Blood Worm

9

Guy did not drive directly home but went first to the nearest hardware store, prepared to buy up all the insecticide they had in stock. A man in a grey overall coat was already bolting the first of its two sets of double doors as he arrived.

‘Seems I’m just in time,’ Guy greeted him breezily, going in. ‘I’m looking for insecticide. Quite a lot of it.’ ‘Too late then, aren’t you?’ The man had a round, babyish face, which gave him a mild, friendly air; however, he turned out to be stubborn and unyielding. ‘Should’ve come earlier.’

‘You’re sold out?’ Guy guessed.

‘Oh, we’ve plenty if you come back tomorrow. See this notice on the door? Says Closed, dunnit?’

‘Your door is still open. You’re still here.’

‘Now don’t try that on. You saw me locking up. Five o’clock we shut, an’ five o’clock it is now. It’s all written up there on the door: opening times… closing times… If you come too late that’s your look-out.’

Guy tried persuasion. ‘Look, it’s an important job I’m doing and I need the insecticide urgently. I can promise no argument over the price.’

‘There’ll be no argument, mate, over anything. You’re stepping outside an’ I’m going to lock up. Some of us have homes to go to. Anything you want to buy, you come back tomorrow.’

Guy held his temper under control, though with difficulty. The benign look on the man’s face had not changed despite his words. Grimly, Guy began to wish he’d brought a couple of live beetles with him to demonstrate the urgency of the matter with a nip or two from their claws.

Going out to the street again, resigned, he asked: ‘Any other shops round here sell insecticide?’

The man paused long enough to answer him. ‘We’re open at eight in the morning,’ he said. ‘Drop by then.’ With the traffic building up on the main road, Guy decided on a tactic of weaving through the back streets to reach his own house, but it was no quicker. Rows of parked cars adhered to the kerbsides like cholesterol to the arteries, obstructing the flow. He was already regretting the derision and hoping to find a way back into Worth Road when he spotted an Asian-run do-it-yourself shop on a comer.

He forced his two nearside wheels on to the high pavement and stopped immediately opposite the shop door. A small selection of dustbins, fence-sections, step-ladders, cut timber lengths, wire netting and oil heaters had to be manoeuvred before he could enter, but once inside, a tall, gaunt Sikh who appeared to be the owner willingly sold him his entire stock of insecticide — several gallons of the stuff — together with spraying equipment. He also called his son from the back to help Guy to load it into the car.

‘You’d better order fresh supplies right away,’ Guy advised him as he wrote out a cheque to cover it. ‘From what I hear there’s likely to be quite a demand.’

‘I can get more this evening,’ the Sikh assured him. ‘As much as you need.’

Arriving home turned out to be something of an anticlimax. The house was empty and unwelcoming. Last night’s paint cans were still in the hall, the step-ladder stood in the centre of the uncarpeted front room, where the naked light bulb was now splashed with colour, and

Kath’s schoolbag had been dumped on the stairs. No other sign of life.

‘Kath?’ he called out.

But no reply came. He picked up her bag and took it up to her room. Some of her clothes lay scattered about on the unmade bed, indicating that she must have been in a tearing hurry when she changed. It was only then that he realised what day of the week it was. She’d be at her ballet class.

Dorothea was probably held up at her new job; temping was always unpredictable. Sometimes she phoned if she was going to be very late. No message on the machine. He checked the bedroom, but it was just as he left it,

‘Hell, what now?’ he thought aloud.

She always laid such emphasis on this being her home and not his that he hestitated to start any work without her agreement. And she might object: there was always that possibility. No, he was wrong there. He knew damned well she would object and that had to be faced.

Changing into an old blue denim suit and pulling on boots to protect his feet, he went down to unload the car and carry everything into the house. Probably he’d bought far more than he needed, but that was preferable to running short. At one point, stopping to count how many gallon cans he had altogether, he noticed his hand was shaking. The incident with the beetles that afternoon — his first real encounter with them since the old school— had left his nerves tingling. His mouth was dry too, but that was probably the result of having drunk too much vintage claret, Christ, was it only a few hours ago that he’d been feeling on top of the world at having clinched that important new deal?

