Slither

by John Halkin

  ‘I’d not put it past you.’ He imagined a dowager aunt who needed to be flattered. ‘One of your family?’

  Carole smiled her usual superior smile but didn’t answer. She took him to the far end of the room. ‘There she is, by the fireplace. Lady Cynthia. She’s longing to meet you.’

  She was in her early twenties, short in comparison with Carole, and deeply sun-tanned. Her face was puckish and lovely; her eyes wrinkled as she smiled, holding out her hand to take his. Although her long, auburn hair had been elaborately arranged for the evening, it looked as though it should really be floating freely over her brown shoulders. She wore a flimsy dress which barely concealed her nipples.

  ‘She’s just back from the Bahamas, lucky thing!’ Carole was saying. ‘I’ll leave you two together.’

  Aubrey stammered a few polite remarks, lost for words. So this is what Carole had planned for him – a consolation prize! Lady Cynthia seemed to be laughing at his embarrassment.

  ‘Oh, drop the “Lady”, please!’ she told him. ‘That’s just Carole’s joke.’

  ‘Not genuine?’

  ‘Yes, it’s genuine okay, but I don’t like people calling me that.’

  ‘You’re an actress,’ he guessed. She had the starlet look about her. Topless in St Tropez.

  ‘Research student. I’m doing a doctorate at Edinburgh. In mediaeval history.’

  ‘Dressed like that?’

  Carole had arranged that they sat next to each other at dinner. They pretended to be surprised when they saw the place cards, laughed, sat down, and continued the conversation. From time to time he became aware that the Fiancé was looking pointedly in his direction, but he ignored him. Whatever Carole was up to, for once Aubrey didn’t mind. When the time came for the announcement of the engagement and the toasts, Cynthia was telling him about the dissolution of the monasteries and he was listening intently. What was more, she hadn’t once asked him how she could get into television; that was refreshing.

  They danced together most of the evening, hardly giving a thought to anyone else. The band had their amplifiers turned up to full volume and the sound was deafening. Occasionally they mouthed words to each other but then gave up, laughing. Once or twice the thought of the worms entered Aubrey’s mind; some extensive coverage would be necessary, interviews with the victims in their hospital beds, dig up the material he’d prepared when Matt Parker had his set-to in the sewers… But all that was really a problem for Monday morning. He grinned at Cynthia and pretended to mop his brow.

  ‘Hot?’ she bawled against the steady thump-thump-thump of the music.

  It was cooler out on the terrace. They perched on the stone balustrade with their drinks. The ruins of the old priory appeared almost ghostly in the moonlight. Cynthia said she planned to explore them in the morning, she’d been told there was a section of wall dating back to the Anglo-Saxon period with a cross and runic lettering carved into one of the stones.

  ‘Probably a Holy Place long before Christianity,’ she commented. ‘That may have been why they built the first church here.’

  The heavy sound of the music pumped out through the open windows. Over in a corner of the room some horseplay was going on – they couldn’t see what – and there was loud laughter. Aubrey made some remark about it being the last wild party before civilization crumbled, and started talking about the worms. Seriously.

  ‘They’re in every river all over the country. Every stream. And they’re spreading. Soon we’ll not be able to go near a drain, or even step over a gutter in the street, without being in danger. Even your own bathroom at home, or your kitchen. That cameraman, Matt Parker – I did him an injustice. He was right.’ Another crazy burst of laughter from indoors. ‘Let them celebrate while there’s still time.’

  He was surprising himself. Up till that moment he’d thought only in terms of programmes. His job was to report. Put the facts before people. But now – perhaps it was the moonlight, or he’d had too much to drink – he saw it all differently.

  ‘Surely we can get rid of them somehow,’ she objected. They were sitting close together on the balustrade. Her voice was low.

  ‘I’m not so certain.’

  ‘We exterminate other – well, rodents.’

  ‘It’s a much bigger problem. People will have to change their habits, take a lot more care, no swimming, no strolling around. And the Government will need extra powers which it may not want to give up afterwards.’

  ‘What kind of powers?’

