accepted them in the same way that it put up with the feral pigeons which fouled the buildings and cost the ratepayers a fortune annually in cleaning bills.
But today something was wrong. The starlings did not come back to roost until dusk, and that was almost three hours away. He looked again; The eaves were crowded, some of the occupants flying, settling, flying again. And there was something decidedly odd about the way they flew. Starlings maintained a straight course, in short, jerky flights. These were soaring and diving faster than the eye could follow, crashing crazily into the stonework. Swifts? Swallows? Baxterdale did not know much about ornithology, and he was not particularly interested. He almost turned away, and then, suddenly, he understood.
Bats!
The papers had said they might head for urban areas. He quickened his step, hurrying down the underpass. The radio had said, "report all sightings of bats". To hell with that! Bats had caused him enough trouble for one day. Let somebody else do the shouting,
Baxterdale was breathless by the time he reached his car. His fat fingers fumbled with the door key, and it dropped from his grasp and bounced under the car.
"Sod it!" he swore, and dropped to his hands and knees.
It was then that he saw the rat. It was crouching motionless under the car, and it was a big brown creature, its red eyes regarding him balefully. Baxterdale drew back his hand. The key was nearer to the rat than it was to himself, and the rodent made no move to flee. It was not frightened of him.
Of course, it wasn't surprising to see a rat in the car park. He'd come across them before. The canal was only a matter of fifty yards away. That's where it had come from.
"Shoo!" he muttered. "Scram!"
The rat did not move. Baxterdale pursed his lips and a little shiver of revulsion ran up his spine. He had to have that key. And the sooner he was away from Birmingham the better. Tomorrow he would go sick. He'd made up his mind. He'd never done it before, but there was a limit to that which any man could stand.
He began to stretch out his hand nervously. The key lay about a foot away from the rat. Easy does, it, then a quick snatch . . . He moved quickly, grabbing for the fallen object, but even as his hand closed over it the rodent leaped forward.
Baxterdale yelled as sharp teeth dug into his palm, claws raking his knuckles. The creature was clinging to him, biting, scratching. He struck at it with his other hand, once, twice. Its grip slackened, and with a sob of relief he saw it fall, hit the ground, roll over, and dart towards a dense bed of nettles and weeds which bordered some adjacent waste ground.
Baxterdale retrieved his key, unlocked the door and then examined the wound on his hand. The bite was a deep one, bleeding freely. It was painful, too, There might be poison in it. He'd read somewhere once that people bitten by snakes sucked the venom out and often saved their lives by so doing.
His eyes shut, his thick lips closed over the bite, he sucked, sensed an unpleasant taste on his palate, and vomited on to the ground. For some moments he stood there retching, and then, with deliberate effort be climbed into his car, bound The wound with his handkerchief and drove off.
Baxterdale was feeling ill by the time he reached Spaghetti Junction and filtered on to the A38. His vision was impaired for some strange reason, as though he was driving through a red fog, with visibility down to only twenty yards or so and gradually reducing. His back ached, the pain increasing and travelling upwards until it reached his neck. He could not turn his head at all, and even the effort required to manipulate the controls was considerable. Logic told him to pull off the road and attempt to attract attention. Instinct urged him to try and make it home, a wounded fox crawling back to its lair to die.
He passed through Sutton Coldfield, and had it not been quiet, with virtually no traffic about, his frequent
But today something was wrong. The starlings did not come back to roost until dusk, and that was almost three hours away. He looked again; The eaves were crowded, some of the occupants flying, settling, flying again. And there was something decidedly odd about the way they flew. Starlings maintained a straight course, in short, jerky flights. These were soaring and diving faster than the eye could follow, crashing crazily into the stonework. Swifts? Swallows? Baxterdale did not know much about ornithology, and he was not particularly interested. He almost turned away, and then, suddenly, he understood.
Bats!
The papers had said they might head for urban areas. He quickened his step, hurrying down the underpass. The radio had said, "report all sightings of bats". To hell with that! Bats had caused him enough trouble for one day. Let somebody else do the shouting,
Baxterdale was breathless by the time he reached his car. His fat fingers fumbled with the door key, and it dropped from his grasp and bounced under the car.
"Sod it!" he swore, and dropped to his hands and knees.
It was then that he saw the rat. It was crouching motionless under the car, and it was a big brown creature, its red eyes regarding him balefully. Baxterdale drew back his hand. The key was nearer to the rat than it was to himself, and the rodent made no move to flee. It was not frightened of him.
Of course, it wasn't surprising to see a rat in the car park. He'd come across them before. The canal was only a matter of fifty yards away. That's where it had come from.
"Shoo!" he muttered. "Scram!"
The rat did not move. Baxterdale pursed his lips and a little shiver of revulsion ran up his spine. He had to have that key. And the sooner he was away from Birmingham the better. Tomorrow he would go sick. He'd made up his mind. He'd never done it before, but there was a limit to that which any man could stand.
He began to stretch out his hand nervously. The key lay about a foot away from the rat. Easy does, it, then a quick snatch . . . He moved quickly, grabbing for the fallen object, but even as his hand closed over it the rodent leaped forward.
Baxterdale yelled as sharp teeth dug into his palm, claws raking his knuckles. The creature was clinging to him, biting, scratching. He struck at it with his other hand, once, twice. Its grip slackened, and with a sob of relief he saw it fall, hit the ground, roll over, and dart towards a dense bed of nettles and weeds which bordered some adjacent waste ground.
Baxterdale retrieved his key, unlocked the door and then examined the wound on his hand. The bite was a deep one, bleeding freely. It was painful, too, There might be poison in it. He'd read somewhere once that people bitten by snakes sucked the venom out and often saved their lives by so doing.
His eyes shut, his thick lips closed over the bite, he sucked, sensed an unpleasant taste on his palate, and vomited on to the ground. For some moments he stood there retching, and then, with deliberate effort be climbed into his car, bound The wound with his handkerchief and drove off.
Baxterdale was feeling ill by the time he reached Spaghetti Junction and filtered on to the A38. His vision was impaired for some strange reason, as though he was driving through a red fog, with visibility down to only twenty yards or so and gradually reducing. His back ached, the pain increasing and travelling upwards until it reached his neck. He could not turn his head at all, and even the effort required to manipulate the controls was considerable. Logic told him to pull off the road and attempt to attract attention. Instinct urged him to try and make it home, a wounded fox crawling back to its lair to die.
He passed through Sutton Coldfield, and had it not been quiet, with virtually no traffic about, his frequent
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