Squelch (4 page)

‘You’ve certainly altered this place!’ he commented approvingly, glancing around her living room. ‘Mrs Beerston would never recognise it.’

‘D’you think she’d approve?’

‘Oh, I think so. She had a very young mind in that poor old body of hers. She hated old age, you know.’ His eyes fell on the sheets of A4 and the felt-tip. ‘Oh, I’m sorry. You’re working.’

‘You’re welcome any time, Bernie.’

‘I really wanted a word about your moths. How are you getting on with identifying them?’

‘Well, I went to see the Reverend Davidson, then Lesley brought me these two books which I’m working through. No luck yet though. But she said she’d try to get hold of something more comprehensive if there is such a thing.’

‘I said nothing when you came to lunch on Sunday, but I’ve a patient in Lingford Hospital who claims she was attacked by giant moths. About the same time you saw them.’

‘D’you mean they stung her, or what?’

‘It may be just in her mind, you understand. History of depression and quite a heavy drinker. She was found unconscious on the road. Fractured leg, bruises, ribs damaged. If you could have a talk with her it might help.’

‘Are you sure she wasn’t knocked down by a car?’

‘The bike wasn’t damaged. We think she simply lost her balance. There was some roadwork going on and she fell awkwardly across a pile of kerbstones with one leg twisted through the frame. Must have been lying there in the dark for an hour before they found her.’

‘Naturally I’ll talk to her if you think it’ll do any good,’ Ginny said doubtfully.

‘Shall we say four o’clock at the hospital?’ He got up, glancing at his watch. ‘Ask for me at Reception. And don’t look so nervous! I think your visit will cheer her
up.’

At the door he kissed her on the side of the mouth and said he was grateful she’d agreed to help. Was he merely trying to involve her in good works, she wondered. Well, she’d soon put a stop to that. She waited as he made a dash for his car, then waved and closed the door, glad to shut the weather out.

By afternoon the rain had blown over, leaving sodden roads. Diversion signs indicated that her usual route was closed because of flooding; as a result, she arrived in Lingford late.

The hospital consisted of a network of one-storey wards radiating like spokes from an elegant country house which accommodated the administration and outpatient departments. Ginny parked at the side on the patch marked ‘Doctors Only’ and went in. Bernie was waiting in the entrance hall, talking to a white-coated young man whom he introduced as Dr Sanderson.

‘Afraid I have to rush, Ginny, but Dr Sanderson will look after you,’ he said. ‘I’ll drop by the cottage later.’

Dr Sanderson had that sanitised look about him, familiar from American TV hospital series. He wore his white coat buttoned high at the neck, plus frameless glasses. Ginny disliked him immediately. He said very little to her, but walked slightly ahead as he guided her through the maze of corridors linking the wards; though he did suggest she should not raise the subject of moths herself, but wait for Mrs Kinley to bring it up. It was obvious he thought her some sort of mental case. Or lying.

When they reached the ward, she was not in the main room where a lively conversation was going on, but by herself in one of the alcoves near the entrance.

‘You’ve a visitor, Mrs Kinley!’ he announced from the foot of the bed. ‘Someone to see you. All right now?’

Without waiting for an answer, he turned and
departed, leaving Ginny face to face with the patient. She was a woman in her late fifties with greying hair which had once been black, and dark, scowling eyes. Her right leg – in plaster – was held up two or three feet above the bed by means of a sling around her ankle.

‘Who are you? From the Welfare?’

‘No.’ Ginny fetched herself a chair.

‘They said to expect someone from the Welfare.’

‘My name’s Ginny,’ she explained, sitting down. ‘Dr Rendell asked me to drop by. He’s my brother-in-law.’

‘He’s a gentleman, is Dr Rendell,’ the woman said. ‘Listens to you, he does. He’s what I call a
real
doctor, not like that bugger who brought you here, with his fancy glasses and his silly coat. I told the nurse, he’s a gelding if I ever saw one. Know what I mean? Doctor?’ Her voice spat scorn. ‘He’s the one who’s been doctored, ask me.’

