Within an hour of the Prime Minister's speech traffic-jams were building up on all roads leading from the Midlands. Nobody had foreseen such drastic emergency measures in spite of the new terror which flitted from building to building in the gathering dusk each night. There were reports of deaths. Some still did not believe it. And those who did refused to believe that it could ever happen to themselves. Somebody was dying on average every half hour in a city the size of Birmingham. One accepted those statistics. The cause did not matter.
Now, suddenly, the presence of the bats was affecting everybody's life. Death was one thing. Military rule was another.
Gerald Pitkin had worked at the Treasury for five years. As an ex-Forces man it helped to supplement his pension after the age of forty-five. Thickset with short-cropped iron-grey hair, he had no other ambition than to see his time out there. At first he had had some difficulty adjusting to the new way of life, the systems, the lack of military discipline, but overall there were few problems. Until that fateful day when the bats had chosen to occupy the ventilation shaft in the Credit House. Fortunately for Gerald he had been standing in for one of the clerks on the bullion-vans who had stopped at home with a migraine. So by the time Gerald's van had arrived back at base order had been restored, and the Credit House clerks who had been in direct contact with the bats had been taken to hospital.
He accepted their deaths philosophically. Baxterdale's he delighted in secretly. But in the days which followed, Gerald Pitkin devoted much thought to the situation. It was rumoured early in the morning that the Prime Minister would be making a statement to the country that night, and Gerald had a good idea what the content of that speech would be. With his army training he forecast events. It had to be that way. They had to try and contain the outbreak of whatever it was, he decided. That meant calling up reservists (not from the infected zone, naturally) plus volunteers, men who feared for their own safety if the plague spread. Rabble. An armed mob with little or no training, just a few brief instructions. Keep the bloody Midlanders in, and if any of 'em try to make a break for it, shoot 'em down. They'd die, anyway. A bullet was quick, painless. The virus was slow agony by comparison. So what was there to lose?
It was raid-morning by the time Gerald had worked all this out. A sudden sense of frustration followed by panic gripped him. Had he left it too late? He and his wife Bertha, and Harry, their eighteen-year-old son, should have made tracks yesterday. His brother Tom's place at Shrewsbury was the safest place for them. They'd be all right there.
He wondered if there was still time. He looked at his watch, trying to estimate what time he would finish that evening. Surely not later than five, unless some stupid pratt couldn't balance his books, and then they'd all have to hang about waiting. Stupid bloody rules. Nobody left until everybody had balanced. And even if everything went according to plan he might still be too late. Surely others had anticipated a cordoning-off of the Midlands? Anybody with any sense could see what was going to happen.
Gerald Pitkin had to leave early somehow. And one didn't get out of the Treasury before time without a good excuse. Like going sick. He worked out a plan of action, but it was after lunch before he finally put his escape-plan into motion.
'I've got the shits,' he informed Barlow, the new chief clerk.
'Well, go and have a crap, then.' Barlow was young, wore a permanent smirk on his face and made no secret of his dislike of ex-Forces men. If you didn't start in the Bank straight from school then you didn't deserve to be there.
'I've had two.' Gerald controlled his temper and tried to look as though he might be feeling ill. 'And I've been sick, too. I think I might have caught something. A bug, maybe.'
'You had a couple of days off last week.' Barlow continued working, pencilling figures in a large cash-book as he spoke.
'I had the shits then,' Gerald forced a belch and hoped that it sounded genuine. I don't think I ever shook it off.' 'I'll phone upstairs for the key holders,' Barlow muttered, picking up the phone and dialling with his pencil. 'You'd better have a word with the Chief. See what he says.'
Gerald Pitkcin could hardly believe his good fortune as he hurried along the crowded street, up the ramp to the station, and just managed to board the 3.15 train before it pulled out. He'd never have got away with a yarn like that in Baxterdale's time. Baxterdale wouldn't have listened to anybody who claimed to have the shits. He was one big shit himself. But he was dead and gone, so what the hell?
Bertha Pitkin looked up in amazement as Gerald walked into the hall. She was thickly built, with greying hair disguised by an auburn rinse. The type who did everything to a routine. That had been bred into her by living for most of her life in army married quarters. And anything which disrupted her self-regimented life upset her. Like her husband arriving home two hours before he was officially due.
'What on earth's the matter with you?' she snapped. 'Are you ill or something?'
Told 'em I was.' Gerald was sweating, partly because of the heat and partly because he had run the remaining hundred yards as he succumbed to a sense of urgency.
'Whatever for?'
'Because we're leaving.' He jerked a thumb towards the stairs. Harry would still be sleeping. He was on nights at the car factory this week. 'Wake Harry and get a few things packed. Just essentials.'
Are you mad?' she demanded, surveying him, hands on hips, eyebrows raised, lips compressed.
'No,' he said. 'But if we don't get out now, we never shall. They're going to do something shortly. Cordon off Birmingham, maybe even the whole of the Midlands.'
She stared at him in astonishment, but for once she did not ridicule him.
They couldn't.' she breathed softly. 'They wouldn't dare.'
'They could and they would.' He stood poised on the bottom stair. 'I'll go up and wake Harry. We need to be on the road in half-an-hour before everybody else realises what's happening.'
Forty minutes later the Pitkins, Gerald at the wheel of their new Fiat, Bertha beside him and a bleary-eyed Harry in the back amidst piles of loose luggage, headed out of Birmingham. Gerald had tried to telephone Tom before leaving, but after three unsuccessful attempts, each time thwarted by a recorded flat female voice which stated that 'all lines to Shrewsbury are engaged', he gave up and they set off.
The traffic was lighter than it would have been under normal circumstances. Gerald Pitkin prided himself that he was the only person in the whole of Birmingham who had forecast the government's intentions.
They were through West Bromwich and Wolverhamton by six o'clock, and out on to the A464. Gerald glanced down at the petrol-gauge. Less than half full. He wished that he had filled up before leaving, but it didn't matter. There was more than enough fuel in the tank and it was less than fifty miles to Shrewsbury.
Shifnal was crowded. People seemed to be carrying on much the same as usual, going about their everyday shopping, chattering on the streets.
'Probably haven't even heard about the bats out here, Gerald said. 'I guess we're clear by now. We can relax.'
'I think you're making a damned fool of yourself, and us as well,' Bertha snorted. 'And when you get back to Birmingham you'll find that you've had the sack from the Treasury.'