Blood Worm

11

News of the night’s events was headlined across the front pages of all the high-circulation dailies. Supping her breakfast coffee, Mary spread them out over the table. She had been right to assume that Tessa Brownley must have her contacts in Fleet Street; in fact, the Chronicle — which printed the most accurate account — even gave her a byline.

Naturally they concentrated on the human stories such as the OAPs’ coach crash and the disco, including interviews with a few of the survivors and some uninformative photographs. The Worth Hall incident was mentioned only briefly, as were several others. Altogether there had been twenty attacks reported before the newspapers had ‘gone to bed’ and she knew from what Evan had told her that the full story was even more horrifying.

The main inconsistency between the various accounts related to the insects themselves. One blamed ‘a new breed of beetle’ but made no mention of either worms or snakes; another considered the main threat to have been snakes which had escaped from London Zoo, or from a dealer. Only the Chronicle carried anything approximating to a full account of both beetles and what it described as ‘bloodworms’, and that was probably Tessa’s doing.

But they all agreed that casualty figures were high, estimating at least a hundred dead and many more injured. With those figures, her borough committee would at last be forced to take action, Mary thought. Any dithering about cost and they’d have every journalist in the country at their heels.

Pouring herself more coffee, she glanced at the clock and wondered what was happening about developing her film. The department’s dark room was in Worth Hall, what was left of it, but Evan had promised to help her out. She had already telephoned the police station once before slipping out for the papers, but they had told her he wasn’t in yet.

Ten minutes, she thought. She’d give it ten minutes and then ring again. Those pictures were vital.

Guy Archer learned nothing of the latest beetle attacks until he also was having breakfast that morning.

After his drink with Lise the previous evening, he had returned home to find that Dorothea was still not back. Of course everything was just as he’d left it, the same mess — boards up, skirting pulled away from the wall, the contents of the kitchen cupboards piled up on the table, and the pesticide spray lying where anyone could stumble over it.

He did stumble over it; cursing, he kicked it aside and went into the hall to try the answering machine. Someone had called — Brian again, oozing darling and sweetie all over the tape. It got under his skin; he felt like ripping out the lead and smashing the gadget against the floor.

Then followed a gap, another peep of tone, and Dorothea’s voice.

‘Guy, love, there’s a hell of a rush on here so they’re keeping me late, maybe till midnight or after, so don’t stay up. They’ve promised to lay on a taxi to get me home and they’re paying me double, so everything’s OK.’ A pause, as if it was all she wanted to say. Then: ‘Oh, and PS — hope you can find something to eat in the fridge. Can’t remember what we’ve got, if anything, but you can always go out for a fried chicken. Bye now!’

Her message left him feeling disgruntled. It was possibly all lies, he thought sourly; she could be out with a boy friend, though he doubted it. Deception wasn’t her style. If he knew Dorothea, she’d blurt out that kind of information just to enjoy the effect it had.

He mooched disconsolately about the house. With Dorothea and Kath both out, this was the best time to carry on with the spraying, if he could bring himself to do it. It had to be done some time, that was certain, and the sooner the better.

Not tonight, though, he decided. He was too restless to stay in. Rummaging in the sideboard, he found a sheet of paper and scribbled a note for Dorothea to say he was working late in his office and she should ring him there if she got home first. As an afterthought he added a brief apology for leaving the house in a mess and said he’d explain about the beetles later. Oh, and Kath’s staying with Susi tonight. I said she could. Love — G.

Naturally, she did not ring him at the office. He worked till two o’clock, got through the backlog, then gathered up the foil trays from the takeaway Indian curry he’d bought for his supper and went down to his car again, dropping the trays into a waste-bin on the way. The drive home was uneventful, though he noticed there were more police cars about than usual and quite a few ambulances. There had also been a fire at the Station Inn, which was a sordid beer-house opposite the tube, but he didn’t stop to gawp. Perhaps Dorothea was still out, he was thinking uneasily. That wouldn’t matter, not in itself, except that recently she’d been giving the impression she resented being married at all. It left him feeling uncertain.

‘Fuck!’ he swore at himself impatiendy as he drove past the Plough, now closed and dark save for one light burning on an upper floor. ‘Need sleep, that's all. Going off my head.’

But the moment he opened the front door he knew Dorothea was home. Her coat was slung over the bannister and the note he’d propped up by the telephone had gone. Going upstairs he found her in bed, already asleep, but she opened her eyes when he went into the room.

