The day had worn on but no trace of the worms was found. All that the search of the sewers turned up were the remains of the team that had gone down there the previous night.
At six o’clock all the media personnel were ordered out of the immediate area by the authorities who again sealed the town off. It was now the common opinion that the creatures were only active at night.
A total of 2,000 soldiers, 400 police volunteers and scores of government scientists remained stationed in Harpenden. All had been issued with protective clothing and had a variety of weapons at their disposal. When the worms made their appearance they would be burnt, gassed and poisoned. It was going to be the biggest fumigation operation in history.
Robin had waited for a few hours at the barrier, but as night fell her tiredness got the better of her and she decided to go home. It was unlikely the authorities would release any news until the following morning anyway . . .
Her flat was stiflingly hot when she entered. It was a humid night and she knew that, exhausted as she was, she was going to have trouble sleeping.
After opening all the windows she went into her small kitchen and got a bottle of Perrier water out the refrigerator. She drank half of it then poured herself a large scotch, added some water, and took it back into her combined bedroom and sitting room.
After a large swallow of scotch she stripped off all her clothes then picked up her phone and dialled her office. She got through to Larry McCullough at the news desk. It's me, Robin. What’s the latest on Harpenden?’
No change. There hasn’t been any official statement nice you left but the word on the grapevine is that the worms are playing shy tonight. Not a single one’s been ••potted so far.’
Maybe all that gunk they pumped into the ground and the sewers today killed them off,’ she said.
‘Maybe,’ he agreed, though he sounded disappointed. Well, let me know if anything breaks. Otherwise I’ll see you tomorrow. ’Night, Larry . . .’
Wait, before you go, did you hear about Anne Thomas?’
Robin frowned. ‘What about her?’
‘She’s dead.’
‘What?!’
She was one of the Harpenden victims,’ said Larry. ‘But she couldn’t have been!’ cried Robin. ‘I checked through the list of names of all the casualties. I would have recognized hers if it had been on there.’
‘She didn’t die in Harpenden. She was taken to the hospital in your neck of the woods - St Albans. That’s why she wasn’t on the original list.’
‘Oh shit,’ said Robin softly and hung up. She felt sick. She finished the scotch and went into the bathroom. For hours she’d been looking forward to a shower but she didn’t even feel the water on her skin as she stood under the cool spray. Her thoughts were centred on the woman she’d interviewed yesterday - the woman she’d betrayed . . .
She returned to the bedroom, towelling herself absent-mindedly. The heat seemed to have become even more oppressive. She opened a cupboard and took out an old electric fan. She set it up on her bedside table and switched it on. It made a racket but it was a powerful old machine and immediately began to stir up the heavy, humid air.
In the kitchen she poured herself another large scotch, this time without any water. She wanted to knock herself out. She not only wanted to escape the heat but also the sense of guilt she had about Anne Thomas.
In a house two streets away from Robin Carey’s ground-floor flat Sebastian Morgan sat on his toilet engaged in yet another bout of his apparently never-ending struggle with constipation. A semi-retired movie art director, he blamed the shattered state of his stomach and bowels on a seven-month location shoot in India back in the late 1960s on a film called The Punjab Mutiny. He had spent the whole seven months enduring digestive torture despite drinking only bottled water and eating tinned food sent from England. He hadn’t been the same since. And to make matters worse the film had bombed . . .
Constipation was the least of his symptoms but definitely the most time-consuming. He spent hours every day trying to achieve a satisfactory bowel movement, usually without success. He had tried all the recommended remedies, from Chocolax to massive intakes of Allbran, but nothing worked for him.
Tonight was typical. He’d been on the toilet for over an hour without even the slightest stirring of activity. He decided he would try for just a few more minutes and then give up for the night.
He strained as hard as he could, feeling the blood rush to his face from the effort. One of his fears was that he would burst a blood vessel in his brain one night as a result of all the effort . . .
Something cold touched him between his buttocks. At first he thought it was a splash of water but, as he was only too well aware, nothing had dropped into the bowl, so what could have caused the splash?
The cold feeling continued, then he gasped with pain as a stinging sensation shot through his rectum.
Alarmed, he raised himself off the seat, his flesh reluctantly separating from the plastic on which it had almost welded itself over the past hour, and looked. He was shocked to see a long black thread hanging from beneath him. The thing went down into the toilet bowl and out of sight.
Panic seized him. What was it? Had he ruptured himself? Was it part of his bowel?
He tried to stand all the way up but felt himself being pulled back down onto the seat by the thing, as if he’d become attached to a large rubber band.
Then, to his horror, he felt it moving inside him.
He gave a feeble cry for help even though there was no one in the house to hear him. Then he tried to get to his feet again but all the strength had gone from his legs.
By now he knew that the thing wasn’t part of him as he’d first feared but something that had come out of the toilet. Something alive . . .
Frantically he scrabbled for the flush handle and turned it, hoping he might be able to flush the thing away. But the creature remained attached to him. He could feel it burrowing its way upwards.
Then a paralysis rapidly spread through his body and all he could do was sit helplessly on the toilet, his scream of terror trapped inside his skull . . .