  ‘They’ve already evacuated one town. By tomorrow morning maybe there’ll be another.’

  She didn’t answer. It was getting chilly but neither of them made a move to go inside again. They sat there, toying with their empty glasses, staring at the moonlit ruins through the trees. Suddenly she stood up.

  ‘Let’s offer them a sacrifice!’ Her face was mischievous; she held out her hand to him. ‘This is a Holy Place, isn’t it, where our ancestors came when they were in trouble? And it’s full moon tonight.’ She deepened her voice mysteriously, teasing him. ‘Maybe there’s something down there in need of a prayer or two.’

  He laughed and allowed her to pull him up. ‘D’you really believe that?’

  She shook her head. ‘I believe in neutrons, electrons, and radio-carbon dating,’ she informed him; then wrinkled her eyes at him. ‘But it’s worth a try. Come on! I wanted to see the place anyway.’

  Her car was parked on the drive just below the terrace and she stopped to get the torch out of the glove compartment. In her eagerness she half-ran down the sloping lawn towards the gaunt, broken walls of the priory. As they got closer he caught a glimpse of water.

  ‘The old fish pond,’ she explained when he pointed it out. ‘They went in for fish farming, those old monks.’

  Enough remained of the main walls of the church to make them drop their voices. Part of the pointed gothic arch of the main window was still in place, sharply outlined against the sky. They stood quietly for a moment, staring up at it, then drew closer together, his arm slipped around her shoulders, and they kissed. At length she broke away from him and looked at his face almost seriously.

  ‘Now you’ve pledged yourself to me,’ she said, mockingly. ‘This is consecrated ground, and with that kiss—’

  ‘I thee cherish,’ he interrupted her lightly. ‘Let’s find the writing on the wall.’

  She shivered. ‘What a way to put it!’

  They walked over the grass down the main body of the church towards what must once have been the high altar. Now only a couple of fallen slabs marked the place. He sensed her mood changing; she was becoming more tense. In the corner was an arched doorway hidden in shadow. She played the torchlight over it. Worn stone steps led down into the darkness, broken and uneven.

  ‘It’s a section of the crypt which was excavated only ten or fifteen years ago,’ she whispered. ‘And that’s where they found the stone with the carvings. I’ll go down first. I hope you don’t mind spiders.’

  There were more steps that he’d imagined and they began to curve, with one or two sharp corners. She moved very slowly ahead of him, aiming the torchlight so they could both see where they were putting their feet. Steadying himself against the side wall his hand became tangled in a cobweb which clung to his fingers; trying to get rid of it, he dislodged a pebble which bounced down the steps, echoing hollowly, till suddenly it stopped. His ears strained against the sudden silence. Was that a scratching he heard? Or merely his imagination?

  Her hand groped over his body, feeling for his. ‘You all right?’ she breathed.

  ‘Yes. And you?’

  The sound of their voices seemed to spread and dissolve in the emptiness.

  They continued down the crumbling steps, one by one, till they ended in front of a low arch. She went through, then exclaimed in surprise; he followed, grazing his hand painfully against the stonework. The air smelled damp. Something scurried away in a far corner, he couldn’t see what.

  It was a l
ong, narrow chamber with a floor and walls made of great stone slabs. A broad shaft of moonlight flooded in from above, illuminating a ledge cut into the end wall; above it, also carved in the stone, was a cross set in a circle. The runic signs were beneath it, faint and time-worn.

  For a long time she stood silently before it, holding his hand tightly. ‘Don’t you feel this is a Holy Place?’ she said at last. ‘Perhaps at first, thousands of years ago, it was just a grove, a fissure in the rocks. Early human beings came here, experienced that sense of awe and mystery… I thought we might make love down here, but it’s too sacred. Isn’t it?’

  As she turned to look up at him, her face earnest in the moonlight, he stooped to kiss her but she twisted away. Then a gasp; she backed against him. Lying in a patch of moonlight on the stone floor, its head raised, watching them intently, was a large worm. Its deep green skin seemed to glow in the dim light. He reckoned it was about a yard long, its body elegantly curved and coiled.

