‘Serita and Bill, you two take a peek round the back,’ the sergeant ordered. He was dearly not in the best of moods. ‘If you find anything, use your radio. Don’t attempt to deal with it on your own. Duncan, you stay here to keep an eye on the main door. The rest come with Miss Armstrong and me.’
‘There should be two men on duty inside the woman in the raincoat explained without bothering to introduce herself, but he remembered the public health officer was a Miss Armstrong, wasn’t she? The one Detective-Sergeant Evans was so struck on?
She led them to one of the Victorian wings, then down a short flight of steps to a locked door which she said gave access to the public health laboratories in the basement.
‘I should go in first. I know where the light switches are.’
Her voice sounded unsteady and he realised she must be highly strung. Well, they had all heard what happened at that house overran by beetles, but surely she didn’t expect any in her own department’s offices?
‘Just tell me where to switch on, miss,’ the sergeant reassured her. ‘You stay out here.’
‘I wouldn’t dream of it, sergeant,’ she told him tartly. ‘I can’t have you stumbling around in the dark kicking things over.’
Pushing in front of him, she inserted the key in the lock and turned it, then waited for a second with her hand on the door knob. ‘When 1 go in, don’t crowd roe,’ she said. ‘I hate being crowded.’
Which was another way of saying they should keep the doorway clear in case she had to beat a hasty retreat, Jack thought. Were these beetles really that dangerous, then? He’d heard they could kill, but surely if they were spotted in time…?
Miss Armstrong held out her hand for Ms torch, switched it on, then quietly opened the door and went inside. A moment later the lights were on and the sergeant joined her in the corridor. Jack followed him in.
No sign, of damage inside, just a row of closed doors, which turned out to be locked when he checked them. Against one of the walls — probably in contravention of fire regulations — was a pile of cardboard cartons bearing the name of a firm of laboratory suppliers.
‘Welt!’ site said brighdy, not disguising her relief. ‘So fax so good. Everything seems quite norma! down here. Now I’ll show you up to the reception area. There’s a staircase at the far end.’
‘Miss Armstrong, thank you very much for your help.’ The sergeant took over firmly. ‘Now if you’ll just wait outside and leave this to us. The stairs are along here, you said?’
ill go at least that far with you.’
‘Outside,’ he repeated. ‘Please.’ i’ll be in this office if you need me. Now I'm here there’s some work I can be getting on with.’
From her shoulder bag she took another bunch of keys and unlocked the door marked GENERAL OFFICE, jack saw the resigned look on the sergeant’s face and thought it best to say nothing. They couldn’t force her to leave her own office, and the whole thing might still turn out to be a hoax.
The sergeant called in the other two constables from outside. They were to go with him up to the reception area, he ordered, while Jack was to stay and keep an eye on things in the basement corridor. ‘OK, Jack?’
‘OK,’
Sergeant David Taylor knew that he ought to have consulted a doctor weeks ago about the pain in his side, but as usual he’d ignored it, hoping it would go away of its own accord. It hadn’t, of course. That evening it was giving him hell. He had to force himself to keep moving just to stay alert.
He found the narrow stairs described by Miss Armstrong and went up first, with the two young constables following immediately behind. Good lads, they seemed, and well able to look after themselves in a rough-house. They had only recently joined the division, during the great upheaval initiated by the new super, and as yet he’d hardly had time to get to know them.
Near the top of the stairs he paused to peer cautiously around the comer, uncertain what to expect but already aware of a sour dusty smell in the air, like a demolition site.
‘Bloody hell!’ he exploded when he saw the mess.
Where the old ornate staircase had stood there was now only a high pile of fallen timbers, with beams and sections of broken-off bannisters sticking out in all directions, resembling some gaunt modem sculpture. Miraculously, the lights were still burning, though the air was hazy with dust, and he could see that the collapsing stairs had brought down part of the ceiling with them as well as some of the joists, leaving a gaping hole where the first-floor landing had been. The reception counter was smashed, and the area behind it lay under rubble.
‘Right, both of you now!’ He snapped out his orders. ‘Two men were on duty in here and they may still be alive. Don’t take any risks. Watch yourselves!’
As the constables brushed past him, spreading out to examine the perimeter of the damage, he undipped his personal radio. The pain in his side sharpened as he began to speak, leaving him gasping for breath. Recovering a little, pressing his hand over the spot in an attempt to relieve the agony, he tried again. He should be in hospital, he realised; he was putting men’s lives at risk.
‘A-ah..
He was starting to call up Tokyo Meg to request emergency services when he saw the beetles scampering towards him across the floor. His voice dried up at the sight of them. They were large pink creatures with flexing claws, a whole army of them purposefully approaching him, and in that split second he at last understood what all the panic was about. He recoiled before them, longing to turn and run.
Then his years of self-discipline took over. He brought the microphone up to his mouth, pressed the switch and began again. Already beetles were swarming over his shoes and socks… biting into his ankles… penetrating up his trouser leg as high as his calves… his knees… his thighs…
Their sharp claws cut through his flesh, but he remained stock-still while he delivered his message.
\.. over and out!’ he finally signed off, and the radio dropped from his hand. He began slapping his clothes and stamping on his attackers in an effort to fight them off.
‘Jones! Phillips!’
Where the hell were those constables? No sign of them when they were needed. Desperately he brushed the beetles away but there were too many of them. They were coming at him like a determined, unstoppable column of driver ants. Oh yes, he knew all about driver ants from when he’d served in the Kenya police. Strip the flesh from your bones, they could. Crushing them was no use, not in those numbers. This was his lot.. no escaping them… His mind was in a spin. These were ants, weren’t they? Or beetles? He no longer knew.
i no longer bloody know!’ he yelled out, sinking to his knees in a pool of his own blood. ‘Philips! Jones!’
One of the constables appeared — he couldn’t see which — and draped over him was a long, pale thing which he could swear must be a tapeworm, curling and squirming across the dark blue tunic.
But his eyes were misty, deceiving him, and the images multiplied, crossing and re-crossing each other in a drifting dance.
Now they were exploring his shirt, those beetle creatures, and testing the naked skin of his belly.
‘There.. there…,’ he begged as they reached the spot on his side where the pain was most intense. ‘That’s it! Right where it hurts! Bite into it… A-a-ahV
Christ, he thought, it was like hot knives — hot surgical knives slicing out the source of the pain. He surrendered himself to them, lying there with his legs awkwardly twisted beneath him, his blood easing out, and his thoughts whirling in a nonsensical dance with the red driver ants… the faces he’d known in Kenya… way back… way back… until the darkness came to swallow all.