Simon Ian Childer

by Tendrils (epub)

  When he entered the kitchen he found Robin at the stove. She turned, looked at him and gave an approving nod. ‘That’s a lot better. Are you hungry?’

  ‘Yes,’ he admitted as he sat down at the kitchen table. ‘What are you cooking?’

  ‘Just potatoes. I’ll mash them up and mix a couple of eggs in with them. Your stomach is probably in no condition to take anything more solid than that.’

  He nodded silently. She was right. He didn’t like her but he had to admit she knew what she was doing.

  He watched her as she cooked. For the first time he realized just how very attractive she was. He ran his eyes down her tight jeans, observing the firm roundness of her bottom, her long thighs . . .

  He stifled these stirrings of sexual interest immediately. It was an insult to Anne’s memory to be thinking of the damn girl in that way. He couldn’t let himself forget that she was partly responsible for what had happened to

  Anne.

  He grunted his thanks when Robin put the large helping of mashed potato and egg in front of him. She made two more cups of coffee then sat down opposite and watched him as he ate.

  ‘Well,’ he said, between mouthfuls, ‘don’t keep me in suspense. Tell me about these disappearances.’

  ‘I noticed it about a week ago. A sudden rise in the missing person statistics. But it only concerns London so far . . . The police say the sudden increase is due to all I he confusion from the worm scare. A lot of people fled i he capital during the big panic and haven’t returned yet or they’ve returned and lost track of relatives or friends . . .’

  ‘How many disappearances have there been?’

  ‘Well, a lot of people go missing in London every week as a rule. But I would say that the increase is in the region of ten to fifteen per cent. An extra fifty people at least.’

  ‘Hmmm,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘Has anyone else apart from you linked these missing people with the worms?’ She frowned with annoyance. ‘No. And when I tried to do a piece on my theory my editor spiked it. Scaremonger-ing, he told me - the old hypocrite. Like I said, everyone wants to forget what happened. It scared people badly. It was almost supernatural.’

  He nodded. ‘It certainly scared me.’

  ‘There’s been a great deal of waffle from fundamentalist religious groups claiming the worms were a warning from God. You know, like one of the plagues of Egypt . . .’ ‘God’s become a bit of a busybody in recent years,’ he said dryly. ‘What with inventing AIDS to punish homosexuals, setting fire to the roof of York Minster to punish the Bishop of Durham and now letting loose a

  plague of killer worms. Shades of the Old Testament.’ He ate some more food and then said, ‘What makes you so sure that the police aren’t right about this spate of missing people? I mean, the worms didn’t make people completely vanish. They left some remains behind.’ He thought of Anne and winced.

  ‘I know,’ she said. ‘And I can’t explain the difference. But I’ve sifted through most of the cases for the last week and after you separate the ones that are obviously ordinary missing people situations - runaways, wives walking out on husbands and vice versa - you’re left with a number that are definitely odd.’

  She got up, went to her bag and took out a notebook. As she sat down again she flipped through the pages and said, ‘Take this one, for example. Happened last Wednesday in Westminster. Teenage boy and girl walking along Millbank late at night. The boy stops to tie his shoe; the girl walks on. Girl keeps walking slowly waiting for him to catch up. He doesn’t. She turns back. No sign of him. Hasn’t been seen since.’

  ‘Maybe he fell in the river.’

  She shook her head. ‘The police have searched the Thames. No sign of any corpse. And what about this one.’ She turned another page of the notebook. ‘Bunch of drunk Welsh Rugby fans at the end of a night’s heavy drinking in London. Six of them altogether. They go down into the Russell Square tube. They horse around on the platform while they wait for the train. Suddenly there’s only five of them. The sixth man has vanished, presumably into the tunnel mouth, but a search of the tunnel by police and Underground staff doesn’t produce him. And again he hasn’t been seen since.’ She closed the notebook. ‘I’ve got similar examples.’

