Inside the Worm

by Robert Swindells

  Fliss turned and fought her way to the top of the aisle where she clung to a freezer-cabinet. Bodies cannoned into her, threatening to sweep her away, but she hung on, and as she clung there, limpet-like, she saw the worm. It was coming along the walkway between the tops of the aisles and the fixtures which lined the back wall of the store. It was moving quite rapidly for a thing its size, scattering shoppers as it came. It passed within a metre of her, heading for the last, wide aisle which would lead it back to the end of the checkout line. Fliss watched as it swung round the bend, dragging its iridescent green tail, and disappeared from view. Then she turned with a moan and threw up over a hill of turkey parts.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  STAN MORRIS HAD the biggest milk round in Elsworth. Seven days a week he was up at four-thirty and out delivering by five, and he’d work till ten at night, loading up his float for the next day. He followed this punishing routine the year round except for two weeks each January when he took Mrs Morris off to Florida. Renowned throughout the town for his addiction to hard work (some called him a workaholic), Stan would never win any prizes for the size of his imagination. In all of his forty-six years he had never seen a ghost or a UFO or a fairy and he never expected to, and he felt only scorn for those who claimed they had. So when a dragon crossed the road in front of the float at five-fifteen that Sunday morning, it came as a bit of a shock. He braked hard, causing the stack of crates on the flatbed to hit the back of his cab, and sat staring at the gap in the fence through which the apparition had vanished.

  Mebbe the wife’s right, he told himself. P’raps I have been working too hard. When a man starts seeing things it’s time to slow down a bit.

  Stan recovered his composure after a few minutes and drove on, and by eight o’clock he’d convinced himself he’d seen nothing unusual. Not that morning, nor any other morning of his life. For Stan, the unusual was deeply suspect and probably didn’t exist.

  Trot closed the garage door as silently as possible and tiptoed into the house. It was still only six o’clock. As far as he could tell, nobody had stirred. He crept upstairs and into the room he shared with his eight-year-old brother. As he eased the door closed, Jonathan rolled over in his bed and mumbled, ‘Hnnn – where you been, David?’

  ‘Sssh!’ Trot pressed a finger to his lips. ‘Mum and Dad are still sleeping, kiddo. It’s early. I went to the bathroom, that’s all.’

  ‘Hmmm. OK.’ The child rolled over again, pulled the duvet up around his ears and went back to sleep. Trot sat down on his own bed and bent forward to unfasten the laces of his Nikes, grinning as he did so.

  Brilliant. It was brilliant. I’d give a million quid to see that wassock’s face when he looks out the window.

  The wassock Trot referred to was Percy Waterhouse, the Park Keeper, who was forever chasing teenagers, including Gary and himself, away from the kids’ playground. Most teenagers still have a bit of the kid in them and they like the occasional swing or go on the roundabout and there was no harm in it that Trot could see, but Percy didn’t agree. Big lugs, he called them, shouting and shaking his stick. ‘Gerrawayfromthereyabiglugs!’ What was a lug anyway, and who’d call their kid Percy, for crying out loud?

  Anyway. Trot kicked off his trainers and stretched out on the bed with his hands behind his head, smiling at the ceiling. We paid him out this time, that’s for sure. I wish I could be there when he sees what’s left of his tulips. He’ll go ape-shape. Cry in his cornflakes. He’ll call the police but they’ll not catch us.

  A little voice in Trot’s head told him that what they’d done was wrong, but that only served to broaden his grin. Wrong? Of course it was wrong. That was the whole point. He and his friends were discovering that doing wrong was fun. Oh, there was fear – a nagging, niggling fear behind the euphoria, which had little to do with the police and everything to do with the fact that, inside the worm, the four of them became one, in ways which Trot preferred not to think about. They saw through Gary’s eyes, didn’t they? Danced to his tune, submerged their minds in his, but so what? The kick was awesome, and afterwards they were their old selves again, so that was all right, wasn’t it?

  Well, wasn’t it?

