by John Halkin
‘Be careful!’
‘They can’t bite through my wellies.’
They found one, about six or seven inches long. Before it spotted them, they’d swooped it up in the fishing net and dropped it into the glass jar.
Another, also by itself.
But no more until they moved farther along the ditch when unexpectedly they came across three of them together. Annie netted one, but Tim’s wriggled out again before he could transfer it to the jar. This was even more fun than they’d imagined; and the knowledge that these green worms could bite back added extra spice.
‘Ouch!’ Annie had some trouble getting one of them into the jar; she tried to help it along with her free hand but it bit her through the net, which she dropped. She sucked her finger, grimacing, but her eyes laughing. Some, she seemed to imply, deserved to go free.
The jar looked quite full when they stopped, and it was as much as Tim could do to prevent the worms escaping. He screwed down the metal lid in which he’d punched several air holes, then held it up to examine them.
‘Don’t like their eyes,’ Annie commented with a deep shudder. ‘Like they was cutting into you, an’ they’re only the size o’ pins!’
The risk that the jar might be discovered if they took it home was too great, so they hid it in a rain gully at the foot of the long wall surrounding the estate. After tea, when it was getting dark, they came out again to look for it. Annie found it. Tim climbed on to the wall first and she handed it up to him, then followed.
One by one they dropped noiselessly down on to the soft earth. Everything was quiet. No sign of a dog either; in fact they were convinced he’d been bluffing and didn’t own one. Annie went forward first, then beckoned Tim to follow.
The house showed some signs of activity. There were lights in several of the rooms, and occasionally a shadow against a curtain. But no one was looking out and it seemed the way was clear across the lawn to the swimming pool. They ran across together, lightly but not quickly. At the edge of the pool Annie held the jar while Tim unscrewed the top; once it was off she tipped the jar over and shook it.
A series of mild plops told them the worms had dropped into the water.
Tim fumbled to get the lid back on again before they dashed for cover among the bushes, crouching down, listening and waiting… Not a sound.
Just as they were about to move to the wall the garden was suddenly flooded with light from car headlamps whose beam swung around as though searching for something. They pressed themselves down against the ground, scared of being caught out now. It wasn’t the red Jaguar either, which they’d seen still parked in the driveway.
The powerful engine purred and then cut out. The lights died. The quiet clunk of expensive doors. Then:
‘Darlings, how nice of you to come!’
Tim and Annie waited till the guests were inside the house before making their getaway over the wall. Once they were on the road again, running along towards their homes, their hearts sang. They laughed, danced, pushed each other.
‘Boy oh boy, when they go swimming tomorrow morning! Oh boy!’
At The Cedars the party was going with a swing. Andrea watched as Gordon raised himself from the carpet, tummy upwards, a glass of champagne balanced on his forehead, gingerly manoeuvring himself to the point where he could begin to stand up. An informal party, he’d called it, just for the five of them. His idea of informality was a close-fitting white sweater with spotlessly new jeans which looked as though they’d been specially tailored for him.
But at his request Andrea had put up her long blonde hair, using the diamond hairpins to hold it in place. She wore a simple, clinging dress in green, with nothing underneath. The other two girls who’d arrived with Vincent – Tina and Gail – also revealed the ‘naked look’ whenever they stood against the light. It was going to be one of those evenings.
She imagined it was all laid on for Vincent’s benefit. An important American client, Gordon had called him. His accent, though, was more central European. Fifty if he was a day, she judged. More like sixty. He wheezed when he laughed; his ridiculous little moustache bobbed up and down.
Tina and Gail squealed with laughter at Gordon’s antics. From an escort agency, probably. Odd the types they chose. Tina was on the plump side, with full breasts which bounced every time she moved; Gail was the opposite and had that skeletal look, every bone indentifiable.
More squeals. Gordon was on his knees now. Andrea moved to the sofa and sat up on the back with her bare feet on the cushion to keep out of the way. Christ, he was a bore! If only she’d realized…
She remembered the two children they’d caught in the grounds that morning. He’d been at his most pompous, bawling the poor kids out as though they’d committed some mortal sin climbing over his wall, leaving their footprints in his soil, disturbing his woman at her sunbathing…
That was the key to him: possession.
