Worms

by James R. Montague

  I opened the kitchen cupboard and the first thing that met my eyes was a garishly labelled tin of spaghetti. I looked at the illustration showing serpentine strands in a thick, orange sauce and immediately began to gag. I ran to the lavatory and was painfully sick. Fortunately Mrs Mullins was in another part of the house, but she entered the room shortly afterwards. She was holding one of the lamps and it only helped me to remember that another night was approaching and that the can of paraffin was still down on the jetty. Even in daylight I felt incapable of retrieving it; I could feel a nervous sweat on my forehead.

  ‘Have you got a fever?’ she asked, staring at me closely. ‘You look very pale.’

  ‘I think I may have,’ I said. I glanced at my watch. ‘I’ve got to go out – I have an appointment. Can you fill both the lamps? There’s a can of paraffin in the boathouse.’ I hardly gave her time to reply but took my raincoat and hurried from the house. My car stood alone in the drive, so I assumed that Mrs Valentine had gone out. I had no sooner started the engine than I realized that I had left the torch behind. It would have been a simple matter to return for it but I released the hand brake and drove down the drive; I did not want to go back until Mrs Mullins had braved the jetty. If there was anything still lurking down there I preferred that she should be the one to encounter it.

  I drove to a hardware store in Hunstanton and bought a quantity of disinfectant and scouring crystals, as well as a new torch; I was not prepared to guess the size of the batteries for the old one and discover, too late, that I had made a mistake. I also visited the hotel where I had taken tea with my wife. I chose this because I remembered that there were wash-basins in the toilets. I scrubbed my hands and held them under the hot tap until they were red and I could bear the heat no longer. Then I ordered tea. It was not an easy meal to eat and several times I choked as my disturbed imagination fed involuntarily on some detail of the food that was placed before me: the seeds in a slice of cucumber became a profusion of unhatched eggs; a dusting of desiccated coconut on the iced surface of a cake seemed like a cluster of small, white maggots. The imagination when once set in motion can prove a terrifying scourge.

  I returned home after the hour that Mrs Mullins was supposed to leave and found she had left me a note: ‘I could not open door at top of stares so was not able to fetch paraffin.’

  I cursed out loud and not at the spelling. I must have slammed the door so tightly shut in my panic that it had jammed. I approached it and noticed that the escutcheon had been moved to one side; presumably Mrs Mullins had done this. However, in my present mood I was not prepared to be certain of anything; I fetched a hammer and two tacks and fixed one on either side of the small metal plate so that it could not be moved. I then set to with the products I had bought in Hunstanton. The scouring crystals I held at arm’s length and poured into the drains of the downstairs sink and the bathroom basin; choking fumes filled the air and after a few minutes I flushed the crystals away with cold water. Any worm that stood in their path I knew would be burnt to nothing, and the act gave me a vengeful satisfaction. I was carrying the war to the enemy. I would not be menaced in my own home. Not in daylight, anyway.

  The basins cleansed, I took the disinfectant and entered the lavatory. The seat cover was down and I lifted it only to let it drop sharply: a mass of worms was clinging to the inside of the bowl, and the water below was solid with them. Repulsed and terrified I feverishly unscrewed the top from the bottle of disinfectant and slammed the seat and its cover back against the cistern; half a dozen worms that were clinging to the underside of the seat cover dropped to the floor. I slopped disinfectant haphazardly and the worms on the inside of the bowl dropped into the water. The whole mass started to writhe like maggots in a tin and I pulled the chain. Most of them were sucked away but a few new ones appeared and I noticed that some of the most tenacious had taken refuge under the lip of the bowl. I killed everything that I saw moving and flushed again. As in the estate agent’s office the worms were terrifyingly adept at melting into any shelter that provided itself. Soon I could see nothing save the brown stain of the disinfectant and one or two livid smears. Only the pungent, stomach-turning odour, more powerful even than that of the disinfectant, spoke emphatically of the presence of the worms.

