Worms

by James R. Montague

  I thought about the matter again when I was lying in bed and a more charitable interpretation occurred to me; Mrs Valentine knew that Mrs Mullins was stealing the silver but was too kind-hearted to say anything about it or inform the police – my intervention had forced her to lie to protect her servant. In terms of loyalty it was a most praiseworthy performance and I wished that I could have found a means of saying so. However, as I had appreciated from Mrs Valentine’s reaction, it would not be politic to raise the matter again. I would merely keep a wary eye on the few items of trifling value that I possessed.

  I turned over and waited for sleep to come; a few minutes later I turned again. Though not thinking of anything in particular my mind was active and rejecting the idea of sleep. It occurred to me that I was probably worrying about the extra responsibilities I was taking on by becoming secretary to the action committee. I had always been like that; I did not mind doing things but I hated thinking about having to do things. I lay on my back and tried to break through into the twilight world, putting my mind into neutral and refusing to let it settle on any specific subject. Against my will, an image began to form as though on a screen coming alive in a darkened cinema. I saw a thick reed bed and a man’s head rising above the reeds; he was looking about him anxiously but not moving. As I looked closer I saw that he was unable to move; he was struggling but he remained rooted to the spot. I caught a glimpse of the man’s anguished face. It was my own.

  A wind was blowing and tracing paths through the reeds, paths that twisted from side to side. As I looked I saw that the paths were converging on the man, then I realized that it was not the wind that was causing the reeds to move. It was something beneath them – some creatures that could not be seen. They were brushing against the reeds as they closed in upon the man. I blinked and shook my head; I wanted the pictures to go away, they were destroying me. I could see my own face clearly; the lips drawn back from the teeth, the expression of terrified apprehension, the stilted movements of the body as it tried to flee. I jerked my own legs and found that they were bound together. I could not break free from this waking nightmare. I closed my eyes tight but I could still see. There was no escape; the dream and the reality were becoming as one. I watched in horror as the man’s mouth – my mouth – opened wide to scream; there was no sound. The head suddenly jerked down and hands darted out to fend off some invisible attacker; then the reeds shook and the man disappeared as if being drawn down into some bottomless mire. A dog barked raucously and the image disappeared.

  I lay on the bed with the moonlight streaming through the window and sweat dripping from my body. I was cold and terrified but wide awake. I listened intently but there was only the sound of the distant sea. Had I imagined the dog? I waited perhaps five minutes and then went to the window; it was almost like daylight outside and I could see across the marshes. Nothing was moving. In the far distance was a pinpoint of red light which might have been a fishing vessel or a lightship. I patted my pyjamas against my chest to soak up the sweat and pulled on my dressing gown. It was freezing cold yet I had no immediate desire to return to bed; I was frightened that the nightmare would take up where it had left off. I would make myself a cup of tea and read for a bit. One of the good things about retirement, I had told myself, is that you are not tied to a regime; you can work at night and sleep in the day if you want to – in such ways does man rationalize his inability to escape from worldly cares.

  I went downstairs and put on the kettle, checking carefully that the water was running clear – this was something that I had not bothered to do for a while and it was depressing to find old fears returning. I made the tea and took myself to the dying embers of the fire, sitting almost in the grate. Normally the wind would have been whistling in the chimney but tonight it was quiet as the grave. For some reason, my glance strayed into a dark corner and there I could make out the white outline of the encyclopedias. I had not looked at them for months and it piqued me that I should suddenly have to be made aware of them now. It reminded me that a bring and buy sale had been mooted as part of the fund-raising activities for the Save Blanely! Association; I decided there and then that the encyclopedias would be my first contribution.

  I drained my cup and turned towards the stairs. With a start I saw that there was a light under the door that led down to the jetty; it gave me the eerie impression that there was somebody down there. This was of course impossible but after my recent experience my imagination required no more fuel. I crossed to the light and turned it off. Mrs Mullins must have brushed against it when she was dusting. I was about to go upstairs when I thought I heard something: I froze immediately and there was an unpleasant prickling sensation down my back. From beyond the boathouse door came a faint scratching noise. I hesitated and then turned on the light. I was still not certain whether I had heard or imagined the dog barking; it occurred to me that it was just possible Ripper had been caught in a trap and eventually managed to free himself. Weak and half-starved he might just have had enough strength to struggle back to the boathouse – a dog would have been able to get underneath the grille. I listened again, trying to generate sufficient courage to go down the steps, and just as I had persuaded myself that I had heard nothing and that it was my imagination playing tricks, the noise came again. It was like something scuffling against the downstairs door. I went to the window and looked out.

  Down at ground level I could see nothing; everything appeared peaceful. It was cold enough to snow but that was all. I took a deep breath and clapped my hands together, the noise echoing through the house like a pistol shot. I picked up the poker from the grate and crossed to the stairs door. Now that the house was lived in, it did not bind so much and I could pull it open with one hand; I had asked Mrs Mullins’s husband to plane a few layers off when he came to do the electrical work but he had done nothing about it. As a workman he had proved satisfactory rather than inspired, a fact that hardly surprised me after my acquaintance with his wife.

