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work these days. His mind wandered to other matters as he laboured with the
efficiency of a human robot.
Today he thought about bats. Everybody was thinking about bats. They were in
the headlines of the midday edition of the Mail again. 'BATS HEADING FOR THE
CITY? IS DEATH ON THE MOVE?'
It was a frightening thought. Joe was glad that he worked down here in this
nice safe place. The overall compensations outweighed the boredom. Bats
frightened him. He remembered his wedding-night and the bat that had somehow
found its way into the bridal chamber. His wife had nearly had hysterics and
their marriage had not been consummated for a further twenty-four hours. In
his day, few people had sex before marriage, particularly within the
respectability of banking circles. He had waited a day longer than most.
But the bats couldn't get down here into the Credit House. The Treasury was
impregnable.
The afternoon wore on, hot and stuffy. Lutton finished checking a tray of
£40,000-worth of five-pound notes, and went and fetched another one from the
chief clerk's desk.
Mondays were always exceptionally busy. That meant a late finish, but Joe
Lutton didn't mind. The overtime money would be useful.
He had counted the first bundle of fivers and re-banded them, when Don Lucas,
a young apprentice -clerk, gave a shout from the other end of the room where
he was working at a long trestle table.
'Hey! What's this?'
Heads turned. Something crouched on the floor, small and furry, tiny eyes
glancing about it.
'It's a mouse,' somebody said.
'Don't be stupid.' Lucas backed away. 'Mice don't have wings. It's a bat!1
'A bat!'
There was a momentary shocked silence. Clerks turned and stared. They couldn't
believe it. But the proof was squatting there, and even as they looked it took
off, flew up to the ceiling, and alighted upside down on a supporting steel
girder.
'Oh, God!' Lutton paled.
The Chief clerk, a man only a year or two younger than Lutton, picked up the
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internal telephone and dialled a single number.
'Sorry to bother you, Mr Baxterdale.' His voice was humble, apologetic, trying
to hide his fear. 'No, no trouble really. Only . .. only there's ... there's a
bat in the Credit House!'
Lutton sweated. He hated the chief clerk for his cringing personality. Sorry
to bother you, Mr Baxterdale, he mimed his superior mutely to himself, there's
only a bat in the Credit House and we could all be bloody well dead by this
time tomorrow. Of course, we don't want to interrupt the work, and if you like
we'll keep it in here ...
Baum, the Credit House chief clerk replaced the receiver, cleared his throat,
and looked round at the others.
'Er,.. Mr Baxterdale says he'll ring the Area Inspector. Nothing to worry
about. Just carry on. Don't anybody take any notice of it.'
Lutton sweated profusely. This new system of locking the grilles from the
outside, the keys being held in the Treasury office by two authorised holders,
had disturbed him right from its implementation. Suppose there was a fire and
the intersecting corridors were cut off by a wall of flames? Those in the
Credit House would die. But this was a thousand times worse. Death hung
perched on that beam. It only had to touch one of them, so the papers said,
and that would be that.
Lucas picked up something from the table, moving slowly. It was an old wooden
cylindrical ruler that dated back to the early days of banking, as heavy and
as lethal as the truncheons carried by the bullion van crews. A Treasury
antique that was still in use.
All eyes were on him. Everybody knew exactly what he was going to do, and
nobody made a move to stop him.
The childish streak in him had often prompted reprimand from Baxterdale. The
young clerk was always flicking rubber-bands at his colleagues, and then
immediately assuming an air of innocence. His aim was uncanny. They hoped it
would be so now.
Lucas was poised to strike, arm back, ruler clenched firmly. Those watching
held their breath. Then he struck, and it seemed impossible that he could
miss.
Wood clanged on steel, the whole length of the girder reverberating. The bat
had moved at the last second with the speed of a house-fly accustomed to
dodging swats. It shot upwards, hit the ceiling, dropped to the floor, and
then took off at an angle of forty-five degrees.
Clerks accustomed to the tranquillity of life in the Credit House panicked.
Money spilled on the floor as they sought cover behind desks, but their safety
was as perilous as that of the car driver who is suddenly attacked by an irate
wasp in his vehicle. The bat zoomed crazily to and fro.
The chief clerk shouted in alarm, striking futile blows as the creature flew
at him, seemed to become caught in the threads of his shirt and then freed
itself. Lutton saw it heading in his direction. It passed him with a yard to
spare, somersaulted, turned in mid-flight, and on its return journey glanced
off the back of his neck. He fell to his knees.
It headed directly toward the steel grilles. There was a brief sigh of relief
from the clerical staff. The bars were four inches apart. Plenty of room for
it to pass through. It caught one of its wings as it did so, and tumbled to
the concrete floor on the other side, stunned.
'Jesus!' someone breathed.
They heard footsteps and voices echoing down the corridor. Baxterdale was
coming with the key holders to release them from this vault of death.
'It's there, sir!' Don Lucas called out shrilly, pointing to the inert bat as
Baxterdale reached the grille door.
'What?' Baxterdale stopped abruptly, the two men at his heels bumping into
him. 'Where?'
There!'
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As Baxterdale, a plump, bald-headed man, finally saw the bat, it stirred,
shuffled forward, and took off again -back through the bars and into the
Credit House.
Screams and confusion came from within the enclosed area. There was no logic
in the creature's behaviour. It flew madly back and forth, this time seeming
impervious to the obstacles which it struck, hitting the bars again but not
passing between them.
'Let us out! For Christ's sake let us out!' someone yelled.
But Baxterdale and his companions were retreating back up the corridor,
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