‘D’you like grapes?’ Ginny fished in her shopping bag. She’d felt she ought to bring something. ‘Got ’em cheap at the supermarket. I suppose we ought to wash ’em first. Should I ask the nurse?’

‘I’d leave her. She’s having her tea.’

‘Okay. Have some.’

‘It’s all clean dirt, innit?’ She separated a couple from their stalks and put them in her mouth. They were large, purple, and bursting with juice which spurted on to her nightie as she bit into them. ‘Years since I last tasted grapes. Seems you’ve gotta come in here before anyone gives you grapes. Did Dr Rendell explain what happened to me? You wouldn’t credit it.’

‘He said you’d had an accident on your bike,’ Ginny answered cautiously, taking another grape for herself.

‘An accident? This was no bloody accident. It was deliberate, I can swear to that. I was riding me bike, not doing any harm to anyone, when all of a sudden they just come at me.’

‘Who did?’

‘Bloody moths.’

‘Moths? You’re sure?’

‘Big bastards, like I’ve never seen before, and I’ve lived all my life in these parts. Thought they was bats at first, but I know bats. These was moths all right. Vicious buggers.’

‘What kind of sound did they make?’

‘What d’you mean – sound?’ Mrs Kinley stopped chewing and stared at Ginny suspiciously. ‘Why have you come here?’

‘I told you, Dr Rendell asked me to drop in,’ Ginny repeated calmly. ‘So what kind of sound did they make? Why did you think they were bats?’

‘That squeaking noise. And if you want to know, they was attacking me – in me hair, flying into me face, me eyes, everywhere. I was on the bike, you see, trying to keep me balance, but I got into such a tizzy with these things, over I went. Which is why I’m in here, innit?’

She stopped and eyed Ginny cunningly. ‘Didn’t tell them nothin’. Not about the squeakin’.’

‘The doctors?’

‘Them bloody doctors. That gelding thinks I’m mental. I heard him. It’s all fantasy in her head, he said. From the drink.’ Unexpectedly the tears began to roll down her strained cheeks. ‘I dunno. Sometimes I saw them moths, sometimes I think I’m making it up. Maybe I really am going off me rocker, then they’ll keep me locked up, won’t they? That’s what they do, you know, to the likes o’ me.’

‘I’m going to talk to Dr Rendell, so don’t you worry,’ Ginny stated firmly. ‘You did see the moths.’

‘You’re just saying that.’

‘Oh, I don’t accept that they attacked you, but you certainly saw them.’ Briefly, Ginny tried to describe her own experience of them on that first evening, stressing how beautiful they were, and how gentle. ‘So you understand,
I saw them too. They do exist. When you rode into them in the dark like that, they were probably just as frightened as you were.’

‘They didn’t have a go at you though, did they?’ Mrs Kinley sniffed. She groped under her pillow and produced a grubby handkerchief with which she dried her eyes. ‘Them moths is bloody vicious, so you watch out for ’em. Watch yourself.’

‘I’ll tell the doctor they’re real anyway, not just in your head.’

‘They’ll be back, young miss. You mark my words.’

Somehow she seemed to have offended the woman rather than reassured her, Ginny thought. She stood up and returned her chair to its allotted place by the wall. Then she paused at the bedside, feeling dissatisfied.

‘Can I come again?’ she asked.

‘You’ve better things to do than waste your time with me.’ Mrs Kinley’s dark eyes were suddenly alive with mockery. There was no trace of self-pity. ‘You’ve done your bit o’ charity. I’m not saying I’m not grateful.’

‘I’d like to bring a friend.’ She was thinking of Jack. ‘He had a similar experience to yours.’

‘You’d be more welcome if you brought a half-bottle of gin. You’ve got nothing to drink in your shopping bag, have you?’

‘Only a carton of milk. Sorry. I should have thought.’

‘You just make sure Dr Rendell gets me out of here, that’s all I ask. Away from that bloody gelding. It turns my stomach to have him near me.’

Ginny laughed. ‘Is he really that bad?’

‘Oh, I know I’m not much to look at these days, but when I was younger, he’d never have got near me for the crush, doctor or no doctor. So now you know.’

