Slither (15 page)

Then the quick roar of the flames as they surged through the entire shed, licked up the walls and along the shelves, until
whoosh… whoosh … whoosh
… the tanks ignited, each one separately…

She bent down under the shower to soap her legs with the rich white scented lather, and the water splashed on her back and streamed down off her shoulders Ever since they’d moved into the cottage he’d been going to fix that plug-hole, a round yawning outlet with no little chrome grid in it to prevent things falling through.

At that moment, as she stooped, she saw two hard little eyes looking up at her.

‘No!’ She caught her breath in a quick gasp of fear and stepped back.

Then she told herself it must be imagination, a trick of the light. Worms couldn’t possibly ooze their way up inside a narrow drainpipe – or could they? She forced herself to look again.

Purposefully and calmly, the worm was emerging from the plug-hole. It lay there on the white enamel of the bath, staring at her without moving.

Helen knew she mustn’t panic. She worked out what she must do: draw the shower curtain aside, step out of the bath carefully, quietly – no quick unexpected movements which might upset it…

The curtain was slippery with soapy water and her fingers couldn’t get a grip on it. It seemed ridiculous, but her hand slid over it. She backed towards the rear end of the bath.

‘It’s fear,’ she told herself, ‘and I mustn’t show it. I can’t close my hand but the worm mustn’t know that. Once they realize you’re afraid…’

A second worm was wriggling up through the plug-hole. It
lay alongside the first and they both watched her.

‘Stay there,’ she begged them, ‘Oh, please, stay there. Don’t come any closer.’

With a great effort of will she grasped the shower curtain, but the wet plastic material seemed to cling to her arm and hamper her. She wanted to pull it out of the way, yet she seemed paralysed. A third worm had appeared at the plug-hole; the first two started slithering along the bottom of the bath towards her.

Desperately she tugged at the curtain; it ripped, falling down in folds around her. She struggled to escape from it, then felt her foot slipping on the soapy bath. Her arms waved wildly as she tried to regain her balance.

As she half fell, half slid into the bath, the first worm buried its teeth into the full flesh of her inner thigh. She shrieked in agony and tried to pull it away, but at the same moment the second worm began to feed hungrily on her calf.

‘No … no … no, don’t!’ she sobbed as she tried to defend herself, still thrashing around in the folds of the shower curtain. ‘I shan’t do it, I shan’t burn you, I promise…’

Once again she felt the first worm’s sharp teeth as it moved higher up her thigh. But there were more worms now. God, where were they all coming from? They squirmed all over her legs, her abdomen, taking their time as they selected parts they fancied. Hysterically she screamed for mercy, begged them, as though they could understand her.

Then one moved between her legs. She covered her vagina with her hand, shuddering with terror. ‘No, not there, not there!’ The worm bit into her wrist and another joined it, moving down over her belly.

They were exploring her neck. Reaching for her cheeks…

Again she shrieked out. And again.

Her mind snapped into insanity but she remained cruelly conscious as they devoured the flesh from her face, under her chin, her breasts, her stomach, buttocks, legs… The pain shocked through her body from every part.

Then everything became suddenly quiet. Vaguely she realized she’d been the one making all the noise. Now, as her blood seeped away, she lost the strength even to scream. They
were still feeding on her, in silence. Only the champing of jaws. As their incisors ripped out each mouthful of her flesh, even the pain seemed less.

Distantly, she realized at least one worm had finished with her surface meat and was burrowing into her intestines. But she hardly felt it; her nervous system was practically paralysed already.

Then at last she slipped away into uncomprehending death.

15

Matt and Fran left Cy Steinberg at the Dorchester at about eleven-thirty that evening and continued on foot to their own hotel near Baker Street. The meeting had been more successful than either of them could have imagined. Steinberg, Inc. supplied most of the more exclusive New York fashion houses with accessories. They’d expected a single large order for belts and possibly handbags; instead, they were offered a five-year deal for as many items as they could produce. On a quick reckoning, Matt estimated this should bring his income up to four times his old Television Hall salary.

