Simon Ian Childer

by Tendrils (epub)

  Renton’s face went dark red. ‘But why didn’t you tell me she was a journalist?’

  ‘You didn’t ask me,’ said Thomas calmly. ‘But none of that’s important now. I think I’ve found out what those so-called “worms” really are.’

  ‘I don’t want to hear any more about your stupid theories, Thomas,’ snapped Renton.

  it’s not a theory any more!’ Thomas protested loudly. ‘All the evidence points to it being fact! Look at this . . .’ He took a map from his folder and spread it out.

  ‘What’s that supposed to be?’ asked Renton impatiently.

  ‘Geological survey map of Hertfordshire. An old one.’ He pointed at a twisting line that ran down the map. ‘See that? It’s a feature that doesn’t show up on more recent maps.’

  Henry Mitchell leaned his bulk over the desk. ‘What is it?’

  ‘An underground river. Or underground stream would be a more accurate description. But it’s big enough to enable the creature to move fast from place to place. See where the stream runs? Through Harpenden and St Albans and then continues south . . .’

  ‘Creature?’

  ‘The worms were part of a single organism. They were some kind of feeding tendrils attached to the main body,’ he told them quickly. ‘Probably sensitive to infra-red, which is how they found their victims, and also the reason why they were only active at night. The bulk of the organism must be amorphous. Most of the time it’s in a semi-liquid state enabling it to ooze through sediments and so on. But when it needs to solidify parts of itself, such as those feeding tendrils, it uses the silica compounds it stores up within itself to construct temporary membranes . . .’

  As if talking to a small child Renton said, ‘And can you tell us, Dr Thomas, where this extraordinary creature came from?’

  Thomas pointed again at the map. ‘That’s where the NIREX test hole was drilled. See? Almost right on top of the stream.’ He told them about the age of the fibres analysed at the museum and of his theory that the creature had been in a dormant state within its cocoon for millions of years. ‘I also think it has undergone, or is still undergoing, another transformation. That’s the reason why the “worm” attacks suddenly stopped. The question is, will its next stage be more dangerous than the last one? Personally I think we must assume it will be . . . and this is why.’

  Hastily, he took another map out of the folder. ‘This one shows all the known underground rivers and streams beneath London. See this one that goes up through Barnet? I can’t prove it yet but I’m sure it links up with the Hertfordshire stream, which means that the creature is probably under London right now. I have the horrible suspicion that the thing deliberately headed for an area where the population is at its densest. In other words, it wanted a plentiful food supply.’

  ‘I see,’ said Renton non-committally. ‘And what do you propose should be done about this?’

  ‘Well, obviously the city should be put on a full-scale alert right away. There should be contingency plans to evacuate fast any part of London that comes under attack. In the meantime both this lab and Porton Down should be working on a biological means of killing the creature. It seems the best way of dealing with it. Explosives, poisons and other conventional methods will be useless, in my opinion. We’d either end up destroying London ourselves or making it uninhabitable. What do you think?’ He looked at Renton anxiously, waiting for his reaction.

  ‘What I think,’ said Renton slowly, ‘is that you are in urgent need of psychiatric help and I advise you to seek it immediately. You’ve already admitted to your assistant here that you’ve suffered a breakdown. In any case it’s out of the question for you to continue to work here. I’m putting you on suspension at half pay and will be recommending to the Ministry that you be transferred to a less taxing position in another department. You have the right to appeal at the next disciplinary tribunal but I assure you it will be a waste of time.

  ‘Furthermore if you pass any of this crank rubbish to a newspaper or any section of the media I will have you arrested under the Official Secrets Act.’

  Robin could tell by the way he was walking that he’d been unsuccessful. She didn't say anything as he opened the door of her mini and slumped into the passenger seat beside her. He put his hand to his forehead and began to massage his right temple. ‘This headache is killing me,’ was all he said.

  ‘No go, hey?’ she asked finally.