Against all the rules of common sense he poured himself a whisky and soda before starting. He had hoped Dorothea would be back by now, but she wasn’t. Pinned up by the hall mirror were various scraps of paper on which she’d scribbled any phone numbers she wanted to keep handy, including one for the Plough. Putting his glass down on the stairs he dialled it.

‘Plough public house,’ came the pansy voice at the other end. ‘This is Brian speaking.’

Guy asked drily if Dorothea was by any chance there. He’d have enjoyed conducting Brian through an Army assault course for a few weeks to shake the shit out of him. Not only did he dislike the man; he also felt that camp voice was merely a cover hiding something much more vicious.

‘Guy, is it? I’ve not seen her today, sweetie. Should I tell her you’ve called?’

if she comes in, ask her to ring home, would you?’ Guy said, restraining himself.

‘All right, sweetie.’

His temper broke through. ‘Next time we meet, try calling me “sweetie” to my face. You’ll see what happens.’

He slammed the receiver down, not waiting to hear the inevitable protestations. How Dorothea could spend so much time with that kind was beyond him. In their Army days she’d always been one of the first to spot anything phony.

For the next five minutes he wandered through the house, glass in hand, trying to make up his mind where to start. Squatting down, he surveyed the skirting and any exposed floorboards for flight holes, but found none. That in itself didn’t mean a great deal. They wouldn’t bore through paint; and in fact their most likely breeding ground was in the beams and joists which were not immediately visible. If only Dorothea were at home to talk it over before he risked causing any damage…

He reached a decision. The young foreman had suggested that woodworm infestations usually began under the roof, and that was where he should start his first detailed inspection. He finished his drink and took the glass into the kitchen where a sudden impulse caused him to open all the lower cupboards one after the next and peer inside, just in case, but they all seemed quite normal.

Right, he thought. The loft.

The spraying equipment went upstairs first; then he returned for the step-ladder. When he set it up, he found it took most of the space on that top narrow landing, leaving little room for a quick escape. As a precaudon, he donned the face-mask and safety goggles he’d bought at the DIY shop, crowning them with his old Army cap: not ideal — it left his ears exposed — but the best he could do for the time being.

Praying that he’d find nothing up there, he pulled on his gloves and climbed the ladder to ease open the hatch above his head. With the spray gun ready, he looked cautiously inside, but it was too gloomy to see anything without using the powerful hand-lamp he’d brought up from the car.

He switched it on, directing the beam first at the rafters, then at the joists nearest to him, though he was still balanced on the metal step- ladder with only his head and shoulders above the hatch. It was going to be a big job spraying ail this, he thought, but he knew it had to be done whether the timber was infested or not.

His first inspection revealed nothing. Those parts of the timber he could see seemed sound enough, but that didn’t mean it was all like that. He decided in favour of blanketing the area, just general spraying, leaving the full treatment till later. If any beetles were lurking there, the insecticide would bring them out into the open. He had noticed in the tough’s kitchen how the insecticide drove them crazy, sending them scurrying about for a minute or more before they died.

You’re being an idiot, came the whisper in his head, and it was so real that he almost glanced around to see who was speaking. Once you're trapped in that loft there’ll be no way out. It’s just what the beetles are waiting for.

This had always been part of his nightmares: the dark confined space and the deep shadows among the rafters where dangers lurked. However much he lectured himself, the terror always returned to haunt him.

But he had to do it. First he hoisted the spraying gear through the hatch; then, hooking the lamp to his belt, he gripped the edges and slowly pulled himself up. He moved a foot or two inside, away from the opening, before standing up on the joists with the spray gun in his hand.

For a few seconds he remained motionless, listening out for the slightest sound of anything alive in there. The water storage tank gurgled; he should cover it up, he decided. Over to one side a sudden slithering noise startled him for a moment till he realised he’d heard it before; it was the TV aerial’s cable shifting across the roof slates as the wind caught it. Then the slates themselves rattled, like a ripple of laughter.

Again he played the beam around the loft, expecting by now to see the hard pink-and-green shells of the beetles, and again he was mistaken,

‘Maybe Dorothea’s right,’ he muttered to himself. ‘Maybe I should see a shrink.’

He picked up the spray gun, adjusted the nozzle to coarse, and — with his back to the water tank — began work on the joists farthest away from the hatch opening. The strength of the spray sent some of the thick dust flying up in clouds, coating his goggles. He should have cleaned the place up first, he realised; this was going to be an even bigger job than he had imagined.

