gns.batsoutofhell- 第23部分

　　
　　The　Biological　Research　Centre　on　Cannock　Chase　was　under　heavy　guard；　mostly　by　the　BVF；　The　vigilantes　were　the　worst　threat。　In　the　beginning　they　had　contented　themselves　　with　　organising　　bat…hunts　　throughout　　the　countryside；　even　attempting　to　shoot　the　creatures　in　flight　as　they　flitted　to　and　fro　in　the　half…light　of　dusk。　This　had　proved　to　be　little　more　than　a　waste　of　shotgun　ammunition；　one　party　having　expended　a　hundred　rounds　one　evening　with　only　one　kill　to　show　for　it。　And　that　had　been　a　fluke；　the　marksman　himself　had　admitted；　for　the　one　which　met　its　end　in　a　charge　Of　number　8　shot　was　not　the　bat　at　which　he　had　fired；　but　another　which　was　flying　close　behind　it！
　　
　　The　initial　aims　of　the　vigilantes　were　abandoned。　Now　they　became　the　rural　counterparts　of　the　Birmingham　rioters。　Clashes　with　BVF　patrols　were　frequent；　and　members　of　both　factions　had　been　killed　in　shoot…outs。
　　
　　'Civil　war　is　growing　all　around　us；'　Sir　John　Stirchley　said　as　he　addressed　the　small　group　gathered　in　Haynes's　office。　'And　it　seems　that　Nature　is　doing　her　level　best　to　aggravate　the　situation　in　every　possible　way。　This　heat　wave　continues；　although　it　is　now　mid…September。　The　fact　that　the　sun's　rays　are　not　quite　as　powerful　as　they　were　a　month　ago　does　nothing　to　lessen　the　fire　danger　which　is　stretching　even　the　BVF　to　its　limits。　Birmingham　is　in　smouldering　ruins；　and　now　this。　There　is　not　a　bat　left　in　the　city；　according　to　reports。　They　used　it　to　breed；　destroyed　it；　and　now；　for　some　unknown　reason；　they　have　deserted　it。　We　haven't　yet　discovered　where　they've　gone；　which　makes　it　all　the　more　worrying。　What　d'you　think；　Newman？'
　　
　　'The　obvious　reason　which　springs　to　mind　is　that　the　flames　and　smoke　have　driven　them　to　seek　refuge　elsewhere；　but　I　can't　really　accept　that　theory。　If　that　was　so；　why　didn't　they　scarper　when　the　fires　first　broke　out？　They　didn't　seem　unduly　bothered　by　the　blazing　buildings。　I　think　there's　a　much　simpler　solution。'
　　
　　'And　what's　that？'　Sir　John　leaned　forward。
　　
　　'Food；'　Newman　replied。　'Millions　of　big　fat　insects　which　have　multiplied　beyond　all　prehension　in　this　freak　heatwave。　Remember　1976；　the　blackfly；　greenfly；　ladybirds？　Well；　it's　happened　again；　although　on　a　much　larger　scale。　And　the　bats　won't　mid　them　in　any　numbers　in　the　cities。　There's　just　the　odd　allotment　here　and　there。　No；　I　believe　they're　already　back　in　the　countryside；　and　any　minute　now　we　can　expect　to　receive　reports　of　their　new　locationl'
　　
　　Jim　Dunkley　had　lived　and　farmed　outside　Tamworth　all　his　life。　The　land　in　question　had　belonged　to　his　father；　and　his　father　before　him。　Gradually；　though；　it　was　shuddering　beneath　the　march　of　progress。　There　were　plans　for　the　building　of　a　link…road　through　part　of　it。　pulsory　purchase；　naturally。　A　sand　and　gravel　pany　were　offering　an　extortionate　price　for　the　two　lower　fields。　He　was　tempted；　but　it　meant　the　end　of　his　heritage。　Nothing　would　be　the　same　any　more。
　　
