Lair

Lair

by

James Herbert

REMEMBER WITH FEAR

Also by James Herbert

The Rats

The Fog

The Survivor

Fluke

The Spear

The Dark

The Jonah

Shrine

Domain

Moon

The Magic Cottage

Sepulchre

Haunted

Creed

Portent

The Ghosts of Sleath

'48 Others

Graphic Novels

The City

(Illustrated by Ian Miller)

Non-fiction

By Horror Haunted

(Edited by Stephen Jones)

James Herbert's Dark Places

(Photographs by Paul Barkshire)

If you go down in the woods today You're sure of a big surprise...

Prologue

The rat had been trapped in the basement for five days. It had crawled into a dark corner behind a row of shelves to give birth to its litter and, when it had tried to follow the sound, the sound that buzzed through its head, it had found the way blocked by a heavy iron door.

The sound had continued for five long days, almost driving the mother-rat and its tiny offspring mad with its incessant, monotonous pitch. But they had found food in abundance in the basement. The owners had ignored the government warning to leave all doors open so that every building could be cleared, for they knew that when the city's population returned from its short exile, food would be scarce for the first few days, and their shop would be ready to cash in on the shortage. The rat and its litter gorged themselves on the food, for the young ones seemed only to need their mother's milk for the first three days, finding greater replenishment in the food around them. They grew larger and sturdier day by day, dark brown, almost black hairs were already beginning to grow on their bodies. Except for one. Only a few white hairs sprouted on its pinkish white body. It seemed to dominate the others, who brought it food and kept its body warm with their own. A curious lump seemed to be growing on its broad, lop-sided shoulder, next to its head. Patiently, they waited for the people to return.

Signs

One

"Bloody vermin," Ken Woollard cursed aloud, raising his head to examine the 'loop' smears around the rafters of his low-ceilinged barn. The grease marks against the whitewashed walls had been caused by small furry bodies sliding under the beams into the recesses of the rough ceiling. And the only creatures he knew who did that were rodents.

Mice and rats. The stains looked too big to have been caused by mice.

"Bloody cats aren't earning their bloody keep," he said to himself.

Turning and walking from the gloomy building, he examined the floor for droppings. He found none, but it was hardly reassuring. The vermin were there all right, the smears were proof enough. Well, the poison would go down tonight, no messing about waiting for serious damage to be done. Farming the land was hard enough without pests destroying anything edible they could find. Fluoroacetamide should do the trick, no sodding about with pre-baiting. A good dose of it, clear them out right away.

The bright October sunlight made him narrow his eyes as he paused at the barn door. Have to report it, I suppose, government law after the Outbreak. They'd gassed the buggers then, but they were still nervous it might start all over again. Still, that was the city, a great big filthy breeding-place for vermin animal and human. Unfortunately, Epping Forest was close enough to London for them to get the willies again. They'd be down, snooping around, putting the whole bloody farm into quarantine until they were sure it wasn't the bloody rats.

Fuck 'em. Got no time for that nonsense. Get rid of them before all the fuss starts. Where's those bloody cats?

Woollard trudged through the mud of the small farmyard hissing through his teeth to attract the two cats he kept not as pets, but as working animals. Until now they had managed to keep the number of rats down you could never keep them away altogether but the vermin were now getting into the buildings, and that could lead to big trouble.

Woollard's weathered face was creased into deep trenches of anger as he turned the corner of an outbuilding, when suddenly he caught sight of a small white object lying in the mud. At first he thought it might just be a bird feather, but the tinges of red along one edge aroused his curiosity. He squinted as he approached, deciding it wasn't a feather at all but a tiny, obviously dead, animal. He was used to finding dead mice around the place, for his cats usually did their job well enough.

This time, though, there was something odd about the furry corpse.

Stooping to examine the body more closely, he suddenly drew in a sharp breath. He reached for the object he now knew was not a dead mouse.

Blood had matted the fur at one end and two of the claws at the other end were missing. He dropped the cat's paw in disgust.

Pushing himself erect, he quickly searched the area around him for the rest of the cat's body. The stupid bloody creature must have got tangled up in some farmyard machinery, or maybe some wiring, and had the paw torn from its body. It must have crawled away somewhere to nurse its wound or die, most likely. It was then he saw the blood-streaks against the wall of the outhouse.

They stretched all the way along the wall's length, dark red, clots of black and brown hair sticking to the viscous surface. One of the cats they had no names, he wasn't that sentimental was black and brown, with white paws. Whatever had got hold of the poor bloody creature had dragged it along the wall, and the frantic red scratch marks gave evidence that the cat had still been alive at the time.

"Good bloody God," the farmer said in a hushed tone. He followed the gory trail, anger quickening his strides. What manner of creature could do such a thing? A fox? Been none of them around here for years. Anyway, he'd never heard of a fox fighting with a cat before.

Some bloody dog's done it! One of them belonging to someone living in the forest. Never kept their bloody animals locked up! Bad enough with horses trotting all over the place! Well this one'll get my bloody shotgun up its arse.

He reached the end of the wall and hurried round, anger blurring his vision so that he failed to see the object lying on the ground before him. His heavy boot crunched it down into the mud before he realized he had trodden on something hard. He stopped, turned, and once again stooped to examine the object on the ground.

Two sightless slits stared up at him, mud covering the lower portion of the crushed skull. He pulled at a pointed ear and the cat's head came free with a sucking sound, startling Woollard and making him throw the skull into the air. It landed in the mud again with a plop, and lay half on its side, a wicked, feline grin seeming to mock the frightened farmer.

The man crawled on his stomach through the damp grass towards the prone woman. She lay unaware of his stealthy approach, her face turned towards the sun, surprised and happy to receive its warmth so late in the year. She flexed her shoulders against the rough blanket, its thickness protecting her from the wetness of the grass which even the sun could not draw out.

The creeping man smiled and a gleam came into his eyes. A sound behind him made him turn his head sharply and he frowned at his two companions, silently urging them to remain quiet.

The woman sighed and raised a knee provocatively; the smoothness of her legs caught the man's attention. His smile widened and he felt the pressure of the earth against his loins. He was close now, close enough to reach out and touch that wonderfully soft body. He tried to control his breathing so that she wouldn't hear.

Bringing his arm forward, he snapped off a long blade of grass, then pointed its quivering tip towards the woman's face. She twitched as the fine point ran down the side of her nose, then twitched again as the tickling sensation persisted. She suddenly sat upright, vigorously rubbing at her skin as though to dislodge an errant insect.

Terry," she shouted when she saw his shaking body, and grabbed a handful of grass and threw it into his face.

The two children behind the man laughed excitedly, the small girl jumping on his back and pounding his head with the palm of her hand.

"Oil" he yelped, reaching behind and toppling her over his shoulder.

"S'enough of that!"

The woman smiled as her husband rolled the four-year-old over in the grass. "Mind her clothes, Terry. She'll get wet."

"All right, monkey, you heard what your mother said." Terry tossed the girl onto the blanket where she immediately jumped into the woman's arms.

"Game of football, Dad?" the boy asked, eyebrows raised in anticipation.

"Okay, Keith, get the ball. It's in the back of the car."

The boy, seven years old, and ready to play for England -maybe West Ham would do scampered off towards the red car parked fifty yards away on a hard piece of ground not too far from the road.

This is nice, Terry," the woman said, allowing her daughter to scramble free and chase the boy.

Teah. We should do it more often, you know."

The woman looked at him meaningfully. We could always do it on weekends. It would be better than keeping Keith away from school for the day. Wouldn't do any harm to take them down to Southend now and again. They like the sea."

Terry grunted noncommittally. He didn't want to make any promises just because he was in a good mood. "Come on, you two, hurry up," he shouted after the children.

The woman knew there was no point in pursuing the subject. When do you think you'll go back?" she asked.

Terry shrugged. When the Union says so, I suppose."

"I don't know how they get away with it. It's a wonder the company don't go bust. It's the fifth dispute this year."

"Sixth. We were on a go-slow last month."

The woman groaned. "How you get any cars out at all beats me."

"Leave it alone, Hazel. I have to follow the Union rules."

"Yes, you all do, don't you? You're all bloody mindless."

They get us more money, don't they? And better conditions."

"And what are they going to do when there's no car plant left? When the Americans pull out?"

"Leave off. That'll never happen."

"No, not until it does."

The couple sat in silence for a few moments, each annoyed with the other.

"At least it gives me more time with the kids, don't it?" Terry said finally.

Hazel sniffed.

The two children returned, the boy kicking the ball ahead and the girl running after it, trying to smother it with her body. Terry leapt to his feet and ran towards them, kicking the ball away from the girl who shrieked with glee.

Hazel smiled at the three of them and pushed thoughts of strikes and unions and weekends spent indoors away from her mind. "Lazy bastard,"

she said softly, still smiling, as she watched her husband kick the football with his knee onto his head.

"Okay, Keith, in goal," Terry told the boy who immediately pulled a disgusted face.

"I'm always in goal. Can't you go in for a change, Dad?"

"Yeah, I will. When I've scored three, all right? In between those two trees, go on."

The boy slunk off and stood between two horn beams hands on his hips, facing his prancing father.

The girl tried to grab the ball from her father's feet and giggled when he pulled it away from her with the underside of one foot.

"No you don't, Josie. You're up against a pro here." Terry kicked the ball clear of his daughter then gave it a hefty kick towards the makeshift goal. Keith met it with a kick of his own and sent it skimming back past his father.

"Show off!" Terry called out and ran after it, slipping and falling onto his back as he stretched a foot out to halt the ball's progress.

Hazel and the two children laughed aloud as Terry struggled to his feet, a rueful grin on his face.

"All right, you asked for it," he called back to Keith. "Get ready for this one!"

He retrieved the ball, placed it firmly on the ground, took a few steps back, then kicked it high and hard towards the goal mouth Josie bravely jumped up and tried to catch the ball, but the boy was older and wiser: he ducked and let it sail over his head. The ball disappeared with a rustle of protesting leaves into the heavy clump of bushes behind the trees.

"Oh, Dad!" Keith moaned.

Terry, that's too hard," said Hazel, reproachfully.

Well, go and get it, son," said Terry, unabashed.

But Keith squatted on the ground, arms folded across his chest, a set expression on his face.

"I get it, Daddy," Josie cried out, scurrying towards the bushes.

Watch her, Terry, don't let her go out of sight," Hazel said anxiously.

"She's all right, it didn't go far." Terry stretched his arms and gazed at the greenness around him. "Beats bloody working," he muttered under his breath.

Josie peered into the bushes, then jiggled her body through the small opening she had found. She squirmed further into the undergrowth, her eyes darting from left to right in search of the lost ball. Her mother's voice followed her through the tangle of leaves and branches, but the girl's mind was too concentrated on her quest to listen. She squealed in excitement when she saw the white round object of her search nestling beneath a leafy bush, and pushed herself forward, wincing as the branches scratched at her legs.

She reached the ball in a final determined rush, then squatted on her haunches to retrieve it. Something moved just beyond the football.

Something dark, hiding in the darker shadows of the thick undergrowth.

Josie's fingertips reached for the ball and flicked it free, rolling it back towards her. She hugged it to her chest and was about to rise when her sharp little eyes caught sight of the animal. She moved closer, ducking beneath the leaves to get a better view. The football was forgotten for the moment and left to one side, shiny and wet. Josie crawled forward on all fours, oblivious to the damp earth which muddied her hands and knees. In the dimness she could just distinguish a black, stiff-furred body and two close-set highlights reflected in the creature's eyes. It did not move, but waited for her to draw near.

"Good doggy," Josie said happily. "Come here. Come on."

A thick branch blocked her way and she pushed at it impatiently, but it would not budge. She reached over, wanting to stroke the animal's head.

The pointed head jerked once, then stretched forward towards the approaching fingers. The girl giggled, overjoyed that the animal wanted to be friendly, and pushed even harder against the branch so that she could touch the furry body. Hot breath from the creature's mouth warmed her pudgy hand.

The sudden crash of broken undergrowth from behind startled her and she drew her arm back in a reflex action.

"Josie? Where are you?" came her father's concerned voice.

"Here, Daddy," she called out. "Got a doggy."

Terry brushed the leaves and branches aside and found his daughter on her knees in the mud, the white football near her feet. Her face beamed up at him in excitement.

"You wait till your mother sees the state of you," he scolded, and reached down to scoop her up in his arms. "Dog in there, Daddy. Can we take him home?" Her father peered into the gloom behind her, but when she turned to point to the spot where the animal had been hiding, it had gone.

The horse, chestnut in colour, cantered easily along the hoggin path, its rider immaculately clad in a light brown uniform and dark riding cap. Charles Denison, Head Keeper of Epping Forest, was content on this fine, October morning.

It was the season he loved best: the greens, yellows and browns of autumn gave the forest new life, changed its personality in a most beautiful way. The dying leaves replenished the earth, the golden, myriad carpet they formed on the woodland floor injecting the soil with fresh vitality which would be slowly processed through the winter months. The air was fresh, its sharpness exhilarating. And best of all, the people were gone.

The vast acres of woodland, rolling fields and agricultural land were a retreat for thousands upon thousands of Londoners or those living in the urbanized areas around the forest. The hordes invaded at weekends and public holidays in the summer months, scattering their litter, terrifying the shy forest creatures with their bludgeoning excursions into the wooded areas, shouting, laughing, mutilating trees and undergrowth. The public thought they owned the lush strip of land, assuming its upkeep came from the rates they paid; but it wasn't so.

Private money preserved this sanctuary.

Still, they were gone now, leaving the forest to those who cared, those who loved the vast nature reserve for its peacefulness, its constantly changing pattern, its timid wildlife. Fewer squaw ling brats, less bawling transistor radios. Weekends were still busy they always would be, whatever the weather but, ah, weekdays. Weekdays, such as this, were a joy. Denison brought his mount to a halt to examine fresh markings at the base of a birch tree.

The bark had been stripped away by some small animal, revealing the virgin wood beneath, bright and naked, a fresh wound. He lightly kicked against the sides of his mount and urged it forward for a closer inspection. Squirrels, he told himself. Damned pests, despite their bushy-tailed precociousness. If he had his way, he would trap or poison the lot of 'em. The grey squirrel, usually in early summer, attacked trees, gnawing at the main stem for the sweet, sappy layers beneath the rough bark. A tree could often die from such attacks, particularly if completely ringed. The ordinary layman just did not understand the nuisance value of these tiny creatures, didn't seem to appreciate that they were rodents. Of course, there had been no sign at all of the red squirrel. The red had been ousted from the forest by the grey many years ago and the amount of greys had increased uncontrollably; but this year, strangely, their numbers seemed to be down.

He pulled the horse away from the birch, lifting its head up from the succulent grass. Guiding it back to the path, Denison gazed around him, looking for signs of further damage. A sudden flurry of movement to his left brought him to a halt again. A section of thicket across the path from him shook frantically, then settled into an uneasy stillness. It often happened in the forest an animal or bird startled by the approach of man, a sudden attack by one animal on another it was this that made the woodland so alive.

A sudden, spasmodic twitching of leaves and a tiny, almost inaudible squeal told him that a forest creature had fallen victim to a larger enemy. He felt no sympathy, for that was the law of nature, but he was curious to know who was prey and who was predator. He clucked his tongue at the horse and lightly kicked its flanks again. The chestnut took a few steps towards the thicket, then stopped, its neck and legs suddenly stiff.

There was no movement from the undergrowth, not even the rustle of unseen leaves beneath its many layers.

"Come on, girl," said Denison, irritated at his mount's unexpected nervousness. "On you go."

But the horse refused to budge. It regarded the thicket with bulging eyes. Denison became impatient with the horse's inexplicable fear and fear it was, for the keeper could feel the rising tension in the beast.

He knew horses, knew their moods, and he certainly knew this mood. The horse was ready to bolt.

"Steady now, Bettina. There's nothing there to worry you." He patted the chestnut's long neck, speaking in soft, soothing tones. Bettina was normally the most docile of animals, rarely spooked by the abrupt actions of startled wildlife. "Calm yourself, girl, and we'll go on our way."

The horse skipped from hoof to hoof, jerking its head up and away from the now silent thicket. The keeper exerted pressure with his left knee and pulled the reins towards the right, trying to steer his mount down the path and away from the menacing undergrowth.

And then the horse was off. There had been no other sound, no other movement from the thicket, but the tension inside the skittish horse had finally boiled over, and the mare fled away, hoofs pounding, digging deep into the path and throwing clumps of earth high into the air behind it.

Denison tugged at the reins, his legs stiff against the stirrups, his body thrown backwards in an attempt to control the chestnut's gallop.

But the terror in the animal was stronger than the pull of its master's hands. Low branches came dangerously near Denison's face as the horse sped along the churned-up path, and he decided to let his mount have its head, to run itself out, to disperse its energy until its strength and will was more controllable.