  He finished the last of the mashed potato and then took a sip of coffee. He still felt very weak and he had a pounding headache but his mind was growing more alert with every passing minute. After a long pause he said, ‘What made you link the incident at the NIREX drilling site with the worms?’

  ‘A couple of things. But mainly it was because of that stuff they got out of the drill hole just before the eruption. 1 spoke to the geologist who examined it. He said it could have been fibre from some animal but he’d never seen anything like it before. And when you analysed that worm specimen I brought you you said you’d never seen anything like it before either, so . . .’ She gave a slight shrug then said, 'And there was something else. Something your wife told me . . .’ She looked down into her coffee cup.

  'Go on,’ he said coldly.

  'She said the material reminded her of something from her childhood. A silkworm’s cocoon. I didn’t pay any attention at the time but yesterday it occurred to me that . . well, I know it sounds kind of silly, but . . .’

  ‘You think the drill broke open a cocoon of some form and released those worms?’ he said before she could finish.

  She looked at him anxiously. ‘What do you think?’

  He didn’t answer. He’d just remembered something Anne had told him as well. Something he’d dismissed and forgotten, like Robin. ‘Anne said she saw something alive in the geyser of black liquid,’ he said slowly. ‘Just before the derrick collapsed. I told her she was imagining things.’

  They looked at each other across the kitchen table. For a long time they didn’t say anything. Finally he said, These fibres, what happened to them, do you know?’ ‘Yes,’ she said excitedly. ‘And that’s one of the main reasons I came here to see you. I need your help. I know it was taken to the Department of the Environment for analysis but whenever I ring up about it I get stonewalled. So I thought you might be able to get some answers out of them in your official capacity as a government scientist. Will you try?’

  He smiled cynically at her. ‘You’re a reporter all the way to the bone, aren’t you? Have you ever met a person yet that you haven’t used?’

  He was surprised to see a brief flicker of pain in her eyes but she recovered quickly. ‘Look, I know you think very little of me, Dr Thomas, and I admit I’m after a big story here but you have to admit that if I’m right it’s vitally important that people find out about it. Thousands more lives could be at risk. So are you going to help or not?’

  He sighed and, with difficulty, stood up. ‘I don’t have any choice, do I?’

  It took him an hour and several phone calls before he finally got to speak to someone at the Department of the Environment who knew what he was talking about, but being familiar with government bureaucracy he wasn’t too surprised. And, after some blatant lying and bluffing, he got what he wanted. He found out that the sample had been sent to the Natural History Museum for identification.

  After getting the details of who to speak to he rang the museum and eventually got on to a Professor Blinn. The professor was only too happy to talk about the sample, it’s absolutely fascinating!’ he said loudly over the phone. ‘Haven’t got a clue what it is. All I know is that it’s a natural fibre with very unusual properties. In many ways it more closely resembles a synthetic resin than a natural fibre - incredibly strong network of molecular cross-linkages - but it’s definitely a protein.’

  ‘But not one you’ve encountered before?’ Thomas asked him.

  ‘No. Absolutely not. Right out of the bag. And how it incorporated all that silica is totally beyond me.’

  ‘Silica?’ asked Thomas, trying to conceal the eagerness in his voice.

  ‘Yes. Forms a protective sheath around the fibres. 1 Extraordinary. Accounts for the incre
dible age, I expect.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘We did a carbon dating test on the substance. Twice, actually, because I thought we’d made an error the first lime. Do you realize that those fibres are over 65,000,000 years old?’

  Thomas sat in the living room, deep in thought. He badly wanted a drink but he wouldn’t let himself go to the depleted supply in the basement. It was important he kept his mind clear.

  Robin had been sitting hunched forward on the sofa for nearly a half an hour without saying a word but now her impatience was getting the better of her. ‘Well?’ she demanded. ‘What’s the verdict?’

  He blinked as she broke into his concentration. Then he said slowly, ‘Millions of years ago an alien organism arrived on earth somehow. Maybe it was in a very simple form - a spore in a meteorite or perhaps the earth passed through a cloud of cosmic debris that contained organic matter. Anyway the thing gets here and manages to survive in what is to it an alien environment. It is highly adaptable - in fact, maybe it had evolved that way, a non-specialized life form that drifts through space with the ability to adapt to any environment it encounters . . .’ He fell silent again.

