Worms

by James R. Montague

  I avoided the vicar’s eyes. Little did he realize that he was addressing a man perhaps as infamous before God as was Robert de Wicklem. How could I bring myself to confess to him? He would have no compassion for me. Thin shafts of winter sunshine broke through the windows in the south wall and motes hung in the air. The shadow of Sir Robert’s tomb was twisted and thrown, against a line of memorial plaques and embossed urns. It was strange, but the shape was almost like a pointing finger indicating one particular brass plate that stood out from the others. I crossed to read the plate: In loving memory of Edgar George Henry Valentine, departed this life February 16, 1955.

  ‘Mrs Valentine’s husband?’ I asked. The vicar nodded. ‘And where is he buried?’

  He frowned and looked surprised. ‘Surely you know?’

  ‘I haven’t made a detailed examination of the graveyard,’ I said. ‘Is there a family plot?’

  ‘The late Mr Valentine died in a boating accident. His body was never recovered.’

  ‘Good heavens.’ This small blasphemy was the last thing to escape my lips for several seconds. The information stunned me; I had never thought to inquire about the cause of Mr Valentine’s death.

  ‘I’m amazed that you did not know,’ said the vicar. ‘I suppose in the terrible circumstances of your own wife’s death, Mrs Valentine thought it best to avoid the subject. She has a great deal of sensibility.’

  ‘And reserve,’ I said. ‘I think that must have something to do with it. Poor woman. She has hardly mentioned her husband to me, apart from saying that he used to use my cottage as a workshop.’ I suddenly saw her standing before the portrait in the drawing room on the night when I had peered through the curtains. ‘It is his portrait that hangs above the fireplace?’

  He nodded. ‘Yes. I never met the man; he died a few years before I came to the parish. I only heard about him.’ He looked as if he was going to say more and then checked himself.

  An impulse made me glance at the side of the tomb. The sunlight played upon the worms and their tiny shadows seemed to be following the line of the pointing finger towards the brass memorial plaque. Then the sunlight disappeared and the images vanished. The church was dark, gloomy and very, very cold.

  I started to move towards the door. ‘I’m glad you told me about Mr Valentine,’ I said. ‘I must choose my moment and mention the subject to Mrs Valentine. She probably thinks it strange that I have never said anything.’

  ‘She probably thinks that you are being discreet.’

  ‘Probably.’

  We were now in the porch and I extended a hand. ‘Well, I must be on my way. I’ll see you on Sunday, no doubt.’

  ‘Vespers,’ reminded the vicar. He took my hand and immediately released it. ‘Your hand! It’s like ice.’

  I felt my hand and then touched my face. I could feel nothing­­­­.

  He was looking at me incredulously.

  ‘I’m very cold-blooded,’ I said.

  I started to walk down the path to the lych gate and the marsh. I could sense his eyes following me but I did not turn round.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  When I got back to my cottage I was surprised to find that the key was not hidden in its normal place. It was one of Betty Mullins’s afternoons and it was agreed between us that I would leave the front door key propped in the corner of a window sill if I went out; she would lock up and replace the key when she went home.

  I tried the front door and it was open; immediately, I felt a sense of foreboding. I paused in the doorway and called Mrs Mullins’s name. There was no reply. I looked across the room and could see the key lying beside the sink; I retrieved it and returned it to the lock. A dustpan and brush were lying on the floor at the foot of the stairs. I called out again: no answer. A thin trickle of sweat was running down my back, icy cold. I took a deep breath and started up the stairs. Very slowly, I raised my head above floor level. I was staring at a carpet-sweeper; my bed was unmade, and there was no sign of Mrs Mullins. Not for the first time, I had the feeling that I was going mad; the gap between reality and my nightmares had disappeared. I thought of Mrs Valentine’s missing dog, the vanishing of the worms, the maimed bird on the jetty . . .

