John Halkin - Squelch

As she leaned over him her forearm brushed against his hand and his fingers immediately closed over her wrist.

‘Gin…’

‘Yes, it’s Ginny.’

‘Gin… liz…’

‘Is Liz your daughter?’

The suggestion seemed to upset him, but his voice croaked so in his throat; it was difficult to grasp what he wanted.

‘I’ll get some drinking water,’ she told him. ‘I’m sorry I’m such a bad nurse forgetting it. I should have given you a drink to start with.’

She eased his fingers away from her wrist, but immediately he started producing a hurried gibberish as though he didn’t want her to go.

‘I’ll be back!’ she said tenderly. On an impulse, she stooped to kiss him on the side of the mouth just below the line left by the moth-saliva. ‘Shan’t be a sec!’

Before she could leave the room the old man began to fight for breath, groaning as he gulped in great draughts of air, one after the other without pause, until suddenly he let go. There was a slight whistling sound to be heard as the air slowly left his lungs, in pitch not unlike the squealing of the moths. She stood by him, unwilling to believe what was happening. She tried to find a pulse. When she didn’t succeed she blamed her own clumsiness and hunted for a glass to hold to his lips. No sign of breathing.

He was dead, she repeated to herself, squatting on her heels at the bedside, not knowing what to do next. Having seen what people do in the movies she attempted to close his eyes with her finger and thumb, but the eyelids resisted her, then sprang open again.

There was only one thing she could do. Picking up the phone again from among the clutter on the bedside table, she began to work her way through the four or five numbers where she might find Bernie.

It was late afternoon by the time she got back to her own village. She sensed the unnatural, haunted air as she drove through. There were more people about now, for the most part in small groups of two or three walking away from the church where the Bishop of Lingford had been taking the service of — well, how they had described it she didn’t know. Certainly not ‘thanksgiving’; and who would wish to remember the events of yesterday?

A service of survival: that would be the best name. She caught a glimpse of the bishop’s limousine driving away, but there was none of the usual gossiping among the departing congregation. No one appeared to be talking. They were all lost in their own thoughts, or else watching out for the first signs of another attack.

She had intended driving directly to Bernie’s house for a bath. Passing the church she changed her mind and took the road leading to the cottage. She needed to be alone, she realised; at least for the next few hours. Her hands shook on the wheel as she turned into the lane.

In any case, Bernie might not be back yet, she thought illogically. In every way it was better she went to her own cosy home where she could feel secure.

Trying to track him down by telephone from the vicarage had proved abortive. The hospital didn’t know where he was but had given her a number for Jameela. She had then called the golf club and a couple of Bernie’s friends, still without finding him, so in the end she’d rung Jameela after all who had said she’d take everything in hand and Ginny was to wait at the vicarage until someone turned up. Rather than remain in the same room as the dead man, she had gone into the work station, thinking she might use the time to examine the specimen moth they had caught that morning. She had found the cage empty. The hardboard had been removed, and there was a long tear in the double netting over the top.

At the cottage she sat for a few moments in the car, too exhausted to get out. The thoughts tumbled through her mind. Nothing made any sense.

Before opening the car door she struggled into the stained blouson once more and reached for the hat and mask. Whatever was waiting for her out there, she was going to be ready for it. No way was she going to end up like the Reverend Davidson.

Getting out of the car she was struck by the silence. None of the usual birdsong was to be heard, nor the hum of insects. On the flower bed beneath the cottage window lay a dead thrush, yet no ants or midges swarmed around it as she might have expected. Jeff’s spraying must have taken a terrible toll.

In the cottage itself she explored every corner before she felt confident enough to take off her gloves and mask. It was exactly as she’d left it, quite untouched by all that had happened. Unreal, even. She switched on the radio to bring a bit of life into the place, but after the events of that day it all sounded so futile. She preferred silence.

Yet — what next? Eat something, perhaps? Make a start on writing up those notes?

She was much too worn out to do anything. Looked it too, when she caught sight of herself in the mirror. She got some ice out of the fridge, struggling with the plastic tray over the sink to release the cubes. Then she fetched the whisky from the sideboard and poured herself a drink. It did nothing for her; her stomach rebelled against it.

Need some food, she tried insisting to herself, but she had no appetite. Still, she had to keep going so she took a banana from the bowl, peeled it down and bit into it. After the second mouthful, the whisky began to taste better. As she chewed, she washed hastily, feeling very vulnerable to be standing there in the kitchen only partly dressed. It was a relief to get into fresh clothes.

The banana left her hungry. Hunting through the fridge, she decided on toast and scrambled eggs with a couple of tomatoes mixed in. When it was ready she poured herself another whisky to go with it. Ideal, she discovered. It was a wonder none of the good food writers had stumbled across it.

Whisky and scrambled eggs: she’d mention it to Bernie.

‘Right! Work, Ginny Andrewes!’ she proclaimed aloud, getting up.

From the window, the charm of her secluded garden — once so welcome — had now become a constant reminder that caterpillars might be lurking anywhere among those leaves. She had blocked the gaps beneath both doors, but she knew she’d never be able to concentrate fully downstairs. She rinsed her dishes, leaving them to drip, then took her Caterpillar files up to the bedroom. At least from there she had a better overview of the garden. She also had the advantage of being able to spread out her papers across the bed.

Her first task, as she had discussed with Jeff, was to classify all they had observed about the moths and their caterpillars: their behaviour patterns, rather than the more scientific detail. This was more a job for Lesley, as she’d told him, but Lesley was not available.

‘Think of them as actors in one of your plays,’ he’d suggested as if that would be any use.

The first paper she picked up was a description she’d written of The Visitation. Fancy calling it The Visitation — what an idiot she’d been! She settled down on the bed to read it, but already after the second sentence her mind began to wander, recalling the day she’d moved down to the cottage and how Jack had helped her.

Jack had been one of the first to be attacked by the moths, and she hadn’t even believed him!

Hadn’t even…

She woke up with a start. It was so warm in that room with the window closed, and sleep seemed so inviting. Old Mr Davidson was asleep… flat on his back, his red eyes staring up at her… winking at her… his dead mouth smiling as his hand touched her knee… and she wanted to twist away… couldn’t… the grip of the dead held her vice-like and…

Again she woke, this time to discover she had fallen back on the pillow. The paper she had been reading had slipped to the floor.

But she was determined to work. She picked up the sheet of paper and took it, together with the rest of the file, over to the window. The hard, upright chair should keep her awake. Again she began to read her own account of that first day, jotting down notes of points that might be useful.