Slither

by John Halkin

  He smiled at her, agreeing, but holding her arm to prevent her putting her hand in to stroke it. The worm regarded them both lazily, opened its mouth to display its teeth, then curled and slid away in an elaborate figure-of-eight to the far side of the tank. Its long back rippled and twinkled with every imaginable shade of incandescent green and purple. Jenny caught her breath with excitement.

  ‘Oh, I love them!’ she exclaimed, her eyes bright with pleasure. ‘If only Mummy weren’t so afraid of them! And they’re so intelligent! I’m sure they understand every word we say. Where do you think they come from?’

  ‘Where do we all come from? We’re all part of nature, aren’t we?’

  ‘Mm…’

  14

  Helen went down to the main shed reluctantly, hating what she had to do. It was eight o’clock in the evening and still not dark yet, though the pale moving clouds were tinged with red. A sudden breeze had sprung up, swaying the masses of daffodils; it was unexpectedly chilly after the warm spring day.

  Matt had said he’d not be able to get back from London that night. A business deal with a lot of money involved – more skins, she supposed – so would she mind feeding the worms just this once? Jenny had been invited out to a birthday party, otherwise she’d have done it gladly.

  Mind? Of course she minded. The mere sight of them turned her stomach. That glowing greenish-purple colour. The ripples as they moved. Their eyes.

  Time and time again she’d told Matt they were his concern, she was having nothing to do with them, if she had her way she’d incinerate them in their own tanks. So why had she weakened once more? Why?

  He’d left everything ready. The specially-constructed boxes he’d designed himself, each clearly marked, were stacked in order on the rough trolley he’d knocked together out of that discarded pram they found on the rubbish tip. He certainly worked hard, no one could fault him on that score. The hours he put in, the labour… Those worms were never out of his mind. At meal-times, while watching TV, even in bed. It was eerie, verging on madness.

  As she pushed the trolley down the uneven path the ‘food’ suddenly came to life, scratching and scrambling inside the boxes. Helen shuddered. Right at the very beginning she’d argued with him about it, voiced her objections. But he hadn’t listened. Pigheaded.

  Biting her lip nervously she unlocked the shed door and went inside, easing the trolley over the step. Even before she switched on the light she sensed the quick stir of interest in the worm tanks. Sensed rather than heard. She was convinced they had known she was coming and consciously waited for her – silently. That threatening silence inside the shed.

  ‘Well, here’s your food! Here it is!’ she called out, trying to reassure herself with the sound of her own voice. And failing. They knew all about her. Her fear. Her loathing of them. They weren’t taken in.

  She started with the first of the tanks on the wide shelf down the left-hand side of the shed, the glass aquarium where he kept the smallest worms, no more than three or four inches long. Already they were emerging from the murky water at the bottom and oozing up the smooth rocks he’d placed there; raising their heads, rhythmically waving them from side to side, trying to fix her with their tiny pinhead eyes. But she averted her gaze as she took the uppermost box from the trolley and placed it sideways over the tank, slotting the top edges of the glass walls into the grooves.

  When it was firmly in position she opened the catch and drew out the sliding bottom of the box. The two mice inside squealed in alarm and protest; a panic-stricken scratching as they tried to cling to the walls; then they dropped down to the waiting worms. One landed in the water, the other on the largest of the rocks. More tiny screams and scurrying as they tried to save themselves from the sharp teeth.

  Sickened, she turned away and went to the next tank. It was much bigger, made of sheet metal, and in the bottom was an evil-smelling mixture of stale water, rotting vegetation and rocks which Matt had collected from the seashore. In the semi-darkness the worms’ skins glowed; their eyes seemed to seek hers. She retched, and it was all she could do to prevent herself vomiting into the tank.

  Hurriedly she lifted up the next box and fitted it into place. Then the catch … and the slide. The same frightened squeals from the mice – three of them this time – and the same helpless panic.

  ‘Nature red in tooth and claw,’ Matt had always quoted whenever she accused him of cruelty. ‘It’s their natural food. That’s the way all animals live.’

