Inside the Worm (9 page)

One of these kids was Gary Bazzard. Another was David Trotter. The rest were friends who attended a different school and went round with Gary and Trot at weekends and in the holidays.

Old Hughie's miserable face floated into Trot's mind that Wednesday evening when he, Gary, Lisa and Ellie-May were hanging around Trot's garden gate. Three weeks ago the girls wouldn't have been seen dead with the boys outside school hours, but lately the four had found themselves drawn to one another by an attraction each avoided thinking about, though they knew it had something to do with the worm. Mrs Trotter, watching them through her front window, told herself that if her son had started taking an interest in girls it was probably that Gary's fault, and decided to mention it to her husband.

‘What we gonna do?' said Ellie-May.

Gary grinned. ‘What d'you think?'

‘The park, of course.' This from Lisa.

‘No.' Trot shook his head. ‘I've got a better idea.'

They all looked at him. ‘What?'

‘Old Ackroyd.'

Lisa frowned. ‘Who's he?'

Trot explained. ‘He practically lives on that allotment. He'll be there till it's too dark to see his stupid lettuces or whatever.'

‘So?' Ellie-May looked quizzical.

‘So we take the worm over to the allotments, get into it and spook the living daylights out of him. What d'you reckon?'

‘I dunno.' Lisa pulled a face. ‘He's old, you said. He might have a heart attack or something.'

‘Will he heck! If he'd a bad heart, he wouldn't be able to dig that massive allotment, would he?'

Gary shook his head. ‘He'd be at home all the time, watching telly and popping pills. I say let's do it.'

So they did.

‘YES, SIR?' THE
young constable looked across the counter at the elderly man in grubby overalls. He couldn't see the man's boots, but he could see the muddy tracks they'd left on the gleaming lino tiles and they irritated him. There's a doormat, he felt like saying, so why don't you use it? He wanted to say that, but instead he said, ‘Yes, Sir?'

Hughie Ackroyd glared. ‘I want to report an act of vandalism.'

‘What sort of vandalism, Sir?'

‘Mindless vandalism, of course. The sort you get because bobbies don't walk the streets any more.'

‘And where did this – vandalism occur, Sir? Were you a witness?'

‘Of course I was a witness. It was my allotment, wasn't it?'

‘I don't know, Sir.' The constable reached out, slid a thick notepad towards himself and fished in his pocket for a ballpoint. ‘I think we'd better start at the beginning. Can I have your name, Sir?'

‘Hugh Ackroyd.'

The constable wrote on the pad. ‘Address?'

The man sighed. ‘Twenty-two, Alma Terrace. Look – do we have to go through all this? By the time you've finished fossicking about, that dragon'll have vanished without trace.'

The constable looked up. ‘Dragon, Sir?'

‘That's what I said.'

‘You want to report an act of vandalism by a dragon?'

‘Yes. Well – it wasn't a real dragon, of course. It was kids dressed up.'

‘Kids dressed up.' The policeman put down his pen. ‘How many kids were there, Sir?'

‘I dunno, do I? They were in this dragon thing. I were packing up for the night – hoeing my last row of spring onions – and this contraption comes running through the gate. It – they – trampled all over my beds, pushed my incinerator over and ran off laughing.'

‘I see. At about what time was this, Sir?'

‘What's that got to do with it?'

‘It's procedure, Sir.'

‘It's a waste of flippin' time, that's what it is. I might have known there'd be no point coming here. You're all too busy cruising about in your luxury limousines these days, talking into them poncey radios, so why don't you just forget it, eh? Pretend I never came in. I'll take care of this – my way.' He spun on one mud-caked heel and made for the door.

‘I wouldn't advise—' The constable broke off as Hughie Ackroyd slammed out. ‘Watch out for those dragons, Sir,' he murmured to the still-quivering door.

AS HUGHIE ACKROYD
was tracking mud into the police station, Trot was doing the same to the kitchen at home. His mother shrieked as he clomped across the floor. ‘Look at the state of your shoes, David. Take them off at once and leave them on the mat.'

Trot turned with a sigh. ‘Yes, Mum.'

‘Wherever have you been to get them in that state?'

‘Oh – around. You know.' Squatting by the doormat, fiddling with his laces. ‘The park, mostly.'

‘You must have been on the flowerbeds to get so filthy.'

‘Maybe. We didn't mean to.'

‘No. Anyway, your dad and I would like a word with you.'

‘A word?' Trot's heart lurched. ‘What about?' Surely old Ackroyd hasn't been here, he thought. He couldn't possibly know it was me.

‘About you,' said his mother unhelpfully. ‘Your dad's in the front room.'

Trot left his trainers on the mat and trailed after his mother. His father smiled up at him from an easy chair. ‘Hello, son.'

