Slugs

by Shaun Hutson

  Once more he banged into the coffee table but, this time, he overbalanced. Arms flailing like a human windmill, he toppled over the table and crashed heavily to the ground, catching his head on the corner of the sideboard as he fell. He felt a sharp pain as his scalp seemed to split and he went down in a heap before the hissing TV. Blood began to pump freely from the ragged cut and Ron raised one hand as if in silent reproach. Then, with a final groan, he blacked out.

  It was almost three a.m. when he came round. His head was thumping from the combined effect of the fall and the whisky and, above him, the TV continued to hiss and crackle. The cut on his head must have been worse than he thought because it seemed to be throbbing mightily. His hair was matted with blood and some of it had run down over his eyes, crusting on the -lids and making it difficult to see.

  He felt something wet on his chin and, for a second, thought he’d vomited but then he felt something fat and slimy gliding over his lips and into his open mouth. Ron snapped his teeth together, biting down on the jellied lump, cutting it in half. A foul, obscene taste filled his mouth and, as he tried to scream, half of the sticky lump rolled back into his throat. Ron coughed, feeling the hot bile clawing its way up from his stomach. He put a hand up to his cut and, as his probing fingers found the gash in his scalp, he felt a plump, mucus-covered form burrowing into the wound itself. Ron shrieked and tugged at the pulsating shape, finally pulling it free.

  For long seconds he held the slug before him, his eyes bulging wide with terror, his own blood covering the head of the foul creature. Then, with a despairing moan, he hurled the monstrosity across the room. But, it was as he did so that he became aware of the pain which was gnawing at his legs and his other arm. Scarcely able to comprehend the sight before him, he saw that his limbs were covered by a seething black mass of these creatures, all slipping and sliding over one another in their efforts to get at his warm flesh. They were on his stomach too, burrowing into the skin and muscle. With a mixture of terror and disbelief, he realised that they were eating him.

  He tried to crawl, dragging the monstrous parasites with him. But his hands pressed down onto a jellied carpet of slugs which seemed to be rising from the very floor itself. He fell onto his face and one of the revolting beasts slid into his mouth, fastening its razor-sharp central tooth into his tongue. He felt the bile rising once more, mingling with the taste of his own blood and the sickening mucus of the fat slug. The beast slipped down his gullet and fastened itself into the lining of his throat. Blood began to fill his mouth, spilling out onto the other slugs which were rapidly engulfing him. He felt as though his head was swelling. He couldn’t breathe and even the sharp hissing of the TV seemed to have stopped. One of the slugs was burrowing into his ear, seeking out the juicy grey meat of the brain. Ron’s body began to shake uncontrollably as the slugs finally swarmed over him, digging deep into his muscles, enjoying the taste of the blood which gushed so violently from his body.

  One of them bored into his jugular vein and a great fountain of crimson erupted from the torn blood vessel. It splattered up the wall as if sprayed from a hose pipe.

  The slugs stripped the body clean of flesh then they devoured the softer internal organs. Their eye stalks waved about as they slithered over the corpse, their mouths moving constantly, tasting the warm blood. It had formed a pool around the body, soaking into the rotted floorboards, mingling with the mucoid slime which the creatures themselves had left behind. And then, when there was nothing left worth eating, they retreated back slowly to the cellar, to the darkness.

  The remains of Ron Bell lay in the centre of the room, one uneaten eyeball bulging madly in the riven socket.

  Below, the slugs slithered about. There were many who had not yet eaten and they were restless, as if sensing that this was just the beginning.

  Two

  The alarm clock went off dead on seven, its strident ringing filling the room. Mike Brady shot out a hand to silence the clock but only succeeded in knocking it off the bedside table. Still ringing, it fell to the carpet and skidded away from his groping hand. He forced his sleep encrusted eyes open and saw that the damn thing was lying about a foot away, just out of reach.

  ‘Oh, sod it,’ he groaned, gazing at the clock as if willing it to be silent. Another few seconds ringing and he scrambled out of bed, snatched up the bloody thing and depressed the button on the top. He sat on the edge of the bed eyeing the clock malevolently. The warm shape in bed beside him didn’t stir. Brady looked down at her sleeping form and smiled, then he leant over and gently bit her exposed shoulder. She awoke with a start and rolled over, looking up into Brady’s smiling face. He held up the clock and tapped the perspex cover indicating the time.

  ‘Rise and shine,’ said Brady, slipping a hand under the covers. He tickled her stomach and she started to laugh, although it sounded like an effort. Kim Brady rolled onto her side and gently prodded her husband’s belly.

  ‘Fatso,’ she said, tugging at a roll of fat with her thumb and forefinger.

  Brady looked indignant and got to his feet, crossing to the full length mirror which covered the wardrobe door. He stood before it and drew in his stomach, holding his breath. Defiantly he turned to face her.

  ‘Fatso my arse,’ he said but then he lost control and his stomach flopped forward again. They both laughed.

  ‘It comes with your age,’ she said, smiling, watching as Brady got down on all fours and began a series of jerky press-ups.

