Blood Worm

15

Guy counted the motorcycles as they overtook the car on both sides. It was the biggest such gang they had seen so far. Silencers punctured as usual. Riders in black leather with face protectors, goggles, heavy boots — all the gear; it was impossible to judge whether they were male or female.

Their fists hammered against the car as they roared past, flaunting their contempt.

He glanced at Evan, who was calmly steering with one hand while with the other he unclipped his microphone to report in. Normal policing was no longer feasible, but they still liked to keep tabs on such gangs.

‘From the look of them this is a new lot,’ he was saying. ‘Black gear with a straight yellow stripe painted down the spine, and two white dots, one over each shoulder-blade.

Not come across that insignia before. What? How many? Oh, I’d think about..

‘Thirty-two,’ Guy told him.

‘Thirty-two,’ Evan repeated.

During the past few days — in fact, since the Army had been brought in to evacuate most of the civilian population — London had become a no-man’s land in which motorcycle gangs were just the latest phenomenon. They ran the gauntlet of the giant bloodworms, deliberately seeking them out and risking death by challenging them. It was a killer sport, but better — as one told Guy before he died — than ‘skulking in some evacuation centre’. Buckingham gangs, the superintendent called them, after it was reported that one of their initiation ceremonies for new recruits was held in the bloodworm-infested state rooms of Buckingham Palace.

Despite the evacuation, isolated groups of people still lived among the ruins, most of them squatting in modem concrete buildings which had very little timber to attract the bloodworms; any wooden fitting they invariably stripped out and burned. In the hope of finding Kath or Dorothea, or at least hearing some news of them, Guy and Evan teamed up to make a systematic survey of such groups, but it was a frustrating task.

No one they questioned had even heard of Kath or Dorothea; nor were they interested. Missing? Hadn’t everyone some member of the family who was unaccounted for — children, a wife, a husband?

if they’re dead, mate,’ one old man with gnarled arthritic hands lectured Guy severely, ‘then they’re lucky. You don’t think these worms and beetles have finished with us yet? Nor with those evacuees, if you ask me. Heard on the radio that the Government’s moved up to Harrogate. Harrogate? Plenty of old wood in Harrogate, I can tell you. Asking for it, they are.’

Another problem was that these groups were not permanent communities. They split up, they moved to different buildings; on scavenging expeditions some were caught by bloodworms. Anything they needed could easily be looted from the abandoned shops. It was not unusual to find entire groups dressed in expensive clothes from West End stores, and there was no shortage of tinned foods; on the other hand they had no fresh food, nothing frozen, no electricity, no unbottled water. The buildings they occupied soon became unpleasant to enter, so they went on to the next, always on the move, never staying long in one place. To Guy, the thought of Kath or Dorothea living like that was a nightmare.

‘But what else can we do?’ he demanded as they drove on, following the direction taken by this latest motorcycle gang. It led them down Shaftesbury Avenue, where every theatre and shop lay in ruins and rubble strewn across the roadway made the going rough. ‘We’ve sent details to all the regional reception centres, to the police computer, the Salvation Army, the Red Cross.. Honestly, Evan, I’ve just about come to the end.’

‘Everybody’s looking for missing relatives. It could take months.’

‘They haven’t all gone missing under these circumstances.’

‘You’d be surprised,’ Evan commented, his tiredness betraying itself in his manner. ‘Guy, I know this is hard to take, but I think for once the superintendent’s advice should be followed.’

‘Get out of London?’ He shook his head. ‘I couldn’t do it.’

‘You need the rest and so do I. What’s more important, our friend Dr Derek Owen hasn’t been in touch for twenty-four hours. It would do neither of us any harm to go up on the next available helicopter to check what he’s doing with all that stuff we sent him.’

‘Perhaps,’ Guy said moodily.

After the first night of the bloodworm attacks Derek had returned to Oxfordshire, but then came a series of telexes from him demanding photographs, specimen beetles, larvae, sections of old timber, and including long lists of questions about each incident for Guy and Evan to answer individually, without getting together over them. Every day the helicopter had flown there with cargo of sealed containers and completed questionnaires. He must be working on them now, Guy assumed, which was why he was unusually silent.

‘Now what the hell are they up to?’ Evan demanded, suddenly slowing down. He pointed to a cluster of motorcycles parked on the far side of the road, unguarded. ‘I could swear those are the bikes we saw just now.’