Ginny found her own way back to the main building. She sought out Dr Sanderson in his office but ignored his invitation to sit down. There was nothing to report really,
she informed him coldly. His patient had ridden into a swarm of moths, panicked and fallen off her bike. Why did he think she was making it up?

‘Those moths actually exist? That size? In the tropics perhaps – but
here
?’

‘They match the ones I saw, so they obviously do exist. She was frightened, don’t you understand? Anyway, I must be off now. You’re the doctor, so you sort her out.’

Outside, it was raining again.

She had genuinely intended to pay Mrs Kinley a second visit, but what with one thing and another she never got round to it.

Jack, when she rang him from the call box in the village, turned out to be on the point of flying to Spain for a fortnight’s filming. Needed the money, he said cheerfully, after that massive penalty he’d had to pay for damaging the van. What about joining him for a few days on the sunny Costa del Sol? No? Well, he’d be in touch when he got back. Missed her though, he added.

When she mentioned it to Bernie, he didn’t think Mrs Kinley really expected to see her again. In his view, that one brief chat had amply served its purpose in restoring her self-confidence. Dr Sanderson, he implied – though he voiced no open criticism – had got her into such a state that she’d no longer felt sure whether what she remembered was dream or reality. And not only about the moths, either.

But if Ginny really wanted to go back, he suggested, there was no reason why she shouldn’t.

Before she could make up her mind, the man came to rewire the cottage. For the best part of a week she had to endure stale cigarette smoke, non-stop music from his cheap, tinny radio, and several clumsy attempts to chat her up. She was tied to the place, for she was certainly not going to leave him there on his own to poke around
among her belongings. She tried to work, but ended up throwing away most of what she’d written on the witchcraft idea. The electrician’s undisguised curiosity irritated her.

But at last he finished and power was connected. She celebrated by opening every door and window to give the rooms a thorough airing, then drove into Lingford where she bought a trendy cream-coloured television and ordered some storage heaters. The telephone would take longer, they informed her when she called in to ask why nothing had happened yet. Six months at least, they estimated.

It rained most of the winter, though it was never really cold. She found herself beginning to long for the sun. And, of course, for a decent bathroom. She had to go to Lesley’s for a proper bath, which she was forced to share with the assortment of plastic ducks, fishes, submarines and other flotsam belonging to her three nieces. The only alternative was to strip off and wash in her own tiny lean-to kitchen.

One evening during a downpour she tucked her hair under a shower cap, clutched a new bar of soap and ventured out naked into the garden. The rain was bitterly cold and she was soon back in the cottage again, her teeth chattering. It took a good two hours in front of the fire and several large glasses of whisky before she could stop shivering.

But it was that same evening that the Great Idea for her television proposal came to her in a flash: her Road-Back-To-Success, she dubbed it in her own mind.

Moths, of course – why hadn’t she thought of it before?

She’d already made copious notes while working her way conscientiously through the fat books Lesley had brought her, and visited the British Museum of Natural History, but all that had been for her own satisfaction.
The riddle of what
her
moths really were remained unanswered.

But the Great Idea was something quite different. Not a documentary – that would be too tedious and, in any case, she wasn’t a documentary person. No, this would be a six-part drama serial with top casting and centred on a village where on certain evenings the dead rose from the churchyard in the form of giant moths, not to haunt, but actually to take over from the living.

It needed a lot more development, naturally; in the meantime it would be best to keep her thoughts to herself, though she did try it out on Bernie next time she saw him. He was very encouraging.

In fact, during that winter Bernie took to dropping in occasionally on his way home, slipping off his jacket and sitting down for a quiet chat before – as he put it – plunging back into domesticity. And if Ginny didn’t mention these visits to Lesley, it was simply because she’d have hated her sister to get the wrong end of the stick.

3

Ginny lay on a rug on that patch of rough grass she called her lawn and browsed through
House and Garden
in search of inspiration. Somewhere beneath the other magazines was her abandoned bikini top. No one could overlook her here. That, she constantly reminded herself, was one of the joys of a country cottage.