  ‘But in the wild some at least manage to escape,’ she’d told him fiercely. ‘They’re not sacrificed callously, with no way out, to die in terror.’

  ‘Aren’t they?’ he’d shouted back at her on that occasion, slapping his hand down on the table. ‘Aren’t they? Look at that hand! Look at my face! I know what it’s like to be hunted for food. Remember?’

  And she hadn’t answered, not knowing what to say.

  An agonized high-pitched squeal from one of the mice brought her back to her senses. From the two remaining boxes on the trolley came the sounds of violent but useless attempts to escape. They’d never be able to break through however long they scraped at the wood.

  At the third and largest tank on that side of the shed she went through the same routine again, heaving the heavier box on to the top, making sure it was properly in place, then opening the slide to release the living food. She didn’t stop to watch, but turned to the biggest tank of all on the right-hand side.

  It was a long, deep metal bath covered with safety-frames of heavy wire mesh. This was the tank she feared most. The worms in it were like fully-grown snakes, and at this size they were no longer repulsive but dangerously attractive. Their colouring was more delicate, their movements over the rocks graceful, even elegant. Their eyes too lacked some of the hardness of the smaller worms. They enticed – beckoned…

  As she undid the clips at the edges of the frame she became uncomfortably aware that silence had returned to the shed, an ominous silence. Even the poor miserable animals inside the food box were absolutely still. It was as though every living creature was holding its breath, waiting… watching.

  ‘Don’t be stupid!’ she told herself, speaking aloud. Her words seemed to hang on the air, rejected.

  She grasped the heavy wooden frame at both ends, ready to lift it. Then she noticed, just beneath the mesh, two eyes regarding her sympathetically – and invitingly. She quivered, held by them. The head swayed gently. The long body lay supported against the side of the tank, draped like an expensive scarf in a Knightsbridge shop. She wanted to reach in and touch it, feel its silky smoothness beneath her fingers, stroke it. The urge was so strong, she was on the point of surrendering to it and was tugging the frame to one side when her hand slipped along the edge and—

  ‘Damn!’ She sucked her injured finger; the splinter had penetrated deep under the skin. It was nothing too tragic but enough to break the spell of those eyes. The worm, too, acknowledged defeat and slunk back to the bottom.

  ‘You’re not going to catch me like that again!’ she swore at it.

  With a quick impatient movement she swung the frame out of the way and dumped the food box into position. She had to shift it around a little before the grooves engaged, but Matt’s design was accurate. The box exactly fitted the space left by the frame. She flicked open the catch and jerked the slide out.

  One by one the rabbits dropped into the long tank: scared little creatures with long ears and pink eyes. They crouched there, quivering and twitching, making no attempt to escape as the worms darted at them from all directions, biting through their fur, ruthlessly tearing at the nearest portion of living meat. They didn’t kill their victims, nor even attempt to subdue them, but savaged the bleeding flesh remorselessly, gulping down each mouthful.

  Helen made for the door, slamming it shut behind her and locking it the moment she was outside. Her stomach heaved. She swallowed great mouthfuls of air. Then, unable to stop herself, she was violently sick.


  The quick sweat felt cold on her skin. The garden fence shifted and dissolved before her eyes. Her hand found a corner of the shed to lean against as she coughed everything up, desperately struggling not to faint.

  At last the spasm was over and she was able to stand up straight again. Her eyes cleared, her head ached, and her mouth tasted sour. She went back up the garden path towards the house. The wind-blown daffodils brushed against her legs, startling her; for a moment she saw them as a mass of yellow worms swaying towards her and she almost broke into a run in her need to get to the kitchen door.

  Once inside, she shot the bolt top and bottom, then turned the key before rinsing out her mouth and splashing handfuls of cold water on to her face.

