Lair (19 page)

Those gathered near that particular sewer entrance on the third day after the initial gassing did not envy the two men now descending into the infested labyrinth. The residue of lingering gas had been suctioned clear by the very machines that had pumped it in, but the thought of wading through the piled-up, decomposing bodies sent shudders through them. The soldiers were relieved that only two men were going down on the first mission, none of them keen to be part of a spearhead.

Both Fender's and Captain Mather's limbs were still stiff from the bruising their bodies had taken in the rat attack and they found their descent awkward, the protective suits and oxygen cylinders on their backs impeding their movements even further. Fender stood at the bottom of the ladder and swung the powerful torch he was carrying in a wide arc. A feeling of revulsion swept over him when he saw the heaped bodies, many with bloated stomachs, the result of a build-up of internal gases, others with jaws wide in silent agony, their legs extended stiffly into the air, their skin flaking and rotting. Mather joined him and regarded the nightmare scene with equal disdain, sweeping his torchlight into both directions of the tunnel.

He shone the torch on the boldly drawn map of the sewer network and a gloved finger pointed to their location. He then indicated the direction they had already agreed upon and Fender gave an exaggerated nod. The rat catcher moved off, Mather following close behind.

Two hours passed, then three. The men gathered around the point of entry began to grow anxious. They knew the two men had a wide circuit to cover, their route eventually leading them back to the starting point, but it was nerve-wracking to stand by completely inactive. Mike Lehmann and Stephen Howard eyed each other nervously. Antony Thornton was, at that moment, reporting personally to the Prime Minister and his Inner Cabinet, assuring them in soothing tones that all was well in Epping Forest, and the situation was under complete control. Jenny Hanmer sat alone in her room at the Conservation Centre and stared at the window. The curtains were drawn together.

Another hour passed.

Mike Lehmann tucked his wristwatch back inside his sleeve and pulled the thick glove back on. He turned to the research director. "I want to go down there with some men," he said firmly.

"Not just yet, Mike," Howard replied. "Give them time. They've got a lot of ground to cover."

They've had time enough. I'm going." He reached for the helmet lying at his feet.

"You know you can't take any soldiers down there just yet!" Howard snapped. "We agreed with Thornton."

To hell with Thornton! Luke may be in trouble."

"Keep your voice down, Mike. Listen, if he ..."

They're coming up!"

Both men wheeled around at the sound of the soldier's voice and looked towards the opening to the sewer. The soldier who had called out, his mouth and nose now covered with a handkerchief, was reaching down with one hand into the hole. An arm appeared over the edge of the opening, then a helmet and shoulders. The figure clambered through followed by another and a cheer rang out among the relieved soldiers. The first figure stood erect and the hands pulled at his helmet, then pulled away the oxygen mask. The only expression on Fender's face was one of weariness.

He spotted Lehmann and Howard and began walking towards them, his strides heavy, awkward. They saw his face was shining with perspiration and steam from his mouth escaped into the cold air in swirling billows. He stopped before them, dropping the torch and helmet onto the grass, and looked at each man in turn.

He shook his head. "Nothing," he said.

SEVENTEEN

Charles Denison smiled to himself as he steered the Land-Rover along the rutted track. It was over. His forest was free. He looked out at the bright sky. Even the weather seemed to acknowledge that all was well. The sun had shone brightly, like an omen, since the sewers had been cleared of dead vermin two weeks before. There was a clean dryness in the air, the brown-gold leaves crisp and brittle on the ground, shattering underfoot into flaky powder, ready to replenish the soil. The animals were more in evidence now, venturing forth from their habitats, still cautious, but becoming bolder by the day. The troop activity had probably frightened them more than anything else, the heavy tanks and army vehicles lumbering through their domain like great metal prehistoric monsters. The constant drone of helicopters searching overhead had not helped, either. The main force was gone now, leaving behind a sufficient number to patrol the woodland, but not enough to intrude unpleasantly on the life there. The residents would be allowed to return soon perhaps in two or three weeks' time when every building, every cellar, had been thoroughly scoured. It had been a mammoth job, for there were more homes and deserted buildings on the vast woodland estate than people realized, but it had been carried out with typical military efficiency. Just a few more and the task would be complete.

Of course, anyone entering the forest still had to wear the damned uncomfortable protective suits, but everyone knew they were now just an unnecessary precaution. The soldiers had complained at first because they had not been kit ted out with the silvery clothing there simply had not been enough to go round but now they laughed at their companions in house-searching parties who had to wear them. Everyone had relaxed. Except Whitney-Evans. His concern was now of a different nature.

It looked as if Epping Forest might lose its financial independence.