The mild winter had given way to an almost tropical spring. A couple of weeks’ hot sunshine punctuated by short, heavy rain-showers had brought the whole countryside to life again. Her garden stirred with fresh green shoots and the first exploring insects. Its fruit trees
were like brides in their veils of blossom.

She let the magazine slip from her fingers and turned on to her back, luxuriating in a sensation of well-being as the sun’s warm rays soaked into her. Her television proposal was ready and she had made an appointment to take it in person to a highly recommended London literary agent she’d met while still working on that tedious tea-time soap opera. On the whole she was satisfied with the way it had turned out. The character sketches were lively, she felt. The plot peaked in the right places. And the whole thing was
visual
, that was the main point.

Mm, it was so lovely lying in the sun after that damp, miserable winter. No wonder Bernie had said rheumatism was the commonest complaint among his patients.

She felt an odd, prickly movement on her tummy but took no notice of it at first. It persisted, as though someone were tickling her with a blade of grass. She opened her eyes, imagining for a second that someone must have crept up on her for a joke, though there had been no sound of a car. No one there. Raising herself on one elbow, she glanced down to see what it was.

‘Urgh!’
A shudder went through her, bringing gooseflesh. ‘
Oh hell
–!’

A hideous green caterpillar was shuffling slowly across her abdomen just above the line of her bikini briefs. Oh God, she’d always hated caterpillars. Once when they were children Lesley had put a couple in her bed as a joke. Ginny had actually been in bed and had already said goodnight when she discovered them. The shock had been so great, she’d screamed hysterically, locking herself in the bathroom where she’d stayed until the family doctor was called. The sight of that hairy caterpillar on her skin brought it all back.

Now, Ginny Andrewes, be sensible! she told herself
firmly. It can’t harm you.

She tried forcing herself to think about it calmly. Phobias took people in different ways. Some couldn’t stand spiders but she didn’t mind them. It was these long, hairy things she hated, like amputated fingers, but alive, undulating in every joint, able to squirm into any crevice in her body. Such as her navel.

Oh, not her navel,
please
!

The front end of the caterpillar moved around inquisitively while the rear remained stationary. Then it began to crawl forward, its little legs working rapidly as it circled around her navel, heading towards her ribs.

‘Oh, go away,’ she prayed. ‘Please go away.’

Almost as if in response, it turned and went back to its first position on the rounded swell of her abdomen. She should get rid of it, she knew. It needed only a little mental effort to overcome her scruples sufficiently to pick it up and fling it towards the bushes.

But what if it curled around her finger? What if it clung to her?

Rationally, Ginny was disgusted with herself for being such a coward, yet whatever decision she took, she still couldn’t bring herself to touch that caterpillar. Her hand… her arm… they just refused to obey.

Suddenly the caterpillar reared up and looked at her, sphinx-like, with dark eyes which betrayed nothing. It was six inches long at least and had a bright yellow stripe down its underside. On its tail was a little rounded horn which made it seem even more disgusting. It swayed to and fro as she watched it, as though trying to hypnotise her.

No way could she touch it now, yet she had to steel herself to deal with it somehow. Gingerly she began to shift her weight on to her other elbow in order to reach for the magazine she’d been reading, at the same time not daring to take her eyes off the caterpillar. Its body seemed
to ripple as it sat there, but that was its only movement.

Oh, she was being such a fool, she despised herself for her own inadequacy. God, if they could only see her now in that TV studio where one of the crew had once referred to her as ‘that tough young director’! Tough? She felt as weak as a jelly.

Her fingers recognised the feel of those glossy, printed pages. Slowly, she tried to draw the magazine towards her, intending to fold it over for a firmer grip. Not that she wanted to hurt the caterpillar, merely to brush it away, no more than that, however obscene and disgusting she found it.

Those bulging, dark eyes still regarded her. Did it understand what she was doing? Well, that was a daft idea if ever there was one. Her thoughts were coming feverishly and she realised she’d broken into a sweat. Yet… what if it
could
pick up some wavelength from her? Some sense of threat? Many animals had that facility, didn’t they? That made it all the more important to remain absolutely still as she gradually took hold of the magazine.