‘If only we can get hold of the skins,’ he mused as they went up the steps to the revolving glass door. ‘I phoned Angus this afternoon. He’s seen a few back in the sewers, but not all that many.’

‘They killed the golden goose, now they must lie on it!’ Fran declared, crossing to the desk. And giggled. ‘If you get my meaning. Matt, let’s not talk business any more. I think I had too much champagne. Did you notice our American friend’s technique? We did all the drinking while he drove the bargain. I wonder how much he stands to make?’

‘Rooms 395 and 399, please.’

‘Quite a packet, I bet,’ she went on.

Matt picked up the keys, said goodnight to the porter and guided her towards the lift.

‘My, aren’t we masterful?’ she murmured, glancing shrewdly at his face. ‘Don’t misinterpret my little confession.’

‘Wouldn’t dream of it.’

In the lift, Matt pressed the button for the third floor, but as the doors were closing a man dashed towards them and squeezed in. ‘
fa, danke, danke
,’ he breathed, his face flushed. Beads of sweat rolled across his bald head. He took a handkerchief from
his pocket, carefully unfolded it and wiped them away.

Fran grinned at Matt mischievously. The tip of her tongue played across her lips. Her foot tapped the floor. ‘
Gute Nacht
,’ she said to the sweating man as they went out.

Matt followed her along the quiet corridor of closed doors. When they came to her room he turned the key in the lock, then stood hesitating on the threshold till she caught his hand and drew him gently inside.

As they kissed he thought of Helen. And Jenny. He hated the idea of hurting either of them, yet Fran belonged in the picture too. Somewhere.

She broke away from him and put her hand to his cheek. ‘What’s the matter?’

‘Nothing.’ He kissed her again.

She kicked off her shoes and reached behind for her zip, but he took hold of it, easing it the full way down till her dress slipped from her shoulders. She stepped out of it and threw it across a chair. He fumbled with the rest of her clothes but she laughed and told him to get his own things off. Then she lay there on the bed, naked, watching him.

‘That’s better, we’re the same height now,’ she whispered when they were lying side by side, his hand wandering over her hips, her belly, her small breasts, the pale freckles spreading down from her neck.

He raised himself on his elbow and looked down at her, kissing her face, her lips. Her straight, dark brown hair tumbled about her head on the pillow. Gently she guided him and he felt himself being drawn into her; it was like a return home after all those months. They made love quietly, unhurried, as if exploring the experience afresh, then gradually with greater intensity and—

The phone rang shrilly, cutting into the moment.

They looked at each other, shocked. It rang a second time. Fran rolled from beneath him and sat on the edge of the bed.

‘Who can it be?’

Matt looked at her uncertainly. ‘Cy? Changed his mind?’

She took the receiver. ‘Yes?’ Trying her best to sound sleepy; putting on an act. Her expression changed. She looked taken aback. Scared. ‘It’s for you. Jenny.’

The childish voice was hard and clear through the crackles on the line. ‘I hope I haven’t disturbed you in the middle of sex,’ she said unemotionally. ‘I thought I should tell you Mummy is dead. If you’re interested.’

‘Jenny, how…?’

‘The worms are eating her.’

Before he could question her properly she’d rung off. He stared at the phone, unable to believe her; yet something terrible must have happened to make her behave that way. He dialled the number, answering Fran’s urgent questions with half-phrases.

‘We’ll see what Helen says.’ But the line was engaged.

‘She’s left it off the hook more likely,’ Fran observed. She reached for her handbag and began to finger through her address book. ‘Who else can we ring? Frank’s number’s here.’

‘You get dressed while I call him,’ Matt said, taking the booklet from her. Frank was the solicitor who paid Helen to type his case notes; he had three children of his own, including a daughter of Jenny’s age. ‘If he can’t go round himself, at least he might get in touch with the Westport police. It’ll take us hours to drive back there, even at this time of night.’

He let the number go on ringing till Frank’s irritated voice answered. When he heard who was calling, he sounded even more annoyed at being dragged out of bed.

Matt told him quickly about Jenny.

