And she hadn’t answered, not knowing what to say.
An agonized high-pitched squeal from one of the mice brought her back to her senses. From the two remaining boxes on the trolley came the sounds of violent but useless attempts to escape. They’d never be able to break through however long they scraped at the wood.
At the third and largest tank on that side of the shed she went through the same routine again, heaving the heavier box on to the top, making sure it was properly in place, then opening the slide to release the living food. She didn’t stop to watch, but turned to the biggest tank of all on the right-hand side.
It was a long, deep metal bath covered with safety-frames of heavy wire mesh. This was the tank she feared most. The worms in it were like fully-grown snakes, and at this size they were no longer repulsive but dangerously attractive. Their colouring was more delicate, their movements over the rocks graceful, even elegant. Their eyes too lacked some of the hardness of the smaller worms. They enticed — beckoned…
As she undid the clips at the edges of the frame she became uncomfortably aware that silence had returned to the shed, an ominous silence. Even the poor miserable animals inside the food box were absolutely still. It was as though every living creature was holding its breath, waiting… watching.
‘Don’t be stupid!’ she told herself, speaking aloud. Her words seemed to hang on the air, rejected.
She grasped the heavy wooden frame at both ends, ready to lift it. Then she noticed, just beneath the mesh, two eyes regarding her sympathetically — and invitingly. She quivered, held by them. The head swayed gently. The long body lay supported against the side of the tank, draped like an expensive scarf in a Knightsbridge shop. She wanted to reach in and touch it, feel its silky smoothness beneath her fingers, stroke it. The urge was so strong, she was on the point of surrendering to it and was tugging the frame to one side when her hand slipped along the edge and—
‘Damn!’ She sucked her injured finger; the splinter had penetrated deep under the skin. It was nothing too tragic but enough to break the spell of those eyes. The worm, too, acknowledged defeat and slunk back to the bottom.
‘You’re not going to catch me like that again!’ she swore at it.
With a quick impatient movement she swung the frame out of the way and dumped the food box into position. She had to shift it around a little before the grooves engaged, but Matt’s design was accurate. The box exactly fitted the space left by the frame. She flicked open the catch and jerked the slide out.
One by one the rabbits dropped into the long tank: scared little creatures with long ears and pink eyes. They crouched there, quivering and twitching, making no attempt to escape as the worms darted at them from all directions, biting through their fur, ruthlessly tearing at the nearest portion of living meat. They didn’t kill their victims, nor even attempt to subdue them, but savaged the bleeding flesh remorselessly, gulping down each mouthful.
Helen made for the door, slamming it shut behind her and locking it the moment she was outside. Her stomach heaved. She swallowed great mouthfuls of air. Then, unable to stop herself, she was violently sick.
The quick sweat felt cold on her skin. The garden fence shifted and dissolved before her eyes. Her hand found a corner of the shed to lean against as she coughed everything up, desperately struggling not to faint.
At last the spasm was over and she was able to stand up straight again. Her eyes cleared, her head ached, and her mouth tasted sour. She went back up the garden path towards the house. The wind-blown daffodils brushed against her legs, startling her; for a moment she saw them as a mass of yellow worms swaying towards her and she almost broke into a run in her need to get to the kitchen door.
Once inside, she shot the bolt top and bottom, then turned the key before rinsing out her mouth and splashing handfuls of cold water on to her face.
Oh, that was the last time she’d ever go near those worms. She’d never do it again. If Matt wasn’t around to feed them, let them starve to death. She knew she hadn’t completed the job. She should have replaced the slides, collected up the boxes and loaded them on to the trolley before withdrawing quietly in order not to excite the worms, switching off the light behind her. Yes, she knew the routines all right, but she hadn’t done them. She’d left everything lying there in her panic to get out. The light on too.
He’d grumble at her when he got home. Give her a lecture on how worms only flourished in the dark, how the glands controlling their luminosity became sluggish in the light. And luminous skins fetched the best prices.
Yes, and he’d say it all so gently, carefully explaining every point as though talking to a child, spelling it out step by step till she felt like throwing something at him. But what good would that do? He’d only look at her with hurt in his eyes and later, in an intimate moment, he’d ask where it had all gone wrong, their marriage, and she’d lie to him that nothing was wrong between them; he was over tired, that was all. Over sensitive.
Not true, though. No, not true.
She fetched the whisky from the living room and poured a generous slug, drinking it neat to settle the queasiness of her stomach. Slowly it did its work. She poured another, then sat at the kitchen table and looked down at her clothes. The vomit had splashed over her shoes. On her tights, too, and the hem of her skirt.
No, it was not true. Things she did irritated him; that was only too obvious, though he tried to hide it. Little things, like the way she scratched her nose while trying to work something out, or left her comb in the bathroom full of strands of blonde hair, or used whichever toothbrush happened to be lying there, even if it wasn’t hers.
Yet in the early years they’d always shared their toothbrush. It was hard to imagine now how they’d delighted in each other’s body: her excitement at his touch, his face eager and open. Not withdrawn and absentminded, not in those days.
She kicked off her shoes and peeled down her tights to rinse them through in the sink. No worms then, not anywhere. No one had ever heard of them, let alone thought of keeping them in a shed at the bottom of the garden. The sight of it through the window made her shudder; gooseflesh spread over her arms.
After hanging up the tights, she took off her skirt to try and clean off the vomit stains. Then, impatiently, she rolled it up and threw it in a corner. That acrid smell caught in her throat. She wanted to strip everything off, stand for hours under the shower and let it wash away all trace of the worms.
In the bedroom, she took more whisky, leaving the bottle on the dressing-table. She’d protested to him about the worms, then always weakened because it was his obsession. His living. His pride at the way it was all working out.
‘Matt,’ she whispered involuntarily. ‘Oh Matt…’
She sat on the edge of the bed, her elbows on her knees, holding her glass with both hands curled around it. They’d all predicted it would go wrong: her friends at the time, her sister… It was too improbable, they’d told her — Helen, at the tail-end of a stale affair with the producer she worked for, falling in love with an over-tall, shy, awkward camera assistant who turned out to be a virgin the first time she took him to bed.
Not that she’d minded that part. She’d even felt flattered, wished she could return the compliment. And it was a compliment, as she tried to tell him while they lay naked in each other’s arms. He’d flushed with embarrassment and she’d sensed his shame, confusion and happiness all inextricably mixed up together.