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  ELLIE-MAY SUNDERLAND’S SISTER was away at college, so there was nobody to wake and ask her where she’d been when she slipped into her room. The Sunderlands always slept late on Sundays, so once she had her door closed she was safe. She should have been able to sleep, but for some reason she couldn’t. She got undressed and slid in between the sheets, but then she just lay there thinking. She thought about how excited it made her feel to get into the worm with the others – how wonderful to be part of that invincible team. She remembered yesterday in Butterfield’s – how people scattered at their approach. Their cries. The expressions of fear and disbelief on their faces. A part of her – some part she paid no attention to because she didn’t want to – kept asking how you could see the expressions on people’s faces when you’re the end bit of a worm. Deep, deep down, she knew that something was happening to the four of them. Something awful. Trouble was, the excitement was so intense she didn’t want it to stop, and so she tried not to think about it. Instead, she thought about the Park Keeper’s tulips.

  Terrific tulips they were. White and yellow, purple and scarlet, all round the Park Keeper’s house – a rippling sea of colour with the house in the middle like a galleon. Every spring they were there, and people would make a detour in their journeys across the park to look at them. Ellie-May could remember when she was very young, being taken by her mother to see the flowers. How tall they’d seemed on their long stems – half as tall as Ellie-May herself. Nobody grew tulips like Percy Waterhouse, and he was proud of them.

  Not now though. Not this year. It’s amazing what eight busy trainers can do to a bed of tulips in the space of a couple of minutes. When Ellie-May closed her eyes she could see what they’d done. She could see the blooms lying bruised and broken on the trampled earth, their lovely petals crushed and stained with soil. She could see the torn leaves, the snapped-off stems tilted drunkenly one against another like the masts of a wrecked armada. She could see all of this when she closed her eyes, as though the backs of her eyelids were a screen on which a video played, and it didn’t make her feel good. She’d felt good while they were doing it. Then, her excitement had been intense, exhilarating. She’d laughed and whooped as she stomped and trampled, laying waste in seconds what had taken months to create. It had imparted a sense of power, a feeling that ancient wrongs were being avenged.

  But now she only felt sad. Sad and frightened. What she and the others had done was wrong. She knew that now. Wrong, and stupid. Turning beauty into ugliness. Joy into tears. Good into evil. She thought of resigning her part – of giving up her place in the worm – but even as she thought about it, she knew she wouldn’t. It was too wonderful, that buzz – that overwhelming wave of excitement, that sense of power. For some reason Ronnie Millhouse came tottering into her mind. Ronnie the drunk, who couldn’t give up the thing which was destroying him. I’m hooked, she thought, just like Ronnie. The notion appalled her, but there it was.

  ‘We do the most awful things,’ she murmured aloud. ‘Roll on the next time.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  ‘WELL – WHAT D’YOU reckon?’ Percy Waterhouse looked at the Detective Constable. It was ten o’clock Sunday morning and the two men were standing among the Park Keeper’s vandalized flowerbeds. ‘It was obviously kids – it always is, but which kids? Have they left any clues?’

  The policeman shook his head. ‘That’s what I’d have said, Sir. Kids. In fact, I’d have bet on it, but it seems I’d have been wrong, on this occasion.’

  ‘What – you mean adults did this? But why, in heaven’s name? It’s so senseless.’

  The detective shook his head again. ‘It wasn’t adults either, Sir, as far as I can tell. It appears to be the work of some sort of animal.’

  ‘Animal?’ cried P
ercy. ‘That’s absolutely impossible. What animal would work its way systematically round a garden, breaking every single bloom? I don’t believe it.’

  ‘Well, Sir, I wouldn’t have believed it myself, but there are no human footprints that I can find. Not one.’

  ‘But you found animal prints?’

  ‘Oh yes, Sir. Everywhere.’

  ‘And what was it – a dog? A pack of dogs? What?’

  ‘I don’t know, Sir. Not yet. I’d like a veterinarian to look at them before making any comment.’

  ‘Will you show me some of these prints? I think I can recognize dog prints without having to ask a vet.’

  ‘Certainly, Sir. Look here.’ The Detective Constable stooped and pushed some bruised stems aside with his palm.

  Percy Waterhouse squatted and peered at the trampled soil. What he saw made him draw breath sharply. ‘Good lord!’ he gasped. ‘What on earth made that?’

