The effluent filled his shoes, covered his ankles, soaked through his trouser legs. He waited, resigned, for the sharp
teeth. No point in struggling. Just let it happen, the self-surrender of every hunted prey. It would be over more quickly that way.
But they didn’t bite. Why not? Where were they?
He was up to his knees, trying instinctively to get a footing, to stand straight, but without success. He slipped, and then pitched forward into the diluted effluent. The worms swam around him, investigating, nudging against him, then turning to try some other spot. Suddenly he understood why. They were puzzled by his clothing! They wanted naked flesh.
Their bewilderment gave him a quick surge of hope. He tried once again to scramble to his feet or pull himself up on to the walk-way. Too slow. Much too slow. A couple of the worms, attracted by the blood, started work on the fingers of his right hand. He screamed with pain and fright, thrashing about clumsily as he tried to shake them off, too panic-stricken to realize what he was doing.
A third worm brushed against his face. He recoiled. Its teeth cut into his cheek. He heard himself shrieking again and again.
‘
No! Get off! No!
’
The tunnels took up his cry, bouncing it off their walls, amplifying it, throwing it back at him as yet another worm took the lobe of his ear and a fifth found the soft flesh beneath his chin.
Gasping, spluttering, his mouth filled with the effluent supplied by all the drains of London, his chest torn by razor-sharp pains as he breathed some of it in, he managed yet one more shout before consciousness left him.
It was not a high-pitched shriek this time but a deep bellow, like a bull in the agony of death. Then the world slipped away: Helen, Jenny, the dissolving tunnels, the pain… Release.
Aubrey Morgan felt decidedly pleased with himself as he stood in the men’s washroom at Television Hall, humming tunelessly and running a comb through his thinning blond hair.
‘Eaten by
what
?’ he’d demanded, unable to believe his ears. ‘Snakes?’
‘That’s what they looked like,’ young Andy Page had told him, ‘but someone here says they’re worms. Giant worms.’
He’d phoned in from the foreman’s office somewhere among the complex of London sewers, scarcely able to control the excitement in his voice when he described how he’d found the cameraman slumped unconscious in the sewage while the worms fed on him. Then, to Aubrey’s surprise, he added simply: ‘I filmed it.’
‘You—?’
‘I’ve got it in the can. I thought maybe News would be interested.’
News was. A smart cookie, that young director. Who else would have thought of filming the worms before jumping in to rescue the poor sod? It could be a scoop. Aubrey smiled contentedly at his own image in the mirror, a plump round face with baby cheeks and heavy brown horn-rimmed glasses which gave him that intellectual look. Young Andy Page was one of his own recruits. If the pictures were really good there’d be an outcry in the press, maybe even questions in the House of Commons… Excellent publicity – and Aubrey believed firmly that exciting television meant taking risks.
Which explained why he was Controller of Programmes at the age of thirty-three.
He was putting on weight, though. His midriff already betrayed what he whimsically called ‘the bulge of success’. Have to keep an eye on that. Start jogging, perhaps. He smoothed
down his chunky salt-and-pepper sweater and went towards the lift.
Mary Keating was waiting for him in the viewing room. She nodded as he entered, fumbled in her handbag for a cigarette and lit it nervously. Her untidy hair was streaked with grey, her face lined. She’d risen to the position of Managing Director via children’s and family programmes in a career famous for the long hours she put in. According to rumour, the price she’d paid for this fanatical dedication was two broken marriages and an unknown number of desperately unhappy love affairs. Now she lived alone with only three demanding cats for company.
‘Al’s coming, is he?’ she demanded impatiently. ‘I’ve not all that much time.’
Al Wilson, Head of News, came into the viewing room as she spoke. ‘Sorry I kept you waiting,’ he apologized briefly. ‘Things to see to. We’ll be ready in a second.’
He must be getting on for fifty-five, Aubrey reckoned as they sat there, silent. Still showing no signs of grey. Apart from an early stint in Korea as a war correspondent he’d been a desk man most of his working life in one newsroom after another. Copy-taster, deputy news editor, and so on up. He was reputed to have worn the same shapeless blue suit all those years. Nobody’d ever seen him in anything else.
The loudspeaker crackled. ‘Ready.’
Al pressed the talkback key and told the operator to go ahead. The lights dimmed immediately.
