by John Halkin
‘Ages ago, and I’ve been playing out with Sandra and Barney and…’
As Jenny chattered on, Matt looked across at Helen. She’d had her hair done, he noted; still bright blonde, but the darkness at the roots had gone. It was much shorter, hardly reaching the lobes of her ears, and fluffed out elaborately like a wig. Must’ve cost her a bomb, though he couldn’t say he cared for it much. If the doctors were satisfied when they removed the bandages, they’d be discharging him soon. A matter of days now. Going home, trying to live together…
For a second her eyes rested on his and he knew she feared it as much as he did.
‘And then we went swimming,’ Jenny was going on happily, ‘all of us together—’
‘Swimming?’ His voice was sharp. Anxious. ‘Not in the river?’
‘No, in the baths!’ Jenny defended herself hotly. ‘I never said the river, Mummy, did I?’
‘She’s a very good swimmer,’ Helen snapped. ‘If you’d spent more time with her last summer, you’d know that.’
‘I’m sorry,’ he apologized, relieved. ‘Sorry, Jenny. Going to the baths is fine, but not in the river. Not even paddling in a stream. Just keep away from those places.’
‘Why?’
The nurse came to fetch him before he could answer.
But, hell, he had to warn them somehow. All over the country schools were beginning their holidays. Kids would be playing by streams, ditches, sewage outlets on the beaches… The worms could be in any one of them, lying in wait. He’d no hard evidence, of course. Only that gut feeling which had stayed with him since their minds had gen-locked into his just as their teeth had bitten into his flesh. The psychiatrist had tried to convince him it was a symptom of shock; sooner or later, with any luck, he might overcome it.
No, this was no hallucination. This was real.
‘Well, Mr Parker, how are you feeling?’ The surgeon shook his hand and patted him reassuringly on the shoulder. He was a youngish, athletic-looking man who was beginning to put on too much weight. The best specialist for this kind of operation in the whole of Europe, someone had told him. Rumour had it New York had offered him ten times his British income plus all the facilities he needed but he’d turned them down. ‘And this is Mrs Parker, is it?’
Matt introduced Helen and Jenny. He began to explain once again why he’d like them to be present. The surgeon held up his hand to stop him.
‘Of course you’d like your family near you,’ he agreed. ‘Now, nurse…’
They placed him with his back to Helen and Jenny while the nurse clipped through the bandages. Carefully she lifted the dressing away. Matt kept his eyes on the surgeon’s white coat, bulging over his stomach.
‘Mm, yes … yes. Now, Mr Parker, would you like to see yourself in a looking-glass, or would you prefer to turn round to face your wife and daughter first? It’s just as you wish. Feel free. Take your time.’
The surgeon’s expression betrayed nothing. Matt took a breath, then slowly turned to look at Helen.
For a few moments she said nothing. Then, unhappily: ‘Oh, Matt!’
‘I think it makes you look … special!’ Jenny announced brightly. ‘Like a soldier back from a war. You should have a V.C.!’
Unexpectedly, Helen took a couple of quick steps towards him, hugged him tight, then kissed his new face. ‘We’ll have to get used to it, won’t we?’
Matt took the looking-glass the nurse was holding out to him. His mouth was slightly lopsided, but it’d been that way while he still wore the bandages so he was already accustomed to it. His face itself was longer and gaunter than he remembered it; one cheek was pinker than the other, as though made of different material, and puckered. There were more scars on his neck and throat.
Yet it was all natural flesh and blood, he thought. Flesh which the sewer worms would devour only too eagerly, given half a chance.
‘You have to realize, Mr Parker,’ the surgeon was saying, ‘the whole of your cheek on that side had been practically eaten away. We’ve had to build it up from nothing.’
‘You’ve done a good job,’ Matt said dully. ‘And I never was much of a beauty.’
‘Later on we could try some more cosmetic surgery… Er, nurse, I wonder if you could rustle up some cups of tea?’
The nurse smiled and left them. Jenny took hold of his hand, pressing herself against him affectionately. ‘It’s a funny face but I think I like it,’ she decided. ‘My teacher said we must be grateful you’re still alive. Daddy, where did the worms come from?’
