'Oh, Dad!' Shirley was close to tears. 'If they're frightened of the bats, they won't go in.'

'It's a warm night. Almost like-summer. They won't 'urt.'

'I don't like them outside all night,' Shirley was beginning to shout. 'Those yobbos from the Oakdene Estate, the Pearson boys on their motor-bikes, might go up there and throw stones at them or chase them.'

'The Pearsons won't go up there. They'll be stuck down at the 'Cottage Spring', where they are most nights.'

'But anything could happen to them, Dad!' The young girl was on the verge of hysteria.

The bats've gone,' Walter said. 'They flew out when I shone the torch on 'em. Penny and Stango'll go back.'

'But we don't know. We can't be sure.'

'Come and get yer dinners,' Gladys Williams called out, having decided it was time that she intervened. 'And don't fret yerself, Shirley. Yer dad'll run yer up afterwards just to make sure.'

Walter Williams glared at his wife, opened his mouth to protest, but closed it again, and nodded. 'All right,' he muttered. Anything for peace and quiet. It would only take a quarter of an hour, and he offered up a silent prayer as he took his place at the table that Penny and Stango had come to their senses and gone back into the stable. He didn't fancy trying to round them up in the darkness. The memory of the bats returned to him, and he shivered involuntarily. Harmless, but horrible.

The horses were not in sight when Walter Williams drove back up the rutted track which led to the Wooden Stables and sat with the engine running, his headlights piercing the darkness and illuminating a section of the field and the buildings.

'Where are they?' Anxiously, Shirley was peering through the windscreen.

'Probably in the stable.' Walter told her. He did not relish going inside the buildings again. Perhaps if he could satisfy his daughter that they were not out in the field then she would be agreeable to going back home again. But in his heart he knew that he would not escape so lightly.

'They could be anywhere,' Shirley said, opening the passenger door. 'Maybe round the back of the stable. Let's go and see. We'd better check the stable first.'

'All right,' Walter sighed, groped for his torch in the glove-box, before he remembered that it was broken. The torch is smashed.'

'Leave the headlights on, then. They'll help.'

Walter was decidedly uneasy as he led the way towards the half-ruined buildings, the piercing beams of light from the vehicle behind them illuminating the dereliction and creating eerie shadows. Bats at dusk were bad enough, but in the pitch blackness of night they filled him with dread. He'd never thought much about them before. Horrible little things. Usually they fled at the approach of man, but this lot had appeared to attack him. That one had really dashed itself against him viciously.

He halted in the entrance to the stable, listening. Not a sound came from within, no movement or horses, munching of hay.

'Penny . . . Stango.' Shirley's call echoed inside the building. There was no answering whinny, no welcoming stirring. Just silence.

'We'd better check the field at the back.' Shirley's voice was tinged with anxiety.

'We don't have a torch.'

'We won't need one. If they're there we'll be able to spot them.'

'Let's try whistling them first.''

They pursed their lips, emitting a series of high-pitched, unmusical whistles. Walter's mouth was dry. It wasn't easy. After a time they paused to listen.

'I can hear something,' Shirley spoke in a low tone, unsure but optimistic.

Walter heard it, too. It definitely was not any sound made by the horses, though. It was more like the wind soughing through the trees, a gentle breeze at first, increasing to gale force. Then realisation dawned on him.

'Come on,' he hissed. 'Back to the truck. It's those...

A stinging blow caught him on the forehead. His daughter was screaming hysterically, flailing her arms.

'Dad ... Dad, there's something caught in my hair!'

Bats were jinking, swerving, frying all around them. Something was caught up in Shirley's long fair hair, a small furry creature that flapped its wings frantically. She was beating at it, trying unsuccessfully to knock it off.

'Stand still!' Walter spoke sharply, clutching her to him and grabbing the fluttering bat. The very feel of its silky fur was repulsive to him, and every instinct yelled at him to snatch his hand away.

Its claws were entwined in the girl's hair and he could not dislodge it. There was only one alternative. He closed his fingers over it, felt the pulsing body in his palm, and then squeezed. He turned away to vomit, hoping Shirley would not notice. The creature had pulped in his fingers, squelching out a sticky warmth. He wiped his hand on his trousers, heaved again, and then spoke with a determined effort at calmness.

'It's all right, love. It's dead.'

'It's still in my hair. Ugh! There's something running down my neck!'

He threw up an arm to defend them from the swooping bats. One brushed the back of his neck, and be began to drag the sobbing girl back towards the truck.

'We'd best get away from here.'

'But... but what about Penny and Stango?'

'They're probably in the field at the back. They won't hurt.'

The bats had disappeared as suddenly as they had come. Probably all gone back to the stable, Walter thought to himself as he helped Shirley into the vehicle. She was white-faced, crying, shuddering at the feel of the loathesome squashed creature entwined in her matted hair.

'I'm ... I'm going to be sick,' her stomach heaved and she vomited undigested stew in the cab. Walter made no attempt to open the door for her to lean out. Instead he crashed the gears into reverse and began backing down the muddy bridle-path. Before they reached the main Cannock Road he, too, was vomiting again.

Herbie Whitcombe had driven slowly all the way from the Shoal Hill Tavern to Heath Hayes, He was fully aware that the level of alcohol in his blood was way above the legal limit. Usually he rationed himself to a couple of whiskies and then drove back to Chasetown. It was a nightly ritual that took him away from his nagging wife for an hour or two.

Herbie was in his mid-fifties. He was grossly overweight, and this fact, plus the unsightly goitre which he had developed in recent years, had combined to prevent him from finding himself another woman. So he had sought solace in drink.

By the time he reached the island at Heath Hayes his earlier caution had evaporated in a cloud of alcohol fumes. His foot pressed down harder on the accelerator pedal and the speedometer needle rose rapidly, to fifty . . . sixty . . . sixty-five . . . The hump in the road opposite the Wooden Stables almost caused him to bang his head on the roof of the 1100. But it did not dampen the sudden exuberance which was building up inside him. He wondered just how fast this car would go. He had never really tested it to its limit.

The needle was hovering on seventy when he caught sight of the two horses in the road ahead of him. A piebald and a black. They weren't just cantering. They were galloping towards him, wildly, panic-stricken tails streaming behind them.

The shock sobered him somewhat, but it was too late. A screeching of tortured rubber, filled his ears as he slammed on the brakes, and a terrified neighing.

Herbie hit the piebald head-on. The animal sprawled across the bonnet, forelegs splayed, screaming its agony as it was pushed along, both back legs breaking under the impact.

Only the crushing weight of the injured animal prevented the car from overturning. Broken glass from headlights and windscreen trailed in the wake of the slewing 1100. Then the ripped and jagged fender tore into the flanks of the stallion. Vehicle and horses spun crazily. The driver's door flew open, and Herbie Whitcombe was hurled out into the road. He lay there for a second, winded. The horses were neighing frenziedly as they attempted to free themselves, tearing their flesh as they did so. Herbie tried to struggle upright. As far as he could ascertain he was unhurt except for a few bruises and a cut on his hand. He knew he had to be away from this place before the police came with their breathalysers.