On the table was a tray and from it Mrs Valentine took what at first glance I thought was a knife, then I recognized an ivory letter opener. She carried it with her and went out of the room, switching off the light behind her. She did not close the door and as she moved away towards the foot of the stairs I could see the silhouette of her naked body beneath the translucent gowns.
I hesitated, then turned back towards my house.
CHAPTER FIVE
My nocturnal rambling had prompted a number of questions but I forgot about these as I thought of my experience on the jetty and the fear returned. Now it was dark and I only had the light of two paraffin lamps to see me through the night. The dull glow from one of them illuminated an uncurtained window. I inserted the key in the lock and paused; I had a sudden horror of what I might see when I opened the door. Something caught my eye on the glistening paving stone beneath my feet: it was a long black slug. I stamped on it savagely and flung open the door. The dark shapes of the packing cases littered the room and I shone my torch amongst them as if stabbing with a sword. My teeth were clenched and my heart was pounding. Nothing seemed to have changed. I walked into the kitchenette and shone the torch into the sink and against the windows; a moth was fluttering against one of them but there was no other sign of movement. I turned away and the light in my torch suddenly faltered and went out. I crossed to the nearest lamp and examined it; all the connections seemed to be in order, so it must be the bulb or most probably the batteries, and I cursed myself for not having brought any spares. However, I could get some in the morning; I still had the lamps – one lamp at least. When I went up to my bedroom, carefully raising my head above floor level with the lamp held aloft, I found that the second lamp was smoking badly and had nearly gone out. The reason was soon obvious: lack of fuel. I had not realized that they would use so much. I examined the remaining lamp and found that there was barely half an inch of paraffin left in it, not enough to see me through the night. I would have to fill both lamps.
At that moment the bedroom lamp went out and I remembered that I had left the paraffin can on the jetty. I sat on the bed and turned the wick down on my only remaining source of light. Was I going to spend the night in darkness or go and retrieve the can? My fear of the dark competed with my terror of going down those stairs and out onto the jetty. My memory of what had happened that afternoon was still very clear in my mind, too clear. The flame flickered and I knew that I had to come to a decision fast; soon I was going to be in darkness. Was I going to be frightened of merely going downstairs as I had been of testing out the boat? If so, where would it all stop? Soon I would be living in a prison of my own making.
I picked up the lamp and moved towards the open staircase that joined the two floors. The feeble light it cast was only enough to inflame the imagination; every tea chest or article of furniture seemed like the dark shape of an intruder about to spring at me. The fire had burned away to a mere glow in the grate and I crossed to the door that led down to the boat shed. Two hands were needed to open it so I put down the lamp carefully and pulled. The familiar horrible smell invaded my nostrils and a draught fluttered the flame and nearly made it go out. I swung the door open as wide as it would go and peered down the steep flight of stairs; it was like looking down a mine shaft, I could hardly see anything. I paused and then picked up the lamp. I was like a man on the end of a high diving board – the longer I waited, the less likely it was that I would go through with it. I took my first step down and reached out for the slippery wooden rail that ran against the wall. The smell of damp and decay became more pronounced as I descended and I had an irrational notion that I was approaching the entrance to a charnel-house, that on the other side of the door something loathsome was waiting for me. My hand went out and slid back the top bolt. I paused. I almost felt that somebody or something was holding its breath, anticipating the moment when the door would open and I would reveal myself – perhaps not one creature but many: an avenging army awaiting me in the slippery black night.
Almost against my will I sank to my haunches and extended my hand towards the lower bolt. Immediately, a red thong darted beneath the door and reared up to brush against my wrist. I experienced a sharp stinging sensation and, starting back in horror, knocked over the lamp which went out. Gibbering with terror I launched myself at the stairs and scrambled up them in total darkness, imagining that everything I touched was cold and slimy and inhabited by movement. I stumbled through the entrance to the living room and slammed the door shut behind me, feeling relief as the wood bound against the frame. Nothing could get beyond that, I told myself . . . save through the keyhole. I removed the key and twisted the escutcheon into its rightful position. Turning away swiftly I blundered into a carton of books propped on a tea chest and spilled them across the floor. I did not stop but felt my way to the staircase and clambered upstairs as fast as I was able. I did not undress but lay on my bed with a coverlet over me and listened to every sound, every creak, every rattle of a window frame, every cry of a night bird from the marsh outside. What terrified me most was the knowledge that the sound I was listening for in the darkness could never be heard. Has anybody ever heard a worm moving? Extending its body to crawl upstairs, swaying its head to seek out the best route. Worms present the most vivid and terrifying visual images but they make no noise. They even eat silently.
I have no idea how long it was before I fell asleep but it was nine o’clock when I awoke, an unusually late hour for me. The bright East Anglian light streamed through the windows and fears that had seemed insurmountable in the darkness now seemed only ridiculous. I swung my feet to the floor and immediately heard a knock at the front door. I ran my fingers through my hair and tried to smooth out my wrinkled clothing, then went downstairs. As I crossed towards the door I discovered that it was the encyclopedias, the parting gift from my old colleagues, that I had bumped into the night before. One of them had fallen so that it had come open with the pages folded beneath it. I picked it up as I passed and found my eye caught by the section it had fallen open at: WORMS.