  The policeman withdrew his hand and straightened up. ‘What indeed, Sir. D’you see now why I’d like an expert opinion?’

  ‘Yes I do. It’s amazing.’

  ‘Did your wife or yourself hear anything during the night, Sir?’

  ‘No. Not a thing. I knew nothing about this till I opened the bedroom curtains and saw the mess. I assumed it was a straight case of teenage vandalism and rang the police.’

  ‘OK, Sir – I think that’s all for now. I’m going to leave a uniformed officer here to see that the ground remains undisturbed till the veterinarian’s had a look at it. Will you be at home most of the day, Sir?’

  ‘Oh, yes. At home, or patrolling the park.’

  ‘Then I’ll be in touch. Goodbye, Sir.’

  ‘Goodbye, Constable.’

  Percy stood gazing at the ruins of his garden. As he did so, he became aware that he was not alone. He turned and found himself looking at the pathetic figure of Ronnie Millhouse. The drunk was standing at the edge of the public footpath, regarding the Park Keeper through red-rimmed, watery eyes. As Percy turned and saw him, he nodded his unkempt head at the smashed flowers. ‘Shame.’

  ‘Yes.’ Percy felt a stab of irritation. What did the town drunk know about tulips? What could he possibly care? He was probably about to cadge fifty pence or something.

  ‘I reckon that there dragon done it.’

  Dragon? Percy frowned. What was the idiot on about? He glared at Ronnie. ‘What are you talking about?’

  Ronnie gazed earnestly at the Park Keeper, who had spoken sharply, but whom Ronnie knew to be a good man. He knew that Percy knew he used the old bandstand for sleeping in, and that he could have kicked him out if he felt like it, but he didn’t. Not only did Percy let him stay, but he sometimes left a bit of grub in a plastic bag for him to find. He never came when Ronnie was there, and if asked he’d have denied feeding the drunk, but Ronnie knew. When you’re as alone as Ronnie, you develop a sharp nose for a friend.

  ‘The dragon,’ he repeated. ‘I seen ’im t’other night, up the top path. Long he were, and green.’

  Percy smiled faintly in spite of his grief. ‘Not pink, then, Ronnie?’

  Ronnie shook his head. ‘Green. I hid behind a tree till he’d gone. I reckon it was ’im done this, Mister.’

  ‘Well.’ The Keeper smiled again. ‘It’s as good a theory as any I’ve heard up to now, Ronnie.’ He smelled bacon frying and turned towards the house.

  The drunk called after him. ‘I’m right, Mister, you see if I’m not.’

  Percy waved a hand without turning. ‘Thanks, Ronnie. I’ll bear it in mind.’ He went in to his eggs and bacon, wondering briefly what Ronnie’s breakfast would be, and when. As for the poor chap’s dragon story, Percy had forgotten it before he closed the door.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  PERCY WATERHOUSE WASN’T the only one calling the police that Sunday morning. Len Butterfield had spent a sleepless night wondering who it was who’d caused chaos in his supermarket the day before. He hadn’t been there when it happened, but his manager had called him and he’d arrived before the staff had done much clearing up.

  The scene which greeted him had made him very angry. The place looked as though a bomb had gone off inside it. Shelves were down. Cans and packets littered the aisles. Smashed bottles lay everywhere, their sticky, multicoloured contents spilled across the tiles. Abandoned trolleys stood with their tyres in this congealing goo. And worst of all, he’d found himself surrounded by a knot of irate customers who had been awaiting his arrival. Some of these customers had cuts and bruises to show him. Others displayed articles of their clothing torn, or decorated with globs of bleach, jam, mustard pickle and yeast extract. All of these people preferred their clothes the way they’d been before, and threatened to sue Len Butterfield for the cost of cleaning, repairing or replacing them. They seemed to think he was to blame for what had happened – they thought the monster or whatever it was had been some sort of publicity stunt gone wrong.

  He tried to tell them it wasn’t – that he knew nothing about it – but they were in no mood to listen. They’d all seen the weird collection of creatures outside the bookshop the other day. They knew traders would pull practically any sort of silly stunt to draw attention to their businesses, and it seemed obvious to them that Len Butterfield’s stunt had simply got out of hand.

