Lair r-2 Read online

  He joined a technician at the bench who was carefully examining the inside workings of a machine.

  "Any good?" Fender enquired.

  The technician looked up with a start. "Oh, hello, Mr. Fender. Didn't see you." He bent his head low to get a better look inside the machinery. "No, none of them seems to do much. Their frequency's too low, really. I thought this Japanese model might be effective because it's got variable range and, at the top end, quite a high sound pressure. But the rats get used to even that after a while."

  "What area does it cover?"

  "About 3,000 square feet. It has an intermittent transmitter which confuses the rats for a while. Eighteen kilohertz is the frequency the buggers hate most, but that's a bit unpleasant for the likes of me and you, too. The trouble with rats is that they adapt too fast, so even that frequency doesn't bother them too much after a time."

  "But it works for a limited period."

  The technician nodded. "For a short time, yes."

  "And the ultrasonic machine that attracts them?"

  "Same thing. It worked in London that time because it hadn't been used before the rats had no chance to grow accustomed to the sound. It was just as well they were all killed first time round."

  "A few escaped."

  "Not enough to worry about. And they were soon finished off."

  "But if they had lived and continued to breed, they might have developed some resistance to the sound waves

  "It's a possibility."

  Fender shuddered inwardly. All things considered, London had had a narrow escape.

  "Is Mr. Howard around here somewhere?"

  "He came down with Mr. Lehmann about twenty minutes ago. They've gone out the back, over to the pens."

  Fender left the technician to his work and made for the laboratory's exit. He carefully closed the door behind him, then entered a long shed-like structure which had a "Danger Poisons in use' sign on the door. He walked through the building, the smell of straw and rat droppings pungent in his nostrils, occasionally seeing a dark streaking body in the enclosures on either side of the gangway. Feed-hoppers containing various compounds mixed with food were placed at strategic positions inside the enclosures, each a different attractant for the rat whose sensitivity towards odd flavours or odours made pre-baiting encouraging the rodent to eat a certain food over a period of time before the lethal poison was administered a difficult operation. The attractant compound most favoured by the rodents would be a valuable aid in their destruction.

  The building was empty of humans and he assumed that Howard and Mike Lehmann, the laboratory's Chief Biologist, had gone through to the outside pens. He was glad to leave the shed; it was filled with the smell of death. A gravel path led him towards a garden area, then on to a grassy field beyond. He saw the figures of the two men ahead, both peering into a wide rat pen.

  They turned at his approach and Lehmann, at least, looked pleased to see him. Because of their working relationship, Howard and Fender's friendship had cooled somewhat. Pender, Howard thought, sometimes forgot he was working for the Director of Research and not alongside him.

  "Hello, Luke," he said.

  "Stephen, Mike," Fender acknowledged.

  "How'd it go, Luke?" Lehmann asked, enthusiastic for discussion as ever. By rights, Mike Lehmann should have become Director of Research, for he was a good deal older than Howard and had been at Ratkill for more than fifteen years. However he seemed to show no outward resentment towards the younger man, the man he had engaged in the first place, but every so often, Fender noticed a certain disdainful tone in his voice when arguing a particular technical point with his superior.

  Well, they're Warfarin-resistant all right," Fender said, leaning against the fence surrounding the enclosure. "No doubt about it."

  "So it's spreading?" Howard asked anxiously.

  Fender looked at the Research Director and, not for the first time, was surprised at the way age seemed to be forcing its way into Howard's features. No, it was more that Howard himself was forcing age into his features, almost as if the added years would make him seem more appropriate for the position he held. The thinning hair was severely brushed back and a fine, blond moustache adorned his upper lip. Even the glasses he wore were heavy and unattractive. All you need now is a pipe, thought Fender, then directed his attention back to the question.

  "Yes, it's certainly spreading. Montgomeryshire, Shropshire, Nottinghamshire, Gloucestershire and Kent used to be the only areas where rats resistant to the poison could be found apart from a couple of places in Denmark and Holland, of course."

  "And our own labs," Howard interjected.

  Yes, but they were specially bred to be resistant These creatures acquire the resistance naturally. Anyway, they're in Cheshire now and a few weeks ago I found several groups in Devon."

  "But they were not the Black rat?" Howard looked almost hopeful.

  "No, just the common Brown. No monsters there, but I think we'll soon need to find some new poisons if we're going to control them."

  Fender looked down at the earth around the concrete base of the fence.

  "Someone trying to get in?" he asked, pointing at the burrows that had been dug.

  Yes, the wild rats from the fields," Lehmann told him. They know there's plenty of food in there so they try to join their tame chums inside. Life as a prisoner can be a luxury. The concrete goes two feet down, though, so they can't get under."