They cleared the trees and Denison silently thanked God; open grassland was before them. The horse left the path and headed into the lush fields, the keeper praying that it would not step into a rut or a hole and break its leg. And possibly, his neck.

He tugged at the reins again and sensed some of the excitement leaving the horse now that it was out on open ground.

Whoa, girl! Stop now, girl! Whoa, Bettina!" Denison tried not to shout the words, but it was hard to keep the urgency, the near-panic, from them.

A sudden dip caused the horse to stumble, but it managed to keep its feet, though one leg twisted badly. It staggered forward, the impetus of its wild gallop carrying its powerful body onwards; but the sudden check in speed threw the head keeper forward, almost over the beast's head. He clutched desperately at the long neck, his legs losing their grip on Bettina's flanks, his body slipping from the saddle. He was fortunate, for his feet touched the earth while he was still supported by the horse's neck. He clung to the horse, his riding boots scraping through the long grass, and his weight slowed the animal down even more. It came to a gradual halt, body twitching and eyes rolling, froth foaming from nostrils and mouth. Bettina's body gleamed with sweat as she tried to pull her neck free of the man.

"Steady, steady, girl," Denison gasped, relieved to be still in one piece.

He let his legs take his full weight and continued to talk soothingly to the horse, stroking its head, calming it.

It proved difficult to settle Bettina, though, and from the way the animal favoured one leg, Denison realized it had injured an ankle. He rested his own head against Bettina's, telling her it was all right now, nothing could harm her, when a movement on a grassy slope not too far away caught his eye.

His face jerked away from the horse and he stared towards the hillock.

He rubbed a hand across his eyes in disbelief and stared even harder.

But the vision had gone.

"I'll be damned," he said in a hushed breath.

There should have been no deer in this part of the forest they were kept in a special compound on the other side, near Theydon Bois, where they were safe, away from cars, away from people. They were precious creatures to the forest, especially now in the rutting season. The numbers had been reduced so drastically over the past fifty years, that special measures had been taken to protect them. It was odd enough to see a deer running loose nowadays, but this was even more strange. It had been thirty years since a white buck had been seen in Epping.

And the superstitions and folklore of the forest were entrenched deeply enough in Denison for him to feel uneasy. He knew the sudden appearance of a white deer was a bad omen.

TWO

The car began to reduce speed as it approached the entrance to the laboratories, the driver easing his foot from the accelerator and using his gears rather than brakes to slow the vehicle. Crisp fallen leaves had scattered across the road's surface and, as the car turned into the long winding driveway that led through the trees up to the huge red-brick building, they formed a patterned surface on the road.

It was a pleasant location for a company involved in the control and destruction of pests, Lucas Fender mused as he kept the Audi down to the authorized speed limit. Deep in the heart of Surrey, surrounded by ten acres of lawns, fields and woodland, it would have made an ideal home for retired generals, or perhaps a health farm. It was difficult to guess from the building's appearance that its main function was the investigation of new methods in rodent destruction. Ratkill, the company he worked for, was involved in other operations, the building itself containing various divisions which handled woodworm and dry rot elimination, damp proofing, insulation, wood preservation and hygiene, manufacturing its own products for these particular markets; but the business it was renowned for, and the business that was responsible for its incredible growth over the past few years, was the extermination of rats. The massacres perpetrated by rats in London four years before had made companies such as this a growth industry. Ratkill had become the biggest and most reputable.

At the time of the Outbreak, as it had become known, Fender was an entomologist researching for a company dealing mainly with wood preservation. He had produced various papers on insect life, which was good for prestige, and contributed material for an encyclopedia publisher, which was good for the pocket. His company had been based in Huddersfield at that time, so he had been fortunate to have missed the nightmarish invasion of London and the consequent evacuation. The rodents, a new breed of monster Black rats, had finally been gassed, rooted from their underground lairs by the use of ultrasonic machinery and, apart from a few more minor skirmishes with those that had somehow escaped the gas, the threat had appeared to be over. But it had proved difficult to convey that to the public at large, for the disease transmitted by rat-bite had meant death for hundreds. And the memory of those torn to pieces by the vermin was impossible to erase.

The government inquiry had laid the blame squarely on the shoulders of the ministry involved and as the minister directly responsible had himself been killed by the rats, the outcry had been neatly directed towards his negligence. No chances would ever be taken again: all sewers, underground rail tunnels, cellars, storage units were inspected, fumigated, and those thought to be a high risk potential, demolished. It was a massive operation and cost the rate payers millions, but no one complained. The horror of it all had been too great.

Perversely, the greatest sigh of relief came when the first Brown rat was discovered. Always enemies to the Black and, until then, the dominant species, they had been ousted by the new breed of Rattus rattus, the Black rat, for these had become not only more powerful, but more cunning too. The return of the Brown rat was a good sign, for it meant the Black really had been vanquished. And, of course, these lesser creatures could be more easily dealt with.

The rodent companies had flourished, for it had become law that any signs of vermin had to be reported to the local council immediately, and they had the power to quarantine and investigate. The Ministry of Agriculture and the Department of the Environment worked hand-in-hand with the various control companies, but Ratkill had the biggest government contract, thanks to the determined efforts of Stephen Howard, a young researcher for Ratkill at the time of the Outbreak who had played a large part in the final defeat of the rats. He had made many friends in government circles at the time of the siege, impressing them with his drive and knowledge of the subject, and Fender suspected that his special contacts within the ministries had contributed more to his rise in the ranks of the Ratkill organization than his skills as a biologist and administrator.

Nevertheless, they were old friends from student days, Fender, at thirty-one, a year older than Howard. They had both studied zoology at university, but had lost close contact on leaving, going their separate ways and into different fields. A phone call now and again, a meeting once a year that was all their relationship had boiled down to. But soon after the Outbreak, when the city had been cleared of infestation and life had returned to normal, they had made contact and Howard invited Fender down to London. By then Howard was Ratkill's Director of Research and business was booming because of a large government contract, and other countries were also plying Ratkill with commissions, for the fear in England had spread worldwide. Howard needed good men, fast, and Fender had his own reasons for wanting to join the organization. Within five weeks he had become what was known as a 'troubleshooter' for Ratkill, a rodent investigator. The public term was 'rat-catcher'. A high salary came with the job, for it now had an element of danger to it, and it hadn't taken Fender long to absorb the techniques concerning the tracing and destruction of vermin.

He studied the animal itself, its life cycle, habits, preferences, and he learned of the various poisons used to eradicate them.

In the first year of his working for the company, only three groups of Black rats were discovered and these had been quickly and easily dealt with. No one was sure how they had resisted the ultrasonic sound waves that should have drawn them into the gas-filled enclosures, but it was assumed they had been trapped somewhere below ground at the time the beams were emitted. It was a relief to everyone that the rats' normal reproduction rate had been hindered, for the sound wave machine had inflicted a particularly heavy stress on the mother rats, causing their breasts to run dry, which resulted in the starvation of new-born rodents. The groups found were old and half-starved, and those captured alive soon died. It was the theory of many biologists that their brain cells had been permanently damaged by the high-frequency sound waves and this had upset their normal bodily functions. It seemed a reasonable assumption.

The startling fact about this new, now vanquished, breed was that they were a mutation. It seemed a zoologist, William Bartlett Schiller, had illegally brought back a rat it may have been several, no one was sure from an island near New Guinea. An island that had been used for nuclear tests. Their lair had been discovered in the cellar of an old house near London's dock land a house that had been owned by the zoologist when he was alive. He had allowed the creature -or creatures to breed with the normal Ship rat, or Black rat, as it was commonly called, introducing a new strain. Papers written by Schiller dealing with radiation effects and mutations were found in his study as well as drawings of dissected animals. The facts of the matter had been well-documented by the media and even the government inquiry findings were published in their entirety, yet ... Yet even in his many subsequent talks with Stephen Howard, Fender had felt something was being withheld.

He left the Audi in the estate's car park and entered the red-brick building, waving to the receptionist as he passed her desk.

"How was Cheshire?" she asked.

"Chilly," he replied with a grin. "Is Stephen Howard in his office?"

"Yes, but he won't be for long. A party is coming down from the Ministry of Agriculture and he'll be showing them around the laboratories before taking them off to lunch."

"Right, I'll try and catch him before they arrive."

Fender climbed the stairs and walked down the long corridor leading towards the back of the building, Windows overlooking the grounds were on one side and office doors on the other. The clatter of a typewriter greeted him as he approached an open doorway.

"Hello, Jean, is he in?" he asked, entering the office.

Howard's secretary looked up from her typewriter and gave Fender a beaming smile.

"Hello, Luke. How was your trip?"

"Okay," he replied, noncommittally He inclined his head towards the door of the Research Director's office and raised his eyebrows.

"Oh, no," said Jean. "He's gone down to the laboratories to make sure everything's shipshape. We've got a visit from..."

"I know the Min of Agro."

She nodded.

"I'll just dump my briefcase then 111 find him. He wanted to see me, I believe."

"Yes, he did. He's got another trip lined up for you."

"Christ, I've only just got back. I've got to make out this last report yet."

"It's only a quick job, I think, Luke," the secretary said.

Fender sighed. "I suppose I should be grateful for that. How's the boyfriend?"

"Around," she said. "I'm free for lunch."

He walked to the door and grinned. "I'll let you know," he said, then ducked around the doorway to avoid the pencil hurled at him. He chuckled as he retraced his steps down the corridor, wincing at the one-word abuse that followed him.

He found two of his colleagues in the large office he shared with Ratkill's troubleshooter unit. Two were out in different parts of the country investigating pest complaints and the sixth had resigned the month before, sick to death of 'hairy little beasts'.

The two men, one an entomologist like himself, the other a biologist, waved their greetings and continued pounding at their typewriters.

They, too, hated the paperwork involved in their job, but realized the only way to clear it was to get on with it. Fender opened his briefcase, took out several papers bearing his scribbled notes and placed them on his desk. Then he left the office and went off in search of Stephen Howard.

He walked through the downstairs laboratories, occasionally stopping to look into cages at the captive rats and mice. Many looked drowsy, for they were slowly being dosed with various poisons to gauge their reactions. Others seemed active and bright-eyed, pushing their quivering snouts through the thin metal bars, eager to be free. Fender glanced at several ultrasonic generators grouped together on a bench at one side of the laboratory. These had been sent by manufacturers from all over the world, keen to have RatkiU's seal of approval on their product. Most of them worked on the principle of driving vermin away from buildings rather than drawing them in, and the manufacturers claimed they were invaluable for clearing factories, shops and any other buildings with a pest problem.

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 on 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 his 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.

Cinemas were good, sitting there in the dark with his trousers gaping, his raincoat across his lap ready to be slid aside at odd moments.

Public lavatories he didn't care for too much. He'd tried standing there at an urinal, penis in hand, but the presence of other men engaged in the same activity, whether devious or normal, disturbed him too much. Twice he'd been approached and that really frightened him.

Railway platforms were good if he could find a solitary woman on a lonely bench. To stand in front of them and watch their bodies freeze with fear was extremely pleasant, then, to slowly un flap his raincoat was a joy beyond compare. Of course, he had to make a quick getaway, but that was half the fun. That really set the heart pounding.

He would never try it in a railway carriage again, though. It had been quite a successful pastime for a while, changing carriages at each stop until he found one occupied by a lone female. They were usually shocked rigid and he always jumped off at the next stop before they had a chance to raise the alarm. But one night, the startled passenger had had bloody hysterics! He'd nearly jumped out the window in fright!

Pleading hadn't prevented her from tugging at the communication cord, and falling on top of her when the train had lurched to a grinding halt hadn't soothed the situation. She'd really panicked then. He could still hear those shrill screams ringing in his ears to this day!

Christ, it was no wonder some of them got bloody murdered.

He'd had to jump from the compartment there and then, hurting his knee as he'd stumbled in the dark. He was lucky he hadn't been knocked down by a passing train! He'd managed to escape, but it had been a long walk home because he hadn't dared use British Rail again that night. He hadn't gone out for a fortnight after that. He'd been too shaken.

Mother sodding bag had fussed and fretted and wanted to get the doctor in, thinking he was really ill, but he'd told her he was only run down, and that a few days in bed would soon put him right again. When the recuperation period stretched into the second week she'd reverted to her usual quavery voiced nagging, and in the end he had been relieved to go back to school. Sometimes he wondered where such a frail little woman found the energy for such unceasing ranting. And sometimes he wondered if she suspected something. He'd caught her giving him strange looks lately. No, she couldn't know. He'd always been careful, always scrubbed the inside of his raincoat after each trip.

She was just getting older and more senile, that was all. Afraid he might leave her.

The incident had made him more cautious than ever and after that he avoided enclosed places where he might possibly be trapped. Epping Forest became his most invigorating haunt.

He was surprised he hadn't used it as a location in his earlier years; it was such a natural. There were so many lonely spots where foolish women strolled with their dogs, or young girls rode on horseback, or children played football; and there was so much undergrowth to hide in, so many trees to skulk behind. You had to keep a wary eye out for the forest keepers of course some of them didn't even wear uniforms and police cars often patrolled the quiet lanes. But a man in a tracksuit was hardly a suspicious character in such an open environment. It was a perfect place for his particular activity, a paradise for flashers.

And it was healthy, too.

He had left his car, a battered Morris 1100, in an area just off the main road, the drive from their small, terraced house in Leytonstone not taking much more than ten minutes or so. It was his afternoon off from school and he had decided to take advantage of the clement weather: standing around in the pouring rain and exposing your organs to the cold wasn't much fun. Bad weather also made it more difficult to find a viewer and just doing it on your own took away much of the joy. He had caught a bad chill last winter.

Today was a good day for picnickers and strollers because it was a weekday. There wouldn't be many sightseers around, but there was always the bored housewife with her non-school able offspring to be found. It just required a little patience.

He drew in a sharp breath as he realized that his patience was about to be rewarded. In the distance, strolling casually and quite alone, was the figure of a woman. The stretch between them was open grassland, but she was using a path that led towards the trees. He knew the path and was aware it ran through a heavily wooded area. If he was fast he could skirt the edge of the open grassland, duck into the woods and reach a secluded point in the trail ahead of her; and at times like this, or when running away, he could be very fast. He sprinted off, his aroused penis acting as a pointer.

Making his way as swiftly and quietly as possible through the trees and undergrowth, Mollison kept well away from the path itself. If she heard him or caught sight of his running figure, she might turn back.

When he judged he was some distance ahead of her he cut back towards the track at a slower and more cautious pace, quickly finding an ideal spot. The path widened into a relatively large clearing, several other paths leading off from it. He could hide in the bushes opposite the point where she would emerge and catch her completely unawares.

Perfect! He crouched in the bushes, gasping for breath after his hard-paced run, and was disappointed to discover that his erection had become somewhat subdued. A little manipulation soon corrected that matter, but his breathing became even more laboured.

His lungs had settled down to a heavier but more steady rhythm by the time she came into view. He drew in an excited breath: this was more than he had hoped for she was a good-looker! Although she was still some distance away he could see she had a good figure, rounded but not plump, short brown hair, nicely shaped ankles. In her late-twenties, early thirties? Hard to tell at this distance, but certainly not older. He was sure she was pretty.

The woman had reached the edge of the clearing now and, for some reason, she paused. Had she seen him? No, not possible his cover was too good. She was looking to her left, slightly ahead of her, and seemed to be listening. Bloody hell, she was good-looking! This was an added bonus: it wasn't often you found a stunner. He couldn't afford to waste this one; he decided to give her the full works.

Trying to control his rising excitement, he pulled the tracksuit top over his head and lay it on the ground behind him. He peered through the bushes and saw she was coming forward again. He licked his lips and cleared his throat of juices. She stopped again and this time he, too, heard the rustle of undergrowth from a point to her left. Mollison frowned and tried to see into the thicket. Must be an animal in there.

Come on, you silly cow, it can't hurt you! He tugged at the trousers of his tracksuit, pulling them down his legs, the elasticated bottoms catching at the heels of his plimsolls. Sod it! he said to himself.

No time to work them free, she'll be off down another path in a minute!

His whole body was trembling now, a light sheen of perspiration covering his well-developed muscles. He began to rise but suddenly fell back, his trousers tangled in a root. Spiky leaves scratched at his buttocks and he pushed himself up, ignoring the sharp jabs as his hands were prickled by brittle foliage, knowing she must have heard him by now.

He leapt from the hiding-place, his arms outstretched and legs out as far as his fallen trousers would allow, a wide grin on his face and pelvis thrust forward, all in an announcement of his enlarged organ.

But she was gone. He just caught sight of her retreating figure as she scurried off down the path.

His surprise gave way to disappointment and then to resentment and frustration. He looked down bitterly at his fast-shrinking member and swore. She couldn't have reacted that fast to the noise he'd made when he'd stumbled! Then he heard the other sound again and realized it came from the same spot as before. The bushes were rustling as though something was moving through them. Oh Christ, there was someone else hiding in there.