Jill Donaldson stirred in her sleep. Colin was tickling her. She could feel his finger running over the palm of her hand . . .
She came fully awake when she realized it was her left hand being tickled but that Colin was lying, as he always was, on her right.
She lay there in the dark, wondering if she’d dreamed the tickling sensation on her hand, which was dangling over the side of the bed.
But when she felt it again - it was like being touched by the wet nose of a dog - she knew it had been no dream. She jerked her hand away, sat up in bed and reached for the switch on the bedside lamp.
The light came on and she screamed. Swaying next to the bed was something that resembled a thin, headless snake . . .
‘Colin!’ she cried, turning to him and digging her fingers into his shoulder to wake him up.
Her second scream was even more shrill as she saw her fingers go right through his skin as his shoulder crumpled with a powdery snap.
Robin lay naked on her back, arms and legs splayed out to offer as much surface area as possible to the breeze from the clanking fan.
Less than a yard from her bed the questing tip of a black tendril appeared on the sill of her open window. The tip swung from side to side for a few moments then remained pointing at Robin. Slowly the tendril moved over the sill and down onto the floor. Then it began to undulate towards Robin’s bed.
11
Clive Thomas woke up in a panic. For a second or so he didn’t know where he was, then he realized he was in his own bed. He turned and saw Anne’s bare back reassuringly beside him. He let out a sigh, reached over and put his hand on her shoulder. ‘God . . .’ he muttered.
She stirred and said, ‘What’s the matter?’
‘I had a nightmare. A terrible nightmare.’
‘What about?’
He hesitated to tell her. How could
he admit he’d dreamed she was dead? And that he’d performed an autopsy on her body? ‘I dreamed ... I dreamed you’d gone away. That you’d left me.’
She turned over in bed so that she was facing him. She kissed him on the nose, smiled and said, ‘You know I’d never do that . . .’
‘I know.’ He put his arms around her and held her as hard as he could . . .
There was a banging on the door. He had the impression it had been going on for some time but he’d only just become aware of it. ‘There’s someone at the door,’ he told Anne.
ignore it,’ she whispered in his ear. ‘Just hold me. Don’t let me go . . .’
But the banging continued.
He sat up with a start and found himself on the couch in his office. He looked round for Anne but she wasn’t there - and yet he could still feel the lingering pressure of her body on his arms.
Anne. There was something about Anne he shouldn’t remember . . .
It was too late. Memory came flooding back and with it a sense of loss that hurt like physical pain, driving the breath from his body. ‘Anne . . .’ he gasped.
Anne was dead. Dead.
The banging on the door continued. It alone had been real.
He stood up and swayed groggily as the room spun about him, then made his way over to the door and unlocked it.
A girl stood there. A very attractive girl with eyes such a light shade of blue they looked as if they were illuminated from behind. ‘Dr Thomas?’ she asked, with an expression of alarm on her face. It made him wonder what he looked like. Pretty bad, he gathered. He hadn’t shaved in days.
‘Yes,’ he said wearily. ‘What do you want?’
‘Uh, I have to talk to you. It’s very important. But first I want you to promise you’ll hear me out. Losing your temper won’t help either of us . .
He frowned at her. ‘Why should I lose my temper? Who are you? Come to that, how did you get in here?’
‘I told them at the gate I was your sister. I was in a hurry.’
‘You told them what?'
‘Dr Thomas, I’m Robin Carey.’
There was a long silence. Thomas realized he was face to face with the girl who had, indirectly, been responsible for Anne’s death. If it hadn’t been for her interview with Anne, which had led to his terrible argument with her, Anne probably would have never gone to Harpenden that night . . .
‘You murdered my wife,’ he said coldly. ‘Get the fuck out of here before I do the same to you.’
She took one step backwards but then held her ground, i’m sorry about your wife, Dr Thomas, believe me. And I’m sorry I lied to her . . .’
‘Your lies killed her as surely as if you’d stabbed her with a knife. Except that would have been a clean death and she sure as hell didn’t die cleanly. You want to take a look at her body? It’s not far from here, what’s left of it. Why don’t you go take a look at your goddamn handiwork!!’
His voice had risen to a shout. She took another step backwards.
‘You don’t have to tell me how she died!’ she yelled. ‘I almost died the same way myself last night!’
He sneered at her. ‘Another one of your reporter’s lies.’
‘No, it’s true! Haven’t you heard the news about the latest attack?’ in Harpenden again?’
‘No. While all the attention was on Harpenden the things came up in St Albans, five miles to the south of their last attack. But it was much bigger this time. Much bigger. It’s estimated that over 5,000 people died last night.’
‘Five thousand?’
She nodded, it was terrible. The things were much more numerous. They were everywhere. You were lucky you weren’t at your house last night. The chances are you would have been one of the victims. I drove round to your place as soon as it got light - the things seem to disappear when daylight comes - but you weren’t home so I came here. I see now you must have spent the night here . . .’ She gestured at his couch.
‘I don’t understand,’ he said suspiciously. ‘Why were you so anxious to see me?’
‘I wanted to give you this.’ She slipped off her shoulder bag, opened it up and warily removed a black plastic bag. She held it out to him. ‘I thought you’d be the best person to take this to.’