Guy agreed. ‘Same colour. No number plates. Nicked out of some showroom, by the look of them.’

‘So why have they stopped outside that office block?’ It was a typical example of what Guy usually called packing-case architecture: a stumpy five-storey structure in steel and concrete designed not to be noticed, dirty white in colour, with blank windows which couldn’t be opened. Not even bloodworms found them inviting.

‘Let’s take a look,’ Guy suggested, reaching for his shotgun. ‘It’s what we’re here for.’

Since emergency regulations had come into force they all carried arms on duty. Revolvers were mandatory, but the specialist crowd-control forces were also equipped with mace gas and baton rounds, though so far these had only been used on three or four occasions right at the start. Against beetles and the smaller bloodworms Guy still used chemical sprays for his own defence, plus a shotgun to break up the giants.

The main entrance to the offices had been fitted with a revolving door. Through the glass, the dim entrance hall beyond looked deserted. Guy went through first to investigate. To one side was a waiting area with a few airport-style seats and display screens bearing pictures of the company’s open-cast mining activities. Opposite was the reception desk; he checked behind it for beetles, finding none. Beyond, a row of lifts stood open and lifeless; no current, of course.

He signalled to Evan, who came cheerfully through the revolving door, gazing about him with apparent approval.

‘All in one piece, at any rate. That’s something,’ he remarked, checking everything for himself. ‘No smell either. Floor’s a bit dirty, though. Look at those footmarks.’

‘Can you hear their voices?’

‘Upstairs,’ Evan nodded. ‘We’ve found our gang’s little nest, boyo. May as well take a look while we’re here.’

i’m not so sure what we’ve found,’ Guy argued, double-checking his gun just in case there was trouble. ‘They wouldn’t normally leave their bikes outside, would they?’

The staircase was dark and Evan returned to the car for his powerful hand-lamp. Theoretically, beetles and bloodworms were less likely to settle in this type of building but it was never wise to be too confident.

On the first floor the voices were louder, seeming to come from the end of a corridor leading off towards the rear of the building where — indicated a sign on the wall — the ‘Large Conference Room’ was situated.

‘Children,’ Evan grunted.

Guy felt a quick surge of hope. He strode down the corridor towards the double doors which he could just make out in the gloom.

‘Take it easy now,’ came Evan’s voice from behind as he caught up. ‘You’re too impulsive, Guy.’

Throwing the doors open, Guy stepped inside. He held his shotgun ready in both hands as he stared around the room. What he had expected to find he was unsure, but certainly not the fifty or more children of all ages he saw in front of him. Most were sitting at the long conference tables, eating. They gazed at him in surprise, their spoons in their hands.

Serving them, obviously in charge of everything, were the leather-clad owners of the bikes parked outside. One — a black teenager with hard, contemptuous eyes — stepped forward right away to confront the intruders. ‘What d’you want, man?’ he demanded aggressively, i’m looking for my daughter,’ Guy told him, lowering the gun. ‘Are you in charge?’

‘No.’

‘Who is in charge then? Can I speak to whoever it is?’ ‘Nobody’s in charge.’ Coolly, the boy looked him up and down. ‘Archer, isn’t it? Mister Guy Archer?’

‘Byron Palmer,’ Evan said. ‘He’s the lad who rescued you from the old school.’

‘What of it? OK, Mister Archer, you were right about snakes. Now fuck off.’

‘And leave these kids with you? What arc you up to?’ ‘Feeding ’em, can’t you see?’ a girl joined in. Guy recognised her. Sharon — wasn’t that her name? Byron’s girlfriend who had spoken to him at the flat?

‘Some bugger’s got to feed ’em,’ Byron added. ‘None of you mothers give a fuck.’

‘Didn’t know they were here, Byron,’ Evan admitted, trying to conciliate him. ‘Now we do, we’ll get them away.’

‘They’re going to die, you know that?’ Byron accused him. ‘Look at ’em, man! D’you care}'

The clothes many of them wore were tom and dirty, their hair unkempt. A few were only toddlers and the older ones were helping them with their food. The biggest among them could be no more than twelve or thirteen years of age, Guy thought. At one side of the room he noticed some of the gang were still opening tins and warming up the contents on a couple of camping stoves. ‘What’s your daughter’s name?’ Sharon asked.

‘Kath,’ he said. ‘Kath Archer. She’s eleven.’

