The sewer foreman was a short, dark-haired man of about fifty with a deeply-lined angular face which warned all comers he could be a tough bastard when the mood took him. He recognized Matt the moment he stepped into the office.
‘You’re … ay, that poor bloody cameraman! So you’re out of hospital then? That’s fine! It’s great to see you!’ He shook Matt’s hand warmly like a long-lost friend, then stepped back to look at him. ‘They didn’t improve your appearance any, but at least you’re in one piece, that’s something. I’ll never forget when they carried you out on that stretcher. I’ve seen men wi’ their faces blown off, their guts hangin’ out, but nothing shocked me like the sight o’ you after the worms’d been at you.’
‘It’s about the worms I’ve come to ask you,’ Matt said.
‘Ay, but you know, I can’t remember your name! You’ll have to remind me. Ay, that day, I’ve dreamed of it often, but I never think o’ you by name.
That poor bloody sod
, that’s how I think o’ you. But now … Max, is it? Matt?’
‘Matt Parker.’
‘We were never properly introduced anyhow. I’m Angus Hume, sewer foreman. Now if we want to talk, there’s a pub round the corner an’ I’m just about ready to wash the taste o’ the sewer out o’ my mouth.’ He led the way to the door, taking his hat from the peg. ‘Gets into your spittle, that’s the truth of it. Takes a couple o’ good pints to kill the taste.’
The Crown was a small street-corner pub, probably unchanged since it was first built a hundred years earlier. The burly landlord began to draw the first pint the moment he saw Angus coming in through the door. Matt was introduced and his hand gripped in a giant fist.
‘Pint for you too?’
‘Please.’
‘They did a good job, those surgeons.’ The landlord stared at him critically. ‘The way I heard the story, you’d no face left. Wonderful what they can do these days.’
‘They built one side up,’ Matt explained.
Talking about it this way seemed more natural than people averting their eyes, which was the more usual reaction. He fished in his pocket for some money but Angus was ahead of him, slapping a pound note down on the bar.
‘My round,’ he insisted.
‘Wife says I should ’ave my nose done,’ the landlord confided as he turned to the till. ‘But it doesn’t worry me, so why bother? Scars o’ battle, I tell her, but she won’t listen. The way she goes on, you wouldn’t believe I was still boxing when she married me. But they change, don’t they, women?’
They sat at a little round table in a corner. Angus took a first, long draught before another word was spoken, then he set down the glass with a sigh of contentment and started to fill his pipe from an old, worn pouch.
‘Turned to the pipe when I started in the sewers,’ he said, carefully pushing the tobacco into the bowl with his forefinger. ‘Never tried it before. In the army I smoked fags. Always fags.’ He turned the pouch over and returned it to his pocket before lighting the pipe. Every movement was slow and deliberate. ‘Now what can I do for you, Matt? You didn’t come back just to pass the time o’ day.’
‘No,’ Matt admitted. ‘But you must have more experience of worms than most other people.’
‘Ay, I thought it might be that. Well, ask your questions, Matt, though I warn you I know nothing more than I’ve already told the reporters.’ He took another long pull at his beer and laughed. ‘We had ’em in here that night they took you to hospital, falling over themselves to buy us drinks, an’ half o’ them pissed as newts by eight o’clock.’
‘They saw the worms themselves?’
‘None to see. Some dead, the rest sleeping off a good meal –
you
.’
‘But on a normal day…?’
‘Saw some today,’ Angus confirmed. ‘I’ll tell you something. The first I came across were little ’uns, about the length o’ your
hand. Eighteen months ago, that’d be. I’ve been ten years down those sewers, mind, ever since I came out o’ the army, an’ I never saw none before that. These little ’uns – well, a couple o’ my mates got nipped, nothing much, no more’n a rat’d do to you. But now they’re bigger we watch out. Ay, well, you know about that.’ He drained his glass. ‘You don’t see many rats in the sewers these days, that’s one thing you can say for ’em.’
Matt went to the bar for another couple of pints and the landlord leaned across to him confidentially. ‘ ’Ere, them worms gets bigger every time ‘e talks about ’em. If ’e’s tellin’ the truth – an’ ’e’s straight, mind, is Angus – it’s my opinion somethin’ ought to be done. You pass that on to your TV people.’