‘What is it?’
‘Look and see.’
Still suspicious, he took the bag from her. Whatever was in it weighed hardly nothing. He went over to his desk, cleared a space, and turned the bag upside down. A smaller, transparent plastic bag fell out. It contained two twelve-inch lengths of what appeared to be black jelly within a clear membrane.
He turned and looked at her in wonder. ‘Where did you get these? And how?’
She shrugged but there was a gleam of triumph in her blue eyes. ‘I told you. I was almost killed last night. By that. If I’d been asleep I wouldn’t be here but because of the heat and , . . well, I was still awake when it came in through the window and I heard it coming across the floor. There was an electric fan beside my bed. An old, rather dangerous one that belonged to my father. When the thing darted at me I grabbed the fan without thinking. I used it as a shield and the blades chopped right through the worm. Those two bits fell on the floor and the rest of it shot back out the window . . .’
Thomas stared almost hungrily at the two glistening ‘worm’ segments. ‘Has anyone else managed to get a specimen of these things?’ he asked her.
‘Not that I know of. That’s why I thought it was important to bring them to you as soon as possible.’
He nodded, picked up the bag, pushed by her as if she was no longer there, and hurried down the corridor.
Robin, after a moment’s hesitation, followed him. What the hell, she decided, she’d come this far into the lion’s den, she might as well go all the way.
She had to admit that Dr Clive Thomas was not what she’d been expecting. For some reason she’d thought he’d be a lot older than his wife. She’d had an image of a grey-haired, dotty type of character and got a real surprise when his door had opened and she found herself facing a youngish-looking man who bore a close resemblance to one of her favourite actors, Robert Powell. True, he looked haggard and unwell, and his clothes looked as if they'd spent the night in a tumble dryer, but none of this detracted from the basic appeal he had for her.
She’d felt an instant regret that they were not meeting under different circumstances.
She followed him into an all-white laboratory and watched as he donned rubber gloves and then, using forceps, extracted the segments from the bag and laid them out in two metal dishes. He seemed completely oblivious to her presence so she kept quiet and hoped her luck would continue to hold.
After watching him work for about half an hour she looked at her watch and saw that it was now 8.30 a.m. Quietly she left the lab and walked back down to his office. Inside she picked up his phone, figured out how to get an outside line and called her paper.
Larry’s reaction, when she got through to him, surprised her. ‘Jesus Christ!’ he cried. ‘You’re still alive! We thought you were dead for sure. I’ve been trying to call you for hours but you haven’t answered your phone . . . are you okay, hon?’ i’m fine. I had a visitation last night but I survived it.’ ‘You mean one of those things did get into your place? Jesus, how did you get away from it? And why the hell didn’t you call the paper afterwards? No other paper’s run a first-hand description of a worm attack yet.’
She couldn’t help smiling. One moment Larry was all concern for her welfare and the next his reporter’s instinct had taken over. ‘Sorry, Larry. I had other things on my mind. Like survival. I spent the rest of the night waiting for another one to appear.’
‘Well, okay, dictate it to me now. I’m all ready.’ ‘Uh-uh, Larry,’ she said. If she described what had happened she would have to admit she had segments of
the worm and she wanted to keep that back for the time being. ‘No can do just yet. I’ll explain later.’
‘What do you mean, you’ll explai
n later? The Old Man is going to blow his top when he finds out you’re sitting on an exclusive.’
‘So don’t tell him. Look, Larry, I’m following up an angle which should give us an even bigger exclusive, promise you! Just give me some time, okay?’
There was a pause at the other end of the line. Then Larry said, ‘Don’t have any choice, do I? Where are you calling from?’
‘Sorry. Can’t tell you that either yet.’
‘Bloody hell, Robin, what can you tell me?’
‘Only that things are getting bad out there. The roads are choked with cars. Not commuters but whole families. Looks like a panic reaction is setting in , .
That I know already. Worm hysteria is spreading right across the country. There have been reported sightings all over the place, from Brighton to Edinburgh.’
‘God.’ She suddenly felt queasy. ‘You mean those things are everywhere?’
‘No,’ he assured her. ‘None of the sightings outside of St Albans have been verified. So far the worms appear to be a purely localized event.’
‘Some local event. They struck throughout St Albans last night. There are definitely more of them than there were in the Harpenden attacks. If they keep multiplying at this rate they will spread across the whole country. What’s the government doing?’
‘There’s an emergency cabinet meeting taking place right now. It’s presumed the PM will declare a State of Emergency some time during the morning.’
‘Oh, great. I’m sure that will put those worms in their place,’ she said sarcastically. ‘Anyone know yet what these things are or where they come from?’
Nope. Lot of theories flying about but no one seems to really know.’
She smiled to herself. ‘Well, that situation could soon change. I’ll keep you posted. Got to go now. Bye, Larry.’ ‘Wait, Robin! What are you up to?’
‘Sorry, Larry. Talk to you later,’ she said and hung up. She went back to the laboratory. Thomas was hunched over a microscope and didn’t look up as she entered. She decided not to say anything.
Simon Ian Childer Page 8