She could walk out at any time, of course. No need to stick around. But go back to what? It was over four years now since she’d left university with a degree in literature and a head full of nonsense only to discover that shorthand and typing would have been more useful. So she’d gone through the routines: secretarial course, job at the BBC, meals in the canteen, sharing her dreams with the producer she worked for, moving in with him, moving out again a year later, and finally throwing up her job in order to temp. Hundreds had trodden the same path before her.
Then, sent along as a temporary typist to Gordon’s office in the executive suite of a city skyscraper, she’d found a different door opening. He’d been quite blunt about it. Couldn’t give a damn about her brains or her shorthand, but she was good to look at, sense of style, lively, pleasant… The rewards could be very big, he told her. To prove the point he counted out a thousand pounds in cash and pushed it across to her.
She’d taken a week to think it over. In her shabby Tooting Bec bedroom she’d stripped off in front of the wardrobe mirror. Her body was good. She was proud of her hair. She had fluent French and Italian. She could drive, swim, dance, ski, play tennis and fuck – all of them well. So why waste her life over a typewriter?
‘Oh!’ Squeals of laughter again as Gordon almost lost his balance, then recovered it, but not in time to prevent the champagne spilling down his sweater. Tina’s breasts quivered like jellies; Vincent’s moustache went into contortions. Andrea flashed them a broad smile, politely.
‘Time it was washed anyway!’ Gordon blustered, getting up and peeling the sweater off. ‘Ouf! I’m hot! What weather for October!’
He touched a couple of switches on the wall. The curtains parted with hardly a sound; greenish lights flooded the swimming pool on the lawn.
‘A swim, anybody? The water’s heated.’ He glanced meaningfully at Andrea. ‘Think I’ll go in.’
Obediently she stood up on the sofa. ‘Me too!’ Balanced on the cushions, she reached behind her back with one hand, found the zipper and drew it gently down. Her green dress tumbled to her feet. She stood there naked.
Vincent’s eyes bulged; his over-large abdomen trembled beneath his white shirt.
‘The water’s lovely,’ she coaxed him, stepping down from the sofa. ‘Aren’t you coming in?’
Tina’s breasts had escaped from her dress even before she’d touched her zip; she helped Gail as Gordon opened the French windows.
They crowded down to the pool with Vincent wheezing excitedly behind. Gail jumped in first, followed by Gordon, then Tina and Andrea. Vincent remained on the edge bathed in green light, the glory of his manhood shrivelled and retiring.
‘Vince, darling, do come in!’ Tina summoned him in a little girl voice. ‘It’s lonely down here without you.’
He squatted for a second or two on the side, then lowered himself into the water. As he did so, there was an anguished scream from Gordon. He began thrashing about, his face agonized.
‘Gordon, what’s—?’ Andrea never finished her question. She drew in her breath sharply as t
he pain shot through her thigh. ‘Get out, everybody! We have to get out!’
A second intensely sharp pain gripped her belly, low down near the top of her right leg. She reached under the water, fearful of what her fingers might find.
Tina let out a piercing scream, then tried to scramble for the side but lost her footing and fell back again. Gordon moaned loudly like a heifer in labour. Gail shrieked with hysteria, splashing about, then sinking, rising to the surface spluttering and shrieking once more, then sinking again…
Adrea’s fingers found the source of the sharp pain on her abdomen, something long and thin clinging to her. She couldn’t visualize what it was, but nor could she remove it. Pulling at it felt like cutting into her flesh with razors. ‘Must keep calm,’ she told herself. ‘Must keep calm.’
Ignoring the others, she moved steadily through the water to the steps at the corner of the pool and climbed out. As she turned she caught sight of Tina standing waist-deep at the shallow end, sobbing as she stared down at something hanging from her breast. It looked like a snake.
‘Get out of the water!’ she yelled to her again. ‘Tina, get out of the water!’