Yet he was sure it was serving its purpose. Squatting under the sloping rafters with one foot on each of two adjacent joists, he stopped to wipe his goggles with the back of his cuff. For at least fifteen to twenty minutes he’d been spraying in that dark loft, letting thick drops of the stuff soak into any timber he could reach and then using his hand-lamp to check yet again for beetles. But he found none.

After what he’d witnessed that afternoon only a few streets away, it seemed difficult to believe. He’d subconsciously expected to see the loft overrun with them; yet — nonel

No beetles at any rate, but he told himself there was still a chance of larvae in the woodwork.

Still, for the rime being he decided he could give it a rest, though it would be sensible to inspect the other rooms once more in case the insecticide had driven the beetles down to the lower floors. Insects were unpredictable. He remembered how he used to observe them on those hot days in Cyprus. You could put down powder and be free of them for a day or two but they’d always turn up again, even after DDT. They’d reappear from under doors, or from cracks in the steps, or from where the ceiling panels met the walls, or out of the soil, even.

Of course they outnumbered humans by many millions, he thought as he lowered himself on to the step-ladder again and began to bring the spraying equipment down. He sometimes wondered if they didn’t regard humankind as no more than a minor nuisance on the earth, though perhaps useful food for certain species.

Such as these pink-and-green beetles with their deadly larvae.

Going downstairs, having tried to clean up a little in order not to risk spreading some of the muck from the loft about the place, he discovered that Dorothea was still not back. Nor was Kath, but her ballet class was almost certainly rehearsing for the ‘evening of dance’ concert, so that was not surprising. He’d give her another half an hour, he thought, and then go to fetch her in the car.

Meanwhile — after checking every room once more, though without really expecting to find anything — he began to empty the row of lower cupboards in the kitchen. He kept his mask and goggles on, and also made sure the insecticide spray was close to hand, remembering what had happened in the other house. Still no beetles, thank God! Inside each cupboard he tested the floorboards and the skirting at the back — they had been built-in directly against the wall — but all the timber seemed quite sound.

The back room was too crammed full of furniture to examine quickly but he'd have no problem raising a couple of boards in the front where they had been decorating. It was all old, uneven wood, and he knew the entire floor really needed to be redone. He dug out his claw hammer from the toolbox and eased out the nails on one of the centre planks which had obviously been taken up before at some time. The joists underneath seemed quite sound. He repeated the operation with a second plank, though this one had not previously been cut into and he had to remove a length of skirting board to reach the end nails.

No problems. He discovered one or two small holes in the joists, but nothing new; and raising one more plank on the far side of the room he had the same result.

He stood up, removing the goggles and face-mask. His own reaction to this business puzzled him. Any normal person would have been delighted that he’d found the house apparently clean of beetles, yet he merely felt suspicious. It made him uneasy.

Alert, even — like an animal that knew it was under threat.

Standing motionless in that room… listening… watching… every sensor tingling with expectation, he was unshakeably convinced of the presence of something not far away.

But where?

Was it the instinct of the hunted? Or merely imagination, a form of mental instability? His underlying fear?

Time to fetch Kath, he thought. Leaving everything lying where it was, floorboards up, skirting not yet replaced, he went out to the car. On the back seat was the book on beetles which he’d bought earlier in the day. He’d not yet found a minute to look at it; nor did it now seem likely that he’d be able to get back to the office that evening to deal with the accumulating paperwork on his desk. The events of the past few hours had completely thrown him off course.

Arriving at the church hall used by the ballet school, Guy realised he was just in time. A dozen cars stood parked on the road outside as parents collected their various offspring; some were already beginning to drive away.

The old hall itself, which had been so dark and forbidding on that terrible night when he’d searched in vain for the missing Kath, was now ablaze with light; they had even installed a couple of flood!amps to illuminate the Victorian romanesque facade, with — halfway up — its brightly painted board giving the name of the ballet school. To go inside, he had to push his way through the little crowd of parents blocking the entrance.

‘Daddy! Oh you darling, have you come to chauffeur me home?’