‘ ’Bout rime you came back,’ she muttered, turning over and pulling the bedclothes over her head. ‘Goo’-night.’

No word about the damage he’d caused to her paintwork in the front room, nor the chaos in the kitchen; but he’d tel! her all that in the morning, he thought.

He slept deeply and for once without dreams, either of beetles or anything else. It was eight o’clock before he woke up, and when he went downstairs he could already smell the coffee. She had cleared a space on the kitchen table for bis breakfast and was offering to fry egg and bacon.

‘I’ll make myself some toast,’ he began, but she gave one of those rich laughs which were a sign that she was in a good mood.

‘Accept it while the offer’s still good!’ she advised expansively. ‘I’m making some for myself anyway.’ ‘You’re not going to work today?’

‘No need! You’d not believe it, Guy. There were three of us in that office slogging away till past midnight just to get the Lord God Managing Director off to Frankfurt this morning. Well, he’s on the plane now, and you should see the money I’m getting. It’ll pay for the carpets.’

‘Ah well, talking about the house…’ He started to recount that whole business of yesterday afternoon. ‘Only two streets away from here… a whole row of houses infested…’

‘Guy,’ she said softly, putting her arm around him. ‘I’m the one who should apologise for not believing you earlier. I saw the fire engines last night, and the ambulances. Oh, I’m a thoughtless person really, aren’t I, standing here laughing when all those people are dead!’ ‘Which people? What about last night?’ he asked, bewildered.

i thought you knew. You mean you don’t know? But there was a message for you on the answering machine from this Mary Armstrong, if that’s her name. You didn’t hear it?’

‘Obviously not.’

‘Here, I bought a paper when I went out for the bacon and milk. See for yourself. Front page.’

KILLER BEETLES ON LONDON RAMPAGE, he saw in heavy block capitals. MANY DEAD. Then, in smaller type, came the sting: MYSTERY SNAKES’ LINK WITH BEETLE ATTACKS FEARED. The details made horrifying reading. Worth Hall… the crowded disco with all those young people killed… the coach crash… even the fire at the Station Inn had been started by beetles setting upon one of the barmaids while she was having a quiet smoke in the back. Near the foot of the page the deaths of Hazel and Jim Roberts were given a paragraph to themselves, and another sentence briefly mentioned Tony’s misadventure with the woodworm — or bloodworm, as the paper preferred to call it.

Guy glanced back to the top of the page to see who had been responsible for that. Tessa Brownley — he might have guessed!

i’ll have to get on with the spraying,’ he said, putting the paper down. ‘You and Kath should go down to your sister’s till this blows over.’

‘And leave you?’ she retorted from the cooker. She broke a couple of eggs into the frying pan. ‘Guy, you don’t realise the truth about yourself. You might be in your element playing war games with your computers, but when it comes to doing things about the house, you don’t even know where to start.’

‘I made a beginning yesterday,’ he defended himself mildly.

‘Sure!’ came her sceptical comment. ‘I’m not blaming you. You try. But it’s not the same as growing up with it, is it? We all had to help as kids, and what with my dad being a decorator by trade.. Guy, you leave the spraying to me. I’ll organise a couple of people to come in and make a thorough job of it.’

‘You should get out of London. I’d be happier.’

‘Well, I wouldn’t! D’you want one egg or two?’

‘After what’s happened I’m not sure I’ve got the appetite for a big breakfast.’

‘One then. If this goes on, it may be the last real meal we’ll get for some time. So eat it up, love, then get off to your office. I’m sure you’ve plenty to do there.’

It was certainly the first meal she’d cooked for several days, he thought, though he refrained from saying it. When they married after those mad days in Cyprus, cooking hadn’t been any part of the bargain. Bed, yes — their field trials in that department had been exciting and thorough; general compatibility — a high rating, particularly their sense of humour; but cooking? Well, the subject never cafne up. With their favourite tavema only five miles from the camp there’d been no need.

He took a piece of bread and wiped his plate, savouring the traces of tomato ketchup. ‘Maybe you’re right, love,’ he admitted reluctantly. ‘But if you can’t get anyone to help with the spraying today, I’ll come home myself and carry on with it.’

‘Don’t worry,’ she said. ‘It’ll be done.’

‘What about Kath?’