  ‘And then what?’ asked Robin, wide-eyed with excitement.

  He roused himself. ‘What? Oh, it flourished on earth for a while and then it reproduced itself, asexually, presumably ... or perhaps it went into hibernation, span a cocoon around itself for protection and just lay there for millions of years . . .’

  ‘And sediments build up over it until finally it’s deep underground, like any fossil,’ she said eagerly. ‘And then the NIREX drill hole goes right into it and those worms get out.’

  He shook his head. ‘They’re not worms.’

  ‘What are they then?’

  ‘I think I know, but I don’t like what I’m thinking.’

  ‘Tell me!’

  He ran his fingers worriedly through his hair. ‘An animal in a cocoon couldn’t survive millions of years underground while layers of sediment turned to rock above and around it. For one thing the pressure would have crushed it, so it wasn’t alive in a way we would recognize. And to avoid compression the bulk of its body within the cocoon must have been in liquid form. Still is, probably . . .’

  She frowned at him. ‘You’re talking in the singular and yet there were lots of those worms.’

  ‘That’s what I’m trying to tell you. I think there’s only one creature. And those “worms” are just part of it.’

  As his words sunk in, her mouth dropped open with astonishment. Then she said, ‘But that would make it enormousV

  He nodded. ‘Yes, it must be very big by now. After all, it’s been eating very well since it woke up.’

  Sylvia Trent hated the Underground. She especially hated the Underground during the rush hours which, due to the inflexible hours of her job at the bank, was when she was obliged to use it. She hated being jammed up with all those people. Invariably she found herself pressed face to face with some leering man who would persist in staring into her eyes while she did her best to pretend he wasn’t there. Men.

  She’d discovered that the carriages least likely to be packed out were the ones on each end of the train. This was not always the case but even so it was now her habit to wait at the farthest end of the platform away from the main mass of people.

  That was where she was standing on this particular day in the Chancery Lane Central Line station. She was tired, hot and feeling irritable. She couldn’t wait to get back to her flat, and her cat, in Shepherd’s Bush, but the train -wouldn’t you know it - was late . . .

  She peered impatiently into the black mouth of the tunnel, listening for the rumble that would signal the approach of a train.

  Nothing. Not a sound.

  But wait, there wax something. She could hear a kind of rustling sound in the tunnel. And then came a slight stirring in the air, and with it an unpleasant smell.

  Curious now, she stepped to the very edge of the platform and leaned forward. It wasn’t a train, so what was it?

  The rustling got louder.

  She saw something moving in the darkness . . .

  Then she screamed.

  A great brown mass erupted from the mouth of the tunnel. It flowed up onto the platform and swirled over Sylvia’s feet.

  It was a living carpet of rats.

  Thousands and thousands of panic-stricken rats.

  14

  ‘Hey, you! Copper!’

  Constable John Fifield turned and saw a tramp gesticulating wildly at him from the gateway leading into the gardens behind the Savoy. The tramp had the bushiest beard that Fifield had ever seen and even from a distance of ten yards it was obviously the dirtiest beard he’d ever seen as well. He sighed. His beat along the Embankment could be very pleasant at times, particularly in this fine weather, but it had its drawbacks and the tramps constituted the main one.

  He walked unhurriedly towards the man who was still waving at him frantically. As he got closer he saw that the man was very agitated indeed. His eyes were bulging with fear and his hands were shaking. Then Fifield grimaced with distaste when he saw that the front of the tramp’s old coat was covered with fresh vomit. An alcoholic, he told himself. Probably had an attack of the DTs . . .

  ‘Okay, mate, calm down and tell me what the problem is,’ said Fifield authoritatively as he tried to hide his disgust. Up close the tramp was revolting. And he stank too.

