'These bats died of a brain disease,' Rickers said. 'Meningitis, which is what they were injected with anyway, so that's hardly surprising. The virus is dead, so we can hardly be expected to pronounce a mutation. To ascertain that we should have to examine a living creature, but as they have all apparently escaped there is no opportunity to do that. Doubtless they will die from meningitis in the wild, their bodies will never be found, and that will be that. I would doubt very much whether mankind or even wildlife is at risk.'
Haynes was gloatingly triumphant as he turned to Newman. 'You are making mountains out of molehills, Professor Newman,' he said, drawing himself up to his full height. 'And it would seem that a whole week of work has been needlessly wasted.'
'I tell you, the disease is deadly!' Newman spoke hotly.
'I suggest you compile your negative report,' Haynes turned to the door, ignoring his protest. 'Let me have it by tomorrow, please.'
Two minutes later only Susan and Brian Newman remained in the laboratory.
'And that's that.' Newman sighed, 'Officially, anyway.'
'What are we going to do?'
'We can't do anything except wait. Whatever happens now will happen in the outside world, instead of in the laboratory where we stood a chance of controlling it.' His hand found hers and squeezed it lightly. 'By the way, I'm sorry about last night.'
'So am I. What are you going to do, though? I mean, about that girl?'
'I dropped her off home, and as far as I'm concerned that's that'
'So we're back to square one. Just you and me.'
'Perhaps we can manage to make a go of it this time.' he said, avoiding her gaze.
'Maybe.' She picked up a broom and began sweeping up broken glass. 'Like everything else, we'll just have to await developments.'
The Wooden Stables, as the sprawling, untidy outbuildings were known, had fallen gradually into a state of disrepair since the war. Once they had been the property of the Marquis of Anglesey, and thoroughbred stock had been stabled there. Then, with the breaking up of the estate, which had once stretched from Cannock Wood down to Lichfield, they had undergone a series of ownerships, and the quality of horseflesh housed there had deteriorated along with the structure.
Walter Williams cursed to himself as he swung the old Austin pick-up truck off the Cannock Road and felt the wheels spinning in the mud of the rough track. It had not rained for almost a fortnight now, but the bridle-path was still like a quagmire. He revved up, and as he felt the vehicle shoot forward he made a mental note to bring a load of slag up next time and attempt to fill in one or two of the pot-holes, something which he had been meaning to do ever since he had bought the place three years ago.
Dusk was gathering, and the shadows from the conifer wood on his left prompted him to switch on his headlights. The twin beams lit up the dereliction ahead of him, a vista of crumbling brickwork and rotting timbers, with gaping holes in the slate roof of the nearest building. Something large ambled out of the shadows and trotted towards him as he brought the vehicle to a halt.
'Hello Penny, old gal,' he called out to the piebald mare as he climbed out and went round to the tailboard. There were four bales of hay in the back of the truck. With luck he wouldn't have to come up here again for two or three days. He would be glad when his daughter, Shirley, was old enough to look after her own horses. It had been the same all along, the rabbit, the guinea-pig, the dog, even the goldfish. Walter had had to tend to the lot.
The mare nuzzled him as he let the tail-board down.
There's a good girl,' he coaxed, fondling her. 'But where's Stango?'
Stango was Penny's mate, a black stallion who looked good until one examined him closely, and realised why he was housed in the Wooden Stables.
Walter peered into the darkness. It was strange, indeed, that Stango had not come to meet him. Perhaps the horse had already bedded itself down in the building. It had never happened before, though. Then he heard the drumming hooves in the field.
'Hey, Stango,' he called. 'Good boy. C'm'ere!'
Stango came into view at a fast gallop, moving from left to right, passing in front of the truck but making no attempt to approach it. With a whinny the animal came to a halt about twenty yards away, and stood there flicking his tail restlessly the way he usually did in hot weather when the flies were troublesome. He pawed the ground and snorted.
'What the devil's up with you?' Walter walked steadily towards the horse, hand outstretched. Stango backed away, and in the darkness Walter Williams saw the whiteness of his rolling eyes. The stallion snorted and, breaking into a canter, galloped away to the other end of the field.
'Bloody vandals been up 'ere again,' Walter muttered. Throwin' stones at 'im, I suppose. No wonder the bugger's upset. Better 'ave a look an' see if Vs 'urt.'
But Stango had no intention of letting Walter Williams approach him. Ten minutes later a breathless and angry Walter was shaking his fist at the silhouette of the horse which stood on the opposite side of the small field.
'AH right, bloody well stay there if that's how you feel, damn you!' he snarled, and returned to his task of unloading the bales of hay from the pick-up.
'C'mon, old girl,' he called to the watching Penny as he struggled to the nearest building carrying a bale. 'Some nice fresh hay 'ere. Come and get it.'
But Penny would come no further than five yards from the doorway.
'So you're bein' bloody stupid, too, are you?' Walter was fast losing patience. With a final curse he threw the bale into the stable. It thudded onto the stone floor, rolled over, and then, as it came to rest, he heard a movement in the rafters.
He stood still, listening. The noise came again. A soft rustling sound like moths beating against a lampshade.
Sparrows roosting in the rafters, he told himself, but knew that it was not so. The movements were too light. He experienced a prickly sensation up and down his spine. There was definitely something up there in the roof.
He turned and headed back to the truck. Three more bales of hay had to be carried up here. He paused, opened the driver's door and groped in the untidy glove-compartment until he located the cylindrical metal shape of the torch which he kept there. He flicked the beam on. It was bright with the power of a new battery. He would soon find out what it was up in the rafters that was disturbing the horses.
As he turned back he noticed that Penny had deserted him. Dusk was turning to deep darkness, but he could just make out the shapes of the two horses by the fence on the far side of the field. They were definitely restless.
He could hear the rustling noise again even before he entered the old building. It wasn't exactly louder, but it was more pronounced, as though whatever had been responsible for that initially had been joined by others.
'Let's 'ave a look at yer, then.' His hand trembled as he directed the beam upwards. There was a sudden rush of air, and Walter recoiled. The light from his torch picked out dozens of pairs of tiny wings, jinking, swerving, and the air was suddenly filled with shrill squeaks.
Something struck him in the face. The force of the impact was no greater than a well-aimed table-tennis ball, but he recoiled in alarm.
'Bats!' he grunted in revulsion.
Another hit him on the hand, and he dropped the torch.
'Ugh!'
He groped on the ground and located the fallen torch. He tried the switch, but nothing happened. A brief examination revealed that the glass was broken. Possibly the bulb was damaged.
Walter Williams cowered in the darkness for a few seconds, and then straightened up with a hollow laugh.
'Bleedin' flyin' mice,' he grunted. 'Armless but 'orrible. Well, they've all gone so p'raps the 'orses'll come back now.' He gave a whistle, and heard Penny and Stango moving in the darkness, but they did not come near him.
'Please yer bleedin' selves then,' he muttered, and began fetching the remaining bales of hay from the pick-up. He did not enter the stable. Instead he flung each bale in through the doorway, and within a few minutes he was reversing his vehicle back down the muddy, rutted track.
It took him less than five minutes to drive back to his small house on the outskirts of Chase Terrace.
'What on earth's the matter with you, Walter?' Gladys Williams inquired, looking up from the oven as her husband stamped into the kitchen.
'Nothin',' he answered, and began struggling to remove his Wellington boots.
'Well, you look as white as a ghost, just like you'd seen one.'
'Bats,' he puffed as a Wellington finally yielded to his efforts and came free of his foot.