  I had no intention of prolonging my investigation so I marched heavily down the steps making as much noise as possible, both to boost my spirits and to deter anything that might be lurking on the other side of the door. The cold was intense and seemed to drop a couple of degrees with every step. I arrived at the door and slid back the bolts, catching the sleeve of my dressing gown on one of them; the triple loop of braid that my wife had insisted on sewing to the cuff hooked over the catch. I unsnagged the sleeve and wished that a chance incident had not found this moment to drag my wife’s memory before me. I could see her leaning forward with her spectacles slipping down her nose and her needle poised over her knee. I banged my fist against the door, scraping my knuckles. Damn it! I did not wish to send my imagination off down some other dark road. I stood back from the door and pulled it open. The jetty was brightly lit and not only by moonlight – the outside light was on. Before I could stop to puzzle over how this could have happened, something caught my eye: a dark glistening patch on the wall beyond the light. Trickles ran from it, trickles of blood.

  At the same instant a half-dead bird tried to drag its broken body inside the house. I slammed the door against it and struck out with the poker, driving it back far enough for me to close the door. There was panic behind my blows, not malice. A small cloud of grey downy feathers settled against my bare ankles and a tiny pinprick line of blood traversed my pyjama trousers. The bird must have been attracted by the light and crashed into the wall; I remembered Mrs Mullins’s warning. I found the switch and turned off the light. My heart was pumping furiously and I felt faint. Why in God’s name should I be exposed to such physical and mental torture? It was not a question that was difficult to answer.

  CHAPTER TEN

  It was shortly after the first posters had gone up announcing the inaugural meeting of the Save Blanely! Association that Mrs Valentine received a persuasively worded letter from the Ministry of Power. It stated that the Controller of the Blanely Power Project would be delighted to receive the com
mittee members of the Association and conduct them on a guided tour of the installation under construction. The Minister regretted that ‘up until this date, local residents appear to have been less than well-informed’ about what was taking place and was certain that the committee members would want to put this matter right by accepting the Controller’s invitation; he would of course be delighted to respond to all questions and it was hoped that a frank interchange of views would prevail. Refreshments would be provided.

  Colonel Fraser was quick to note that the address given for a reply was not at the Ministry of Power but to a firm in New Bond Street called MediaMessage.

  ‘They’re trying to smarm us off with a bunch of smart-alec public relations men,’ was his comment. ‘Having tried to pull the wool over our eyes they’re now bringing out the soft soap.’

  ‘I don’t see how we can refuse the invitation though,’ said Doctor Parr. ‘We must arm ourselves with the facts. In this way we’re going to be better equipped when it comes to action.’

  ‘Yes, I think we must go,’ said Mrs Valentine thoughtfully. ‘I agree with Doctor Parr – though, of course, accepting the Colonel’s advice that we should be on our mettle. What do you think, vicar?’ The vicar thought that he ought not to go because it might put the Church in an invidious position and he was certain that the bishop might not like it; he quoted the controversy that had been created by the participation of certain clerics in the Aldermaston marches, protesting against the hydrogen bomb. When asked by the Colonel what the bishop’­s­ reaction had been to the question of a special collection for the fighting fund, the vicar said that he had not yet found a propitious moment to raise the subject. This reply was once again sufficient to ensure that the vicar was banished beyond the outer perimeters of the Colonel’s vision for the rest of the meeting.

  I remember the day selected for the visit well, because it coincided with the first snow of the winter. Five of us – Colonel Fraser, Mrs Valentine, Doctor Parr, a determined spinster lady from the other end of the village called Mrs Murchison, who was a substitute for the vicar, and myself – all squeezed into the Colonel’s Range Rover. This was ostensibly a measure against the elements but I think we all felt happier arriving in a phalanx having exchanged a quarter of an hour’s small talk. I was now at a stage when I found myself revelling in the company of others. Since the incident with the bird I had a horror of being alone at night and a terrible sense of foreboding; I was frightened of going to sleep in case I started dreaming yet found lying awake and listening to every sound almost as alarming. A fertile imagination and a bad conscience can create a whole nightmarish world with the pattern of moonlight through a curtain. One of the things that disturbed me most about the injured bird was that there had been no sign of it in the morning. I could have understood this had the tide been in, but the creek was almost empty and anything that had flopped into it would have been visible. I tried to persuade myself that a cat or even a fox had carried it off but it was not easy.

  Much of our talk on the way to the site centred on what kind of man the ‘Controller’ would be. I think we all saw him as some kind of insensitive boffin blinking at us from behind rimless spectacles; we felt pretty certain that he would wear a white coat and spout incomprehensible jargon. The reality was totally different. A frank-faced, middle-aged man with a moustache that was almost rakish and a cultivated voice, he wore a lightweight overcoat from the bottom of which protruded the trousers of a country suit.

  Mr Brownly, for that was his name, was waiting for us at the main entrance to the site which was marked by a weighted white pole that swung down across the road. It was like the entrance to an army camp; two security men sat behind the window of a prefabricated shed and there was another wary-eyed alsatian in attendance. The security men did not move and it was Mr Brownly who bent down to greet us and point out where the car should be parked. He walked along behind us and was joined by another man whom he introduced as his assistant; he looked like a younger version of the Controller and was, at a guess, not long down from university.

