John Halkin - Slither

‘Now make a dash for the boat!’ he shouted at Rhys as he transferred his stick to his right hand. ‘Keep over to the right by those boxes. Move!’

‘But’ Rhys started to argue. A large worm slid rapidly towards him at that moment and reared up to strike at his thigh.

‘Go!’ Matt pushed him, bringing his stick down on the worm’s head at the same time.

Rhys forgot all his theories and sprinted for the boat. Something was happening on board but Matt was too busy to watch. Out of the corner of his eye he saw one of the ratings had jumped on to the quayside to help Rhys aboard. It seemed to take ages, but what was the difficulty?

The worms were coming at him from three sides now. Viciously he hit out at them, cursing and yelling. As he killed each one others began to devour it. Somehow he’d have to edge his way round towards the point where he could start running.

Then came a burst of automatic rifle fire from the rating on the quayside. Chips of stone flew up where the bullets hit.

‘That’s no use!’ Matt cried out to him, but his words were drowned by another burst of firing.

One bullet found its mark. One only. The rating would have done better with a stick in his hands. The other worms changed direction and sped over the stones towards him. Matt shouted a warning but he was too late. His shots went wide, breaking a window, as the worms fastened their teeth into his legs and hands.

By the time Matt reached him the rating had fallen to his knees. A four-foot worm was on the point of biting into his neck when Matt’s stick dashed its brains out. Another rating jumped ashore and together they got the wounded man on board. He was groaning incoherently. At least three worms were still feeding on him.

With his gloved hand Matt seized the nearest by the neck, forced its jaws apart and tossed it into the sea as the boat pulled away from the quayside, gathering speed. Rhys and the lieutenant helped with the other two. A fourth, which had been clinging to Matt’s own clothes, dropped to the deck. He stamped on it.

‘I’ll not feel safe on board this boat again,’ said the bearded lieutenant when they’d killed all they could find. He ordered a search in case they’d missed one.

‘They didn’t seem to bite you,’ observed Rhys wonderingly.

Matt looked down at his legs. His trousers had been torn to rags by their teeth but the composition rubber of the frogman suit beneath was still whole.

‘It worked this time,’ he agreed doubtfully, ‘but sooner or later they’ll chew through it. They learn from experience.’

The meeting next day took place in a high panelled room decorated with dark oil paintings in ornate frames. About twelve people were there, the civil servants both male and female dressed in nondescript suits, the academics ranging from sweaters and denim at one extreme to Professor Jones’s nineteen-fifties sports jacket with leather elbow-patches at the other.

Matt was left to cool his heels outside for the first hour and when eventually they called him in he was given a place at the foot of the table. But they listened attentively enough as he described his various encounters with the worms and his observations on their living habits.

‘But you found no females?’ Professor Jones demanded confirmation. ‘You regard yourself as competent to make such a positive statement?’

‘Of course he is!’ Rhys objected in a loud voice. ‘Taught him myself.’

‘Nevertheless, he’s hardly qualified…’

A heated argument developed between the two men during which Rhys accused the Professor of being less a zoologist than a mortician.

‘God’s creatures live and move and have their being,’ he declared hotly. ‘We can learn more from watching them in nature — as Matt has done — than on a dissecting table. I’ll tell you why we’ve seen no females. Sewer worms reproduce in the sea, probably in the depths of the ocean. They reach the estuaries, develop lungs — the old tadpole-frog pattern — swim into the rivers and streams, into the drains and sewers… Now d’you understand?’

Unexpectedly, Professor Jones shot out a question at Matt. ‘Do you understand, Mr Parker?’ he asked. ‘From what you’ve seen of them?’

Matt thought for a moment before he replied. ‘What about salmon?’ The idea had occurred to him several times over the past months. ‘They spawn in the upper reaches of rivers, the quiet waters, then swim downstream to the ocean, getting bigger all the time, till in due course they reverse the process and swim upstream again to lay eggs for the new generation.’

‘I don’t see the parallel,’ Rhys announced stubbornly.

‘Nor do I,’ said the Professor drily. ‘Rhys’s theory is consistent with the behaviour of eels, but yours…’ He shrugged.

‘It would explain the big variation in size,’ Matt ventured, feeling out of his depth. ‘Of course I’m no expert.’

‘Quite.’

Two or three of the other academics took up the concept and argued about it for the next quarter of an hour or so till a woman civil servant, whose name Matt hadn’t grasped, turned to him and said: ‘D’you know where to find these spawning grounds?’

‘I think so,’ Matt answered cautiously.

‘You may be wrong,’ she told him kindly, ‘but we should follow up every lead. I’ll see to it arrangements are made for you to go there.’

Rain spattered against the windscreen as Matt swung over into the fast lane of the motorway and pressed his foot down hard. The old Landrover supplied by the Ministry of Agriculture still had a good turn of speed. Fran sat next to him, silent, not even looking out.

‘I managed to contact Angus,’ he said. ‘I was worried about him, but he’s quite safe.’

‘Are any of us?’ she remarked gloomily.

The radio played a diet of light music interspersed with hints on how to make your drains worm-proof. According to one news flash, several wealthy families living near the Thames were offering to pay luxury rents for council flats in high-rise blocks. In the past forty-eight hours the prices of Welsh mountain-side cottages had tripled.

Matt hardly listened. He was leaning slightly forward as he drove, keeping his eyes on the road and wondering what he should do about Jenny. He’d phoned again that morning and asked to speak to her. Point-blank refusal.

‘I’m coming down to see her,’ he’d said.

‘Matt…’ As Helen’s older sister, Sue clearly felt she held a position of authority. ‘It’s not that I don’t want you to see her, but… Well, you know what’s upset her, don’t you? It’s not only Helen and the way she died, it’s…’ She hesitated. ‘Do I need to spell it out?’

‘She’s got the wrong end of the stick.’ Matt had tried to justify himself. ‘It was business. We’d spent the evening with our American associate, arguing the details of a contract. When Jenny rang we’d only just got back. Naturally we’d a couple of points to talk over but…’

His voice tailed away. Though Sue had made no comment he could sense her disbelief. Helen had once told him he was the world’s worst liar. She’d been right.

‘She’s very hurt,’ said Sue. ‘Upset about Helen, but hurt too. I don’t know if she’ll see you. I’m not going to force her if she doesn’t want to.’

‘She might at least give me a chance,’ Matt had replied, unable to disguise the bitterness and pain. He’d rushed on: ‘What about the worms? Are you all right?’

‘We’ve still not seen any round here. We keep her in the house, of course. It’d be stupid to let her play outside, but no one in the village has come across them yet, not even the farmers. They seemed to be mainly on the coast.’ She’d sighed, worried. ‘Matt, remember she’s only a child. I realize how much you need her, but… well, she has needs too.’