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.
The fifth seemed to accept death indifferently, almost mockingly; perhaps it knew something hidden from him. Matt’s wild mood suddenly sagged; he felt uneasy.
‘Get out, man, get out quick!’ The panic in Angus’s voice was warning enough. ‘Take my hand!’
Matt grabbed his arm and climbed back on to the walkway. Something glimmered at the far end of the tunnel, he couldn’t quite make out what. He swung one of the lamps around.
The stream of effluent was thick with sewer worms, their heads raised above the surface, watching him as they assembled. More and more joined the rear of the throng and lined up with them.
‘Like an army!’ Angus said, his voice oddly hushed. ‘We’ve walked into an ambush.’
Matt snapped down the lid of the ice-box; that was one thing he wasn’t going to leave behind, whatever happened. He slung the camera around his neck and grabbed the case of lenses. Angus gathered up one of the lamps, but they abandoned the other.
‘Now follow me, man, an’ keep close,’ Angus instructed urgently, speaking quietly as though the worms could overhear. ‘Careful how you put your feet. The sewers can be treacherous.’