John Halkin - Blood Worm

It was one of those desolate London days when the light was grey and the blackened leafless trees seemed to claw at the sky. By the calendar, winter was already over though as yet there was no hint of spring in the air.

Grumbling to himself, his bones chilled to the marrow, the tramp picked his way through the rubble strewn over the short rump of road leading to the old school. On either side the houses were boarded up and empty. Every couple of yards he stopped to get his second wind. Not the man he used to be, he wasn’t. Who would recognise him now?

For a start he had too much kit with him, stuffed into old shopping bags which he had to lug around everywhere, growing heavier with every step. He hadn’t the strength to go any faster, not like the days in Burma when he’d led his platoon through the jungle for three months before those jap planes had machine-gunned the lifeblood out of them. All but three. No, he hadn’t the strength now.

He crossed the school playground, all pitted and broken, then tugged back the corrugated metal sheeting from the doorway, at any rate far enough to allow him to squeeze in. Like having a front door of his own again; once inside he could pull it back into place, shut out the world, be private. He liked that. Approved of it. Though why they wanted to let a good school go to ruin he couldn’t understand. Seemed a waste. Put up in the days when they knew how to build. Solid, old-fashioned workmanship; none of your modem tat.

The beetles emerged to greet him as he went into his usual classroom, and his heart warmed at the sight of them. Like little jewels they were, their heads a deep, rich green and their bodies hard pink, though with green and yellow patches.

‘Hello, my beauties! Glad to see me back, are ye? Turned out on parade to welcome your oP tramp, all present an’ correct?’

For a moment the beetles were absolutely still, about two dozen of them spread out in a loose grouping over the floorboards; then, as if moved by a sudden wave of recognition, they began to scurry about his feet, and more came out of the woodwork to join them.

‘All present an’ correct, are we?’ he repeated contentedly. ‘Like to see that.’

Setting his kit down, he made himself comfortable on the low wooden platform in front of the blackboard, where the teacher must have stood in the old days, ready to whack any young lout with his pointer.

‘You’d not be around then,’ he told the beetles as he groped into his carrier bag to see what food the woman at the Plough had given him this time. A few weeks ago she’d caught him going through the dustbins at the back, hoping for some stale bread rolls and maybe a bit of ham; since then she’d always put a bit out for him, properly wrapped too. ‘No, that’d be before your time,’ he went on, investigating the plastic bag. ‘In them days they’d have put powder down to destroy you. Caretakers! Vicious buggers, caretakers!’

He grunted in surprise. With the end of a packet of sliced bread he found an unopened tin of sardines. Never been touched. Must have a soft spot for him, that woman.

‘Must have a soft spot,’ he said aloud.

The beetles were gathering closer to him, their gem-like bodies gleaming in the weak light, the claw-like antlers growing out of their heads warning their enemies to stay well clear. That was what he liked about them: no one could ever mess them about. Same as he’d been in his day. He’d walked alone. Most men had known better than to try tangling with him.

‘Like an’ like, we are,’ he grunted as he fitted the key over the lip of metal and began turning it to open the sardine tin. Drops of olive oil dripped on to his fingers and he licked them. ‘Like an’ like!’

It was the sound of his voice that attracted them, he guessed; same way he’d talked to the geckos out East; spiders, too, come to that. Anything that crawled; anything that didn’t give a damn. Scorpions, that young python he’d discovered in the monsoon drain outside his billet, hornets, a cobra.. Fellow feeling, they used to say in the sergeants’ mess. Stupid bastards who knew nothing.

‘Urgh… fuck!’

The edge of the peeling tin lid caught the loose skin between his thumb and his hand, slicing sharply into it. Instinctively his grasp loosened, but he grabbed the tin again as it slipped from his fingers, which resulted in a jagged cut across his palm. The blood welled up. He stared, cursing, as it flowed over the deep lines and ridges before dripping to the floor.

Even at that point he didn’t realise the significance of what was happening. He felt in his pocket for a handkerchief — no better really than a dirty snot-rag — to wrap round the wound, not aware of how the beetles were reacting.

First one.. then another.. and a third… all gathering where the blood on the floorboards was still thick and wet…

He could sense one on his foot and glanced quickly down in time to see a generous dollop of his own deep red blood fall directly on its head. In a flash three other beetles had joined it and were busy ripping it to pieces with their sharp claws.

‘Bloody hell, not your own kind!’ he exclaimed, shocked and fascinated at the sight. ‘Didn’t know you buggers did that sort o’ thing!’

Deliberately he held out his hand to let more of his blood drip on to the beetles, chuckling as he observed the effect it was having. A real free-for-all, with beetles crawling over each other, tearing each other apart.

Then the claws penetrated his tom sock, nipping into his ankle; razor-sharp, the way he’d liked to hone his commando knife. He stared down at his foot but it was no longer visible under that mass of green and pink beetles.

‘Gerroff, will yer! Gerroff!’

He tried to shake them off but they were already hooked into his skin; some were climbing his trouser leg, biting into the soft calf-flesh.

‘Ob, bloody hell!’’

Bending down, he slapped at his leg in an attempt to squash them; he succeeded only in covering himself with more blood. It was soaking into his clothes, attracting yet more beetles. They scrambled over him so rapidly, he’d no chance of brushing them off.

By now he was standing up, backing away towards the door, ordering himself to stay cool, to fight down that terrible panic which was arising within him. He had to escape… had to get out… back to the corrugated iron over the door.. squeeze through the gap…

But the classroom held him prisoner. He felt for the door but couldn’t find it. There was only a blank wail, and the fearful knowledge that they were in the room with him.

They were flying at him, those beetles, and landing on his coat… his collar… his face.. Eating into his hand — no, both hands! Penetrating his shirt, exploring up his sleeves, down his neck, and everywhere cutting him with those sharp claws.

‘No door in this room.’ His voice? Scared? ‘No bloody way out. Prisoner. Jap bastards won’t take me prisoner. Rather die. Rather fuckin’ die first. D’ye bear me?'

On his knees now. Jap officer’s sword out. Could see the sun on the blade. All right, you bastard, why don’t you use it? Get it over with? Oh, Jesus, he was using the point. Probing the soft skin of the belly. Cutting bit by bit. Probing. Penetrating.

No, not a sword now. They’d tied him down over sharpened bamboo, smothered him with honey to let the ants feed… the driver ants… he could feel them inside him.. moving about beneath his skin.. Oh, shit that hurts!

The wetness was his own blood seeping out, and the crawling movement — his mind cleared momentarily — came not from jungle ants but from those merciless beetles. He realised he had slumped forward on the floorboards, squirming in agony and then, with a sudden spasm, rolled over on to his back, where he lay spread-eagled, a sacrifice to them.