by John Halkin
‘That’s just to whet its appetite,’ Matt threatened. ‘So tell them.’
His hand was steady. The worm didn’t struggle but its jaws opened again as Matt brought it nearer.
‘All right!’ The goon surrendered and told his companions to get to hell out of it, he’d meet them down by the harbour. At first they hesitated, perhaps hoping to see how far Matt would go. Then, one by one, they roared out of the garden and down the lane.
Matt waited till the sound of their engines had died away in the distance. The goon’s eyes were on him, apprehensive. And on the hungry worm in front of his face. Holding it still within an inch of his nose, Matt produced his knife and speared it through the soft skin below the jaw. He felt it slacken as the tip of the blade entered the brain.
Still holding it on the point of his knife, he stepped back. ‘Move,’ he commanded quietly. ‘In future, keep out of my hair.’
The goon didn’t need telling twice. A quick rev of the engine and he shot off clumsily, his rear wheel digging into the ground and throwing up a shower of topsoil before it gripped. Matt watched till he was out of sight before flinging the dead worm from him.
They stayed at the cottage only long enough to tidy up and pack some fresh clothes for Matt. He insisted on being alone while he cleaned the bathroom. The police had taken the dead worms; he could visualize them gingerly placing the remains in labelled polythene packets ready for laboratory reports and the coroner’s court. There’d be a post mortem on Helen too, what was left of her. Her smeared blood had dried on the sides of the bath and on the wall-tiles; it felt sacrilegious to be wiping them away. The bathroom should be left untouched, as a memorial.
But he went over it thoroughly, the way Helen would have wanted. She’d always been a stickler for a clean bathroom. It was almost an act of homage to her.
Fran was ready when he went downstairs again and they left immediately for her flat above the shop. Neither of them spoke. As soon as they arrived he tried to ring Tegwyn Aneurin Rhys while she cooked some lunch. There was no answer.
He’d told her he wasn’t hungry but the smell of the lamb chops sizzling in the pan reminded him he’d taken nothing since the previous evening. His mouth tasted sour; his whole body was aching and tense.
‘What am I going to do about Jenny?’ he asked, mooching around disconsolately as Fran prepared the meal. ‘I’ll have to talk to her, but what can I say?’
The potatoes had boiled long enough. He watched her as she carried the pan to the sink and poured away the scalding water in a great cloud of steam.
‘I’ll ring Frank,’ he decided.
But Frank said in his usual smooth, professional manner that Jenny still refused to see him, which was understandable, wasn’t it? She needs time, old man. In any case, she’d expressed a desire to go to stay with her aunt in Devon and it had all been agreed.
‘I phoned her this morning to explain matters. Couldn’t have been more helpful. Of course she was shocked about her sister’s death and the fact you’d not told her anything, but I was able to smooth things over, I think. We’re driving down there this afternoon.’
Matt was bewildered. The whole thing was out of his hands. He was on the point of protesting that Jenny was his daughter, he should be taking the decisions, but what was the use? If Jenny wanted it that way… So he tried to be gracious and began expressing his thanks, only to be cut short.
‘As your solicitor, old man, I regard it as my duty.’ Frank sounded increasingly pompous. A whiff of the magistrates’ court about him. ‘You’ll be getting my account in due course.’ Before ringing off, he added: ‘I’m surprised you’re not out with one of the parties hunting these worms. It’s a serious problem. In my opinion we’re all in danger.’
Fran put his meal on the table and ordered him to sit down and eat it. The day wasn’t over yet, she pointed out, and they were both going to need all their strength. In her opinion, it would be best for them to leave Westport right away and make for somewhere safe. He told her about Jenny.
‘Best thing for her,’ she commented. ‘You can keep in touch by phone and go to visit her when… Well, when she’s ready for you.’
‘Yes.’
‘Matt…’ She put down her fork and laid her hand over his, ‘I can guess what you must be going through. If you want to… I mean, you’ve only to say the word and I’ll go out of your life completely.’
‘Is that what you’d like?’
