She threaded her way between the tables. It looked like some mad butchers’ convention, she thought dully as her eyes lingered on those wounds. However much she wanted to turn away she found she couldn’t. That exposed flesh and sinew exerted a horrible fascination on her until waves of faintness began to blur her vision.
‘Ginny, I need more bandages!’ Bernie’s voice cut through the mist. ‘Get over to the church, will you, and see if you can find some surplices we can tear up. Are you sure you’re okay?’
‘I’m okay,’ she said stubbornly, ashamed of her weakness.
‘Get anything you can lay your hands on, providing it’s clean,’ he repeated, stooping over his patient again. ‘Bring it back here, then try the shop, the pub — you know! And ladies,’ he called out impatiently, ‘we need more hot water!’
Ginny stumbled out of the marquee, her eyes smarting, her face and neck pouring with sweat. If only she could have been more use to those people, but she knew nothing about nursing or first aid. Her efforts would only make matters worse.
She took the short cut to the church, climbing over the broken wall, then across the treacherously subsiding ground between the untidy clusters of older gravestones to the vestry door which she found unlocked.
No surplices on the pegs though, and the heavy timber cupboard was firmly shut. Nothing in the church itself either. Then she remembered the annual nativity play, and having heard that all the planning and rehearsals were normally held in the Sunday School room in the Norman crypt. They must have chests full of costumes and drapes down there.
The entrance was through a wide door behind the altar. She ran down the aisle and behind the choir stalls to reach it. Grasping the heavy iron ring she tugged it slowly open, then groped about on the stone wall inside to find the light switch. Unsuccessfully.
It must be down at the bottom, she thought, though that hardly seemed the most logical place to put it. Briefly she searched outside again but could still not find it, so she decided to feel her way down in the semi-darkness. With those people dying there in the marquee, she’d no time to spare hunting for switches.
Keeping close to the wall — there was a hand-rope to guide her — she crept cautiously down the worn, uneven steps. Somewhere, she felt sure, she would come across an electric cable secured to the stonework.
Then she heard the noise: a disturbed breathing sound which echoed through the still, clammy air.
‘Anyone there?’ she called out nervously. ‘Hello?’
Silence, followed by more eerie sighing. Not human, though; not pronounced enough: more like a faint suspicion of movement in the atmosphere.
One more step she tried; then another. It became darker, the lower she went.
Then suddenly they were all around her — giant, fluttering moths brushing her cheeks with their wings, caressing the back of her neck, landing on her short hair. Her shrieks twisted through that vaulted stairwell, bouncing back at her off the hard stone walls, setting her nerves jarring through her whole body.
She buried her face in the crook of her arm, terrified, trying to press herself into a corner between two stone slabs, and sobbed hysterically. It was then — after her own first screams — that the awful chorus of squeals started, stabbing mercilessly into her brain. She was in the midst of them, shaking with fear as they continued to fly at her, knock into her, crawl over her, probe into her ears with that long, hair-like sensor.
How long she remained there she had no concept. She waited for death — prayed for it, even — convinced there was no possible way of escape. But death did not come to release her and the torture went on.
At last she became conscious of a bright, intense flickering which settled down to become a steady light.
‘Oh hell!’ she heard a male voice exclaim. ‘Bloody hell! Okay, Ginny — keep your eyes covered! Got that? Keep them covered!’
Then came a high-pitched sibilant sound like hissing steam. The pungent smell irritated her nostrils, but gradually she calmed down. The mere knowledge that she was no longer alone helped her get a grip on herself. Gradually the squealing died down and she realised the moths were no longer bothering her.
‘No, don’t uncover your eyes yet, not till we get you away from where I’ve sprayed.’
‘Jeff?’
‘That’s right. Now I’m going to put my hand on your shoulder and try to guide you back up the steps. Slowly now, one at a time. Careful — there’s a corner here.’
Eventually they reached the main body of the church and she opened her eyes again. They felt hot and uncomfortable, but her sight was normal. Jeff Pringle was dolled up like a First World War pilot with goggles, a close-fitting flying helmet and a scarf across his mouth and nostrils which he now removed.
‘Lucky you hid your face like that,’ he told her, examining her critically. ‘Most sensible thing you could do.’
‘God, I was scared!’
‘Saved your eyes, though. See this white stuff on your clothes? We’ll keep some of that to get it analysed, but it’s my guess they were aiming for your eyes, probably intending to blind you.’
‘The moths, you mean?’
‘Spitting it at you, same as they spat at me the other night. Now we’d better find some water and get you washed. What with this stuff, plus the pesticide I was using, the sooner we bathe those eyes the better.’
There was a little washroom which could be reached through the vestry. On the way there, he explained that it was Dr Rendell who had sent him in search of her, fearing something had happened as she was away so long. Everything was well in hand now, he added. The village was riddled with police and the ambulances were running a relay service. Plenty of bandages available too, so there was no need to rip up the vicar’s surplices.
‘The vicar’s dead,’ she informed him, glancing around apprehensively. There were too many dark corners high among the tie-beams of the old church. ‘Can we really be sure it’s over?’
‘No,’ Jeff said frankly. ‘No, we can’t be sure about anything.’
9
Bernie insisted on examining Ginny’s eyes before agreeing that she could go back to the cottage for a wash and change of clothing. Despite her protests Jeff went with her, taking the keys out of her hand and opening the front door for her. Before allowing her inside he checked the living room and kitchen for caterpillars, but both were clear. The air was suffocatingly hot, but she dared not risk opening a window.
‘I’m thirsty.’ She made for the sideboard.
‘Ginny, you’ve just come through a double-barrelled shock.’
‘Meaning?’
‘No alcohol. Let me just take a look upstairs, then I’ll put the kettle on.’
‘Oh, feel free!’ she declared, flopping angrily into her armchair. ‘It’s only my bedroom!’
Her hand was shaking and she felt totally exhausted. Maybe he was right, but if there was one thing she was not going to tolerate, it was being given orders by a domineering male. Listening to him moving about upstairs, she made up her mind.
‘All clear!’ he announced as he came down, ducking his head. ‘Now for the tea.’
‘No.’
He grinned at her uncertainly. ‘No?’
‘I need a bath. I can’t have one here, so I’m going to my sister’s place. If you phone me there later we can fix a time to meet, though I’ve no idea what we can do about this.’ She got up unsteadily, but hoped he did not notice. ‘I haven’t said thank you, have I? You probably saved my life.’
‘We’re all in danger,’ he replied soberly. ‘After today, perhaps the authorities will take the threat more seriously.’