Free Bats Out of Hell by Guy N Smith Page B

Today he was going to leave the fire-fighters to their own devices. Beyond the golf course there were five acres of rhododendron bushes. The previous winter they had provided roosting for some tens of thousands of migratory starlings. As a result the shrubs had become white with the birds' droppings, and beneath them there was a good six inches of foul-smelling excreta. Now a fire up there would have been beneficial, cleared the area. But no, the silly buggers who came here at weekends preferred to drop their cigarette ends and broken bottles in valuable growing timber.
    Nevertheless, there was a job to be done on those rhododendrons. Some of the starlings had remained behind when their colleagues had departed for their native country in March, just as though they were keeping the place habitable for the big flocks to return to next winter. They had to be moved, now. Game and starlings could not exist in the same area. No self-respecting pheasant would put up with a constant foul stench and incessant deafening twittering throughout the nights.
    Well, if the public weren't prepared to burn the rhododendrons, then Ken Tyler would see to it himself. And the public could take the blame!
    The half-gallon of paraffin in the back of the Land-Rover was covered by an old blanket. In all probability a crumpled newspaper would have been quite sufficient to start a blaze, but Tyler was not taking any chances. The flames had to spread quickly, and become established before any of the brigades already in the area were able to put out the fire.
    On the floor beside the covered can lay his shotgun, a 12-bore, worn and rusted in places, but nevertheless with a look of efficiency about it. The gamekeeper never went anywhere without it. It was as much a part of his character as the baggy plus fours.
    He drove past the Park Gate Inn, turned right at the junction, then took the first left down a bumpy, uneven track which followed a winding course amidst the pine forest. There was a smell of woodsmoke in the air. It had been around for almost a week now, drifting across the Chase from the numerous fires, hanging in the still, windless, hot atmosphere.
    At last the track emerged on to an open stretch of heather, its natural beauty marred by a number of well-trodden footpaths and an abundance of litter. Tyler grimaced as he brought the Land-Rover to a standstill. People were selfish, inconsiderate. They never kept to recognized footpaths but had to trample down natural growth, leaving it looking as though a herd of stampeding elephants had crossed it. Then, to add insult to injury, they left their litter lying all over the place.
    It was early: 7.15 A.M. Too early for ordinary folk to be about, and all the firemen had their hands full anyway. There were rumours that today the authorities were sending troops from Whittington Barracks to help out. Well, if that was the case, then they were certainly fighting a losing battle, Tyler decided. Soon the whole countryside would be reduced to a charred waste.
    He stopped the Land-Rover within thirty yards of the high wall of rhododendrons, and reversed so it was facing in the direction from which it had come, ready for a quick getaway before the flames took hold.
    God, it was hot! He pushed his cap on to the back of his head and wiped his brow. Even at night the place never got a chance to cool down. There was no respite from the scorching heat. By day it blazed down from the sun, by night it came up out of the cracked, parched earth. There was no escape.
    He climbed down and looked around him. Not a soul in sight. In the distance he could see a column of black smoke mushrooming in the sky. That would be the Pye Green fire. A line of firemen were fighting like hell in an attempt to prevent it from destroying the STD station. Bloody good job if it burnt it down, Tyler thought. It spoiled the Chase, like a skyscraper. Trouble with people today, he told himself, was they couldn't exist without every up-to-date