‘I rang Susi’s mum before you came down. She’s taking them to school and I’ll be fetching them this afternoon. She’s in a bit of a state, as you might imagine. They can see the roof of Worth Hall over the tops of the trees from their flat. But Kath and Susi don’t seem bothered at all. 1 couldn’t get anything out of Kath but ballet, ballet, ballet… And they had that music tape going on in the background again, so they must have been at it even before breakfast.

Guy drank a last cup of coffee. At least, he thought, he had made one correct decision in this business when he had gone to the school to confiscate the two beetles Lise had been keeping as pets for her class. Whether they proved to be the same kind or not, he was convinced the children were safer without them. And Lise herself, come to that,

‘I’d better go then,’ he said, standing up. ‘There is a hell of a lot to do, and we’ve just landed a new order.’ ’

‘Oh.. good…’ Dorothea said vaguely.

‘Man called Rawnsley. Had lunch with him yesterday.’

But she was not really interested.

‘Promise you’ll call me if there’s any problem about the spraying,’ he insisted once again before he left.

‘It’ll be OK,’ she repeated. ‘Don’t fret, Guy, love. Trust me.’

He’d take a look at Worth Hall on his way to the office, he decided. Though by now he knew only too well what the beetles could do, he still found it hard to accept they caused that amount of damage to a building which was in constant use and subject to regular maintenance. Surely someone must have checked for woodworm? On the other hand — he thought of the workshop — there was at least some evidence that this new breed could tunnel far more rapidly than the usual timber pests.

Then, too, how could anyone explain their hunger for human biood? He’d found a moment to browse through the book on beetles that he’d bought, and gained the impression that most of those listed confined themselves to a single type of food, laying their eggs where it was most plentiful and so on. It would be understandable if the new breed were exclusively wood-borers — but carnivores as well? Was that possible?

What about the snakes, too? You’d expect reptiles to feed on insects, not ally themselves to them, he thought. But were they really reptiles at all, or was he right about them being some kind of worm? And if so, what kind?

Worth Hall, he found, had been closed to the public. Across the entrance to the driveway was a barrier, where a policewoman waved him down, signalling him to turn the car round and return to the road. He leaned out and asked how he could get to the Public Health Department. ‘Can’t you use your eyes?’ she responded brusquely. ‘They must have setup a temporary office somewhere. All I want to know is how to contact them.’

‘I’ve already told you once to move on, sir. You’re causing an obstruction.’

‘OK, have it your own way!’ He engaged reverse, twisting around in his seat as he turned the car. Before driving off he tried calling out one more question. ‘Do they still have a phone number? An emergency number?’ No reply came from her. She took up a position by the barrier, pointedly pretending not to see him. Face neutral. Unsmiling.

Around Worth Hall itself very little activity was visible. The fire brigade had two hydraulic platforms — they looked like giant insects themselves — extended above the bare skeleton of the roof. Those manning them appeared to be only observing the ruin, nothing more. On the ground, the police and firemen seemed to be keeping well back from the building.

As Guy paused to take it all in, the policewoman bore down on him again, obviously about to breathe fire. Best to avoid trouble, he thought, letting in the clutch and raising his hand in a mock greeting as he drove off.

‘You’ve seen the papers?’ his secretary Sarah demanded when he walked into the office. She had at least three on her desk, all with lurid headlines, and was clearly worried. Her shock of blonde hair and deep blue eyeshadow seemed even more desperate than usual. ‘Those poor people in the disco i And the husband and wife at home in their own kitchen — it’s horrible!’

i was there,’ he informed her, glancing through one of the papers he’d not yet seen.

‘That was the address I looked up for you, wasn’t it?’ She didn’t wait for his answer, but went on: ‘What are they going to do? I mean the borough council or the Government or somebody. They can’t just sit back and let it happen.’

‘We’ve all got to do something, everyone of us, though God alone knows how we can really defeat these things. Sarah, I want you to—’ He stopped abruptly. First things first, he thought. No point in getting into a panic and neglecting the obvious. ‘No, I’d like you first to get Mary Armstrong for me on the phone. Worth Hall is out of commission but they’re bound to be using another office somewhere and it may be on the same number. Anyway, try it and see what happens.’

While Sarah was doing this, Guy went through to his own office and began sorting out the papers he needed for his tete-a-tete with the; managing director. She would want his detailed breakdown on the Rawnsley stock-control deal, together with estimated costings. A stickler for the small print, was Mrs May Lee, and one of the keenest computer minds Cambridge had yet produced.

A click, and Sarah’s South London voice came over the intercom, it’s a recorded message. Number temporarily unobtainable.’