  "I'm going to need your report as soon as possible," said Howard. "I've got the ministry people arriving at any moment it's a pity I haven't got your findings to show them. The problem appears to require some more government investment." He looked slightly miffed that the rat catcher was unable to hand over his typed report there and then.

  Fender smiled pleasantly. "It took some time to gather in the facts, Stephen. I didn't think you'd want any wild assumptions."

  "No, no, of course not. I'm sorry, Luke. I didn't want to sound impatient, but it could affect the direction we take over the next few years."

  "Well, I don't think machines are going to be the answer."

  It was Lehmann who spoke and from his brusque tone, Fender guessed it was a point of conflict between the two men.

  "Now you can't say that, Mike." Howard did not try to disguise the irritation he felt. "New generators are being sent to us all the time, and each seems to be an improvement on the last."

  "I know our Products Division has been spending a lot of time on it, using the best ideas from other manufacturers."

  The Research Director's face flushed angrily. We are in this business to make money you know, Mike. If we come up with a competent machine, then the government will make a substantial investment to mass-produce them."

  That's if they ever will be really effective. What do you think, Luke, poisons or ultrasonic sound machines?"

  Fender was not eager to be drawn into the argument, especially on a subject to which he didn't have the answer.

  "I don't know, Mike. With our poisons beginning to fail, generators might be the only way. I think there has to be more study into the rat's communication system itself, though. We know they produce ultrasonics themselves and use echo-location for orientation, so there may be a way of using a machine against them rather than just trying to disrupt their endocrine system."

  "But alpha-chloralose, coumatetralyl and chlorophacinone haven't been fully tested against them yet," Lehmann said.

  "No, but they will be," Howard interrupted. "At the moment, we're exploring all avenues. Look, when can I have your report, Luke?"

  "I could have started work on it today, but Jean tells me you've got another little "trip" in store for me."

  "What? Oh yes, I'd forgotten. Sorry, I would have sent one of the others, but Kempson and Aldridge are both making out their reports for me, and Macrae and Nolan are in the north. You're the only one available."

  "It's all right, I don't mind. What's the problem?"

  There's a Conservation Centre o
n the other side of London. They've seen evidence of rats around the place and the ordinary rodenticides don't seem to have had much effect. They don't think it's anything to worry about, but as the law says it has to be reported, they've done so. I'd like you to go out there today."

  "Surely you don't need me to investigate. Couldn't the local council do it?"

  "I'm afraid not. London is still a sensitive area and our contract with the Ministry states that we'll send in an expert to look into any rodent problems within thirty miles of the city."

  Why didn't they call us before they started messing around with poisons?" Lehmann said in an annoyed voice. That's how this whole Warfarin-resistance business started -amateurs not administering the right dosage, letting the rats build up a defence against it."

  They didn't consider it a big enough problem. They still don't, but they're playing safe."

  "Just where is this Conservation Centre?" Fender asked. "I've never heard of one that close to London."

  "It's been there some time," Howard replied. "It's in the green belt area, the woodland that starts somewhere on the outer fringes of East London. Epping Forest."

  THREE

  The Reverend Jonathan Matthews watched the two men filling in the grave and mentally said his own personal prayer for the deceased. His was an unusual parish, for most of its members were forest people. The term could be used lightly; very few actually worked in the forest itself.

  The great woodland was surrounded on all sides by suburbia, the forest fringes cut dead by bricks and mortar. Less than ten miles away was the city's centre where better paid employment could be found. Some still worked the land, but they were few and far between, the work being arduous and offering little reward. Several forest keepers and their families attended his church at High Beach and he welcomed their patronage. They were a breed of their own, these forest minders, as he preferred to call them. Stern men, most of them, almost Victorian in their attitudes; but their commitment to the woodland and its animals was admirable. He felt their harshness came from the very harshness of nature itself; their open-air existence, whatever weather prevailed, and the constant struggle to maintain the correct balance in forest life despite its location, had given them a dourness which few people understood.

  The Church of the Holy Innocents was ancient, its grey-stoned steeple badly in need of repair. A small building, its size adding to the historic charm, it was seldom filled to capacity. The Reverend Matthews had presided as vicar for more years than he cared to remember, and he deeply regretted the loss of a stalwart parishioner such as Mrs. Wilkinson. At seventy-eight, she had been one of his more active church members, never missing Sunday service and always attending Morning Prayer; her work for the needy of the parish even in her latter years had been a shining example of true Christianity.

  The funeral ceremony an hour before had been well attended, for Mrs.

  Wilkinson had been a much-loved character in the community, but now the small graveyard adjoining the church was empty apart from himself and the two grave-diggers. Their shovels dug into the soft mound of earth beside the open grave with dull thuds and the soil falling onto the coffin lid caused a shiver to run through the vicar's thin body. It had the sound of finality. It represented the end of life in this world, and no matter how much he told his flock of the glorious life to come after, he, himself, was afraid.