  Oh, that was the last time she’d ever go near those worms. She’d never do it again. If Matt wasn’t around to feed them, let them starve to death. She knew she hadn’t completed the job. She should have replaced the slides, collected up the boxes and loaded them on to the trolley before withdrawing quietly in order not to excite the worms, switching off the light behind her. Yes, she knew the routines all right, but she hadn’t done them. She’d left everything lying there in her panic to get out. The light on too.

  He’d grumble at her when he got home. Give her a lecture on how worms only flourished in the dark, how the glands controlling their luminosity became sluggish in the light. And luminous skins fetched the best prices.

  Yes, and he’d say it all so gently, carefully explaining every point as though talking to a child, spelling it out step by step till she felt like throwing something at him. But what good would that do? He’d only look at her with hurt in his eyes and later, in an intimate moment, he’d ask where it had all gone wrong, their marriage, and she’d lie to him that nothing was wrong between them; he was over tired, that was all. Over sensitive.

  Not true, though. No, not true.

  She fetched the whisky from the living room and poured a generous slug, drinking it neat to settle the queasiness of her stomach. Slowly it did its work. She poured another, then sat at the kitchen table and looked down at her clothes. The vomit had splashed over her shoes. On her tights, too, and the hem of her skirt.

  No, it was not true. Things she did irritated him; that was only too obvious, though he tried to hide it. Little things, like the way she scratched her nose while trying to work something out, or left her comb in the bathroom full of strands of blonde hair, or used whichever toothbrush happened to be lying there, even if it wasn’t hers.

  Yet in the early years they’d always shared their toothbrush. It was hard to imagine now how they’d delighted in each other’s body: her excitement at his touch, his face eager and open. Not withdrawn and absentminded, not in those days.

  She kicked off her shoes and peeled down her tights to rinse them through in the sink. No worms then, not anywhere. No one had ever heard of them, let alone thought of keeping them in a shed at the bottom of the garden. The sight of it through the window made her shudder; gooseflesh spread over her arms.

  After hanging up the tights, she took off her skirt to try and clean off the vomit stains. Then, impatiently, she rolled it up and threw it in a corner. That acrid smell caught in her throat. She wanted to strip everything off, stand for hours under the shower and let it wash away all trace of the worms.

  In the bedroom, she took more whisky, leaving the bottle on the dressing-table. She’d protested to him about the worms, then always weakened because it was his obsession. His living. His pride at the way it was all working out.

  ‘Matt,’ she whispered involuntarily. ‘Oh Matt…’

  She sat on the edge of the bed, her elbows on her knees, holding her glass with both hands curled around it. They’d all predicted it would go wrong: her friends at the time, her sister… It was too improbable, they’d told her – Helen, at the tail-end of a stale affair with the producer she worked for, falling in love with an over-tall, shy, awkward camera assistant who turned out to be a virgin the first time she took him to bed.

  Not that she’d minded that part. She’d even felt flattered, wished she could return the compliment. And it was a compliment, as she tried to tell him while they lay naked in each other’s arms. He’d flushed with embarrassment and she’d sensed his shame, confusion and happiness all inextricably mixed up together.

  Emptying her glass she stood up to get more, then changed her mind and undressed for her shower. In front of the mirror she paused and examined her body critically, as though the secret of how their love died might be found in that rounder stomach, or the heavier hips. She no longer had that lithe, girlish figure, but she was still attractive surely? The lines were softer, the breasts fuller… Men still looked at her.

  But it wasn’t a physical thing, not only. What had gone was that unbelievable sense of belonging together, being made solely for each other to the exclusion of the rest of the world. If that could come back… But how? Never while he remained so taken up with those worms.

  She turned abruptly away from the mirror and went into the bathroom. At least the shower was working efficiently since he’d fixed it. Pulling the waterproof curtain across, she adjusted the flow of water before stepping into the bath and letting it pour over her. Its force against the back of her neck and shoulders slowly released the tensions. She abandoned herself to it.

  After some minutes she began to soap her body, moving her hands sensuously over her skin … her arms … sides … ribs … breasts … the way his hands used to in those first months when they took their shower together.