‘Helpful,’ he snorted, wondering what people would do in an emergency. But, hell, this was an emergency! ‘Pop in for a sec, will you, Sarah?’

Her blonde head appeared around the door. ‘Yeah?’

‘I want you to go out and buy all the insecticide you can lay your hands on — aerosol and liquid,’ he instructed her, reverting to his original thought. ‘The strongest you can get. Say it’s for beetles. And take somebody with you. If you can get large quantities, pay for it or leave a deposit and say it’ll be collected in an hour or so. I’ll give you some money.’

From his wallet he extracted five twenty-pound notes and handed them over to her. Her eyes lit up as she counted them, rustling the crisp paper beteen her fingers.

‘But get aerosols in any case,’ he told her soberly. ‘I want every girl in this building to have an aerosol insecticide in her handbag.’

‘Only girls?’ she challenged him.

‘Every person,' he corrected himself. ‘Sorry.’

She fetched her raincoat and went.

Mrs May Lee looked up with a smile as he entered her office clutching the file he had prepared. She was one of the founders of the business, had a double first in mathematics, and at first sight appeared no older than twenty-five, though that impression was misleading. Her speech betrayed no trace of a Chinese accent, despite the fact that her family came from Hong Kong and she had — when she removed her glasses — that sort of frail Chinese beauty which made Guy think she ought really be called something like Precious Dream or Lotus Petal.

But then Guy — as both Sarah and Dorothea had informed him more than once — was merely an old-fashioned romantic at heart.

Nothing of the Lotus Petal was present when she went through his figures. Her voice was soft and gentle, her intellect diamond hard. She always succeeded in making him feel he was at school again, handing in his ill-done homework, though in the end she complimented him on landing a fish of Rawnsley’s size.

‘Now, what about those beetles?’ she enquired when they had finished. “This building is mainly steel and concrete, five years did, so is it worth having it checked, d’you think?’

‘My advice is to play safe. Yes, have it checked if we can find a firm to do it. After last night, I imagine they’ll ail be pretty booked up.’

‘That’s what I suspected.’ She got up to accompany him to her orifice door. ‘Before I left Cambridge this morning I fixed up with a local company to make a start today. Inspection and spraying. They’re driving down this afternoon and should be here by four.’

Although he’d been with Mrs May Lee for almost an hour, when he got back to his own office he found that Sarah had still not returned, and another thirty minutes passed before she put in an appearance. No luck, she reported. She’d taken with her a girl called Cynth from the word-processing pool and together they must have visited six or eight different shops, only to find them completely cleaned out of every variety of insecticide, pesticide and anything that could be used against creepy-crawlies, as she called them.

‘It’s no wonder really, after what happened,’ she commented, returning his money to him. ‘So what next?’

He told her that the offices were going to be sprayed and that a memo would be sent to all staff to explain the arrangements, but of course that didn’t ensure their personal safety, nor safeguard their homes.

Reaching for the phone, he called the company in Yorkshire which had been giving him so much trouble earlier in the week and asked its astonished manager to buy up whatever insecticide he could lay his hands on locally and ship it down to him with his next consignment that night.

‘Pack it in plain cartons, will you? Mark them with my name and invoice them to… hold on a mo’…’ He checked in his folder and gave the man his personal reference number. ‘Yes, I know it’s an odd request, but we’re a bit stuck down here and… You’ll do it? Good man! Thought you’d help me out.’

Yorkshire owed him a life, he thought, pleased with himself. He put the receiver down. Sarah stood in the doorway, a cup of coffee in her hand, watching him. ‘Got it!’ he told her. ‘Be here first thing in the morning.’

‘I imagined that was why you were ringing them.’ She sipped her coffee. ‘I didn’t make you a cup because Mrs Lee wants you. She’s got the police with her. You been up to something?’

‘You’d like that, wouldn’t you?’ he teased her. He felt a little more relaxed; things were going his way at last. ‘To see me arrested for some wicked crime?’

‘For murdering beetles,’ she retorted. ‘No, that’s no joke. I don’t think I shall sleep tonight.’

In Mrs May Lee’s office he found a uniformed police inspector, a young lean man with a dark, tired look about his eyes as though he’d had no sleep the previous night. She introduced him as Inspector Ryan from Worth Road.

‘Inspector Ryan has brought a letter from his superintendent requesting our help,’ she added. "Your help, that is. If you agree.’