Kath’s face glowed with excitement as she ran lightly towards him, every inch a dancer. Her long hair was combed up into a bun and she still wore her rehearsal clothes, but what he noticed most was the way she moved and stood, what she did with her arms and legs, relaxed yet at the same time totally alert. If she were not so concentrated on dancing, he thought, she could develop into an Olympic-class athlete, given the right training.

‘Are you ready, Kath? I’m afraid Mummy’s not home from work yet, but I expect she’ll not be long.’

‘Daddy.. Her face became serious. ‘We were going to call home just to ask, but now you’re here — can I stay at Susi’s tonight?’

‘Well, I don’t know.. ’ he hesitated. He felt disappointed, which he knew was absurd. Why shouldn’t she stay with her friends?

‘Oh, please say yes! We’ve got loads to talk about, and our homework to do. Susi’s mummy says she doesn’t mind. Honest. Ask her if you like. She’s outside now waiting in her car. They live in those posh flats by the recreation ground.’

Guy knew the block she meant: purpose-built luxury flats with a uniformed concierge in the entrance hall and private tennis courts at the back.

i’d better have a word with her,’ he started to say reluctantly, when she interrupted him with a shriek of laughter.

‘But Daddy, not like that! D’you know you’ve got a black streak on your face? What have you been doing?’ Still happily giggling, she fished out her handkerchief and dampened it in her mouth. ‘Here, bend down. I’ll rub it off.’

It took her two or three attempts until she was satisfied that all the dirt had gone; then she kissed him, pressing her moist lips to his scar. ‘You do need me to look after you, don’t you?’ she said softly, her voice full of concern. ‘And look at your clothes! You don’t usually wear those old things.’

i was doing some work in the house,’ he admitted.

‘Does Mummy know?’

Before he could reply to that pointed question they were interrupted by an exclamation of‘Why, hello!’ from a girl who up till now had been standing talking with her back to them. It was Lise Tumstall, he recognised — the schoolteacher whose pet beetles he had confiscated that same morning. She had changed her clothes in the meantime and was now wearing jeans with a paint-smeared loose smock over them.

‘What are you doing here?’ she asked, apparently pleased to see him.

‘Do you two know each other?’ Kath made the most of her surprise, gasping and making big eyes, it seems you do.’

‘OK, young missie!’ he chided her good-humouredly. His daughter was so happy in these surroundings, it was a joy to watch her. ‘Go and tell your friend you can stay with her.’

‘Great!’ She dashed off, calling Susi’s name.

‘Your daughter?’ Lise enquired, smiling. ‘I hadn’t realised her father worked for the Public Health Department. That’s how you knew about my beetles. Have you found out anything about them?’

‘I do have a confession to make,’ he began, wishing now that he had never deceived her about that.

‘You’ve killed them?’

‘Oh no, they’ve gone off to be examined by an entomologist, I believe. But Pm afraid I don’t work for that department. I was lying to you.’

He explained his reasons, expecting her to show at least some signs of annoyance, but she seemed to accept it all quite equably. She asked for more information about the beetles, complaining that the poster and its accompanying circular had not given enough detail for her to be able to explain it all properly to her class, so he tried to summarise what he knew, which was precious little, considering how dangerous they were.

‘Daddy, did you want to speak to Mrs Smith?’ Kath asked, reappearing with her coat on. ‘ ’Cos we’re just off.’

‘Mrs Smith?’ Now who the hell was Mrs Smith, he wondered.

‘Susi’s mummy,’ Kath told him with long-suffering patience. Then she made up her mind: ‘No, obviously you don’t. Bye then! I’ll phone later on.’

‘Don’t forget to say thank you!’ he shouted after her, though he doubted whether she heard him. He turned back to Lise. ‘You didn’t tell me why you’re here. Are you a dancer?’

Lise laughed, waving the idea away. ‘No, nothing like that! And I’ve a confession to make too: I’m not really a teacher. If you want to know. I’m.an unemployed set-designer helping out with their Evening of Dance. I do supply teaching in the daytime to make ends meet.’ ‘You’ve actually worked in theatres?’

‘Of course. And TV. Luckily, 1 trained as a teacher before I went to art school. Now it comes in useful between jobs. She glanced around the hail. Apart from one woman tidying things away at the far end, they were the only ones left. 'We’ve a lot of old timber in this place,’ she said, indicating the heavy exposed beams above their heads. ‘Hope they’re not infested.’