　　Jim　Dunkley　preferred　to　wear　his　old　working　clothes　seven　days　a　week。　His　one　and　only　suit　was　kept　strictly　for　funerals　and　weddings；　and　since　he　no　longer　had　any　next　of　kin；　apart　from　his　wife；　he　didn't　envisage　ever　having　to　dress　up　again。
　　
　　Untidy；　rugged；　at　forty…five　he　was　one　of　the　last　of　a　dying　breed；　a　true　son　of　the　soil　to　whom　farming　was　a　way　of　life　rather　than　a　means　of　making　money。　Few　of　the　nearby　villagers　had　ever　seen　him　without　his　battered　old　pork…pie　hat。　Many　did　not　know　the　colour　of　his　hair。　Perhaps　he　was　bald；　and　was　embarrassed　by　it；　some　said。　Years　ago　his　wife；　Rachel；　had　protested　when　he　had　begun　wearing　that　hat　indoors；　even　to　the　extent　of　sitting　down　to　meals　with　it　on　his　head。　In　the　end　she　had　given　up　and　accepted　it。
　　
　　Dunkley　did　not　like　changes。　A　true…blooded　conservative；　he　also　objected　to　people　trespassing　on　his　land。　And；　in　his　opinion；　poaching　was　a　crime　that　should　have　been　punishable　by　imprisonment。
　　
　　The　bats　did　not　worry　him　unduly。　He　only　half…believed　the　story；　anyway。　Propaganda。　The　reason　didn't　interest　him。　He　was　even　unmoved　by　the　rioting　and　burning　of　Birmingham。　That　was　fifteen　miles　away。　His　whole　world　consisted　of　ninety　acres　of　arable　and　woodland。　Outside　of　that　nothing　mattered。　Nevertheless；　he　had　to　have　money　to　carry　on；　and　after　two　poor　harvests　in　succession　the　only　logical　way　seemed　to　be　to　sell　off　those　bottom　fields　to　the　quarrying　pany。　That　was　what　his　accountant　had　advised。
　　
　　Dunkley　was　in　a　bad　humour　as　he　left　the　house　that　afternoon　and　set　off　across　the　fields；　a　rusty　twelve…bore　hammer…gun　beneath　his　arm。　Between　the　months　of　September　and　January　he　always　went　out　shooting　on　Saturday　afternoons。　It　was　a　ritual。　Not　that　he　shot　much；　nowadays。　The　spreading　conurbation　which　surrounded　his　small　rural　island　had　been　responsible　for　driving　most　of　the　wildlife　away。　There　might　be　a　covey　of　partridges　up　on　the　top　field。　There　might　also　be　some　of　those　BVF　bastards　trespassing　in　the　woods。　If　so；　then　his　patience　was　running　out。　They　carried　arms。　Shotguns。　They　were　poachers；　in　effect。　He'd　heard　a　couple　of　barrels　being　discharged　a　few　night　ago　when　the　moon　was　full。　Only　his　wife's　pleading　had　prevented　him　from　going　to　investigate。　The　swines　must　have　spotted　a　roosting　pheasant。
　　
　　The　'Hanging　Wood'　still　looked　the　same　as　it　had　when　he　had　been　a　boy；　a　horseshoe…shaped　covert　with　giant　oak　trees　and　tall　Corsican　pines　which　never　seemed　to　lose　their　lush　greenery　even　in　the　dead　of　winter。　The　place　was　so　named　because　Oliver　Cromwell　had　taken　a　hundred　Royalist　prisoners　there；　and　hanged　them　from　the　topmost　branches　of　those　tremendous　oaks；　leaving　their　bodies　suspended　there　as　a　warning　to　their　followers　until　the　hempen　ropes　were　routed　by　the　elements　and　one　by　one　the　corpses　fell　to　the　ground　to　bee　interred　beneath　a　carpet　of　dying　vegetation。　Of　course；　there　had　always　been　rumours　that　the　place　was　haunted；　passers…by　claiming　to　have　heard　the　creaking　of　bodies　as　they　swung　to　and　fro　on　a　windy　night。