But back at the table, Angus made it clear the authorities had taken some temporary measures pending the result of an inquiry. They’d put down lumps of poisoned meat. That’d worked for a couple of days, but then the worms had returned in force.
‘Ay, it was like the buggers knew what we’d been about an’ weren’t having any. They’ve calmed down again now, but I’ve never known ’em quite so vicious as that week.’
‘Can I see them?’
‘Ay.’ Angus was uncommittal.
‘Take some photographs.’
‘If anyone’s a right to, you have.’ He drew on his pipe. ‘Not tonight. Not tomorrow. Wednesday. About eleven o’clock. I’ll take you down.
Wednesday was the day Helen planned they should drive down to the cottage at Westport and Matt had some trouble persuading her. He said nothing about going to the sewers but suggested there were a couple of jobs needed doing on the car. She remained unconvinced till she saw him change into his overalls and go out to start draining the oil from the sump. Luckily the phone rang with an offer of a day’s typing at a nearby insurance office. The money was good – they often paid her a bonus over and above the agency fee – and that clinched the matter.
Matt waited till both Helen and Jenny were safely out of
the house before trying to ring Professor Jones at the University.
It was his third attempt and he half expected the bored operator to say, yet again: ‘Sorry, no reply.’ But this time he was put through to a woman in the secretariat who explained that the professor was away on a motoring holiday in southern Europe and not expected back for two months.
‘This is vacation time,’ she reminded him condescendingly. ‘No one’s here except for those doing summer courses for foreign students.’
‘Then who feeds the animals?’ Matt demanded.
‘Animals?’ She sounded genuinely astonished.
‘Reptiles. In his laboratory.’
‘They’re all dead.’
‘Dead?’
‘In jars and things,’ she added. ‘I don’t think the professor ever has any living specimens. But maybe Albert can help you better. He’s the lab assistant. I’ll have you transferred, if that’s any use.’
Matt felt he was walking on quicksand. ‘Would he like some living specimens? I mean, if he’s studying worms and their habits he’ll—’
‘I’ll have you transferred.’ A series of clicks and metallic groans. Then: ‘Could you transfer this call to 568?’ More clicks. Then an ominous silence.’
‘Hello?’ said Matt. ‘Hello?’
No answer.
At last he put the phone down, defeated.
When he arrived at the sewer foreman’s office just before eleven o’clock on Wednesday morning, Angus eyed him with mild amusement. ‘It’s a wee trip down the drain we’re planning,’ he commented drily, ‘not an expedition to climb Everest.’
In addition to his camera, extra lenses and a couple of battery-operated lamps, Matt had brought a picnic ice-box and a pair of heavy gauntlet gloves made of imitation leather. He remembered the worms hadn’t bitten through his ordinary clothing but reckoned that genuine leather, being skin,
wouldn’t put them off in the same way. He’d no wish to experience their sharp teeth for a second time.
In the office he pulled off his shoes and changed into rubber waders. Angus, in gum boots, led the way down a dank, stone staircase into the vaulted sewers.
It was all he could do to hide his sudden spasm of fear as the sour smell caught his nostrils and he heard once again the echoing whispers of the tunnels. The old panic rose within him. The walls seemed to shrink menacingly, pressing in on him from all sides.
But the gleam of torchlight on the effluent brought back the vivid memory of the pain and terror of the worms. His claustrophobia receded as he became more and more determined to hit back at them.
‘Ne’er a sign of any this morning,’ Angus observed, flashing his lamp along the flowing stream of water. ‘Looks like we’re out o’ luck.’
‘Let’s try some of this.’ From his pocket Matt produced a flat whisky bottle containing a red fluid, and emptied half of it into the sewer. ‘Blood.’
‘Where d’you buy bottles o’ blood, for Chrissake? Or d’you tap your own veins?’
Matt grinned. ‘I thought of that. No, I went through yellow pages and phoned round
the
kosher butchers till I found one who’d sell it to me.’ He stared down at the effluent. ‘No worms, though.’
‘We could try the next tunnel,’ Angus suggested. ‘D’you genuinely think blood’ll attract ’em?’
‘Mine did,’ he answered grimly, remembering how they’d sucked in each drop as it hit the water.
They went to the next tunnel and he poured out some more blood. Its redness dissolved into a faint pink stain, then disappeared. They waited.