  Eager to escape from the place, I flushed again and slopped more disinfectant into the bowl, before lowering the covers and retreating from the room. I was shaking and my breath came in irregular spurts. What I had seen and fought against had been made doubly horrible by the fact that it was a physical representation of something I had previously seen in my imagination. It was terrifying to believe that I had the power to create the demons which tormented me, that the most awful nightmare could take on a physical form.

  CHAPTER SIX

  I left Marsh Cottage soon after dark feeling that I was escaping from a medieval castle under siege. Fire and brimstone were ready to rain down on all attackers who showed their noses above the battlements. I had not dared venture down to the jetty but there had been neither sound nor movement from the back stairs. It was almost a relief to be setting off in pursuit of a more tangible quarry. The rain had stopped and a whole patch of the sky was clear. I could see stars and the new moon looking like small, bright islands in a wide ocean bordered by mountains of darkening cloud. I crunched down the drive and saw that Mrs Valentine had returned; her car was near mine and there were lights on in Marsh House. It occurred to me that we had never discussed garaging arrangements – I must choose a moment to raise the subject because if I was expected to park my car on the marsh side of the house the depredations of the salt-laden winds would soon put paid to the bodywork. I was having trouble enough starting it in the damp atmosphere as it was.

  I emerged from the gate and set off towards the village. I was glad to be out in the open and felt that I could scent finer weather in the wind. Intimations of summer. On the straight road one could see cars coming from a long way away and I had time to duck down by the side of the ditch so as to remain unobserved; I did not want any good-natured soul stopping to offer me a lift and thus being in a position to reveal that I had not spent the evening at home.

  I came to the path and the lay-by was empty. Once again I thought of the police car and felt uneasy. The policeman I had seen could only have been going to see Wilson – Wilson who was officially supposed to be a sick man but who was quite capable of receiving visitors at his front door. What did he have to talk to the police about?

  I entered the tunnel of overlapping saplings that formed the path and steered my way between the pools of silver left over from the rains. The cottage loomed up suddenly and I paused by the front gate. The light showed in the window just as it had done on the previous evening. I held my watch up to the moon and saw that it was within five minutes of when Mrs Mullins had arrived the night before. I waited for ten minutes in case she chose to appear again and heard two cars going past at the end of the path. It now seemed past the hour at which anyone would call. Anyone but me. I decided to give it another five minutes and was rewarded by a noise from the cottage followed by a male exclamation of anger. It sounded as if Wilson had knocked something over – I was glad to know that he was at home. I had some gloves in my pocket and I pulled these on and opened the garden gate. At that stage I had no plan of action in my mind but I was prepared for any eventuality: when you have killed somebody it is foolish not to be. I walked up the path and paused by the front door. In such circumstances it would be normal to hear a television or at least a wireless but there was not a sound. I waited a few moments and then tapped. Nothing happened. I banged on the door more firmly. This time there was the sound of a door opening and a gruff voice shouted ‘Who’s there?’

  ‘James Hildebrand,’ I called. ‘I’ve moved in to Mrs Valen­tine’s stables. I’ve come to see how you are.’

  How false those last eight words sounded. I was reminded of what I had called out to my wife at the sluice gate.

  There was another pause
and then the sound of a bolt sliding back and a key turning in the lock. The door opened on a chain and I could see Wilson’s unshaven face peering at me. His breath smelt strongly of alcohol. He looked past me as if to make sure that I was alone and then unhooked the chain. ‘Mr Hildebrand. What an honour.’ His tone was openly contemptuous. He pulled the door open and stood to one side. ‘Come in. I thought we’d be having a chat sooner or later.’ I entered a narrow, scruffy corridor that had two doors leading off it. Wilson bolted the door behind me; he saw me watching him and smiled evilly. ‘You can’t be too careful. The police advise it.’ It was on the tip of my tongue to follow up the reference to police but I decided against it. Wilson indicated a room on the right of the corridor from which light was coming. ‘In there.’