Guy stared up at them. From this distance they looked solid enough, but that meant nothing. ‘You’re doing the Evening of Dance in here?’

‘That’s the plan. Guy, I really didn’t know it was so bad — this wood beetle plague, 1 mean. The poster — well, we often get posters warning us of this or that. Last year where I was working it was beetles — Colorado beetles. But they only eat potatoes, don’t they? Not like these. Guy, what d’you think we should do? I can’t look at those beams now without thinking of what you told me.’ ‘There’s nothing we can do tonight,’ he said, suddenly furious — with the police, with Mary, with the whole bureaucratic set-up at Worth Hall. The old school where he had nearly died was no more than a hundred yards away, yet they’d done nothing to warn the rest of the neighbourhood, as far as he could see. ‘First thing tomorrow, whoever’s in charge should call in a reputable firm to inspect and treat the timbers, whether they think it’s necessary or not.’

‘Come and meet Miss Rosalie,’ Lise commanded, taking him by the arm. ‘She runs this place. Tell her.’ Miss Rosalie turned out to be the person he had noticed at the far end of the hall, a dark-haired woman with Mediterranean looks and quick graceful movements. Guy had already heard quite a bit about her from Kath, who worshipped her with a fervour which had frequently sent Dorothea into loud snorts of unthinkingly cruel laughter. She was right, of course — Kath could be very tunny when she overdramatised, and they both knew she’d one day grow out of it; but she also had talent, he was convinced, which should not be discouraged.

‘Wood beetles?’ Miss Rosalie repeated after Lise had broken the news to her. ‘That’s why they burned down the old school, isn’t it? And you think they’re spreading?’ ‘We know they’re spreading,’ Guy assured her seriously. ‘And they’re very dangerous.’

Her eyes rested for a moment on his scarred face. ‘They did that to you? Yes, I read about it in the Gazette, though the article didn’t say much.’ Guy told her what he had personally witnessed that afternoon and how two people had been killed. These insects were unusually vicious in both stages of their life cycle, he explained, which made it all the more vital to take some form of preventive action.

‘Oh, I’m sure you’re right,’ she responded with a glance at the beams, then back to him. if only I could afford it,

but I just don’t know where the money would come from,’

"The authorities may insist.’

‘Oh, I’m sure they will, but that doesn’t pay any bills, does it? All of which puts me into a deft stick. I can see the scenario: if I don’t have it done, they’ll close me down; if I do. I’ll he brought up for non-payment of debts and they’ll still close use down. You’ve made my day for me, Mr Archer, though I suppose that’s not your fault.’

With a brisk nod. Miss Rosalie walked off through a door at the side of the stage, dearly upset. Guy was about to say something but Lise shook her head wamingly and indicated that they should, leave; as if to make sure that they did, some of the lights began to go out as they walked through the hail towards the exit. Once outside, Lise whispered that Miss Rosalie was probably crying and hadn’t wanted them to know; she could burst into tears at the slightest setback — ‘bom in a waterfall’ was the phrase Lise used — but in a few minutes she’d be over it.

‘Shell come up with some brilliant solution, if I know her.. And we’ll all rally round, of course. Parents too. She’s a genius as a dance teacher, d’you realise?

‘Kath loves her.’

‘They all do, and she really puts them through it.’

After all that had happened, talking to Lise was like a step out into the fresh air, and for the first time that day he began to relax. Reluctant to return to the empty house — or to face Dorothea's wrath at the havoc he had wrought in her newly decorated front room — he suggested a drink. She accepted — ‘just one, then I must go’ — and they found a dreary little comer pub, where they were almost the only customers.

The Windsor chairs had uneven legs and the little round table for their glasses was sticky with spilled beer, but that didn’t bother either of them. She chatted about some of the theatres she’d worked in, retailing a few scandalous titbits; he had his Army anecdotes. It was, as one of those First World War poets might have put it, a ‘time out of war’: a moment of quiet before — what?

He felt quite convinced that the worst of the beetle attacks still lay ahead of them. All they had seen so far was the slow build-up, isolated incidents as their numbers increased. Even in that shabby pub he could not help eyeing the woodwork. Wondering.