It distressed Matt when he left hospital to find most people had come to accept the worms as just one more natural hazard in the same class as jellyfish, wasps, hornets, scorpions or sharks – nasty to have around, but unlikely to affect them personally. He tried to convince anyone who’d listen that they were more calculating and deliberate in their attacks on human beings, but very few seemed to understand.
Until, that is, they realized who he was. Then they switched on expressions of sympathy he could well have done without. ‘Try to forget,’ was the most general advice. But how could he when every glance in a mirror brought back the memory?
‘I’m worried about you, honestly,’ Helen confessed as she snuggled up to him in bed on his fourth night home. ‘You think about nothing else. They’ve become an obsession. Oh, I’m not blaming you but I’m worried.’
Even down at Television Hall, when he dropped in to remind them of his existence, he found them preoccupied with other things. When he mentioned worms their eyes glazed over. They just didn’t want to know. They talked about a major drama series for the autumn, preliminary plans for the Christmas variety shows, anything to get away from the topic.
Bluff, heavyweight Jimmy Case, the film operations manager, spared five minutes to shake his hand heartily and say how glad he was Matt was out of hospital at last.
‘No need to rush back to work, Matt. Have a holiday while the weather holds.’ His teeth were nicotine-stained and his beer-flush redder than ever. ‘Seaside or somewhere.’
Matt felt unexpectedly reassured to see him again. ‘We’ve a cottage down at Westport,’ he said, ‘and I think Helen’s planning for us to go down there.’
‘Well, take it easy. There’ll be plenty of work lined up for you when you get back.’
‘We should be doing something on sewer worms,’ Matt informed him. ‘A documentary. I don’t know if anything’s planned, but I’d like to be involved if there is.’
Jimmy reached out for a cigarette from the open packet on his desk; the gesture was automatic and he didn’t even have to look down. ‘I’m glad you told me,’ he commented at last, blowing the smoke out in a long stream. ‘If you’re really sure – though if I were in your shoes I’d stay clear of them. There’s nothing on the cards, though, not that I know of. You could try one of the education producers.’
‘Andy Page?’ Matt demanded sarcastically.
‘Oh, they suspended him after your little do. Talk about callous? There were you in trouble, practically dead, and all he could think of was filming it. He’s in Australia now, they say. Good riddance. Then of course we had that little episode when some joker sent Mary Keating some worms in a box – you heard about that? Aubrey Morgan’s been doing her job while she’s been away. I’m told she’s taking early retirement. Oh, it’s all been happening, Matt, all been happening. Never a dull moment.’ He stood up and moved to the door as if to make it quite plain the interview was over. ‘Anyway, it’s great to see you on your feet again. Don’t forget that holiday, eh? We’ll need you on top form when you come back.’
It was hopeless trying to interest anybody, Matt decided once he was outside in the corridor again. Maybe the hospital psychiatrist was right. And everybody else. Maybe he was still suffering from shock and should try his best to forget them. He stood in front of one of the notice boards, pretending to read the pieces of paper while he wondered about it.
Only one way to find out, he thought.
5
<
br /> The sewer foreman was a short, dark-haired man of about fifty with a deeply-lined angular face which warned all comers he could be a tough bastard when the mood took him. He recognized Matt the moment he stepped into the office.
‘You’re … ay, that poor bloody cameraman! So you’re out of hospital then? That’s fine! It’s great to see you!’ He shook Matt’s hand warmly like a long-lost friend, then stepped back to look at him. ‘They didn’t improve your appearance any, but at least you’re in one piece, that’s something. I’ll never forget when they carried you out on that stretcher. I’ve seen men wi’ their faces blown off, their guts hangin’ out, but nothing shocked me like the sight o’ you after the worms’d been at you.’
‘It’s about the worms I’ve come to ask you,’ Matt said.
‘Ay, but you know, I can’t remember your name! You’ll have to remind me. Ay, that day, I’ve dreamed of it often, but I never think o’ you by name. That poor bloody sod, that’s how I think o’ you. But now … Max, is it? Matt?’
‘Matt Parker.’
