Two boys stood by his car, admiring it. He murmured a faint ‘Excuse me’ as he pushed between them to open the door and drop into the driving seat. Before pulling away from the kerb he let them hear a burst from the purring engine, just to whet their appetites.
The main road was jammed solid with traffic, though the police were keeping one lane clear for the ambulances whose sirens screamed urgently as they approached. Impatiently, Aubrey turned into another residential street, roared down it as far as the intersection, and took the next road on the right. At one time he’d had a flat round these parts and he still remembered the short cuts.
Back at Television Hall he checked on the latest situation report. Three of the Oxford crew had died, as well as the man who’d jumped in to rescue them. Of the others, two were badly injured. They’d all been taken to hospital and a bulletin would be issued shortly. Farther up-river at Richmond a boy angler had been attacked on the river bank; passers-by had gone to his aid and killed the worm, but the boy was dead by the time the ambulance arrived.
Other reports of incidents involving worms were coming in from several different parts of the country. A Cambidge undergraduate had taken his girl-friend for an outing in a punt; she’d trailed her hand in the water and it had been bitten off. An actress at the Shakespeare Memorial Theatre at Stratford had decided on an early morning dip in the Avon; her chewed-up remains were discovered two hours later drifting by the river bank. Two families living on houseboats on a canal near Droitwich had found they’d unintentionally caught some worms when they’d filled their buckets with water for washing-up. Both suffered minor injuries — bitten hands, arms and legs. One of the women lost a thumb.
The worst-hit area was the seaside town of Westport. According to the news telex, it had suffered ‘a plague of worms’ during the past twenty-four hours and the casualties included several dead as well as many in hospital. The people of the town had organized worm-hunting patrols to try to exterminate the menace, but they’d discovered such large concentrations of worms they had given up. The authorities had just announced the town was to be evacuated.
Westport…
Thinking it over, Aubrey remembered vaguely that Matt Parker had gone to live there. Or somewhere with a similar name. Maybe he’d have some film…
He rang Al Wilson, Head of News, who told him a news team was already on its way to Westport.
‘But that’s not the only seaside place,’ he added grimly. ‘It’s the worst so far, but God knows what tonight will bring. They’ve been seen in practically every part of the country — Scarborough, St Andrews, Chichester, Newton Ferrers, St Ives, Polperro, Blackpool, Morecambe, Troon … you name it! Since the Boat Race the lines have been jammed with calls. Every two-bit journalist in the country thinking his story’s the only one. We’re trying to get a statement out of the Home Office, but they’ve clammed up on us. Won’t even tell us where the Minister’s spending the week-end. As for the Ministry of Agriculture, they’ve closed shop till Monday.’
‘You’d better keep me in touch,’ Aubrey said, and gave him the address where he’d be staying for the night. ‘Carole’s engagement party. I promised to be there.’
‘Carole?’
‘My secretary. They’re making an honest woman of her.’
‘Must be a brave man,’ Al commented. ‘Like marrying an iceberg.’
‘All fire underneath, I can assure you,’ Aubrey smirked, and added: ‘You’ll not forget to get in touch if there’s anything important?’
Tall, slender Carole, daughter of a retired major-general with a hush-hush background in military intelligence, had become — or rather, was to become that evening — engaged to a muscular, rugger-playing investment-trust manager with talent for making money. He had an impeccable background, of course; no doubt he’d end up in the House of Lords one day, if he didn’t kill himself hang-gliding or skin-diving first.
The engagement party was to be at her uncle’s place in Kent. Aubrey went to his flat in Chelsea to change into evening clothes before driving down there. He chose his dark blue dinner suit with a pale frilled shirt. If anything, he told himself as he checked his appearance in the mirror, he felt flattered that she’d asked him. Their relationship had been … ambiguous. But not without its moments. From time to time. She was one of those girls who administer their private lives with the same cool efficiency as they run the office.
She’d given him precise instructions on how to reach The Priory and he followed them implicitly. As he pulled up on the drive she came down the wide steps towards him and pointed out where he was to park. Her evening dress was a long sheath of olive green, and she looked elegant in it.
The sound of laughter and conversation filled the house. Aubrey murmured something complimentary, pressed her hand, kissed her cheek, and then she opened the double doors and led him into the main room to introduce him around. Clearly he was one of the last of the expected guests to arrive. Eyes turned towards him and looked puzzled till someone — maybe it was the Fiancé — mentioned the word ‘television’. Recognition. Questions, which he answered suavely as usual, sipping his gin.
A voice said, ‘The Boat Race.’ A shock-wave surged through the room. More questions — he’d been there, hadn’t he? Wasn’t it terrifying? But what were these creatures? Was anyone safe from them? And those poor men in the boat, what must their families be going through? But what was the Government thinking of, letting these things live in the rivers? They’d been seen in other places too, hadn’t they? It wasn’t safe any more to go skin-diving, or water-skiing, or anything.
Carole allowed the topic full rein before intervening. She managed her parties as she managed everything else in her life. Taking Aubrey’s hand and drawing him out of the circle of people surrounding him, she announced: ‘There’s someone I want you to meet. Her name’s Lady Cynthia, and I invited her specially for you.’
‘I’d not put it past you.’ He imagined a dowager aunt who needed to be flattered. ‘One of your family?’
Carole smiled her usual superior smile but didn’t answer. She took him to the far end of the room. ‘There she is, by the fireplace. Lady Cynthia. She’s longing to meet you.’
She was in her early twenties, short in comparison with Carole, and deeply sun-tanned. Her face was puckish and lovely; her eyes wrinkled as she smiled, holding out her hand to take his. Although her long, auburn hair had been elaborately arranged for the evening, it looked as though it should really be floating freely over her brown shoulders. She wore a flimsy dress which barely concealed her nipples.
‘She’s just back from the Bahamas, lucky thing!’ Carole was saying. ‘I’ll leave you two together.’
Aubrey stammered a few polite remarks, lost for words. So this is what Carole had planned for him — a consolation prize! Lady Cynthia seemed to be laughing at his embarrassment.
‘Oh, drop the “Lady”, please!’ she told him. ‘That’s just Carole’s joke.’
‘Not genuine?’
‘Yes, it’s genuine okay, but I don’t like people calling me that.’
‘You’re an actress,’ he guessed. She had the starlet look about her. Topless in St Tropez.
‘Research student. I’m doing a doctorate at Edinburgh. In mediaeval history.’
‘Dressed like that?’
Carole had arranged that they sat next to each other at dinner. They pretended to be surprised when they saw the place cards, laughed, sat down, and continued the conversation. From time to time he became aware that the Fiancé was looking pointedly in his direction, but he ignored him. Whatever Carole was up to, for once Aubrey didn’t mind. When the time came for the announcement of the engagement and the toasts, Cynthia was telling him about the dissolution of the monasteries and he was listening intently. What was more, she hadn’t once asked him how she could get into television; that was refreshing.