At first Guy had simply felt irritated when Dorothea told him Kath was missing; he assumed she had merely forgotten the time, the way kids do. But now he was distinctly uneasy. How little they really knew about their own child, he thought. They had no idea what she was like away from her parents. Was she easily led by other people? Easily scared?
Then he had one of those sudden hunches that can twist a man’s guts into tight knots. Farther along the same street was a cul-de-sac which led to the disused church school — St John’s, or some such name. Hadn’t he heard stories of kids playing in there? Drugs.. sex…?
Jesus, be prayed he was wrong!
It was no man’s land, that cul-de-sac, its houses boarded up awaiting demolition, the air stinking of urine and decaying garbage, the street-lamps smashed, all but one at the far end. His feet crunched over broken glass as he picked his way along.
‘Kath?’ he called tentatively. ‘Kath, are you there?’
No response.
He reached the school, a Victorian structure with pointed gables outlined sombrely against the amber haze of the urban night sky. Over the doors and windows old sheets of corrugated iron had been nailed; even in the weak light of his torch it was obvious where the comers had been bent back to make it possible to climb in. The largest gaps he found were at the main entrance, which consisted of two separate doorways side by side with the words BOYS and GIRLS cut into the stone lintels above them.
Guy leaned in. ‘Kath?’ he shouted. ‘Are you hiding in there?’
His voice echoed through the building, but there was no reply. Carefully he climbed in, cursing as he caught his leg against a protruding nail. He found himself in the cloakroom area and played the light of his torch over the rows of low hooks where generations of children had hung their coats: generations of unwashed, sweating, sneezing, coughing, farting kids, who had all contributed towards that characteristic smell which lingered, ingrained in the woodwork. From his own schooldays he remembered it; and from the ancient drill halls and barrack rooms which were still pan: of the War Office establishment.
‘Kath?’
Still no answer. Yet she might be here, lying injured, perhaps. He had to make certain.
It was pitch dark inside and his torch was not too effective. Searching the cloakroom section was a slow business but he did it thoroughly, satisfying himself that Kath was not there before going on to the first classroom which — if anything — seemed even darker. Keeping to the wall, he stumbled against some obstruction which rattled alarmingly. As he shone his torch on it, he saw it was an old blackboard suspended on pulleys enabling it to be raised and lowered within its wooden frame. It was covered with obscene graffiti, aerosol work, evidence that at least some kids had been there.
He swung the torchlight away from it, intending to continue his search, and in that moment he spotted the first beetle. It stood absolutely stilclass="underline" a pink, oval body with dark green and yellow spots. Approximately one inch long, he estimated, with claw-like mandibles — also green — extending perhaps another half inch: not its most attractive feature. In all his travels he had never before seen anything resembling it.
Except perhaps a stag-beetle, he thought; not with that colouring, though. It looked dangerous.
That made it all the more urgent for him to find Kath. If she were lying hurt somewhere and one of these chappies came along… He shuddered as he looked at those claws. ‘Kath!’ he tried once more. ‘Ka-a-ath! Ka-~’
Her name died on his lips as he realised a second beetle was watching him, definitely watching him, its hard body gleaming faintly in the torchlight. Others too came scurrying towards him in the darkness. He was acutely conscious of a whispering, scraping sound as they moved.
‘This is ridiculous!’ he said aloud. He felt definitely uneasy. Uncertain of himself. Yet they were only ordinary beetles, after all — weren’t they? ‘Ordinary bloody beetles!’
But were they? There were so many of them.
None had yet come close to him — the nearest were about three feet away — but in the torchlight he could see how they were grouped in an almost perfect half-circle around him, wall to wall, as if to block his escape. All facing him, not in disciplined lines, of course; there was plenty of creeping about going on, crawling over each other. Nevertheless, he could swear they were deliberately keeping him under observation.
‘For Chrissake, pull yourself together, man!’ Guy muttered, his army training reasserting itself.
He took a step towards them, expecting them to scatter. Instead, one darted forward and mounted his shoe, exploring the naked leg above his sock where the nail had scratched him. Before he could get rid of it, several more joined it.
Suddenly they were swarming all over him.
‘Bloody hell!’ he swore, bending down in an attempt to knock them away.
It was then he felt the first nips. The pain was intense, as if someone were cutting into his flesh with a jagged saw. He grabbed one and it struggled between his fingers, tightening its grip on him till he was gasping in agony. As he squeezed that hard body, a vile stench enveloped his mouth and nostrils; coughing, retching, he managed to tug the beetle clear but its claws remained hanging feebly from his blood-stained sock, which only attracted more beetles.
Some flew at him, taking off for a short crazy flight to alight on his clothes, on his hair, their extended mandibles clawing into the leather of his jacket, into the skin of his neck, the lobe of his ear…
‘Jesus!’
What came from his throat was no more than a croaking whisper. He thought he’d known fear in the Falklands… in Northern Ireland… but never anything like this. Desperately he tried to brush them away, recoiling, reeling, shielding his eyes against them, aware of the pain.. the blood…
He had to get out. His training took over, his mind sharpened. There was only one way, so why hesitate? He had to force himself to do it.
Hordes of pink, menacing beetles still covered the floorboards between him and the door he could see just faintly beyond them. He straightened up and strode purposefully through them, marching as if on parade, compelling his mind to concentrate on that one objective. Their hard exoskeletons cracked and squelched beneath his feet. The vile, acrid smell returned, catching in his throat, making every breath an effort.
From out of the darkness more beetles came flying against him with a rapid whirring of invisible wings, but he staggered on, his shoes slipping over the slimy body-pulp. They were crawling around his ears… exploring his nostrils… slithering down inside his jacket… up his sleeves.. biting wherever they found flesh.
‘Kath!’ he roared helplessly, realising he couldn’t take much more; he was almost on his knees. ‘Kath, for God’s sake shout if you’re here!’ He spat one out of his mouth.
Then — unexpectedly, unbelievably — he broke out of the half-circle and reached the door, though the beetles were still all over him. Grabbing the doorframe to steady himself, he drew a deep breath. His face was dripping blood, he knew; he could feel it trickling down his neck. Tentatively he touched his skin, found the beetle just beneath his jaw and with a snort of repugnance he tugged it off.
Get out, his mind told him dully. Can’t stop here.. had it if you stop here…