‘We were never properly introduced anyhow. I’m Angus Hume, sewer foreman. Now if we want to talk, there’s a pub round the corner an’ I’m just about ready to wash the taste o’ the sewer out o’ my mouth.’ He led the way to the door, taking his hat from the peg. ‘Gets into your spittle, that’s the truth of it. Takes a couple o’ good pints to kill the taste.’
The Crown was a small street-corner pub, probably unchanged since it was first built a hundred years earlier. The burly landlord began to draw the first pint the moment he saw Angus coming in through the door. Matt was introduced and his hand gripped in a giant fist.
‘Pint for you too?’
‘Please.’
‘They did a good job, those surgeons.’ The landlord stared at him critically. ‘The way I heard the story, you’d no face left. Wonderful what they can do these days.’
‘They built one side up,’ Matt explained.
Talking about it this way seemed more natural than people averting their eyes, which was the more usual reaction. He fished in his pocket for some money but Angus was ahead of him, slapping a pound note down on the bar.
‘My round,’ he insisted.
‘Wife says I should ’ave my nose done,’ the landlord confided as he turned to the till. ‘But it doesn’t worry me, so why bother? Scars o’ battle, I tell her, but she won’t listen. The way she goes on, you wouldn’t believe I was still boxing when she married me. But they change, don’t they, women?’
They sat at a little round table in a corner. Angus took a first, long draught before another word was spoken, then he set down the glass with a sigh of contentment and started to fill his pipe from an old, worn pouch.
‘Turned to the pipe when I started in the sewers,’ he said, carefully pushing the tobacco into the bowl with his forefinger. ‘Never tried it before. In the army I smoked fags. Always fags.’ He turned the pouch over and returned it to his pocket before lighting the pipe. Every movement was slow and deliberate. ‘Now what can I do for you, Matt? You didn’t come back just to pass the time o’ day.’
‘No,’ Matt admitted. ‘But you must have more experience of worms than most other people.’
‘Ay, I thought it might be that. Well, ask your questions, Matt, though I warn you I know nothing more than I’ve already told the reporters.’ He took another long pull at his beer and laughed. ‘We had ’em in here that night they took you to hospital, falling over themselves to buy us drinks, an’ half o’ them pissed as newts by eight o’clock.’
‘They saw the worms themselves?’
‘None to see. Some dead, the rest sleeping off a good meal – you.’
‘But on a normal day…?’
‘Saw some today,’ Angus confirmed. ‘I’ll tell you something. The first I came across were little ’uns, about the length o’ your hand. Eighteen months ago, that’d be. I’ve been ten years down those sewers, mind, ever since I came out o’ the army, an’ I never saw none before that. These little ’uns – well, a couple o’ my mates got nipped, nothing much, no more’n a rat’d do to you. But now they’re bigger we watch out. Ay, well, you know about that.’ He drained his glass. ‘You don’t see many rats in the sewers these days, that’s one thing you can say for ’em.’
Matt went to the bar for another couple of pints and the landlord leaned across to him confidentially. ‘ ’Ere, them worms gets bigger every time ‘e talks about ’em. If ’e’s tellin’ the truth – an’ ’e’s straight, mind, is Angus – it’s my opinion somethin’ ought to be done. You pass that on to your TV people.’
But back at the table, Angus made it clear the authorities had taken some temporary measures pending the result of an inquiry. They’d put down lumps of poisoned meat. That’d worked for a couple of days, but then the worms had returned in force.
‘Ay, it was like the buggers knew what we’d been about an’ weren’t having any. They’ve calmed down again now, but I’ve never known ’em quite so vicious as that week.’
‘Can I see them?’
‘Ay.’ Angus was uncommittal.
‘Take some photographs.’
‘If anyone’s a right to, you have.’ He drew on his pipe. ‘Not tonight. Not tomorrow. Wednesday. About eleven o’clock. I’ll take you down.
Wednesday was the day Helen planned they should drive down to the cottage at Westport and Matt had some trouble persuading her. He said nothing about going to the sewers but suggested there were a couple of jobs needed doing on the car. She remained unconvinced till she saw him change into his overalls and go out to start draining the oil from the sump. Luckily the phone rang with an offer of a day’s typing at a nearby insurance office. The money was good – they often paid her a bonus over and above the agency fee – and that clinched the matter.