The first few seconds of the film were unsteady. The camera scanned the sewer walls, seeking out its subject; then it settled on the prone cameraman, zooming in on his face. Two fat worms – is that what they were? – guzzled at his cheek. Aubrey could think of no other word for it.
From Mary came an exclamation of disgust. The colour pictures were vivid and gruesome. Enough to trigger off a national panic, Aubrey thought. He recognized the victim as someone he’d worked with often enough in his own early days as a director.
When the lights went up again they all sat in shocked
silence, none of them wishing to speak first. Mary Keating looked pale.
‘I … I think Andy Page showed great presence of mind,’ Aubrey ventured cautiously, testing the water. ‘He was the first on the scene. Everything was set up – lights, camera … He saw the opportunity and grabbed it.’
‘Anyone else might’ve helped the poor man,’ Mary said sharply.
‘The rest of the crew were only a few seconds behind,’ Aubrey defended him. Then, thinking he’d gone too far, he took off his glasses and began to polish them on a clean handkerchief. ‘Not a very human reaction,’ he admitted. ‘But professional.’
‘We can’t use those pictures.’ Her tone was final.
‘We can’t
not
use them,’ Al intervened briskly, jealous of any encroachment on his own territory. ‘We’ll hold the film back for the later bulletins, but the public has a right to—’
‘Al, would you like
your
children to see pictures like that?’ she insisted.
‘Kids should be in bed at that hour,’ Al argued. ‘After all, we showed people burning to death in Vietnam, executions in Nigeria, God knows what else… What’s so different about these worms, except they’re nearer home?’
Mary shuddered and drew on her cigarette. ‘Why do we call them worms? They’re more like snakes.’
‘Aren’t they snakes?’ Aubrey asked.
‘Seems not.’ Al scratched the side of his jaw which as always at that time of day was covered with dark stubble. ‘We’ve done some research.’
He’d a folder of press cuttings in his hand and began a brief summary of what was known. The worms had first appeared in the sewers just over a year earlier, though no newspaper had given them much space.
‘To tell the truth,’ Al commented drily, ‘it was the same month as the royal wedding and most papers couldn’t find space for them. It’ll be a bit different after tonight.’
Aubrey glanced through the cuttings. ‘But these are much
smaller,’ he objected. ‘A few inches long, according to this paper. They’re not the same.’
‘I rang the sewer foreman. He insisted they are the same. They grow, just as we do. He’s known them several sizes. Says they keep the rats down.’
‘That’s all very interesting,’ Mary broke in testily, ‘but we can’t transmit those pictures into people’s homes. And imagine his wife seeing them. He was married?’
‘Is,’ Al corrected her. ‘She’s with him now.’
‘I understood he’d died.’
‘No, I called the hospital. They’re not too optimistic, though. He’s in a bad way.’
‘Al, I don’t wish to interfere in your department. You’ve a lifetime of experience behind you. But think of what it’ll do to people.’
‘I’m not going to withhold hard news.’
‘Just the pictures.’
‘I’m sorry, no.’
Aubrey watched, fascinated, as Al’s face flushed red with annoyance, then turned white, the veins bulging out on his forehead. A few seconds later the sharp lines softened once more as he regained his self-control.
‘Mary, what if it happens again?’ He spoke gently, almost affectionately. ‘This is the first record of worms attacking human beings. It might not be the last.’
‘You’re making unjustified assumptions.’
‘I’m making a news judgment. This is an important story. How many of those things are living down there? How widespread are they? What if they come into the open and attack our children? If we show the film there’ll be a public outcry and something may be done. On the other hand, you know as well as I do if we don’t show it…’ He shrugged.
Mary thought about it. ‘I know I shan’t watch,’ she said at last, surrendering. ‘And I doubt if I’ll sleep tonight.’
Helen Parker looked at the bandage-swathed figure in the hospital bed, still unable to grasp what had happened. Or even feel certain this was really her husband; it could be anybody.
The face was almost totally covered. Only the nostrils, the tip of the nose and the closed eyelids remained free.
She hated herself for feeling so neutral, so unmoved. ‘Matt?’ she said, leaning over him.
No movement. He was lifeless, swaddled in those bandages like an Egyptian mummy in some creepy film.
‘He’s lost a lot of blood,’ the white-coated doctor told her, an Indian with bright intelligent eyes which his glasses magnified slightly.
