by John Halkin
‘The sewer foreman is convinced they’re the same, and he’s probably seen more than most people.’
‘Nevertheless, he is a layman.’
The Professor stood up and followed Aubrey into the studio without even bothering to nod his thanks to the red-headed make-up girl. Behind his back Aubrey winked at her; she pulled a face in return.
‘Sorry I was a little late,’ the Professor was going on. ‘I’d a few urgent matters to deal with before I came out. I’m afraid I can’t give you much of my time.’
The floor manager led them to two low chairs arranged on either side of a cheap coffee table. The Professor sat down uncomfortably, shifting about to find the best position for his long legs, then deciding there wasn’t one.
‘Stand by!’ the floor manager called.
On cue, Aubrey began his usual smooth introduction, explaining that Professor Jones was a herpetologist of international standing who’d made a special study of sewer worms when they’d first appeared only twelve months ago.
‘But why,’ he asked, ‘are they called worms at all when they look like snakes?’
‘Oh, not to the trained eye!’ The Professor picked up one of the stills they’d prepared. ‘If you examine this picture you’ll see they have eyelids, which snakes do not. Also – here – an eardrum, clearly visible. No doubt about it, these are lizards – limbless lizards, like the slow worm or blind worm. In fact’ – he warmed to his theme – ‘we know many different kinds of lizard, some with four legs, functional legs, some whose legs are reduced and practically non-existent, as well as these which are completely limbless. I could mention the Anops kingii of South America and other amphisbaenids such as the Leposternum microcephalum, and in Britain the familiar Anguis which everyone knows.’
‘The ang—?’
‘Slow worm,’ the Professor repeated testily.
‘Do any of them eat flesh?’
‘Several reptiles are carnivorous.’ He seemed surprised at the question. ‘The most well-known perhaps are crocodiles, alligators, pythons…’
Aubrey let him go on without interruption, at the same time making mental notes of where to edit the interview. At last he managed to slip in a question about the worms which had attacked Matt Parker. Had anything like them been seen before?
‘My department did a brief study last year at the request of the Ministry of Agriculture on quite small worms of a very similar appearance…’
‘Could they have grown?’
‘That’s certainly possible. The ones we examined last year might not have been full-size, though at the time everyone assumed they were. I’m not prepared to state categorically they were essentially the same as the worms which almost killed your cameraman, though superficially they look alike.’
‘So in your opinion we might be faced with the menace of two different species of carnivorous worms rather than just one?’ Aubrey pressed him.
‘I said nothing of the sort. That’s just the kind of cheap sensationalism I don’t want to be associated with. That word “menace” – there are many creatures in the animal kingdom far more dangerous than the worms, big or small. These are…’ He paused, flushed with annoyance. ‘They’re no more of a menace than ferrets.’
‘But you think there are two species?’
‘At present I’ve insufficient evidence to come to any conclusion.’
‘Why are we suddenly seeing them now? They’re not in any of the textbooks. Up to a year or so ago no one even knew of their existence. Have they only just evolved?’
‘Evolution doesn’t work that way.’ The Professor smiled condescendingly. ‘It takes millions of years. We know of over six thousand different species of reptile living today, and only in 1979 a colony of giant worms up to ten feet long was discovered in the Pacific and—’
‘Worms like ours?’ Aubrey interrupted him, excitedly.
‘Of course not.’ He looked mildly surprised. ‘Thought I’d made that clear. But very, very interesting all the same. You see—’
‘I’m sorry, could we stick to our sewer worms? It’s been suggested no one ever saw them before because they lived at the bottom of the North Sea or the Bristol Channel, and that, now they’ve been disturbed by the oil drilling, they’ve moved inland.’
‘Impossible. They couldn’t live so deep under water. They breathe air, same as we do – though what with the carbon monoxide and lead we pour out from our car exhausts, we’re much more dangerous to them than they are to us. If you television people really want to stir up a scandal, do a programme on how we pollute the air we breathe.’