  The windows rattled and a door banged. My heart jumped. It must have been the door at the bottom of the boathouse steps. Perhaps Mrs Mullins had slipped and injured herself. In a state of mounting fear I went down the stairs and pulled open the top door; a shaft of light at the bottom revealed that the door to the jetty was open. It banged again ominously. I shouted Mrs Mullins’s name; a piece of sedge blew through the door and all I could hear was the wind. I started down the stairs, my heart pounding. The door slammed behind me and I cried out in panic. It was cold but I felt nothing, only fear. I reached the bottom and braced myself to look out; I pushed my head round the door jamb. The jetty was empty. I went forward and braced myself to look in the dyke. The tide was out. Something moved in the few inches of brackish water at the bottom and I opened my mouth to scream, but it was only a small crab burying itself in the mud; it disappeared as into a fog. Trembling, I returned to the stairs and bolted the door behind me. I had not put the light on so I was now in darkness; it was like being in a tomb. I ran up the stairs and thrust open the door, relieved to be in what remained of the daylight again.

  Then I really screamed.

  Dangling over the side of the armchair was a human hand. Conquering the impulse to run from the room, I stepped forward and found Mrs Mullins slumped in the high-backed armchair which was pushed forward close to the fire; she must have been there all the time. Her face was grey, with beads of sweat at the temples and on the upper lip and for a moment I thought that she was dead. Then it struck me that she had probably had a stroke. Frightened to touch her with my bare hand, I fetched a bowl of water from the sink and began to dab her face with a wet tissue. She suddenly groaned and her eyes opened; her hands moved to her stomach and her mouth gaped like a dying fish. She seemed to be in great pain and I felt powerless, like a bystander at a bad car crash. I emptied the bowl and placed it on her lap. She was clearly trying to be sick; she twitched and the bowl fell to the floor. A rime of froth began to form at the corners of her mouth. I hesitated and then ran from the room. I had to get help.

  It had started to thaw and water was dripping from the roof and trees as I ran towards Marsh House. Patches of the drive were already clear and there was a large puddle before the front door step. I rang the bell and banged on the knocker, listening to the noise echoing through the house. Mrs Mullins had been looking worse lately but I had never expected it to come to this: I heard footsteps approaching and Mrs Valentine opened the door. My distress must have been evident.

  ‘What is it?’ she asked, staring.

  ‘It’s Mrs Mullins—’

  Immediately, her face registered alarm. I remember thinking at the time that she seemed to have been expecting something to happen. ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘I came back from a walk and found that she’d collapsed while she was doing the housework. I think she may be dying.’

  ‘I’ll come at once.’ Mrs Valentine started after me and then hesitated. ‘You go back. I’ll get some things and follow you.’ She disappeared into the house and I started to run back down the path. Now it was raining, a thin drizzle mixed with sleet; the temperature had dropped dramatically. When I got back to the cottage, Mrs Mullins was slumped over the side of the chair, a thin trail of vomit dribbling from her mouth to the floor. This time I thought she must be dead, but as I turned on the light she made a wheezing noise at the back of her throat. Memories began to stir through my immediate panic, and Mrs Valentine’s arrival was not a moment too soon. She carried a tray of bottles into the kitchen, returned and swiftly pulled Mrs Mullins into an upright position. I was surprised how physically strong and assertive she could be when it was necessary.

  ‘Bring me the bottle from the sink and a tablespoon.’

  There were three bottles. ‘Which one?’
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br />   ‘It’s got a green sticker on the bottom.’

  I examined each of the bottles. ‘I can’t see a sticker.’

  She turned and indicated a bottle. ‘That one. Pour out a tablespoonful and give it to her while I hold her mouth open.’

  She grasped Mrs Mullins’s head whilst I prepared the dose. The spoon was poised when Mrs Mullins opened her eyes and started to struggle furiously.

  ‘Give it to her! Hurry up!’

  Mrs Mullins choked on her false teeth and I took the chance to push the spoon into her mouth. It was horribly like dosing an animal. Some of the liquid ran down her chin and she tried to spit the rest against my chest. I pushed the spoon to the very back of her throat and forced her to swallow. I could not understand why she was reacting so violently.

  ‘Surely she needs a doctor,’ I gasped.

  ‘Of course – when she’s had her medicine. We’ll take her to the house and ring for Doctor Parr.’ Mrs Mullins uttered a cry of pain and fell back against the chair; she appeared to have sunk into a coma. Mrs Valentine immediately seized her arm and started to try and pull her to her feet. Distressed and thoroughly confused, I moved to help her. ‘She’ll be warmer in my house. I’ve got plenty of blankets.’ Her voice was urgent.

