‘Grant,’ she sighed, ‘Vikings did not go around saying, “No way, man.” ’
‘What did they say, then?’ demanded Grant.
Sarah-Jane shrugged. ‘I don’t know, do I? I wasn’t around, but it wasn’t “No way, man”, I can tell you that.’
‘Sarah-Jane, I’ve just had an idea,’ said Fliss.
‘What?’
‘Well, we don’t know how people spoke in those days, do we? Nobody does. So why don’t we do it without words?’
Sarah-Jane looked at her. You mean mime it, or do it through dance or something?’
Fliss shook her head. ‘No. I thought we could have a narrator. You know – somebody who stands at the side and tells the story as the play unfolds. That way, nobody has to learn lines and we can concentrate on the action.’
‘The narrator’d have a lot to memorize.’
‘Not necessarily. He or she could read from a script done up to look like an ancient chronicle or something. Nobody’d be watching the narrator anyway, if we made the action exciting enough.’
‘Hmmm.’ Sarah-Jane frowned. ‘It’s an idea, Fliss. It’d get rid of “No way, man,” and stuff like that, but who’s going to do it?’
‘I will,’ volunteered Andrew Roberts, ‘if someone’ll help me write it.’
‘We’ll all help to write it,’ smiled Sarah-Jane. ‘Thanks, Andrew.’
For the moment they carried on with no words except those of Sarah-Jane, who was directing. They hit another snag after Ceridwen banished the worm. ‘What do we do now?’ asked Barry Tune. ‘I mean, years go by before the Danes come and kill her.’
‘Hmmm.’ Sarah-Jane frowned again.
‘We could have a ceremony,’ suggested Waseem. ‘You know – the villagers are so grateful to Ceridwen they make her their chief or something.’
‘Yes,’ put in Haley. ‘And remember, the Vikings were raiding long before they settled here. We could show a series of unsuccessful raids with the Danes being repulsed by the villagers.’
Sarah-Jane nodded. ‘Good idea, Haley. Yours too, Waseem. Let’s try it.’
They tried it, and it worked. Friday lunchtime they went through it again, this time in the hall. The first bit of narration was ready and Andrew read it as they performed. It looked good. ‘All we need now is the costumes,’ grinned Marie. ‘And we’re the Royal Shakespeare Company.’
CHAPTER SIX
SATURDAY MORNING FLISS had to go with her mother to buy shoes. Then there was lunch, and by the time she got to Trot’s garage the others had practically finished the head. She gasped when she saw it. It was enormous, and looked fantastic with its red eyes and gaping jaws. ‘Wow!’ she cried. ‘Those eyes are really ace, Trot. What’re they made of?’
Trot grinned. ‘Reflectors, Fliss, from Gary’s dad’s old car. D’you like ’em?’
‘Like ’em? They’re amazing. It’s like they’re staring right at you, hating you. What a terrific idea.’
‘Yeah, well – we need a terrific idea from you, Fliss, now that you’ve finally shown up.’
‘Why – what’s up?’
‘It’s the neck,’ said Lisa. ‘It’s designed to go over Gary’s head and shoulders and down to his waist, so that the head is firmly supported and won’t sway about when the worm’s moving.’
‘And doesn’t it fit?’
‘Oh, it fits all right, but it pins Gary’s arms to his sides. He feels like an Egyptian mummy in there and it’s not safe for him to walk, let alone run. If he tripped, he’d fall flat on his face.’
‘Hmmm.’ Fliss looked at the head. ‘Is the papier-mâché completely dry now?’
‘The thickest parts are still a bit soggy, but it’s OK. Why?’
‘Well, if the neck’s dry we could take a saw and cut two slots in it, one either side. It’d still reach his waist back and front, and his arms would be free.’
‘Fliss Morgan, you’re a genius,’ cried Trot. ‘An infant prodigy. Why didn’t we think of that?’
The slots were quickly cut, and Gary tried on the head. He couldn’t see yet because they hadn’t made the eye-holes, but they led him on a circuit of the garage and he did some roaring and said he felt much better. Now that the papier-mâché had dried out, the whole thing was surprisingly light. They spent the afternoon painting it, and by half-past four the last scrap of newsprint was covered and the head was a glossy green, except for the inside of the mouth which they’d done with some obscenely pink stuff Ellie-May had got from somewhere. They propped it in a corner and stood in a half-circle, looking at it.