  ‘No go is right. Renton thinks I should be buying strait-jackets off the rack. He not only didn’t believe a word I said but he threw me out of my own lab. I’m on suspension. He’s going to transfer me to a VD clinic or something.’ He gave a deep sigh. ‘Bloody fool,’ he muttered.

  ‘His mind is completely inflexible. All he’s really suited for is breeding new forms of anthrax bacteria. I wish he’d stayed at Porton Down.’

  ‘Can’t you go over his head?’ she asked. ‘You could tell the Minister directly, couldn’t you?’

  ‘Yes, and he’d refer back to my department head -Renton - who would say I’m a candidate for a rubber room.’

  ‘So what are we going to do?’

  ‘No choice now but to publish and be damned. Hopefully my warning will get through to the right people. Trouble is I will get damned.’ He told her of Renton’s threat to have him arrested.

  ‘You think he means it?’ she asked.

  ‘You can bet on it.’

  ‘Hmm, tell you what, we’ll hide you out at my place for the time being.’

  He looked at her. ‘Fine with me. I’m not exactly keen to go to prison. But won’t that be an inconvenience for you? I mean, with your husband or boyfriend or whatever?’

  ‘No husband and I’m between boyfriends and what-evers. Though I must admit I haven’t told Geoff that yet.’

  ‘Geoff?’

  ‘My last whatever,’ she said as she started the car.

  George whistled as he walked along the sewer that ran beneath High Holborn. He liked his job; liked the underground world that he thought of as his private domain. He’d been working in the sewers for over twenty years and wouldn’t have traded those two decades for anything else.

  But not all his colleagues shared his enthusiasm for the profession, particularly the younger ones, like Harry who was trudging along behind him and muttering to himself.

  ‘Cheer up, son!’ called George over his shoulder. ‘Almost lunchtime.’

  ‘Jesus, George, how the hell do you keep your appetite down here? The smell makes me want to puke all the time.’

  ‘You'll get used to it, lad,’ George told him as he shone his torch beam over the old, crumbling brickwork. Like most of the sewers beneath London, and all the other cities and towns in Britain, this one was in bad condition. Built in the Victorian era, they were beginning to crumble at a faster rate than they could be repaired. The situation had been predicted many years ago but the cost of replacing the nation’s sewer system would be so astronomical that no government to date had wanted to take on the task.

  Some new sewers were being built but only when an old one deteriorated to the point it could no longer be repaired. Actually Harry preferred working in the old Victorian ones. The new ones he considered to be soulless - they were just prefabricated concrete tubes and totally uninteresting. The old ones were masterpieces of craftsmanship and, in his opinion, even possessed a certain romance . . .

  ‘I don’t see why we have to check this section again,’ complained Harry. ‘Someone checked it only yesterday.’ ‘You know why, lad. Those damn worm things. Orders are to keep a look-out for them in every bit of accessible sewer until further notice.’

  Harry swore loudly, his voice echoing down the tunnel. ‘There’s nothing down here but shit,’ he growled. ‘You don’t really believe in those bleeding worms, do you?’ ‘Well, something killed all those poor sods up in St Albans last month. And the people they interviewed on TV said they saw things that looked like worms . . .’ ‘Yeah, well, if you ask me it was all a cover-up,’ said Har
ry. ‘There was probably some kind of industrial accident, maybe, that the government wanted to keep quiet. A gas leak, like that one in India, remember?’ ‘Goodness me, son,’ said George sadly. ‘You’re always blaming the government for everything, yet without any real cause to at all . . .’

  ‘Oh yeah? I’ll tell you one thing, mate, if it wasn’t for the bloody government I wouldn’t be down here, would I? Last thing I wanted to do when I left school was to become a bloody shit-shoveller . . .’ He stopped as the tunnel began to vibrate. In the distance there was a growling rumble.

  ‘Tube train,’ said George, unnecessarily. He shone his torch on the ceiling of the tunnel just in time to see a brick shake loose and fall into the water.

  As the rumble died away Harry muttered, ‘No wonder these tunnels are falling to bits. What did those idiots who built these things use instead of cement?’

