Another groan shuddered through the building, much longer this time. He pulled himself together and hurried along the corridor to investigate.
‘Not on your father’s bloody yacht now, George-boy,’ he muttered to himself, if you don’t find out, there’s no one else will. But what the hell is going on?’
Again the sound came, like a long-drawn-out, rending thunder-clap, yet he could see nothing out of the ordinary. The empty corridor looked much as it always did at night, so well-lit that it emphasised the darkness of the stair-well. He fumbled at the light switches and the strip tubes flickered on, swaying a little perhaps. No sign of anything wrong with the stairs or bannisters.
One more groan — from the lower floor, he thought — and this time it left him with a crazy mental picture of some wounded animal lying down there, roaring in pain.
‘Huh, no imagination, is it?’ he grumbled., still on the top step and feeling reluctant to go any farther down. ‘Like to see what she’d do now, silly bitch.’
He peered down over the bannisters, trying to spot the trouble, his legs unwilling to move until he had a clearer idea of what to expect. Bob was right, the old sod, he decided.. There was something odd about the old building that night, and it wasn’t just the central heating having a grumble, either.
“Best go down an’ have a shufty, I s’ppose,’ he said aloud, gripping his torch. ‘No point ditherin’ up here.’ The bannister felt fins enough, so he tried putting some of his weight on the top stair; no problem there either; nor with the next one. Slowly, he made his way down the flight, still holding on firmly with one hand in case one of the timber treads did give way. Two hundred years old at least, they must be, despite some necessary maintenance from time to time.
But they were solid enough., he discovered; nothing shaky about them, anyroad. Whatever was causing those groans, it could not be the staircase.
No damage on the next floor either, not visible damage.. He heard a couple more groans — closer now, though perhaps not as fierce as the first had been — but when he switched on the next cluster of strip lights he found everything was as it should be. It was a mystery, the whole business, he thought. He continued on his way downstairs, rubbing the side of his chin as he turned it over in his mind, wondering if he shouldn’t ring somebody to report it.
The beetles appeared when he was half-way down. A little scratching noise — just as Bob had described — and then there they were, half a dozen of them, at least, on the steps just below him, waiting. On the wall at the side of the stairs, the old panelling had split in several places and more of the hard pink-and-green insects were emerging through the gaps. Big buggers, he noticed, with claws he wouldn’t like to tangle with.
He stopped and watched them cautiously. Then, glancing back to make sure that the steps above were still free of them, he began to retreat to the floor he had just left. No way was he going to tackle those beetles unaided, not after all he’d heard about them.
That was when he saw more on the corridor, scampering across the parquet flooring.
‘Holy Mary!’
More were joining them every second, crawling over one another as they began to form a menacing half-circle round him. Their colours glinted attractively under the strip lighting; their claws flexed as they moved forward. Below, the beetles gathering on the stairs were already beginning to swarm up towards him.
His shoulder brushed against the fire extinguisher which was kept on a bracket at the head of the staircase. What use it would be against the beetles he’d no means of telling, but it was his only chance. There were so many of them on the corridor, closing in on him, forcing him back to the stairs where the others were waiting, that he felt completely trapped. *
‘Christ, they’re only bloody beetles!’ he lectured himself as he hastily fumbled with the fire extinguisher, but nothing could stop the panic rising inside him, the sickness in his belly, the dryness in his throat.
Too many of ’em, his mind nagged at him. Too many o’ the buggers. It was the claws he couldn’t stand the sight of, those flexing, serrated claws…
Bringing the nozzle up, he squeezed the trigger control for one short, quick burst. The effect made him cry out in triumph. It was like spraying the beetles with crushed, powdered ice, they lay motionless, glistening like Christmas decorations'wherever the stuff hit them, while those on either side, sensing the danger, scattered in confusion.
He could have walked across them as easily as he might tread on fallen leaves in a winter landscape, but some instinct made him glance back at the stairs. The foremost beetles had almost reached his feet, while some of the stragglers, with a quick whirring of invisible wings, were hopping up to join them. Directing the nozzle at them, he sprayed the stairs generously.
More movement was now audible from behind him but this time he didn’t wait, realising that sopner or later the fire extinguisher would be exhausted, leaving Mm defenceless. On the corridor the ‘snow’ his CO2 had created was already melting and the limbs of the frozen beetles were beginning to jerk back into life.
He headed down the stairs, calling out for Bob as he went. ‘Bob! Bob!’
Something moved in his hair; and on his collar — or was it merely imagination? He shifted the fire extinguisher into his other hand, but before he could investigate one more Soud groan shattered the silence. It was followed by two loud cracks and he felt the stairs trembling.
‘Bob!’ he yelled out, hurrying down. ‘For God’s sake, Bob, where the hell are you?’
Taking the steps two at a time, his foot suddenly slid from beneath him. He landed hard on his back, then rolled uncontrollably over and over until he hit the bottom, skidding over the polished floor. It must have been in that same second that the horrifying tearing, wrenching noises began and the entire wooden staircase collapsed in on itself, taking the decorated bannisters and a large part of the old wall-panelling with it.
Painftiliy George got to his feet. Nothing broken, he thanked God, though he was bruised all over and every movement was agony. On his jacket he found a beetle, its claws limp, probably broken; he brushed it off easily and stamped on it. The used fire extinguisher he left lying where it had fallen.
‘Bob!’ he shouted again, limping over to their room. Lazy bugger probably had the television too loud, he thought, though how anyone could have failed to hear that row was beyond him.
Telephone for help, that was his duty, he knew. A 999 call for an ambulance.. fire brigade… oh, for God’s sake they must send somebody. That movement on his collar was still there, he could feel it crawling on to his neck, exploring… He wanted to put his hand up to — Jesus, that hurt! He must have pulled a muscle, he realised. He couldn’t raise his arm… couldn’t…
‘Bob, you sod!’ he started to say as he reached the room, their little cubby-bole where they could have a quick brew-up. But in the doorway he stopped dead. ‘Holy Mary, Mother of God.. ’
His lips formed the words, but they were no longer meant as curses. This time he was genuinely praying in a way he’d seldom prayed before, not since his ship had been shelled off the coast of Korea, his first action, while still only an ordinary seaman, less than six months in the Andrew and so scared he shit himself.