Aubrey nodded. ‘But it doesn’t do to underplay this,’ he argued. ‘A man’s in hospital.’
‘One unlucky man. That hardly constitutes a national crisis.’
No worse than ferrets, mused Aubrey as he accompanied the Professor down in the lift. We can cut directly from that statement to shots of the worms devouring Matt Parker’s face. Guzzling like pigs at a trough. A good strong contrast to make the viewers sit up in their armchairs.
‘We’ll be using a minute or so of that interview in the News later today,’ he explained as they reached the ground floor. ‘But the full version will go into the documentary we’re preparing.’
‘One interesting thing about these sewer worms,’ the Professor said before they parted, ‘is reproduction. Frankly, we just don’t know. The blind worm is viviparous – gives birth to live young, doesn’t lay eggs as most reptiles do. But so far we’ve not managed to find a female sewer worm. They’ve all been males. If you collect any during your investigations, do give me a ring.’
‘Of course,’ Aubrey promised. This gave him a new angle. What do sewer worms do about sex? ‘Maybe we could come and film the dissection?’
‘That might be possible.’
He waited until his guest was through the revolving door before returning to the lifts. Mary Keating had sent a message to the Presentation Suite that she’d like a word, and this was as good a time as any to discuss the documentary with her. He’d need her agreement before he could really go ahead, and she could easily object. ‘No worse than ferrets,’ he repeated to himself as he strode around the curving corridor towards her office: that was the clinching argument.
‘Well, I warned you!’ she announced grimly the moment he opened the door. She was looking at him over the top of her reading glasses. An untidy mess of letters and telegrams was spread out before her over her large executive desk. ‘I’ve just had the Chairman of the Independent Broadcasting Authority on the phone.’
‘Complaints?’
He chose the most comfortable armchair and settled himself in it. From the look on her face it was going to be one of those long sessions. Her midget, balding teddy bear stared back at him from its usual place next to the intercom. Near it was an unopened package from Fortnum and Mason tied with ornate ribbon.
‘An unholy row, and coming right from the top,’ she was saying. ‘Protests from the Viewers’ Assocation, the Protection of Children Group, two bishops … oh, and look at these!’ She held them up.
‘Letters? Already?’
‘Delivered by hand. I shudder to think what the post will bring. Three Tory MPs and two Labour all say they’re tabling questions in the House of Commons.’ She glanced down at one of the letters. ‘No, I’m wrong. The Labour lady intends to demand an emergency debate.’
‘At least they’re taking the threat seriously.’
‘The threat? Oh, from the worms? No, it’s the propriety of showing it on TV they’re arguing about. Bringing violence into the home.’ She began to shuffle the papers together.
Aubrey watched her for a second. ‘At least one person sent you something nice.’ He indicated the Fortnum and Mason package. ‘Chocolates?’
‘I imagine so.’ She looked slightly surprised at his abrupt change of topic.
‘Your birthday?’
‘No, they just came addressed to me. When I produced Tiny Toddlers I used to get lots of little pres
ents. Aubrey, we’ve a meeting with the union this afternoon at three. They’re demanding full compensation for Matt Parker.’
‘But the Company’s hardly responsible for—’
She cut him short. ‘And they want Andy Page’s head. For handling the camera.’
‘Oh my God!’ He took off his horn-rimmed glasses and began to polish them vigorously on his handkerchief. ‘Trouble. I was going to use him on—’
‘Don’t touch him!’ she snapped. ‘Leave him where he is, at least till we see which way things are pointing. Compensation for Parker could amount to thousands, perhaps hundreds of thousands, we just don’t know yet.’
‘He was insured.’
‘The insurance company will dispute it. They’ll want to know what he was doing there by himself when the rest of the crew had gone off. But whatever they say, we need to work out a strategy for this afternoon’s meeting. If necessary, we’ll have to let the union have their blood sacrifice.’
‘Andy Page? Well, he asked for it.’
