A second intensely sharp pain gripped her belly, low down near the top of her right leg. She reached under the water, fearful of what her fingers might find.
Tina let out a piercing scream, then tried to scramble for the side but lost her footing and fell back again. Gordon moaned loudly like a heifer in labour. Gail shrieked with hysteria, splashing about, then sinking, rising to the surface spluttering and shrieking once more, then sinking again…
Adrea’s fingers found the source of the sharp pain on her abdomen, something long and thin clinging to her. She couldn’t visualize what it was, but nor could she remove it. Pulling at it felt like cutting into her flesh with razors. ‘Must keep calm,’ she told herself. ‘Must keep calm.’
Ignoring the others, she moved steadily through the water to the steps at the corner of the pool and climbed out. As she turned she caught sight of Tina standing waist-deep at the shallow end, sobbing as she stared down at something hanging from her breast. It looked like a snake.
‘Get out of the water!’ she yelled to her again. ‘Tina, get out of the water!’
Suddenly she knew what they were: she’d read about them in the paper — sewer worms! The one on her abdomen seemed to be chewing its way into her. Fighting her rising panic, she grasped it with both hands, squeezing and twisting, irrationally convinced she could wrench its head off. She was acting blindly, racked by the excruciating pain, panting, her cheeks wet with tears. The worm was tough and resilient; she couldn’t make it let her go. Then suddenly it began a series of jerks in quick, unpredictable spasms.
She could taste the blood on her lips where her own teeth had bitten into them. Shifting her grip she twisted again, twisted and pulled. The jerking continued, till the worm gave one last undulating shudder and then slackened. It became limp between her fingers. She flung it from her, far across the grass among the dark trees.
Her hands were sticky with blood flowing from the wound in her belly. Her breath came in uneasy sobs. And there on her leg, steadfastly hanging on to the flesh of her inner thigh, was the other worm. Oh God, she hadn’t the strength…
‘Help!’ Vincent was whimpering from the pool. ‘Help me! Please!’
Even under the low green lighting the dark blood was visible, like clouds in the water. Vincent was by the edge, pathetically holding out a podgy hand to be pulled out. Gail — it must have been Gail — was floating face-down, with only her meagre white buttocks on the surface. Someone else, probably Gordon, was still thrashing about at the far end, but weakening.
‘Help me!’ Vincent sobbed. ‘Oh, help me, please!’
Why she did it, she’d never know. Streaming with blood, the worm on her thigh still gnawing into her, she crawled painfully to the side of the pool, grasped Vincent’s hand, and pulled him out. He collapsed on the grass, lying there naked and white, heaving with sobs.
But she couldn’t see a single worm on him anywhere.
8
Matt heard about it next day while lunching in the pub with the rest of the crew.
Over the weeks since he’d been recalled from Westport he’d worked non-stop on one uninspiring programme after another. This one, at a Middlehampton brake-cable factory, was a survey of the state of British industry — the usual fare.
Not that he hadn’t tried to sell his idea for a documentary on sewer worms, but they weren’t interested. Fobbed him off with unconvincing excuses. Humoured him, in fact. Yes, they’d allowed him to view — after worried expressions of concern — the newsreel of his own face being eaten. He’d watched it with cold curiosity, unmoved; though that night he’d woken up screaming, bathed in sweat, having relived the whole experience in his worst nightmare to date. Luckily he’d been alone in the house; Helen had still been at Westport with Jenny.
During those same weeks he’d assembled a growing file of press cuttings, magazine articles and photographs. Whenever work permitted he’d contacted Angus and arranged to go into the sewers again — at first to take more pictures, but later to hunt for skins.
Fran was having a great success selling worm-skin belts to a top fashion designer for his autumn collection. Matching handbags, too. Matt had met her a couple of times in London to discuss business details, and she’d agreed that Angus should be offered a cut to keep him happy.
‘Sewer worms, that’s what they were! First anyone’s seen in this district, but there’s no doubt about it.’
Matt’s ears picked out the words across the general chatter of the pub — a high-pitched, smug voice, slightly nasal. Sharply he looked around to identify who was speaking.
The man was standing at the bar. He wore a shabby raincoat and heavy glasses which enlarged his bulging eyes. ‘Naked, too!’ he was saying, shaking his head with disapproval. The tip of his tongue passed over his thin lips. ‘Serves ’em right if you ask me.’
The landlord nodded. ‘Dead?’ He spoke the word as though he and death shared a special understanding. Maybe they did. On the walls were photographs and trophies from the Western Desert; his bearing was military, shoulders back, hair short.
‘Two of ’em. The others are in hospital.’
Matt emptied his glass and went over to join them. The worms have claimed their first dead, he was thinking; but it had been touch and go that he hadn’t ended up in the cemetery himself. A couple of weeks earlier he’d tried to make an appointment to see Aubrey Morgan, Controller of Programmes, now Acting Managing Director. ‘Too busy at the moment,’ Jimmy had reported back to him several days later. ‘And as for your documentary, he says nobody has been killed yet, so the worms can’t be as dangerous as you claim. Sorry, Matt. He’s right, you know.’
The landlord held his glass at eye-level, slightly tilted, as he poured the Guinness. Matt turned to the man in the raincoat.
‘Heard you mention sewer worms,’ he said affably. ‘I could tell you a bit about them.’
The man’s eyes flickered up to his face, betraying the usual expression of curiosity about his scars. Matt smiled, unembarrassed. He used those scars shamelessly whenever he wanted to get someone talking. Especially about worms. It worked this time too without a hitch; it always did.
Rodney Smith, the man said his name was. Deputy editor of the local paper. He questioned Matt for a minute or two about his experiences in the London sewers before telling of the ‘tragedy at The Cedars’ as he called it.
His contact at the police station — he phrased it to sound both conspiratorial and highly important — had tipped him off that someone passing The Cedars late at night had heard screams and dialled 999. What they’d found there was beyond description. A mixed nude bathing party in the private swimming pool… such goings on! Then, those worms!
He’d followed up the story through his contact at the hospital who told him of two young women brought in with unusual wounds on their bodies; also a middle-aged man, unhurt but in a state of deep shock.
His contact at the mortuary had filled in more details. A woman, very thin, probably drowned, but with bites all over her, like a ferret had been at her. The dead man was in a worse state. His genitals had been eaten away. Only a few shreds of skin remained.
‘Couldn’t have done it without my contacts,’ Rodney Smith stated contentedly as he sipped the large whisky Matt had bought him. ‘Then, I always did have good contacts. Half the battle in my business.’
Matt made a quick excuse and slipped away to rejoin the rest of the crew. He told them what had happened, keeping his eyes on Jacqui Turner, their director. She was still in her twenties, a slip of a girl, but eager to make her way in television and tough enough to do it. This was the kind of opportunity she shouldn’t turn down; one spectacular scoop like this and there’d be no trouble about renewing her contract — they’d be only too eager. Pete, his camera assistant, brought her another Guinness. She shook back the dark, wavy hair from her face as she drank, her eyes fixed on Matt.