Sharon picked up a heavy glass ashtray and banged it ors the nearest table to get attention. ‘Listen, everybody! This man is looking for his little girl. Now I think he’s OK, ’cos I’ve met him before. So we’re going to help him, right? Her name’s Kath Archer — got that? Anybody here seen Kath Archer? Anybody know her?’

Three or four girls shook their heads or shrugged their shoulders; a boy laughed. Then the general chatter started up again as the gang brought around fresh supplies of baked beans and frankfurters. The children shovelled them down as if they had not eaten for a week.

‘You’re sure she’s still alive?’ Sharon probed gently, perhaps implying that Guy wasn’t facing up to reality. ‘A Sot o’ kids were killed, you know. An’ with this lot it’s only a matter o’ time before the beetles get them.’

‘How long have you been feeding them?’

‘Yesterday we started. Peaches and cake in tins from Fortnum and Mason’s. We thought they should have something more filling today, though we weren’t really sure they’d still be here.’

Awkwardly, aware that he should at least say something to combat the terrible fatalism which lurked behind every word she spoke, Guy began to explain how they were fighting back against the bloodworms. Some of the country’s top scientists were working day and night on the problem.

She regarded him pityingly. ‘Why kid yourselves? The bloodworms have already won, we all know that.’ ‘That’s what I say,’ her boyfriend Byron declared, rejoining them. ‘Live fast, die young — what else is there? Let’s go.’

No one in the gang objected. Perhaps they were already fed up with this feeding-the-kids game; Byron’s boast that he knew where to find some really massive bloodworms was enough to get them pulling on their goggles and helmets again ready to leave. The insignia on their jackets — the straight line with the white spot either side — proved that this was the same gang as earlier, Guy noted. They were a cross-section of black kids, whites and Asians, all in their teens.

As they pushed out through the double doors it was an Asian girl who hung back. ‘This kid Kath — dances, like?’ ‘You’ve seen her?’

‘Sort o’ ballet dance?’

‘That’s right!’ His stomach tightened.

‘Couple o’ days back, it was. Down Victoria Street. I’d try round there.’

She went out. Only Evan’s restraining hand on his arm prevented him hurrying after her.

‘Let her go, Guy. She’s told you all she’s going to. As soon as the Peter Pan Unit arrives to take charge of these children we’ll be on our way down there to see if we can’t trace your Kath. I radioed through while you were talking to Sharon. They’ll not be long.’

The Lost Children Unit — known generally as the Peter Pan Unit — did not turn up for another hour, by which time Guy’s patience had long ago dissipated. He was standing by the car and about to call up Worth Road once more when at last he spotted the Army vehicles approaching. As the first vehicle drew up, armed soldiers jumped down from it and took up positions around the entrance. They were followed by a young lieutenant, who straightened up when he saw Guy and saluted.

‘Third lot o’ kids we’ve picked up today,’ he reported with a pleased grin. ‘Where’ve you got yours? Inside?’ ‘First floor,’ Guy said. ‘Detective-Sergeant Evans is with them.’

If Kath had been found by either of the Peter Pan patrols he’d have been told, he reminded himself. Someone at Worth Road would have got a message to him. But he still looked hopefully towards the two policewomen climbing out of the second armoured vehicle. To his relief, the civilian helper on duty with them was Lise Tumstall.

She shook her head the moment she saw him, answering his unspoken question. Of all the civilian helpers — many of them teachers — who had stayed behind after the evacuation, Lise was the one he trusted implicitly. She knew both Kath and Dorothea and could recognise them instantly; what was more, she seemed just as worried about them as he was himself.

‘Guy, it’s now definite that Susi’s mother and sister were both killed,’ she said, letting the policewoman go into the building ahead of her. ‘But not Susi. There’s at least a chance that Susi and Kath are together. And something else. Miss Rosalie was among the victims.’

There was a tremor in her voice as she spoke and her eyes suddenly filled with tears. He put his hand on her arm in a clumsy attempt to comfort her. i’m sorry, Lise,’ was all he could find to say. It didn’t seem enough.

He went with her up to the first floor and helped carry some of the toddlers down, lifting them into the large armoured troop carrier. When every child was on board — cared for by Lise, the two policewomen and a couple of soldiers — the entire unit pulled out. They would drive out of London by the quickest route, pass the road barriers which now isolated the capital from the rest of the country and head for one of the safe-zone reception centres.