The extermination exercise had cost more than the City coffers could afford at that time and the Greater London Council had rubbed their hands in glee at the prospect of becoming joint owners of the green belt area. The battle was on: Whitney-Evans and his City friends were endeavouring to sue the government of the day for the disaster. The local authorities who each owned a slice of the green lands around Epping Forest were screaming for tighter controls in the area, demanding that the government itself should take total responsibility for the woodland's upkeep, and the GLC were claiming that the forest was a natural extension of London itself, therefore it should come under their jurisdiction. The clamour from the public over the scare they had received and, of course, the many deaths that had occurred was being nicely stirred by the main opposing political party, with the smaller antagonists jumping up and biting the government's ankles with furious relish. The media had had a field day, dreaming up a new title for the circulation-stimulating event, their elected title following aptly on the heels of The Outbreak': they called it The Outrage'.

Denison slowed the Land-Rover as a squirrel hopped on to the track ahead, cocked its head at his approach, and darted back into cover.

"You're one vermin I don't mind any more!" Denison called out, chuckling to himself. The vehicle gathered speed and the head keeper began to hum a tune to himself, happy to be carrying out his normal duties in the almost deserted forest. It would be a long time before the day-trippers returned and the thought made him even happier. It also warmed him a little to think of the insufferably pompous Whitney-Evans squirming under the sudden pressures inflicted upon him.

The man undoubtedly loved the Epping Forest, but he had a tendency to regard it as his own domain, his own back garden, and all those employed in its care as his personal gardeners. Denison hoped fervently that the City would retain control of the woodland, but had to smile at the upset now taking place.

He brought the Land-Rover to a halt before a large gate, the entrance to a six-acre enclosure in which the forest deer were kept. They had been herded together and brought here for their own protection years before, because their numbers had depleted rapidly through cars and lorries knocking them down when they wandered across the many roads running through the woodland. Dogs had also been a menace to them, chasing them, savaging their young. They had sustained injuries on fencings, cut themselves on broken glass and choked on plastic bags left by tourists. The occasional poacher had left his mark, too. It was decided that if the deer population were to survive, it could only do so in the safety of a reserve. One of Denison's biggest fears during the rodent invasion was that the deer would be attacked. He had begged for a guard, or at least a patrol, to cover the perimeter, and the army had complied with his wishes until the threat was over. Of all the forest wildlife, he loved these gentle, skittish creatures most.

He pulled the gate open wide, climbed back into the Land Rover, and drove through. He left the engine idling while he closed the gate again. There were no deer immediately in evidence, but that wasn't unusual: they were shy creatures. He drove around the perimeter, checking for breaks in the fencing, ensuring there were no deer strung halfway over the boundary, their efforts to wander free foiled by their inability to clear the wire.

He sensed the presence of the bodies before he saw them. They were scattered over a wide area as though their panic had made them flee in different directions. They lay motionless in the grass, bloody, half-eaten carcasses. He jumped from the Land-Rover, leaving behind the two-way radio that had now become standard equipment, and stumbled towards them, shaking his head as he went, his cheeks glistening wetly.

Five, six, seven, more. Nine in all. Oh God, no. Another, a hundred yards away. One by the fence, another ... He stared at the slumped form, unsure, too much blood to be certain, but the unstained areas light in colour... He moved closer to the particular animal, his grief making him oblivious to any danger that might still be lurking in the vicinity. As he drew nearer, he became more certain. And as he stood above the ravaged body, a raw, gaping hole in its skull beneath the antlers, the blood still viscous as though death had been recent, he knew from what was left untouched of the light, fawn-covered coating, that the rats had slaughtered the white deer.

Whittaker swung the rusted iron gates wide and Fender drove the Audi through. He waited for the senior tutor to close the gates again and stared through his windscreen at the long, straight road ahead, the forest of pine trees providing a high, green wall on either side. In the distance he could just make out the sombre, square shape of Seymour Hall, its chimney stacks a dark silhouette against the clear sky.

The passenger door opened and Whittaker climbed in. The car moved forward at a slow speed, both men looking keenly into the trees, searching for any scarred barks, any sudden movement.

What do you think?" Whittaker asked, his eyes still scanning the forest. We haven't seen any signs for two weeks now, not since the gassing."

Fender shook his head. "I don't know. I'd like to think we got them all, but I still feel uneasy."

"Why? Nearly every inch of the forest has been covered and there's only a few buildings left to search. Even the one ahead has been cleared by the helicopter reconnaissance -the pigs running loose up there all seemed healthy enough."

"I still won't be happy until every building has been crossed off our list."

"Maybe you're right. I'll certainly feel relieved when the whole area has been given a clean bill of health. Even then I think I'll be a little scared of the forest for a few years to come."

Fender brought the car to a halt before the rough wooden gate and cattle-grid that barred the entrance into the rising field leading up to the desolate mansion.

You won't get the car up there," Whittaker said. "It's hard down here, but the pigs have churned the track into a muddy swamp at the other end."

"Okay, we'll walk." Fender quickly ran his eyes over the surrounding fields, studying the wooded fringes. He was glad to be clear of the pine forest, the memory of the mutant rats leaping from the trees still all too vivid. Ahead, to his right, he saw the small round copse that had made him feel uneasy on his last visit to this place. It would have to be searched later. He reached for the two-way radio lying on the back seat and informed the Operations Room at the Centre of their precise location, a strictly adhered-to procedure for any of the search parties in the forest. Then he strapped a gun holster around his waist.