  ‘Oh, Matt…’

  He’d been so ambitious at that time, talking about the sort of films he dreamed of shooting, critical of his own work but optimistic. But then the opportunities had gone to others, and with them the international prizes, the recognition he so desperately needed. He’d been left behind. Of course he’d said nothing, never spoke about it, but bottled it all up inside himself.

  And now the worms. Even under the warm water, caressing and comforting her as it washed the soap away, she couldn’t help shivering as she thought of them. What were they doing to him? That fanatical look in his eyes whenever he enthused about them, the look verging on madness. They had such a hold on him; she couldn’t even bring herself to be jealous of that woman with the shop – Fran or whatever her name was. She couldn’t even imagine he was being unfaithful to her. They probably sat there and talked worms – for hours on end, nothing but worms.

  A plan began to form in her mind. It would mean going back inside the shed for one last time. She’d need extra paraffin, several gallons of it, but that would be no problem; she could hide the cans under the tarpaulin at the side of the house. Then a generous dose in each tank, splash it over the floor and up the walls, throw in some extra wood – the logs he’d cut which they hadn’t used after all – and old newspapers. And the worms would know what she was about. They’d watch her. She’d have to avoid their eyes.

  Then the quick roar of the flames as they surged through the entire shed, licked up the walls and along the shelves, until whoosh… whoosh … whoosh… the tanks ignited, each one separately…

  She bent down under the shower to soap her legs with the rich white scented lather, and the water splashed on her back and streamed down off her shoulders Ever since they’d moved into the cottage he’d been going to fix that plug-hole, a round yawning outlet with no little chrome grid in it to prevent things falling through.

  At that moment, as she stooped, she saw two hard little eyes looking up at her.

  ‘No!’ She caught her breath in a quick gasp of fear and stepped back.

  Then she told herself it must be imagination, a trick of the light. Worms couldn’t possibly ooze their way up inside a narrow drainpipe – or could they? She forced herself to look again.

  Purposefully and calmly, the worm was emerging from the plug-hole. It lay there on the white enamel of the bath, staring at her without moving.

  Helen knew she mustn’t panic. She worked out what she must
do: draw the shower curtain aside, step out of the bath carefully, quietly – no quick unexpected movements which might upset it…

  The curtain was slippery with soapy water and her fingers couldn’t get a grip on it. It seemed ridiculous, but her hand slid over it. She backed towards the rear end of the bath.

  ‘It’s fear,’ she told herself, ‘and I mustn’t show it. I can’t close my hand but the worm mustn’t know that. Once they realize you’re afraid…’

  A second worm was wriggling up through the plug-hole. It lay alongside the first and they both watched her.

  ‘Stay there,’ she begged them, ‘Oh, please, stay there. Don’t come any closer.’

  With a great effort of will she grasped the shower curtain, but the wet plastic material seemed to cling to her arm and hamper her. She wanted to pull it out of the way, yet she seemed paralysed. A third worm had appeared at the plug-hole; the first two started slithering along the bottom of the bath towards her.

  Desperately she tugged at the curtain; it ripped, falling down in folds around her. She struggled to escape from it, then felt her foot slipping on the soapy bath. Her arms waved wildly as she tried to regain her balance.

  As she half fell, half slid into the bath, the first worm buried its teeth into the full flesh of her inner thigh. She shrieked in agony and tried to pull it away, but at the same moment the second worm began to feed hungrily on her calf.

  ‘No … no … no, don’t!’ she sobbed as she tried to defend herself, still thrashing around in the folds of the shower curtain. ‘I shan’t do it, I shan’t burn you, I promise…’

  Once again she felt the first worm’s sharp teeth as it moved higher up her thigh. But there were more worms now. God, where were they all coming from? They squirmed all over her legs, her abdomen, taking their time as they selected parts they fancied. Hysterically she screamed for mercy, begged them, as though they could understand her.

  Then one moved between her legs. She covered her vagina with her hand, shuddering with terror. ‘No, not there, not there!’ The worm bit into her wrist and another joined it, moving down over her belly.