If only, Guy thought, Kath were with them; at least then he’d know she was all right.

‘Ready, Guy?’ Evan was calling out impatiently from the car. ‘Let’s get on with it, shall we? Victoria Street, the girl said. Let’s get over there. We might pick up some trace.’

, But they found nothing. They drove down Whitehall, which looked as though an artillery barrage had hit it; only the Cenotaph stood gaunt and unscathed before the devastated government buildings. Then they turned right into Victoria Street itself, passing the ruins of Westminster Abbey, and began to search among the few undamaged shops that remained. It was only too evident that the bloodworm attacks here had been exceptionally severe.

The Army and Navy store had clearly been looted at some point; from the stench on the first floor, people must have lived there for a time, but they had probably moved on. No one answered Guy's shouts.

Evan touched his arm and pointed. ‘Beetles.'

Behind one of the display units lay three bodies — from their clothing perhaps two men and a woman, though it was difficult to be certain. The hordes of beetles were still busy on their remains.

Guy and Evan started to back away, holding their chemical sprays ready to use. Suddenly one beetle turned on another, clipping at it with its extended claws. Others joined in the melee. Claws and legs were severed in the fight, which ended with the victors feeding on the remains of the vanquished.

‘My God, I never hope to see that again,’ Evan announced in disgust when they got back to the street. ‘Bloody eating each other, they were! Bloody cannibalism!’

They drove slowly towards Victoria Station, broadcasting their presence on the car’s loudspeaker, calling on any survivors to come out and show themselves. Most buildings, even those recently constructed, had some degree of damage, and twice Guy glimpsed giant bloodworms behind the shattered glass of shop windows.

‘Think they can hear the loudspeaker?’

‘People?’ asked Evan.

‘Bloodworms. Something’s agitating them.’

‘Too right, boyo. Fee-fo-fi-fum, that’s what gets them worked up. The blood of one Englishman and one poor soddin’ Welshman. Jesus — look at that!’

Blocking the road were two crashed cars, one on its side, and a security van which must have spun around at full speed, smashing into the glass doors of a comer bank as it did so. The people still in them were unrecognisable, an indication that the accident probably happened days earlier. As Evan manoeuvred the police car around the obstruction, they saw one end of a red double-decker bus protruding from a narrow service road, which it completely blocked.

The bus, too, was on its side. Some of its passengers had tried to climb out through wound-down windows; a few had managed to get as far as the road before they died. Beetles still feasted on their broken, lacerated bodies and the smell of decomposition was strong on the air.

‘Wait!’ yelled Guy, all his pent-up anger breaking out. ‘Evan, for Chrissake!’

Evan accelerated past the scene, doggedly refusing even to look round. He didn’t stop until he was well beyond Victoria Station and several streets away. Then at last he slowed down and pulled into the kerb, still gripping the wheel and staring straight ahead.

‘Why the hell didn’t you stop?’ Guy demanded furiously.

‘What good d’you think you could do? Dead, weren’t they? Every single one o’ the poor sods.’

Guy got out of the car and stared about him. It was all so bloody hopeless, he thought. Ruins everywhere. People slaughtered. London was like one vast rubbish dump where only beetles and bloodworms were at home. Even across the very road where they had stopped, in that corner shop with its brightly painted sign proclaiming ‘Books & Stationery’, the giant bloodworms were in occupation. He could see their slobbering heads through the broken glass, swaying drunkenly.

His anger rekindled. Leaning into the car, he grabbed the shotgun and dashed over to the shop, stopping on the pavement outside to fire in through the open doorway. The first shot caught the largest bloodworm at a range of less than three yards. It merely disintegrated, falling to the floor like so many spilled rice grains, each one of which then wriggled away.

Again and again he fired, pumping in one round after the next until the magazine was empty.

As empty and useless as he was himself.

Evan’s hand on his shoulder swung him around. ‘Let’s get out of here! For God’s sake, moveV

Somehow they got back to the car before the remaining giant bloodworm reached them. Its dark eyes investigated them through the windscreen as Evan revved the engine, desperately trying to engage first gear.

‘Reverse!’ Guy yelled at him, suddenly realising what would happen if they drove forward. The whole car would be covered with tiny bloodworms as the giant broke up, and they could chew their way through the rubber surrounds, come in through the ventilation, find a dozen ways of penetrating. ‘Reverse, damn you!’

