Inside the Worm (14 page)

‘A bit. It's just the play, Mum. I'll be fine when we've done it.'

‘Hey, listen to this.' Dad, from behind his paper. How do I know it's Dad, thinks Fliss. It could be anyone with thin hair and thick fingers. Someone different every day.

‘What is it, dear?' her mother enquires.

Dad grunts. ‘Another dragon story, but not so joky this time. Listen.' He reads out the piece Jimmy Lee has written. The one about his pigeons, and how a hoax can go too far. Fliss puts down her spoon and gazes into her bowl. Her fingers pluck at a corner of the tablecloth, pleating, smoothing, pleating. Nobody notices. Dad comes to the last bit – the bit where Jimmy says that somewhere in Elsworth there's a dangerous person – perhaps even a madman – and that the sooner he's caught the better. He stops reading and lowers the paper. His wife sighs, shakes her head and murmurs, ‘Some people.' Fliss stops playing with the tablecloth and picks up her spoon. Her hand trembles and she feels sick. All she can think is, Tuesday night. It happened Tuesday night and they were out. I know, because I went round and there was
nobody there. It was them, and on Saturday I've got to face them. Or it.

On Saturday, I'm the pigeon.

MRS WATMOUGH SHOOK
her head and clucked into her coffee. Her husband had gone to catch his London train and she was lingering over a second cup, the
Star
spread before her on the table.

‘What is it, Mum?' Lisa, clearing breakfast things, leaned over her mother's shoulder.

‘This.' The woman tapped an item with a fingernail and Lisa read the headline. PRIZE BIRDS BLASTED IN LOFT RAID.

‘Where was this?' she asked. ‘What happened?'

Her mother read out the piece, then shook her head as before. ‘There's some wicked folks about,' she sighed. ‘They want locking up, or worse.'

Lisa picked up the toast rack and butter dish. ‘It's awful,' she said. ‘Poor little things.' She turned away to hide her shining eyes, remembering the reek of burning feathers.

FLISS SET OFF
as though going to school, but she didn't go. She'd remembered something her dad had read out on Tuesday about Ronnie Millhouse. Ronnie had claimed he'd seen a dragon in the park. What did he mean? Did he mean a real dragon, or people dressed up? Was he drunk when he saw it? People said Ronnie Millhouse was permanently drunk. Well, OK, but did that mean he wouldn't be able to tell a real dragon from a pretend one? There was only one way to find out.

She was desperate. If she hadn't been, she wouldn't have dreamt of approaching Ronnie Millhouse. She was afraid of him. All the kids were, because of the shouting. Most of the time, Ronnie was quiet, but
now and then he'd go off his head and start shouting. Spit would fly from his lips on these occasions. He'd wave his arms about and shake his fists and the things he shouted made no sense. When he was like that, even adults gave him a wide berth.

She knew where he'd be at this time of day. He'd be at the bus station, cadging change from people going to work. And if he'd already left there, he'd be by the stall in the market where he went to buy a mug of tea and get warm.

He wasn't in the bus station, so Fliss hurried across to the market and found him by the tea stall with his big raw hands wrapped round a steaming mug. The stall owner was wiping off his counter but there were no other customers. Probably there wouldn't be till poor Ronnie moved on.

Fliss approached gingerly, praying that the drunk wouldn't start shouting. She didn't want people to see her talking to him. She was ashamed of herself for feeling like that but she couldn't help it. She drew near, smiling.

‘Hello.'

‘Hello, love. No school today?'

Relief washed over her. He sounded just like anybody else. She shook her head. ‘I'm not well.' Which is true enough, she thought.

‘Poor lass. Cuppa tea, is it?' For a moment she thought he was offering to buy her one, but when
he made no move towards the counter she realized he wasn't, and was glad.

‘No. I – I saw your name in the paper.'

‘Oh aye? What'd it say then?'

‘It said you saw a dragon in the park.'

‘Dragon?' Ronnie's eyes clouded over and his face creased up with the effort of remembering. ‘Oh, aye. The dragon.' He smiled ruefully. ‘Nobody believed me.'

‘I do.'

‘Do you?' He grinned at her. ‘Good for you. It's hard when you tell the gospel truth and nobody believes you.'

‘I know.' She smiled. ‘It happens to kids all the time. What was it like?'

‘What was what like?'

‘Your dragon, Mr Millhouse.'

‘'Twern't my dragon, love. I only saw it, that's all.'

‘Yes, but what was it like? Was it kids dressed up?'

‘What?' He glared. ‘I thought you said you believed me?'