  The doubts had come of late. His faith had once been unshakeable, his love for humanity unscathed through all the bitter times. Now, at the time when his own life was drawing towards its concluding years, be they five or fifteen, his mind was troubled. He had thought he understood, or at least accepted, the gross cruelties of the world, but his body had become fragile, and his faith with it. It was said man was reaching a new point in civilization, yet the atrocities continued and, if possible, seemed more hideous than before. His personal trials had been overcome but, rather than strengthening his spiritual self, had progressively undermined it, leaving him vulnerable, exposed. A question often asked of him by grieving parishioners was how could God allow such madness? His answer that no one understood the ways of God, but ultimately they were just, had given them little comfort; and now it gave him little comfort.

  Those such as Mrs. Wilkinson and his dear departed wife, Dorothy, would surely find their spiritual reward, for they epitomized the goodness that still existed. But the heavy sound of earth on wood somehow diminished the ideal; it gave death a stark reality. What if their God wasn't as they thought? He wiped a hand across his forehead, swaying slightly. His parishioners must never know of his doubts -they needed his firm guidance. His misgivings were his secret and he would overcome them with prayer. The years had taken their toll, that was all. He would regain his old beliefs, vanquish the sinful questions, and soon. Before he died.

  The two workmen were breathing heavily by now, their task almost completed. He turned away, not wanting to gaze at the shallow indent, death's seal of earth, and looked around at the quiet, sunny graveyard.

  The constant rustle of the surrounding trees was more comforting than the sounds of the grave diggers But he was in a depressed mood and he wondered if it was this that made the forest seem so oppressive. The vicar felt he was being watched. Or was he merely exhausted mentally?

  Could that be why there seemed to be dozens of eyes watching from the shadows beneath the leafy trees, stripping away his facade, looking deep into his guilt?

  He shook his head, knowing he had to repress this dreadful feeling before it broke him. Yet the forest did have a different atmosphere lately. None of his parishioners mentioned it, but he had caught certain looks in the eyes of the forest keepers. An uneasiness as they studied the undergrowth.

  He searched the distant foliage and tried to penetrate the dark areas.

  Was that a movement? No, just a fern stirred by the breeze. He had to snap out of this destructive mood, had to get a grip on himself. Epping Forest and its inhabitants were his life. He loved the forest. Why then did it seem so menacing?

  Brian Mollison was a broad-shouldered, deep-chested, thick-thighed man of forty who hated his mother and detested the children he taught. If he had married if his mother had allowed him to marry he might well have overcome his problem. Love and sexual fulfilment might have smothered or at least diverted his unnatural inclination. But not necessarily.

  It had started in his late 'teens and he had managed to keep his odd tendency to himself. Lonely, quiet places -places free of people were best, because then there was no danger. As the years went by he found it wasn't enough. Something was missing. Then he discovered exactly what that something was, and it was, of course, the danger. Or, more precisely, the excitement of danger.

  His problem was that he liked to expose his body, or again, more precisely, his genital area. Exposing himself to the elements in secluded places sufficed at first, but exposing himself to people proved to be much more thrilling. He discovered this one day at a new school in which he had been appointed games master. His mother stupid cow had neglected to mend the elastic in the trousers of his tracksuit and when he had demonstrated to the boys it was a boys' school -just how to jump into the air from a squatting position thirty times without a break, the trousers had slipped to his knees revealing all to the delighted pupils.

  It could have been the beginning of a persecuted career -at least in that particular school but he had cracked down hard on them. His rage had been more to cover his embarrassment than real anger at the boys, for he realized after he had whipped up his trousers again that his body was responding to the secret pleasure he had experienced. It was just as well the tracksuit was a loose-fitting, baggy garment. Whether he would have been just as nasty to the boys and his future pupils had the incident not occurred was debatable for he was already of an unpleasant disposition, and if his mother hadn't loved him, then he would have been unloved.

  Through the years he was very careful with his perversion, for he needed the job as PE instructor to keep himself and h
is semi-invalid mother silly bitch and the slightest hint that he might be in any way peculiar would mean an abrupt end to his career. Not that he considered himself peculiar. It was more of a hobby.

  To stand on a crowded tube train in the rush-hour wearing his loose-fitting raincoat, the one that had bottomless pockets, would almost make him faint with excitement. The thrill of knowing that only a thin layer of material separated his monumentally erect organ from the female body crushed up against him would make his knees grow weak.

  It was his breathing he had to control. They often realized what was happening the rod of iron pressure against them could hardly be mistaken for anything else but they usually just flushed with embarrassment and moved away at the next stop, or turned to give him a scathing look which he returned with a stalwart stare. His hard features the short-cropped hair, the heavy jaw, the nose twisted slightly from his boxing days always won the day. He wasn't a man to be tackled lightly.