John Halkin - Squelch

‘Sorry about the interruption,’ he apologised, putting the phone down. ‘That man’s been on at me for five weeks now but he still can’t give me a firm date. Maybe in ten days, he says.’

‘Oh?’

‘West Africa,’ he enlarged. ‘A quick return trip, nothing exciting. Now where were we?’

A crash of thunder exploded directly above them like a bomb, almost scaring her out of her skin. She took an involuntary step back and her foot caught on the edge of the carpet. If he hadn’t grabbed her arm she might have fallen. In an attempt to cover her fear, she made some joking remark about the Third World War starting, and smiled at him, embarrassed. His face was close to hers. He’d kissed her before she realised what he was up to.

‘Sorry!’ She twisted away, ducking under his arm. ‘That’s the last thing I need. I’m involved with someone else, Jeff.’

‘I wondered why you were looking so delicious,’ he said lightly. ‘Then I’ll wait. Who knows?’

‘I do — so don’t bother!’

Before he could reply, the phone rang again. His face darkened as he listened. He glanced towards her, as though implying that the call concerned her too.

‘Bloody hell!’ he swore softly as the person at the other end went on. ‘Of course… Yes, I’m sure. What’s the name of the road again?’

He wrote it down on a pad, asked for directions, then rang off.

‘Lingford — a primary school. I’m afraid there are a hell of a lot of casualties. The children were outside for playtime when the attack happened. Moths first, then caterpillars.’ He began putting on a close-fitting zippered jacket as he spoke. ‘Normal emergency services are already there, but they’re asking for people experienced in handling caterpillars. I said we’d both be along. D’you mind?’

‘Of course I’ll help.’

Outside, the rain started pouring down as though all the taps had been turned on at once.

During the next few days the attacks multiplied and spread, yet few were as horrifying as the scene they found at that school. The children — none of them older than seven or eight — lay strewn over the hard playground and nearby grass, their blood diluted to a deathlike pink by the heavy rain. Some moaned and writhed in pain; some shrieked for their mothers; many were as pale and still as waxworks. Among them, their teachers had also been struck down, probably having been attacked as they tried to help.

Everywhere Ginny looked she saw green caterpillars, much longer and fatter than that pathetic little lizard, feasting on their helpless victims.

They did what they could. Ginny again concentrated on removing and killing caterpillars before the children were taken for first-aid treatment and then transported to hospital. How many she treated, she had no idea. The sweat ran down her face; her goggles misted up; she longed for each child to be the last, yet more were brought. Eighty altogether had been marked present on the school register; forty-three died before anything could be done for them. Of the rest, only seven were still alive the following morning.

Ginny went to the hospital to visit them. Passing an open door she caught a glimpse of Dr Sanderson sitting at his desk, his frameless glasses on the blotter before him as he wiped his eyes. His son was among those who hadn’t survived, Bernie told her later.

By that time the authorities were thoroughly alarmed. The attacks were too numerous to be regarded as merely isolated incidents which would not recur. They extended now across the whole of Kent, Surrey and Sussex. Emergency evacuation plans were instituted for everyone who wanted to get away, particularly families with children, though many preferred to stay put. Their arguments were various: it might never happen to them; they lived in a village which had never seen a caterpillar or moth; or — the most convincing of the lot — they’d be just as much at risk wherever they moved.

In Bernie’s living room Ginny cleared one wall of pictures and covered it with Ordnance Survey maps. A special mobile unit had been set up of people trained to handle the caterpillars, with herself as area leader. Every night the maps told the same story: the menace was spreading even farther.

Attacks were reported with increasing frequency from the leafy suburbs of Greater London. Occasional casualties occurred as far west as Reading, including a gardener discovered dead in the grounds of Windsor Castle. Moths were sighted, though no one hurt, at Pershore in Worcestershire.

Back in Sussex, at Gatwick Airport a major air disaster was only narrowly averted as a jumbo jet coming in to land skidded over thousands of caterpillars on the runway. Passengers were imprisoned on board the plane for more than six hours before it was judged safe enough to allow them to disembark. Among the ground staff the casualty rate was so high that the airport had to remain closed.

Reaction in the press and Parliament was vociferous. If only words alone could defeat the caterpillars, Ginny thought more than once. Government action was demanded, yet it was patently obvious that the Cabinet had not the slightest idea what to do. The tabloids carried blockbuster headlines such as — at their most sober — MANEATING CATERPILLARS HIT SCHOOL. One distinguished itself with FOREIGN CATTIES EAT OUR KIDS, and demanded a tightening of quarantine laws. Meanwhile, The Times reported how the caterpillar plague had also spread across northern France and was threatening Paris.

As for television — her own trade, she remembered wryly, though all that now seemed a thousand light years away — at first the news crews merely added a fresh twist to the emergency services’ job, though when a cameraman was tragically killed they became more cautious. They also tried an in-depth documentary followed by a studio discussion, roping her in as an expert, no less, but it came up with no solutions. It was after some location filming for that programme that she had dropped in at the cottage and found a postal packet waiting for her. Somehow the post office had managed to deliver it despite the general chaos caused by the caterpillars, and the fact that their own postman was among those killed at the Spring Fête.

Opening the packet, she found it contained the manuscript of her proposal for that television drama series. The idea which had seemed so wonderful at the time! A covering letter from the agent commented that it might be rather difficult to place at the present time.

Ginny tossed it on to the little round table, but missed and it fell on the floor. She left it there and went back to Bernie’s house.

They saw very little of each other during those days, she and Bernie, except at night in that wide double bed. Any feelings of guilt towards Lesley had long since died. At last she understood what it must have been like in wartime. The normal conventions just didn’t apply: how could they when night after night she’d come back splashed with blood after yet another encounter with caterpillars? She didn’t even think of it any more.

‘I have squatters’ rights!’ she stated firmly on the one occasion when Bernie tentatively raised the subject. He’d just been speaking to Lesley on the phone and had come into the bedroom, his face troubled, to find her waiting for him. ‘Oh Bernie, let’s just live for today. What else can we do? When this thing with the caterpillars is over I’ll have to go away, you know that.’

In fact, it felt more like camping in the house than living in it. Neither knew when the other would be at home. Bernie attempted to keep up his normal consulting sessions, but there was such a demand for medics, he was also out for long hours at Lingford Hospital. When he did get back, invariably late, he was usually ravenously hungry and hardly human until he’d eaten. She kept the fridge stocked up with food they could cook quickly. First one home started the meal, and good stuff too, not convenience foods. Oddly, she found she no longer felt an antipathy to red meat. As for drink, he insisted on only the best claret and ordered it by the case, joking grimly that — who could tell? — they might both be dead by the time the bill was sent.