'We had better help the headmaster back to the school,' the Bishop said to Bryce-Janson. 'I think he is only suffering from shock, but we'd better let Matron have a look at him.'
The red-headed boy with the broken nose was clutching a saturated crimson handkerchief to his injury. Nobody seemed particularly interested in him, and he began to cry.
Within ten minutes the cathedral was empty except for the Bishop and the Head Verger. The latter, a short, plump man, fidgeted uncomfortably under the steely gaze of the other.
The Bishop glanced upwards, but there was not a bat to be seen, 'Bryant where did all these bats come from?'
'I've no idea, Bishop,' the verger muttered. 'We've not had a bat in the cathedral for years, not since one dropped down on to the altar during the carol service a few Christmases ago. Mind you, there's usually one or two flying around outside at night.'
'But this was absolute madness! So many of them, and in the daytime, too.'
'It could be that the contractors working on the main spire disturbed a nest of them, Bishop.'
'Yes, yes, that's a point,' The holy man seemed relieved at the prospect of a logical explanation. 'Of course. Well, perhaps you would have a word with the contractors. If there are bats in any quantity in the spire, then I think we ought to contact a firm of pest controllers. We can't have this happening again. Those poor boys were frightened out of their wits, not to mention the headmaster. See to it, will you, Bryant?'
'I will, Bishop.' The Head Verger turned away, and once out of sight of the Bishop he paused to mop his damp forehead with his handkerchief. He was thankful that he had been in the toilet when it had all happened. If there was anything he hated and feared more than rats and mice, it was bats.
The Reverend Jackson began to feel ill early in the evening of the third day following the chaos which the bats had caused in the cathedral. He was aware that he was running a temperature, and every movement seemed an effort, almost as though he was a spectator from afar witnessing his own actions. He put it down to shock. The whole episode had been very unnerving for him, although he had tried not to show it outwardly. It would be bad for his morale, and that of the school, for the pupils to become aware that their headmaster was afraid of a few harmless bats. He shook his head and tried to ignore the aching and feverishness. An early night might shake it off. He was grateful that he was a bachelor and did not have to go to great lengths to deceive a doting wife. All he had to do was to remain in the background until he felt well again.
His dreams began to trouble him the moment he laid his head on the pillow; nightmarish figments of the subconscious that bordered on realism. Bats. Hundreds, thousands of them. All sizes. Some so small that they were scarcely larger than fleas, alighting on his body, crawling, biting, impossible to dislodge. He writhed and groaned in his sweat-soaked bed, striking at himself, slapping his face and thighs. Eventually they left him, but his respite was brief. Next came the giant ones, as big as Alsatian dogs, hanging on the walls by their claws, perching on the end of the bed and just staring. They watched him like vultures waiting for death, gloating over the easy pickings that would be theirs.
'I'm not going to die, damn you!' he yelled, and switched on the light.
The bats had gone. They had all been in his mind, imagination. Yet he was certain he hadn't been asleep. They had been so real. He decided he would not put out the light again. The darkness was terrifying.
He lay there trying to think of sane things, mundane matters such as assemblies, school reports, examinations. The Common Entrance exams were only a short time away. Confirmation classes were due to begin the following week, too. But always his thoughts returned to the bats. The Bishop had assured him that the contractors restoring the main spire would endeavour to remove any of the repulsive creatures they came across. The pest extermination people would be called in if necessary. There was nothing to worry about.
Twice during the night he had to stagger across the landing to the toilet, retching into the bowl. The lavatory light didn't work. The bulb must have blown, but he had neither the inclination nor the energy to go and search for a replacement. Nevertheless, he had to prop the door open whilst he was being sick, otherwise so his fevered mind told him, the cubicle was full of bats. Minute ones crawled all over the cistern. Big ones perched on the pipes, and hung on the walls. But they didn't like the light. Even that which filtered in from the landing dispelled them. That was the answer. Keep the light on.
Sometime towards dawn he fell into a restless slumber, tossing and turning, trying to complete that brief address which had been cut short so abruptly the other morning. Bats swooped at him, struck him, landed on his shoulders, clung to his cassock. But he was not going to be deterred this time. He forced the words out, shouting to make himself heard above the incessant squeaking. 'The forces of darkness are present at all times .,. even during daylight... we must make a stand against them ...'
His voice trailed off. The pews were empty. There was no congregation. His own boys had deserted him in his very hour of need. The Bishop, too. He would go and find them, remonstrate with them, if only he could find the way out. There were no doors. He ran blindly down the aisle. Where was Bryant? It was the Head Verger's job to lock and unlock the doors. But he couldn't blame the fellow if there were no doors. Just unending stonework, leering gargoyles with bats clinging to them . . .
The jangling of the telephone in his study below saved him from the ultimate terror as the winged creatures began to close in on him. He struggled out of bed. His limbs seemed reluctant to respond and it needed a conscious physical effort to move one foot in front of the other. There was a red haze before his eyes and he was dizzy. The stairs presented a problem, but he solved it by clinging to the banister with both hands. He had once caned a boy for sliding down the rail in the Palace. He regretted that action. It had been unjust. The boy, he couldn't remember his name, had been right. It was by far the best method of descending a staircase.
The phone was still ringing as he entered the study, flopped down gratefully in his mahogany swivel chair and lifted the receiver.
'Headmaster.' His speech was slurred. The formation of that single word had been an effort. Somebody might think he'd been drinking.
'Matron here, headmaster.' The voice at the other end gave no indication that she had noted anything strange about him. 'I've had six boys brought into the sanatorium during the night. I'm going to ask the doctor to make an early call, but I think... well, I'd like you to have a look at them first.'
A sudden sense of foreboding seemed to assist the Reverend Francis Jackson with his speech, and the words came more easily.
'What's... what's the matter with them?'
'They're . . . well, I thought it was the beginning of a summer flu epidemic, but three of them appear to be paralysed, and ... oh, I'd be glad if you'd come across, headmaster!'
'I'll be with you as soon as I can.' Jackson sensed a constriction of his vocal cords, a tightening in his throat. He replaced the receiver, but in so doing misjudged the cradle and the instrument fell on to the desk with a clatter, slid over the edge and hung suspended by the coil. There was a pain in his back, travelling upwards to the base of his neck. That part of his anatomy had ached throughout the night, but now, suddenly, it was bordering on agony. He could not move his head. He tried to lift himself up out of the chair but it was impossible. The muscles would not respond to the urgent calls from his brain.