  This stung George in a sensitive area. ‘Son, you don’t know what you’re talking about,’ he said angrily. ‘These tunnels are engineering marvels! There was never anything like this city’s sewerage system before in the history of the world! Did you know London’s sewerage used to travel in open ditches in the middle of the street before the Victorians built all this?’

  ‘The shit still travels down the middle of the streets in my neighbourhood,’ muttered Harry. Then he said, ‘Christ, look!’

  Outlined in the beam of his torch were several rats. They were running towards them along the ledge of the sewer. And from behind in the darkness others appeared . . .

  The trickle of rats turned into a torrent. For nearly two minutes the two men stood speechless as the rats poured along the ledges on either side of the tunnel, squeaking frantically as they ran.

  As suddenly as it had begun the exodus was over.

  Apart from a few stragglers, the mass of rats had passed them by, their squeaks fading away up the tunnel into the darkness.

  Harry gave George an accusing look. ‘Does that happen very often down here?’

  George shook his head wonderingly. ‘No. I’ve never seen so many rats in all my twenty years in the sewer. I don’t understand . . .’

  The tunnel started to vibrate again.

  ‘Another tube train?’ asked Harry worriedly even though he couldn’t hear the rumble of any train.

  ‘That’s no train. I don’t know what it is,’ said George.

  Bricks began to fall from the ceiling in increasing numbers.

  ‘Run!’ yelled George. ‘Fast as you can, lad!’

  Both men turned and ran back up the tunnel the way they’d come. They didn’t get far. A whole section of the ceiling came crashing down less than five yards in front of them.

  Then George felt a brick strike him a glancing blow on the side of his head. Stunned, he fell forward onto his hands and knees, dropping his lamp into the water.

  For about thirty seconds he lost consciousness. When he became aware of his surroundings again he found himself in total darkness. Harry had obviously lost his torch as well.

  ‘Harry? You okay, lad?’ called George as he got to his feet. ‘Harry?’

  Arms outstretched he stumbled blindly forward and almost immediately hit his knees on a sloping pile of bricks. It was soon clear to him that the tunnel was completely blocked.

  ‘Harry!’ he called again. Was the boy buried under all that, he wondered desperately. Or was he safe on the other side?

  From behind, something that felt like a hand clasped him on the right shoulder.

  ‘Harry?’ he said hopefully.

  But it wasn’t Harry. And it wasn’t a hand.

  15

  Terry Dixon was doing what he enjoyed most of all -venting his spleen on the ‘civilian’ motorists as he bulldozed his way along High Holborn towards the turning into Kingsway. He was a black cab driver and had an urgent fare to pick up at the Savoy Hotel.

  ‘Give over, you stupid pillock!’ he bellowed out of his window as he cut in front of a nervous-looking young man driving a Volkswagen. Terry’s driving tactics involved part-bluff and the ability to use his sturdy vehicle as a blunt instrument.

  He was almost at the Holborn junction when, to his amazement, he saw a section of the road immediately in front of him suddenly drop away. As if by magic a hole some twenty feet in diameter stretched across the road.

  He braked but the cab skidded onward and went over the edge of the hole. He screamed as the cab tilted and tipped forward. All he could see through the windscreen was blackness . . .

  The cab didn’t fall far. When stunned pedestrians and other, luckier, motorists got over their initial shock and ventured near the edge of the hole they saw that the rear of the black cab was visible about twelve feet down. But when members of the Fire Brigade’s Emergency Rescue Service arrived on the scene and climbed down on ropes into the hole they found that the driver had vanished.

  Thomas was watching television when Robin returned to her flat. He looked up expectantly as she came into the room. She shook her head.

  ‘My turn to admit defeat, I’m afraid,’ she told him.

  ‘My editor refuses to run the story. Afraid of burning his fingers. He said he got too much flak from the powers that be after he ran my story about you saying that the worms were from outer space. Apparently the word is out that you’re a crank.’ She gave a helpless shrug. ‘Sorry.’