  It was difficult to take a dislike to these men on first acquaintance; their manner was civilized and friendly, almost deferential, and we were made to feel that we had performed a service by putting in an appearance. After some ice-breaking badinage on the inclemency of the weather, the Controller led the way through the falling snow towards the circular concrete shape with the kiln in the middle. I noticed him lean forward and glance at the Colonel’s tie as if confirming something. ‘Thirteen-eighteenth? You must have seen quite a lot of service in Germany.’ He mentioned his own regiment and soon he and the Colonel were joined in a conversation that was almost animated; I could see that the Colonel’s predetermined attitude of suspicion bordering on antipathy was already being undermined.

  The snow was settling and we were like crumbs on a vast white tablecloth that had been cleared of everything save the structure before us. We walked through wide Norman arches and the pursuing snow melted away into wet, dark stains. It seemed even colder than in the open. I heard the sound of sea hissing against shingle and, as we came round the corner of some enormous buttresses, was surprised to see that the marsh had now been scooped away so that the sea actually came in amongst the piles of the building. The shingle must have been brought in by the fleet of lorries that even now were symbolically churning up the snow into ugly black caterpillar tracks.

  ‘I must say,’ said Mrs Valentine firmly, ‘that I am most surprised, not to say astonished, that work has proceeded as far as this without the local residents being given a true idea of what is happening.’

  The Controller’s reply was disarmingly frank. ‘So am I,’ he said. ‘I’m afraid it was a state of affairs that was allowed to develop before I became involved with the project. As soon as I realized that there was a whole area of confusion and uncertainty I took immediate steps to try and put things right. That is, of course, why you have all been invited here today.’

  It was clear that this reply had a chastening effect on all present. One could hardly blame Mr Brownly for something that was not his fault and which he was trying to put right.

  ‘I don’t see why we have to have the thing here at all,’ said the Colonel almost apologetically. ‘Couldn’t you have put it up the north end of Scotland?’

  ‘Well, we have put them up the north end of Scotland,’ said the Controller pleasantly. ‘In fact we’ve put them everywhere. We do try and spread them about. If I may say so, I think that behind your question lurks a belief that nuclear reactors are dangerous. Now, in fact, nothing could be further from the truth. A number of scare stories have appeared in the press which have been far too easily accepted by the public. I’m certain you would agree that the press can often inflame situations in a way that is little short of scandalous.’ Doctor Parr nodded in sympathy with the last statement; he had said as much himself. ‘If we were talking about a conventional power station then I don’t think anybody would experience a twinge of alarm. I mean, you don’t feel alarmed when you drive past a gasometer, do you?’

  ‘Only by its ugliness,’ said Mrs Valentine disapprovingly.

  Mr Brownly stopped as if on a cue and waved his arm about him. I had the impression that he had carefully fed in the reference to the gasometer in order to encourage just the reaction he had received. ‘And that’s another point in favour of this particular reactor: it is not a monstrous structure tower­ing into the sky with chimneys and all that kind of thing. Most of the working gubbins is below ground level; it keeps a very low profile. I’ll show you some artists’ drawings of the finished article in a few moments.’ He led the way towards a ramp that sloped underground. ‘As your own experience will have shown you, anything looks at its worst when it’s being built, especially in winter. The final appearance of this place will be like a mushroom.’

  ‘A mushroom cloud,’ I said. I don’t know why I spoke the words out loud; the image just popped into my mind and then out of my mouth. The Colonel glar
ed at me and the Controller’s composure was ruffled for the first time. He smiled uneasily, as if not sure whether I was trying to be critical or make a joke.

  ‘You used the words “this particular reactor”,’ said Mrs Valentine, coming to the rescue. ‘Does this mean that there is something unusual about it?’

  ‘Very perceptive.’ Mr Brownly congratulated Mrs Valentine with a smile. ‘I was just coming to that.’ We were now in an underground chamber that reminded me of a giant boiler room; it was almost as warm, too – a marked contrast to the temperature outside. I was amazed to find that so much had been completed. The men who were walking about looked more like technicians than workmen; I saw one examining a gauge and making a note on a pad.

  ‘Is this thing operational?’ said the Colonel, incredulous.

  ‘This is the marvel of this new kind of reactor,’ said the Controller. ‘As you probably know, or as you may not know, a conventional nuclear reactor takes years to build. As you certainly do know, the country’s fuel needs are immediate. British scientists have found a way of processing uranium in a much simpler and more direct way, and the whole procedure has now been streamlined. I think it’s something that we as a nation can feel justifiably proud of.’ He looked at us searchingly, as if challenging anybody to be unpatriotic enough to disagree.

  ‘So this is going to be the first of its kind?’ I asked.

  ‘On this scale, yes,’ said the Controller. ‘Of course, there have been working models. The whole thing is a tried and tested concept.’

  ‘Why did you have to choose to put it here?’ said Mrs Valentine. There was a note of crushed resignation in her voice as if she realized that the battle was already lost.