  ‘Look, it’s bad enough being forty without having you remind me all the time,’ he wheezed, his face turning the colour of over-ripe tomatoes. He finally got to his feet. ‘Oh to hell with it. You‘ll just have to like me fat.’

  ‘I’m only kidding, Mike,’ she said, smiling, motioning for him to come back to bed. He sat down beside her, his eyes momentarily straying to her firm breasts, rising and falling gently as she breathed. At thirty-five, Kim Brady still had a figure to be proud of. She blinked myopically at her husband and reached for her glasses, which were on the table beside her, propped up on two Erica Jong novels. But Brady stopped her, instead drawing her close, his mouth pressing urgently against hers, each tongue seeking the warmth of the other. He ran his hand gently across her face then kissed her softly on the forehead. She fumbled for her glasses and pushed them on.

  ‘And stop going on about being forty,’ she chided. ‘It’s not for another month yet and besides,’ she started to giggle, ‘life…’

  He interrupted her. ‘…begins at forty. Yes I know, that’s what everybody keeps telling me.’

  ‘You know, I was thinking,’ she said, the mischievous grin still on her face. ‘Being married to a man five years older than me does have its advantages.’

  He raised his eyebrows quizzically.

  ‘It means we can both start drawing our pension at the same time.’

  He nodded affably.

  ‘It’s after seven you know,’ he told her. ‘Isn’t it time you got up?’ He rose and crossed to the wardrobe, taking out a shirt and tie, hanging them on the handle while he took out his familiar two-piece grey suit.

  ‘I’m not going in today,’ she told him. ‘The nursery’s closed for a couple of days.’

  He looked round. ‘Why?’

  ‘Industrial action by the tea ladies or something,’ she said.

  Brady grunted. ‘I don’t blame them, the lousy bloody wages they pay them.’ He sighed. ‘I know one thing. I wish to Christ I didn’t have to go in today.’ He walked into the adjoining bathroom and Kim heard the sound of his electric razor humming.

  ‘Why not?’ she called. ‘I thought you liked your job.’

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with the job,’ he called back, flicking the razor off and running some hot water into the sink. ‘It’s just that I don’t fancy what they’ve got lined up for me today.’

  Kim sat in silence, listening as he washed his face then she heard the hiss and splutter of the shower and, a second later, a pair of pyjama trousers came flyin
g into the bedroom. She smiled. After a moment or two, the shower was turned off and Brady re-emerged into the bedroom, a towel wrapped around his waist. He rubbed himself down and started to dress.

  ‘They’re serving an eviction notice on Ron Bell,’ he told her. ‘You know, the bloke who lives in that old house just outside the town centre.’

  ‘The one near the new estate?’ she asked.

  He nodded. ‘He’s about six months behind with the rates and there have been complaints from the residents of the estate about him and the house. The garden’s like a bloody jungle. I dread to think what the inside of the place looks like.’

  ‘But I don’t understand why you’ve got to go along,’ she said, looking puzzled.

  ‘I’ve got to drive the bailiff to the house,’ he explained. ‘They can already sling the poor sod out for non -payment of rates and because of the complaints against him but that’s not enough for our council,’ he said acidly. ‘They want me to write a report on the state of the building, how disgusting it is and how Ron Bell isn’t fit to keep it tidy. He’s already hung and drawn, they’ve left the quartering to me’. He pulled his tie tight, smoothing it out and inspecting his image in the mirror. Brady exhaled deeply and pulled on his jacket. He gazed at his own reflection for long moments. Mike Brady, Council Health Inspector. He smiled to himself. He’d held that exalted position for the last fourteen years, two years longer than he’d been married to Kim. Coincidentally, they’d first met at the offices. She’d been a secretary, he’d just arrived from London where he’d been doing the same job. Some of the jobs he’d had in Merton had been child’s play after the revelations in London. He’d seen some things there which had made his hair curl. If he had a pound for every hamburger and hot dog seller he’d forced off the streets during those early days he wouldn’t need to work, he told himself. Flies on the meat, sausages made out of boiled down pigs’ heads, hamburgers with every known type of bacteria alive infesting them, fat two inches deep in the serving trays. Some of the restaurants hadn’t been much better. He still remembered the time he’d nearly eaten a curry which was later found to contain mouse droppings, or the incident when he’d walked into one kitchen to see the chef removing maggots from a side of beef he was about to put into the oven.

  But, things in Merton were quieter. Even so he’d had his fair share of incidents. Like the house where-the ceiling had caved in because the kids had wet the bed so many times and the floorboards had rotted. Twelve of them in that family he remembered, most of the ten kids slept in one bed and they had about three pairs of shoes between them. Other than that, there hadn’t been too much to bother him, just the usual drizzle of complaints. Blocked drains, the occasional cockroach infestation, the odd shady snack bar but the thing which Brady liked most about his job was that he had no one breathing down his neck all the time. He could get on with things in his own way, as long as the reports were in on time he never even saw any members of the council. This fact suited him admirably, he had nothing to thank them for, there was no love lost between the Conservative council and their Public Health Officer who was fond of voicing his socialist views loudly and often. The only good thing, as far as Brady was concerned was that his job had enabled him to meet Kim. They’d been immediately attracted to one another and had married in less than a year of meeting. The only thing which hurt him, and it hurt more because he knew the heartbreak it caused Kim, was that they were childless and always would be.