‘Captain Archer, perhaps I could explain,’ the inspector intervened. It was the first time since leaving the Army, Guy thought, that anyone had addressed him by his rank. ‘In view of the situation regarding these beetles, a small action committee has been established to operate separately from the normal emergency services. As you can imagine, everybody’s rather stretched at the moment, but we’ve seconded Detective-Sergeant Evans to the committee, to work full time. Other members have backgrounds in the Department of the Environment, the borough council and the Department of Public Health. Your name was suggested as someone with the right sort of experience.’

‘It’s a bit unusual, isn’t it, for the police to be organising this sort of thing?’ Guy asked.

‘The borough council is the organising authority for the time being,’ the inspector explained patiently. ‘But with Worth Hall destroyed, we’re providing a room at the police station where the committee can meet. May I take it that you’re willing to help?’

Guy glanced at Mrs May Lee. She nodded.

‘In that case,’ the inspector concluded, extracting a buff envelope from his briefcase, ‘your presence will be expected at twelve noon today, when the first meeting will be held at Worth Road police station. I’m also to give you these documents. Would you mind signing for them, captain?’

When the inspector left, Guy waited behind for a word with Mrs May Lee. After all, the company did pay his salary and she’d have had every right to refuse to release him. But when he raised the subject she cut him short and launched into some worthy statements about the company having an obvious duty towards the community it served. Very Confucian, he thought to himself; she surprised him. Then she spoiled the effect by adding that in working with the police he was bound to discover some areas where there was still room for computerisation.

‘Still free?’ Sarah greeted him cheerfully when he returned to his own office,

‘I wonder,’ he said, and he told her what it was all about.

‘Sounds bad,’ she commented, her face grave. ‘Even worse than in the papers. Guy, I think they’re keeping something secret. Doesn’t it look that way to you? I mean, why else are the fuzz running this committee and not the councillors? Are they taking over, or what?’

By the time he had arrived at Worth Road police station for the action committee’s first meeting, Guy had begun to suspect that Sarah might be right. A WPG in uniform showed him up to a small conference room on the first floor. Its furniture was functional and there were bars over the windows which overlooked the police car park. Detective-Sergeant Evans, in his usual baggy jacket, came forward to welcome him and introduce the others, announcing that the superintendent would be along to say a few words before they settled down to work.

From the seating arrangements it was clear that the detective-sergeant would be chairing the meeting.

Guy took his allotted place near the end of the bare table and glanced through the papers in front of him, which listed the other committee members. Immediately opposite him sat Mary Armstrong, with a mild-looking grey-haired man next to her, whom he took to be her Oxford entomologist friend Derek Owen. Bill Jenkins from the Borough Engineer’s Department and Jane Campbell, a bespectacled, severe-seeming official from the Department of the Environment, had both already been introduced to him. None of them spoke.

Detective-Sergeam Evans cleared his throat. ‘Sorry to keep you all waiting,’ he said. ‘I’m sure the superintendent won’t be too long. I should perhaps explain that this committee, this action committee, has been called into being on the superintendent’s own initiative.’ The door opened and the superintendent appeared. ‘Ah, already hard at it, I see,’ he observed crisply. ‘Good, well I’ll not hold up the proceedings for long,’

A smooth operator, Guy judged, taking an immediate dislike to him; he knew the type well. His uniform was just a shade too smart, fitting him like a Savile Row suit. He was probably a bastard to work for, but obsequious towards anyone ranking higher than himself, the sort of man who rated people according to the degree of influence they might have on his own career.

After a few carefully chosen words of welcome, he went on: ‘We in the police, of course, are very much part of the community. Several of our own officers have been killed by these beetles and the snakes associated with them. We are also responsible for publip order. If things go wrong, we are invariably called out to clear up the mess. That is as it should be.

‘I decided last night that something more is needed than the ordinary emergency services. The borough council is still trying to sort things out after the recent tragic events, so after consultation — and using the powers available to me in a civil defence crisis — I’ve called together this committee. Your task is to stand back from the rescue operations and look at the basic problem. I’m not asking for a long report. What we need are lines of action — rapid and effective.’

With a few more words to rally the troops, he wished them luck and walked briskly out of the room.

‘Thank you, Winston Churchill,’ murmured Bill Jenkins sotto voce.

‘Evan’ Evans obviously heard the remark but chose to ignore it. ‘Right, let’s get started,’ he said in his gentle Welsh manner. ‘First an update on the situation. We’ve had several more incidents since those you’ve read about in the papers. This map shows the locations.’