Evan understood. The car shot backwards, swaying from side to side, jolting and jumping as its tyres hit the rubble lying in the roadway.

The bloodworm made no effort to follow. Perhaps it could no longer sense where they were. Guy reloaded the shotgun. Five cartridges.

i hope you feel better after that,’ Evan remarked sarcastically as he turned into the road for Sloane Square. It was his only reproach.

‘One-oh-five… one-oh-five… Come in, please.’ ‘One-oh-five here,’ Evan responded, holding the microphone close to his lips. ‘Go ahead, Meg.’

The radio crackled as Tokyo Meg’s coo! voice delivered her message. Detective-Sergeant Evans and Captain Archer were to report back to Worth Road for briefing at 1800 hours. Operation Pepys was now timed for 0700 hours on Sunday morning.

Evan acknowledged the message, it’s on then,’ he said to Guy, swinging the car into a U-tum and heading now for Hyde Park Comer.

‘Forty-eight hours from tomorrow morning,’ Guy commented without enthusiasm. ‘Forty-eight hours to clear the remaining pockets of refugees out of London? We don’t even know where most of them are.’

In an attempt to prevent the bloodworm menace from spreading to the rest of the country, crop-spraying aircraft had already doused the outlying areas of London with DDT, an insecticide which was on the banned list in normal circumstances. Obviously that had not been enough and the Government now planned to destroy every piece of timber and every larva in the capita! by fire-bombing — codenamed ‘Operation Pepys’ after the diarist who described the Great Fire of London. The present prime minister had started his career as minister for the arts, and it showed.

‘We’re back to square one,’ Evan said sourly. ‘No progress at all, is there?’

‘How d’you mean?’

‘We burned down the old school, d’you remember? Couldn’t think of any better way then, either. After all we’ve done, Guy. The risks we’ve taken, you an’ I, getting stuff for those science boffins. Yet we’re still stuck with the old methods despite it all’

In Park Lane the motorcycle gang reappeared out of a side street just north of the Dorchester Hotel. Guy couldn’t swear to it but he had the impression there were fewer of them this time. When they spotted the police car, they swooped on it like seagulls over offal. Those in front flagged Evan down.

‘You still lookin’ for Kath?’ one of them shouted as Guy wound down his window.

‘You’ve found her?’ His heart-beat quickened.

‘Can’t say, like. We’ll take you there. Come on!’

The bikes peeled away and the police car went after them in a crazy chase through the Mayfair streets, with Evan cursing at the wheel as they took short cuts across pavements, slipping down a narrow mews with a sharp, unexpected right turn at the far end, scraping the paint off his sides and losing a fender as he was forced to squeeze between a couple of abandoned lorries to keep up with them.

They pulled up abruptly in front of a computer showroom. ‘In there!’ one shouted — Guy recognised Byron’s voice — ‘Go straight through. There’s a big place at the back.’

Guy didn’t wait to find out if anyone intended to go with him. Holding the shotgun loosely in his right hand, he ran over to the showroom and tried the door; it swung open easily. Micro-computers, printers and VDUs were spaciously set out, but no one had bothered to loot them, of course. What use were they without electricity? He went straight through to the rear doors.

They led him into a wide corridor. From somewhere ahead came the tinny sound of a small radio or cassette player; it told him there was definitely someone in the building. He went on, but cautiously. It was not until he was through the next set of swing doors that he suddenly stopped to listen, realising that he recognised that music.

Surely that was the tune Kath had played him at breakfast one morning while Dorothea was still in bed? The music for her show-piece dance at the ballet school?

Yet it was strange that he could hear nothing else at the same time — no one talking or laughing; no other sound of any kind. Briefly he had the odd sensation of being completely alone there; he could almost visualise himself opening that next door and finding only a large empty room with the cassette player in the centre and no one listening.

He went closer; still only music.

Grasping the handle, he slowly pulled the door back wide enough to look in. It was a long rectangular storeroom. Directly in front of him were several rows of widely spaced-out metal shelves with more computer equipment, but at the most they took up only a quarter of the room. Beyond them on the floor sat twenty or thirty women and children watching two girls dancing in a cleared space at the far end.

Kath and Susi!

A lump came to Guy’s throat as he watched them. This must be the pas de deux they had told him about, and they had found an audience for it among these few deter mined people still hiding in what was left of their city. He could see the cassette recorder now, the small one he’d bought her for her birthday; it stood on the electrician’s workbench behind her.