  ‘It’s Old Bob!’ cried the tramp, grabbing him by the arm and trying to pull him into the park. ‘You got to see! It’s horrible . . .!’

  Fifield recoiled from the tramp’s touch. ‘Here, take it easy!’ he said with annoyance. ‘What’s the matter with you?’

  ‘It’s Old Bob!’ repeated the tramp. Saliva was running down his chin and an ugly sore on the end of his nose was oozing blood. ‘But I didn’t do it! I swear it, copper! I just found him like it, I did . . .’

  ‘Where is this Old Bob?’ asked Fifield, not liking the direction the conversation was going in. Apart from the tramp he was beginning to get the smell of serious trouble in his nostrils. It looked like his peaceful morning had come to an end.

  ‘This way! He’s over there!’ cried the tramp and hobbled away.

  Fifield followed him across the narrow park. The tramp then came to a halt and pointed a trembling hand at a clump of bushes by the wall. ‘He’s behind there. You look. I’m not goin’ near him again. Once was enough for me . . .’

  After giving him a suspicious glance Fifield walked over to the bushes and looked behind them. At first he couldn’t comprehend what he was seeing, then, when it clicked together in his mind a rush of vomit spurted hotly into his mouth.

  Caught by surprise, most of his half-digested breakfast ended up on the front of his uniform. He staggered away, bent forward, and waited for the spasms to subside. Then he fumbled for his radio and called for assistance.

  The tramp, meanwhile, kept saying, ‘I didn’t do that to him, copper. I swear it. I found him like it . . .’

  After making his call Fifield reluctantly went back to the bushes and looked again.

  The thing lying on the metal grating was barely recognizable as a human being. You had to look closely at the bundle of torn clothing, raw meat and white bones before it became evident that the blood-soaked mess had once been a man. And then the eyes began to pick up other details - the boot with the bleeding stump of a foot protruding from it; the human heart glistening redly among the splintered ribs; the detached lower jaw bone complete with its row of neglected, rotting teeth.

  Fifield wanted to throw up again but he had nothing left to vomit. He forced himself to keep looking at the remains. To get his mind off his protesting stomach he started to mentally write his report: ‘Preliminary examination of the body suggested that the victim’s assailant, or assailants (surely one person alone couldn’t have achieved such carnage), had attempted to push him through the grating of the ventilator shaft . . .’

  Lisa reacted
with surprise as Thomas walked into the lab.

  ‘Clive! My God! What happened to you? You look terrible!’

  ‘I know, I know,’ he said as he collapsed into a chair. ‘You don’t have to tell me that. But you should have seen me yesterday. I have it on good authority I looked even worse.’ He put the folder he’d been carrying onto the desk in front of him and opened it up. ‘To tell the truth I had something of a breakdown but I’m on the mend now and raring to go. Could you call Henry in here right away? I’ve got some important information for him. For you all, in fact . . .’

  Lisa didn’t move. ‘Uh, Clive,’ she said, with evident embarrassment. ‘Professor Renton’s been trying to get in touch with you. I take it you haven’t talked with him yet?’

  ‘No, I haven’t. Why?’

  ‘I think maybe you should go see him immediately,’ she said grimly.

  ‘Oh, to hell with Renton,’ he snapped. ‘I told you this is important. Would you please go and fetch Henry!’

  She sighed and said, ‘Don’t say I didn’t warn you.’ She left the lab. When she returned Renton was with her as well as Henry Mitchell.

  Thomas looked at her and said simply, ‘Thanks a lot, Lisa. Loyal to the core.’

  She refused to look him in the eye. Renton, however, was glaring at him. ‘So you finally had the nerve to come and face the music, did you?’ he demanded.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ said Thomas. ’ He had no idea what Renton was going on about.

  ‘I told you what would happen if any of your crazy ideas got into the newspapers but you deliberately disobeyed me. You went and talked to a reporter straight away!’

  ‘No, I didn’t,’ said Thomas. ‘She was right here in the lab the whole time. I couldn’t help it that she overheard our conversation.’