‘You know it isn’t. But if it helps…’
He shook his head. ‘No.’
From downstairs came a crash of glass and the sound of raucous voices shouting and laughing. Matt dashed down into the shop in time to see a group of youths and girls running away. They’d smashed the main window with a rock and paint-sprayed the words WORM-LOVERS over the door. Fran looked strained and pale as she surveyed the damage.
‘They’ve taken a handbag and a couple of belts. I’ll phone the police.’
‘Would you like me to?’ he offered.
‘If you want to help, collect the rest of the stock out of the window,’ she instructed him. ‘We don’t want the whole of Westport taking what they please. There are some cardboard cartons in the room at the back.’
But when she put the phone down again she shrugged her shoulders in despair. ‘They say they’ll try to come round later but they’re too busy right now. It was that sergeant again; he’s still on duty. He said one of the hunting parties ran into trouble. Found themselves surrounded; hundreds of worms, he said. One man is dead and three others are in hospital. They’re blaming us.’
‘Why? For Chrissake, why?’ But he knew the answer already.
‘No other town has had them, not in these numbers. Only Westport and the farms around.’
They packed the stock into several cartons, but only the more valuable items, nothing else, and only as much as they thought they could carry in the two cars. Anything made from worm skins, including the belts she’d been working on, they left behind. No point in inviting trouble.
As for clothes, Fran limited herself to one case. While she sorted through her wardrobe Matt made another attempt to contact Tegwyn Aneurin Rhys. The number rang for some time before it was answered.
‘Rhys – yes?’ the voice barked at him, irritated. But when he understood it was Matt his manner changed. ‘Oh, my dear fellow it’s you! Aren’t you watching the Boat Race?’
The question took Matt by surprise. He’d even forgotten it was Saturday. ‘Boat race?’
‘It’s on now.’
Faintly in the background he could hear the TV commentator’s voice. ‘I’m sorry,’ he apologized, and as briefly as possible he explained the situation – Helen’s death, the multiple attacks on Westport, the other deaths, the casualties in hospital. Rhys puctuated his account with expressions of concern and sympathy which sounded very genuine.
‘People here think Westport has been singled out,’ Matt began to explain, ‘because… I think you know.’
‘It’s possible,’ Rhys admitted. ‘’Especially if my theory of their origin is right. Equally, there may be other cases that we don’t yet know about and—’ He broke off. His voice rose almost to a scream of astonishment and horror. ‘Good grief, look at that! On TV, man! Matt, switch your TV on – now!’
17
Aubrey Morgan stood cramped in the back of the Outside Broadcasts van, watching the monitors intently. He felt hot in his yellow waterproof anorak which he’d bought while ski-ing in Switzerland earlier that year; he’d have slipped it off if there’d been room. His glasses were steaming up and tiny beads of sweat were gathering on his scalp under his thinning hair.
Fifty pounds he’d put on the Oxford boat, a token of loyalty to his old university, but Cambridge already led by three lengths.
‘Cambridge are approaching Barnes Bridge now; they have about a mile to go,’ the commentator confirmed, ‘and when they get round Barnes Bridge I expect them to put on the real pressure and try to increase the
ir lead with a really high rate of striking … Oxford are three, no – almost three and a half lengths behind, well over on the Middlesex shore at the moment … and Cambridge are…’
Aubrey clenched his fists and leaned forward towards the small monitors. His fifty pounds was disappearing before his very eyes. The next commentator took up the story.
‘… and Cambridge are making for the centre arch of Barnes Bridge, the white flag is up … and as they shoot past Barnes Bridge their time is… Yes, they’re through, the flag is down! Fifteen minutes ten seconds, no record again this year, and Oxford is a good twelve seconds behind… There’s something in the water just behind the Cambridge boat!’
‘Get a close-up of it, quick!’ Aubrey snapped in the van.
The cameraman on Barnes Bridge responded immediately. He let the boat go out of frame and zoomed in on the object. The picture on the monitor became hazy for a split second as he adjusted the focus.