  The room was sleazy and dirty, the furniture cheap and garish. It was all modern and bore no relation to its surroundings which were plastered walls with the laths showing and a sagging ceiling with a huge damp patch in one corner – twentieth-­century tat in a sixteenth-century labourer’s cottage. The most incongruous element was the illuminated fish tank against one wall. Bubbles splayed upwards and small, brightly coloured tropical fish alternately meandered and darted between weeds and replicas of underwater cottages and gnomes in diving masks. There was an electric fire with an artificial flame and log effect in the grate and another smaller, more conventional model propped on a shelf near the fish tank. Despite the heating the damp so clearly present in the room was not held at bay, and the atmosphere was clammy.

  Wilson wore a dirty white collarless shirt and a pair of stained blue pin-stripe trousers that must have once belonged to a suit. Somebody else’s at a guess. His face was sallow and shiny and he did not look well.

  ‘I expected to find you in bed,’ I said.

  ‘Did you?’ he said disbelievingly. ‘I notice you didn’t bring me anything.’ On the shelf below the fish tank were half a dozen empty beer bottles and some miniatures of spirits. He clumsily picked up a quarter bottle of Martell brandy and emptied the remnants into a dirty tumbler. ‘I expect you drink out of full bottles,’ he said scornfully.

  ‘I don’t drink very much at all,’ I said calmly.

  ‘I expect you have to keep your wits about you,’ jibed Wilson. If not drunk he was approaching it and his movements were exaggerated and clumsy. He wagged a finger at me. ‘I think I could make life very difficult for you.’

  My pulse quickened. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘What do I mean? What do I mean?’ He repeated the words like a parrot. ‘You know what I mean. That’s why you’re here.’ I said nothing, knowing that he would continue. ‘That poor wife of yours. You didn’t get on very well, did you?’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ I said.

  ‘Oh yes you do. I heard you, you see. When I was working in the garden and you drove round the back.’ My heart sank. ‘I can remember your words: “If you don’t help me buy this place you’ll regret it.” Shouting you were.’ I kept my silence. ‘I wonder what the police would make of that in the circumstances.’

  ‘If you were eavesdropping you must have misheard,’ I said, trying to sound as casual as possible. ‘My wife wasn’t feeling very well as I recall it. She didn’t want to get out of the car.’

  Wilson emptied his glass emphatically. ‘What about later on?’ I felt a sharp stab of fear; the expression in my eyes must have been obvious. Wilson’s tone was gloating as he continued. ‘I was out on the marsh, wasn’t I. Setting a few traps. I heard you having a right old up and downer – calling you all the names under the sun she was. And that bit about you not getting your hands on her money. Now that was very interesting. Just think, half an hour later she was dead. I should have followed you, shouldn’t I? I bet I’d have seen something interesting.’

  I said nothing but looked round the room. I honestly believe that if my eye had hit on something that could have been used as a weapon I would have snatched it up and tried to dash the scoundrel’s brains out – a stupid, pathetic gesture because even though in his cups he was probably stronger than I. My spontaneous reaction was not so much against the creature before me but against fate. How unfair it was! Spied on not once but twice.

  ‘I did you a favour, didn’t I?’ I could think of nothing to say and he nudged my arm. ‘Still, I’m a friendly cove. I’ve suffered a bit at women’s hands myself.’ He broke off and was shaken by a violent fit of coughing; he clutched his stomach and gasped for breath, and from the expression on his face it was clear that he was in severe pain. The spasm passed and his breathing slowly became normal. Perhaps the man was ill after all. He took the brandy bottle and shook it irritably so that a few drops sprinkled into the bottom of his glass. ‘I’ll do anybody a favour who does me one.’ His tone suggested the opposite of his words. It was grim and menacing.

  ‘I’ve still no idea what you’re getting at,’ I said.

  This time my arm was gripped hard just above the elbow. ‘Oh yes you have. If I’d have told the police what I heard they’d have had you in a little room and they wouldn’t have let you out until you signed a confession. I could still shop you if I wanted to.’ My arm was tossed aside.

  ‘I suppose it could look bad,’ I said meekly.

  ‘Very bad,’ said Wilson emphatically. He gripped his stomach as if anticipating another coughing fit but nothing happened. ‘Like I said, I reckon you owe me a favour.’ He moved his hand to his chest and rubbed it thoughtfully whilst he looked me in the eyes with his head tilted to one side – like a bird listening for a worm, I thought to myself.