She reached out for the Fortnum and Mason package and started to undo the ribbon. ‘I’ve invited Al Wilson, Jimmy Case, Veronica and Max—’ Her scream shocked through him.
‘Mary, what—?’ For a moment he sat paralyzed, then he jumped up from his armchair and dashed around to her side of the desk.
She screamed again. A long, sobbing, terrified scream.
Several small worms, about four or five inches in length, were spilling out of the Fortnum and Mason package which lay on its side on the pink blotter. They wriggled over the desk towards her. One of them was already attached, leech-like, to the heavy white flesh of her forearm. She stared at it, screaming, making no attempt to pull it off, but just screaming.
Aubrey caught hold of her high leather chair and tried to tug it clear of the desk. Before he could shift it a second worm launched itself at her from the blotter. If only she hadn’t been wearing that short-sleeved dress … The worm dropped on to the heaving bodice and started to squirm purposefully towards the low V-neck.
Again she screamed, shuddering with horror, but not defending herself at all.
Her secretary ran into the room, a thin wispy woman in her late thirties, prematurely grey. She stood there goggling at Mary, at the worms, and whispering, ‘No! Oh, no… no…’
‘Come and help, for Chrissake!’ Aubrey bawled at her, but she stayed rooted to the spot.
By now he’d managed to pull the chair back from the desk but gradually Mary slipped down from her seat till she was collapsing to her knees on the thick carpet, paralyzed with hysteria. He caught her under one arm, trying to hold her up, but she was too heavy for him.
‘For Chrissake, help me!’ he yelled again at the secretary.
‘No… no…’ She was backing towards the door. ‘No…’
He shoved the heavy chair to one side and dragged Mary across the room as far away from the desk as possible. At least half-a-dozen worms writhed over it, making for the edge.
Over towards the window he lowered her gently to the carpet where she lay with her dress riding high above her knees and her bare arms spread out defencelessly. The thick flesh of her forearm was puckered and red where the worm was still feeding on it. A thin stream of blood moved rapidly down her skin.
He caught the worm just below the head, holding it between his fingers and thumb and squeezing hard. Something snapped, and it went limp. He was surprised at how easily it’d died. For a few seconds he stared at its lifeless body lying in the palm of his hand; then, feeling sick, he flung it away from him and turned back to Mary. Blood from her arm was staining the carpet, but she was unconscious.
More people were rushing into the room now, demanding to know what was happening. He shouted a warning to them as he searched for the second worm. It had reached the V-neck and was already burrowing into the soft flesh between her breasts. As it gorged itself, its tail still protruded, swaying slightly as if with pleasure.
Aubrey hesitated, uncertain. Then someone brushed him aside – Veronica Dale from Personnel – and hooked her fingers into the top of Mary’s dress and ripped it open. They had to cut the strap of her bra and hold her breasts apart before Aubrey could get a grip on the worm’s neck. When he pulled it away it left a raw, bleeding patch the size of an old penny; the exposed bone of her rib-cage was clearly visible through the blood.
The little worm wriggled between his fingers as he stood up. It was a greenish colour, in every way a miniature version of the worms on the newsreel of Matt Parker. Holding it over the metal waste-paper bin, he gradually crushed the life out of it.
‘How many are there, for Pete’s sake?’ someone was shouting. ‘How many are there?’
‘What’s the panic?’ he grinned; suddenly Aubrey was enjoying himself. ‘They’re easy enough to kill. That one over there – stamp on it!’ He snatched another from the desk top, squashed it between finger and thumb, and dropped it contemptuously into the waste bin. ‘Don’t let them bite you first, though! One of you ring for an ambulance.’
No more of a menace than ferrets! The Professor had been right. As if to prove it to himself, Aubrey watched one of the worms slithering across the carpet towards Mary, making straight for the flabby white breast which hung out of her torn dress.
Before it could strike the ground he ground it to death under his shoe. As a boy he’d killed caterpillars the same way.
