by John Halkin
Which explained why he was Controller of Programmes at the age of thirty-three.
He was putting on weight, though. His midriff already betrayed what he whimsically called ‘the bulge of success’. Have to keep an eye on that. Start jogging, perhaps. He smoothed down his chunky salt-and-pepper sweater and went towards the lift.
Mary Keating was waiting for him in the viewing room. She nodded as he entered, fumbled in her handbag for a cigarette and lit it nervously. Her untidy hair was streaked with grey, her face lined. She’d risen to the position of Managing Director via children’s and family programmes in a career famous for the long hours she put in. According to rumour, the price she’d paid for this fanatical dedication was two broken marriages and an unknown number of desperately unhappy love affairs. Now she lived alone with only three demanding cats for company.
‘Al’s coming, is he?’ she demanded impatiently. ‘I’ve not all that much time.’
Al Wilson, Head of News, came into the viewing room as she spoke. ‘Sorry I kept you waiting,’ he apologized briefly. ‘Things to see to. We’ll be ready in a second.’
He must be getting on for fifty-five, Aubrey reckoned as they sat there, silent. Still showing no signs of grey. Apart from an early stint in Korea as a war correspondent he’d been a desk man most of his working life in one newsroom after another. Copy-taster, deputy news editor, and so on up. He was reputed to have worn the same shapeless blue suit all those years. Nobody’d ever seen him in anything else.
The loudspeaker crackled. ‘Ready.’
Al pressed the talkback key and told the operator to go ahead. The lights dimmed immediately.
The first few seconds of the film were unsteady. The camera scanned the sewer walls, seeking out its subject; then it settled on the prone cameraman, zooming in on his face. Two fat worms – is that what they were? – guzzled at his cheek. Aubrey could think of no other word for it.
From Mary came an exclamation of disgust. The colour pictures were vivid and gruesome. Enough to trigger off a national panic, Aubrey thought. He recognized the victim as someone he’d worked with often enough in his own early days as a director.
When the lights went up again they all sat in shocked silence, none of them wishing to speak first. Mary Keating looked pale.
‘I … I think Andy Page showed great presence of mind,’ Aubrey ventured cautiously, testing the water. ‘He was the first on the scene. Everything was set up – lights, camera … He saw the opportunity and grabbed it.’
‘Anyone else might’ve helped the poor man,’ Mary said sharply.
‘The rest of the crew were only a few seconds behind,’ Aubrey defended him. Then, thinking he’d gone too far, he took off his glasses and began to polish them on a clean handkerchief. ‘Not a very human reaction,’ he admitted. ‘But professional.’
‘We can’t use those pictures.’ Her tone was final.
‘We can’t not use them,’ Al intervened briskly, jealous of any encroachment on his own territory. ‘We’ll hold the film back for the later bulletins, but the public has a right to—’
‘Al, would you like your children to see pictures like that?’ she insisted.
‘Kids should be in bed at that hour,’ Al argued. ‘After all, we showed people burning to death in Vietnam, executions in Nigeria, God knows what else… What’s so different about these worms, except they’re nearer home?’
Mary shuddered and drew on her cigarette. ‘Why do we call them worms? They’re more like snakes.’
‘Aren’t they snakes?’ Aubrey asked.
‘Seems not.’ Al scratched the side of his jaw which as always at that time of day was covered with dark stubble. ‘We’ve done some research.’
He’d a folder of press cuttings in his hand and began a brief summary of what was known. The worms had first appeared in the sewers just over a year earlier, though no newspaper had given them much space.
‘To tell the truth,’ Al commented drily, ‘it was the same month as the royal wedding and most papers couldn’t find space for them. It’ll be a bit different after tonight.’
Aubrey glanced through the cuttings. ‘But these are much smaller,’ he objected. ‘A few inches long, according to this paper. They’re not the same.’
‘I rang the sewer foreman. He insisted they are the same. They grow, just as we do. He’s known them several sizes. Says they keep the rats down.’
‘That’s all very interesting,’ Mary broke in testily, ‘but we can’t transmit those pictures into people’s homes. And imagine his wife seeing them. He was married?’