‘Looks like a … periscope?’ Bill Hayes, the director who was also doing the vision mixing, held his fingers poised above the buttons, ready to punch it up to transmission. ‘Two of ’em!’
‘Stay with them,’ Aubrey instructed.
The Great British Public could not see them yet. The transmission monitor still showed the Cambridge boat. Their rate of stroke had faltered as the crew, all but the cox, saw their Oxford rivals heading straight for the giant worms.
Aubrey was calm and fully in control of himself. He waited as the Oxford boat entered the frame, cutting through the water towards the worms, before giving his command: ‘Okay, let the world see it!’
The worms seemed to rise out of the water and throw themselves across the boat, each curling around its chosen victim. The long oars which only seconds before had been gracefully and rhythmically dipping in and out of the water in unison were now in disarray like split matchsticks. Even on the small monitors in the O.B. van it was obvious the worms were making no attempt to kill their victims but were tearing off mouthfuls of raw flesh from their thighs and arms.
Bill stumbled out of the director’s seat, his face ashen, and staggered to the door of the van to be sick outside. Aubrey slipped into his place. He told the helicopter to get as low as possible over the scene. The flotilla of boats which always followed the race were obscuring the sight-lines. The Oxford boat had sunk and the men were struggling in the water, but the Barnes Bridge camera only caught the occasional glimpse of them. He cut to the commentator on one of the launches with the order: ‘Keep talking. Tell us what’s happening, however sick you feel.’
The camera on board the helicopter showed two men jumping into the water from a launch to help the Oxford crew. One died immediately as a worm bit into his throat; his blood spread around him. But the second managed to offer some assistance to the cox, Dick Simmonds, and another Aubrey couldn’t recognize.
‘… and they’re being pulled on board now,’ the commentator was saying, ‘and I think they’re … yes, it’s Phil Smith and the cox, Dick Simmonds… I’ll see if I can have a word with them later on but in the meantime down there in the river there are still at least four men alive. The water is stained with blood and the worms … three of them now, or four maybe, yes … yes, I think it’s four worms feeding on the bodies of those unfortunate crew members … the Oxford crew … and this is a Boat Race which has ended in total disaster … and I can’t… I can’t go on.’
Aubrey expected no congratulations over the broadcast but he knew he was right. Worms, earthquakes, wars, hurricanes, riots… No one wanted disasters, but it was television’s role to report them whenever they happened and that’s all he’d done. He remembered Mary Keating’s fear of causing a nation-wide panic if they transmitted the film of Matt Parker being attacked by worms in the London sewers; much smaller worms they’d been, too, unlike these monsters in the Thames. But if people panicked, he’d put that on the screen as well.
He made his way through the excited crowds to the side-street where he’d parked his light green Lotus. No sign of panic among these folk. They might almost have enjoyed watching the worms demolish the Oxford boat, like ancient Romans in the Colosseum eager to see the lions crunching their way through that week’s supply of Christians.
Two boys stood by his car, admiring it. He murmured a faint ‘Excuse me’ as he pushed between them to open the door and drop into the driving seat. Before pulling away from the kerb he let them hear a burst from the purring engine, just to whet their appetites.
The main road was jammed solid with traffic, though the police were keeping one lane clear for the ambulances whose sirens screamed urgently as they approached. Impatiently, Aubrey turned into another residential street, roared down it as far as the intersection, and took the next road on the right. At one time he’d had a flat round these parts and he still remembered the short cuts.
Back at Television Hall he checked on the latest situation report. Three of the Oxford crew had died, as well as the man who’d jumped in to rescue them. Of the others, two were badly injured. They’d all been taken to hospital and a bulletin would be issued shortly. Farther up-river at Richmond a boy angler had been attacked on the river bank; passers-by had gone to his aid and killed the worm, but the boy was dead by the time the ambulance arrived.
