Herbert van Thal: The Seventh Pan Book of Horror Stories

They telephoned for the doctor, who in turn sent for an ambulance and listened in stony silence while they told him what they knew, which was, of course, very little. The contempt on his face was enough in itself to punish the Windrops, but they had no idea then of the punishment their son had in store for them.

He did not lose his hand, although it was a very near thing, but he virtually lost the use of it and it hung, clawlike by his side, incapable of doing much more than pulling and pushing things if they were not too heavy. His parents' remorse was genuine and they did all they could to make up for that one dreadful night, but they discovered that all affection had died in their son, except for his animals and for the life he led in the hut. He was always polite to them and, at times, almost affable, as if he were a friend of the family rather than their eight-year-old son. He accepted their new interest in him with a vague condescension that humiliated them. He now smiled littie, apart from at his pets, and when he looked at the creatures in their neat little cages in the hut there was a soft, tender look in his expression which contrasted with the hate which showed when he glanced at his parents, a hate which vanished if they were actually looking at him, to be replaced by something that distressed them equally: indifference.

His father took to coming down to the hut to see what he was doing, to take an interest in his hobbies in an effort to win back the boy's affection, but each time he found the same indifference to anything he might say or do and a total absorption in the study of his pets. As far as Mervyn was concerned his father might not have existed as he stood next to him in the confined space of the hut, and he never spoke unless it was some brief answer to the questions his father asked to show his interest.

Windrop's effort was too late and failed miserably. While distressed by the alienation of his son's affection, he was also piqued that more interest should be shown in the animals and that he should be virtually ignored.

'It's those animals,' he said to his wife. 'We shall have to get rid of them. We can't hope to gain Mervyn's confidence, or even his attention, while they're still there. They'll have to go.'

'We couldn't do that,' replied Mrs Windrop. 'They're his whole life now. If we took them away he'd have nothing left.'

'What an attitude,' snorted her husband in disgust. 'Of course he'd have something left: us.'

'I don't know,' said his wife doubtfully. 'But I don't think the answer is to get rid of the animals.'

It was all right for her, Windrop decided. She hadn't been snubbed like he had.

'Why don't you go down and have a look at them?' he asked. 'You try and talk to him down there. It's impossible.'

Mrs Windrop went down to the hut. Mervyn was in there, stroking his grass snake. His mother pulled back at the door when she saw it, but by the look of contempt in his eyes she realised that it was harmless.

'Hello,' she said diffidently. Mervyn replaced the grass snake in its box and turned to a tortoise. His mother was left looking at his back. Her lips tightened with anger but she tried to make the best of it. She looked round at the boxes and cages, at the hamsters, the rabbits, the hedgehog, the caterpillars that looked like miniature flue-brushes, the raven and the one-eared cat that sat nonchalantly in the corner, washing itself.

'My, what a lot of pets you have now,' she said, forcing enthusiasm into her voice. Mervyn's mouth curled slightly at the edges. He had not reasoned it out at all, but deep down he knew that she was the real villain as far as his accident was concerned. He could forgive his father not being there, but his mother never. She did not see the loathing in his eyes as she turned and pointed into the far corner of the hut.

'What have you got there? she asked.

Mervyn had hung sacks so that the whole corner was shut off from the joists to the floor, thus making a small dark enclosure with the top and bottom open.

Mervyn ignored his mother's question. She tried again.

'What have you got over there?'

'Bats,' replied Mervyn quietly.

'Bats?'

'Bats.'

'Oh, I see,' she said, backing towards the door. 'I didn't think you could keep bats.'

'I can,' said Mervyn following her with his eyes. She was trying to show that she was not frightened, but she was. There was something that repelled her about bats. She thought of the small, mouselike bodies, the staring blind eyes, the shrill squeals and the darting flight. Some of them drank blood. The other pets she could stand, although some of them made her shudder slightiy when she first saw them curled up in their cages or inching from plant to plant, but the thought of bats was too much.

'I'm going to get dinner ready,' she said abruptly, and left. Mervyn smiled as she went. He crossed to the corner and pulled one of the sacks aside. There they were. Hanging from the joists was a row of bats. They looked bigger than the usual sort found in Britain, but perhaps that was the fault of the light, which threw long shadows. The boy looked up at them with affection and then casually ran a hand across his throat. He could not feel them, but he knew that there were two tiny wounds there, wounds he was pleased to have. After all, his friends must feed.

Back in the house, Mrs Windrop was in the kitchen talking to her husband.

'He's got bats down there now.'

'Bats? I didn't think you could keep them.'

'Neither did I, but he says he can.'

Mervyn was right. He could. The bats were flourishing, but he was suffering for it. After his accident he had regained his previous colour and health with encouraging rapidity, but now he had become pale and listless again as he had been immediately after it. It was as if his blood were being drained slowly from him.

In time the Windrops noticed it, and in their fumbling way tried to say something to him, get him to eat more, to take more rest, but the look in his eye, the silent scorn was too much for them and they stood mutely by as he began to waste away. As far as they were concerned it was a phase following the accident and would probably right itself in time. Then Mrs Windrop saw the marks on Mervyn's throat.

She was in the kitchen one day, shucking some peas, when Mervyn came in from the hut to wash. He looked even paler than usual and his eyes were feverish. He stopped by the sink and took a piece of soap to wash his hands. It was then that his mother noticed the two little pinpricks on his throat. They looked as if they had just been made. She came close to him and pushed his head back, peering at the marks.

'How did you do that?' she asked. Mervyn twisted his head away from her irritably and flushed beneath his pallor.

'Nothing' he mumbled and looked at her steadily. She could not hold his gaze and she knew it. He left the room and she stood there thinking about the marks. He must have been bitten by some insect in the garden. He must have been bitten. The bats! She suddenly thought of the bats hanging silently up there in the corner of the hut and she gasped as the fantastic idea blossomed in her mind. She went quickly to her husband and told him.

'You must ask Mervyn,' she concluded. 'You must be firm and get him to tell you about it.'

'He won't say anything whatever I ask him. Anyway, the whole idea is ludicrous.'

But, ludicrous or not, Windrop was determined to find out about the marks from his son, not so much to ascertain how he got them, but to prove to himself and the boy that he still had some authority over him. That evening he went to Mervyn's bedroom and found him lying on the bed, resting. He was shocked at his appearance. His body seemed to be wasting slowly away and the pallor of his face was almost luminous in the dimly-lit room.