He hoisted his trousers, hastily retrieved the jacket, and ran off in the opposite direction.

The children called excitedly to each other as they lowered their long-stemmed nets into the murky water. It wasn't very often that their school organized a day out at Epping Forest's Conservation Centre, so it was a special treat for them. All under eleven years of age, not many truly appreciated the lessons on the woodland's abounding wildlife taught by the Centre, but with the ever-growing threat to the natural environment, it was judged to be a worthy aim to inst il in them a respect for nature rather than a deep knowledge of it. That was why the Centre was prefixed with the title "Conservation' and not

"Nature'. Outside pressure from primary schools and colleges whose pupils attended the Centre meant lessons had to be orientated towards future examinations, but the tutors' main purpose was still to make the children more ecologically aware.

Jenny Hanmer was one of the Centre's four tutors, and it was her class that had gathered around one side of the water's edge. Because a whole section of the pond was overshadowed by the forest, the bottom was choked with dead leaves covered with a purple scum due to sulphur bacteria, making its depths very dark and its vegetation restricted to algae and a few clumps of starwort. Nevertheless, the oxygen-scarce water still contained many forms of life: water-lice, tubifex worms and blood worms; mosquito larvae and rat-tailed maggots; pond skaters, water crickets and water beetles. Jenny had described all these creatures to the children in the classroom. Now she wanted her pupils to discover them for themselves in the much bigger, outdoor classroom.

It was exciting for them to 'fish' in this way and even more fun when they studied their samples under a microscope back at the Centre.

"Careful now," Jenny called out to one adventurous nine-year-old whose name she didn't remember, and who was stretching out precariously over the water in order to net an interesting looking insect. She regretted never getting to really know her pupils individually, but it was almost impossible with so many different schools visiting every week, each class made up of twenty-five to thirty-five children. Some of the older groups, those taking "O' levels or CSE exams, would take longer and often concurrent day courses, and it was possible to build up something of a relationship with them; but not with the younger pupils, although she found them more fun.

"It's all right, Miss, I can reach," the boy said, his net extended to its limit.

"Patrick, will you step back!" The sharp command came from the boy's schoolteacher, a small, round woman whose eyes never seemed to agree in which direction to look; Jenny could have sworn she was talking to a boy innocently standing well away from the pond's edge.

The guilty Patrick took a grudging step backwards, disappointment evident in his face. "I won't be able to get it now," he complained.

"Look," Jenny said, pointing at a small insect skimming across the surface of the water. That's a water skater, the one I told you about back in the classroom. We won't be seeing much more of him now the colder weather is on its way."

She smiled as the children followed her pointing finger with their eyes and exclaimed triumphantly when they caught sight of the swift-darting insect. It was fine to talk about such animal life in the detached atmosphere of a classroom, but it certainly added a new dimension when the children could see that Me for themselves in its natural surroundings. Five nets were immediately plunged into the water to capture the startled skater.

"No, children," Jenny said, laughing. We're looking for algae.

Remember I told you about the rootless, flowerless plant? Volvox is what we're after. Let's see if you can spot it."

The children stopped tormenting the insect which had the sense to head towards the centre of the pond.

"Come on, boys and girls, do as Miss Hanmer says," their stray-eyed teacher said heartily. She clapped her hands as if to emphasize the command and the giggling children scattered around the pond's muddy bank.

"Keep to this side!" Jenny called out anxiously.

"Keep to this side!" their teacher instructed.

Thank you, Miss Bellingham," said Jenny, inwardly amused. They're very well behaved."

Miss Bellingham gave a small, self-conscious laugh, both eyes defiant of one another as they singly followed the children running off in different directions. "You have to keep them under control, mind."

Jenny nodded, blinking and shifting her gaze from the teacher's undisciplined eyes. They seem to enjoy coming out here," she said.

"Oh, yes, it's a great lark for them!" Miss Bellingham quickly realized her slip. "And so educational' she added. "How long have you been with the Conservation Centre, Miss Hanmer?"

Jenny had to think hard; the time had flown by. "Nearly a year, I think. Yes, about eight months. I was with the Juniper Hall Field Centre in Dorking before."

"It must be a lovely life, my dear. Very interesting," Miss Bellingham enthused.

"It is, most of the time. I had planned to be a geologist, but I somehow got sidetracked into ecology. I'm not complaining, though."

Jenny dug her hands into her loose-fitting cardigan and looked around, checking that the children hadn't got into any awkward situations.

Miss Bellingham was about to ask another question, her interest aroused by the attractive young tutor, wondering why she should choose what seemed to her an almost monastic existence at the Centre, when a shout from their left distracted her attention.

"Look, Miss, look over there!" One of the children, a coloured boy, was pointing towards the shaded side of the pond. "What's them?"

Jenny and Miss Bellingham looked towards the spot, the rotund teacher's eyes swivelling past and taking several seconds to settle back onto a moving object in the water. "What is it, Miss Hanmer?"

Jenny wasn't sure for a moment; she moved further down the bank for a closer look.

There's three of 'em, Miss," shouted the sharp-eyed boy.

At first the tutor thought they might be water-vole, but remembered that voles usually swam beneath the surface, and rarely in a group like this. These swam in an arrowhead formation.

As they entered a sun-lit area, she saw only their long, pointed heads above the surface, the water barely disturbed by their progress. They ignored the excited clamouring of the children and continued on their way, making for the bank on Jenny's left. The boy who had first seen the creatures picked up a thick piece of rotted bark and hurled it towards the centre of the pond, a point just reached by the three animals.

"Darren, you naughty boy!" Miss Bellingham was outraged by the youth's action. Jenny felt a good clout from the teacher might be appropriate.

She quickly turned her attention away from the culprit and back to the pond. The bark had landed with a loud splash directly in front of the animals and she was relieved none had been hit. They had merely changed direction and were now heading for the shadowed bank directly opposite.

Their sleek, black heads glided through the murky water at an almost leisurely pace and Jenny's eyes widened as they emerged on the other side. She recognized the creatures, but something told her she must be wrong. They were too big. The long, black-haired bodies, shiny with water, were far too large for rats!

Their tails, slimy and grey-pink, slivered from the water behind them and the tutor suddenly felt repulsed: the tails alone must have been a foot long. Without waiting to shake themselves free of water, two of the creatures disappeared smoothly into the gloom. The third, the one that had been leading, turned to face the group across the pond. It squatted there and Jenny shuddered as she felt herself being observed.

Several of the children began to cry and the young tutor knelt down to comfort the nearest.

When she looked up again, her attention diverted for no more than a few seconds, the rat if the creature had been a rat was gone. The forest, and the pond, were perfectly still.

FOUR

Fender pushed his foot down hard on the accelerator pedal, glad to be free of the city again. The journey from the Ratkill laboratories in Surrey had taken him through London's vehicle-choked centre and the constant frustration of stopping, starting, waiting, avoiding, had made his mood grim. Although he didn't regret moving back down to the south again he often missed the more open country of the north. Huddersfield had provided a splendid base for trips into the surrounding counties, and, although he was city-bred, he appreciated their coarse beauty.

Perhaps the people-crowded years had heightened his respect for the countryside's seclusion. The car gathered speed and, as the woods on his left thickened, so he began to relax. Soon it was woodland on both sides of the road.

Fender knew the area, but not too well. The Epping New Road ran straight through the forest, but he would have to turn off onto one of the quieter roads branching into the forest itself. The car was doing seventy-five when he slowed for the roundabout ahead. He saw the sign for High Beach and swung into the narrow winding road leading from the roundabout. The trees almost met overhead, the bright sun sparkling through dying leaves, and he felt the last ounces of tension drain away. Another narrow road to his right took him past a small church into a slightly wider road, and then the scenery opened out as if the car had been squeezed through a funnel.

The high ground fell away to his left down into a vast green valley, its lower slopes filled with trees of every kind, stretching for miles into the distance. Beyond them Fender could see the hazy suburbs, glints of sunlight reflected here and there off glass surfaces. He stopped the car for a moment to take in the vista, feeling heady with its abrupt freshness. Driving along the winding road, he hadn't realized the swift ascent the car had been making. He remembered reading once, long ago, the theory of how the rolling hills of Epping Forest had been formed. A great sheet of ice had slid down eastern England at the end of the Ice Age and split in two on a high bank north of the forest, each section scouring out two valleys on either side of the bank and, as they pushed forward like the pincers of a giant crab, the soil was squeezed between them into rugged contours. From his vantage point he could see the truth of the theory.

A few cars were parked on a muddy area on the rim of the valley, their occupants gazing out at the view through windscreens, as though to leave their metal cocoons and make contact with fresh air would shrivel their bodies. Fender drove on, looking for a sign which would tell him the location of the Conservation Centre.

A huge public house stood on his right, a lofty and cold perch at the top of the long, grassy slope, and beyond that he saw the sign pointing towards his goal. He drove down the curved road, almost doubling back in direction, and came upon the entrance to the Centre. Passing through the narrow gate posts, he found a small, gravel car park. He sat and studied his surroundings before leaving the car.

The white-bricked single-storey buildings were set in a square horseshoe shape around a close-cropped lawn, a ribbon of gravel cutting across the grass from the car park towards a glass-doored entrance to the building on his left. The low-ceilinged building had no windows at least, not on that side and a sign in front of him indicated it was the school section. An arrow, pointed in the same direction as the path, bore the heading: INFORMATION DESK. Directly ahead and slightly apart from the main building was a continuous row of chalet-type structures joined at right angles by a similar row leading back in his direction.

They were of the same neat, functional design as the school and reception section and Fender guessed they were the staff's living quarters. Stephen Howard had briefed him on the Centre before Pender had left, explaining that the Warden, as the principal was ominously called, and his tutors were resident at the establishment. Trees loomed up darkly behind the Centre, dwarfing the buildings, making them seem more squat than they really were. He crossed the lawn, keeping to the gravel path, and entered the reception area.

The rectangular hall was cluttered with single-panelled exhibition stands displaying pictures of various animals and plants, accompanied by written information on each subject. The area was empty but there was a reception window to his right. He peered into the room beyond; a woman was at one end typing busily and a man sat reading a book at a table nearest the window. The man, youngish, intense-looking, glanced up at Fender.

"Yes, sir, can I help?" he asked.

"My name's Fender. I've come to see Mr. Milton." Fender had learned to be discreet about his profession: people were still nervous of rat catchers

"Oh yes. From Ratkill, aren't you?"

Fender lifted his eyebrows in surprise.

The man grinned as he got up from the desk and came over to the window.

"It's all right, there's no secrets among the staff. I'll just see if he's in his office."

The young man disappeared through a door and reappeared a few seconds later.

'Yes, he's there. If you'd like to go through the door round to your right, I'll take you to his office."

Fender followed the instructions and was met in the corridor beyond.

"I'm not sure we really need you people," the young man said as he led the way. We've seen signs of vermin, but they haven't done any bad damage yet. It's just the uh, law, you know?"

Fender nodded and went through the door which had been opened for him.

The Warden of the Conservation Centre stood and offered his hand across the desk as Fender entered.

"Mr. Fender? I'm Alex Milton. Didn't take Ratkill long to get someone up here, did it?"

Fender shook the proffered hand and sat in the seat opposite.

Thank you, Will," Milton said to the man at the door. "I'll see you about the arrangements for tonight's lecture a little later on. Would you like some coffee, Mr. Fender?"

The rat catcher felt like something stronger after the wearing drive, but he smiled and said, "Coffee'll be fine."

Would you mind asking Jan for me, Will?"

"Right." Will closed the door behind him.

The two men faced each other across the desk, Milton smiling and slouched back in his seat. He seemed to have forgotten why Fender was there.

"Interesting place you have here," the Ratkill man said, breaking the silence.

"Yes, it is," the Warden agreed enthusiastically.

"Have you been here long as Warden?"

Milton thought for a moment, his smile still beaming. "Just over two years, I think. The Centre itself the Epping Forest Conservation Centre, to give it its full title was only opened nine years ago, so it's still in its youth." He gave a small almost embarrassed laugh.

"In fact, most of my staff are rather youthful apart from myself and my wife, of course."

Fender nodded politely, smiling at the man's self-deprecating humour.

He hoped the Warden would soon get to the business in hand. Tell me about your rodent problem," he prompted.

"Oh yes. Mustn't waste your time." The Warden leaned forward, elbows on the desk, his face serious and his tones hushed. "It started a couple of days ago, actually. Nothing much, just signs, you understand."

"What kind of signs?"

Well..." A light tap at the door interrupted the Warden's next words.

"Yes, come in," he called out.

The door opened and a small, thin girl, clad in jeans and sweater, entered the room. She carried a tray bearing two coffees, milk and sugar, which she placed on the Warden's desk.

This is Jan," said Milton and the girl pushed her gold-framed glasses back towards the bridge of her nose, giving Fender a nervous smile.

"Jan saves our lives every day by cooking our meals and providing us with gallons of coffee," the Warden said as Fender smiled back at the young girl. "She's only filling in a year between school and agricultural college, actually, but I must say, she'd make an excellent chef. Perhaps we can persuade you to remain one, eh, Jan?"

The girl shook her head and said in a quiet voice, "I don't think so, Mr. Milton." She left the room, keeping her face low to hide a blush.

Fender hadn't seen a girl blush for quite some time.

"You were saying?" he said as Milton handed him a coffee from the tray.

"Saying?"

"About the rodent signs."

"Oh, yes, forgive me. Yes, the signs. Well, we keep examples of forest wildlife in pens outside the classrooms the children love to see the animals, you know. Rabbits, hares, squirrels even had a fox until recently. A couple of nights ago, the pens were broken into."

Fender poured milk into his coffee, then looked steadily at the Warden.

Were the animals killed?"

"Good gracious, no! Nothing like that'

Fender relaxed in his seat.

"No, it was just their food that was stolen. But the animals, when we found them next day, were in a state of shock, do you see? Absolutely terrified. Hadn't even attempted to escape through the holes in the wire left by whatever broke in."

"It could have been anything. Maybe the fox you had before returned it would if it knew it could find food here."

"Oh, no, the fox died."

Then another."

"Yes, it could be possible. There are about fifty foxes that we know of still living in the forest. But we found droppings, you see. And they certainly weren't those of foxes."

"Did you keep them? Can I see them?"

"Of course you can. That's why you're here. I'll take you along to the laboratory in a moment."

What shape are they?"

"Roundish, spindle-shaped, I'd say."

Were they in groups?"

"Yes, yes. Small groups."

Milton could read nothing in Fender's expression.

"Anything else?" the rat catcher asked.

We have an outhouse round at the back of the buildings where we keep the refuse. All the kitchen waste is put there. Yesterday morning we found the bottom of the door had been gnawed through."

Fender sighed. "Yes, rats would do that."

"Of course. But you must understand we are in the middle of the forest and are used to night-time marauders. The Centre was built to keep out our more persistent friends. The bottom of the outhouse door is reinforced with a metal strip. A corner of the strip had been completely pulled away."

Fender sipped his coffee.

The metal was securely attached to the door, Mr. Fender. It would have taken a crowbar for a man to tear it loose."

"I'll have a look at it. Have you laid any poisons?"

"No, we thought that best left to you. The rule is to inform the Ministry immediately rodent signs are found. We're still not sure it's rats, of course, but we thought the two unusual events warranted investigation, don't you agree?"

Fender nodded. He placed his coffee cup back on the Warden's desk and began to rise. "I'll look at those droppings ..."

The loud rap at the door startled both men. It burst open without waiting for a reply from the Warden, and a young girl dressed in denims and a loose-fitting cardigan entered the room, closely followed by the man called Will. The girl looked breathless and she leaned with two hands on the Warden's desk, her long dark hair falling across her face.

Milton was too surprised to speak.

"I've seen them, Mr. Milton," the girl said, trying to keep her voice calm. They're down by one of the ponds."

"What are, Jenny? What are you talking about?"

"Jenny's seen the rats, Mr. Milton," Will said anxiously.

Milton glanced at him, then back at the girl. "You have?"

Yes, yes. I'm sure they were rats. But they were so big," the girl said, her face earnest.

"Sit down, Jenny, and just tell us exactly what you saw." The Warden indicated a chair opposite Fender's and as she sat, the girl noticed the rat catcher for the first time.

"It's rather opportune, really," Milton said. This is Mr. Fender, Jenny. He's been sent from Ratkill. I'm sure he'd very much like to hear what you have to say. Jenny Hanmer is one of our tutors."

Fender looked at the girl and, now that he could see her face fully, realized she was very attractive, not at all 'tutorish'. She brushed her shoulder-length hair back and gave Fender a faint smile, her mind too busy with what she had just witnessed to pay him much attention.

"Now, Jenny, tell all." Milton smiled benignly at the tutor.