  ‘What do you want?’ As I spoke I knew that I was biding my time. Wilson had signed his own death warrant before he tried to blackmail me; he had heard too much and if his present bibulous condition was an example of how he passed his evenings then there was no telling when he might blurt it out.

  ‘I think a bit of money mightn’t go down amiss. Your wife had some, didn’t she? That’s why you’re living in that place. I think I deserve a little inheritance.’

  ‘My wife left a very small sum,’ I said. ‘It was swallowed up in the house.’

  ‘I don’t think you’re too badly off,’ said Wilson knowingly. ‘A tenner a week wouldn’t break you.’

  ‘Ten pounds?’ I exclaimed.

  ‘You don’t have to act with me,’ said my tormentor. ‘I know you’re a gifted performer. I was watching you down the sluice gate, remember.’ He stepped back towards the wall. ‘Tell you what, boy. I’ll give you something for your money.’ He bent down and flipped back a dirty orange rug and a section of threadbare carpet. He inserted his forefinger in a knothole and hoicked up a section of floorboard. Gleaming in the darkness I could see the brilliant multicoloured plumage of a pheasant lying beside a brace of partridges. ‘I’ll keep you supplied with game. That’ll regularize our little arrangement. You won’t be my only customer but you’ll be paying a little above the market price.’

  ‘So you poach as well,’ I said.

  Wilson dropped the floorboard back into place and pulled the carpet over it. ‘I’ve done time for it. You know, I had a copper round here last night. Just checking that my gun was licensed, that’s what he said. I think he expected to find me standing up to my knees in feathers.’ He laughed derisively and the laugh turned into another coughing fit. The sweat was showing through his shirt and he went to stand before the heater near the fish tank. His flesh glistened.

  ‘Ten pounds a week,’ I repeated.

  ‘Cheap at the price.’ He reached out and took an old mustard tin from beside the fish tank. As I watched with mounting distaste he removed the perforated lid and delved inside with two fingers. They emerged holding a wriggling red worm.

  Wilson turned his head and saw my expression. ‘What’s the matter, don’t you like worms?’ He nodded towards the fish tank. ‘These fellows do.’ He held the worm just above the surface so that its tail dangled against the water. Immediately, half a dozen small fish sped to the surface an
d the worm was torn in half. He fed the remains of the worm through his fingers and the performance was repeated as the fish ate it, section by section until there was nothing left. I watched, repulsed at first, but then with a sudden start of interest. The electric fire was on a shelf above and to the left of the tank. There was one point in the wall with an adapter that held the plugs for the tank and the fire. I remembered my wife pointing out to me an article in the paper about a man who had been electrocuted when his electric fire toppled into the bath with him.

  Wilson took anther worm and dangled it over the water. It wriggled desperately and tried to wind itself round his finger. Angrily he began to squeeze it so that bits dropped into the water. The fish darted up and fought over the pieces. If only Wilson would put his hand into the tank . . . It was tantalizing to have this opportunity so close but not to be able to profit by it.

  ‘What do you say then?’ said Wilson. ‘I don’t think you have much choice.’

  ‘No, I suppose I don’t,’ I said, humouring him. I had my hands grasped together in front of me as I often do at moments of stress, and I suddenly felt my wedding ring. I had kept it on for no other reason than that over the years it had become painfully difficult to remove. Now, as another worm was dismembered, I struggled to remove it without attracting his attention.

  ‘You never want to overfeed them,’ said Wilson. ‘If the food starts decomposing that can start off a disease.’

  I gritted my teeth and forced the ring over the swollen knuckle, painfully bending back my thumb nail. ‘I’m a bit short of cash at the moment,’ I said. ‘How about this taking care of a few instalments.’ I tossed the ring into the tank and it zig-zagged to the bottom with two striped fish quickly in attendance. Their noses quivered against it for a second and then they turned away disappointed.

  ‘You daft booger,’ said Wilson. ‘What did you do that for?’ He peered through the side of the tank.