  I said nothing but draped Mrs Mullins’s inert arm over my shoulder. I was far from loath to remove her from my own house; I have never reacted well to the presence of sick people and I much preferred that the responsibility and vicarious suffering be fairly and squarely in Mrs Valentine’s domain. I felt incapable of coping. Together we half carried, half dragged Mrs Mullins back to Marsh House and placed her in front of the drawing room fire. She lay there like a sacrificial offering with rain and sweat gleaming on her face. Above the fireplace, illuminated by the dancing flames, Mr Valentine presided over the scene.

  Mrs Valentine fetched blankets and placed a pillow beneath Mrs Mullins’s head. ‘Watch her,’ she said. ‘I’ll telephone for Doctor Parr.’ She came back in two minutes, looking puzzled.

  ‘He’s not there. I talked to his housekeeper. Apparently he was called to the reactor yesterday and there’s been no word from him since.’

  I felt an immediate pang of fear and premonition. ‘Do you think something’s gone wrong?’

  ‘We mustn’t be alarmist.’ Mrs Valentine frowned as if remembering something. ‘It is curious though. Mrs Murchison rang me up this afternoon. She was most put out because the Women’s Institute visit to the reactor was cancelled at the last moment without any explanation.’

  A log exploded in the grate and Mrs Mullins groaned as if alarmed by the noise. I felt that the noose was tightening. ‘Can you ring the reactor and tell Doctor Parr what’s happened?’

  Mrs Valentine considered and nodded. ‘Very well.’ She went out and I heard her dialling. My eyes strayed round the room, eager to avoid looking at the bundle by the fireplace, and lit upon the sideboard; suddenly I remembered the strange saga of the missing spoons. Not for the first time I had the feeling that something was going on that I had only just begun to pene­trate. Against my will I glanced at Mrs Mullins; her head was tilted to one side and her mouth was slightly open, and as I watched she began to gulp like a stranded fish. I thought of my drowned wife, but pushed the memory away. My eyes went to the portrait. The stern, unbending face of Mr Valentine now looked uncommonly as if it was smiling.

  ‘I can’t get through.’ Mrs Valentine’s voice made me jump. ‘It’s making a number unobtainable noise.’

  ‘Something must have gone wrong,’ I said. ‘Badly wrong. We’ll have to dial 999. And then there’s her husband – he must be wondering what’s happened.’

  ‘They’re not on the telephone.’ Her voice was distant, and I noticed her fingers were plucking at each other uneasily. Half a dozen thoughts and fears were no doubt running through her mind. Mrs Mullins groaned again.

  ‘We must do something,’ I said. ‘I’ll ring if you like.’ I did not wait for an answer but went into the hall and picked up the telephone. The line was dead. I pounded the rest and listened again. The silence seemed to have an almost tangible quality. She was watching from the doorway. ‘The line’s gone dead,’ I said.

  ‘It’s incredible. What can be happening?’

  ‘I’m frightened to think,’ I said, and looked towards the drawing room. ‘We’ll have to take her to hospital.’

  Mrs Valentine shook her head vehemently. ‘No. I don’t think we should move her again.’

  ‘What can we do then?’

  ‘There’s a cottage hospital at Boston Market. You could drive there and get a doctor.’ She saw that I was hesitating and pulled open the drawer of the table on which the telephone rested. ‘I’ll show you the map.’ She unfolded the map and her finger moved quickly to the spot. ‘It’s only about six miles away.’ She looked up at me. ‘Or you could try and find Doctor Parr at the reactor.’

  ‘I don’t know what to do.’ I was terrified of leaving the house, terrified of staying in it. I was also confused – too many things were happening, too many decisions had to be made. I was no longer capable of stepping outside my predicament and examining it objectively. I was being carried along by the tide of events.

  ‘Try the cottage hospital.’ Mrs Valentine had taken my arm and was guiding me towards the front door. ‘I’ll stay here and do what I can. Maybe the telephone will come on again. Good luck.’

  The door closed behind me and I was alone. It was dark and the rain spattered against my face. Dutifully I felt in my pocket for the key; it was not there – it must be in the house. The snow was melting fast and turning to slush. It was almost warm now, or perhaps it was me; maybe I was becoming feverish. I felt tired and ill. My nerves were on edge. About me, every shadow seemed to hide a demon. I looked at the cottage; the lights had been left on, four yellow squares against the darkness. Once I had wanted that house more than anything else in the world; now I hated it with a loathing born of fear. I had killed for it and now it was destroying me. Glowing with light, it made me feel that there was somebody else there, a sensation I often had when I returned. I was never alone. There was always other invisible presences. I threw open the door and felt my stomach contract as I looked towards the armchair; I had a terrible premonition that there was going to be someone in it, but it was empty.