"I took my class down to the small pond the one before you get to the Wake Valley Pond. We'd only been there a few minutes when one of the boys saw something swimming across the water. I couldn't make out what they were at first, but there were three of them."

"Not necessarily rats, then?" said the Warden.

"We got a better look at them when they were climbing out. The boy threw something at them and they changed direction and made for the bank. We saw their whole bodies then."

"But it is rather, er, gloomy down there, isn't it? I mean, are you sure they weren't some other animal? A water-vole would be the obvious choice."

That was my first thought. They were too big, though."

"Big enough to be dogs?" said Fender. Black dogs, mistakenly taken as the giant Black rat, had caused several scares over the past few years.

"No, I'm sure they weren't," the girl said, looking directly at Fender.

They had long pointed heads, and their ears were long too, and pink.

Their tails ... their tails were horrible."

"Did the children see them?"

"Yes, and their teacher, Miss Bellingham. I didn't imagine them, Mr.

Fender."

"Where are the children now?" The Warden had a worried look on his face.

"I brought them back right away. Miss Bellingham's with them in Class Two. It's all right, they're not frightened; we played it down, told them they were coypus."

Fender grinned. "And they believed you?"

"Most of them did it was rather shady down there. It's not so unlikely anyway. Coypus live mainly in Norfolk and Suffolk, so it's not improbable that some should find their way south. A few of the children were a bit doubtful, though."

"I think I'll just go along and have a word with them," said Milton, rising. We don't want them spreading false rumours about the forest until we've checked this out."

We may have to stop people coming into the forest anyway," Fender said quickly.

"Stop them? That would be impossible, Mr. Fender. Have you any idea how wide an area the forest covers? And what about those who live here?"

They'd have to leave."

"Now just a moment, let's not jump the gun. Let's find out if these monsters really do exist first." Milton looked down apologetically at the girl. "Not that I doubt your word at all, Jenny. It's just that you may have been mistaken."

"I wasn't. They were rats and they were over two feet long." The tutor's face was set firm.

"Yes, well, that's what Mr. Fender is here to find out. I'll have to inform the Superintendent of the Forest, Mr. Fender. No doubt he will want to see you."

"Fine. But first I'd like you to take me back to this pond, Miss Hanmer." All eyes turned towards Fender.

"Do you think that's wise?" asked the Warden.

These ... animals, whether they're rats or not, haven't attacked anyone yet. I don't think there's any danger in going to the spot where Miss Hanmer last saw them they'll be well away by now. We might find some evidence which would help identify their species."

"It's up to you, Jenny," the Warden said.

"I'll take Mr. Fender there, I know the pond," Will volunteered.

"It's okay, Will," Jenny said. "I'll go. I can show Mr. Fender the exact place."

"I'll go with you then," the young man offered.

"No, you'll have to take charge of Jenny's class," said Milton. "I really don't want the children or their teacher to think there's a problem."

"But Miss Bellingham..." Jenny began to say, before Milton interrupted.

"I know Miss Bellingham quite well. I don't think her eyesight is all that reliable, do you?"

Jenny was lost for words for a moment. "Now just wait a minute..."

The Warden held up a restraining hand. "Please, Jenny, let me handle this. You go along with Mr. Fender, will you?"

The tutor stood, glanced at Fender, and walked from the room. Milton grinned feebly and Fender followed the girl.

She was halfway down the narrow gravel path before he caught up with her.

"Just wait a minute, Miss Hanmer," he said, taking her arm and bringing her to a halt. He selfconsciously dropped his hand when she pointedly looked down at it. "He is right, you know. These things can snowball into panic if they aren't handled carefully."

"But I saw them," she said resolutely.

"No one's doubting that. But it has to be checked out before the alarm bells go off."

She began striding down the path again and he kept pace, walking on the grass beside her.

"Look, ever since the Outbreak people have been panicking over real or imagined rats. Usually, the ones we've found have been normal, either Black or Brown, but no giants. More often than not, they've been animals of a completely different species. Bad light, optical illusions, over-nervous people all sorts of things account for the sightings. It's become as popular as spotting UFOs."

"I am not over-nervous. Nor do I imagine things. Nor do I believe in flying saucers."

Then you're a better person than I am."

"Possibly."

He grinned at the sarcasm. "Probably," he said.

She stopped and faced him. "I'm sorry, Mr. Pender..."

"Luke," he told her.

"Luke?"

"Short for Lucas."

"Lucas?" She couldn't help smiling.

"Not my fault. Parents. I was conceived on honeymoon in a place in lower Italy. Lucania."

She laughed aloud.

"I was lucky. They could have gone to Ramsgate." His smile broadened as she laughed again.

You sound like something out of a bad western," she said.

The way certain people regard my profession, I sometimes feel like it."

"Okay, I'm sorry, Luke. I didn't mean to get hurry with you."

"It's all right. You've had a shock."

Jenny frowned. "I meant it, you know, I wasn't mistaken."

"Let's check it out, then, eh?"

They began walking again and the tutor glanced down at Fender's feet.

You're going to get awfully wet."

"I've got boots in my car, and an old leather jacket. I have to be prepared to get mucky in this job." He pointed towards his Audi and they headed in that direction.

"How did you get into rats?" the girl asked as he opened the back of the car and reached in for a pair of hefty high-ankled boots.

"I wouldn't say I'm into them, exactly," he replied, removing his shoes and lacing up the boots. "It's just a living. I was an entomologist until an old friend of mine from Ratkill told me rodent control was the thing of the future. Big money, he told me, and all the vermin you can eat."

Her reserve was beginning to break down. People were usually wary of him because of his profession, even though he and his colleagues had become latter-day heroes due to the 'dangerous' work they carried out, but he sensed a natural wariness in this girl, as if she rarely took people at face value. Maybe she had learned not to the hard way.

"And is it? The thing of the future?" she asked.

He took off his coat and reached for the short, worn leather jacket inside the boot. Well, it's big business now, but I suppose the fear of rats will fade with time."

"It'll be a long while before people forget what happened in London."

"Yes, it will. But that was a freak. They'll forget it eventually."

"Unless it happens again."

He said nothing and lifted up a folded bundle of silver material that lay on the floor of the boot. He pulled out two pairs of large gloves made from the same tough fabric and handed one pair to the tutor who looked quizzically at him.

"Just a precaution," he told her. "If by any chance we do run into your friends, slip these on. They'll give you some protection." He saw the fear in her eyes. "Don't worry. It really is just a precaution; nothing's going to happen. If I thought there was any real danger I'd make you put the whole suit on here and now."

"I hope to God you're right."

So did he.

"Over there, the other side of the pond." Jenny pointed towards the opposite bank and Fender scrutinized the area. We'll have to go round," he said. "Get a closer look." The tutor wasn't happy about the situation, but nevertheless she followed him as he skirted the pond, their boots sinking into deep mud at the water's edge. As they walked, he pulled on the heavy gloves and told Jenny to do the same.

The undergrowth was much thicker on that side and he trod warily, brushing aside foliage and examining the ground before him as he went.

Jenny kept close behind.

"It's just a little way ahead, I think," she said, looking over towards the side they had just come from to check their position. "Look, you can see where they disturbed the reeds when they climbed out."

Fender approached the spot with even more caution and crouched down to examine the mud for tracks. The splayed claw marks told him what he wanted to know. "Let's see where they lead to." Keeping low, he pushed his way through the undergrowth, but soon he stood upright. The tracks have run out too many fallen leaves, I'm afraid."

"I want to go back."

Fender turned to study the girl. She stood there, body stiff, eyes shifting uneasily from left to right. Her face was drained of colour.

"What's wrong?" he asked taking a step towards her.

"Can't you feel it? The forest the forest is standing still."

The remark puzzled him, but as he looked around he began to sense it too. It was an eerie sensation, for the forest had become quiet, hushed, the normal chatter of birds, the discreet rustle of timid animals even the sound of the breeze hissing through the trees were gone, leaving an unnatural, foreboding silence. It seemed to weigh down on him, a heavy thing. An oppression.

"Let's go," she said again, her voice very quiet.

Fender was reluctant, despite his unease. "I've got to find some evidence of them, Jenny. Those tracks back there could have been made by any number of animals."

She knew he was right, but the anger still flared in her eyes. She was about to reply when a sudden crashing of branches made them both jump.

Fender scanned the area ahead, looking for the cause of the noise, and he saw the swaying bush, its thin branches weighed down by something that must have fallen from the tree overhead. The object looked like a red scarf, but from the way the bush was sagging, it had to be something heavier than loose material.

He made his way towards the bush and Jenny said, "Don't," but he ignored her. She followed, not wanting to be left alone.

Fender swallowed hard when he realized what the object was. The animal's body had been torn apart, its insides exposed and half-eaten.

The rising steam told Fender the creature had not been dead long.

He felt the girl's presence beside him and heard her breath sharply drawn in. "It must have run up the tree to get away," he said.

Whatever did this followed."

"Rats climb don't they?" Her voice was faint.

The Black rat does."

Only the animal's head and tail were intact, its fur shredded and covered in blood. He tried to identify it from the pointed skull and dark markings on its tail.

"It's a stoat," Jenny said, and she walked away, round to the other side of the tree.

Fender looked up into the branches overhead, suddenly aware that whatever had killed the animal might still be there. He found it hard to believe a rat could have done this, for usually the stoat was the hunter. But then a group of giant Black rats could tear a human to pieces. Jenny's sudden cry startled Fender and anxiety swept through him when he failed to see her.

He crashed through the undergrowth, brushing past the bloody corpse which fell from its resting place, and swung round the tree, one hand resting against its rough bark. She was standing with her hands up to her face, her whole body trembling and knees beginning to sag. He rushed forward and held her to him to prevent her from falling.

"Jesus Christ," he said when he saw what had caused her shock.

The tree was hollow, the opening facing him. And the hollow and the area just outside were soaked in blood, small lumps of wet flesh lying all around, tiny, disjointed bones, smeared red, scattered in the dirt.

There were no recognizable animal parts among the debris; the stoats must have either been dragged off or eaten whole there and then. Fender cleared his throat uncomfortably.

There must have been a family of stoats," he said. The rats must have slaughtered all of them."

The girl did not reply and he realized she was weeping against his chest. He looked around at the undergrowth nearby, seeing the short trails of blood disappearing into the shadows. They were darker now.

The sun was beginning to dim and early evening was approaching. The trees around them suddenly seemed black and threatening.

"Come on," he said gently, "I think I've got all the evidence I need.

Let's get back to the Centre."

He led her back through the darkening forest, his eyes wary and searching.

FIVE

The walls of the large house glowed pinkly as the last rays of the fast-setting sun reflected off the white surface. Fender had left his car in the small car park at the entrance to The Warren and made his way up to the house on foot. He had passed two attached cottages which, he assumed, belonged to forest keepers or whoever maintained the grounds of The Warren, and taken a lane branching to the left. He approached the house from the rear, the rough road winding round till it formed a circle enclosing a centre lawn set out before the house itself, another road leading off from it towards the estate's main entrance. Before Fender had branched off, he had noticed the sign pointing towards The Warren's offices and realized the forest's administrative staff were kept separate from the main house in which Edward Whitney-Evans, the Superintendent of Epping Forest, lived.

His own shadow was cast darkly before him as Fender strode past three high windows, their glass reaching down to the ground. White-painted lattice-work covered with deep green foliage clung to the lower half of the house, rising up on either side of the windows and joining above them. If the house came with the job, then the Superintendent's lot was a happy one, Fender thought as he rang the doorbell.

The door opened almost immediately and a small, waspish woman peered out at him.

"Mr. Fender, is it?" she said and before he had a chance to correct her, she ushered him in. "Mr. Whitney-Evans is waiting for you."

She moved aside to allow him entrance and he stepped through the porch into the main building.

Through there, sir," she said, indicating a door on the left of the hallway. He thanked her and entered the room finding it empty. He walked over to one of the deep windows and gazed out; the grounds sloped away from the circular lawn and, even in the dusk, Fender could see the estate was beautifully situated. The Epping New Road, with its heavy traffic, was completely screened from the house by trees and shrubbery. Beyond he could see the hills of woodland and it was hard to consider he was so close to the world's largest city.

"Ah, Fender."

He turned to see a man in a dark grey suit standing in the doorway.

Tender, actually."

The man looked puzzled for a moment. "I thought Milton said Fender over the phone. Not to worry. Tell me what this is all about, Fender." He strode forward and settled himself in an armchair and indicated a chair for Fender. He was a squat man, who appeared to be in his late fifties; a few streaks of hair were combed carefully across his bald head, compensated by wispy locks curling around his ears and resting on his shirt collar. Enlarged eyes stared out at Fender through thick lenses.

Slightly irritated by the man's gruff, no-nonsense tone, Fender sat and deliberately took his time in answering. There was silence for a moment or so, each sizing up the other, the superintendent finally becoming impatient.

Well?" he said.

Fender cleared his throat. "I was sent to the Conservation Centre by Ratkill to investigate complaints by Mr. Milton ..."

"Yes, yes, I know all that; Milton discussed it with me first. When I spoke to him a little while ago on the phone he said you'd found some evidence. That's why I asked him to send you over here. I thought you might have got here sooner -the Centre's only five minutes away."

"I wanted to examine the rat droppings Mr. Milton had collected first.

Also, I wanted to see the door of the refuse building that had been broken into."

"And what did you deduce from all this?"

"I'd say it's fairly certain that you have the Black rat living in this forest."

Whitney-Evans frowned in displeasure. "Fairly certain? What does that mean? You're either sure or you're not."

Fender struggled to keep his voice even. "I said fairly certain because I haven't yet seen the rat itself. All the evidence points to it being the Black, though."

"But you could be wrong. It could be another type of rodent."

"One of the tutors at the Centre, Jenny Hanmer, saw three of them."

"Yes, the Warden told me that. He also said the pond in question is extremely shaded and the only other adult witness has questionable vision."

"But I went down to the pond myself with Miss Hanmer."

"And you found evidence that a family of stoats had been slaughtered."

Torn to pieces."

"Yes, yes, but by what? You, yourself, did not actually see the assailants."

"No, but there's enough evidence now to assume ..."

"No, Fender. We mustn't assume anything. Do you realize the harm such an assumption could bring to the forest?"

That's not the point. If people are killed ..."

"Of course we don't want anybody to be killed by these creatures if they exist. But first, let's make sure they are a reality. Surely you can you must investigate further before you reach such an extreme conclusion."

"Look, Mr. Whitney-Evans, I can appreciate not wanting to spoil the image of your beautiful forest, but if lives are in danger, there is no choice in the matter. Epping Forest will have to be cleared of people."

"Impossible!" The Superintendent stood, his face flushed red. "Don't you realize how densely populated Epping Forest and its neighbouring forests are? You can't just suddenly shift all those people on the slight evidence you've produced."

The evidence is enough for me," Fender replied.

Whitney-Evans walked to the window. Silent for a moment, he then turned to face Fender again. "It may be enough for you, but will it be enough for your superiors? Or the Ministry?"

"I think they'll listen. They wouldn't want to risk another Outbreak."

"I'm sure they wouldn't; that is not under debate. What I -and I'm sure they will take the same view am questioning, is your evidence."

"Look, I don't understand this. Why are you resisting my attempts to avert a dangerous situation?"

Whitney-Evans regarded Fender coolly. "Have you any idea how much it costs to maintain Epping Forest?" he said finally.

What? What's that got to do with... ?"

"It costs over 100,000 a year, Fender. Money, I may add, that does not come from the government, nor the public. It comes from private City funds."

"I don't see what that has to do with this matter."

The forest is governed by the Corporation of London; they are the Conservators. The actual management is carried out by a committee of twelve, all an elected representative body of the City of London; they are joined by four Verderers."

"Verderers?" Fender asked, wondering where the sudden lecture was leading.

They are members elected by the public to represent local interests.

The committee meets several times a year and, in fact, there is a meeting due to be held in two weeks' time. I intend to ask for a considerable increase in the funds allocated to the forest."

"I still don't understand how that affects ..."

"Can't you see, man?" Whitney-Evans' face had flushed red again. "Can you imagine the cost of evacuating the whole forest? The cost of quarantining 6,000 acres of woodland? Do you think they would even consider a rise in management allocation knowing the cost of such an operation as you are suggesting?" He raised a hand when Fender tried to protest. "But even worse, do you imagine they would even consider taking on such a huge responsibility? Absolutely not! It would be passed on to the government, who have tried unsuccessfully for years to gain control of this green belt area. Can't you see what they, the great bureaucratic they, would do with this land? It would become one vast concrete estate! Not all at once, I grant you, but a little at a time under the guise of economic necessity! Do you realize the value of this land so close to the City? My God, man, they'd eat away at it until there was nothing left! Oh, a few parks scattered here and there just for cosmetic purposes; but it wouldn't be a nature reserve anymore." The Superintendent began to pace the room in his anger and it seemed as if he had forgotten Fender's presence for a moment.

