"Smith, Guy N - Bats Out of Hell" - читать интересную книгу автора (Smith Guy N)

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.

'Who's bats?'

'I don't know who they bloomin' well belong to.'

'It's you who's bats,' his plump, red-faced wife was only half concentrating as she pulled a casserole from the oven.

'Bats,' Walter repeated irritably, endeavouring to pull off the second boot. 'With wings. Flyin' mice.' 'Where?' 'Wooden Stables.'

'Oh, that's all right then. It's when they get in the 'ouse I'll start worryin.'

At that moment a slim, fair-haired, freckled-face girl of about ten came in from the hall. She had changed into jodhpurs on her return from school, something which she always did lately. It was small consolation for being deprived of a daily horse ride, but in a few weeks, when the daylight extended into the evenings, she would be able to walk up to the Wooden Stables and enjoy all the riding she wanted.