‘It looks like a pensioner yawning,’ said Lisa. ‘It’s got no teeth.’
‘Don’t worry,’ said Ellie-May. ‘My gran’s got some things we can use for teeth.’
‘What sort of things?’
‘Oh – they’re cone-shaped plastic things from where she used to work. Bobbins of some sort, I think. They’re all colours, but we can soon paint ’em white.’
Trot looked at her. ‘Can you bring them tomorrow?’
‘No problem.’
‘Right.’ He turned to the others. ‘Half-past ten then, here?’
This time, Lisa left with Fliss. Fliss grinned. ‘Trot found somebody else, has he?’
Lisa shook her head. ‘I told you – I don’t care about Trot. I care about the play, that’s all. I get a funny feeling every time I think about it.’
‘What sort of feeling? Are you nervous?’
Lisa shook her head. ‘Not nervous exactly. Sort of shivery. It’s ever since we started the head.’
Fliss laughed. ‘You scared of it?’
‘Me? No. I don’t need to be, Fliss. It’s you. You’re Ceridwen.’
Fliss pulled a face. ‘I know. I had a nightmare. But it’s only a story, so there can’t really be anything to be afraid of, can there?’
Her friend shrugged. ‘I dunno. Maybe not. Anyway, can we talk about something else now, Fliss?’
CHAPTER SEVEN
SUNDAY MORNING WAS dull and drizzly, but Ellie-May had brought the teeth. Each tooth was twenty centimetres long and came to a good sharp point at one end. Everybody had come in old clothes and they spent a happy hour with the white paint, slapping it on the cones and standing them in a row on Trot’s dad’s workbench. When the last tooth was done, Trot counted them. ‘Twenty-eight,’ he said. ‘Just right. Seven each side, top and bottom.’
‘How do we fix ’em in?’ asked Gary.
‘Superglue,’ Trot told him. ‘We gouge out sockets in the papier-mâché, smear ’em with superglue and stick the teeth in. Nothing’ll shift ’em once that glue sets. Nothing. But the paint’s got to dry first.’
They made the sockets while they were waiting. It wasn’t easy. The painted papier-mâché was remarkably tough. By the time they’d finished it was nearly lunchtime and the teeth were almost dry. ‘Near enough, anyway,’ said Trot, testing one with his finger. ‘We can always touch ’em up after if they get fingerprints on ’em.’
By one o’clock the worm’s head had a full set of fearsome teeth. The difference was amazing. ‘Wow!’ breathed Ellie-May. ‘Look at it. It’s so realistic.’
Trot nodded. ‘Sure is. I mean, I know we wanted it scary, but this is almost too frightening. I’d have a fit if I met that in the woods at night.’
‘Hey!’ Gary’s eyes shone. ‘Help me on with it – let’s see what it looks like moving.’
‘No!’ Lisa shook her head. ‘Don’t, Gary. Don’t put it on.’ She sounded frightened and everybody looked at her.
‘What’s the matter?’ demanded Gary. ‘You scared or something?’
Lisa nodded. ‘Yes, I’m scared. I don’t know why, but I am. It’s too good. Too real. I can’t believe we made it.’
Trot laughed. ‘Who made it if we didn’t, Lisa? We’re geniuses, kid. It looks good because it was created by a team of brilliant minds. Come on, Gary – let’s see our stunning creation in action.’
Lisa was backing towards the big double doors. ‘I �
� I’ve got to go,’ she murmured. ‘Lunch. I’ll see you at school tomorrow, OK?’
‘Hey, Lisa.’ Fliss looked at her friend. ‘Hang on one minute, right? One minute and I’ll be with you.’
‘No, sorry.’ Lisa’s face was chalk white. ‘I can’t. I don’t feel well. I have to go now.’
‘Oh, all right, I’ll come with you.’ Fliss shot the others an apologetic glance. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’
When she got outside, Lisa was halfway down the drive. Fliss had to run to catch up. ‘You’re acting crazy, d’you know that?’ she panted. ‘They’ll drop you from the team if you’re not careful.’
‘Let them,’ said Lisa. ‘I’ll probably drop out anyway.’
‘But why, Lisa? You volunteered for the worm, you know. Nobody forced you.’
