Mary thought about it. ‘I know I shan’t watch,’ she said at last, surrendering. ‘And I doubt if I’ll sleep tonight.’
Helen Parker looked at the bandage-swathed figure in the hospital bed, still unable to grasp what had happened. Or even feel certain this was really her husband; it could be anybody. The face was almost totally covered. Only the nostrils, the tip of the nose and the closed eyelids remained free.
She hated herself for feeling so neutral, so unmoved. ‘Matt?’ she said, leaning over him.
No movement. He was lifeless, swaddled in those bandages like an Egyptian mummy in some creepy film.
‘He’s lost a lot of blood,’ the white-coated doctor told her, an Indian with bright intelligent eyes which his glasses magnified slightly.
‘Is he going to live?’
For a moment the doctor didn’t answer; then he said: ‘There’s a good chance.’
‘And an equally good chance he won’t?’
She straightened up, brushing back the short blond hair from her cheeks. How could she be so calm, she wondered.
They’d telephoned her at work — must’ve got the number from the agency — to tell her Matt had been attacked by worms. Down a sewer somewhere. It’d sounded so ludicrous, she’d laughed aloud. ‘You’re joking,’ she’d said, thinking Matt had put them up to it. She’d questioned the man at the other end closely for some minutes before allowing herself to be convinced.
The office manager had been reluctant to let her go. ‘This really is inconvenient,’ he’d fussed. He was a sharp-featured little man with dandruff on the stooped shoulders of his cheap suit. ‘I particularly asked the agency to send someone reliable. This typing is most urgent.’
‘My husband’s been rushed to hospital,’ she repeated.
‘That’s why you laughed?’ He made no attempt to hide the fact he didn’t believe her. ‘I heard you laugh. The whole office heard you.’
‘I … he …’ She couldn’t very well tell him Matt had been attacked by worms. ‘Oh, for Chrissake!’ she’d exploded in fury. ‘I’ve no time to talk — he’s lying there unconscious. Phone the agency to send someone else. I’m off.’
‘Temps!’ he’d almost screamed as she pushed past him. ‘You can’t trust any of them. Fly-by-nights, every single one. Well, don’t think I’m going to pay for today, because I’m not. There’ll be no money for—’
She’d slammed the door on her way out, cutting short his hysterical abuse. The frosted glass had rattled in its frame. In the street she’d grabbed the first taxi. Then, at the hospital they’d let her wait for two hours before bringing her into this private room in the surgical wing.
Yet in spite of the row in the office she now felt nothing but calm… not resignation, no, that wasn’t true. But indifference almost. They’d grown apart, she and Matt. Even left the house in the morning these days without a kiss, the once-obligatory peck…
And in bed? It was weeks since he’d last reached out for her; and then, as so often, she’d muttered something about wanting to get to sleep. He’d turned his back without another word.
But she still loved him, she tried to reassure herself as she looked down at him lying long and straight in that hospital bed; it was too short, as always. Of course she still loved him. Only she couldn’t identify her Matt with that prone figure plugged into the various machines which registered he was still alive. The only evidence that he was still breathing.
The drip-feed bottle above the bed hiccoughed.
‘You should be going home, Mrs Parker,’ the Indian doctor was saying. ‘Try to get some rest. If there’s any change, we’ll ring you, I promise.’
‘Yes… thank you…’
Yet she hesitated. Jenny would be waiting, of course, collected from school by one of the neighbours. She’d want to know why her Daddy was in hospital, what was wrong with him. What could she tell her? An accident?
‘Doctor, is—?’ She stopped short, then rephrased her question brutally. ‘How much did they eat?’
The surprise showed on his face; his voice became professionally understanding. ‘You could of course spend the night here if you wished. I’m sure Sister would find you a bed and something to help you sleep.’
‘How much?’
He seemed for a moment uncertain what to tell her. ‘The main injuries are around his face and neck. One of his ears. His hands. Wrists. He’s going to need more surgery.’
‘And his fingers?’ She’d noticed the unusual shape of the bandaging.
‘He’s lost a couple.’
‘But he won’t be maimed? I mean, badly? He’s not going to spend the rest of his life in a wheelchair or—?’
‘We’ve no reason to think anything like that. If he can get over this initial twenty-four hours—’
‘Why’s he still unconscious?’
‘Loss of blood. Shock.’
‘He did lose a lot, didn’t he? You mean there could be brain damage? Please let me know the truth.’
‘The truth is we’re hoping to save him, Mrs Parker. Some of your questions are just unanswerable at the present time.’ He took her arm gently. ‘Now if you’d like me to have a word with Sister?’
‘I hardly recognize him,’ she said wonderingly. ‘He could be anyone.’ Once more she leaned over him. ‘Matt? I’m going now, Matt, to see Jenny.’ She looked up, suddenly embarrassed. ‘It’s all right, Doctor, I know he can’t hear me but…’
‘Mrs Parker, that might be just what he needs, the sound of your voice,’ the Indian doctor smiled. ‘Drugs and surgery can’t do everything.’
3
Much to Aubrey Morgan’s satisfaction the news of the attack on Matt Parker demonstrated once again the immense impact of television. Words alone would never have triggered off the near panic which seized Fleet Street, but colour pictures of those hungry worms feeding off living human flesh caused the editor of every mass-circulation newspaper to scrap his preplanned front page and lead with the Matt Parker story.
Aubrey spread out the papers on his desk and gloated over the headlines. GIANT WORMS FEED ON MAN was the most sober; A DIET OF WORMS was the most tasteless. One paper made the whole story sound like a gimmick with NOW IT’S MAN-EATING WORMS! But his favourite read MAMMOTH WORMS EAT TV MAN IN SEWER — GRUESOME NEWSREEL SHOCKS NATION.
They all carried pictures, black-and-white off-prints prepared the night before in anticipation of the flurry of phone-calls from Fleet Street after the first screening at ten o’clock. Even the Financial Times carried the story, expressing concern at the hidden dangers beneath the City, the financial centre of the world.
It was a possible angle, he mused. Of course, everything depended on how widespread the worms were. That was one of the questions he’d have to put to the tame professor he was expecting, but ever since the first transmission there’d been an endless stream of calls, many of them protests — Mary handled those — but quite a few from people who claimed similar experiences.
Birmingham, Liverpool, Plymouth, Worcester, Bath… He flicked through the typed list.
A man from Isleworth complained his dog’s nose had been nipped in the River Crane.
A woman teacher might have seen them in the mud of the Avon Gorge beneath Clifton suspension bridge.
A girl student reported she’d been bitten on her left breast while bathing nude in the Cam at Grantchester and was willing to show viewers the scar if the fee was right. Yet all of these had been small worms, none longer than about four inches. Only one man asserted he’d stumbled across really big ones. Giant buggers like the bloody Loch Ness monster, the girl taking the calls had typed primly. She’d added a note of her own: Speech slurred; probably sees pink elephants too.