Other reports of incidents involving worms were coming in from several different parts of the country. A Cambidge undergraduate had taken his girl-friend for an outing in a punt; she’d trailed her hand in the water and it had been bitten off. An actress at the Shakespeare Memorial Theatre at Stratford had decided on an early morning dip in the Avon; her chewed-up remains were discovered two hours later drifting by the river bank. Two families living on houseboats on a canal near Droitwich had found they’d unintentionally caught some worms when they’d filled their buckets with water for washing-up. Both suffered minor injuries – bitten hands, arms and legs. One of the women lost a thumb.
The worst-hit area was the seaside town of Westport. According to the news telex, it had suffered ‘a plague of worms’ during the past twenty-four hours and the casualties included several dead as well as many in hospital. The people of the town had organized worm-hunting patrols to try to exterminate the menace, but they’d discovered such large concentrations of worms they had given up. The authorities had just announced the town was to be evacuated.
Westport…
Thinking it over, Aubrey remembered vaguely that Matt Parker had gone to live there. Or somewhere with a similar name. Maybe he’d have some film…
He rang Al Wilson, Head of News, who told him a news team was already on its way to Westport.
‘But that’s not the only seaside place,’ he added grimly. ‘It’s the worst so far, but God knows what tonight will bring. They’ve been seen in practically every part of the country – Scarborough, St Andrews, Chichester, Newton Ferrers, St Ives, Polperro, Blackpool, Morecambe, Troon … you name it! Since the Boat Race the lines have been jammed with calls. Every two-bit journalist in the country thinking his story’s the only one. We’re trying to get a statement out of the Home Office, but they’ve clammed up on us. Won’t even tell us where the Minister’s spending the week-end. As for the Ministry of Agriculture, they’ve closed shop till Monday.’
‘You’d better keep me in touch,’ Aubrey said, and gave him the address where he’d be staying for the night. ‘Carole’s engagement party. I promised to be there.’
‘Carole?’
‘My secretary. They’re making an honest woman of her.’
‘Must be a brave man,’ Al commented. ‘Like marrying an iceberg.’
‘All fire underneath, I can assure you,’ Aubrey smirked, and added: ‘You’ll not forget to get in touch if there’s anything important?’
Tall, slender Carole, daughter of a retired major-general with a hush-hush background in military intelligence, had become – or rather, was to become that evening – engaged to a muscular, rugger-playing investment-trust manager with talent for making money. He had an impe
ccable background, of course; no doubt he’d end up in the House of Lords one day, if he didn’t kill himself hang-gliding or skin-diving first.
The engagement party was to be at her uncle’s place in Kent. Aubrey went to his flat in Chelsea to change into evening clothes before driving down there. He chose his dark blue dinner suit with a pale frilled shirt. If anything, he told himself as he checked his appearance in the mirror, he felt flattered that she’d asked him. Their relationship had been … ambiguous. But not without its moments. From time to time. She was one of those girls who administer their private lives with the same cool efficiency as they run the office.
She’d given him precise instructions on how to reach The Priory and he followed them implicitly. As he pulled up on the drive she came down the wide steps towards him and pointed out where he was to park. Her evening dress was a long sheath of olive green, and she looked elegant in it.
The sound of laughter and conversation filled the house. Aubrey murmured something complimentary, pressed her hand, kissed her cheek, and then she opened the double doors and led him into the main room to introduce him around. Clearly he was one of the last of the expected guests to arrive. Eyes turned towards him and looked puzzled till someone – maybe it was the Fiancé – mentioned the word ‘television’. Recognition. Questions, which he answered suavely as usual, sipping his gin.
A voice said, ‘The Boat Race.’ A shock-wave surged through the room. More questions – he’d been there, hadn’t he? Wasn’t it terrifying? But what were these creatures? Was anyone safe from them? And those poor men in the boat, what must their families be going through? But what was the Government thinking of, letting these things live in the rivers? They’d been seen in other places too, hadn’t they? It wasn’t safe any more to go skin-diving, or water-skiing, or anything.
Carole allowed the topic full rein before intervening. She managed her parties as she managed everything else in her life. Taking Aubrey’s hand and drawing him out of the circle of people surrounding him, she announced: ‘There’s someone I want you to meet. Her name’s Lady Cynthia, and I invited her specially for you.’