‘Listen.’ Lisa spun on her heel and faced her friend. ‘Don’t you feel anything when you look at that head? Those teeth? I do. I feel like – like it’s all too easy. I mean, that head’s perfect, Fliss. Perfect. Stuff you make out of papier-mâché just doesn’t turn out like that, especially when a lot of people work on it. You get lumps and dents – it ends up the wrong shape. You know what I mean.’
‘Yes.’ Fliss nodded. ‘We do seem to have been lucky. We slapped the thing together and by sheer chance it came out right. But does that mean we should be scared of it?’
‘I’m not scared of it.’
‘Well, you could have fooled me. You looked terrified, backing out of that garage. Look.’ She put an arm round Lisa and squeezed her skinny waist. ‘I’m your friend, right? Whatever’s bugging you, you can tell me.’
Lisa nodded. ‘I know.’ They walked on. ‘It’s hard to explain, Fliss, but I’m not afraid of the worm. Not in the way you mean, but all the same there’s something about it that’s not quite right.’ She smiled wanly. ‘And if I still feel the same when it’s finished, I think I’m going to have to drop out.’
‘Well,’ sighed Fliss, ‘It is odd, I suppose, the way everything’s come together so perfectly. Anyway, I’m on your side whatever happens. D’you want to meet up after lunch – walk round town or something?’
Lisa nodded. ‘OK. Half-two?’
‘Half-two, on the corner. I’ll wear my new black jeans.’
CHAPTER EIGHT
‘HEY, I LIKE the gear!’ cried Lisa. Fliss did a twirl, showing off her black jeans and top, her brand-new trainers.
‘You’ve perked up a bit,’ she grinned. ‘Must’ve been hunger.’
Lisa smiled. ‘Maybe.’ They fell into step, strolling towards the town centre.
‘What we gonna do?’ asked Lisa.
Fliss shrugged. ‘Not a lot. Everything’ll be shut, but some of the kids could be around.’ She looked sidelong at her friend. ‘We might see Trot.’
‘Shut up.’
Fliss was partly right. Most places were shut. McDonald’s was open though, and they peered through the big window, looking for friends among the diners. There were none. ‘We could go in anyway,’ suggested Fliss. ‘Have coffee and pie or something.’
‘Ugh.’ Lisa pulled a face. ‘Do you mind? I’ve just eaten about half a cow and a truckful of veg. Haven’t you had lunch? You must have a stomach like a Hoover.’
‘I thought it’d be something to do, that’s all.’
‘I’d rather walk on, boring though it is.’
‘I’ll tell you what.’
‘What?’
‘It must’ve been even more boring when it was just a village.’
Lisa looked at her. ‘What made you think of that?’
‘The play, of course.’
‘Hmmm.’ Lisa grinned. ‘No McDonald’s, that’s for sure, but they did have the worm to liven things up.’
Fliss giggled. ‘D’you reckon it was exciting waiting for it to come out of the marsh, never knowing when it might be your turn to get eaten?’
Lisa shook her head. ‘Horrible, I should think. Terrifying. Like a village in India when there’s a man-eating tiger about. Not boring though.’
‘I think I’d rather be bored.’
Lisa laughed. ‘I’d rather be the worm.’
Fliss looked at her. ‘Fancy human flesh, do you?’
Lisa chuckled. ‘Not the flesh, Fliss. The power.’
‘How d’you mean?’
‘Well, think about it.’ Lisa’s eyes gleamed. ‘Everyone running, hiding, shaking with terror every time you appeared. You could have anything you wanted – make them do whatever you wanted them to do. What a fantastic feeling that’d be.’
Fliss shook her head. ‘I think I’d rather be liked, Lisa.’
Lisa laughed. ‘That’s the whole point, Fliss – you don’t need to be liked if you’re feared. If they’re all scared stiff of you, they’ll fall over each other to be your friend.’
There was a note in Lisa’s voice which Fliss had never heard before. She gazed at her friend. ‘Sounds like you’ve thought it all out, Lisa. I never knew stuff like that went on inside your skull.’
Lisa frowned. ‘It didn’t. Not till this worm thing started. It’s doing my head in if you want to know, Fliss. I can’t stop thinking about it.’
‘Well, if it’s bothering you so much, maybe you should drop out, but I don’t get it. It’s only a play, for Pete’s sake, with a papier-mâché monster we made ourselves.’ Fliss wished she felt as certain as she sounded.