The doors of Worth Hall were closed and locked, although in many of the offices the lights were still burning. One more cup of tea, George Dakers thought, and then he would do his rounds. This was always the best time of the evening, he felt, once the last of the cleaners had left and he could have a quiet brew-up on his own, or with Bob Tatham, the fireman. They were often on night-duty together, he and Bob, and they had their settled routines.

He poured his tea, then added some hot water to the pot in case Bob wanted another when he got back from the boiler room. It was a cosy number, this job, George reflected as he spooned in the sugar: indoors, dry, not all that much to do. Of course the money was nothing to write home about, but he had his Royal Navy pension as well, so they were really quite cosy. His wife Enid didn’t mind him working nights either; kept him out of the pub, she always said.

It was to please her they’d moved to London, so she could be close to her two sisters. He hadn’t been keen; if he’d had his way they’d have stayed down in Pompey. The trouble with women, he decided, was that they could never understand how the Navy could become a man’s whole life however much they might curse it at times. In Pompey there were plenty of old matelots to drink a jar and talk about the old days with; here in London there was practically no one. Bob was a good sort, no denying that, but he didn’t know a rope’s end from a grummet; it wasn’t the same.

‘Wasn’t sure you was coming back for another or not,’ he grunted when Bob at last appeared in the doorway. He was a lanky man whose dark growth made him look permanently unshaved; his uniform jacket fitted him too loosely and that didn’t help, nor did the slow, deliberate way he moved. ‘Be cold by now.’

‘You put water on it?’

‘Ten minutes ago. Thought you’d be back.’

‘Woulda been, only—’ Fie sloshed milk into his cup from the packet. ‘I dunno. Maybe I’m imaginin’ things.’ ‘What things?’

‘I dunno,’ Bob repeated. He poured out the tea, then supped it, pulling a face. ‘ Tis a bit cold.’

‘You want fresh, you make it.’

‘Yeah.’ He sat down, holding the cup between his hands. ‘Noises. Like scratchin’, Then more than that. Like — groanin’.’

‘In the boiler room?’

Bob shook his head. ‘First-floor corridor. Flad to check the extinguishers. By the stairs I heard it first.’

George laughed. ‘Not seeing ghosts, are you? Must be ghosts in an old place like this.’

‘Fd know if it was a ghost, wouldn’t I?’

George shifted his bulk on the old fireside chair they had supplied for the commissionaire’s room. Half its springs were broken and there was an art in sitting on it.

‘How d’you know?’ he asked. Without waiting for an answer he went on: ‘Did I ever tell you about that killick who went missing on the Malvern? In a storm one day out o’ Gib, it was. Must have gone overboard, they thought. Anyway, come the third night, there he was — in his hammock! Everybody saw him. Only when they tried to ask where he’d been, he just—’

‘George, it was no ghost,’ Bob interrupted him. ‘You go that way on your rounds. See what you think. That scratchin sounded iike mice. Like lots o’ mice.’

‘You didn’t hear it in the boiler room, then?’

‘Down there? No.’

‘Up on the first floor — that was the only place?’

‘Next to the stairs, Thought it was mice at first, rill I heard the groanin’ as well.’

‘Could be the wind.’

‘Need to be a gale to make a noise like that,’ Bob objected. ‘I had a good look round, like. Couldn’t see anything, though. Nothing that’d make that noise.’ George got up reluctantly, picking up his heavy rubber-protected torch and his keys from the table. Time to do the rounds, anyhow. If it is a ghost, I’ll ask him down for a cup o’ tea.’

Bob grinned. ‘Lady ghost, maybe. Head under her arm.’

‘Ah, now you’re talking!’

People had often asked George if he didn’t find it a bit spooky walking round an empty building after dark, particularly as it was part of his job to switch off the Sights, but he could honestly say he had never felt a moment’s uneasiness. One of his sisters-in-law had suggested — trying to annoy him — that he lacked imagination; but what did she know about anything, let alone some of his experiences at sea during the long night watches? Things that could make your hair curl if you didn’t keep your wits about you, such as the times when the entire surface of the water had seemed to shine with an ethereal green light and everything else around pitch black. Weird.

Those were the nights for seeing things, he thought as he climbed the back stairs, taking his time. Not that either of his sisters-in-law would have listened even if he’d tried to tell them; neither had ever travelled farther than Margate, and it showed.

