John Halkin - Squelch

He twisted in his seat, trying to follow it, only to meet it face on. It seemed as startled as he was himself and began circling his head, uttering a series of piercing squeals. His eyes! He had been so taken up with observing it, he’d quite forgotten about the goggles and scarf which were still in the house.

The burning fluid squirted into his eyes even as he brought up his arm to protect himself. The agony was unendurable. Despite himself he let out a long, broken bellow, clasping his head in both hands, doubling up on the deck chair until he fell forward on to his knees and began rolling on the hard paving.

Other pains attacked him now. On his legs… on his wrists… But the most intense was that acid corroding his eyes, eating slowly into the nerve ends, freeing his mind through the exquisite torture of his body. Fleeting images came to him now, tumbling madly through his shifting awareness. His wife Alice when they were young, smiling at him with Ginny’s eyes; then her older, drawn face against that hospital pillow; twenty years dead, yet her smile was so peaceful, so understanding.

She’d understand about Ginny, wouldn’t she?

The Chief Inspector gave Ginny a lift to St Botolph’s vicarage where she had left her car. On her lap she held the gauze mask, stiff in parts with dried moth-saliva. Her salmon jeans, newly bought from the little Lingford boutique, were now stained and filthy, as was the rainproof blouson. Overalls would have been more sensible, she thought wearily.

‘Thank you for your help, Miss Andrewes,’ the Chief Inspector said, breaking the silence. They had probably both felt too worn out to want to talk. ‘It hasn’t been a pleasant experience for any of us, but we are grateful. I’d like you to know that.’

She nodded. What was there to say?

Half of those they had rescued from the church had died before reaching hospital. Of the rest, only two or three seemed likely to survive. One — thank God! — was the little girl she’d found.

‘The attacks are spreading, aren’t they?’ she asked abruptly. ‘Almost like a planned campaign.’

‘Oh, I doubt if it’s planned,’ the Chief Inspector disagreed. He was a blunt, businesslike man, probably not yet forty. In some ways he reminded her of Jeff, though he was taller, with boxer’s shoulders. ‘Think of it like greenfly. They cluster in some trees, not in others. We’ll get on top of it, there’s no doubt about that.’

‘I wonder,’ she said.

As if to reinforce her fears, the Lingford Control Room called up the Chief Inspector on the car’s radio to report a major incident in South Croydon, the first in a built-up area. She looked at him queryingly as he acknowledged the message and replaced the microphone, but he only shook his head thoughtfully, making no comment.

The old Georgian vicarage came into sight. Her shabby little Renault stood where she had left it, though no longer in the shade. He drew up alongside to let her out.

‘You’ll excuse me if I rush on,’ he said briefly, leaning across her to open the door. ‘I’m sure you understand. And thank you again.’

Ginny unlocked the Renault and tossed the beekeeping hat and mask on to the passenger seat. She was about to get in when she remembered it would be only polite to say hello to the Reverend Davidson. Of course he’d offer her tea or even a drink, so she’d have to make it clear right away that she couldn’t stop. There was something rather pathetic about the way he couldn’t keep his hands to himself. Thank God she wasn’t a choir boy, she thought wickedly, suddenly grinning.

‘Hello!’ she called cheerfully. ‘Mr Davidson?’

She went directly around to the back garden, feeling sure that was where he’d be. Her unexpected vision of him with the choir boys continued to amuse her; she laughed aloud, though it was probably very unfair to him, the poor man. Nor was it very funny, she told herself severely, failing to prevent another laugh bursting out. It was the relief after all those hours spent with the dead and dying. A whiff of hysteria as the spring wound down. She tried to get a grip on herself.

‘Mr Davidson? Are you there?’

Rounding the corner, she saw in one glance what had occurred. The Reverend Davidson lay on the paved area nearest the house. Around him were fragments of a smashed glass. A foot or so away stood an empty deck chair with a low garden table next to it.

Ginny still had the goggles in her pocket. She paused long enough to put them on, together with her bloodstained gloves, then hurried over to investigate. Two caterpillars were busy on his legs; their hindquarters protruded, dripping blood, from the bottoms of his black clerical trousers. Opening the clasp knife Jeff had lent her, she ripped open the seams on both legs; then, one by one, she disposed of the caterpillars.

Some blood trickled down his forearm — his sleeves were rolled up — but that might not have been caused by a caterpillar. There was certainly no sign of one. She tore both sleeves, then checked the legs again, ripping the trousers high above his white, knobbly knees, but found nothing more. His eyes had that terrible bloodshot look she’d noticed on the victims in the church.

Miraculously he was still alive, groaning and muttering to himself in that strange delirium she had first known when Lesley was attacked. Moving the plate away from the low table, she managed to prop him up on it, then catch him when he slumped forward over her shoulder as she half-knelt in front of him.

Gradually she stood up, staggering under his weight, though compared with Lesley he was quite frail and nowhere near as heavy. Holding on to him grimly, praying that she wouldn’t drop him, she succeeded in getting him into the house.

As he had explained to her during her first visit, he lived these days mostly on the ground floor, the old vicarage being far too big for him. His bed was in the front room. With relief she let him fall back against the pillows, then stood up to rub her shoulder, wondering if she’d dislocated it.

The wounds on his legs were wet with blood. Using Jeff’s clasp knife she tore several strips from one of the sheets and bound them up before telephoning for an ambulance. It took her five minutes to get through, only to be told there would be a long wait and couldn’t she bring the patient in herself?

‘Ginny…’

His voice was weak, the syllables only half-formed, yet she definitely heard him call her name.

‘Yes, that’s right. I’m here.’ She bent over him as he mumbled something else which she couldn’t understand. ‘I’ll get some water. Clean you up a bit.’

She fetched the water in a tall enamel jug which stood beside the tap. Back in his makeshift bedroom, she removed her blouson top and pushed up her blouse sleeves.

‘Now let’s get some of this muck off your face,’ she said, though she’d no way of telling whether he understood or not. ‘Just lie still now and let me do it. There’s no need to worry now. You’ll be looked after.’

With a piece of sheet as a face flannel she patiently wiped away some of the dried moth-saliva. His skin was inflamed.

‘Liz,’ he pronounced suddenly, and it sounded terribly urgent. ‘Liz… liz… liz…’

‘She’s someone you know, is she? Liz?’

‘Liz…’ He drew in a deep, uneven breath. ‘… ard…’

‘Lizard?’

He seemed to relax, his eyelids quivering as though he wanted to close them but couldn’t. Should she wash his eyes, she wondered. They were so hideous and she was scared of doing anything wrong. She dabbed them gently and he shuddered violently as though in severe pain, so she desisted, still uncertain. Perhaps she should ring the hospital, or Bernie, and ask advice.