I think that my heart must have stopped beating for a couple of seconds – certainly I experienced a feeling of shock that nearly made me drop the book. Only another sharp rat-tat-tat on the door pulled me to my senses.
I put the book down and went to the door. Two men in faded blue overalls looked at me without interest; they were from the council, they said, and they had come to connect the water. I thanked them and stood aside for them to enter the house. Presumably, I said, once they had done their bit, the electrical work could be finished, the immersion heater and that kind of thing. They imagined that it could. I left them working and went out through the side door onto the marsh. I would have liked a cup of tea but that could be my reward when the water was connected. It occurred to me that I could have lit the primus stove as a last resort the night before. All the time that I was trying to think about these inconsequential details I was avoiding thinking about the million-to-one chance of fate that had led to the encyclopedia falling as it did. Not for the first time and not for the last, I felt that I was in the grip of forces far beyond my understanding.
I started to walk across the marsh and followed a path which soon met up with the channel that led to my house. The tide had gone out and I could see that the muddy banks were pitted with worm casts; they looked like an epidemic of smallpox stretching as far as the eye could see along both banks. It was as if the worms were congregating about my house. The cry of a seabird grated menacingly above my head and I turned on my heel and started back towards the house. I suddenly decided that I wanted some human company.
When I arrived on the doorstep the men were leaving. They said that everything was now connected and refused my offer of a cup of tea. I was left alone.
I lit the primus and found that my eye kept straying to the encyclopedia with the crumpled page. What had I got to lose by reading it? It was broad daylight. I was not a necromancer poring over a book of spells by candle
light. The only kettle that I had was an electric one so it was obvious that I would have to boil some water in a saucepan to make the tea. I selected one and held it under the tap; at last something was working. The dream of actually having a bath would soon be a luxurious reality. I turned the tap and there was a shuddering noise followed by an explosion of water into the saucepan; I looked down and saw that it was full of worms. The shock made me drop the saucepan into the sink and the worms reared up just as they had done in the estate agent’s office and then weaved towards the plug hole. I struck at them with the saucepan and crushed two before the others had escaped. Again that pungent odour filled the air. I was sure now that it was what I had smelt the night before at the bottom of the stairs to the jetty. I ran the tap again and nothing but water came out. I flushed the writhing remnants of the crushed worms down the sink and pressed home the plug. The worms must have got into the pipes before they were finally connected . . . either that or they had entered from the inside of the house. The last thought made me shiver: could they really have got into the house? Were they like some invisible but all-pervasive roach that could suddenly materialize at will?
I examined a saucepan full of water before putting it on the primus and made myself a cup of tea. Not surprisingly, perhaps, it tasted strange. Of course, it was my imagination but it made me realize how the worms were taking a hold on my life – I had hardly been able to sleep because of them and now the very food I ate seemed threatened. It was difficult for me to stay in this place and not be conscious of them every waking moment. I tipped the unfinished tea into the sink and sat down on a chair in the middle of the room. My eye was still drawn to the encyclopedia. What terrors could the printed word hold that I would be incapable of facing up to after my recent experiences? I got up and brought the book over to the chair.
‘WORM,’ I read, ‘a popular term for animals generally recalling the familiar earthworm but whose only common feature is an elongated form with bilateral symmetry. The term has therefore no exact scientific meaning.’ I reflected upon this statement and then read on to discover the many different kinds of creatures united under the terminology of ‘worm’: flat worms, parasitic flukes, tapeworms, roundworms, pinworms, pigworms, eelworms, marine bristle-worms, leeches, thorny-headed worms, horse-hair worms, wireworms, bagworms, bollworms, tongueworms, redworms, hookworms, gapeworms, eyeworms, lungworms, threadworms, whipworms and many more. By the time I had come to the end of this grisly list and read of some of their habits and the depredations they caused among animals and human life, I felt physically nauseated. If my stomach had not been empty I would have vomited. I let the book drop to the floor and stood up, experiencing a sudden wave of giddiness. I sat down again and closed my eyes – not a wise thing to have done. A phantasmagoria of ghastly, writhing objects rose from the pages of the discarded encyclopedia and swirled around in my imagination. Worms, grubs, larvae of every shape and size burst through walls of mortifying flesh and distended entrails. I saw hell by Hieronymus Bosch and worse; all the images of the solicitor’s office and the tomb in the village church whirled round and round as if in the mouth of a maelstrom, a mouth that slowly took on human shape. Two nostrils, two eyes appeared above it as it tipped into recognizable view: it was my wife opening her mouth wider to choke down this putrescence. The hydra of tentacles thrashed wildly and then started to slide down her throat. I began to scream.
When the front door opened I stopped. I opened my eyes to see a handsome, hard-faced, middle-aged woman staring down at me in surprise and alarm. She looked round the room anxiously. ‘Are you all right? What’s the matter then?’
‘A nightmare,’ I blurted. ‘I slept very badly last night – I must have dropped off again. I’m sorry if I alarmed you.’