Feeling himself encumbered by the shotgun, he placed it quietly on a shelf near his elbow. He couldn’t possibly use it with all these people around.

She was a very graceful dancer, he thought; they both were, in fact. Almost inspired — not that he knew anything about ballet. Their faces were radiant as they rose and turned and dipped; they were certainly enjoying every moment of it.

They ended with a deep curtsey and the applause was enthusiastic. He’d wait until it died down, he decided, not wanting to spoil their triumph.

‘Very good! Very good! Kath, come an’ gimme a kiss. I’m proud of you, really I am!’

The woman who had called out was hidden from him by the shelving but Guy knew her voice without needing to see her. A sense of relief washed over him as he realised Dorothea was still alive; it was like lying at the very edge of the sea on one of those hot Cyprus days and letting the waves cool him down, relaxing him.

He started forward, intending to tell them he was there as well, when he was stopped by Kath’s stinging words. She had not yet seen him; her eyes were only on her mother.

‘Mummy, what did you come back for? I told you I don’t want you here. Just go away and leave me alone.’

‘But Kathy, love… Kathy…’ She’d been drinking; her speech was slurred. ‘Where’s my little girl?’

‘Mummy, you’re pathetic.’ Kath was still only eleven, but she spat the words out with all the contempt of a fully grown woman. ‘Will-you-leave-me-alone? Go back to your boy friend!’

‘Kathy!’

The audience laughed and applauded, taking Kath’s side. ‘That’s right, you tell her, the cow!’ one fat woman bawled out, beaming with enjoyment. ‘Give us another dance, love! Encore!’ And the rest joined in, supporting her.

Guy shrank back between the shelves, unsure what he should do. This was something he’d not expected. He longed simply to put his arms around both of them and take them home, but it was too late for that now.

Susi had rewound the tape and the two girls started their dance again. Kath was defiant, every gesture exaggerated, while Dorothea shrank back against the piles of discarded cartons in the comer next to the workbench. She was hurt; he could see it in her face.

Behind him he heard the door opening softly and glanced around to see Evan. He put his finger to his lips, indicating the dancers. It was in that moment — as he turned back, uncertain how he should handle the situation — that he first noticed the giant bloodworm easing its pale segmented body through a partly open window not six feet away from the two girls.

The women and children in the audience began whispering to each other and getting to their feet; one shouted a warning, but not loud enough to be heard above the music.

Guy pushed between them, moving quietly and tugging his respirator over his mouth and nostrils as he went.

By now the bloodworm was almost completely through the opening. Then it seemed to stop for a moment and the whole front end of its body swayed in time with the heavy beat.

There was a gasp of fear as it dropped to the floor where again it began to dance, gradually rearing up to face the girls.

Moving carefully, never taking his eyes off the bloodworm, Guy stepped slowly forward to shield them. From past experience he knew only too well that quick movements were the most dangerous. His spray was ready in his hand, but he could only pray it would be effective against a bloodworm of this size.

‘Walk slowly now, Kath. And you, Susi. Back to the others,’ he shouted through his mask.

He had reckoned without Dorothea. With a sudden yell of anguish she charged forward, shoving him aside, desperate to protect her daughter by drawing the bloodworm’s attention to herself.

‘Take me, you bugger! My life’s useless anyway!’ she shrieked, facing up to it.

With hard black eyes the giant bloodworm stared down at her while black spittle dripped from its open mouth. It drew back, just slightly, preparing to strike, but Guy was faster. Squeezing the trigger on his spray bottle, he let it have a Song burst of ethyl acetate at point-blank range.

That stopped it long enough for Guy to grab Dorothea’s arm and try to pull her away. She struggled, screaming at him to let her go, she was going to deal with the bloodworm herself, while over her shoulder he could see it menacingly towering over both of them. Again he squirted the chemical at it.

‘Guy, get clear!’ Evan’s voice came at him from somewhere out of the confusion. ‘Stand back!’

Then he was there beside him, the shotgun in his hands, but Guy knew that to shoot was the worst thing he could do. The bloodworm would break up into a multitude of vicious little maggots; none of them would stand a chance.

‘No!’ he roared.

The mask over his mouth muffled the sound and the heavy beat from the cassette drowned its meaning. Evan fired. The explosion echoed around the room; its shock waves stabbed painfully into his ears, leaving him deafened and numb.