  He scowled. ‘We’re all going to be sorry. Very sorry. Time is running out. I just saw a news bulletin about that sewer collapse under Holborn . . .’

  ‘You think it was responsible?’

  ‘There were three casualties - two sewer workers and a cab driver - and so far none of their bodies have been recovered. So chalk up another three to your list of mysterious disappearances.’

  ‘Why do you think it’s taking people away whole instead of leaving those horrible shells like it did before?’ ‘I don’t know. Like I said, it’s changed in some way. What I don’t like is the fact that it’s active during daylight hours now.’

  ‘But only underground, where it’s dark,’ she pointed out.

  ‘Yeah, so far,’ he said grimly. He looked at his watch. It was 6.35 p.m. ‘Let’s hope it doesn’t pick tonight to come out of its hole.’

  ‘But you think it will sooner or later?’

  ‘You can bet on it. If I were you I’d steer clear of the centre of London.’

  ‘Bit difficult seeing as I work in Fleet Street, but thanks for the thought anyway.’

  ‘You’re welcome,’ he said coldly and stood up. ‘Well, no reason for me to play the fugitive if they’re not going to publish my story. Mind giving me a lift home?’

  ‘Of course not, but why don’t you stay here anyway? I’ll make us a meal.’

  ‘I don’t think that’s a good idea,’ he said.

  She smiled. ‘What? The idea of my cooking us a meal or your staying here.’

  ‘You know what I mean.’

  ‘Please stay. I need company, badly. I’ve an odd feeling about tonight. I don’t want to be alone.’

  He was going to refuse again but then he thought of going back to his empty house with all its painful memories and realized that he badly needed company tonight too. Even hers . . .

  At 11.40 p.m. that night the giant display board in the control room of London’s underground train system suddenly showed a complete loss of power on the section of Bakerloo Line track between Piccadilly Circus and Oxford Circus. As a train had just left Oxford Circus towards Piccadilly it meant it was stuck, helpless, somewhere in the northbound tunnel.

  The Controller immediately brought the entire Bakerloo line to a halt. Station staff at Oxford Circus and Piccadilly Circus were contacted by phone and informed of the situation. The guards on the platforms at both stations reported there was no sign of any smoke coming out of the tunnel mouths, which at least indicated that a fire wasn’t responsible for the power fault.

  Staff then entered both ends of the northbound tunnel. Whichever group encountered the train first would lead the
passengers back along the line to the nearest station. At the same time they would try and establish the cause of the break in the electrical system.

  Neither group encountered the train in the tunnel.

  What they did find was a massive hole in the floor of the tunnel at a point almost halfway between the two stations.

  Both groups came to a halt on each side of the pit and shone their torches down into it. Far, far below they caught a glint of metal. It was the end of the rear carriage.

  It was sticking up at an angle of forty degrees. The rest of the train was obviously beneath it.

  The northbound Northern Line platform at Tottenham Court Road station was packed with people but Ross Chapman didn’t mind because it gave him an excuse to stand closer to Shirley. It was the first time he had been out with her but he was feeling confident that he’d made real progress with her this evening. He wished now he'd had the nerve to ask her out weeks ago but what had put him off was all the inevitable kidding he’d get from the other lads in the office. Now he couldn’t care less what anyone said tomorrow. She was worth it. She was definitely the best-looking girl he’d ever dated. She had the sort of figure that really turned him on. Big breasts, very small waist, pert bum. She also had long blonde hair, another one of his turn-ons. And she wasn’t even 17 yet . . .

  Best of all, she’d mentioned that her whole family would be going away this weekend, leaving her alone in the house. And she’d invited him to come round on Saturday . . .

  ‘Where has that High Barnet train got to?’ she said with annoyance. ‘The indicator said six minutes and we’ve been here ten minutes at least.’

  He looked at the illuminated indicator. It had gone blank now. There’d been an announcement over the loudspeaker a short time ago but as usual with such station announcements he hadn’t understood a word of it. Was there someone under a train somewhere? Most of the delays on the tube seemed to be caused by people jumping in front of the trains these days.