‘Is,’ Al corrected her. ‘She’s with him now.’
‘I understood he’d died.’
‘No, I called the hospital. They’re not too optimistic, though. He’s in a bad way.’
‘Al, I don’t wish to interfere in your department. You’ve a lifetime of experience behind you. But think of what it’ll do to people.’
‘I’m not going to withhold hard news.’
‘Just the pictures.’
‘I’m sorry, no.’
Aubrey watched, fascinated, as Al’s face flushed red with annoyance, then turned white, the veins bulging out on his forehead. A few seconds later the sharp lines softened once more as he regained his self-control.
‘Mary, what if it happens again?’ He spoke gently, almost affectionately. ‘This is the first record of worms attacking human beings. It might not be the last.’
‘You’re making unjustified assumptions.’
‘I’m making a news judgment. This is an important story. How many of those things are living down there? How widespread are they? What if they come into the open and attack our children? If we show the film there’ll be a public outcry and something may be done. On the other hand, you know as well as I do if we don’t show it…’ He shrugged.
Mary thought about it. ‘I know I shan’t watch,’ she said at last, surrendering. ‘And I doubt if I’ll sleep tonight.’
Helen Parker looked at the bandage-swathed figure in the hospital bed, still unable to grasp what had happened. Or even feel certain this was really her husband; it could be anybody. The face was almost totally covered. Only the nostrils, the tip of the nose and the closed eyelids remained free.
She hated herself for feeling so neutral, so unmoved. ‘Matt?’ she said, leaning over him.
No movement. He was lifeless, swaddled in those bandages like an Egyptian mummy in some creepy film.
‘He’s lost a lot of blood,’ the white-coated doctor told her, an Indian with bright intelligent eyes which his glasses magnified slightly.
‘Is he going to live?’
For a moment the doctor didn’t answer; then he said: ‘There’s a good chance.’
‘And an equally good chance he won’t?’
She straightened up, brushing back the short blond hair from her cheeks. How could she be so calm, she wondered.
They’d telephoned her at work – must’ve got the number from the agency – to tell her Matt had been attacked by worms. Down a sewer somewhere. It’d sounded so ludicrous, she’d laughed aloud. ‘You’re joking,’ she’d said, thinking Matt had put them up to it. She’d questioned the man at the other end closely for some minutes before allowing herself to be convinced.
The office manager had been reluctant to let her go. ‘This really is inconvenient,’ he’d fussed. He was a sharp-featured little man with dandruff on the stooped shoulders of his cheap suit. ‘I particularly asked the agency to send someone reliable. This typing is most urgent.’
‘My husband’s been rushed to hospital,’ she repeated.
‘That’s why you laughed?’ He made no attempt to hide the fact he didn’t believe her. ‘I heard you laugh. The whole office heard you.’
‘I … he …’ She couldn’t very well tell him Matt had been attacked by worms. ‘Oh, for Chrissake!’ she’d exploded in fury. ‘I’ve no time to talk – he’s lying there unconscious. Phone the agency to send someone else. I’m off.’
‘Temps!’ he’d almost screamed as she pushed past him. ‘You can’t trust any of them. Fly-by-nights, every single one. Well, don’t think I’m going to pay for today, because I’m not. There’ll be no money for—’
She’d slammed the door on her way out, cutting short his hysterical abuse. The frosted glass had rattled in its frame. In the street she’d grabbed the first taxi. Then, at the hospital they’d let her wait for two hours before bringing her into this private room in the surgical wing.
Yet in spite of the row in the office she now felt nothing but calm… not resignation, no, that wasn’t true. But indifference almost. They’d grown apart, she and Matt. Even left the house in the morning these days without a kiss, the once-obligatory peck…
And in bed? It was weeks since he’d last reached out for her; and then, as so often, she’d muttered something about wanting to get to sleep. He’d turned his back without another word.
But she still loved him, she tried to reassure herself as she looked down at him lying long and straight in that hospital bed; it was too short, as always. Of course she still loved him. Only she couldn’t identify her Matt with that prone figure plugged into the various machines which registered he was still alive. The only evidence that he was still breathing.