In place of the single bloodworm he now had to face a crawling heap of wriggling, hungry larvae. Already they were beginning to reach out towards him.

He forced Dorothea back, gripping her with a hold which could break her arm if she resisted, but still she struggled, still she tried to fight back, as if determined to die. Letting her legs go limp, she sagged down to the floor, where the maggots were waiting in their hundreds.

It was hopeless, he knew. However much he used the spray to keep them back, he couldn’t kill all of them Many got through to investigate her body, squirming over her bare fore-arms, penetrating her sleeve, inserting themselves between the folds of her clothing. He deadened them with the spray, he tugged them away with his gloved fingers, but always more came.

She was quieter now, semi-conscious from breathing the chemical, and he was on his knees beside her desperately fighting to save her from those eager, hungry worms. One bit agonisingly into his leg; others were creeping over his sleeves., over the backs of his gloves

Vaguely he was aware of hands dragging them across the floor, and of Evan bending over them, spraying them both, and of one of the black-clad bikers pouring petrol on to the squirming mound of pale worms which had — only seconds earlier — been part of that monster bloodworm.

More pain, like sharp knife thrusts.

His eyes became misty. Voices retreated into deep echoing caverns. Everything was going so far away, he thought comfortably.

It was so relaxing, those ripples of water over the smooth sand.

‘Who is that?’ he asked.

He had come to suddenly, his mind alert, telling him that he was on a stretcher in an Army ambulance with a strap across his chest to hold him steady. They had stuck a tube in his arm; turning his head, he could see the plastic bag containing the fluid. Someone else was on a drip too, on a stretcher at the other side of the ambulance. Dorothea, he guessed — but he had to be sure.

‘Who is that?’ he asked again.

‘Awake now, are you?’ Evan sounded cheerful enough; but then he usually did. it’s a miracle how you did it, but you’ve both come out alive. That’s your wife, boyo.’

‘How bad is she?’

‘Oh, I think she’ll be all right. The two little girls are safe as well — that’s something. As for me, Fm what they call a walking case. It means I have to use my own two legs while you have the luxury of being carried.’

Evan’s voice was slipping away again, dissipating like smoke on the wind. Dorothea, Guy thought drowsily as the motion of the ambulance rocked him into unconsciousness.

He came to again when the ambulance stopped at the casualty station and they were carrying him out. Some argument seemed to be going on, with Evan’s Welsh tones insisting that Guy and Dorothea should be put close together. Good old Evan, he felt when he heard him, not at first fully understanding what it was all about.

But the doctor — a woman — agreed.

They were taken into a large bleak room with a stage at one end and climbing ropes looped beneath a steel girder; it was obviously a school hall; already it stank of kids’ sweat, despite being a new building. About half the beds in it were unoccupied but the stretcher bearers were directed past them to a comer beside the stage which offered at least some kind of privacy.

Dorothea lay on the bed next to his, still unconscious, her mouth slightly open but her expression serenely peaceful as though she were enjoying some pleasant dream.

‘Captain Archer, your wife is very weak and she needs a blood transfusion,’ the woman doctor told him. ‘We don’t have blood of her group available at the moment. I expect a delivery by helicopter within about half an hour.’

‘But a donor here…? There must be somebody.’

‘It’s a question of the right blood group. Believe me, we are trying.’

He sank back on to the pillow. His blood didn’t match her group, he knew that from years ago; nor did Kath’s. She was frowning now, her lips puckering restlessly, and he wondered what was going through her head. Nothing had gone right since they had moved to London. He’d usually arrived home late and tired; she had often been on edge about something in the house, or else she was with that crowd in the Plough. Maybe now ail that was gone they could start again somewhere. Do something different.

Suddenly she opened her eyes and looked at him in astonishment. He leaned up on his elbow and was about to say something, when she relaxed and smiled.

‘Guy, love?’ she murmured.

He stretched over — the beds were only about a foot apart — and touched her hand. Her fingers closed around his.

‘Oh, Guy.’ A deep sigh; then, almost in a whisper: ‘Guy… Kath…’

Her eyes stared past him as if she were far away in her own thoughts and her fingers slackened, though he still held them until the woman doctor came back and gently took his hand away.

i’m afraid we’ve lost her,’ she said, i’m sorry.’

High above the casualty station Royal Air Force jets screamed across the sky in the direction of Whitehall to recce their targets for Sunday morning’s raid.