4
‘No more of a menace than ferrets,’ Matt repeated bitterly to himself as he stood stripped to the waist in front of the washbasin. Three months he’d been in hospital while they’d tried to rebuild his face. Several operations … skin grafts. His buttocks still felt sore whenever he sat down; he’d never understand why they’d had to take it from that part of his body.
‘Nobody’ll know one end of me from t’other,’ he’d joked with the nurses, trying to hide his resentment. And failing.
What if his face turned out to be horrific when they removed the bandages, a mass of pink scar-tissue like Frankenstein’s monster, not resembling a face at all? It was a recurring nightmare. He imagined himself released from hospital and making his way home alone through hostile streets, on foot, arriving at last, the street, the house, putting the key in the lock, opening the front door, only to find no one recognized him, not even his own daughter… she screamed when she saw him, covered her eyes.
That was the real reason he’d insisted on Helen and Jenny being there that afternoon when they cut the bandages off. Helen had refused at first, saying it wasn’t fair on Jenny; she was only nine after all and…
He’d had to plead with her, but he understood well enough. She was as scared as he was.
He stared at himself in the mirror above the washbasin, wondering. Only a few more hours. Would his beard grow, or would he remain permanently scarred and smooth-cheeked? At least his voice was now almost normal again, or so the speech therapist had told him.
The whiteness of the bandages made his eyes seem darker and more penetrating, like the hypnotic gaze of the sewer worms. Or had it been merely his fear that had made them seem that way? While filming in Kenya he’d observed the same disabling fear in the eyes of wildebeeste attacked by lions.
Yet he could swear these worms had some ruthless power. Those last moments before losing consciousness his mind had keyed into theirs and…
Fuck! What the hell did it matter now? He dried himself on the rough towel and went back to his bed. He’d a file of press clippings collected by Helen, and he turned them over again for the thousandth time. Two or three days’ hysteria, and then the topic was elbowed off the front pages by revelations of a politician’s homosexual love life. Anything to boost the circulation figures.
As for TV, someone had planned a documentary special on the worms, but that was dropped after the woman managing director had received a gift of half-a-dozen of the smaller variety sent to her in a fancy chocolate box. In its place they’d screened a full-length interview with Professor Cledwyn Jones, the well-kn
own herpetologist. According to one clipping – Matt’d been too ill to watch TV himself that evening – he’d assured the populace that ‘they’re no more dangerous than ferrets.’
But then, Matt excused him, the Professor had never encountered any alive. That was the point. Otherwise he’d have known they were vicious, ruthless, and regarded human beings solely as convenience food.
There was nothing like being eaten alive to concentrate the mind.
It didn’t do to talk about it too much, though. Once, when Matt was trying to get his thoughts straight, he’d risked confiding in a fellow patient. For the next few days he’d been aware of amused, pitying glances in his direction, till the hospital psychiatrist had called him in for a chat. Since then he’d kept quiet about them.
Helen and Jenny arrived early, as he’d hoped they would. The longer they spent talking together before the bandages were removed the better. It was desperately important to him that Jenny should be sure the man behind the strange new face was the same person she’d known all her life. He noticed she wasn’t in jeans today but had allowed her mother to talk her into wearing a neat summer dress. Dolled up for the great occasion!
‘New?’ he asked.
‘Yeah.’ She shook the long, blonde hair back from her shoulders. ‘Daddy, what are you going to look like when they take the bandages off?’
‘Much the same as before, with any luck.’
‘I can’t really remember before,’ she commented. With her forefinger she was tracing the veins over the back of his hand. ‘Does it hurt not having those two fingers?’
‘No, not any more.’
Helen pulled her hand away. ‘Of course you can remember what Daddy looks like,’ she scolded nervously. ‘She’s just saying that, Matt. Your picture’s on my bedside table.’
‘I think I’ve forgotten myself,’ Matt joked, trying to ease the tension. ‘Jenny, what have you been up to since I saw you last? Haven’t your holidays started yet?’