So intense was her concentration, she hardly heard her sister’s car arriving in front of the cottage. The engine revved, then died. The door slammed.

‘Ginny! Are you home?’

The voice approached, lively and happy as usual. Ginny felt a sudden surge of relief and she must have moved because the caterpillar straightened up, becoming visibly more alert.

‘Ginny, what on earth are you doing with a caterpillar on your tummy?’ Lesley’s voice boomed out, followed by her usual gust of laughter which sounded – oh, so
normal
! ‘I thought you couldn’t stand them!’

‘Les, get it off me,’ Ginny begged.

Her sister squatted down, holding back her thick auburn hair from her eyes as she bent forward for a closer
look. ‘My, aren’t you a beauty!’ she murmured to it, like talking to her cat. ‘A real giant, too. As long as my hand,
and
you’ve been feeding well, to judge by the size of you. A bit overweight, I’d say. Greedy, that’s your problem, my beauty. Just greedy.’

‘Lesley!
GET-IT-OFF-ME!
’

‘Come on, Ginny. No hysterics,’ Lesley scolded her. ‘No need for that. They’ve just as much right to exist as we have. And they can’t do you any harm – watch!’

Ginny didn’t wait that long. The second her sister had lifted the caterpillar away from her, she rolled over the grass to get well clear, then scrambled to her feet, trembling. Harmless or not, that was the last time she wanted one anywhere near her.

Lesley held up the caterpillar level with her eyes and cooed over it in that silly way she had; then suddenly she yelled out and dropped it, hastily stuffing her fingers into her mouth.

‘Hell, that hurt!’ she exclaimed as she sucked them. ‘That bloody hurt!’

It was Ginny’s turn to laugh. ‘Harmless?’ she mocked, getting her own back for once. ‘Serves you right! I only hope that –’

‘Bloody hell, it’s biting my feet now!’ Lesley burst out, but her voice trailed off and became a quick, shuddering gasp of pain. The blood drained from her face. ‘Ginny… help me…’

Before Ginny could reach her, Lesley’s knees gave way and she crumpled on to the grass, moaning incoherently. Ginny stared at her, bewildered, unable to see anything wrong. But then – protruding from the space between Lesley’s sandal and her bare instep – she noticed the green rump of the caterpillar.

It seemed to be burrowing into her. Actually eating her flesh! Her blood dripped on to the grass, staining it.

Biting her lip, Ginny looked around desperately for
some way to help her sister. She mustn’t touch that thing with her unprotected fingers, she knew that. If only she had a glove handy, but there was no time to rush into the cottage to get one. She grabbed the nearest magazine, ripped out a page and, using it, tried to get a firm grip on that wriggling tail.

Through the thick, glossy paper she could feel the caterpillar writhing in its attempts to free itself. She squeezed harder, at the same time pulling, aiming to draw the creature out. Its body pulsated violently between her fingers as it resisted her.

Gritting her teeth, she held on despite the fact that she felt nauseated by what she was doing. Her stomach churned sickeningly and she could feel the clammy sweat lying cold on her skin.

Unexpectedly, the caterpillar burst under the pressure, like a fat green sausage grown too tight for itself. The rear end of that hairy body came away in her hand.

‘Urgh!’

She almost did throw up as she saw the green sap ooze out. It spread over the torn magazine page, coating the eye of an exotic, raven-haired girl modelling underwear. Some got on to Ginny’s fingers, leaving a sticky smear when she attempted – almost hysterically – to wipe it off.

But there was no time to stop and think about it. The old, tough Ginny took control. Lesley needed help urgently. She was lying on the grass, hardly moving, though an unnatural, high-pitched mumble came from her parted lips.
That’s how she’ll look when she’s dead!
The thought flashed through Ginny’s mind.
Oh please God don’t let her die!

