Much to Aubrey Morgan’s satisfaction the news of the attack on Matt Parker demonstrated once again the immense impact of television. Words alone would never have triggered off the near panic which seized Fleet Street, but colour pictures of those hungry worms feeding off living human flesh caused the editor of every mass-circulation newspaper to scrap his preplanned front page and lead with the Matt Parker story.
Aubrey spread out the papers on his desk and gloated over the headlines. GIANT WORMS FEED ON MAN was the most sober; A DIET OF WORMS was the most tasteless. One paper made the whole story sound like a gimmick with NOW IT’S MAN-EATING WORMS! But his favourite read MAMMOTH WORMS EAT TV MAN IN SEWER – GRUESOME NEWSREEL SHOCKS NATION.
They all carried pictures, black-and-white off-prints prepared the night before in anticipation of the flurry of phone-calls from Fleet Street after the first screening at ten o’clock. Even the
Financial Times
carried the story, expressing concern at the hidden dangers beneath the City, the financial centre of the world.
It was a possible angle, he mused. Of course, everything depended on how widespread the worms were. That was one of the questions he’d have to put to the tame professor he was expecting, but ever since the first transmission there’d been an endless stream of calls, many of them protests – Mary handled those – but quite a few from people who claimed similar experiences.
Birmingham, Liverpool, Plymouth, Worcester, Bath… He flicked through the typed list.
A man from Isleworth complained his dog’s nose had been nipped in the River Crane.
A woman teacher might have seen them in the mud of the Avon Gorge beneath Clifton suspension bridge.
A girl student reported she’d been bitten on her left breast while bathing nude in the Cam at Grantchester and was willing to show viewers the scar if the fee was right. Yet all of these had been small worms, none longer than about four inches. Only one man asserted he’d stumbled across really big ones.
Giant buggers like the bloody Loch Ness monster
, the girl taking the calls had typed primly. She’d added a note of her own:
Speech slurred; probably sees pink elephants too.
The blue phone rang and Aubrey extracted it from beneath the papers. ‘Yes?’
‘Andy Page on the line.’ His secretary’s cool voice.
‘Put him on… Andy? Good, now listen. I had a word with – Rodney, isn’t it, in charge of your series?’
‘Townscape, yes.’
‘That’s the title? Mm. Look, I’m arranging for someone else to take over from you.’ A moment’s silence at the other end. ‘Hello?’
‘I’m sorry … yes…’ The boy was embarrassed.
‘Thought we’d been cut off. So I want you to drop what you’re doing and get here right away.’
‘It’s the union, is it?’ He sounded worried and apologetic. ‘I was warned there’d be trouble.’
‘I don’t follow you.’
‘About me operating the camera.’
Aubrey became impatient. ‘I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about. We’re planning a special documentary about these worms. Investigation in depth, implications, all that jazz. If you don’t think you can handle it…’
‘And drop Townscape?’
‘Do I have to spell it out? We’ve got the whole population shit-scared about worms. They’re talking nothing else in the pubs, the buses, the launderettes. Every leading newspaper carries the story. Worms that eat living human beings – and you’re the man who filmed them! Well, congratulations, but don’t let it go to your head. This is a tough assignment and you’ll find plenty of people against you. Peak-hour viewing,
Saturday night if we can get it.’
‘Who do I work to?’
‘Me. Directly to me. Now your replacement for that educational crap … er…’ He found the name scribbled on his pad. ‘Jacqui Turner. She’s already on her way out to you, so grab a taxi and get here. Like now.’
He slammed the phone down. Bet that put the fear of God into him, he thought. Right, young Andy Page, let’s see how you shape up on this one. A tricky assignment, so he’d keep the reins in his own hands. Present the programme, too. Since he’d been promoted Controller of Programmes he’d been too much out of the public eye. High time he made a comeback on the small screen.
Written, produced and presented by Aubrey Morgan
…
Carole came into the office; neat, calm, not a hair out of place. The most elegant secretary in the building, and she knew it. ‘We’ve found that map you asked for.’