Lisa nodded. ‘I know, and I don’t understand either. I—’ She broke off, peering along the street they’d just turned into. Some way down, a great yellow skip stood on the pavement. Men were hurrying in and out of a building, throwing things into the skip, going back for more. ‘What’s going on, Fliss – what place is that?’
Fliss shrugged. ‘Demolition, by the look of it. It’s the Odeon.’ The Odeon was Elsworth’s only cinema. ‘Come on.’ She plucked at Lisa’s sleeve. ‘Let’s watch for a bit. It’ll be something to do, if nothing else.’
CHAPTER NINE
THEY WATCHED FROM across the street. Two men brought out rolls of carpet and threw them in the skip. A great battered van came nosing along the street and drew up, blocking their view. They crossed over a bit further along and watched from there. The men were carrying out seats of steel and worn plush. These didn’t go into the skip. They were lifted from the men’s shoulders by two youths in the back of the van, who stacked them in the cavernous interior. ‘Wonder where they’re going?’ whispered Fliss.
‘Another cinema?’ suggested Lisa.
When the van was crammed with seats, the two youths jumped down, secured its shutter-door and clambered into the cab. The engine coughed and roared and the van lurched away in a fog of blue exhaust. Three demolition men in vests and jeans stood, hands on hips, watching it leave. As they turned to go back inside, one of them noticed the two girls and called to them. ‘Wanna buy a cinema, ladies?’
Lisa shook her head. ‘Not today, thanks.’
‘How much?’ asked Fliss.
‘Oh, let me see.’ The man pretended to calculate. ‘Five quid?’
‘Sorry, haven’t got it. How about sixty-two pence?’
‘No chance. Good, solid building this, shoved up in nineteen thirty-two.’
‘No seats in it though,’ grinned Fliss.
‘Yeah, there is – hundreds yet. And anyway, what d’you expect for five quid?’
‘Sixty-two pence,’ Fliss reminded.
‘Aaa – miser, that’s all you are.’ He turned to follow his mates inside, muttering, ‘Sixty-two pence!’ as he went.
‘You aren’t half cheeky, Fliss,’ giggled Lisa.
‘No I’m not. He started it.’
‘I wonder what he’d have done if you’d pulled a fiver out and said “OK”!’
‘Sold it to me, of course.’ Fliss chuckled. ‘Can you imagine my mum’s face if I walked in and said, “Mum, I bought the Odeon.”?’
Lisa nodded. ‘She’d say, “Well, you can’t have the dirty old thing in your room – you must keep it in the shed.�
��’
The two friends were laughing so much when the man reappeared that he had to whistle piercingly to attract their attention. ‘If I can’t sell you a picture house, what about a nice bit of dress material?’ They looked, and saw that he was carrying a mass of satiny green fabric which lay in shimmering folds across his arms. It was so slippery, and there was so much of it, that he was having to steady it with his chin to stop it toppling forward.
‘Hey!’ breathed Fliss. ‘What is it?’
‘Curtain,’ the man told her. ‘You know – they used to pull it across the screen between films. There’s another just like it inside. D’you fancy it?’
‘You bet. How much?’
The man laughed. ‘I don’t want your money, love. Here – take it. It’ll only get burned if you don’t.’
Fliss started forward, but Lisa’s fingers snatched at her sleeve. ‘What d’you want with an old curtain, Fliss? Come on – let’s go, huh?’
‘No.’ Fliss freed her arm. ‘Don’t you see? It’s exactly what we need to cover the worm with. It’s green, it’s shiny and it’s very, very long. In other words, it’s perfect.’ She walked up to the demolition man.
‘Watch it, love,’ he grinned. ‘It’s heavy.’ He tipped it into her arms, and she staggered under its weight. Her knees buckled as she bore her prize back to Lisa.
‘See?’ she beamed. ‘What a fantastic stroke of luck.’
Lisa shook her head. ‘Not luck, Fliss. Fate.’
‘What do you mean, fate? What are you on about, Lisa?’
‘Fate is what I’m on about, Fliss. The thing that made the frame perfect and the head perfect and the teeth perfect. The thing that made us walk down here, today of all days, so that you could find a perfect skin for our perfect worm. Don’t you see? It’s all coming too easily.’
Fliss gazed into her friend’s troubled eyes. ‘Oh, Lisa – it’s a run of luck, that’s all. It happens. Are you going to help me carry this, or do I have to cripple myself?’
Inside the Worm Page 2