned it to the garden shed. No doubt she would start preying on his mind again just as she’d done after her first visit, keeping him awake far into the night. His fault of course, not hers: she didn’t even realise she was doing it, naturally. Yet she was.

A silly old man, people would call him if they knew. His parishioners, particularly. Yet there was something in her manner which keyed into his own moods so exactly, it was impossible to deny it. Her face, too — so beautiful, he caught his breath each time he looked at her. The turn of her mouth, that quick warm contact with her eyes… oh yes, even her short, untidy blonde hair which betrayed a carelessness about her appearance which he found attractive…

In fact, a very stupid old man: though he could not help himself. This was his thorn in the flesh. He was in love. Dazzled by her. Not that she gave him a second thought, but that didn’t matter. These modern girls wanted young bodies, not decrepit seventy-year-olds. How long had it been now since his last little adventure? Ten years? With what’s-her-name — the one with brown eyes and thick lips at that lepidopterist conference in Dorchester… But that was different; that wasn’t love.

Humming to himself — a hymn tune, though he couldn’t imagine why — he set out a deck chair in the shade at the side of the house, then went inside to fetch Sunday tea: a segment of game pie, salad and a glass of McEwan’s Export. He placed the tray on a low garden table beside the deck chair and sat down. The pie was still cold from the fridge, so he left it a moment. In this heat nothing was cold for long.

Perhaps it was the weather, he mused. He’d always been more susceptible to women in the warmer months.’ Because they wear less, his wife had once told him. Scornfully, he remembered, God rest her soul. Strange to think that even in old age he should miss her bodily. In any case, her explanation was obviously wrong. Any randy male moth could tell her that. No, with moths it was temperature, so why not humans too?

None of which explained why at over seventy he should fall in love again. And go through hell again, no doubt.

He tasted the pie. It was now warmer so he began to eat, chewing carefully as he had to these days. Bodily functions deteriorated until they were an insult to dignity. Yet — he wondered — if Ginny were to respond, how would he get on with her? Would that bodily function too let him down?

King David, the Bible reported, was given a new surge of energy by the introduction of a nubile young woman into his bed. Maybe that’s what the National Health should prescribe instead of all these pills and injections.

She’d laugh of course, he knew that. Laugh in his face at the first move. Yet if he took it gently… perhaps…?

In the shade of the house, somewhere among the mass of plant pots, he noticed a quick movement. He put down his glass to watch more closely. Minutes passed without anything happening but he could wait. He kept absolutely still.

Then another quick movement, and the flash of something — brown, was it? Like a long, thin tail. Not a rat… no, not a cord-like tail but more…

Again, only this time he saw feet.

In all the years he’d lived in Surrey, he’d never once seen a lizard, yet there could be no doubt that was what it was. As always, his field glasses were within reach on the low table. Moving very slowly, he picked them up and brought them to his eyes. About six inches long, he judged, ribbed brown with a long tapering tail. As he watched, its tongue flickered out to catch a housefly which must have been even more surprised by the lizard’s presence than he was.

This near-tropical temperature must be responsible, he assumed, although that didn’t explain where the lizard had come from. If only he had his camera to hand!

He was so fascinated by the lizard, he didn’t at first notice the caterpillar. It was poised on the window sill, about half-way along, the whole front portion of its body raised in the air like a green sphinx. Immediately below it were the plant pots.

It dipped its head again and began to crawl vertically down the brick wall until — more rapidly than he had imagined possible — it reached the nearest pot.

Attracted by the seedlings, he thought as he watched. He focussed the field glasses on it. Those little black eyes seemed so intent on what it was doing as its head turned this way and that, he felt sure it hadn’t even noticed him. If Ginny was right about them sensing blood, over what sort of distance would the information carry?

The caterpillar didn’t even pause at the seedlings. It made a steady progress around the edge of the pot, then on to the next rim, and from there on to the third which was directly above the spot where the lizard was lurking.

The lizard swung around so quickly, he hardly even saw the movement. In the same instant, the long green caterpillar dropped down, brushing the lizard’s back. A rapid twisting and tumbling followed; then they froze, facing each other.

What he saw next was something any naturalist would give ten years of his life to observe. What wouldn’t Gilbert White have written about that struggle! The lizard’s tongue shot out to seize this new prize, but the caterpillar was far too hefty and had weapons of its own. Recoiling, the lizard seemed on the point of running away; instead, it made a stand.

Why?

Did it instinctively realise this was one enemy which had to be defeated whatever the cost? Or was it merely too greedy to let such a fat, delicious caterpillar escape? If so, that was a mistake.

Darting forward, the lizard renewed its attack only to find the caterpillar suddenly pinning it down, its mandibles working into the loose neck-skin while its two rear claspers held the victim steady.

Through his field glasses he followed every move until the lizard was left dead and mutilated on the stone paving. So absorbed was he by every detail of the fight, he forgot the risk to himself. Even when he realised that one of those giant moths was hovering over his beer glass not a foot away from him he was still oblivious of the danger, despite all Ginny had told him.

Only few moths were visible in daylight, he mused. Until now he’d assumed — from what he’d heard — that this was not one of them. He waited, hoping it would settle on the rim of the glass; instead, it fluttered down to his plate, and then moved off somewhere behind his deck chair.