It showed the whole of England and Wales, stopping short just north of the Scottish border. She fixed it to the display board and began sticking in coloured pins to indicate worm sightings, red for full size, blue for their smaller cousins. He’d need a chart of dates as well; an animation sequence perhaps…
Aubrey’s face broke into a smile of satisfaction as he saw the programme taking shape; it’d be the biggest thing since his famous documentary on child prostitution. No problem about audience ratings that week.
‘We’re in business, Carole my darling, we’re in business again!’ He slipped his arm around her as she stepped back from the board. ‘Mmm, you
are
gorgeous this morning!’ As she turned he kissed her full on the lips.
‘I need more coloured pins,’ she said, matter-of-fact.
He let her go. She never responded, was never even ruffled. It was water off a duck’s back. In fact, kissing a duck might have been more interesting. Tall, slim, self-contained Carole. Daddy was a major-general; she’d once been photographed for
Tatler
; breeding oozed from every pore, assuming that she possessed such vulgar apertures.
The phone rang and she answered it, ‘Mr Morgan’s office.’ With that voice she ought to be working for a dentist. ‘I’ll tell
him.’ She put the receiver down and said the herpetologist had arrived.
‘Yes?’
‘Your professor,’ she added by way of explanation. Plus a superior smile.
Professor Jones had been taken to Presentation Suite A where one of the make-up girls was busy spraying lacquer on his mop of unruly hair. ‘I wish you wouldn’t put that stuff on me,’ he was protesting when Aubrey got there. ‘I’ll only have to wash it out again.’
The girl, an Irish red-head, smiled at him, puckering her lips. He stared back at her as though at one of his dissected lizards. He wore brown corduroy trousers and a fawn sports jacket with leather patches on the elbows. His hands were surprisingly small for a man of his height.
Aubrey introduced himself and said he’d be conducting the interview.
‘I don’t know what I can tell you,’ the Professor replied apologetically. ‘I was sent the remains of one worm, rather the worse for wear. Admittedly it bore a superficial resemblance to the worms we investigated last year, but it was three times the size.’
‘The sewer foreman is convinced they’re the same, and he’s probably seen more than most people.’
‘Nevertheless, he is a layman.’
The Professor stood up and followed Aubrey into the studio without even bothering to nod his thanks to the red-headed make-up girl. Behind his back Aubrey winked at her; she pulled a face in return.
‘Sorry I was a little late,’ the Professor was going on. ‘I’d a few urgent matters to deal with before I came out. I’m afraid I can’t give you much of my time.’
The floor manager led them to two low chairs arranged on either side of a cheap coffee table. The Professor sat down uncomfortably, shifting about to find the best position for his long legs, then deciding there wasn’t one.
‘Stand by!’ the floor manager called.
On cue, Aubrey began his usual smooth introduction, explaining that Professor Jones was a herpetologist of international
standing who’d made a special study of sewer worms when they’d first appeared only twelve months ago.
‘But why,’ he asked, ‘are they called worms at all when they look like snakes?’
‘Oh, not to the trained eye!’ The Professor picked up one of the stills they’d prepared. ‘If you examine this picture you’ll see they have eyelids, which snakes do not. Also – here – an eardrum, clearly visible. No doubt about it, these are lizards – limbless lizards, like the slow worm or blind worm. In fact’ – he warmed to his theme – ‘we know many different kinds of lizard, some with four legs, functional legs, some whose legs are reduced and practically non-existent, as well as these which are completely limbless. I could mention the
Anops kingii
of South America and other amphisbaenids such as the
Leposternum microcephalum,
and in Britain the familiar
Anguis
which everyone knows.’
‘The ang—?’
‘Slow worm,’ the Professor repeated testily.
‘Do any of them eat flesh?’
‘Several reptiles are carnivorous.’ He seemed surprised at the question. ‘The most well-known perhaps are crocodiles, alligators, pythons…’
Aubrey let him go on without interruption, at the same time making mental notes of where to edit the interview. At last he managed to slip in a question about the worms which had attacked Matt Parker. Had anything like them been seen before?
‘My department did a brief study last year at the request of the Ministry of Agriculture on quite small worms of a very similar appearance…’
‘Could they have grown?’
‘That’s certainly possible. The ones we examined last year might not have been full-size, though at the time everyone assumed they were. I’m not prepared to state categorically they were essentially the same as the worms which almost killed your cameraman, though superficially they look alike.’