He removed the covering sheet from a display board at his end of the table to reveal a large-scale map of the borough. On it the blobs of coloured ink were clustered like stars on a cloudless night. The overall effect was even more horrifying than the sight of the front-page headlines had been that morning.

‘Hadn’t realised it was that many.’ It was Bill Jenkins’ voice again, now subdued. ‘Must have heard about most of ’em, but when you see it all together…’

‘Two-thirds of these incidents have been during the past twenty-four hours,’ Evan stated. He referred to a paper in front of him. ‘The known death toll is almost 150 though there may be more. Casualties in hospital — well, at least three times that figure. You’ll notice two things about this map. First, the location of the disused school where Captain Archer here first encountered the inserts.’

He tapped the paper with his pencil. It was dead in the centre. All the other incidents were scattered around it like orbiting planets.

‘Second, I’d like you to take note of the colours. Mostly blue ink, which means only beetles have been reported at that site. But quite a good selection of red all the same, indicating these snakes or worms. Bloodworms, I think is the accepted expression. Captain Archer?’

Guv nodded. ‘Were beetles reported with them in every case?’ he asked.

‘Every single one,’ Evan confirmed. ''Bloodworms have never been seen without beetles in attendance. Not so far, at any rate. Well, that covers the locations. Now, if you don’t mind, we’ll move onto the creatures themselves. Mary, I think it’s time for the slides.’ i have some slides that I took,’ Mary explained briefly, ‘but before I show them to you on the screen I’d like Guy to look at one of them over here.’

On a side table was a glass-topped cabinet of the type used for viewing transparencies. Mary switched on the lamp and placed a single 35mm slide on the illuminated surface, inviting him to examine it. From her handbag she also produced a magnifying glass, but he waved it aside.

i’ve a particular reason for wanting Guy to see it first,’ she said, and her voice sounded tired. Unusually fiat, in fact. ‘Guy, can you tell us what it is? D’you recognise it?’ ‘Of course.’ The maggot itself was very clear across the centre of the frame, though the background was less identifiable, it’s a larva like the one Tony and I dug out of that piece of timber.’

‘You’re sure?

Tm not likely to forget it. I’d say it’s identical.’

‘Right. Thank you, Guy.’ She picked up the slide, then crossed to the projector, which was on a stand at the far side of the room. ‘I’m now going to put the same slide on the screen to let everyone see it. Could somebody turn the lights off, please?’

The lady from the DoE found the switches, while Evan lowered the Venetian blinds over the windows. An exclamation of disgust came from Bill Jenkins as the slide appeared on the screen, enlarged to about four feet high and five wide.

‘No!’ said Guy, his mind refusing to accept what he saw.

It was the same picture, no doubt about that, but now he could identify the background detail. That dark patch was part of a police uniform. Two or three beetles had been crawling over it when the photograph was taken, though slightly out of focus, and a little to one side lay a fallen torch, still switched on. And that meant that the maggot.. the worm…

Oh Christ, no!

She went on showing one picture after the next until he could no longer deny the truth to himself. What he’d thought of as a small larva, a maggot, was in fact a picture of one of the large, snake-like creatures: small or large, they were identical!

‘Well, Guy?’

He nodded, aware that every eye in the room was on him. ‘What d’you expect me to say? They’re the same, aren’t they? Our bloodworm of yesterday morning and the big worms we’ve been calling snakes — there’s no difference, other than size. Has Tony seen these pictures?’

‘I went to the hospital this morning with a pocket slide viewer. He couldn’t believe it.’ Mary collected up the slides and returned them to her box. ‘He’s had a fever, by the way, and they’re running more blood tests. One thing he said: if the big ones are also larvae, what sort of beetles do they produce?’

Her voice betrayed an undisguised tremor of fear. She looked around the. table but no one dared to answer. Probably, Guy thought dully, no one even dared think the unthinkable. Giant beetles of a corresponding size couldn’t possibly exist, could they? Other than in late-night SF movies, which were pure fantasy anyway.

‘What we really need, if you’ll excuse me saying so,’ Mary’s entomologist friend spoke up for the first time, ‘are a few specimens that we can study. It would take time, of course, to piece together the whole picture. We’d need to observe them over several months.’

‘If we live that long,’ Guy put in bluntly.