"Look, I can appreciate your worries, Mr. Whitney-Evans, although I feel they're a little exaggerated."

The Superintendent stopped his pacing. "Exaggerated? I can assure you they are not. I can show you countless court cases we've had in the past over the acquisition of forest land, not to mention the constant battle with the government who want to dissect and destroy the woodland with their monstrous motor ways

"All the same, the law is quite clear on this: rat-infested areas have to be sealed off immediately."

"Infested? What evidence do you have of that? You've seen a few signs that rats may be living in the forest and you can't even say for sure they are of the Black variety. Don't you think if the place were infested, the forest keepers would have discovered them by now?"

"I don't know. There may just be a small group at the moment."

That, even if it's true, would hardly justify putting the whole damned forest into quarantine."

"Or," Fender continued, undaunted, 'there may be hundreds of them.

Remember, after their near-extermination in London, those that survived would have become even more elusive than usual."

Those that survived the extermination would have died of old age by now."

"But their offspring would have inherited the fear. The monster Black has developed incredible intelligence according to all the reports: they would certainly know how to keep themselves hidden."

Then, if that's the case, there can be no immediate danger, can there?"

Whitney-Evans' voice had taken on a new tone, softer, almost coaxing.

Fender decided he liked the man even less than before.

Then why this sudden evidence of them?" he said firmly. "Why are they suddenly losing this timidity?"

"Just a combination of circumstances, Fender. If and that's a big if as far as I'm concerned if they do exist, they still haven't attacked a human, have they?"

"Not yet. But they might."

"Look, Fender, I've stated my case quite frankly to you. Now, I'm not trying to prevent you from doing your duty, Lord knows I haven't that power, but I am asking you to reconsider your action. Why not investigate further before you recommend evacuation and quarantine? I have a staff of over seventy who I'm sure would be only too pleased to assist you in any way possible. My forest keepers and woodsmen could help you in your search. I'm not saying you shouldn't inform the Ministry, of course, you must do that, but all I'm saying is, don't jump to hasty conclusions. By all means, bring your people in, but surely we can keep what's the expression? yes, a "low profile" on this. Until you're absolutely sure. What do you say?"

Fender shook his head wearily. "I'm sorry, Mr. Whitney-Evans, I really am. But the risk is too great. If anything nasty should happen while we're still searching, then it would be my responsibility."

The Superintendent's tone was acid. "No, not your responsibility, Fender. Your company's. But I wonder what they would say about this inflexible attitude of yours?"

Well, you can find out." Fender rose and made for the door. "Why don't you ask them?" He paused and looked back at the Superintendent, whose face was, yet again, flushed bright red.

"I'll do just that, Fender. I also have some very good connections in the Ministry of Agriculture we work closely together, you know. I'll see what they have to say about the matter."

Fender could not be bothered to reply. He resisted the urge to slam the door behind him, and made his way out of the house.

"Bloody idiot," he allowed himself to say as he crunched his way back down the lane.

By the time he got back to the Conservation Centre, phone calls had been made. His intention had been to inform the Warden of his decision, then to get in touch with Stephen Howard at Ratkill, who would advise the appropriate authorities. But Alex Milton was waiting for him in the reception area of the Centre, a concerned look on his face.

"Ah, Mr. Fender," he said, striding forward to meet the rat catcher We weren't sure if you'd return to the Centre this evening. We thought you might go straight back to your company to make your report."

"No, I wanted to have a word with you first. Can we go into your office?"

"Of course. In fact, I've just had your Research Director on to me. He said he'd like you to ring him immediately if you showed up here."

Fender looked at the Warden quizzically.

"He said it was important," Milton said somewhat lamely.

Fender had his suspicions before he even picked up the phone. He dialled the Ratkill number and asked to be put through to Stephen Howard.

"Stephen? It's Luke."

"Ah, Luke. Good. Now what have you been up to there in Epping Forest?

Seems you've stirred things up."

"Meaning?"

Well, I've just had old Thoraton from the Ministry of Agriculture on to me. Says you've been upsetting a chum of his by the name of Whitney-Evans. Superintendent of the forest, isn't he?"

"Oh, for Christ's sake! The man wants to do a cover-up. He doesn't want the forest to be evacuated."

The Warden looked both embarrassed and startled. He sat down.

Howard's voice on the other end of the phone was sharp. "Evacuate.

That's a bit drastic, isn't it? What makes you think the Black rat is in the forest?"

Fender quickly told him what he'd seen, been told, deduced. The phone buzzed with static for a few moments.

"Sorry, Luke, I'm afraid that's not enough."

"Not enough? You've got to be kidding."

"No, old boy, I'm not. Look, I'm going over there for a meeting.

Thornton's already set something up with this Whitney-Evans for nine o'clock. Can you hang around until then?"

"Yes, I can hang around." Fender felt a heaviness dragging him down.

Howard had obviously been asked to soft-pedal by Thornton, who was a Private Secretary in the Ministry of Agriculture, Fisheries and Food, and a major contact between Ratkill and the government. Ratkill had always worked closely with the Ministry's Safety Pesticides and Infestation Control Division, even though the Ministry of Defence had become involved in the London Outbreak, and in the subsequent years after the supposed elimination of the Black rat, they had become even more united in their joint work. Howard was unlikely to go against the wishes of one of the Ministry's private secretaries, and it was obvious Thornton was one of Whitney-Evans' 'good connections'.

"Are you still there, Luke?" Howard's voice interrupted Fender's thoughts.

"I'm still here," he said.

"Right. The meeting will be held in the Conservation Centre itself.

Apart from the Warden, I'd like this girl, the tutor who says she saw the rats, to attend, as well as the forest's head keeper. Dugdale from the Safety Inspectorate will also be there. Don't worry, Luke, we'll soon sort things out."

We'll need to. Fast. You know how the situation in London got out of hand."

"Of course I do. I was in the thick of it. But look, I feel certain this is just an isolated case."

"I wish I shared your confidence."

"I don't want you to discuss this any further, Luke, not until the meeting." The forced lightness had left the research director's voice.

"In case I upset anybody else?"

"No, because the matter must be treated in the strictest confidence,"

came Howard's curt reply.

"A party of schoolchildren and their teacher saw the rats, too."

"Yes, but I understand they've been convinced they saw something completely different."

"Oh, have they," Fender said flatly.

"Until later then, Luke?"

"Okay." Fender replaced the receiver and found himself looking into the eyes of Milton. "I need a drink," he said.

"I wish I could join you," Milton replied, smiling apologetically. "I'm afraid I have a lecture due to begin shortly and I have to greet our guest speaker."

Fender nodded and left the Warden's office, suppressing the anger he felt. If anything disastrous happened while they wasted time ... And yet, he could see their point of view. It would be a massive operation to clear the whole woodland area, and would undoubtedly send waves of panic, not just through that green belt area, but through all the surrounding districts. London, itself. And if it did prove to be a false alarm ... He pushed the thought of consequences from his mind.

The girl had seen the rats, and she didn't seem the type who would put the fear of God into everyone if she thought there might be some doubt.

He walked the length of the corridor and entered the reception area.

Jenny Hanmer, talking to a tall, bearded man, saw him and gave him a smile. The bearded man turned at Fender's approach.

"Hello, Luke," Jenny greeted him. This is Vie Whittaker, our Senior Tutor."

Fender nodded. He judged the tutor to be in his late-thirties, prematurely grey hair streaking his close-cropped, black beard.

Whittaker looked fixedly at the rat catcher

"I'm rather disturbed at what Jenny tells me, Mr. Fender," he said.

"It's something to be disturbed about," Fender replied. He turned to the girl. There's going to be a meeting tonight, Jenny, here at the Centre. The powers-that-be want you to attend."

"But aren't they going to do something right away?" Jenny asked.

They'll decide exactly what to do at the meeting. First we've got to convince them there really is a threat."

That's ridiculous! Surely..."

"I know, I've just been through all that. I suppose it's sensible to hold an inquiry before they decide on a plan of action. So far, you're the only reliable witness, so it'll be up to you to assure them you're not just over-imaginative. The other evidence we have will help."

"Do you think they will be convinced?" asked Whittaker.

Fender paused before he spoke. To tell the truth, I just don't know.

My guess is that they'll play for more time. All I want to do now is to get a bite to eat and a beer. Care to join me, Jenny?"

Jenny said, "Yes, I would," and Fender caught the sharp look the senior tutor gave her.

"What about the lecture this evening? Aren't you coming to that?"

Whittaker said.

"I don't think I'm really in the mood for "A Naturalist's Journey to Iran and the Persian Gulf" at the moment, Vie," she replied. "After what I saw today, I could use a stiff drink myself."

"I'll see you later then." Whittaker turned and strode off down the corridor leading to the classrooms.

Fender ignored the exchange. "Okay," he said, smiling at Jenny, 'lead me to a pub."

They drove past the huge public house close to the Centre and headed south, using the car's lights at full-beam because of the total darkness that had descended on the forest. The road had sudden dips and Fender kept to its centre because of the rough banks on either side, adjusting his headlights and pulling over to the left when the occasional car approached from the opposite direction. He noticed they passed several high, bricked walls which he guessed hid some large properties. In a clearing to his left he saw lights shining.

That's a forest keeper's house," Jenny told him. There are quite a few scattered throughout the woodland."

"And what's that coming up on the right?" he asked, pointing to a sign ahead of them.

That's the Suntrap Field Study Centre."

"Anything to do with your place?"

"Not really. We work together from time to time."

The moon suddenly appeared from behind rolling clouds and the landscape was bathed in its silvery light. They passed a farm, and then the road swung hard to the right and they found themselves ascending a steep hill, more houses on their right, a riding stable on the left. The public house was on the top of the hill, opposite a group of buildings surrounded by a high wire fence. "What's that?" Fender asked.

"Oh, that belongs to the police. It's a training camp for cadets. They also have a firing range and a place for training their dogs."

Fender turned the car into the car park at the rear of the pub and stopped. He shivered in the cold night air as they crossed the tarmac, heading for an entrance to the bars. Looking around, he saw they were quite high above the forest, gentle fields leading down into dense woodland below them. But what he saw in the flattened area immediately next to the pub brought him to a halt.

"What is that, Jenny? What are those buildings?"

Jenny followed his gaze. "It's a mobile homes estate. You know, like caravans but with no wheels."

"Do you know how many houses there are?"

There are two estates over there, one of about twenty, the other about thirty or forty. They're separated by a farm. Another one is at the end of Hornbeam Lane, but not many people know about it it's very secluded. I think there are twenty homes on that."

"Christ," he said. "I didn't realize the forest had such a heavy population. It may make us look silly, Jenny, but I just hope-to-God we're wrong about the rats."

As he spoke, a heavy cloud covered the moon's brightness and he suddenly felt vulnerable to the night. He took Jenny's arm and guided her into the welcoming warmth of the pub.

Onslaught

The creature shifted position in the bed of straw and damp earth, obese body making movement difficult, legs no longer able to support the great weight comfortably. Others moved around in the darkness, mewing sounds and the slivering of bodies occasionally breaking the silence of the black, underground chamber. They did not approach the creature in the corner, fearing its wrath, knowing to approach could mean the tearing apart of their own grey, swollen bodies. Not by the creature itself, but by the three black-haired guards that crouched nearby.

Tiny bones lay scattered around in the darkness and occasionally they would be picked up and ground to a fine powder by powerful jaws. There was a restlessness among the sluggish bodies and the creature in the corner sensed their mood. A gurgling sound came from its throat and it was joined by another, similar noise, close by, almost from the same point in the darkness. All movement stopped. They listened.

The gross body thrashed around in the straw and the other creatures flattened themselves against the ground, pushing themselves into the rubble and exposing their fleshy necks in a ritual of self-abasement.

It was old now and did not remember the journey to this place, the long journey through the underground tunnels, crouching, terrified in the dark, as the huge things thundered over their heads, urging the others on with high-pitched squeals, keeping them together, fleeing from where they were hunted, where the extermination of their species was taking place, instinct for survival their only ally. They had been freed from the cellar and had slain their liberators, eating the bodies before venturing forth.

Inherited knowledge drove them below ground, for they had no adult to lead them; they had devoured their mother in the final days in the cellar. The creature had dominated its brothers and sisters from the beginning; although they were part of the same evolvement, its body was different from theirs. They were dark, covered in a blackish-brown fur. It was not.

It had led them through the tunnels, resting only when they were completely exhausted. The two weakest had been used for sustenance and had hardly protested their deaths. The group had gone on, following the tracks, cautious when they heard human voices, knowing this was the enemy, these were the hunters. The fresh biting air that reached their nostrils had shocked them and they had cowered in the darkness. But the dominant one had ventured forward and the others had followed. The night sky was above them and they clung to the shadows.

The others had wanted to leave the tracks then and go out to where there were houses and living flesh, but it would not let them. They were still in the city, and that meant danger. They hid when daylight came, trembling, fortunate to have found another tunnel further on.

Then with the night, they found something completely new to them, and they welcomed it.

They had never experienced the long flowing grass before, but they relished its softness and the cover it afforded them. It teemed with small, living things and because they were still young, they forgot their fear and wanted to play. But their leader would not let them; it knew that danger was all around. It led them up the grassy embankment, away from the railway track, away from the tunnels in which the trains sped beneath the city, and into the woodland, a new world where they could breathe the air and run free. It could sense that the humans were still there, but the further they went into the woodland, so the presence became less noticeable. They crossed hard, concrete strips, fearful of the racing monsters whose eyes shone far ahead into the night, and eventually, as dawn approached, they rested. They were still afraid, but it seemed the badness was over.

The group soon adapted to their new life and they never lost their cunning. They grew to a size that made them fearful to the other animals of the forest, and they mated. But the one whose body was different from the others would not rest; it could not adapt as the others had, for it knew they were not yet safe. And it missed something. It felt unprotected in the open.

They journeyed further, always at night, always in a tight-packed group, flowing through the grassland and skulking in dark places when the sun rose. They found the heart of the forest, and the dominant one found the resting-place it needed, somewhere it could feel safe, where it could hide its deformed body in constant darkness. It had found the perfect lair.

It had grown old, living twice the normal life-span of the creatures it was derived from; and it had mated, creating ofFspring that were in its own image. Not many completely of its kind lived, and those that survived were weak and not always able to fend for themselves. Yet they dominated the others of the litter, the dark-furred ones, and the two strains lived together, the latter foraging for food and bringing it back to the lair for the leader and its natural heirs.

It never left the confines of the lair now, for its misshapen body had become too heavy, too bloated. It still ruled over them all, but it could sense the mounting tension. Its followers were becoming increasingly restless, both the black and those more like itself craving for something they could not understand. Although they were now many in numbers, they had remained hidden for several years, their inborn fear of what lay beyond binding them to the woodland, away from the eyes of humans. But it was as if their numerical strength was making them bolder, giving them a courage they had not possessed before. And the craving grew stronger each day, the forest animals they killed failing to satiate their strange yearning.

The thing in the corner knew what that craving was, for the group hunger came from their leader. The creature hungered for something tasted before, long ago.

Its two heads weaved to and fro in the darkness and a stickiness drooled from the mouths as it remembered, after so many years, the taste of human flesh.

SIX

"Can't we stay in the car, Alan? It's so cold out there." The woman pulled her coat tightly around herself and hunched down into the passenger seat.

"Come on, Babs, it's not that cold. I'll soon warm you up." The man leered across at her, and slipped a hand around her shoulder, pulling her towards him.

"It's creepy," the woman complained.

We're too near the roadside here, Babs. There's too many passing cars."

Well, drive a bit further in."

Alan tried to keep the irritation from his voice. "I can't do that, darling. The car might get stuck in the mud. I won't be able to see the ground properly in the headlights. I might get jammed on a tree root or something."

The woman sighed with resignation. Why bother to protest? Alan always got his way in the end. And she had to admit, she usually enjoyed it when he did.

Alan Martyn was an estate agent, his offices in the nearby Loughton area, and Babs Mrs. Newell in the office was his secretary. At twenty-nine, he was up and coming; at thirty-five, she was down and hadn't been coming enough. Fifteen years of marriage and raising two sons who were now teenagers had almost smothered any overt desires in her; her lifestyle had reached its level and the sudden bumps, the rises and falls, were only slight. She should have been content, for she was married to a good, if dull, man, and the boys had grown into fine, if boisterous, young men. The house was nice perhaps a little small, but nice and they had a colour telly. Even the dog was obedient.

Sometimes she could have screamed with the niceness of it all.