No worms. A few scraps of paper, discarded plastic containers, patches of foam, but no worms.
Then Angus grasped his arm. ‘Down there!’ he whispered. ‘Two o’ the bastards, their heads poked up over the water like bloody U-boats.’
Matt nodded. ‘We’ll give ’em one more taste.’ He emptied the rest of the bottle and watched the blood spread through the effluent. ‘They like it, see? Coming upstream for more.’
‘Ay, drinkin’ it like it was best bitter, the little buggers.’
Matt flicked open the clips on the ice box lid. Inside, he’d two string shopping nets, each filled with raw meat and attached to a long cord. He threw the first into the effluent and handed Angus the cord, asking him to wind it round his fist and hold it taut. Then he switched on the lamps and adjusted their angle.
Already the worms were speeding towards the meat in the net, their heads ducked beneath the surface. Angus pulled the net up, forcing them out of the effluent if they wanted to eat, which they did. Matt snapped off six quick exposures one after the other without pausing.
They were beautiful, undulating slivers of constantly varying shades of green, glowing brightly, intensely, like dangerous angel worms. A much better name for them, Matt thought – angel worms. He changed the lens for a tighter shot.
‘Jus’ look at ’em, little buggers!’ Angus was saying, delighted. ‘Like hungry hyenas.’
Four more worms – no, five! – shot through the water towards the bait, as though the first two had sent them an urgent summons. It had been the same pattern when they’d attacked him, Matt recalled, as if they had telepathic communication. It’d make them doubly dangerous. Doubly fascinating, too.
He took more pictures, working his way steadily through the film. One with its mouth open, poised to bite. Another with its teeth clamped into the raw meat. One staring directly into the lens, its eyes hard and challenging. Relentless. It was a relief when, for a split second, the shutter cut them off from view.
Angus was playing with them, holding the cord at arm’s length, moving the bait this way and that, sometimes above the water, sometimes sinking into it. ‘A great shame you’re not taking movies this time!’ he declared. ‘I could make ’em dance for you!’
‘Don’t underestimate them, Angus. Last time they made
me
dance. And never look in their eyes. Once they get their eyes fixed on you, you’ll be stepping down into that water, doing just what they want.’
‘Man, you’re exaggerating!’
‘Don’t you believe it.’ He took the last two exposures, then closed the camera and returned it to its case. ‘You can drop the cord and let them have the rest of the meat now.’
They both watched, intrigued, as the worms gorged themselves on it as though they’d not eaten for weeks. Their skins glistened, one second green, the next purple, the patches of colour shifting and merging as they thrashed about in the water. The string bag was in shreds and two worms fought over the last morsel of meat. The others remained almost motionless, their heads upright as they waited to see what he’d do next.
Matt hadn’t planned anything other than the photographs, but he was aware there was unsettled business between the worms and him. As he looked down at them he knew what he had to do.
He tugged on the gauntlet gloves and took the second string net from the ice-box.
‘Let’s give them some more,’ he said, passing the cord to Angus. ‘Same routine. Keep the meat just above the surface.’
Before Angus could reply Matt had lowered himself into the effluent. Immediately the worms began nudging against his legs.
‘Are you crazy, man?’ Angus cried.
‘Keep the meat on the surface,’ Matt snapped at him, irritated.
‘I’d never have come down here if I’d known this was what you had in mind,’ Angus protested, but he did as Matt asked.
The worms didn’t bite. The rubber of his waders puzzled them. One by one they abandoned him in favour of the meat in the string net. He took a slow step towards them, carefully, then stopped suddenly to catch one in his gloved hand.
It wriggled as he held it up. Grinning, he tightened his fingers, squeezing till he felt its head collapse under the pressure. Then he slung the body into the ice-box and turned to scoop up the next one. Contemptuously.
Angus was staring at him, his eyes wide. ‘Are you mad?’ he was whispering. ‘Is it revenge you’re after?’
Matt was too busy to reply. He squeezed the second worm to death, threw it into the box, and set to work on the third. Vaguely in the back of his mind he imagined he’d take them along to Television Hall, slam them down on someone’s desk and force them to take an interest. Failing that, a newspaper perhaps.
As he killed the fourth – it had swum willingly into his hand – he became aware the others were still feeding on the meat in the string net. They made no joint attempt to defend themselves, which suggested their telepathy might not be all that strong after all.