  He’d smoothed it over in the end – made promises, given undertakings, and the customers had departed more or less satisfied. Some of them wouldn’t be back though, and what with one thing and another, this stupid prank by persons unknown was set to cause Len a lot of unwanted hassle.

  His manager had called the police and they’d arrived while Len was striving to soothe his customers. They’d taken statements and poked about a bit, but they hadn’t seemed all that interested and Len had suspected his little spot of bother wasn’t serious enough for them. Nobody was dead or in hospital, nothing had been stolen, and any loss would probably be covered by insurance.

  So at eight-thirty Sunday morning, after a restless night and with a pounding head, Len rang the station to demand a progress report. The sergeant at the other end was polite, but not helpful. Investigations had been made, and were continuing. There had been no significant developments so far, and if there were developments, Len would be informed. At this stage, said the sergeant, they were treating the matter as a prank, probably by children, which had got out of hand.

  Which means, muttered Len, when he’d hung up and was making coffee, that you don’t intend doing anything about it. You’ll stick the statements in a file, shove the file in a drawer and forget about it. But I won’t. I won’t forget. I’ll do my own investigating, and woe betide whoever did this when I get hold of them.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  IT WASN’T UNTIL seven in the evening that the Detective Constable got back to Percy Waterhouse. During the afternoon the Keeper had seen a woman he’d assumed was the veterinarian, squatting among the remains of his tulips with some sort of measuring device, but he hadn’t gone out. He was too depressed to feel like talking, and anyway she was working for the police and probably wouldn’t have told him anything. He’d watched through the window till the woman finished whatever it was she was doing and left with the uniformed constable, and he’d almost given up hope of hearing anything that day when he answered a knock on the door and found the detective on the step.

  ‘Evening, Sir. May I come in?’

  ‘Of course.’ Percy stepped back to admit him, then closed the door and showed him into the sitting-room. ‘Have a seat. Coffee?’

  ‘Oh, no thanks. I had one at the station.’ He smiled apologetically. ‘There isn’t a lot I can tell you, actually.’

  ‘What did the vet say?’

  The policeman shrugged. ‘Not a lot. Reckoned the prints were like nothing she’d seen. Said they might have been made by a very large reptile but were far more likely to be an elaborate hoax.’

  ‘Hoax?’ cried Percy. ‘Why would anyone want to pull a hoax like that – and how would they do it?
’

  The detective shook his head. ‘I’ve no idea, Sir. We checked to see whether any large reptiles have been reported missing. They haven’t, though we’re continuing to monitor that. And we’ve searched the park. Oh, and I think I should tell you that while we were doing that, Jimmy Lee came sniffing around.’

  ‘Jimmy Lee?’

  ‘Yes, you know – chap from the local rag. Reporter. Nose like a ferret and features to match. Anyway, we had to tell him something so we gave him the elaborate-hoax line.’ He grimaced. ‘No doubt there’ll be a piece in the Star about it. Thought I’d warn you.’

  ‘Yes, thanks. And you really believe it was a hoax?’

  ‘It’s the likeliest explanation, Sir. We don’t get a lot of large reptiles in Elsworth and anyway, what sort of reptile would do this sort of damage to a garden? Though as I said, we’re still checking for possible escapes.’

  ‘Well.’ The Keeper gazed glumly out of the window. ‘All I can say is, if it was a hoax I hope you catch the hoaxer. Oh, and by the way, there’s at least one chap who’d go along with the large reptile theory.’

  ‘Who, Sir?’

  Percy smiled. ‘Ronnie Millhouse. Swears he saw a dragon in the park the other night.’

  ‘Yes, well.’ The detective smiled too. ‘Ronnie’s got a whole menagerie of creatures inside his head, and they’re all pink.’

  ‘Not this one. Green, he reckons. Sure you won’t have that coffee?’

  ‘No thanks.’ The policeman stood up. ‘I’d better be off, Sir. We’ll keep you informed if there are developments.’

  ‘Thanks.’ They walked to the door and Percy let his visitor out.

  ‘G’night, Sir.’

  ‘’Night, Constable.’

  He stood for a while, staring morosely at what was left of his garden. Then he sighed deeply, turned, and went inside.