Reg, her husband, was solid, salt of the earth, A GOOD MAN. He didn't wear carpet slippers around the house, nor did he smoke a pipe he wasn't that bad. But he did roll his own to save the expense of buying cigarettes; and he did keep rabbits in the back garden; and he did bath every Sunday and Wednesday, without fail; and he did always find time to help the boys with their homework or answer their questions; and he always took the dog out for a walk in the evening, no matter what the weather; and he always offered to wash the dishes, even if she wouldn't let him; and he always left his muddy shoes outside the front door; and he had never raised a hand to her; and he always made love on Saturday morning without fail; and he never asked her to try a new position; and he never used anything other than his penis on her; and she had never caught him masturbating.

Oh Reg, why are you such a fucking bore?

Alan's lips brushed against hers, roughly, greedily. Alan was bad, selfish, but he excited her. Babs was aware that it was his difference to safe, reliable Reg that made him so attractive. He was a bastard, beyond doubt, and he used her just to fulfill his own lusts. But that was all right; that was how she used him.

She would never leave her husband and the boys she loved them dearly.

But she was a woman, and she needed more than just cosy affection. Reg had his rabbits, she had -this.

Babs had always wanted to return to work, missing the contact with outsiders, people whose lives she knew little of and therefore would find more interesting than her neighbours or relations. Housework was humdrum, hard but un challenging and the house no longer held any stimulation for her. But outside work had come by as a necessity rather than an indulgence: Reg's salary had become steadily worth less week by week, inflation became the master of household decisions. Reg, as a production controller in an advertising agency, had no union behind him to make sure his earnings kept reasonably level with the ever-increasing price rises and so, at the instigation of Babs herself, it was decided she should take a job again. The boys were now old enough to be less dependent on her, so there was no great problem in that respect, and Reg was sensible enough to realize his wife needed an outside interest.

"Come on, darling, it's been a long time since we've done it out in the open." Alan pushed his hand against the rough material of Babs' coat, kneading her plump breasts in a circular movement. "I'll get the rug out of the back so you won't get damp."

She felt the excitement in her, a flush spreading across her chest beneath her clothes. "What if someone comes along, Alan?" she asked, but her tone told her weekday lover she was willing.

"Don't be daft, Babs. There won't be anyone walking in the forest when it's this dark."

"I won't be able to stay too long."

He looked at the luminous dial on his watch. "It's only ten-to-eight.

What time did you say you'd be in?"

"About half-past. I told Reg we'd be going over the books tonight. He said he'd do the boys' dinner."

"Good old Reg," Alan said distractedly, his lips finding and moistening Babs' ear and, equally distractedly, he thought, fucking idiot.

Babs' breasts were rising and falling as though air was being blown into them, and she squeezed her thighs tightly together, feeling the moistness between them. Alan was such a good lover, so thoughtful, so unselfish And she shivered with pleasure so demanding. Babs wondered if he was as demanding with his young wife.

"Come on then, Alan," she said, an urgency in her voice now. "Let's find a sheltered place, though."

He was out of the fawn-coloured Capri in a flash, opening the boot and reaching for the rug inside. Babs stepped from the car, closing the door behind her and making sure it was locked. It was one of the things Alan was serious about, his car. She looked around, the chill night air almost quelling her excitement, and thought the forest looked very unreal in the moonlight.

"Okay, Babs?" Alan was beside her and she knew his shortness of breath was due to excitement. He loved to experiment, did Alan, loved to try new things all the time. In the seven months she had known him six of them carnally they must have investigated every position there was.

Even though she was the more mature in years, she had come to it as a young girl, eager to learn, almost desperate to experience. Lunch-times in the office, when the others had gone out and she and Alan had pretended to work on, they had disappeared into the back room where the records of all their clients were kept and made love among the filing cabinets -on the floor next to them, up against them, even on top of them. He had beaten her buttocks with a belt, used her anus as a vagina, bitten her breasts until she screamed, almost choked her with his spurting semen. She had sat on his face and made him drink her juices, had painfully bound his penis and testicles with his own tie and yanked him yelping around the filing room, had straddled, ridden and raped him, had smeared him with face cream and manipulated him. He had loved it all. And she had loved it all.

On the few occasions they had managed to get away together to Reg it was business conventions, to the office, who were not fooled, it was coinciding holidays or, surprise, surprise, mutual illnesses they indulged themselves to the full, rarely leaving the hotels they had booked into. Masochism and sadism were attempted but only by mutual consent and only at amateur status; neither liked to hurt or be hurt that much. Bondage was fun but it made the wrists chafe. Wearing each other's underwear was okay if the lights were off. After a while, when their imagination for new experiences seemed to have become exhausted, they both realized there was more enjoyment in normal intercourse. It just depended on where you did it. Neither cared to look into the future, to where their relationship was leading, for their excitement was always in the present, never tomorrow or the day after. They were not in love, but they loved what they did, and when it ended, that would be the end.

The moon suddenly disappeared and they were plunged into darkness.

"I don't like this, Alan," Babs said, nervously.

"It'll be out in a minute, don't worry. Come here, and have a cuddle."

He pulled her to him and pressed his body hard against hers, his eyes staring over her shoulder into the darkness. He didn't care too much for the dark himself. He breathed a silent sigh of relief when the moon appeared once more.

Taking her hand, he pressed on farther into the undergrowth, pushing the higher foliage away with his hand, the rug draped over one shoulder.

"Not too far, Alan," Babs pleaded.

"No, darling, just a bit further. It's nice and thick just ahead.

It'll screen us from the road."

A scuttling noise made them stop.

What's that?" Babs whispered.

Alan listened for a few moments, but heard nothing more. "Must have been an animal. We probably scared it."

He moved on and she meekly followed.

This'll do," he said leading her down into a slight dip, wondering why he had whispered. He stamped on the grass, trampling any gorse that might be there, then threw down the rug, pulling each corner straight.

"Okay, lover?" he said, his face faint and white in the moo night

"I'm not sure, Alan," she answered, but he knew she wanted him as much as he wanted her. He pulled her down on the rug and began to unbutton her coat and she forgot about the forest and night creatures. Babs'

plumpness was of the firm, springy kind, her figure rounded provocatively rather than flabbily, and Alan's excitement grew when her breasts and stomach became exposed to the moonlight. He bent his head and kissed her neck, lowering himself so his lips brushed against the tops of her breasts which threatened to spill over the silky material of her bra. His tongue drew a slivery trail over her stomach, sudden goose-pimples making her flesh hard and brittle.

Although the cold made her shiver, it seemed to add a new dimension to their lovemaking, the chill numbing her on the outside, warmth flooding through her on the inside. And the stars above her, the air around her, gave the feeling that they were being observed and that added to the thrill. The goose-pimples made her body lose its numbness, made it tingle, tickle when he touched her. He pulled her arms free of the coat and began to slip the blouse from her shoulders.

"No, Alan," she protested, 'it's too cold for that."

He kissed her lips and ignored the protest, pulling the blouse free. He looked down at her white, bare shoulders, at her face staring up at him, yearning yet innocent, and, for a moment, he almost loved her.

Almost, and only for a moment: desire quickly overwhelmed emotion. He reached behind her and undid the clasp holding the bra together, then slid it down along her arms. He pushed her back onto the rug and began to tug at the skirt. After the initial struggle over the hips, it pulled away easily from her legs. Her tights came next, along with her shoes. He took his time with the panties, touching her first through the flimsy material, making her squirm and causing her to grab his hand to guide it more skilfully, urging his fingers to reach inside. He pulled away, knowing her pleasure would take her too far, upset their timing.

Her body looked like white marble as he stood and gazed down on her: soft, yielding marble that could absorb his own body. Her hands hooked into the sides of her panties and pulled them down over her hips, over her ankles, over her feet. She delicately placed them to one side, then lay back on the rug, her legs slightly apart, a small black triangle the only contrast against her pale skin.

Alan quickly threw off his clothes, letting them fall in an untidy heap, knowing he would regret it later when he would be scrabbling around in the dark searching for them and feeling the cold; but for now, it hardly mattered. All he cared about was being joined with that wonderfully passionate body lying at his feet. He fell to his knees, then smothered her with his own body, pressing against her, moving and sliding, squeezing and caressing.

Her arms encircled his waist, moved up to his shoulders, back down to his buttocks, pulling him against her, sinking her fingers into the fleshy parts. Her knees rose on either side of his thighs and she hooked her heels around his calves, using her legs to pull him in tighter.

His mouth encircled a nipple and he drew his breath in, making the nipple erect and angry red. He sought her lips, his hand giving the abandoned breast rough comfort. Soft moans of pleasure were escaping her now and he had to control his own murmurings, not wanting to make too much noise just in case there really were others in the forest. But as their movements became more frantic, so their appreciation grew louder.

Babs reached down for him, wanting him inside her, no longer prepared to prolong the foreplay. She found his penis and heard him groan, then she pulled it towards her, her legs spread wide, heels off the rug now and making indents in the earth. He jerked his hips back, when he felt the lips of her vagina, and kept his organ there, teasing her with its touch.

"Alan, please," she implored, and he was smiling in the darkness and she was smiling too, wanting him inside but wanting the game to go on.

He deliberately pushed himself away and changed her small cry of disappointment to one of delight when he sank his head between her thighs and thrust his tongue into the deep moist passage. Her hips rose from the rug, her whole body moving frenziedly, and he had to hold her in a tight grip so he would not lose her. She thrust her body out to meet his teasing lips and tongue and he brought his knees forward to support her weight more easily. He lifted one thigh so it was over his shoulder, then the other, her legs closing around his head in a grip he thought might flatten his ears permanently. He was finding it difficult to breathe, but she refused to loosen her hold, using her hands and the backs of her legs to draw him in further, her neck and shoulders supporting the weight of her upper body.

Alan thought he might suffocate and was ready to panic when he felt her body go stiff and taut in the last paroxysms before orgasm. Her hand, reaching beneath her buttocks and finding his penis erect in his lap, encouraged him to make the final effort and he plunged as deeply as he could, stretching the retaining tendon at the base of his tongue until he thought it might tear, her moving hand causing the pleasure in his lap to mingle with the pain in his head and lungs, the pain somehow enhancing the pleasure, the pleasure somehow nullifying the pain.

She failed to hold back her cries and, at that stage, didn't care; Alan's flesh-enclosed ears did not even hear. Her arched back became wet from him as both bodies convulsed with their separate releases, and their figures created a bizarre, trembling sculpture in the moonlit clearing. They became locked rigid for the last dying seconds of orgasm, then their bodies slowly crumpled to the ground. Lying there breathless, chests heaving, they allowed their frantic hearts to slow before moving together again.

Alan pulled her coat over them and they huddled together, their bodies warm but aware that the chill would soon bite its way in.

"Alan, Alan, thank you," Babs said when her breathing had become more controlled. "It was lovely."

Alan could only grunt, the sound muffled, for his head was snuggled against her breasts beneath her coat. He felt utterly exhausted and his lips were sore.

Babs ducked under the coat and lay her head close to his. "Didn't you think it was lovely?" she said.

Alan stretched his legs down and the grass tickled his feet. He quickly drew his knees up again. "Yes, Babs, terrific." But now, satiated and beginning to feel cold, he thought about getting home; he'd told Marjie he wouldn't be too late.

Babs lifted her head to kiss his cheek, then turned and lay on her back, limbs stretched akimbo, a contented smile on her face. Her body was still warm from their lovemaking and even her exposed feet refused to acknowledge autumn's frigid presence. Something prickled one foot and she moved it away, closer to the other.

"Darling," she said, watching a cloud swallowing the moon, 'have you ever wondered why it's so good with us, I mean." She lifted the edge of the coat and looked down at him, waiting for an answer.

"No, Babs," he replied.

She returned her gaze to the heavens. "It's never been this way with Reg, not even when we were first marrried."

The top of Alan's head appeared as though he were testing the air before emerging fully. "I suppose we're just physically compatible,"

he said. "Some people are. Some are compatible mentally, others physically. Me and you are physical."

"Not just that, Alan." She was a little hurt at the suggestion.

"Oh, no, not just that, Babs," he quickly assured her. "It's just that some people are more, er, more energetic than others. But I think our minds are tuned in as well. We do seem to understand each other." He wondered if he could sneak a look at his watch without her seeing.

Babs tucked her arms beneath the coat, the chill beginning to reach her. Why fool herself? Alan wanted one thing from her and she wanted one thing from him. Sex was also a thing of the mind, and that was where they both tuned in mentally. She wondered if Reg had given the boys their dinner yet.

Something prickled her foot again and this time, her senses beginning to lose their dullness, she became alarmed.

It might not just be a leaf, or grass, or a twig touching her; it might be an animal.

"Alan!" she said sharply and began to sit up, the coat falling and revealing her ample breasts. It took a fraction of a second to register the pain, then she screamed and jerked her leg up, reaching for her injured foot, and she screamed again, louder, when she felt the two bloodied stumps that were left of her toes.

Alan jumped up, frightened by her cries, and looked around, trying to see what had happened, what had hurt her.

"Babs, what is it?" He grabbed her shoulders and tried to hold her still. What happened? Tell me!' His own voice had risen to a shriek.

"My foot! Something's bitten my toes off!" she screeched.

"Oh God! It's all right, Babs. Calm down. Let me have a look!"

But there was no time to look, for the rat, excited by the blood, ran forward and attacked her foot again, sinking its incisors deep, through the hand that clutched the injured limb, and into the foot itself. Alan shrank away when he saw the black creature, not knowing what it was, thinking it must be a wild dog because of its size. The moon suddenly burst from its cloud covering and dread hit him as he recognized the beast. The pointed nose, the long sleek body with its hunched lower back, the stiffened tail it was a Black rat!

Babs' screams startled him from his paralysis; he grabbed the rat at a point near its neck and pulled. The screams reached a new pitch as Babs' flesh was ripped and Alan fell backwards, the struggling creature still in his grasp. It twisted its head and bit into Alan's thigh, gnawing at the flesh and swallowing blood as it burrowed deeper. The main artery was severed and more blood gushed into the rodent's throat, almost choking it, forcing it to withdraw its head. The blood jetted from the wound in a high arc and the air was full of its smell.

"Oh, no, no!" Alan cried, for he knew damage to that artery could be fatal. He clutched at the leg to try and stem the flow, but the blood spurted through his fingers and splattered his face. The rat, squirming between his legs and expelling Alan's blood from its throat, turned and leapt at his chest, raking the skin down to the bone with its claws. It clung there and, as Alan toppled backwards, it began to snap its way into his throat. The others, those that had been more hesitant, crept out from beneath the clearing's surrounding undergrowth, still cautious, for the fear of man was inbred, but becoming bolder as the sweet blood aroma aroused them.

Through tears of pain, Babs saw the approaching black shapes, and she too knew their meaning. She wanted to help Alan, but she was too afraid; she wanted to run, but her fear made her freeze. All she could do was bury herself beneath the coat, her knees tugged up into her chest, her hands clutching at the material, holding it tight around her. The pain in her foot was excruciating and the terror in her mind incapacitating. She prayed, the words tumbling from her lips in a garbled flow, that the creatures would leave them, would fade back into the night, would return to the hell they had come from. But Alan's screams told her they wouldn't. And the tugging at the coat, the sudden sharp, exploratory nips, told her the rats wouldn't leave until she and Alan had been devoured.

As the bites began to puncture her flesh and the agony made her body unfold and writhe, she saw Reg and the boys sitting around the dinner table, Kevin, the youngest, saying, "Mum's late, Dad ... Mum's late ...

Mum's late ..."

It was past midnight and no sounds had come from the inside of the tent for at least an hour. It stood alone, like a canvas sentinel, in a corner of the wide field, the forest a dark backdrop. Liquid, almost frozen, clung to the stiffened blades of grass around the tent, but inside it was snug and warm, heat from the boys' bodies providing its own central heating. A small night-light glowed weakly in the centre of the floor space, the seven slumbering boys and their supervisor spread around it in giant cocoon shapes, dreading the cold dawn which would force them to shed their sleeping-bag skins.

Gordon Baddeley, the supervisor, slept to one side, a one-foot gap between him and the nearest boy as though the dividing line were a wall behind which authority rested. Gordon maintained that such abstract symbolism was important.

The boys, their ages ranging from twelve to fifteen, were all from a Barnardo's home in Woodford, and this was their outdoor 'survival'

week. There hadn't been much to survive, for the nearest shop was under two miles away, and wild lions, tigers and crocodiles were not reputed to inhabit that part of Epping Forest. The younger boys, however, did believe bears roamed free in that particular area. The field was empty of any other form of life, for it was not one of the official forest camp-sites, but a certain benevolent Lord Something-or-Other the boys could never remember his name allowed the Woodford orphanage to use that corner of a field on his estate for camping purposes. As he did not live on the estate any longer but rented the land out to local farmers, he was only a mythical figure to the boys, vague and aloof, like God.

Gordon Baddeley had been a Barnardo boy himself a few years before and was, so everyone said, a shining example of the goodness and honesty that could come from an orphanage background. After only three years in the outside world, working in a supermarket as a shelf-filler, winning promotion to assistant on frozen meats, he had returned to the orphanage that had reared him, turning his back on success because he wanted to help those like himself, the underprivileged. The home had been proud to accept him, although it wasn't common practice to take back those who had left, for Gordon had been an exceptional boy.