Matt waited till both Helen and Jenny were safely out of the house before trying to ring Professor Jones at the University.
It was his third attempt and he half expected the bored operator to say, yet again: ‘Sorry, no reply.’ But this time he was put through to a woman in the secretariat who explained that the professor was away on a motoring holiday in southern Europe and not expected back for two months.
‘This is vacation time,’ she reminded him condescendingly. ‘No one’s here except for those doing summer courses for foreign students.’
‘Then who feeds the animals?’ Matt demanded.
‘Animals?’ She sounded genuinely astonished.
‘Reptiles. In his laboratory.’
‘They’re all dead.’
‘Dead?’
‘In jars and things,’ she added. ‘I don’t think the professor ever has any living specimens. But maybe Albert can help you better. He’s the lab assistant. I’ll have you transferred, if that’s any use.’
Matt felt he was walking on quicksand. ‘Would he like some living specimens? I mean, if he’s studying worms and their habits he’ll—’
‘I’ll have you transferred.’ A series of clicks and metallic groans. Then: ‘Could you transfer this call to 568?’ More clicks. Then an ominous silence.’
‘Hello?’ said Matt. ‘Hello?’
No answer.
At last he put the phone down, defeated.
When he arrived at the sewer foreman’s office just before eleven o’clock on Wednesday morning, Angus eyed him with mild amusement. ‘It’s a wee trip down the drain we’re planning,’ he commented drily, ‘not an expedition to climb Everest.’
In addition to his camera, extra lenses and a couple of battery-operated lamps, Matt had brought a picnic ice-box and a pair of heavy gauntlet gloves made of imitation leather. He remembered the worms hadn’t bitten through his ordinary clothing but reckoned that genuine leather, being skin, wouldn’t put them off in the same way. He’d no wish to experience their sharp teeth for a second time.
In the office he pulled off his shoes and changed into rubber waders. Angus, in gum boots, led the way down a dank, stone staircase into the
vaulted sewers.
It was all he could do to hide his sudden spasm of fear as the sour smell caught his nostrils and he heard once again the echoing whispers of the tunnels. The old panic rose within him. The walls seemed to shrink menacingly, pressing in on him from all sides.
But the gleam of torchlight on the effluent brought back the vivid memory of the pain and terror of the worms. His claustrophobia receded as he became more and more determined to hit back at them.
‘Ne’er a sign of any this morning,’ Angus observed, flashing his lamp along the flowing stream of water. ‘Looks like we’re out o’ luck.’
‘Let’s try some of this.’ From his pocket Matt produced a flat whisky bottle containing a red fluid, and emptied half of it into the sewer. ‘Blood.’
‘Where d’you buy bottles o’ blood, for Chrissake? Or d’you tap your own veins?’
Matt grinned. ‘I thought of that. No, I went through yellow pages and phoned round the kosher butchers till I found one who’d sell it to me.’ He stared down at the effluent. ‘No worms, though.’
‘We could try the next tunnel,’ Angus suggested. ‘D’you genuinely think blood’ll attract ’em?’
‘Mine did,’ he answered grimly, remembering how they’d sucked in each drop as it hit the water.
They went to the next tunnel and he poured out some more blood. Its redness dissolved into a faint pink stain, then disappeared. They waited.
No worms. A few scraps of paper, discarded plastic containers, patches of foam, but no worms.
Then Angus grasped his arm. ‘Down there!’ he whispered. ‘Two o’ the bastards, their heads poked up over the water like bloody U-boats.’
Matt nodded. ‘We’ll give ’em one more taste.’ He emptied the rest of the bottle and watched the blood spread through the effluent. ‘They like it, see? Coming upstream for more.’
‘Ay, drinkin’ it like it was best bitter, the little buggers.’
Matt flicked open the clips on the ice box lid. Inside, he’d two string shopping nets, each filled with raw meat and attached to a long cord. He threw the first into the effluent and handed Angus the cord, asking him to wind it round his fist and hold it taut. Then he switched on the lamps and adjusted their angle.