young inspector snapped as they followed Baxterdale down a white corridor, which eventually led to the office. "Just one bat, you say."
"Yes." Baxterdale straightened his tie and puffed out his chest, "Down in our lower checking area."
"Basement evacuated?"
"No. Everybody's still down there with it."
" What! " the inspector"s expression was one of incredulity, "You mean there are people down there with it?"
"The instructions, are to try and lock any bats in an enclosed area—"
"Yeah, but not people with 'em! Come on, there's no time to waste."
They hurried on down until they came to the corridor adjacent to the Credit House. The imprisoned clerks were no longer shouting and rushing about in a state of terror. Instead they were sitting white-faced at their desks, silent, trembling.
The two key holders unlocked the grille, and the policemen, pulling on gauze masks, elbow-length gloves and plastic coats, stepped inside.
"Now, where's this bat?" Baxterdale attempted to retrieve some of his authority.
"It's gone, sir," the chief clerk stammered.
"Gone?"
"Yes."
"Where? Where on earth could it have gone to?"
"I don't know, sir. One minute it was flying about like a mad thing. The next there was no sign of it. It must've . . . it must've got out up the ventilation shaft."
The policemen looked at one another. The inspector shook his head and turned to the group of huddled clerks.
"How many of you actually came into contact with the bat?"
Seven hands were raised nervously in a fearful admission.
"I see." The policeman nodded and tried to make light of it. "Well, I think we'd better take you down to the General for a checkup. Just a formality. We brought an ambulance with us just in case."
The seven clerks looked at one another, abject fear and hopelessness in their expressions. They'd read the papers, the details of the virus.
Once an infected bat touched you, that was it. Finis. There was no antidote. Nothing on God's Earth could save you.
Once the ambulances and police cars had pulled away from the Treasury life reverted to normal in the streets. Workers caught their trains and buses, and the incident was forgotten.
The city enjoyed a brief lull between the departure of those returning to their homes and the arrival of those coming in to enjoy the nightlife, the cinemas and theatres and nightclubs. For a couple of hours the traffic was light and the buses half empty.
There were only a few people about when Baxterdale left the Treasury, a sinking feeling in his stomach and a worried frown on his florid face. The Area Inspector's voice still rang in his ears. "You bloody fool!" he had raged, "If you can't make a decision in an emergency like that you don't deserve to be in charge of the place. If anybody dies I'm holding you personally responsible, and I'll see to it that you finish your banking career counting notes in the Credit House!"
It was only as he walked up Corporation Street that Baxterdale found the courage to admit to himself the real reason why he had locked the clerks in the Credit House with the bat. Had he attempted to release them, that crazed creature might have flown at him . The captain of the ship had battened down the hatches and deserted the sinking vessel with the crew locked in the hold.
He walked slowly, thoughtfully. Of course, they might not die. There was every chance that the bat had not been carrying the virus, that its erratic flight had been caused by panic. It was his only consolation.
His car was parked in Shadwell Street, a lengthy daily walk to and from the Treasury, but that was compensated by easy access to the Expressway. From there it was about forty minutes by car to his home at Shenstone.
Something caused him to glance upwards as he crossed Colmore Row and made his way across the front of the derelict Snow Hill station. At dusk hundreds of starlings could be seen in and around the buildings, chattering noisily as they went up to roost. Scavengers, but the city
"Yes." Baxterdale straightened his tie and puffed out his chest, "Down in our lower checking area."
"Basement evacuated?"
"No. Everybody's still down there with it."
" What! " the inspector"s expression was one of incredulity, "You mean there are people down there with it?"
"The instructions, are to try and lock any bats in an enclosed area—"
"Yeah, but not people with 'em! Come on, there's no time to waste."
They hurried on down until they came to the corridor adjacent to the Credit House. The imprisoned clerks were no longer shouting and rushing about in a state of terror. Instead they were sitting white-faced at their desks, silent, trembling.
The two key holders unlocked the grille, and the policemen, pulling on gauze masks, elbow-length gloves and plastic coats, stepped inside.
"Now, where's this bat?" Baxterdale attempted to retrieve some of his authority.
"It's gone, sir," the chief clerk stammered.
"Gone?"
"Yes."
"Where? Where on earth could it have gone to?"
"I don't know, sir. One minute it was flying about like a mad thing. The next there was no sign of it. It must've . . . it must've got out up the ventilation shaft."
The policemen looked at one another. The inspector shook his head and turned to the group of huddled clerks.
"How many of you actually came into contact with the bat?"
Seven hands were raised nervously in a fearful admission.
"I see." The policeman nodded and tried to make light of it. "Well, I think we'd better take you down to the General for a checkup. Just a formality. We brought an ambulance with us just in case."
The seven clerks looked at one another, abject fear and hopelessness in their expressions. They'd read the papers, the details of the virus.
Once an infected bat touched you, that was it. Finis. There was no antidote. Nothing on God's Earth could save you.
Once the ambulances and police cars had pulled away from the Treasury life reverted to normal in the streets. Workers caught their trains and buses, and the incident was forgotten.
The city enjoyed a brief lull between the departure of those returning to their homes and the arrival of those coming in to enjoy the nightlife, the cinemas and theatres and nightclubs. For a couple of hours the traffic was light and the buses half empty.
There were only a few people about when Baxterdale left the Treasury, a sinking feeling in his stomach and a worried frown on his florid face. The Area Inspector's voice still rang in his ears. "You bloody fool!" he had raged, "If you can't make a decision in an emergency like that you don't deserve to be in charge of the place. If anybody dies I'm holding you personally responsible, and I'll see to it that you finish your banking career counting notes in the Credit House!"
It was only as he walked up Corporation Street that Baxterdale found the courage to admit to himself the real reason why he had locked the clerks in the Credit House with the bat. Had he attempted to release them, that crazed creature might have flown at him . The captain of the ship had battened down the hatches and deserted the sinking vessel with the crew locked in the hold.
He walked slowly, thoughtfully. Of course, they might not die. There was every chance that the bat had not been carrying the virus, that its erratic flight had been caused by panic. It was his only consolation.
His car was parked in Shadwell Street, a lengthy daily walk to and from the Treasury, but that was compensated by easy access to the Expressway. From there it was about forty minutes by car to his home at Shenstone.
Something caused him to glance upwards as he crossed Colmore Row and made his way across the front of the derelict Snow Hill station. At dusk hundreds of starlings could be seen in and around the buildings, chattering noisily as they went up to roost. Scavengers, but the city
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