Oh-oh. Trot returned the smile. Something's up. ‘Hi, Dad.'

‘Sit down a minute, David.' His father indicated the other chair. Trot sank into it, watching his parents' faces. They didn't look mad or anything. His mother sat down on the sofa.

‘So, how're things going, son?'

Trot pulled a face. ‘OK, I guess.' He couldn't remember the last time his father had asked him how things were going. There probably hadn't been a last time, so what was all this about?

‘Good, good. The play?'

‘Fine.'

‘Your friend – Gary, is it?'

‘He's fine too, Dad.'

‘Good. I expect he's got a girlfriend, eh – good-looking lad like him.'

The way his father chuckled as he said this switched on a little light in Trot's head. Ah, he
thought. So that's what all this is about. Girlfriends.

‘Er – no.' He shook his head. ‘Not that I know of.'

‘Oh.' His father shrugged. ‘It's just that your mother and I seem to have seen quite a lot of Lisa Watmough and the Sunderland girl just lately, and we wondered —'

‘They're in the worm, Dad. We have to practise, y'know?'

‘Oh yes, of course. So you're not particularly interested in either of them, then?'

Trot shook his head. ‘No way. Ellie-May's a droop and that Lisa's got a face like the back end of a motorway pile-up.'

‘David!' his mother frowned. ‘That's not very nice, is it?'

‘What – Lisa's phizog?'

‘No – you know perfectly well what I mean. Talking like that. Lisa Watmough's quite a pretty girl. I was at school with her mother and she was pretty too.'

‘Good.' He looked from parent to parent. ‘Is that it, then? Can we have the telly on now?'

His father looked at him. ‘Thirteen's a difficult age, son. You know you can always talk to me and your mum if anything's worrying you, don't you?'

‘Sure I do, Dad. Nothing's worrying me, honestly.' Quite the reverse, he thought, recalling the expression
on old Ackroyd's face as he watched the worm mess up his stupid garden. Everything's fine. And it's going to get a whole lot finer.

‘Good.' His father gripped the arms of his chair and levered himself upright. ‘There's a film on Channel Four you might enjoy. I think I'll stroll down to the club for half an hour.'

When her husband had left the room, Mrs Trotter looked across at her son. ‘Are you absolutely sure you're not fretting about anything, David?'

Trot grinned. ‘Absolutely, Mum. There's nothing I can't handle. Nothing in the world.' As he said this, something occurred to him which wiped the grin off his face and caused his heart to kick. How is it, he wondered, that I saw the look on Ackroyd's face when only Gary has eye-holes?

FLISS'S MUM LEFT
the dress to soak over Wednesday night in a strong detergent, and when she lifted it out of the bowl next morning and held it up to the light, the stains seemed to have gone. ‘We shan't know for certain till it's dry,' she cautioned, but Fliss smiled tightly and said, ‘It'll be fine.'

Lisa wasn't anywhere in sight when she got to the end of the road, but when she was halfway to school she heard someone call her name. She turned. Vicky Holmes was hurrying to catch her up. ‘Hi, Fliss,' she smiled, falling into step. ‘I – I just wanted to say I think it's rotten what they did to you yesterday. That lovely dress.'

Fliss nodded. ‘Thanks, Vicky. My mum washed it. It's going to be OK.'

‘Yes, but still.'

‘I know. Gary Bazzard's a pain. He's always been a pain, but he seems to have got a lot worse since we've been doing this play. The others have too. I think they're trying to get rid of me.'

‘Rid of you – how d'you mean?' Vicky looked horrified.

Fliss grinned. ‘I don't mean murder, Vicky. I mean they want me out of the play.'

‘Why?'

‘Dunno. I don't think they know either.'

Vicky looked at her. ‘That's a funny thing to say.'

‘Yes I know, but it's true. It's like something's gotten hold of them since they've had that costume. Look at Lisa Watmough – she was my best friend.'

Vicky nodded. ‘I've noticed.' She laid a hand on Fliss's arm. ‘I'm your friend, Fliss.'

Fliss smiled. ‘I know, and I'm glad. I mean it.'

That afternoon there was a long rehearsal in the double-games period. Everybody was in costume except Fliss, who felt a wally in skirt and jumper, waving her plastic sword. She was apprehensive too but she didn't let it show, and when Gary reached for her she hissed, ‘You dump me down that bank again and I swear I'll smash your stupid costume once and
for all. You wouldn't like that, would you?' No reply came from inside the worm, but when Gary's fingers touched her sleeve the creature shrank back in a most convincing way.

‘Begone, foul fiend!' cried Fliss, pointing her sword towards an imaginary fen. ‘I command you – in God's name begone, and come this way no more.' Very quietly, through lips which scarcely moved she added, ‘You don't get rid of me that easily, Bazzard.'

The monster slunk away.