‘And the worms, or snakes? What have you heard about them?’
‘Snakes and beetles — seem to belong together, don’t they? I dunno. I’ve been five years in the fire service, and I’ve never come across anything like this.’
‘Have any been reported at the disco?’
‘Christ knows what’s going on there. Talk about panic stations! The OAPs’ coach was the same, by all accounts.
A snake, they said. Caused the driver to swerve straight into a pantechnicon. Killed outright. Hell of a mess. They’re using cutting gear to get the old folk out.’
From Worth Hall came a deep, shuddering sound followed by a series of loud cracks and a sudden rush of falling masonry as if the entire building were about to fall down. The noise increased, becoming a long roar; the lights in the offices went out abruptly, leaving only the car headlamps to cut into the darkness.
Mary remained standing where she was, ignoring the fireman’s shouts that she should move farther back. She felt no sense of shock, not any longer, but only a quiet, hopeless despair. It was a major part of her job to deal with the hazards of insect infestation and vermin, but the usual procedures seemed so inadequate. A quick, staccato clattering told her that the roof slates had gone; one even shattered on the ground at her feet. Staring upwards, she could just make out the shapes of the rafters against the dark, amber-tinted sky.
Then a police searchlight came into play and she heard the gasps of fear around her as it illuminated the swarms of flying beetles emerging from the broken roof.
‘Bloody hell, what’s that?’ the young fireman muttered.
Despite the distance she could identify the pinkish sheen of their hard outer skeletons and that vague, veillike aura around them which was probably caused by their rapidly moving wings. A mating flight, she thought; wasn’t that the whole purpose of the beetles’ existence? They were the imago stage of the life cycle. It was their basic task to reproduce, laying their eggs in the minute hair-cracks of any suitable length of timber they could find, dozens of fertile eggs from every beetle couple, each generation multiplying many times over.
Bringing more buildings crashing down around them as they burrowed their way through the wood.
Gulping in the protein-rich blood of any human victim who ventured too close.
The fireman’s comforting hand was on her arm again, but then his fingers tightened. ‘Look!’ he breathed. ‘On the roof!’
Near the chimney-stack was a dark, moving form rearing up from one of the rafters. It reached upwards like an undulating tentacle, ten feet long at least. Everyone else saw it too, for there was a sudden murmur of curiosity mixed with apprehension.
‘One of your snakes, Miss Armstrong?’ The superintendent sounded less certain of himself. He snapped out an order. ‘Can’t you do better than that with the light? Robbins, give him a hand! Get some light on that thing.’ The beam moved slowly across the rooftop, finally nesting on the giant worm, which now seemed much bigger than she had previously thought. It was a deathly white. Its tail draped over several of the rafters, while its head appeared to be weaving about as if trying to find a way of escaping from the powerful light. Hastily Mary fumbled with the camera, setting aperture and shutter speed for maximum exposure, but before she could bring it up to her eye the creature had slowly withdrawn its entire length back into the building.
‘Well, that’s it, isn’t it?’ the fireman was stating firmly, i mean, that’s it! After that, you’ll not find any of our crew willing to go in there.’
Mary gazed up, still clasping the camera in the hope that the worm would reappear, however briefly. She was scarcely aware of yet another car arriving, nor of the door-slam when the driver got out and came over towards her.
‘Miss Armstrong, can you give me some explanation?’ A girl’s voice, but tense with barely controlled hostility. Mary looked round and recognised the young reporter from the local paper, Tessa Something-or-other.
She’d forgotten all about having phoned her.
‘No,’ she replied tersely.
The girl’s thin lips tightened at her answer, but what else was there to say?
‘No, I can’t,’ she repeated, despairing. ‘Believe me, I only wish I could.’
11
News of the night’s events was headlined across the front pages of all the high-circulation dailies. Supping her breakfast coffee, Mary spread them out over the table. She had been right to assume that Tessa Brownley must have her contacts in Fleet Street; in fact, the Chronicle — which printed the most accurate account — even gave her a byline.
Naturally they concentrated on the human stories such as the OAPs’ coach crash and the disco, including interviews with a few of the survivors and some uninformative photographs. The Worth Hall incident was mentioned only briefly, as were several others. Altogether there had been twenty attacks reported before the newspapers had ‘gone to bed’ and she knew from what Evan had told her that the full story was even more horrifying.
The main inconsistency between the various accounts related to the insects themselves. One blamed ‘a new breed of beetle’ but made no mention of either worms or snakes; another considered the main threat to have been snakes which had escaped from London Zoo, or from a dealer. Only the Chronicle carried anything approximating to a full account of both beetles and what it described as ‘bloodworms’, and that was probably Tessa’s doing.
But they all agreed that casualty figures were high, estimating at least a hundred dead and many more injured. With those figures, her borough committee would at last be forced to take action, Mary thought. Any dithering about cost and they’d have every journalist in the country at their heels.
Pouring herself more coffee, she glanced at the clock and wondered what was happening about developing her film. The department’s dark room was in Worth Hall, what was left of it, but Evan had promised to help her out. She had already telephoned the police station once before slipping out for the papers, but they had told her he wasn’t in yet.
Ten minutes, she thought. She’d give it ten minutes and then ring again. Those pictures were vital.
Guy Archer learned nothing of the latest beetle attacks until he also was having breakfast that morning.
After his drink with Lise the previous evening, he had returned home to find that Dorothea was still not back. Of course everything was just as he’d left it, the same mess — boards up, skirting pulled away from the wall, the contents of the kitchen cupboards piled up on the table, and the pesticide spray lying where anyone could stumble over it.
He did stumble over it; cursing, he kicked it aside and went into the hall to try the answering machine. Someone had called — Brian again, oozing darling and sweetie all over the tape. It got under his skin; he felt like ripping out the lead and smashing the gadget against the floor.
Then followed a gap, another peep of tone, and Dorothea’s voice.
‘Guy, love, there’s a hell of a rush on here so they’re keeping me late, maybe till midnight or after, so don’t stay up. They’ve promised to lay on a taxi to get me home and they’re paying me double, so everything’s OK.’ A pause, as if it was all she wanted to say. Then: ‘Oh, and PS — hope you can find something to eat in the fridge. Can’t remember what we’ve got, if anything, but you can always go out for a fried chicken. Bye now!’