The drip-feed bottle above the bed hiccoughed.
‘You should be going home, Mrs Parker,’ the Indian doctor was saying. ‘Try to get some rest. If there’s any change, we’ll ring you, I promise.’
‘Yes… thank you…’
Yet she hesitated. Jenny would be waiting, of course, collected from school by one of the neighbours. She’d want to know why her Daddy was in hospital, what was wrong with him. What could she tell her? An accident?
‘Doctor, is—?’ She stopped short, then rephrased her question brutally. ‘How much did they eat?’
The surprise showed on his face; his voice became professionally understanding. ‘You could of course spend the night here if you wished. I’m sure Sister would find you a bed and something to help you sleep.’
‘How much?’
He seemed for a moment uncertain what to tell her. ‘The main injuries are around his face and neck. One of his ears. His hands. Wrists. He’s going to need more surgery.’
‘And his fingers?’ She’d noticed the unusual shape of the bandaging.
‘He’s lost a couple.’
‘But he won’t be maimed? I mean, badly? He’s not going to spend the rest of his life in a wheelchair or—?’
‘We’ve no reason to think anything like that. If he can get over this initial twenty-four hours—’
‘Why’s he still unconscious?’
‘Loss of blood. Shock.’
‘He did lose a lot, didn’t he? You mean there could be brain damage? Please let me know the truth.’
‘The truth is we’re hoping to save him, Mrs Parker. Some of your questions are just unanswerable at the present time.’ He took her arm gently. ‘Now if you’d like me to have a word with Sister?’
‘I hardly recognize him,’ she said wonderingly. ‘He could be anyone.’ Once more she leaned over him. ‘Matt? I’m going now, Matt, to see Jenny.’ She looked up, suddenly embarrassed. ‘It’s all right, Doctor, I know he can’t hear me but…’
‘Mrs Parker, that might be just what he needs, the sound of your voice,’ the Indian doctor smiled. ‘Drugs and surgery can’t do everything.’
3
Much to Aubrey Morgan’s satisfaction the news of the attack on Matt Parker demonstrated once again the immense impact of television. Words alone would never have triggered off the near panic which seized Fleet Street, but colour pictures of those hungry worms feeding off living human flesh caused the editor of every mass-circulation newspaper to scrap his preplanned front page and lead with the Matt Parker story.
Aubrey spread out the papers on his desk and gloated over the headlines. GIANT WORMS FEED ON MAN was the most sober; A DIET OF WORMS was the most tasteless. One paper made the whole story sound like a gimmick with NOW IT’S MAN-EATING WORMS! But his favourite read MAMMOTH WORMS EAT TV MAN IN SEWER – GRUESOME NEWSREEL SHOCKS NATION.
They all carried pictures, black-and-white off-prints prepared the night before in anticipation of the flurry of phone-calls from Fleet Street after the first screening at ten o’clock. Even the Financial Times carried the story, expressing concern at the hidden dangers beneath the City, the financial centre of the world.
It was a possible angle, he mused. Of course, everything depended on how widespread the worms were. That was one of the questions he’d have to put to the tame professor he was expecting, but ever since the first transmission there’d been an endless stream of calls, many of them protests – Mary handled those – but quite a few from people who claimed similar experiences.
Birmingham, Liverpool, Plymouth, Worcester, Bath… He flicked through the typed list.
A man from Isleworth complained his dog’s nose had been nipped in the River Crane.
A woman teacher might have seen them in the mud of the Avon Gorge beneath Clifton suspension bridge.
A girl student reported she’d been bitten on her left breast while bathing nude in the Cam at Grantchester and was willing to show viewers the scar if the fee was right. Yet all of these had been small worms, none longer than about four inches. Only one man asserted he’d stumbled across really big ones. Giant buggers like the bloody Loch Ness monster, the girl taking the calls had typed primly. She’d added a note of her own: Speech slurred; probably sees pink elephants too.
The blue phone rang and Aubrey extracted it from beneath the papers. ‘Yes?’