‘Is he going to live?’
For a moment the doctor didn’t answer; then he said: ‘There’s a good chance.’
‘And an equally good chance he won’t?’
She straightened up, brushing back the short blond hair from her cheeks. How could she be so calm, she wondered.
They’d telephoned her at work – must’ve got the number from the agency – to tell her Matt had been attacked by worms. Down a sewer somewhere. It’d sounded so ludicrous, she’d laughed aloud. ‘You’re joking,’ she’d said, thinking Matt had put them up to it. She’d questioned the man at the other end closely for some minutes before allowing herself to be convinced.
The office manager had been reluctant to let her go. ‘This really is inconvenient,’ he’d fussed. He was a sharp-featured little man with dandruff on the stooped shoulders of his cheap suit. ‘I particularly asked the agency to send someone reliable. This typing is most urgent.’
‘My husband’s been rushed to hospital,’ she repeated.
‘That’s why you laughed?’ He made no attempt to hide the fact he didn’t believe her. ‘I heard you laugh. The whole office heard you.’
‘I … he …’ She couldn’t very well tell him Matt had been attacked by worms. ‘Oh, for Chrissake!’ she’d exploded in fury. ‘I’ve no time to talk – he’s lying there unconscious. Phone the agency to send someone else. I’m off.’
‘Temps!’ he’d almost screamed as she pushed past him. ‘You can’t trust any of them. Fly-by-nights, every single one. Well, don’t think I’m going to pay for today, because I’m not. There’ll be no money for—’
She’d slammed the door on her way out, cutting short his hysterical abuse. The frosted glass had rattled in its frame. In the street she’d grabbed the first taxi. Then, at the hospital they’d let her wait for two hours before bringing her into this private room in the surgical wing.
Yet in spite of the row in the office she now felt nothing but calm… not resignation, no, that wasn’t true. But indifference almost. They’d grown apart, she and Matt. Even left the house in the morning these days without a kiss, the once-obligatory peck…
And in bed? It was weeks since he’d last reached out for her; and then, as so often, she’d muttered something about wanting to get to sleep. He’d turned his back without another word.
But she still loved him, she tried to reassure herself as she looked down at him lying long and straight in that hospital bed; it was too short, as always. Of course she still loved him. Only she couldn’t identify
her
Matt with that prone figure plugged into the various machines which registered he was still alive. The only evidence that he was still breathing.
The drip-feed bottle above the bed hiccoughed.
‘You should be going home, Mrs Parker,’ the Indian doctor was saying. ‘Try to get some rest. If there’s any change, we’ll ring you, I promise.’
‘Yes… thank you…’
Yet she hesitated. Jenny would be waiting, of course, collected from school by one of the neighbours. She’d want to know why her Daddy was in hospital, what was wrong with him. What could she tell her? An accident?
‘Doctor, is—?’ She stopped short, then rephrased her question brutally. ‘How much did they eat?’
The surprise showed on his face; his voice became professionally understanding. ‘You could of course spend the night here if you wished. I’m sure Sister would find you a bed and something to help you sleep.’
‘How much?’
He seemed for a moment uncertain what to tell her. ‘The main injuries are around his face and neck. One of his ears. His hands. Wrists. He’s going to need more surgery.’
‘And his fingers?’ She’d noticed the unusual shape of the bandaging.
‘He’s lost a couple.’
‘But he won’t be maimed? I mean, badly? He’s not going to spend the rest of his life in a wheelchair or—?’
‘We’ve no reason to think anything like that. If he can get over this initial twenty-four hours—’
‘Why’s he still unconscious?’
‘Loss of blood. Shock.’
‘He did lose a lot, didn’t he? You mean there could be brain damage? Please let me know the truth.’
‘The truth is we’re hoping to save him, Mrs Parker. Some of your questions are just unanswerable at the present time.’ He took her arm gently. ‘Now if you’d like me to have a word with Sister?’
‘I hardly recognize him,’ she said wonderingly. ‘He could be anyone.’ Once more she leaned over him. ‘Matt? I’m going now, Matt, to see Jenny.’ She looked up, suddenly embarrassed. ‘It’s all right, Doctor, I know he can’t hear me but…’
‘Mrs Parker, that might be just what he needs, the sound of your voice,’ the Indian doctor smiled. ‘Drugs and surgery can’t do everything.’