Suddenly she knew what they were: she’d read about them in the paper – sewer worms! The one on her abdomen seemed to be chewing its way into her. Fighting her rising panic, she grasped it with both hands, squeezing and twisting, irrationally convinced she could wrench its head off. She was acting blindly, racked by the excruciating pain, panting, her cheeks wet with tears. The worm was tough and resilient; she couldn’t make it let her go. Then suddenly it began a series of jerks in quick, unpredictable spasms.
She could taste the blood on her lips where her own teeth had bitten into them. Shifting her grip she twisted again, twisted and pulled. The jerking continued, till the worm gave one last undulating shudder and then slackened. It became limp between her fingers. She flung it from her, far across the grass among the dark trees.
Her hands were sticky with blood flowing from the wound in her belly. Her breath came in uneasy sobs. And there on her leg, steadfastly hanging on to the flesh of her inner thigh, was the other worm. Oh God, she hadn’t the strength…
‘Help!’ Vincent was whimpering from the pool. ‘Help me! Please!’
Even under the low green lighting the dark blood was visible, like clouds in the water. Vincent was by the edge, pathetically holding out a podgy hand to be pulled out. Gail – it must have been Gail – was floating face-down, with only her meagre white buttocks on the surface. Someone else, probably Gordon, was still thrashing about at the far end, but weakening.
‘Help me!’ Vincent sobbed. ‘Oh, help me, please!’
Why she did it, she’d never know. Streaming with blood, the worm on her thigh still gnawing into her, she crawled painfully to the side of the pool, grasped Vincent’s hand, and pulled him out. He collapsed on the grass, lying there naked and white, heaving with sobs.
But she couldn’t see a single worm on him anywhere.
8
Matt heard about it next day while lunching in the pub with the rest of the crew.
Over the weeks since he’d been recalled from Westport he’d worked non-stop on one uninspiring programme after another. This one, at a Middlehampton brake-cable factory, was a survey of the state of British industry – the usual fare.
Not that he hadn’t tried to sell his idea for a documentary on sewer worms, but they weren’t interested. Fobbed him off with unconvincing excuses. Humoured him, in fact. Yes, they’d allowed him to view – after worried expressions of concern – the newsreel of his own face being eaten. He’d watched it with cold curiosity, unmoved; though that night he’d woken up screaming, bathed in sweat, having relived the whole experience in his worst nightmare to date. Luckily he’d been alone in the house; Helen had still been at Westport with Jenny.
During those same weeks he’d assembled a growing file of press cuttings, magazine articles and photographs. Whenever work permitted he’d contacted Angus and arranged to go into the sewers again – at first to take more pictures, but later to hunt for skins.
Fran was having a great success selling worm-skin belts to a top fashion designer for his autumn collection. Matching handbags, too. Matt had met her a couple of times in London to discuss business details, and she’d agreed that Angus should be offered a cut to keep him happy.
‘Sewer worms, that’s what they were! First anyone’s seen in this district, but there’s no doubt about it.’
Matt’s ears picked out the words across the general chatter of the pub – a high-pitched, smug voice, slightly nasal. Sharply he looked around to identify who was speaking.
The man was standing at the bar. He wore a shabby raincoat and heavy glasses which enlarged his bulging eyes. ‘Naked, too!’ he was saying, shaking his head with disapproval. The tip of his tongue passed over his thin lips. ‘Serves ’em right if you ask me.’
The landlord nodded. ‘Dead?’ He spoke the word as though he and death shared a special understanding. Maybe they did. On the walls were photographs and trophies from the Western Desert; his bearing was military, shoulders back, hair short.
‘Two of ’em. The others are in hospital.’
Matt emptied his glass and went over to join them. The worms have claimed their first dead, he was thinking; but it had been touch and go that he hadn’t ended up in the cemetery himself. A couple of weeks earlier he’d tried to make an appointment to see Aubrey Morgan, Controller of Programmes, now Acting Managing Director. ‘Too busy at the moment,’ Jimmy had reported back to him several days later. ‘And as for your documentary, he says nobody has been killed yet, so the worms can’t be as dangerous as you claim. Sorry, Matt. He’s right, you know.’