"Okay," he said when he had finished, let's take a look."

Whittaker pushed open the door and clambered out, the sun reflecting sparkles of light in his silver-grey protective suit.

"Hey! Helmet," Fender said reaching down into the front floor-space where the tutor had carelessly thrown the headgear.

"Oh, Christ. Is it still necessary?" Whittaker complained.

"Carry it. You never know."

Whittaker took the plastic-visored helmet and tucked it under his arm.

He gazed around him, fingers scratching his beard.

"It's so bloody peaceful," he said. "It seems impossible that it all happened such a short time ago."

Fender closed the car door, and smiled grimly. "Let's hope it stays this way," he said.

They walked towards the gate, carefully negotiating their way across the metal cattle-grid. Fender released the catch and swung the gate open a few feet, lifting it clear of the rutted earth at its base. The tutor passed through and Fender made sure the entrance was closed properly before catching up with him. They trudged along in silence, the track becoming muddier as they went The rat catcher examined the rough soil on either side.

The pigs don't leave much, do they," he commented.

"No, they eat anything and everything. That's what makes them so cheap to keep. These free-rangers virtually look after themselves."

"I don't see any," said Fender, craning his head round.

They'll be up at the house in the shelter there. We can look in on them to set your mind at rest."

The mud began to pull at their boots now, making walking awkward.

"I'm surprised this hasn't dried up," Fender said, 'with all the bright weather we've been having."

"It's become too water-logged over the years. It'll never dry up now.

It gets worse further on."

Once more there was a silence between them as they plodded through the oozing mud, and Fender felt the tutor's resentment towards him. He'd been conscious of it before, on the other days he and Whittaker had teamed up as a search-party, and had ignored it. The tutor hadn't actually said anything antagonistic towards him, nor indicated his feelings over Jenny and Fender's relationship it was more an underlying animosity tempered by the fact that Fender had pulled the rat from him during the attack, possibly saving his Me, or at least saving him from serious injury. But it was coming, and Fender could sense it.

He almost smiled when Whittaker said, "Look, Luke, about Jenny..."

Fender kept walking, his eyes searching the empty windows of the building ahead. "What about her?" he said.

"You know she's in a confused state at the moment. This business with the rats has upset her terribly."

Fender remained silent.

"What I'm trying to say is, she's very vulnerable right now ... I don't think she knows her own mind."

"I don't agree. She seems to me to be very clear-minded."

Whittaker reached out a hand and brought the rat catcher to a halt.

"Look, what I mean is, I'd hate to see her taken advantage of when she's in this state."

Fender faced him. "Listen," he said through tight lips. "I understand your problem, but it is your problem. It's nothing to do with Jenny and me. Jenny's neither confused nor being taken advantage of. I could explain to you how we feel about each other, but that has nothing to do with you."

There was a flush to Whittaker's face. "Before you came along..."

"Before I came along nothing! Jenny told me you were good friends, but that was all. Anything else was what you assumed yourself."

The tutor wheeled away, his boots making sucking noises as he stomped towards the house. Fender hurried after him.

"Hey, Vie, I didn't mean ..."

But Whittaker marched on, ignoring Fender's words, and the rat catcher fell silent once more. When the tutor's foot slipped and he went down on one knee in the mud, Fender reached out for him and, suppressing a grin, helped him to his feet.

Whittaker looked at him sullenly. "Okay, maybe I did imagine much of it. But I do care about her, even though I've got my own ...

responsibilities. I don't want to see her hurt."

"I understand, Vie, believe me, I understand. I've no intention of hurting Jenny; I'm in too deep for that I'm sorry you're the loser, but try to see: you were never really in the race."

Whittaker shrugged slowly. "Perhaps you're right. I don't know.

She'll make up her own mind."

You poor idiot, Fender thought. She already had. And strangely, right at that moment, so had he. When he left the forest, his work done, Jenny would be leaving with him.

"Come on," he said, 'let's look at the house."

They continued their journey, boots squelching noisily as they sank deeper into the mud. A low, barbed-wire fence appeared on their left, presumably to keep the pigs from the lush vegetation on the other side.

That was part of the gardens," Whittaker explained, not looking at Fender, his voice low. They stretch right back and around the house itself. It's like a jungle round there."

By now they were close to the gutted manor house and Fender was surprised at its true size. He had only had a side-view as they approached along the track but now, as the rough-hewn road swept on past the entrance, he could see the whole frontage. The large ground-floor windows and arch-shaped door were barricaded with corrugated iron, decorated with mindless, sprayed-on graffiti. Rubble was heaped against its walls as though, year by year, more and more brickwork had dislodged itself from the upper floors and formed a defensive barrier around the perimeter. The first- and second-floor windows were no longer black and ominous, for he could see the sky through them, as most of the building's roof was completely demolished.