‘Andy Page on the line.’ His secretary’s cool voice.
‘Put him on… Andy? Good, now listen. I had a word with – Rodney, isn’t it, in charge of your series?’
‘Townscape, yes.’
‘That’s the title? Mm. Look, I’m arranging for someone else to take over from you.’ A moment’s silence at the other end. ‘Hello?’
‘I’m sorry … yes…’ The boy was embarrassed.
‘Thought we’d been cut off. So I want you to drop what you’re doing and get here right away.’
‘It’s the union, is it?’ He sounded worried and apologetic. ‘I was warned there’d be trouble.’
‘I don’t follow you.’
‘About me operating the camera.’
Aubrey became impatient. ‘I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about. We’re planning a special documentary about these worms. Investigation in depth, implications, all that jazz. If you don’t think you can handle it…’
‘And drop Townscape?’
‘Do I have to spell it out? We’ve got the whole population shit-scared about worms. They’re talking nothing else in the pubs, the buses, the launderettes. Every leading newspaper carries the story. Worms that eat living human beings – and you’re the man who filmed them! Well, congratulations, but don’t let it go to your head. This is a tough assignment and you’ll find plenty of people against you. Peak-hour viewing, Saturday night if we can get it.’
‘Who do I work to?’
‘Me. Directly to me. Now your replacement for that educational crap … er…’ He found the name scribbled on his pad. ‘Jacqui Turner. She’s already on her way out to you, so grab a taxi and get here. Like now.’
He slammed the phone down. Bet that put the fear of God into him, he thought. Right, young Andy Page, let’s see how you shape up on this one. A tricky assignment, so he’d keep the reins in his own hands. Present the programme, too. Since he’d been promoted Controller of Programmes he’d been too much out of the public eye. High time he made a comeback on the small screen. Written, produced and presented by Aubrey Morgan…
Carole came into the office; neat, calm, not a hair out of place. The most elegant secretary in the building, and she knew it. ‘We’ve found that map you asked for.’
It showed the whole of England and Wales, stopping short just north of the Scottish
border. She fixed it to the display board and began sticking in coloured pins to indicate worm sightings, red for full size, blue for their smaller cousins. He’d need a chart of dates as well; an animation sequence perhaps…
Aubrey’s face broke into a smile of satisfaction as he saw the programme taking shape; it’d be the biggest thing since his famous documentary on child prostitution. No problem about audience ratings that week.
‘We’re in business, Carole my darling, we’re in business again!’ He slipped his arm around her as she stepped back from the board. ‘Mmm, you are gorgeous this morning!’ As she turned he kissed her full on the lips.
‘I need more coloured pins,’ she said, matter-of-fact.
He let her go. She never responded, was never even ruffled. It was water off a duck’s back. In fact, kissing a duck might have been more interesting. Tall, slim, self-contained Carole. Daddy was a major-general; she’d once been photographed for Tatler; breeding oozed from every pore, assuming that she possessed such vulgar apertures.
The phone rang and she answered it, ‘Mr Morgan’s office.’ With that voice she ought to be working for a dentist. ‘I’ll tell him.’ She put the receiver down and said the herpetologist had arrived.
‘Yes?’
‘Your professor,’ she added by way of explanation. Plus a superior smile.
Professor Jones had been taken to Presentation Suite A where one of the make-up girls was busy spraying lacquer on his mop of unruly hair. ‘I wish you wouldn’t put that stuff on me,’ he was protesting when Aubrey got there. ‘I’ll only have to wash it out again.’
The girl, an Irish red-head, smiled at him, puckering her lips. He stared back at her as though at one of his dissected lizards. He wore brown corduroy trousers and a fawn sports jacket with leather patches on the elbows. His hands were surprisingly small for a man of his height.
Aubrey introduced himself and said he’d be conducting the interview.
‘I don’t know what I can tell you,’ the Professor replied apologetically. ‘I was sent the remains of one worm, rather the worse for wear. Admittedly it bore a superficial resemblance to the worms we investigated last year, but it was three times the size.’