The landlord held his glass at eye-level, slightly tilted, as he poured the Guinness. Matt turned to the man in the raincoat.
‘Heard you mention sewer worms,’ he said affably. ‘I could tell you a bit about them.’
The man’s eyes flickered up to his face, betraying the usual expression of curiosity about his scars. Matt smiled, unembarrassed. He used those scars shamelessly whenever he wanted to get someone talking. Especially about worms. It worked this time too without a hitch; it always did.
Rodney Smith, the man said his name was. Deputy editor of the local paper. He questioned Matt for a minute or two about his experiences in the London sewers before telling of the ‘tragedy at The Cedars’ as he called it.
His contact at the police station – he phrased it to sound both conspiratorial and highly important – had tipped him off that someone passing The Cedars late at night had heard screams and dialled 999. What they’d found there was beyond description. A mixed nude bathing party in the private swimming pool… such goings on! Then, those worms!
He’d followed up the story through his contact at the hospital who told him of two young women brought in with unusual wounds on their bodies; also a middle-aged man, unhurt but in a state of deep shock.
His contact at the mortuary had filled in more details. A woman, very thin, probably drowned, but with bites all over her, like a ferret had been at her. The dead man was in a worse state. His genitals had been eaten away. Only a few shreds of skin remained.
‘Couldn’t have done it without my contacts,’ Rodney Smith stated contentedly as he sipped the large whisky Matt had bought him. ‘Then, I always did have good contacts. Half the battle in my business.’
Matt made a quick excuse and slipped away to rejoin the rest of the crew. He told them what had happened, keeping his eyes on Jacqui Turner, their director. She was still in her twenties, a slip of a girl, but eager to make her way in television and tough enough to do it. This was the kind of opportunity she shouldn’t turn down; one spectacular scoop like this and there’d be no trouble about renewing her contract – they’d be only too eager. Pete, his camera assistant, brought her another Guinness. She shook back the dark, wavy hair from her face as she drank, her eyes fixed on Matt.
‘We’re ahead of
schedule. We can fit it in easily,’ he argued.
‘Shouldn’t we ask permission, or something?’
‘I’ll clear it with them. Have to ring them anyway about the rushes. If you agree.’
He went to the phone in the passageway at the rear of the pub, waited impatiently for the exchange to answer, then put in his daily reverse-charge call to Jimmy Case. It took some time to get through. Jimmy’s voice boomed at him through the crackles saying the rushes looked fine, no problems, up to his usual high standard, and asked how things were going. Matt said he’d no problems either and asked for the call to be transferred to Newsroom.
‘A local scandal that’s just blown up,’ he explained. ‘A late-night swimming party, all starkers, two of them dead and three in hospital. My director wants to know, can Newsroom do with any pictures?’
‘Sounds you’re a bit late on the scene for pictures,’ Jimmy bawled down the line with a bellowing laugh. ‘But I’ll get you transferred.’
Deliberately he hadn’t mentioned the worms because he knew just how they’d react. Jimmy, anyway. ‘It’s a bloody obsession with that man,’ he’d once said. ‘Everywhere he goes he sees worms. Must be bloody Freudian.’
Newsroom answered. No, Al Wilson was out at lunch. What was that? Worms? Two dead? Well, no promises, mind, but as they were on the spot… At first she seemed more interested in the sex angle, but then she said: ‘Worms? But who put them in the swimming pool?’
‘Who puts them anywhere?’ he replied. ‘Get there by themselves, don’t they?’ But as he went back to the table he began to realize she might have a point, something he hadn’t thought of before.
Rodney Smith, still in his shabby raincoat, led the procession of cars in his own battered, snub-nosed Morris Eight. The Cedars turned out to be a medium-sized house set in its own grounds which were cut off from public gaze by a high wall. The gates were open and they drove straight in. Two children, about the same age as Jenny, stood on the grass verge watching them pass. Twins, Matt thought. At one time he and Helen had dreamed of having twins. Just twins. No other children. Then Jenny was born and they forgot about it.