‘You’re the one who sounded alarmed,’ she said. There was a silence whilst I stood up and tried to stop trembling. ‘Mr Hildebrand—?’
‘That’s right. What can I do for you?’ As I spoke it suddenly occurred to me that I had seen the woman before somewhere. I was only just coming to my senses.
‘I’m Mrs Mullins. Mrs Valentine said you might need me.’ My expression showed that I was still none the wiser. ‘I clean up at the house.’
‘Of course. It’s Betty Mullins, isn’t it?’ I recalled that Mrs Valentine had only mentioned a Christian name.
‘That’s right. I did see you passing one time that I were at the house.’
‘Yes, well . . .’ I started to pull myself together. ‘I would be grateful for some assistance. Could you manage two mornings a week? Afternoons if that would be easier.’
‘I’d prefer afternoons. I usually go to Mrs Valentine in the morning.’
‘Perfect,’ I said. ‘I’m afraid things are a bit primitive at the moment. They’ve only just—’ I broke off because I had suddenly realized where I had seen the woman before. Going into Wilson’s cottage. I could not be positive but I was pretty certain. I saw her looking at me uneasily and pressed on. ‘They’ve only just connected the water. There’s still no electricity.’
She was still looking at me strangely and I felt a fresh start of anxiety. Had Wilson passed on his suspicions to her? ‘I might be able to help you there,’ she said slowly. ‘My old man works for the Eastern Electricity Board.’
My face lit up. The news was doubly interesting to me. Most importantly it meant that Mrs Betty Mullins was not a permanent fixture in the Wilson cottage; if she had been there for a few hours of stolen love the evening before, it was unlikely that she would be a visitor tonight. I would have to take advantage of her absence to pay a call. ‘You mean, your husband might be able to pull a few strings?’ I said innocently. ‘I’d be very grateful if he could.’
‘I could ask him, anyway,’ she said. ‘He’s on the installation side and he does a lot of private work, wiring and that.’ She gave me a sharp look and I realized what she was getting at. Employ her husband on a freelance basis and I could find him more cooperative in his E.E.B. capacity. It occurred to me that the Mullinses were probably quite a canny couple. Village life in north Norfolk was perhaps less rustic and innocent than I had first imagined it.
‘Well, there are a few things I want doing,’ I said. ‘I’d like a light down those back stairs for instance. And something out in the boathouse wouldn’t be a bad idea.’
‘Bring the birds in,’ she said.
Her words struck me like a slap round the face. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Light attracts birds that fly at night. You’ll bring them in off the marshes if you leave it on for long. Mr Valentine used to find it a problem when he was working down there.’
‘That’s probably why he rigged up a piece of netting,’ I said. ‘I found the remains of some birds that had been caught in it.’
Mrs Mullins nodded briskly. ‘Most likely.’ There was no trace of compassion in her voice. I began to feel that she was a tough and self-sufficient woman.
‘What did Mr Valentine use to do here?’
‘Metal work, mostly.’ She preferred no further information but glanced round at the packing cases in the room as if assessing their weight. ‘Do you want me to come in this afternoon then? I expect you’ll have unpacked most of this lot.’ The last sentence was uttered with sufficient force as to make it almost an order. For a second I was reminded of my wife.
‘Yes, do come,’ I said. ‘I should have made some work for you by then. And I’d like to talk to your husband too.’
‘I’ll ask him to come round this evening.’
‘This evening may be a bit difficult. Could he come round tomorrow?’ Giving the impression of being slightly put out, she said that she would see, and promptly made a flat statement of her hourly rate. It was a sum I could just afford and, if I was honest with myself, the idea of having a cleaning woman rather appealed – having a house in the country and what might be described, though never to her face, as a servant, I was now almost the country gentleman. A considerable elevation from pushing an ancient Hoo
ver round a small London flat.
I now felt less worried that Wilson might have passed on any suspicions he felt about me to Mrs Mullins. She was not the kind of woman who inspired confidences nor would she have inspired much trust in me had she been possessed of any. I felt that she and Wilson were probably two of a kind, united perhaps by some bond of lust, but for the rest independent and self-seeking. Perhaps this was their attraction to each other. An attachment based on mutual distrust can often be a strong one.
Mrs Mullins returned shortly after two o’clock, by which time I had dutifully unpacked the contents of most of the tea chests. The encyclopedias I placed on a top shelf, vowing that I would never open one of them again. I had kept a lookout for Wilson in the garden but there was no sign of him, nor of Mrs Valentine. I imagined that she was discreetly keeping out of the way whilst I settled in. Mrs Mullins launched herself unasked at the windows with a rag and a bottle of cleaning fluid and I tried to conquer my distaste and force myself to eat something. The emergence of the worms from the tap had left me with the feeling that everything was contaminated, a feeling exacerbated by what I had read in the encyclopedia. I felt that anything I touched or ate might be a means of introducing worms into my own system, that every surface crawled with minute organisms waiting to thrive inside me. In the back of my throat there was always the queasy taste of incipient nausea; the thought of eating or drinking anything repulsed me. Nevertheless I knew that I must eat to live, that I was being irrational.
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