Sarah had left early that lunchtime, taking advantage of Guy’s absence to dash quickly into the West End for a bit of quick shopping for her mum’s birthday next, week. That wouldn’t leave her any time to eat anything, but she could always snatch a bite when she got back, she thought. The one trouble with this job was that she was so far from the shops. Near the office the district was faded and run down. Three of the pubs offered lunchtime striptease in a sordid atmosphere of spilled beer, many of the little shops were closed, semi-derelict, or else stocked with secondhand junk furniture or old clothes which nobody wanted to buy, and that was about it. At least she saved money, though. She’d never had a penny to her name at her previous place only a stone’s throw from the temptations of Oxford Street.
She liked the job itself as well, she thought, as she waited to cross the road at the traffic lights on her way to the tube station. A longer journey, of course, but a through train, which helped. And her office! Nobody at home had believed her when she told them!
It was like a suite in a luxury hotel. Warm furnishings, discreet lighting, deep carpets — the lot! There were times she felt she could happily move in and live there. The salary was a thousand a year more, the holidays longer, and Guy Archer was a dream after the crotchety old woman she’d worked for before.
Married, of course — weren’t they always? Hadn’t tried anything on with her either, not yet, though that would probably come. What she’d do if he did, she wasn’t sure.
Depend on what mood she was in, she supposed. She was a bit off boys at present, fed up with it; perhaps it was time she sampled an older man just for the experience.
He looked at her sometimes; she’d noticed the way his eyes moved when she bent over his desk. Not deliberately, that was obvious. Nor on her side either, she wasn’t like that, but she couldn’t help it if her blouse sagged in front, could she? Anyway, that wasn’t the way things were with Guy. They just got on well together.
She’d seen his wife once too. (The lights changed at last and she could cross.) A fat, jolly woman with a loud laugh, very rude to him; he didn’t get away with much on that front. Plain as the nose on your face, that was.
Again she waited, this time for the lift. She didn’t need to buy a ticket as she could use her annual season, another perk from the company. Mind you, she thought, they made you work for it; never a moment to yourself.
In the lift, a framed advertisement caught her eye. Matching scarf and beret — something like that for Mum, perhaps? She decided to try Selfridges first, at least to see what they’d got. And Mum was always so fussy about colours.
The platform was packed but she pushed her way between the people until she reached the far end. She’d travelled on this line often enough to know which compartment stopped directly opposite the exit she wanted at Oxford Circus. A loudspeaker announcement apologised for the delay, mumbled something about signals failure and said the next train would arrive in one minute.
It was then, looking down at the track, that she became aware of the beetles. At first she didn’t realise what she was seeing. They were pitch black, probably from the soot, and darting along under the rails with a quick scrambling movement. She had often seen mice in the tunnels, also black, and so didn’t give them a thought; but something about their shape… those long claws… like the crayfish she’d eaten on holiday… something disturbed her.
Beetles?
She was about to consult the man standing next to her when a loud scream was heard from the opposite end of the platform, then another, and a third, and the sound went echoing through the curved tunnel. It was like an electric shock. Her whole body tingled and she wanted to cover her ears and shout to the woman to stop.
The crowd pressed against her in panic and there were more screams, and men’s voices bellowing crazily. She had to fight against those around her to get back from the edge and she felt her floppy leather shopping bag, the one she’d got for Christmas, being tom out of her hand in the crush.
Then a train arrived, reassuring her with its familiar roar and clatter as it swept into the station and its doors slid open, offering a way of escape. People rushed past her but there was plenty of room, it was empty, so she was able to pause on the step and stretch up on tiptoe to peer over the heads of the crowd.
What she saw made her sick with horror. Halfway along the platform, near the passage which led to the Northern Line, were two massive white snakes. One was poised over the fallen bodies of women and babies, dipping its head as if feeding on them as they lay there in a spreading pool of blood; the other — even as Sarah was watching — opened its mouth wide and snatched at a man’s terrified face, sending him reeling back against the wall.
She stood there shaking, unable to move.
‘Excuse me!’ Someone had his hand on her arm. ‘Excuse me, is this bag yours? I picked it up off the—’
Gulping, trying to speak though no voice came, she stared past his shoulder into the compartment. Streaming in through the other door came a swarm of dark, flying beetles which one by one began to alight on the passengers’ hair, on their faces, their necks…
‘Close the doors!’ a man was yelling in agony, ‘Close the doors! Keep them oat!’
The guard must have heard him and obeyed without thinking. Smoothly the doors began to shut. Sarah swung around, confused, wanting to get out, but the doorway was suddenly crowded with a surge of panic-stricken people from the platform desperately trying to escape from the giant snakes, which were now much closer.
She was hemmed in. Oh, Guy/ she thought in her terror, blaming him for the beetles, for bringing them here, for letting her walk into this hell. A black beetle crawled over the freckled neckline of the woman squeezed up next to her, leaving a thin trail of soot to mark its path. She dared not breathe, watching it… praying it would stay away from her…
The woman screamed hysterically, struggling to brush it away, and suddenly Sarah could see the colours Guy had described — the hard pink, and the rich green spots, and the blotches of brilliant yellow. Like a jewel, that’s what he’d said.
It moved. With a sudden whirr of its wings it seemed to jump on to her cheek just beneath her eye. Squinting down, she could see it, but in the press of the crowd her arms were pinned to her sides, her breasts squashed so tightly that they hurt, her feet numb from people treading on them.
Pray, she told herself. Oh, God, let me get out of this. Please. But that prayer seemed weak and pathetic. Why should God bother?
‘Anything! I’ll give anything!’ She suddenly screamed as the pain of those claws cut into her lips… her cheeks… the sides of her nostrils…
They were all over her — in her hair, penetrating the neck of her blouse, on her legs, even. She was aware of the taste of her own blood, and of the torture of every fresh pain, yet it was like inhabiting someone else’s body.
It wasn’t her. Not her at all. Her mind could witness it from the outside, from the whir! of mist above those straggling people. One last scream and she’d be completely free, but for that she needed breath. Space to breathe. Lungfuls of fresh air.
Oh, Guy, you bastard, she thought as the mist finally darkened. You bastard bringing them here…
12
Dorothea stood on top of the step- ladder, poking her head through the hatch leading into the loft. A strong smell of insecticide was evidence that Guy must have splashed a lot of it about up there. The real problem, she decided, was to judge how thoroughly he’d inspected the timbers before treating them. As she flashed the torch around she could almost hear her father’s voice again. ‘Depends on the condition o’ the wood, lass,’ was his usual refrain when asked how long a job might take. The men used to laugh about it behind his back. ‘Ol condition-o’-the-wood Cunningham,’ she’d heard one of them call him, laughing.