Her hands shook as she fumbled at the ankle straps of Lesley’s sandals. Though it probably took less than a minute to get the first knot untied, it seemed like hours. At last she was able to tug the sandal clear. The sole of her sister’s foot was a mess of blood and raw flesh with the
remains of that hideous caterpillar buried in it. She dashed into the kitchen for the first-aid box, to get some sort of dressing on the foot to staunch the blood before dragging her into the car and going for help.

If only she had a phone, at least she could ring someone, but they still hadn’t come to install it.

That wound looked such a mess, she felt quite helpless when she saw it. She fished in it with the tweezers and somehow managed to remove the rest of the caterpillar although there were probably still fragments sticking inside. Then she pressed a generous pad of lint on the foot, sticking it down with Band-Aid. As she straightened up, wondering how she could manage to get Lesley to the car, she saw a second caterpillar.

She gasped.

It was emerging out of the grass and beginning to creep on to Lesley’s freckled arm near her shoulder, its body rippling as it climbed. The same kind, too: long, emerald green hairs, and that little horn-like bulge on its tail. Its yellow stripe became momentarily visible when it reared up to survey the soft hill of flesh on which it found itself.

Oh, Jesus… What should she do?

Ginny grabbed Lesley’s sandal and knocked the caterpillar away. It landed on the rug –
her
rug – next to the magazines and her sunglasses. Still clutching the sandal, she scrambled over and brought it down hard on the caterpillar which twisted under the impact, then curled up, then uncurled again, and was definitely still very much alive.

Desperately she hammered at it, bringing that sandal down again and again, but she could swear it was having no effect. The more she hit it, the more menacing that caterpillar seemed to become. At last, steeling herself, she placed the sandal carefully on top of it, then pressed down with her full weight until she felt the sudden
Squelch!
as she squashed it to death.

Its sticky, green body fluid spread over the sandal, dissolving and mingling with the dull brown stain left by her sister’s blood.

That whole afternoon was a nightmare, not least the problem of moving Lesley to a place where she could be looked after. Ginny prayed that Bernie would be at home, not out on his rounds. It would take her no more than three minutes to drive to his surgery, whereas the hospital was fifteen miles away. Lesley could even die before she got there.

She was just conscious, but in a delirium. Her eyes moved wildly though it seemed they saw nothing; her lips scarcely even trembled as she muttered a stream of words which had neither shape nor meaning.

‘I’ll have to try and lift you,’ Ginny told her, bending down to take hold of her arm. Vaguely she remembered the fireman’s lift one of her actors had been taught for a soap opera episode. ‘I’m not sure I can manage.’

The ‘lift’ had appeared a lot simpler on the screen. Her sister was heavy; Ginny was scared she might drop her as she attempted to swing her up over her shoulder. She lowered her gently back on the grass, abandoning the idea. Somehow she’d have to bring the car down the side of the cottage.

A section of shaky old fence was the only real obstacle. It had been on the point of falling down; only a few days ago she’d done a temporary repair job, lashing it to the post with a length of twine. Hurriedly she fetched a sharp knife from the kitchen and slashed through the knots. Taking a grip on the loose fence she pulled it back and felt the rotting timber snap free of the few remaining rusty nails. The question now was whether the gap was wide enough to drive through.

Lesley’s Mini was the nearer of the two cars and her keys were still in the ignition. Reversing down the path to the broken fence was tricky. Her nearside wheels
ploughed through a flower bed, flattening the hyacinths and clusters of daffodils, while on the other side stray branches and twigs from the unkempt hedge scratched along the paintwork. She hit the decaying fence-post as she went through, bringing it down.

Half-lifting, half-dragging her sister across the grass, she somehow managed to get her into the front seat of the Mini, using the seat belt to hold her there. It was then Ginny realised she was still almost naked, wearing only her bikini briefs, just the way she was when that first caterpillar had appeared. Her top was still on the rug, among that mess.

She ran into the cottage to pull on a T-shirt and grab a pair of jeans which she tossed on to the Mini’s back seat as she got in. Lesley’s head was slumped forward, her chin resting on her chest; she seemed frighteningly quiet.

‘Won’t be long now,’ Ginny tried to reassure her as she turned the key to start the engine. ‘I
am
trying to hurry, Les.’