Yes, he would go round there right away and see what was wrong. It was perfectly in order for Matt to ring him – what else were friends for? Now he was not to worry. Everything would be looked after till Matt got back.

Fran was ready by the time he’d finished the call. He pulled on his clothes, went to his own room for his still unpacked bag, and then checked out. He’d been on the point of warning Frank to watch out for the worms when he went to the cottage, but then thought better of it. Jenny was probably inventing the whole thing.

The hotel had its own underground car park which was dimly lit and filled with silent rows of cars. Their footsteps echoed loudly; the few words they spoke were whispered back
at them from odd corners. Fran watched him, concerned, as he unlocked the passenger door.

He took her into his arms and kissed her, holding her close. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘Not your fault.’

‘I don’t believe for one moment that Helen is dead, but Jenny’s obviously going through some sort of crisis. I only hope Frank can manage.’

‘You realize he’ll charge you for it – personal services? Come the end of the month, his account will be in the post. He’s known for it.’

The London traffic at that time of night was sparse but erratic; cars shot away from the lights, swerving across the lane unpredictably, skidding around corners without warning. Matt was relieved when he reached the motorway. He kept up a steady eighty, his headlights eating into the blackness.

‘It can’t be the worms,’ he commented after a very long silence. ‘They could never get out of their tanks, not by themselves.’

‘Let’s wait till we get there,’ she said.

Her hand rested lightly on his shoulder as if to reassure him. But he continued to turn it over in his mind. He could see no reason why anything should have gone wrong. Not with the worms.

In his rear mirror he spotted the headlights of another car and dropped his speed slightly just in case the police were on the prowl. At this time of night they had no one else to pick on.

‘You were saying the worms are back in the sewers,’ Fran started. ‘You rang Angus?’

‘This afternoon. Told me it was like a massacre last autumn. They used traps, flame-throwers, poisons, even mice with cyanide on them. According to him there wasn’t a single worm left anywhere in the sewers. Not anywhere.’

‘And then?’

‘Slowly they came back.’

‘Since when?’

‘He spotted the first about four or five weeks ago. Their
numbers have been building up every day. Big brutes, he said. He also mentioned if we want any, we’d better get there quickly. The men are threatening a strike if the worms aren’t exterminated properly.’

He slowed down to turn off the motorway into the network of B-roads which would take him to Westport. The other car sped past him; it hadn’t been the police after all.

By the time they arrived it was almost four o’clock. Lights were on in several houses and Matt thought he heard a shot from somewhere in the distance. Entering the lane leading up to his own cottage, his headlights picked out the shape of a man hurrying off in another direction. He didn’t recognize who it was.

‘Oh Christ,’ he muttered to himself, gripping the wheel. ‘Oh Christ, they’ve got out.’

Fran’s fingernails dug into his shoulder. ‘What are we going to find?’ she whispered. ‘Matt…?’

‘You’d best stay in the car till I fetch you some boots. They could be anywhere in the long grass, on the path…’ He drew up behind the police Rover, leaving his headlights on. The doctor’s car was parked a little farther up the lane. Every window of the cottage was lit. ‘Pray God, Jenny’s all right.’

He swung his legs out of the car and dashed across to the back door, watching the ground sharply for worms. Dr Davies and the burly, uniformed police sergeant looked up as he burst into the kitchen.

‘You got here, then?’ the sergeant commented brusquely. ‘It’s not nice. I’m sorry, Mr Parker, it’s not nice at all.’

‘Where’s Jenny?’

‘Jenny’s going to be all right,’ the doctor said in his unctuous bedside manner. He was a thin, sickly-looking man with straight dark hair which he wore too long. Matt had never taken to him. ‘Frank has taken her home and I’ve had to put her under sedation.’ His tone was reproachful.

‘Was she attacked?’

‘One of her fingers. Only a small bite. Nothing to get upset about.’

‘I’m afraid Mrs Parker is dead,’ the sergeant intervened. ‘You’ve heard about that already, I believe. Nasty business.
We haven’t moved her yet. I’ll come up with you for formal identification but you’ll excuse me if I don’t go in. I’ve seen the body once, that was enough.’

