gns.batsoutofhell-第26部分
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'And what's that？' Sir John leaned forward。
'Food；' Newman replied。 'Millions of big fat insects which have multiplied beyond all prehension in this freak heatwave。 Remember 1976； the blackfly； greenfly； ladybirds？ Well； it's happened again； although on a much larger scale。 And the bats won't mid them in any numbers in the cities。 There's just the odd allotment here and there。 No； I believe they're already back in the countryside； and any minute now we can expect to receive reports of their new locationl'
Jim Dunkley had lived and farmed outside Tamworth all his life。 The land in question had belonged to his father； and his father before him。 Gradually； though； it was shuddering beneath the march of progress。 There were plans for the building of a link…road through part of it。 pulsory purchase； naturally。 A sand and gravel pany were offering an extortionate price for the two lower fields。 He was tempted； but it meant the end of his heritage。 Nothing would be the same any more。
Jim Dunkley preferred to wear his old working clothes seven days a week。 His one and only suit was kept strictly for funerals and weddings； and since he no longer had any next of kin； apart from his wife； he didn't envisage ever having to dress up again。
Untidy； rugged； at forty…five he was one of the last of a dying breed； a true son of the soil to whom farming was a way of life rather than a means of making money。 Few of the nearby villagers had ever seen him without his battered old pork…pie hat。 Many did not know the colour of his hair。 Perhaps he was bald； and was embarrassed by it； some said。 Years ago his wife； Rachel； had protested when he had begun wearing that hat indoors； even to the extent of sitting down to meals with it on his head。 In the end she had given up and accepted it。
Dunkley did not like changes。 A true…blooded conservative； he also objected to people trespassing on his land。 And； in his opinion； poaching was a crime that should have been punishable by imprisonment。
The bats did not worry him unduly。 He only half…believed the story； anyway。 Propaganda。 The reason didn't interest him。 He was even unmoved by the rioting and burning of Birmingham。 That was fifteen miles away。 His whole world consisted of ninety acres of arable and woodland。 Outside of that nothing mattered。 Nevertheless； he had to have money to carry on； and after two poor harvests in succession the only logical way seemed to be to sell off those bottom fields to the quarrying pany。 That was what his accountant had advised。
Dunkley was in a bad humour as he left the house that afternoon and set off across the fields； a rusty twelve…bore hammer…gun beneath his arm。 Between the months of September and January he always went out shooting on Saturday afternoons。 It was a ritual。 Not that he shot much； nowadays。 The spreading conurbation which surrounded his small rural island had been responsible for driving most of the wildlife away。 There might be a covey of partridges up on the top field。 There might also be some of those BVF bastards trespassing in the woods。 If so； then his patience was running out。 They carried arms。 Shotguns。 They were poachers； in effect。 He'd heard a couple of barrels being discharged a few night ago when the moon was full。 Only his wife's pleading had prevented him from going to investigate。 The swines must have spotted a roosting pheasant。
The 'Hanging Wood' still looked the same as it had when he had been a boy； a horseshoe…shaped covert with giant oak trees and tall Corsican pines which never seemed to lose their lush greenery even in the dead of winter。 The place was so named because Oliver Cromwell had taken a hundred Royalist prisoners there； and hanged them from the topmost branches of those tremendous oaks； leaving their bodies suspended there as a warning to their followers until the hempen ropes were routed by the elements and one by one the corpses fell to the ground to bee interred beneath a carpet of dying vegetation。 Of course； there had always been rumours that the place was haunted； passers…by claiming to have heard the creaking of bodies as they swung to and fro on a windy night。
The other spinney Jim Dunkley did not care for。 Its name； the 'Devil's Dressing Room' was derived from another legend whereby the devil was supposed to have stayed there for a short while upon his arrival on earth whilst he changed into human form。 The centre of this copse consisted of a deep quarry with sheer sides； caused by the removal of the stone which had been used in the building of nearby Tamworth church sometime during the Middle Ages。 The sides of this deep and gloomy hole were covered with moss and lichen； small natural caves having formed over the years。 Rarely did the sun penetrate there； and even after four months of continual drought it was still damp and forbidding。
It had not been Jim Dunkley's intention to go to the 'Devil's Dressing Room' that afternoon。 Even wildlife seemed to avoid it。 Yet he had ample time to spare； and at least it would give him some respite from the heat。
The stile over the barbed…wire fence which was the boundary of the spinney was as rotten as it had been the first time his father had brought him there when he was seven。 Yet it had survived； and fulfilled everything…that was required of it。
There was total silence within the small wood。 Not even the clatter of a disturbed woodpigeon could be heard as he forced his way through the foliage。 It was uncanny。
Then came the flies； as suddenly as though they had been forewarned of his ing and had lain in ambush； allowing him to enter before descending upon him。 They were not the midges which sting all exposed areas of the human flesh on balmy summer evenings； but swarms of the mon black variety； buzzing； settling。 He broke off a stem of bracken and used it as a swat； but it only seemed to encourage them more。 He cursed； propped his gun up against a tree trunk； and proceeded to fill a short； stubby pipe with dark； long…stranded tobacco。 It took him four or five matches to light it； and only when he was puffing out clouds of strong brown smoke did the flies retreat。
Jim Dunkley picked up his gun and pushed further into the wood。 He had never known so many flies here before。 Surely they would have preferred the warmth and dryness of the Hanging Wood。
The bracken was chest high； lush green with hardly a tint of brown on its fronds； defying the drought even as it now attempted to impede his own progress； entwining around his body as he forced his way through。
There was an area of silver…birch trees leading up to the old quarry； half an acre of flattened undergrowth with mounds of excavated soil rising up' above ？ the trampled bracken。 Beneath the surface was a badger…set which had been there in his youth； the solitary position affording these nocturnal creatures all the peace and quietness they needed。 Yet his experienced eye noted that the footprints in…the soil； and the scoring of the bark on the surrounding trees where they had sharpened their claws； were not fresh。 The badgers had moved on elsewhere； a week or more ago at a rough guess； Jim Dunkley decided。
It was strange indeed。 Civilisation had not encroached this far。 Not yet； anyway。 Perhaps it was the presence of the BVF guards。 Those two shots the other night。。。 He moved forward； an angry expression on his face。 Well； they weren't ing on to his land with guns any more。 Nor those damned vigilantes。 It was just an excuse to poach the surrounding countryside。 If they tried it again he'd see how they felt about being on the receiving end of a double charge of buckshot。
Dunkley was ten yards from the edge of the old quarry when he became aware of the smell； nauseous； putrifying； penetrating even his own barrier of strong tobacco smoke。 He coughed。 It was like deposing flesh。 In his time he had dug out a number of fox…earths and he was familiar with the stench； the half…consumed carcasses； rotting and rank。 But this was much more powerful。 A dozen foxes would not be capable of making a smell as bad as that。 And it was def