　　
　　The　other　spinney　Jim　Dunkley　did　not　care　for。　Its　name；　the　'Devil's　Dressing　Room'　was　derived　from　another　legend　whereby　the　devil　was　supposed　to　have　stayed　there　for　a　short　while　upon　his　arrival　on　earth　whilst　he　changed　into　human　form。　The　centre　of　this　copse　consisted　of　a　deep　quarry　with　sheer　sides；　caused　by　the　removal　of　the　stone　which　had　been　used　in　the　building　of　nearby　Tamworth　church　sometime　during　the　Middle　Ages。　The　sides　of　this　deep　and　gloomy　hole　were　covered　with　moss　and　lichen；　small　natural　caves　having　formed　over　the　years。　Rarely　did　the　sun　penetrate　there；　and　even　after　four　months　of　continual　drought　it　was　still　damp　and　forbidding。
　　
　　It　had　not　been　Jim　Dunkley's　intention　to　go　to　the　'Devil's　Dressing　Room'　that　afternoon。　Even　wildlife　seemed　to　avoid　it。　Yet　he　had　ample　time　to　spare；　and　at　least　it　would　give　him　some　respite　from　the　heat。
　　
　　The　stile　over　the　barbed…wire　fence　which　was　the　boundary　of　the　spinney　was　as　rotten　as　it　had　been　the　first　time　his　father　had　brought　him　there　when　he　was　seven。　Yet　it　had　survived；　and　fulfilled　everything…that　was　required　of　it。
　　
　　There　was　total　silence　within　the　small　wood。　Not　even　the　clatter　of　a　disturbed　woodpigeon　could　be　heard　as　he　forced　his　way　through　the　foliage。　It　was　uncanny。
　　
　　Then　came　the　flies；　as　suddenly　as　though　they　had　been　forewarned　of　his　ing　and　had　lain　in　ambush；　allowing　him　to　enter　before　descending　upon　him。　They　were　not　the　midges　which　sting　all　exposed　areas　of　the　human　flesh　on　balmy　summer　evenings；　but　swarms　of　the　mon　black　variety；　buzzing；　settling。　He　broke　off　a　stem　of　bracken　and　used　it　as　a　swat；　but　it　only　seemed　to　encourage　them　more。　He　cursed；　propped　his　gun　up　against　a　tree　trunk；　and　proceeded　to　fill　a　short；　stubby　pipe　with　dark；　long…stranded　tobacco。　It　took　him　four　or　five　matches　to　light　it；　and　only　when　he　was　puffing　out　clouds　of　strong　brown　smoke　did　the　flies　retreat。
　　
　　Jim　Dunkley　picked　up　his　gun　and　pushed　further　into　the　wood。　He　had　never　known　so　many　flies　here　before。　Surely　they　would　have　preferred　the　warmth　and　dryness　of　the　Hanging　Wood。
　　
　　The　bracken　was　chest　high；　lush　green　with　hardly　a　tint　of　brown　on　its　fronds；　defying　the　drought　even　as　it　now　attempted　to　impede　his　own　progress；　entwining　around　his　body　as　he　forced　his　way　through。
　　
　　There　was　an　area　of　silver…birch　trees　leading　up　to　the　old　quarry；　half　an　acre　of　flattened　undergrowth　with　mounds　of　excavated　soil　rising　up'　above　？　the　trampled　bracken。　Beneath　the　surface　was　a　badger…set　which　had　been　there　in　his　youth；　the　solitary　position　affording　these　nocturnal　creatures　all　the　peace　and　quietness　they　needed。　Yet　his　experienced　eye　noted　that　the　footprints　in…the　soil；　and　the　scoring　of　the　bark　on　the　surrounding　trees　where　they　had　sharpened　their　claws；　were　not　fresh。　The　badgers　had　mo