‘In the shed?’ Matt asked, not understanding.

The sergeant looked at him blankly, then led him up to the bathroom, standing to one side to let him pass.

Smears of blood on the wall tiles. And on the shower curtain which lay heaped on the floor. Helen’s eyes stared up at him from the bath, unblinking; most of her face was a raw, red, distorted mess; her legs, torso and arms had been crudely ripped open. With her in the bath were the remains of several worms – battered to death by a police truncheon, he was told later. But not before they’d gorged themselves on her flesh, torn it away in greedy mouthfuls to expose her bones, dropping pieces in their savage eagerness.

Matt looked numbly at the scene as though paralysed. Then a scream broke from him as his mind began to comprehend what he was seeing.
His
worms had done this. It was
his
fault, no one else’s. The agony welled up inside him. He relived that experience in the sewers, felt the sharp teeth once again, and knew Helen had gone through the same hell before she died.

In despair he hid his face against the bathroom wall, hammering against it. ‘No, no…’

‘Doctor, come up, would you?’

Matt stumbled down the stairs, brushing past the doctor with his syringe ready. ‘Fuck your sedation!’ he snarled. ‘I’ll show you who’s responsible. Give
them
one of your jabs.’

In a few strides he was down the garden path and at the door of the main shed. As he fumbled in his pocket for the key he thought vaguely it was odd the light was still on. He was filled with fury against the worms, ready to charge in there and hack them to death. Doctor Davies and the burly police sergeant fell back a pace as he opened the door.

Silence.

He’d half-expected to find worms spilling over the floor, slithering along the bench and the shelves, maybe poised above the door jamb. Instead, everything was in order. The food boxes were still over the tanks but otherwise… Mechanically he checked them, pushed in the slides again and returned them
to the trolley. The worms looked up at him lazily. They’d never been out of their tanks.

‘There must be others,’ Matt was desperately explaining when Fran appeared in the doorway.

‘I thought you were going to bring me some boots,’ she greeted them sarcastically. ‘Can somebody tell me what’s happening?’

Matt turned on her savagely. ‘Why the hell didn’t you stay in the car?’ he yelled at her. ‘The place must be crawling with worms. They’ve killed Helen.’

‘They got out?’

‘Not these, but their kind. Their kith and kin. They got into the bathroom, God knows how. They…’ His voice broke; he leaned against the door and covered his face, sobbing uncontrollably. ‘Helen…’

Fran took charge and coaxed him back to the house where she sat him down in the kitchen and made some fresh tea. Doctor Davies fussed about with his syringe, but Matt said no and Fran told him sharply to put it away. The doctor took offence; his thin lips tightened.

‘He’ll need his wits about him,’ Fran said briskly. ‘We all shall. Don’t you understand? Matt knows more about these worms than anyone else in the whole country. What use is he going to be if you knock him out with that stuff? They may be anywhere – drains, ditches, streams…’

‘You know then?’ the sergeant demanded heavily.

‘Know what?’

‘That this isn’t the only incident involving worms in Westport tonight.’ He took out his notebook and turned over its pages, though obviously more for effect than because of any need to refresh his memory. ‘We’ve been flooded with calls. A few typical ones: Mrs Penhaligon’s dog – yesterday evening, this was – rooting around in a stream. They bit his eyes out.’

‘She was in hysterics when I called,’ Doctor Davies joined in. ‘I had to sedate her.’

‘A young couple out for a cuddle in Lover’s Wood – we’ve all been there in our time – but they ended up in the cottage hospital, the girl with leg injuries and the boy suffering from shock. Your worms, Mr Parker. A farmer reports one of his
pigs savaged and killed. Another farmer hears one of his cows in distress and goes out to investigate. It’s being devoured by these worms of yours, and they’ve already started on a second cow. No way of saving them, he has to shoot them both. Oh, and he says his dog’s also injured. They’re everywhere, all over the place.’

Matt gulped the hot, sweet tea Fran had put before him. He was gradually regaining control of himself as he listened to the sergeant. ‘How big are they, these worms?’ he demanded.