‘Oh, I do!' She said this quickly, afraid he'd start shouting. ‘I'd like to know what he looked like, that's all.'

‘Well, he weren't nobody dressed up, I can tell you that. He were long and green and his head was up in the air. Red eyes, he had, and fire in his mouth.'

‘Fire? Are you sure?'

‘'Course I'm sure. He passed me as close as you are now, and I felt the ground shudder from his footsteps. Scared I was, I can tell you.'

‘And had you ever seen him before?'

Ronnie shook his shaggy head. ‘No. Never before, never since, nor never want to neither.'

‘Oh.' She'd learned nothing that was of comfort, and didn't know how to break off the conversation. She looked at her watch. ‘I must get on.'

‘Doctor's, is it?'

‘What?'

‘Doctor's – you being unwell and all?'

‘Oh – yes, that's right. Ten past nine at the surgery. 'Bye, Mr Millhouse.'

‘Mind how you go, love – there's some funny people about.' He glared about him at the early shoppers. ‘I SAY, THERE'S SOME FUNNY PEOPLE ABOUT!'

Fliss turned and fled.

IT'S IMPOSSIBLE, SURELY?
A real dragon. The actual Elsworth Worm. Ronnie Millhouse is a drunk, right? And drunks see things that aren't there – pink elephants and stuff.

So why did I go and see him? I wish I hadn't. A bunch of kids dressed up – even violent kids who hate you – is one thing. I can handle that. But the actual worm—

Ah, come on! What are you, Fliss Morgan – two years old? An infant, scared of the Big Bad Wolf?

There wasn't much point going to school till lunchtime, so to avoid being seen truanting she'd come to the park. People walk through parks, of course – especially on warm spring mornings like this one
– so Fliss had found a nice quiet spot where she could sit and think. The old bandstand stood in a forest of laurel and rhododendron gone wild, in a part of the park which was seldom visited except by kids at weekends and young couples in the evening. It was Ronnie Millhouse's bedroom, of course, but Fliss didn't know that. She thought the pile of old newspapers and bin liners under the bench must have been dumped there by some wally too idle to find a litter bin.

She was scared now. Really scared. The more she thought about recent events, the more convinced she became that something sinister was happening. All right, there might not be an actual worm – probably never had been; it was just a legend – but something had definitely happened to Lisa and the others. They'd changed. Before, they were just ordinary kids. Sure, they got up to mischief now and then like anybody else, but they'd never have dreamt of invading Butterfield's or trashing somebody's garden. And as for that awful thing with the pigeons— She shook her head. It wasn't them. It couldn't have been. Fire had been used. They'd never do that. They'd changed, but not that much.

And yet— She was thinking about last Saturday in Butterfield's. It was a bit hazy now – she'd sort of blotted it out – but what exactly had she seen? What had all those shoppers seen to make them panic
as they did? Some kids dressed up? A papier-mâché head and eight trainers pounding the floor? Try as she might, Fliss couldn't remember those eight trainers. She thought she remembered something else. She thought she could remember four sturdy legs and gigantic birds' feet slapping the tiles. Birds' feet with long, crescent talons— But no – she must be mistaken. It must have been an hallucination – a shared hallucination. They happen. Hundreds of soldiers once thought they saw an angel hovering over the battlefield at a place called Mons. And the Indian rope trick – that was supposed to depend on spectators sharing the same hallucination.

It wasn't a convincing explanation. It didn't make her feel any better. A draught kept stirring the papers under the bench, making them rustle. Making her jump. It was a quiet spot she'd chosen. Too quiet. After a while she decided she'd rather risk being seen by somebody who knew her than remain in the bandstand. She got up and walked out into the sunshine, which failed to cheer her.

FLISS APPROACHED THE
school gate at ten to one, and the first person she saw was Lisa. She dropped her eyes and made to pass her former friend without speaking, but Lisa said, ‘We didn't expect to see you again till Monday. We thought you'd got the message.'

Fliss stopped. ‘What message?'

Lisa sighed. ‘The message we've been sending you for weeks now. Stay away. Don't play Ceridwen. Fall sick. Let Samantha do it instead. That's what understudies are for.'

Fliss gazed at her. ‘I don't get it. What difference is it going to make whether I play the part, or Samantha? The ending'll be the same.'

‘No it won't. If you play the part, something
terrible will happen to you. If you don't, it will happen to Samantha. That's the difference.'

‘What is this terrible thing you say will happen, Lisa?'

Lisa sighed again. ‘Have you heard about Jimmy Lee's pigeons?'