  ‘That’s what you were talking about,’ she whispered, her voice trembling only slightly. She picked up the torch from the ledge. ‘D’you think there are more?’

  She swept the torch beam around the long, narrow room, into the darker corners not reached by the moonlight, and they counted six worms all staring in their direction.

  ‘Oh, Christ!’ The words burst from her lips; she was terrified. The torchlight wavered, then she switched it off. ‘Oh, Christ, what are we going to do?’

  Aubrey tried to say something, but the spittle rasped in his throat and he couldn’t speak the words. Those twisting stone steps were the only entrance to this chamber – the other hadn’t been excavated – and to get there they’d have to pass two of the worms.

  ‘We…’ The words wouldn’t come. He shook his head as if to shake the fear out of his brain. His stomach cramped up and he found it hard to breathe.

  The worm in the patch of moonlight moved. It slithered towards them across the stone slabs with an effortless grace, then stopped again. Its eyes were hard, betraying nothing. In spite of himself Aubrey stared at them. He was gulping the air, swallowing, gasping for breath.

  He felt Cynthia tugging at his sleeve. ‘Lift me,’ she begged, ‘lift me on to the altar where they can’t reach.’

  She meant the ledge cut into the wall. He tried to help her, despising himself for his own cowardice, forcing himself to breathe more slowly. His arms shook as he grasped her to take some of her weight; but she was halfway up already and she managed to scramble on to it.

  ‘There’s room for you too,’ she said.

  ‘No.’

  The ledge was narrow and she sat on it with her legs drawn up, her knees touching her chin. In that skimpy dress she looked only too exposed. A sacrifice – that’s what she’d said, wasn’t it? He took the torch from her. It was the only weapon they had, that and his bare hands. When they’d attacked Mary Keating he’d plucked them off her and killed them with a mere flick of his fingers. But they’d been small, no longer than earth worms; these were the size of rattlesnakes. More of them now, too. In a circle around him. Watching.

  ‘Cy—’ His mouth was dry and he knew he was shaking. It would be different if he could lash out at them with his fists, if they were something solid he could hit. But these long, ribbonlike things wriggling towards him, the movement passing like waves down their sinister green bodies, getting closer to his feet, his legs… It was a re-run of every nightmare he’d ever had.

  One of them touched him. Reared up and lashed into him, its teeth missing his flesh but tearing his trouser leg at knee level. He recoiled. The edge of the altar hit the small of his back. The bile rose inside him and he spewed.

  The nearest worm caught the full force of the vomit. It’s mouth opened as if it enjoyed the stuff. The sight of it caused Aubrey’s stomach to heave again. Once more he retched, and once more the worms advanced.

  Somewhere, he thought distantly as they bit into the calves of his legs, he’d heard they didn’t attack through clothing. That was wrong. He wondered at the way his mind functioned with an apparently cool logicality while they gnawed at him. Certainly he was screaming, he could hear himself, and lashing out with the torch, trying to batter their brains out, but inside – in the very eye of his dying – was a calm centre.

  The pain was intense at first as their teeth found his flesh, but then it began to slip away. He was lying on the hard stone floor and one of the worms was coiled over his eyes, feeding on his cheek. Somewhere he could hear Cynthia sobbing – or was it Carole? – and he wanted to say her name. If only he could have had her on that ledge-like altar beneath the Saxon cross. Fertility ritual by the light of the full spring moon … moon … moon…

  A scream bounced around the excavated walls of that death chamber, coming closer, a shrill scream – not his – penetrating his ears like hot needles. Something struggling and heavy fell across him, writhing in agony, screeching as her flesh was torn and their blood mingled. As they’d wanted to mingle, he thought. As they’d wanted to.

  18

  On board the fast Royal Navy command craft, Matt scanned the Westport quayside through his binoculars but saw no sign of life. The evacuations had obviously been thorough. Normally on a day like this there would be a good scattering of people about. The fresh breeze put white crests on the waves and caused the neglected sailing dinghies to bob up and down at their moorings. The fishing nets on the harbour walls were equally unattended, the roads deserted.