‘Surely we’ve no need to be quite so pessimistic,’ said the lady from the DoE. ‘Once we’ve established our objectives, and I mean realistic objectives—’

‘I doubt if the beetles will wait that long,’ Guy interrupted her. He pushed back his chair and strode over to the map. ‘Look, here’s the school where they first appeared not all that many weeks ago. Now they cover this entire area and they’re still spreading, they’re still reproducing, and they seem to have no natural enemies to limit their population growth.’

‘Now you’re exaggerating!’ she protested.

‘I’m not so sure,’ Bill Jenkins joined in doubtfully. ‘On the evidence of that map..’

‘Dr Owen, what do you think?’ Guy asked the greyhaired scientist. ‘I say the beetle population could double in size every twenty-four hours.’

‘Possible, of course,’ the entomologist said cautiously. ‘Though highly unusual with timber pests and in this climate. We do need more evidence.’

‘We need,’ Guy declared, letting himself go now the bit was between bis teeth, ‘an immediate programme of inspection and treatment of all public buildings, starting with schools and hospitals; a public information campaign for all householders and shopkeepers warning them what to look for on their own premises and what to do if they find anything; the general advice that children should be sent to stay with friends and relations outside London until the scare is over; free tips on which are the most suitable insecticides to use, and how—’

‘People will panic,’ the lady from the DoE said.

‘No, Guy’s right,’ Bill Jenkins supported him. ‘Though I’m not sure about the practicalities, not with our present staffing levels.’

‘A scientific study of the beetles and bloodworms is essential,’ Dr Owen emphasised, flushing with annoyance. ‘You’ll get nowhere without it. Somehow we must get more specimens. Specially the giants.’

‘Today,’ Guy agreed, accepting his challenge. ‘If I can.’ ‘Ladies and gentlemen, please!’ Evan knocked sharply on the table. ‘Can we have a little order? I propose we take these suggestions one by one and attempt to reach some conclusions. First the scientific requirements, 1 think. Then the danger to the public and what recommendations we feel we should make.’

Before he could continue, the telephone in the comer began to ring. Excusing himself, Evan went over to answer it. When he came back to the table he seemed visibly shaken.

i’m sorry to say I have some very distressing news for you,’ he announced, obviously struggling to control his feelings, i’ve been in the force for a long time now, but I don’t think ever before I’ve… Well, we’ve been informed, ladies and gentlemen, that half an hour ago several large bloodworms appeared on the platforms of Link Lane underground station. Being lunchtime, it was pretty crowded, and though we’ve no casualty figures yet, I’m afraid they’re expected to be very high.’

There was a shocked silence.

‘Beetles?’ Guy asked. Link Lane was the nearest mix station to his own office; many of the staff used it.

‘Beetles as well,’ Evan confirmed, ‘hundreds of them, Guy. A massacre, that was the word they used. A bloody massacre.’

Sarah had left early that lunchtime, taking advantage of Guy’s absence to dash quickly into the West End for a bit of quick shopping for her mum’s birthday next, week. That wouldn’t leave her any time to eat anything, but she could always snatch a bite when she got back, she thought. The one trouble with this job was that she was so far from the shops. Near the office the district was faded and run down. Three of the pubs offered lunchtime striptease in a sordid atmosphere of spilled beer, many of the little shops were closed, semi-derelict, or else stocked with secondhand junk furniture or old clothes which nobody wanted to buy, and that was about it. At least she saved money, though. She’d never had a penny to her name at her previous place only a stone’s throw from the temptations of Oxford Street.

She liked the job itself as well, she thought, as she waited to cross the road at the traffic lights on her way to the tube station. A longer journey, of course, but a through train, which helped. And her office! Nobody at home had believed her when she told them!

It was like a suite in a luxury hotel. Warm furnishings, discreet lighting, deep carpets — the lot! There were times she felt she could happily move in and live there. The salary was a thousand a year more, the holidays longer, and Guy Archer was a dream after the crotchety old woman she’d worked for before.

Married, of course — weren’t they always? Hadn’t tried anything on with her either, not yet, though that would probably come. What she’d do if he did, she wasn’t sure.

Depend on what mood she was in, she supposed. She was a bit off boys at present, fed up with it; perhaps it was time she sampled an older man just for the experience.

He looked at her sometimes; she’d noticed the way his eyes moved when she bent over his desk. Not deliberately, that was obvious. Nor on her side either, she wasn’t like that, but she couldn’t help it if her blouse sagged in front, could she? Anyway, that wasn’t the way things were with Guy. They just got on well together.