‘So in your opinion we might be faced with the menace of two different species of carnivorous worms rather than just one?’ Aubrey pressed him.
‘I said nothing of the sort. That’s just the kind of cheap sensationalism I don’t want to be associated with. That word “menace” – there are many creatures in the animal kingdom far more dangerous than the worms, big or small. These are…’ He paused, flushed with annoyance. ‘They’re no more of a menace than ferrets.’
‘But you think there are two species?’
‘At present I’ve insufficient evidence to come to any conclusion.’
‘Why are we suddenly seeing them now? They’re not in any of the textbooks. Up to a year or so ago no one even knew of their existence. Have they only just evolved?’
‘Evolution doesn’t work that way.’ The Professor smiled condescendingly. ‘It takes millions of years. We know of over six thousand different species of reptile living today, and only in 1979 a colony of giant worms up to ten feet long was discovered in the Pacific and—’
‘Worms like ours?’ Aubrey interrupted him, excitedly.
‘Of course not.’ He looked mildly surprised. ‘Thought I’d made that clear. But very, very interesting all the same. You see—’
‘I’m sorry, could we stick to our sewer worms? It’s been suggested no one ever saw them before because they lived at the bottom of the North Sea or the Bristol Channel, and that, now they’ve been disturbed by the oil drilling, they’ve moved inland.’
‘Impossible. They couldn’t live so deep under water. They breathe air, same as we do – though what with the carbon monoxide and lead we pour out from our car exhausts, we’re much more dangerous to them than they are to us. If you television people really want to stir up a scandal, do a programme on how we pollute the air we breathe.’
Aubrey nodded. ‘But it doesn’t do to underplay this,’ he argued. ‘A man’s in hospital.’
‘One unlucky man. That hardly constitutes a national crisis.’
No worse than ferrets, mused Aubrey as he accompanied the Professor down in the lift. We can cut directly from that
statement to shots of the worms devouring Matt Parker’s face. Guzzling like pigs at a trough. A good strong contrast to make the viewers sit up in their armchairs.
‘We’ll be using a minute or so of that interview in the News later today,’ he explained as they reached the ground floor. ‘But the full version will go into the documentary we’re preparing.’
‘One interesting thing about these sewer worms,’ the Professor said before they parted, ‘is reproduction. Frankly, we just don’t know. The blind worm is viviparous – gives birth to live young, doesn’t lay eggs as most reptiles do. But so far we’ve not managed to find a female sewer worm. They’ve all been males. If you collect any during your investigations, do give me a ring.’
‘Of course,’ Aubrey promised. This gave him a new angle. What do sewer worms do about sex? ‘Maybe we could come and film the dissection?’
‘That might be possible.’
He waited until his guest was through the revolving door before returning to the lifts. Mary Keating had sent a message to the Presentation Suite that she’d like a word, and this was as good a time as any to discuss the documentary with her. He’d need her agreement before he could really go ahead, and she could easily object. ‘No worse than ferrets,’ he repeated to himself as he strode around the curving corridor towards her office: that was the clinching argument.
‘Well, I warned you!’ she announced grimly the moment he opened the door. She was looking at him over the top of her reading glasses. An untidy mess of letters and telegrams was spread out before her over her large executive desk. ‘I’ve just had the Chairman of the Independent Broadcasting Authority on the phone.’
‘Complaints?’
He chose the most comfortable armchair and settled himself in it. From the look on her face it was going to be one of those long sessions. Her midget, balding teddy bear stared back at him from its usual place next to the intercom. Near it was an unopened package from Fortnum and Mason tied with ornate ribbon.
‘An unholy row, and coming right from the top,’ she was saying. ‘Protests from the Viewers’ Assocation, the Protection of Children Group, two bishops … oh, and look at these!’ She held them up.
‘Letters? Already?’
‘Delivered by hand. I shudder to think what the post will bring. Three Tory MPs and two Labour all say they’re tabling questions in the House of Commons.’ She glanced down at one of the letters. ‘No, I’m wrong. The Labour lady intends to demand an emergency debate.’
‘At least they’re taking the threat seriously.’
‘The threat? Oh, from the worms? No, it’s the propriety of showing it on TV they’re arguing about. Bringing violence into the home.’ She began to shuffle the papers together.