  Three years after they had married she had been involved in a car accident. Five months pregnant at the time she’d lost the baby and also, due to the severe internal damage she sustained, had been told that she would never be able to bear children. The shock had been overwhelming, hitting them both much harder than he could have imagined. Kim in particular went through a seemingly endless period of depression during which Brady began to fear for her sanity but she got through it in the end and the experience seemed to strengthen their marriage, intensifying their love beyond imagination. For the last six years she had worked in the local nursery, her own thwarted maternal instincts now lavished upon the children of others.

  When Brady turned away from the mirror, Kim was getting out of bed. He watched her slip on a paint-stained blouse (the one which she’d worn when they had decorated the place after first moving in) and a pair of faded denims, having to pull just a bit too hard to get them up over her hips. She finally managed it and fastened the button, puffing slightly. He smiled as he watched her and she looked up to see him grinning at her.

  ‘Looks like I’m not the only one who needs to lose some weight,’ he said, nodding towards her.

  She picked up one of her slippers and threw it at him.

  ‘Cheeky bugger,’ she said. ‘I’ve a good mind to make you get your own breakfast.’

  He slapped her across the backside and they both made their way downstairs.

  Three

  Brady wound down the window of the Vauxhall Victor and allowed some of the crisp morning air to blow into the car. It was less than ten minutes’ drive from their house to the council offices where he was to pick up Archie Reece, the bailiff, and take him to Ron Bell’s house to serve the eviction notice. Brady really wasn’t relishing the trip. He’d only met Reece a couple of times but there was something about the man that he didn’t like. He seemed to enjoy his job. Evicting people from their homes was more like a hobby for him. Brady remembered the last time it had happened. The house owner had decided that he didn’t want to be moved and Reece had promptly whacked him over the head with a chair leg in full view of the poor sod’s horrified family. The unfortunate man had spent two months in hospital after that particular brush with Reece. However, the Health Inspector somehow didn’t see Ron Bell as the type to put up much of a fight.

  He drove at a leisurely pace, taking in the long rows of trees which lined the roadside, already heavy with blossom they brought a sweet odour wafting into the car which Brady sucked in gratefully. Even though it was early, the sun had risen high in the sky and it promised to be a scorcher. The blossom seemed to catch the rays of the sun, holding it until it glowed pink and white like flimsy neon clusters.

  A sixteen wheeler drove past in the opposite direction and Brady coughed as a choking cloud of diesel fumes swept into the car. He waved a hand in front of his face and glanced into the rear view mirror, watching the huge lorry swing up to the left, heading for the industrial part of town.

  Despite its size, Merton had a prosperous industrial estate, comprising a foundry, a factory which made dust­carts and, the dominant business, a huge computer complex which manufactured the machines for places all around the globe. There was also a sizeable chemical works. The town had suffered its share of closures and redundancies as had all the other towns in the area, but, on the whole, the community was thriving.

  Brady swung the Vauxhall into the car park of the council offices, glancing up at the clock above the building. The metal hands had reached eight thirty and the Health Officer checked his watch. He retrieved his briefcase from the back seat, locked his door and headed towards the flight of broad stone steps which led up to the main doors of the council offices. The building itself was a large, brownstone edifice built over a hundred years ago, and a century of accumulated muck was being removed by a posse of workmen who were at this moment swarming over the lower storeys of the building like so many boiler-suited ants repairing a break in the nest wall. Brady nodded affably to the foreman as he passed. The man was sitting cross-legged on the lowest walkway of the scaffolding, drinking coffee from a thermos flask.

  The Health Inspector pushed open the double doors and walked in.

  Brief greetings were exchanged with the two women on the reception deck and then Brady took the stairs to the second floor where his office lay.

  He found Archie Reece waiting for him outside the office door.

  The bailiff tried to smile but it came out as a leer and Brady just nodded in return and walked past him into his office. The
other man followed him in and stood impatiently at the door watching as Brady crossed to his desk and sat down. There were three letters lying there and Reece exhaled noisily and irritably when he saw the Health Inspector open the first of them.

  The bailiff held up a brown envelope.

  ‘The eviction order on Ron Bell,’ he said.

  ‘I know,’ said Brady, opening the second letter.

  ‘You’re supposed to drive me there, Mr Brady.’

  The Health Inspector looked at Reece with distaste. He was a big man, broad and very muscular even though the folds of his ill-fitting suit did their best to conceal that fact. Brady guessed his height to be around six two and his hair, although white, was thick and flowing, almost covering his collar. His hands looked huge, big enough to encircle Brady’s head with little effort. He was tapping agitatedly against the door frame with his stubby fingers.

  ‘Is there a bloody deadline on it?’ asked Brady.