Well-mannered, soft-spoken, hard-working, no outward emotional problems he was a boy the staff could point at and say: "You see, it works.

Even though we can't give them the love and affection of true parents, we can turn out well-balanced young people like this."

Not that Gordon was regarded as soft by the other boys; on the contrary, he was looked upon as 'a tough nut'. He was friendly but firm, could be rough but not unkind, funny when he wanted to be and serious when others wanted him to be. No chip on his shoulder, no nurtured grievances; he seemed to like most people and most people seemed to like him. All in all, they said, he was the perfect Dr.

Barnardo boy. And after three years on the outside, he had come to realize that was all he ever wanted to be.

The world frightened him. It was too aggressive and too big. There were too many strangers. When out on the streets, he ran everywhere; it was as though he were naked and that by moving swiftly he could shorten the period of exposure. It was a common enough syndrome among fledgling orphans, that awkward reaction to the world in general, but most managed to overcome their uneasiness in time. But not so Gordon; he missed the home and its security to a distressing degree. The orphanage had found him a bed sitter in the house of a friendly and tight-knit family, and their very closeness towards each other had made him feel even more the intruder. They tried to make him feel welcome and he accepted their hospitality with due gratitude, but the more time he spent with them the more he was aware of what he had missed in his own upbringing; he felt no resentment, but he did feel different.

Girls were a problem, too. He was attracted to them and several in the supermarket where he worked were kind towards him, yet again he felt there was a barrier between him and them, that he could only watch their world through an invisible glass screen. Given time he would have joined the people inside, but the loneliness of the interlude between became too hard to bear. Inside the home he had been someone; outside he was nothing. He returned and they turned his defeat into triumph. The home was his home, and it was there he wished to stay.

Gordon turned in his sleep and his eyelids twitched, then opened wide.

He stared at the tent's sloping ceiling for a few moments, his dream-thoughts tumbling over themselves to disperse. The night-light gave the slumbering shapes in the tent an eerie, green tinge as he looked around to see if anyone was awake. He listened for the tell-tale and not uncommon sob in the night, the sudden spasmodic jerk from a curled-up form beneath a tightly clutched covering, but the snores and sighs of the sleeping boys assured him all was well. Then what had caused him to awaken?

He lay in the gloom and listened.

The soft scratching noise made him turn his head towards the canvas wall of the tent and the sound stopped. He held his breath.

Something pushed against the coarse material, something low, near the ground. The bulge was at a point near his hips and it suddenly began to move towards his head. Gordon carefully slid his sleeping-bag encompassed frame away from the protuberance and the movement outside came to a halt.

It was as though whatever was out there had sensed his presence, had been aware of the movement inside.

Gordon had to restrain himself from crying out and leaping away from that side of the tent. It would frighten the younger boys, he told himself. Besides, it was probably only a fox or some other curious night animal and it would never penetrate the tough canvas. He slowly unzipped the sleeping-bag and eased out his arms.

The bulge began to move again, upwards, towards his face, and he saw it was at least a couple of feet long. It had to be a fox! Maybe, but not likely, a badger? Whatever the creature was, it wasn't very tall.

Or was it just crawling along on its stomach? It could be a dog. The movement stopped again and the bulge seemed to press even further in.

Gordon drew his head away, but it was still less than a foot from the straining canvas, and he had an uncanny feeling that the creature beyond could see through the material, could smell his fear. Gordon's free hand groped down towards his side and scrabbled around for the torch he always kept close by when camping. The boy nearest to him stirred restlessly as Gordon's hand brushed against his sleeping-bag, but the searching fingers finally closed around the cold tube of metal.

The torch had been pushed to one side by Gordon's sliding body and had come to rest against the nearest boy's sleeping form. Gordon gripped the handle tightly, then froze as the thin, scratching sound came to his ears once more.

With a barely suppressed cry he swung the heavy torch in an arc and struck hard at the swelling and the canvas became slack again, the creature obviously having fled. He thought he heard a high-pitched squeal as the makeshift weapon had struck, but couldn't be sure it could have been the screaming inside his own head.

Gordon switched on the torch, keeping it low, his own body screening the light from the rest of the dimly lit interior, and studied the bright, circular shape of canvas before him. He settled back into his sleeping-bag, but kept the torch on, studying the loose material to see if the creature's scratching had caused any damage. No, it was still intact; it would take more than a nosey old fox to make a hole in such tough canvas. His body began to relax and his breathing became more even; his thumb moved against the switch to turn off the harsh beam of light, and it was then that a heavy weight threw itself at the tent's side, the bulge showing clearly in the centre of the circle of light.

The scratching sound became frantic and Gordon gazed on, mesmerized as a small tear appeared in the canvas and a long curving claw pushed its way through. The rent tore downwards in a violent movement, then the claw disappeared to be replaced with tiny, scrabbling protuberances on either side of the hole. Gordon screamed as the two sets of claws broke through and ripped the material to shreds before his eyes. The black, bristling-furred body that launched itself through the gap lunged at Gordon's exposed face and sank its teeth deep into the open jaw, knocking him backwards, rolling with him onto the startled boys trapped inside their sleeping-bags.

They cried out in alarm, not realizing what was happening to their supervisor, the thrown torch shining uselessly into the folds of a sleeping-bag, the dim night-light not strong enough to explain the writhing shapes. The boy nearest the torch managed to push his arm free and make a grab for it. He shone the beam towards the screaming figure, but none of the boys understood just what clung to their supervisor's bloody face. A boy near the tent's wall shouted as he saw something black scramble through a gaping hole in the canvas, and the boy with the torch shone it in that direction.

Gordon choked on his own blood as he tried to push the creature away from his face, its claws raking his chest into a bloody mess. Its teeth were locked into his jaw bone and he could not tear them loose.

He knew the animal had the strength and the weapons to kill him, but what he saw made him react almost automatically, as though once more he was viewing life through a glass window. This time, though, he was on the inside he was part of that life and the others, the black creatures, were breaking through the glass to reach into his world. He knew he had to stop them.

The pain was blinding, yet it meant little as he rolled his body towards the gap, dragging the creature with him. He could feel the bone in his jaw splintering and cracking, and the blood was running down inside his body, hindering his breathing, but his mind seemed almost apart from it, telling him one thing over an dover again: Stop them coming through, block the hole with your body.

He knew he was there, knew his back covered their entrance, preventing them from pouring in. And he knew they were eating him, their teeth gnawing into his back, snapping around his spine and pulling. He knew the creature at his face was trapped by its own teeth at his jaw, but nevertheless was busy sucking his blood, draining him of life's fluid.

But he didn't know that other bulges were appearing all around the tent's walls, the scratching sounds mingling with the panic-stricken cries of the boys inside, and the canvas material puncturing in long, tearing gashes.

Dawn had begun to tip the treetops with a golden rim as the rising sun decisively cut its way through the mists. It was not unusual to find the Reverend Jonathan Matthews trudging down the lane from his vicarage towards the old church at such an early hour for, in recent years, sleeping had played a less important part in his life. The first rays of light projecting their leafy pattern onto his bedroom wall had become an increasingly welcome sight as the approaching day gave relief to the night's loneliness. Since his wife's untimely death eight years before, the vicar had had no one to confide in, no one to give him comfort. He had often considered speaking to his Bishop of his latter-day doubts, his spiritually debilitating fear of death, but had decided he would fight the battle alone. God would surely give him the grace to overcome his lack of faith.

He pulled the scarf concealing his clerical collar tighter around his neck, his frail body all too vulnerable to the morning dampness. Again and again he asked himself why such troubles of the mind should plague him in his later years when his beliefs had been so strong before? He felt somehow it was connected with the forest itself. In his imagination the brooding menace in the surrounding woodland seemed to represent death's constant presence, always there, lurking just out of sight, watching and waiting for the precise moment in which to reveal itself. For him, the forest had once been a place to love; now it had become a symbol of his own trepidation.

The vicar entered the covered gateway to the church and paused to gaze up at the ancient building's steeple. It wasn't high, the pinnacle barely topping the highest branches of the surrounding trees, yet it reached upwards in solid defrance of its earthly base as though it could pierce the heavens themselves, and feed through its funnel shape the souls of the faithful. Its spiritual brashness gave his heart a sudden uplift. Doubts were a part of serving, for if there were none there would be no searching for answers, no obstacles to surmount no tests to be judged by. This was his time of testing and when it was through he would have sturdier faith, a stronger belief in God.

The little church always gave him this sudden surge of optimism, which was why he often visited it so early in the morning. The negative thoughts of the night had to be swiftly allayed if he was to survive the day, and a quiet hour at the altar helped him build his barrier.

His feet crunched along the narrow gravel path running between the gravestones towards the church porch, his eyes avoiding the slabs of grey on either side, and it was only when his hand was on the circular metal handle of the door that he heard the scrabbling sounds that came from the rear of the building.

He slowly turned his head in that direction, a curious coldness stiffening his spine. Listening intently, he tried to place the sound.

It was as if earth was being scattered, the sound of someone or something digging. It would have to be an animal of some kind, for he could not recognize the familiar thud of a spade biting into the earth, nor the dull clump as the tossed soil struck the ground in one loose lump. This was a ceaseless barrage of scattered dirt.

The splintering of wood made him jump.

Dread rising in him, he left the porch and continued on down the path, his footsteps loud, wanting to warn whatever was behind the church of his approach, wanting the area to be deserted before he reached it.

Who's there?" he called out and for a moment, there was silence. Then the scrabbling noise began again.

The vicar reached the corner of the church, the ground beside the path dropping away to a lower level, stone steps leading down to the grass-covered graveyard. From there he could see the freshly opened grave.

It was the plot in which old Mrs. Wilkinson had been laid to rest the day before, untidy piles of earth lying in scattered heaps around the rough, circular hole. The gnawing of wood told him the worst.

Rage made him tear down the steps. What animal would burrow into the earth for the flesh of a human corpse? He reached the edge of the hole and cried out at the sight below.

The hole was wide and deep, a pit with acute sloping sides. At the bottom was a mass of squirming, black furry bodies. He could not recognize the animals at first, for the pit was darkly shadowed, the sun still hidden behind the trees, but as he watched, he began to establish individual shapes. Even then he wasn't sure what the creatures were.

One emerged from the writhing mass, its mouth full of dried meat, and scrambled over the backs of the others towards the side of the pit.

Just before the gap it had left behind was closed by other eager bodies, the vicar saw directly into the damaged coffin. The sight of white broken bones stripped of all flesh made him sink to his knees, bile clogging his throat to be expelled onto the undulating mass below.

He wanted to run from the terrible scene, but the convulsions wracked his body painfully, causing him to sway precariously, his fingers digging into the soft earth. He knew these creatures now they were the harpies of his own conscience, come to torment him, letting him know death was not sacrosanct, the body could be further defiled.

The Reverend Matthews hadn't noticed the other rats in the graveyard, hidden in the grass, behind the trees, crouching beneath gravestones; those that had silently watched him enter the church grounds, followed his progress along the path with black, evil eyes, creeping forward, their bodies close to the earth. He wasn't aware that they were all around him, moving closer, haunches quivering in anticipation. It took long seconds for him to realize what was happening when the first one bit into his ankle, calmly eating into his flesh without haste or aggression.

And by the time he had screamed and struck out at the rat it was too late, for the creature's companions were already launching themselves at his body, landing heavily against him, teeth snapping and claws scratching for a hold, toppling him over, down into the pit among the others, who welcomed the new, warm meat and the satiating blood that ran from it.

In an effort that was brought about by terror overriding all pain, he gained his feet and tried to scramble up the steep incline, long black bodies clinging to him and pulling him back, but there were still more waiting for him up there. His hands grabbed at the grass, trying to haul himself from the pit, and the rats bit off his fingers one by one, the small bones proving no problem for the razor-sharp incisors. Unable to grip, he slid back down, one foot falling into the open coffin, sinking in the remnants of the old woman's now masticated flesh.

One of the creatures followed him down and for a few seconds he gazed into its black eyes, the twitching pink nose only inches away. The rat slid onto him, its jaws opening wide. The vicar's body was smothered by other giant vermin, the pit filling and brimming over with their agitated, struggling bodies, and his screams were muffled. He wondered why it took so long to die for he could feel a rat inside him, one that had eaten its way beneath his ribcage and was now gorging itself on his heart. Surely he should be dead by now? The pain had stopped moments before or had its intensity become subliminal? Why did he still wonder? Why did the questions, the doubts, persist? Surely now there would be an answer? But no revelations came. There was only the awareness that he was being eaten. And then he realized his body was dead, that only his thoughts remained, and ... The rat fed on his brain, its pointed head buried deep into the open skull, swallowing cells and tissue that no longer functioned, the impulses finding no receptors and fading to nothing.

Sunlight pushed its way over the treetops and bathed the church and its grounds in a fresh, vibrant glow; but no birds greeted its arrival. The only sound to be heard was a faint scuffling noise from somewhere behind the ancient building. Soon, even that was gone.

SEVEN

Fender was tired. He and the head keeper, Denison, had spent the morning touring Epping Forest, visiting various farmsteads, private dwellings and official organizations within the area, looking for rodent signs, questioning the many occupiers. Most had had some trouble with vermin at one time or another, but none was of a serious nature and they could all identify their particular pests.

The day had started early for the investigator and the night before had ended late. He found himself biting into his lower lip in frustration as he mulled over the outcome of the previous night's meeting at the Conservation Centre. He knew Stephen Howard had become more of a businessman than a technical researcher, but hadn't realized to what extent. Rat-kill's director of research had patiently listened to both sides of the somewhat heated argument that had continued between Fender and Whitney-Evans, his face impassive, occasionally nodding in agreement at points made by either protagonist, but rarely adding his own comment. Fender soon guessed Howard was waiting for a reaction from Thoraton, the Private Secretary for the Ministry of Agriculture, Fisheries and Food, before he, himself, allowed his views to be known.

Fender had seen Howard take this noncommittal line often in company meetings where superiors were involved and it had always mildly amused him; but now there was much more than private ambitions involved and the research director's attitude irritated Fender. It became obvious that Whitney-Evans and Thornton had discussed the matter before the meeting when the private secretary suggested that matters should proceed with the utmost caution, that he would refuse to recommend a full-scale operation until it was proved conclusively that the Black rat was breeding in the forest.

Stephen Howard agreed that more evidence was needed before such drastic and costly action was taken; besides, the Black rat, if it did still exist, had been pretty inactive up until now and it was fairly safe to assume it would remain so during the few days it would take to firmly establish its presence. He could see no reason to ring alarm bells at this time.

Jenny had lost her temper then, her eye-witness report having been dismissed almost out-of-hand, and the theory that it might indeed have been a group of coypus she had seen emerging from the pond seized upon and used against her. Fender, seated next to her in the Centre's library which was being used as the conference room, clasped a hand over her arm beneath the table to calm her, knowing her rage would be wasted on men like Whitney-Evans, Thornton and Howard. He, too, was angry, but he had long ago learned to control anger and direct it purposefully. He had begun to tell them of the dangerous consequences procrastination might bring. He had made a detailed study of the London Outbreak and he reminded them of the mistakes made at that time, the underestimation of the rats that had cost the lives of hundreds, the inadequate measures at first used against the vermin, the warnings that had been ignored beforehand. Would they take the responsibility for another "Outbreak?

Eric Dugdale, of the Safety Inspectorate, agreed with Fender: the risk was too great to take any chances. The head keeper, Denison, was unsure. None of his men had reported any strange happenings in the forest, although he had noticed a certain unease in them lately; his own sighting of a white deer, traditionally a bad omen, had disturbed him greatly. Thornton and Howard had smiled openly at that, but Whitney-Evans' reaction was more sober he was too knowledgeable of forest folklore to scoff. Nevertheless, he still felt absolute proof of the Black rat's existence was vital before the ultimate decision was taken. Alex Milton, silent until then, reluctantly agreed. Thornton nodded. Howard had leaned forward and spoken gravely for the next ten minutes, explaining to the group his considered plan of action, how his team, organized by his head biologist, Michael Lehmann, and Fender, would search every square inch of the forest, discreetly but painstakingly, until they were sure the Black rat was not alive and well and living in the wooded suburbia of Epping Forest. At the slightest evidence that the rat was there provided it was sufficiently substantiated the panic button would be pushed without further delay.

They were all aware of the seriousness of the situation but he felt sure they were also all aware of the panic they would cause if they made their decision for evacuation too soon. He had looked towards Thornton for approval and the private secretary had given it with a further lecture on the merits of caution.

Fender knew he had lost and further protestation was useless. The next two hours were spent discussing how the search would be set up and how the Superintendent's staff could coordinate with the Ratkill people.