  I went upstairs and took the car keys from the bedside table. On an impulse I crossed to the window and looked out; I could see nothing. There was no moon, no distant lights from the sea. My eyes probed the darkness in the direction of the reactor, but I could not see even the usual few twinkling lights.

  A sound reached my ears. I paused; first I thought it was the wind, a very faint rustling, almost imperceptible. I hesitated and opened the window. I felt cold air against my face but there was not a breath of wind, and the rain had stopped. The noise was unlike any I had ever heard before: a scraping, sliding, slithery note that might have been made with a violin bow and a too-tight string, but there was no music in it, only menace.

  I closed the window and shut the catch firmly. My nerves must be playing me tricks; I had read of overwrought people hearing strange noises, singing in the ears . . . I almost ran down the stairs and locked the front door behind me, leaving on all the lights. My car was in the drive in front of the house and Mrs Valentine watched from the drawing-room window as I hurried past. The curtain fell back into place as I climbed into the car. I fumbled the key into the ignition and found that I did not have the map with me; on reflection I could not remember whether Mrs Valentine had given it to me but it did not matter too much. I knew where Boston Market was, and I could ask for the hospital when I got there. I checked that there was enough petrol in the car and started down the drive. Water was dripping from the overhanging laurels and I switched on the windscreen wipers; the drive was like a tunnel. The headlights picked out the gateposts and as I slowed down and pulled out into the road, the windscreen wipers started to squeak against the dry glass; I turned them off. Ahead the road
ran straight for nearly a mile with the marsh on the seaward side. I was heading towards the reactor but due to turn off inland before I got there. Suddenly I saw something glistening in the road.

  At first I thought it was flood water flowing out from the marches. I stamped on the brakes and then saw to my horror that the swelling tide was not water – it was worms, millions of them. They were emerging from the reeds so fast that layers of them were building on top of each other like fish being tipped from a barrel. As I watched, almost paralysed with terror, a crawling, slithering mass spilled towards me; I panicked and accelerated towards them. The tyres slapped into the first wave and almost immediately the windscreen was obliterated by a moving screen of worms. Blinded, I switched on the windscreen wipers and braked sharply. It was as if I had run into a patch of black ice; the crushed worms turned to slippery slime, which provoked a violent skid that ended with my head smashing against the windscreen and the car slewing into a ditch.

  I felt blood trickling down my forehead and desperately tried to restart the engine; it roared to life but when I engaged a gear the back wheels merely threw mud down the road. Mud and worms. One headlight played down the ditch and all I could see was a wriggling mass of worms, building up layer upon layer with every fresh wave that wriggled across the road. They were not unduly large; what was so terrifying was the sheer weight of numbers in which they continued to pour from the marshes. All the time that there had been no sight of a worm they must have been massing in their millions. I looked down the writhing ditch and felt as though I was in the intestinal tract of an infested animal. It was back to Hieronymus Bosch; I was part of the hideous painting in the solicitor’s waiting room.

  As I stared out of my prison I was seized by a new fear: the worms were changing direction and coming towards the car. They spilled slowly towards me like oily waves. Were the headlights attracting them? I turned off the lights and shivered in the darkness. I could hear the noise of them moving, the noise I had heard from the cottage window: the terrible squeaking of their slippery bodies elongating and contracting across each other. I could see the dark shadow of the night sky through the windscreen but this slowly began to disappear as if a ragged curtain was being pulled across the glass. Unable to stand not seeing anything any longer, I turned on the light in the car. I looked about me and screamed. The outside of every window in the car was now covered in a thick layer of worms; their bodies showed pink as they pressed against the glass and they weaved and interlaced like raffia matting, shutting out any other view. The feeling of terror and claustrophobia was paralysing. I was entombed. What was even more horrifying was the fact that they were obviously trying to get inside the car, I could see them bunching and straining around the door edges. Desperately I turned my head from side to side and closed the windows more firmly.