‘What d’you think — risk it?’ he called to Tony.
‘I can’t judge. Better leave it if it’s too loose.’
Guy decided to try. He had to swing the saw above his head to avoid the twin strands of fire-hose — no thicker than an ordinary garden hose — then down on the left side, hoping he could steady it long enough to make the cut.
But everything was against him this time. He was holding the saw at too awkward an angle and was forced to stand half-twisted away from the wall, which made balancing a problem. To make matters worse, the beam end began to dance about the moment the high-speed chain touched it.
•Cursing, he lifted the saw clear, but simultaneously the timber seemed to jump up with it, and in that split second he knew he was going to fall. He’d leaned over too far; trying to straighten up, his arm hit the wall; he’d no hope of steadying himself.
Time stretched. His mind rationalised every move as though he were watching himself from the outside: how he dropped the saw and it clattered down screaming into the pit; how he put up a hand to grasp the top of the wall but it wasn’t there; how he felt his foot shifting involuntarily away from its stone perch as he teetered wildly to avoid the inevitable plunge downwards; and how — when he least expected it — that beam which had been the cause of it all came swinging towards him.
An arm went around it instinctively; one hand gripped the hose.
‘Steady there!’ came Tony’s voice. ‘You OK?’
Guy regained his foothold and gradually straightened up, while Tony kept the hose-pipe taut,
‘Think so. Give me a second to get my breath back.’ The beam — that is, the remaining five or six feet of it— had worked itself loose from the rubble, he realised; it was now hanging freely with the help of the hose-pipe looped through his belt. Bracing himself against the wall, Guy released his hold on it.
‘Tony, you can pull the beam up now,’ he instructed. ‘Sorry about your chain-saw.’
‘The borough council’s, not mine!’ Tony replied cheerfully. ‘Old Simpkins won’t be too pleased. Wait till I’ve shoved the beam outside to give you more room when you climb up. Don’t go away!’
Guy edged round until he was facing the wall again and was able to hoist himself up on to the narrow ledge. A comer of the brickwork broke off as it took his weight, slithering and bouncing down into the pit, and he felt sick at the sound of it. Getting to his feet again, he glanced down; no trace of the chain-saw among the rubble, though he could still hear the motor chuffing away.
‘You’ve managed?’ Tony grinned at him through the half-blocked doorway. He seemed surprised. ‘Go rock climbing, do you?’
‘Something like that.’ Guy tried to slap some of the muck off his clothes. They were in such a mess, he’d have to go home and change before putting in an appearance at the office. ‘Let’s take that timber round to the front. I’d like Mary to be there when we split it open.’
‘What d’vou bet we don’t find anything?’
‘In that case we’ll have wasted our time.’
Guy retrieved his belt and jacket, then set off back down the pathway towards the road, leaving Tony to follow, shouldering the length of timber. It may well have been a waste of time, he reflected; on the other hand, every little they learned helped to construct the picture. So far — Mary would agree — they had so few pieces of the jigsaw as to be practically useless.
He found her talking to a short, stumpy girl arrned with a shoulder bag, notebook and pencil, though she seemed to be writing nothing down. Press, he thought. The round metal glasses magnified the girl’s eyes; her curly unkempt hair looked like a wig which had been caught out in a storm, then merely left to dry without further attention: the overall effect was remarkable, particularly side by side with Mary’s precise neatness.
‘Guy! What happened?’ A look of shock crossed Mary’s face when she saw him. ‘You haven’t hurt yourself, have you?’
‘It’s only dirt,’ he said briefly. ‘We cut another specimen length, but perhaps you’d prefer to examine it later on.’
He glanced pointedly at the girl reporter, remembering what Simpkins had said about the press. Mary obviously took his meaning but chose to ignore it.
‘This is Tessa from the Gazette. I’ve just been explaining it’s too early to be able to comment on what might have caused the workshop to collapse like this. But Set’s see what you’ve found. No harm in her looking on.’
Guy showed her the section of beam. Probably it had been part of the original Victorian chapel; it was quite roughly hewn and obviously old. Several long dark cracks ran along the grain.
‘No flight holes,’ Mary commented.
‘Which is why I chose it.’
Guy explained his theory. She looked doubtful, pursing her lips and shaking her head.
‘Let’s find out then,’ he said.
Tony had been back to his car to fetch his tool kit. From it he selected a large chisel and a mallet. His first couple of cuts met firm timber; he didn’t pursue them, but tugged the chisel out again and tried elsewhere. The third attempt was more rewarding. With one tap from the mallet the chisel blade plunged into the wood almost up to the haft. It splintered so easily that within seconds he had split some of the beam away and revealed the delicately intricate network of galleries.
‘There’s the worm!’ Guy exclaimed, pointing at a naked, whitish slug snuggling in one of the channels through the wood. ‘I was right after all!’
‘Urgh!’ Tessa from the Gazette offered as her contribution. ‘How horrible!’
Til fish it out,’ Tony said. ‘We’ll take a closer look.’
He was about to poke it out of its groove with his little finger when Mary stopped him.
‘Tony, be careful,’ she warned him urgently. ‘We don’t know anything about it yet. That’s not an ordinary woodworm.’
‘If you say so.’
This time he pulled on his work gloves, then used the chisel blade to coax the maggot to leave the protection of the wood. It began to explore this unfamiliar metal object, which was exactly what he wanted. Transferring it to the palm of his left hand was no problem at all.
‘Urgh!’ said Tessa for the second time.
As he examined it, Guy’s apprehension returned. In every respect it seemed identical to the giant worms of his nightmares — yet what could that mean? Was it merely his imagination blowing them up to mammoth size? In that case, maybe he really should see a psychiatrist.
‘Segmented,’ Mary observed, glancing at him as though sharing his thoughts.
Tony gave it a push with his forefinger, wanting it to move over the chafed leather palm of his glove. Its reaction caught them all unprepared. Bunching itself up, in one swift movement it began to bore head-first into his hand.
A yell of agony burst from his lips, followed by curses as he struggled to get a grip on it to pull it away.
It went directly through the leather like a tungsten bit through soft wood. Blood welled up as it penetrated his flesh, and he gasped at the pain.
Guv grabbed his wrist, held it firmly and tore off his glove. The worm’s head was already appearing through the back of Tony’s hand. Its skin was no longer pale, but flushed red with the blood it had consumed. With a sudden twist it was completely through, and was beginning to explore other parts of the hand when Guy succeeded in knocking it away.
Mary and Tessa sprang back but they need not have worried. Guy had seen where it landed and — regardless of the trouble he had taken to find this specimen — he quickly trod on it, grinding it to death. When he took his foot away, all that was left of the larva was a damp pink smear against the grey paving stone.
7