All would be sworn to secrecy, of course, and Thornton would personally inform the Home Secretary of the proceedings. It was decided that Fender would conduct a superficial search of the area the following day, accompanied by Denison, who would act as guide and introduce him to the many residents of the forest to be questioned. The questions would be asked under the guise of a census on pests in the area; if anything was seriously amiss, the locals would certainly mention it without pointed prompting. Fender would then be able to organize a more thorough search in specific areas the more likely ones which could then spread into more widespread locales.

Throughout, Jenny sat in silence and Fender could feel her disappointment in him. Over their drinks earlier that evening, they had relaxed in each other's company. It had been a pleasant interlude and both had left the pub reluctantly to attend the scheduled meeting.

He had soon become involved in the plans for the next day's perfunctory, but necessarily so, search, and on the few occasions his eyes had met hers, the friendliness seemed to have disappeared from them. He could understand her resentment towards the meeting in general, but was puzzled as to why she had turned cold towards him. A mental shrug had tucked the question neatly away and he had concentrated on plans for the search; after the meeting, she had quietly slipped off without giving him the chance to talk to her.

He had driven back across London to his flat in Tunbridge Wells that night, set his alarm for 5.30, and wearily sunk into bed.

Now he was back in the forest, having met Denison at the Centre in the early hours of the morning. There had been no sign of Jenny, but they had talked briefly with Alex Milton and the senior tutor, Vie Whittaker, explaining the areas they would cover and in which order, just in case the Centre needed to contact them urgently. Steaming coffee had been supplied by Jan Wimbush, the student-cum-cook, before Fender and Denison had set off, both men refusing the offer of a full breakfast.

By midday, they had become a little tired of repeating the same questions to the forest residents, and the apprehension caused by brief explorations of the quieter glades of the woodland, knowing the danger from the vermin they sought, had set their nerves on edge.

Fender studied the woodland on either side of the road as the Land-Rover trundled along at a steady speed. It had become another fine, clear day, the mists having vanished as the sun rose higher and, when on an open road like this and within the safety of the vehicle, Fender found it almost impossible to imagine there could be anything sinister lurking out there in the trees. He looked quizzically at Denison as the Land-Rover turned off from the main road into a wide, muddy track to be confronted by rusted iron gates. Tall, brick columns supported the gates and on either side stood two more single gates, apparently to allow access for anything on foot. It was obviously the entrance to some kind of estate, and he assumed the two gatehouses on opposite sides of the road inside were inhabited by whoever maintained the grounds. The road continued beyond, cutting through a forest of pine trees.

"What is this place?" he asked as Denison brought the Land-Rover to a halt.

"It's the Seymour Hall estate," Denison replied, jerking on the hand brake "Nobody lives here now, not since the main house was gutted by fire over sixty years ago, but the grounds are cultivated for lumber, the fields rented out to farmers. It's a sizeable estate."

Leaving the engine running, he pushed the door open and got down from the vehicle. It took considerable effort to swing open the iron gates.

"If you want to look down the road awhile, I'll question the people living in the gatehouses," Denison called out, walking back to the Land-Rover.

"Okay," Fender said as Denison climbed back in and drove through the entrance. "Who lives in these places? Keepers?"

"No, they're privately rented, nothing to do with the estate now." He stopped the Land-Rover again, turned off the engine and jumped out.

Fender joined him and looked around. "It's quiet," he commented.

Denison nodded. "Private land. A public footpath goes through the property, but not many know about it. They see the gates and assume there's no access." He walked over to one of the houses, its yellow-grey bricks faded and crumbled. "You go ahead," he said, turning back to Fender, "I'll catch you up."

Fender began the journey up the long, straight road, constantly glancing into the pine forests on either side. He soon felt completely alone and more than once he turned to see if the head keeper was back there in the distance. He had the same sensation as the day before when he and Jenny had gone off in search of the creatures she had claimed to have seen that same feeling of being watched. He smiled at his own fears. It was the isolation that exaggerated everything, the quietness of the forest, the leafy screen that hid so much animal life.

His upbringing had been in cities, among people, nothing ever still in his vision; here only the breeze seemed to make things move. He froze when he heard a scuffling noise to his right and then dropped into a defensive crouch as something broke free from a thicket a few yards away.

Fender straightened and grinned, shaking his head sheepishly at himself as the pheasant shot across the muddy road and disappeared into the trees on the other side. The investigator shoved his trembling hands into the side pockets of his green combat-jacket and resumed his journey.

Jesus, he said to himself, this is really getting to me. Was there a genuine tension in the air or was it imagination? Maybe he was over-reacting to Jenny's statement. But still, there had been the rat's droppings and the chewed-up door back at the Centre. And the stoats that had been slaughtered; if rats hadn't done that, then it must have been something pretty fearsome. Yet the local farmers he'd questioned that morning hadn't reported anything unduly worrying, and it the Black breed really were in the area, surely they would have been detected by now? Unless, of course, they had developed a new kind of cunning. He shuddered at the thought.

The trees gave way to his right and the land sloped gently away from the road; lush, bordered fields dipped, then rose into the horizon. A perfectly shaped round tree copse, about a hundred yards in diameter, stood in the nearest field and for some curious reason it made him feel uneasy.

He reached a low, farm-style gate and leaned his elbows against it, a frown creasing his forehead. The ground rose upwards beyond the gate and on the crest of its hill he could see a huge mansion. He assumed it was Seymour Hall itself, but from this distance it was hard to tell the building was only a shell. He counted six square-shaped chimney-stacks silhouetted against the sky, the building itself having three levels. Only the black glassless windows gave any hint of the ruin inside. But the real cause of Fender's puzzled expression was the land between the gate and the house.

The road leading up to the mansion was made of rubble and the field it ran through was completely barren, the dark earth churned and pitted as though any worthy soil had been scoured away, leaving only the ugly, rock-strewn crust below. It was an unpleasant sight among the lush forestland, and Fender wondered what could have caused such destruction. His eyes narrowed.

He had seen something moving in the distance, up near the house itself.

An animal of some kind. Something pink. Something bloated.

His hand gripped the top of the wooden gate and he unconsciously held his breath. It was too far away to make out any discernible shape. It moved slowly towards the house, having appeared behind some nearby shrubbery. It was difficult to tell its true size from this distance.

The sound of the Land-Rover's engine made him snap his head around.

Denison saw the curious look on the rat catcher face as he brought the vehicle to a halt.

What's up?" he asked urgently, jumping out. "Have you seen the rats?"

"I've seen something, but I'm not sure what it is." Fender pointed towards the house, his finger searching for the pink, slow-moving creature. But it was gone.

What's the matter, Fender? What did you see?"

Fender shook his head in bewilderment. "I don't know. It's disappeared."

"Well what in God's name did it look like, man? Was it a Black rat?"

"No, no, it was pink, bloated. It moved as though its body was too heavy for its legs. It was somewhere near the house."

To Fender's amazement, Denison burst into laughter. What is it?"

Fender asked. What's so funny?"

The head keeper controlled his laughter and leaned one hand on the gate, the other against his hip. "Pigs," he said.

What?" Fender looked at him with curiosity.

"Pigs, old man. The place is alive with 'em." Denison grinned at Fender, enjoying the man's confusion. This field is let out to a local farmer for his free-range pigs. It's his bloody animals that have made such a mess of the land here; they've sucked and chewed every living thing from it'

"Pigs," Fender said flatly.

Denison, still smiling broadly, nodded. They've got a shelter up by the house used to be stables. You usually get them all over this field, but I suppose they've gone in for their afternoon snooze.

Nothing deadly about those old boys, Fender."

The investigator was forced to smile at his own error. "Guess I'm in a spooky mood today," he admitted.

"Well, there's one thing for sure," Denison said, looking up at the house. There won't be any rats up there, not with the pigs around.

They don't tolerate vermin too well, y'know."

"Yes, you're probably right. We'll have to check it out later, though, just in case. Where to next?"

Well, there are a couple of farms and private homesteads on the estate.

We'll have a look..."

Both men's attention was caught by the beeping of a car's horn. They looked back down the long road leading from the entrance gates and saw a green van approaching at an unwise speed for the rutted track. Fender recognized it as the Ford Transit belonging to the Conservation Centre, yellow lettering painted on its sides giving it its official title.

He saw the driver was the young tutor he'd met at the Centre the day before Will, he thought his name was. As the van slid to a halt, the passenger door flew open and Jenny Hanmer sprang lightly to the ground.

There was no reserve in her eyes this time as she ran towards Fender, and there was a fear in her voice that made him want to reach out to her.

"Luke," she said breathlessly. "You've got to come back to the Centre immediately! They've found something up at the old church! Something something terrible."

He looked down into her tear-blurred eyes and then he did reach out to her, holding her close, just for a moment.

EIGHT

Brian Mollison jogged past the fawn Capri and glanced into the interior. He felt disappointment on seeing it was empty. The woodland area was a well-used copulation centre for the romantic and the desperate, and cars parked on roadside clearings in the forest often offered stimulating views of thrashing, half-naked limbs.

He continued running, a light sheen covering his skin beneath the tracksuit. The day before had been a frustrating failure for him: he had failed to expose himself to anyone, the shock of nearly being caught having subdued any further inclinations for the rest of that day. It was a pity, for the woman he had been about to show himself to had been a stunner. Who the fuck had been in those bushes? Had it been an animal? Or some bloody deviant lurking there? If he hadn't had his tracksuit trousers around his ankles he'd have sorted them out.

He had to admit, though, he had been a little alarmed. Running and dressing at the same time was no easy thing and by the time he'd reached his car his whole body was shaking. It was a wonder he hadn't killed someone with the reckless way he'd driven home. His mother Christ, he'd love to stop her prattling once and for all had got short-shrift from him for the rest of that day!

School had been unbearable the following morning. He wasn't sure if it was because the woman had been such a good-looker or because his secret pleasure was making stronger demands on him, but his frustration was extremely upsetting. In fact, he knew he would have to do something about it or his un besmirched record at the school would be ruined, which accounted for the quick drive out to Epping Forest in the lunch hour.

The journey had taken twenty minutes, but he had a free period after lunch; he would have plenty of time. It would mean not eating, of course, so his mother God, one day he'd show her had better have a decent dinner for him that night! Or else!

The grass had made his plimsolls damp, but he had a spare pair back at the school and he wasn't unduly worried. He would have to find someone fast couldn't afford to be choosy today. Even an old woman would do as long as she didn't resemble his mother. He headed for a wide track frequently used by strollers, keeping a steady pace, anticipation already causing a stirring inside his tracksuit. Sometimes he likened his penis to a bloodhound's nose it seemed to sense its quarry from miles away.

He stopped when he heard the sound of laughter coming through the trees ahead. Knowing he was close to the track, the PE instructor trotted forward with more caution, keeping his body low and avoiding brittle-leaved bushes, slowing to a walk when the dead leaves at his feet gave warning of his approach. The laughter came again and then a woman's voice, calling. The trees and undergrowth thinned out and he found himself at the edge of the grassy track. He stepped back out of view and waited.

It wasn't long before a child of about four came scooting by, chased by another, slightly younger. A boy and a girl. The mother wouldn't be far away. He crouched behind a stout oak and his breathing became more laboured.

They came into sight a few seconds later, two of them, two women. And they looked quite young late twenties, both of them. One was quite plain and dumpy, but the other wasn't bad. A bit sturdy, perhaps, but no, not bad at all. Let them go by, follow them for a bit, make sure they haven't got a dog with them, as well dogs could be a bloody nuisance.

He clasped a hand to his mouth to muffle the sound of his breathing and let several seconds lapse.

All clear? Good. No one behind them. Have to be fast with this one.

Do a bit in front of them, then off into the trees, finish off in private. Then straight back to school. One on her own would have been better, but beggars couldn't be choosers: two would have to do. They were braver when they weren't alone, and more inclined to complain to the authorities afterwards. Two had thrown stones at him once. Taught him to keep away from gravelly paths. Still, he wouldn't hang around.

Quick flash, little jiggle, then off. Christ he'd show them something!

He crept forward, his hand reaching inside his tracksuit and squeezing as though assuring himself his erection was still there. He had been foolish to wonder. A high bush blocked his view and he stood straight, peeking over the top. It was unfortunate that one of the women the plain, dumpy one happened to glance round at that moment. He saw her jaw drop open and her body go stiff just before he ducked down again.

Through a chink in the bush he saw her say something to her companion, who looked towards him, her body stiffening. Abruptly they turned and began marching briskly down the track away from him, calling to the children in tight voices as they went. He knew he would have to act fast, the element of surprise now gone.

Leaping into the centre of the wide track, he quickly dropped his trousers and pulled his tracksuit top up with both hands, calling out his greeting of Want a fuck?" to catch their attention. They stared in horror which quickly turned to disgust. Loathing even. The children beyond stared in fascination.

"Piss off, you dirty bastard!" the short woman shouted and her companion looked at her as though she had committed the greater offence.

Well used to the rudeness of such females, the PE instructor wriggled his buttocks from side to side, his swollen penis swaying like the boom of a sailing boat in a shifting wind. He only became aware of the little pale blue and white Austin's presence behind him when he heard a burly voice call out, "Just a minute you!"

The police officer in his Panda patrol car had been too stunned to move at first. He had been on routine patrol through the forest, enjoying the tranquillity, heading for his favourite lunch spot where he could have his sandwiches and flask of soup in peace, and perhaps get his head down for twenty minutes or so. Travelling almost silently down the bumpy track at little more than 5 mph he had been amazed to be suddenly confronted by a pair of white, naked buttocks. The man's trousers were around his ankles and his upper clothing pulled upwards, revealing a broad, hairy back. It was so unexpected, even though the purpose of his patrol was to seek out such offenders, that his initial reaction was to sit and stare, wide-eyed and open-mouthed, until his foot slipped off the clutch and the car jerked forward as the engine stalled. The movement galvanized some action.

"Just a minute you!" he bellowed as he pushed open the door, failing to find words more appropriate to the situation.

Brian Mollison turned his head and this time it was his turn to be horrified. The thing he had dreaded most, the thing he had constant wide-awake nightmares over, had happened. Caught in the very act! Oh my God, what would mother say? Oh my God!

He dropped his hands and stooped, tugging at his trousers and trying to run at the same time. It was fortunate for him that he stumbled, for the policeman was grabbing for his shoulder at that moment and found himself clutching thin air instead. The momentum carried the uniformed man forward and he tripped over the PE instructor's scrambling body, landing heavily on his elbows.

In his panic, thrashing limbs and shrivelling genitals, the instructor endeavoured to push himself away from the heavy, mean-looking policeman, and his fitness allowed him to gain his feet before his adversary. He shrieked when he saw the two women bearing down on him, the short, plump one wielding a stout tree branch, a determined look on her face.

He was running before she had a chance to use it on him. But she did manage to hurl it just before he disappeared into the trees and he let out a yell of surprise rather than pain as the rough wood struck his still bare backside. It did spur him on, however, and soon he had been swallowed up by the forest; the two women could hear his crashing progress through the undergrowth.

Mollison knew the policeman would give chase and his eyes blurred with self-pity. What if he were caught? It would mean the end of his career. He'd be reviled. His mother would never forgive him! Could he go to prison for such an offence? They would certainly send him to a psychiatrist. The shame of it! One more chance, dear God, just one more chance. I'll never do it again. Oh please, please!

He staggered as a hidden root, obviously on the side of the Law, tripped him. He fell to his knees and stayed there in a crouched position, hands clasped together in his lap as though in prayer, drawing in deep breaths and trying to listen over his heartbeats for the sounds of someone giving chase. Oh please, God, don't let them follow. I'll do anything you say from now on. I'll be good. The fact that he had never been to church nor said a prayer since he was ten years old did not embarrass him and he certainly didn't think it was worth mentioning at that particular point in time. Besides, God welcomed repenting sinners. The crashing of undergrowth somewhere behind told him he wasn't as welcome as he'd have liked.

On his feet again and wiping tears from his face with a rough hand, he pressed onwards, his feelings of shame, unjust persecution and basic fear being replaced by one overriding objective: survival. He knew in which direction his car lay and he headed for it. No fucking flatfoot who spent the day on his arse driving around the countryside would catch him! Not on foot! He ran on, still afraid but confident he could outdistance the policeman. Yet when he turned once, just to see if he had lost his pursuer, he nearly collapsed at the sight of the blue uniform gaining ground. Extreme panic returned and once more he was a blubbering wreck, all running rhythm gone, pace spasmodic. A message beat its way through his jumbled senses as he caught sight of a yellowish-brown speck in the distance. The Capri! The fawn Capri he'd passed earlier, near the roadside, not far from his own car! He had a chance now. If he could His thoughts were cut off as he fell headlong into the dip, sliding down to the bottom, his face and hands torn by clutching brambles. Oh God, he was finished! The Law had him now! He buried his head into his hands and began to sob quietly.