  ‘Can’t see any worms,’ he reported, shouting against the breeze.

  ‘Let’s put in!’ Tegwyn Aneurin Rhys called back. His bald head was sun-tanned and his fringe of grey hair stuck out even more wildly than usual. ‘If we can’t get as far as your house we might at least reach the shop. You said you keep some of your pictures there.’

  The bronzed, bearded lieutenant gave the order and the boat began to edge forward again. He’d shown no curiosity about his two civilian guests; in fact, he’d hardly spoken at all.

  Matt and Fran had left Westport the previous Saturday afternoon before the police had decided on evacuation, so they’d missed the long traffic jams. On arrival at the Old Rectory they’d found an official black Rover 3500 parked in the drive. Rhys had bustled out to greet them with firm handshakes and the comment that he was tied up for the moment, so could they look after themselves for an hour or so?

  He’d shown them upstairs to a large room containing a wide marital bed and a couple of thousand books. Fran declared Matt could read if he liked; she was going to soak in the bath. Then, only a few seconds later, she’d unexpectedly reappeared, a towel in her hand. She’d stood uncertainly in the doorway.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ he’d asked.

  ‘I’m scared to.’ All the colour had gone from her face. ‘I’ve remembered Helen. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to have a bath again.’

  She’d contented herself with a wash while he kept guard, just in case. If Rhys agreed, he thought, he’d fit wire mesh over all the outlets.

  Two hours later they’d heard voices in the hall as Rhys said goodbye to his guests. Car doors slammed discreetly. Wheels crunched gently over the gravel as the Rover 3500 pulled away.

  Rhys had come bounding up the stairs, apologizing profusely. ‘Of course, I’ve known the Minister since we were both at Cambridge,’ he’d explained. His Alsatian had looked up at him with understanding eyes, then sat down to scratch itself. ‘The situation’s serious. Reports of worm attacks are coming in from all over the country, especially seaside places and rivers. The Prime Minister intends to seek powers from the House of Commons on Monday to declare an official State of Emergency. Several areas are being evacuated already. The army’s been using flame-throwers in an attempt to contain the menace but, as I told the Minister, we need to know a lot more about these worms if we’re not to be completely overrun. A scientific advisory committee has been established under Professor Jones.’

  ‘But he’s never seen one alive!’ Matt had exclaim
ed.

  Rhys had grinned. ‘Wait for it, Matt. I’ve involved you two. You’re to give evidence. We’re going to need all the film you took, the still photographs, everything.’

  As their craft moved alongside, a young rating – he couldn’t have been twenty years old – jumped smartly ashore and tied up. For a few seconds no one else moved. Westport seemed unnaturally empty and quiet. The masts of the yachts and fishing boats swayed in a strange, gaunt dance. Rows of gulls sat on the telephone wires.

  ‘Risk it?’ asked Matt uneasily.

  ‘It’s what we came for.’ Rhys turned to the lieutenant to explain they might be wanting to get away in a hurry, so…

  ‘We’ll watch out for you, sir.’ Laconic.

  He’s probably wondering what the fuss is about, thought Matt.

  They went ashore, Matt first. The moment he felt the firm stone of the quayside beneath his boots he could sense their presence. They were in the town somewhere, though they weren’t visible. He grasped his usual heavy walking-stick; in addition, he had two knives in his belt. Rhys had armed himself with a vicious-looking knobkerrie.

  ‘Ready?’

  Matt nodded. He was as ready as he’d ever be. Under his thick clothing he also wore a rubber skin-diving suit, remembering how the worms were no longer deterred by clothes the way they had been when he’d first met them in the sewers.

  ‘Rhys, if we come face to face with them, we retreat.’

  ‘My dear fellow, it shall be as you say. You’re the man with the combat experience. So lead on.’

  The cobbled shopping street was as quiet as death. So often he’d walked along here with Jenny running and chattering at his side, greeting the shopkeepers and others, but now there was only an eerie silence. They kept cautiously to the centre of the road. It was like entering a war zone after a neutron bomb attack, with all life exterminated though the buildings remained.