Next morning he telephones a firm of exterminators. With unusual dispatch, they agree to send an Operative. ‘You need the service,’ they say before Baxter has described the symptoms. He and his wife obviously have a known condition.
They watch the van arrive; the Operative opens its rear doors and strides into their hall. He is a big and unkempt man, in green overalls, with thick glasses. Clearly not given to speaking, he listens keenly, examines the remains of their clothes, and is eager to see the pyramidal piles of ash which Baxter has arranged on newspaper. Baxter is grateful for the interest.
At last the Operative says, ‘You need the total service.’
‘I see,’ says Baxter. ‘Will that do it?’
In reply the man grunts.
Baxter’s wife and the baby are ordered out. Baxter runs to fetch a box in order to watch through the window.
The Operative dons a grey mask. A transparent bottle of greenish liquid is strapped to his side. From the bottle extends a rubber tube with a metal sieve on the end. Also feeding into the sieve is a flat-pack of greyish putty attached to a piece of string around the man’s neck. On one thigh is a small engine which he starts with a bootlace. While it runs, he strikes various practised poses and holds them like a strangely attired dancer. The rattling noise and force is terrific; not a living cretin could proceed through the curtains of sprayed venom.
The Operative leaves behind, in a corner, an illuminated electrified blue pole in a flower pot, for ‘protection’.
‘How long will we need that?’ Baxter enquires.
‘I’ll look at it the next couple of times. It’ll have to be recharged.’
‘We’ll need the full Operative service again?’
The Operative is offended. ‘We’re not called Operatives now. We’re Microbe Consultants. And we are normally invited back, when we are available. Better make an appointment.’ He adds, ‘We’re hoping to employ more qualified people. By the way, you’ll be needing a pack too.’
‘What is that?’
From the van he fetches a packet comprising of several sections, each containing different potions. Baxter glances over the interminable instructions.
‘I’ll put it on the bill,’ says the Operative. ‘Along with the curtain atomiser, and this one for the carpet. Better take three packs, eh, just in case.’
‘Two will be fine, thanks.’
‘Sure?’ He puts on a confidential voice. ‘I’ve noticed, your wife looks nice. Surely you want to protect her?’
‘I do.’
‘You won’t want to run out at night.’
‘No. Three then.’
‘Good.’
The total is formidable. Baxter writes the cheque. His wife leans against the door jamb. He looks with vacillating confidence into her tense but hopeful eyes, wanting to impress on her that it will be worth it.
She puts out the potions. The caustic smell stings their eyes and makes them cough; the baby develops red sores on its belly. But they rub cream into the marks and he sleeps contentedly. Baxter goes to the shops; his wife cooks a meal. They eat together, cuddle, and observe with great pleasure the saucers in which the dying flies are writhing. The blue pole buzzes. In the morning they will clear out the corpses. They are almost looking forward to it, and even laugh when Baxter says, ‘Perhaps it would have been cheaper to play Bulgarian music at the flies. We should have thought of that!’
The next morning he clears the mess away and, as there are still flies in the air, puts out more saucers and other potions. Surely, though, they are through the worst. How brought down he has been!
Lately, particularly when the baby cries, he has been dawdling out on the street. A couple of the neighbours have suggested that the new couple stop by for a drink. He has noticed lighted windows and people moving across holding drinks. Leaving his wife and child in safety, he will go out more, that very night in fact, wearing whatever he can assemble, a suit of armour if need be.
His wife won’t join him and she gives Baxter the impression that he hasn’t brought them to the right sort of neighbourhood. But as he is only going to be five minutes away, she can’t object. He kisses her, and after checking that the blue pole is functioning correctly, he begins at the top of the street, wearing an acrylic cardigan purchased from the charity shop, inedible combat trousers and a coat.
The first couple Baxter visits have three young children. Both adults work, designing household objects of some kind. Kettles, Baxter presumes, but it could be chair legs. He can’t remember what his wife has said.
He rings the bell. After what seems a considerable amount of hurried movement inside, a bearded man opens the door, breathing heavily. Baxter introduces himself, offering, at the same time, to go away if his visit is inconvenient. The man demurs. In his armchair he is drinking. Baxter, celebrating that night, joins him, taking half a glass of whisky. They discuss sport. But it is a disconcerting conversation, since it is so dark in the room that Baxter can barely make out the other man.
The woman, harassed but eager to join in, comes to the foot of the stairs before the children’s yells interrupt. Then she stomps upstairs again, crying out, ‘Oh right, right, it must be my turn again!’
‘Will they never stop?’ shouts the man.
‘How can they sleep?’ she replies. ‘The atmosphere is suffocating them.’
‘All of us!’ says the man.
‘So you’ve noticed!’
‘How could I not?’
He drinks in silence. Baxter, growing accustomed to the gloom, notices a strange gesture he makes. Dipping his fingers into his glass, the bearded man flicks the liquid across his face, and in places rubs it in. He does the same with his arms, even as they talk, as if the alcohol is a lotion rather than an intoxicant.
The man stands up and thrusts his face towards his guest.
‘We’re getting out.’
‘Where?’
He is hustling Baxter by the arm of his black PVC coat towards the door. Immediately the woman flies down the stairs like a bat and begins to dispute with her husband. Baxter doesn’t attend to what they are saying, although other couples’ arguments now have the ability to fascinate him. He is captivated by something else. A fly detaches itself from the end of the man’s protuberant tongue, crawls up the side of his nose, and settles on his eyebrow, where it joins a companion, unnoticed until now, already grazing on the hairy ridge. It is time to move on.
Taking a wrong turn in the hall, Baxter passes through two rooms, following a smell he recognises but can’t identify. He opens a door and notices an object standing in the bath. It is a glowing blue pole, like the one in his flat, and it seems to be pulsating. He looks closer and realises that this effect is caused by the movement of flies. He is reaching out to touch the thing when he hears a voice behind him, and turns to see the bearded man and his wife.
‘Looking for something?’
‘No, sorry.’
He doesn’t want to look at them but can’t help himself. As he moves past they drop their eyes. At that moment the woman blushes, for shame. They give off a sharp bleachy odour.
He isn’t ready to go home but can’t stay out on the street. Further down the road he sees figures in a window, before a hand drags the curtain across. He has barely knocked on the door before he is in the room with a glass in his hand.
It is a disparate crowd, comprising, he guesses, shy foreign students, the sorts of girls who would join cults, an oldish man in a tweed suit and rakish hat, people dancing with their shoes off, and others sitting in a row on the sofa. In the corner is a two-bar electric fire and a fish tank. Baxter has forgotten what exactly he is wearing and when he glimpses himself in a mirror and realises that no one minds, he is thankful.