She’d seen his wife once too. (The lights changed at last and she could cross.) A fat, jolly woman with a loud laugh, very rude to him; he didn’t get away with much on that front. Plain as the nose on your face, that was.

Again she waited, this time for the lift. She didn’t need to buy a ticket as she could use her annual season, another perk from the company. Mind you, she thought, they made you work for it; never a moment to yourself.

In the lift, a framed advertisement caught her eye. Matching scarf and beret — something like that for Mum, perhaps? She decided to try Selfridges first, at least to see what they’d got. And Mum was always so fussy about colours.

The platform was packed but she pushed her way between the people until she reached the far end. She’d travelled on this line often enough to know which compartment stopped directly opposite the exit she wanted at Oxford Circus. A loudspeaker announcement apologised for the delay, mumbled something about signals failure and said the next train would arrive in one minute.

It was then, looking down at the track, that she became aware of the beetles. At first she didn’t realise what she was seeing. They were pitch black, probably from the soot, and darting along under the rails with a quick scrambling movement. She had often seen mice in the tunnels, also black, and so didn’t give them a thought; but something about their shape… those long claws… like the crayfish she’d eaten on holiday… something disturbed her.

Beetles?

She was about to consult the man standing next to her when a loud scream was heard from the opposite end of the platform, then another, and a third, and the sound went echoing through the curved tunnel. It was like an electric shock. Her whole body tingled and she wanted to cover her ears and shout to the woman to stop.

The crowd pressed against her in panic and there were more screams, and men’s voices bellowing crazily. She had to fight against those around her to get back from the edge and she felt her floppy leather shopping bag, the one she’d got for Christmas, being tom out of her hand in the crush.

Then a train arrived, reassuring her with its familiar roar and clatter as it swept into the station and its doors slid open, offering a way of escape. People rushed past her but there was plenty of room, it was empty, so she was able to pause on the step and stretch up on tiptoe to peer over the heads of the crowd.

What she saw made her sick with horror. Halfway along the platform, near the passage which led to the Northern Line, were two massive white snakes. One was poised over the fallen bodies of women and babies, dipping its head as if feeding on them as they lay there in a spreading pool of blood; the other — even as Sarah was watching — opened its mouth wide and snatched at a man’s terrified face, sending him reeling back against the wall.

She stood there shaking, unable to move.

‘Excuse me!’ Someone had his hand on her arm. ‘Excuse me, is this bag yours? I picked it up off the—’

Gulping, trying to speak though no voice came, she stared past his shoulder into the compartment. Streaming in through the other door came a swarm of dark, flying beetles which one by one began to alight on the passengers’ hair, on their faces, their necks…

‘Close the doors!’ a man was yelling in agony, ‘Close the doors! Keep them oat!’

The guard must have heard him and obeyed without thinking. Smoothly the doors began to shut. Sarah swung around, confused, wanting to get out, but the doorway was suddenly crowded with a surge of panic-stricken people from the platform desperately trying to escape from the giant snakes, which were now much closer.

She was hemmed in. Oh, Guy/ she thought in her terror, blaming him for the beetles, for bringing them here, for letting her walk into this hell. A black beetle crawled over the freckled neckline of the woman squeezed up next to her, leaving a thin trail of soot to mark its path. She dared not breathe, watching it… praying it would stay away from her…

The woman screamed hysterically, struggling to brush it away, and suddenly Sarah could see the colours Guy had described — the hard pink, and the rich green spots, and the blotches of brilliant yellow. Like a jewel, that’s what he’d said.

It moved. With a sudden whirr of its wings it seemed to jump on to her cheek just beneath her eye. Squinting down, she could see it, but in the press of the crowd her arms were pinned to her sides, her breasts squashed so tightly that they hurt, her feet numb from people treading on them.

Pray, she told herself. Oh, God, let me get out of this. Please. But that prayer seemed weak and pathetic. Why should God bother?

‘Anything! I’ll give anything!’ She suddenly screamed as the pain of those claws cut into her lips… her cheeks… the sides of her nostrils…

They were all over her — in her hair, penetrating the neck of her blouse, on her legs, even. She was aware of the taste of her own blood, and of the torture of every fresh pain, yet it was like inhabiting someone else’s body.

It wasn’t her. Not her at all. Her mind could witness it from the outside, from the whir! of mist above those straggling people. One last scream and she’d be completely free, but for that she needed breath. Space to breathe. Lungfuls of fresh air.

Oh, Guy, you bastard, she thought as the mist finally darkened. You bastard bringing them here…