John Halkin - Slither

‘Newsroom was interested,’ Matt defended himself.

‘Haven’t used the film though, have they?’

‘That big earthquake story knocked everything else off the screen.’

Jimmy shook his head. ‘It’s the worms, Matt. And your reputation. If only you could forget those bloody worms.’ He rummaged among the papers on his desk and fished out a green form. ‘Here. Your annual report. No doubt you’d like to see it before I send it off.’

Matt glanced over it quickly. The accident in the sewers … three months in hospital … not quite readjusted after his unfortunate…

‘Maybe you should’ve had more leave,’ Jimmy was apologizing even as he read it. ‘But you’d been passed as fit by the doctors, we were very short-handed, and… We acted for the best.’

‘Has the Managing Director seen it?’

‘ Acting Managing Director,’ Jimmy corrected him. ‘No.’ He paused, fumbling for a third cigarette to cover his embarrassment. ‘Look, Matt, don’t take this the wrong way. These reports they’re routine, intended to help you… We think very highly of your work, you know that.’

This conversation didn’t exactly leave him in the right mood to sell his great idea for a documentary to Aubrey Morgan, Controller of Programmes, Acting Managing Director, and Lord God Almighty in Television Hall. But it was the only chance he’d be given, so he’d have to make the best of it. He’d thought it over often enough, worked out one or two gimmicks to help it along… Such as suggesting Aubrey himself as presenter. Flattery wins empires.

The carpeted, curving corridors of power were in a part of Television Hall he’d seldom penetrated before. The atmosphere was hushed, as in some private mortuary. Maybe this was how they disposed of unwanted staff, he speculated gloomily. Discreet, taped organ music, a noiseless exit through sliding doors, a quick moment of intense heat, and all would be over. That split second of fierce desire as the flames licked his body…

Or as worms cut into it with sharp little teeth — was that to be his destiny?

He’d be tumbled naked into an oval pit filled with sewer worms while all the Heads of Department looked on from the safety of an observation gallery, jotting down notes for their reports. Not quite readjusted… hardly up to the requirements of the job… could do better…

‘Mr Parker?’ A voice like icicles. ‘You can go in now.’

The secretary was tall and slim, a fashion-plate. She crossed gracefully to the interconnecting door and held it open for him, smiling as he passed — but with her lips only; her eyes remained indifferent.

‘Ah, you’re Matt Parker! I’m so glad to meet you at last. Do come in!’

The moment he saw him, Matt realized he’d met Aubrey Morgan before. A young director he’d been in those days, straight out of university and sporting patched denim jackets, not the lemon-coloured jet-set sweater he was wearing now. They’d both been starting out at the same time, Matt as a camera assistant, shy and awkward, making more mistakes than most. He wondered whether he should mention it, but decided against.

‘I’d hoped we could manage a chat long before this.’ The expression on Aubrey’s face changed as he realized Matt’s hand was mutilated; he released it hurriedly. ‘But you’ve been on location and I’ve two jobs these days, my own plus the Managing Director’s. You heard about her little mishap? Oh, do sit down.’

‘The worms?’ Matt lowered himself into a mock-leather armchair.

‘In a chocolate box!’ Aubrey tutted. ‘Of course, the shop wasn’t responsible. The police checked on that. No one ever discovered who sent them. Now they tell me you want to do a documentary?’

‘Yes, I—’

Aubrey stopped him. ‘You’ve certainly plenty of experience of worms. Even this week, I’m told. In fact, they’ve become quite a hobby with you, haven’t they?’

Say it, man, thought Matt. Say it — obsession !

‘And I know exactly how you feel. Handled them myself, you know, when they attacked Mary. Had to pull them off her, squeeze the life out of them before they’d release her, feel their skulls crack between my fingers…’

‘You noticed their eyes?’

‘A sobering experience. I began having nightmares about them afterwards. For weeks. You too?’

Matt nodded.

‘Not surprising. Come and look at this.’

He took Matt across to a map displayed on the far wall of the office. On it were a couple of dozen tiny coloured pins.

‘The distribution of the worms, based on reports which have come in to us since you were attacked. Quite a number at first, though they’ve tailed off a bit. Mostly small ones — they’re the blue pins. The larger worms are red.’

‘They’re all over the country!’ Matt examined the map eagerly. Seeing the places marked like this really drove it home how widespread they must be. ‘East Anglia has quite a bunch … fewer in Yorkshire … and fewer still in the big towns.’

‘Fewer reports,’ Aubrey corrected him. ‘There must be thousands of places where people have either not yet noticed them, or not bothered to write in.’

‘Who’s working on it?’ Matt asked, trying not to betray his disappointment.

‘Working on—?’

‘The documentary.’

‘There’s to be no documentary,’ Aubrey told him blandly. ‘Board of directors won’t wear it, not after that affair with Mary. It wouldn’t be in good taste. Drink? Scotch?’

‘But you can’t waste all that material!’ Matt burst out. ‘And what about the public? Shouldn’t they be told about all this?’ He waved his hand at the map. ‘Those pins … sightings … here, here… here… here…’

‘Small worms, ninety-seven per cent of them.’

‘They grow. Next year most of those pins will be red.’ He took the glass Aubrey was holding out and placed it on the desk untouched. ‘You do realize they’ve some degree of co-ordinating intelligence? We can’t afford not to take them seriously.’

‘You think we’re no longer safe in our beds?’

‘They’re dangerous,’ said Matt. ‘How dangerous I don’t think we know yet.’

‘Matt, when I saw the film of you being attacked in the sewers, my reaction was Oh, Christ, now we’re going to have worms crawling out of every gutter, snapping at our ankles … But that’s the point. It never happened. Nobody’s even died yet.’

‘Those two in the swimming pool?’ Matt objected heatedly. ‘Aren’t they dead?’

‘Drowned. Not killed by worms.’

‘They chewed the man’s balls off. Isn’t that enough?’

‘Have your drink,’ Aubrey replied patiently. ‘Look, don’t think we haven’t looked into this. We brought Professor Jones here, a world-famous herpetologist, who told us the worms are no more dangerous than ferrets. No less, but certainly no more.’

‘Ferrets work on their own. You don’t get a whole battalion coming after you.’ But Matt immediately regretted saying it. That familiar look of understanding had appeared on Aubrey’s face. Humour the man. Don’t forget his terrifying experience in the sewers. Must’ve unhinged him. ‘Could I see the letters?’ he asked in an attempt to cover himself. ‘The reports of worm sightings?’

Aubrey handed him a file from the shelf. ‘They’re all here. Take your time looking through them. I’ve one or two things to do anyway. Just sit there quietly and have a read.’

He sat in the armchair with the file on his knee. They were mostly letters, though some were notes of telephone conversations. A nip here, a nip there — no major attack — often no more than a report that someone thought he’d seen one but wasn’t sure. One letter, though, was more interesting than the others. He read it twice, then — Aubrey was in the outer office — slipped it out of the file and into his pocket. When Aubrey returned he was finishing his drink.