He started on the top floor and worked his way along the offices, opening each door to make sure the windows were closed and any electrical equipment turned off, before extinguishing the lights and moving on to the next room.

In the small attic used by Miss Armstrong as a private office he stooped under the sloping ceiling to spend a few moments gazing out at the night sky. Hardly any stars were visible through the amber haze from the street-lamps, unlike the rich, living skies he’d known at sea. He turned away, disappointed as always, but then paused again by her desk to examine the beetles which she kept preserved in liquid in little perspex boxes. Vicious-looking creatures, he always thought; yet she seemed to use them as paperweights. She was so prim and correct about most things, but perhaps they gave her some sort of thrill — it wouldn’t surprise him.

Locking the door behind him, Geoorge continued on his rounds. He had finished the attic floor and was checking the larger offices in the main building when he heard a sudden crack from the direction of the staircase. The sound was almost immediately followed by a low groaning, as of some structure under considerable stress, reminding him of the shell-crippled frigate on which he’d served — his very first ship — and the terrifying experience of nursing her across the rough China Sea to the Singapore naval dockyard. That’s just how she’d groaned as she threatened to break up.

Another groan shuddered through the building, much longer this time. He pulled himself together and hurried along the corridor to investigate.

‘Not on your father’s bloody yacht now, George-boy,’ he muttered to himself, if you don’t find out, there’s no one else will. But what the hell is going on?’

Again the sound came, like a long-drawn-out, rending thunder-clap, yet he could see nothing out of the ordinary. The empty corridor looked much as it always did at night, so well-lit that it emphasised the darkness of the stair-well. He fumbled at the light switches and the strip tubes flickered on, swaying a little perhaps. No sign of anything wrong with the stairs or bannisters.

One more groan — from the lower floor, he thought — and this time it left him with a crazy mental picture of some wounded animal lying down there, roaring in pain.

‘Huh, no imagination, is it?’ he grumbled., still on the top step and feeling reluctant to go any farther down. ‘Like to see what she’d do now, silly bitch.’

He peered down over the bannisters, trying to spot the trouble, his legs unwilling to move until he had a clearer idea of what to expect. Bob was right, the old sod, he decided.. There was something odd about the old building that night, and it wasn’t just the central heating having a grumble, either.

“Best go down an’ have a shufty, I s’ppose,’ he said aloud, gripping his torch. ‘No point ditherin’ up here.’ The bannister felt fins enough, so he tried putting some of his weight on the top stair; no problem there either; nor with the next one. Slowly, he made his way down the flight, still holding on firmly with one hand in case one of the timber treads did give way. Two hundred years old at least, they must be, despite some necessary maintenance from time to time.

But they were solid enough., he discovered; nothing shaky about them, anyroad. Whatever was causing those groans, it could not be the staircase.

No damage on the next floor either, not visible damage.. He heard a couple more groans — closer now, though perhaps not as fierce as the first had been — but when he switched on the next cluster of strip lights he found everything was as it should be. It was a mystery, the whole business, he thought. He continued on his way downstairs, rubbing the side of his chin as he turned it over in his mind, wondering if he shouldn’t ring somebody to report it.

The beetles appeared when he was half-way down. A little scratching noise — just as Bob had described — and then there they were, half a dozen of them, at least, on the steps just below him, waiting. On the wall at the side of the stairs, the old panelling had split in several places and more of the hard pink-and-green insects were emerging through the gaps. Big buggers, he noticed, with claws he wouldn’t like to tangle with.

He stopped and watched them cautiously. Then, glancing back to make sure that the steps above were still free of them, he began to retreat to the floor he had just left. No way was he going to tackle those beetles unaided, not after all he’d heard about them.

That was when he saw more on the corridor, scampering across the parquet flooring.

‘Holy Mary!’

More were joining them every second, crawling over one another as they began to form a menacing half-circle round him. Their colours glinted attractively under the strip lighting; their claws flexed as they moved forward. Below, the beetles gathering on the stairs were already beginning to swarm up towards him.

His shoulder brushed against the fire extinguisher which was kept on a bracket at the head of the staircase. What use it would be against the beetles he’d no means of telling, but it was his only chance. There were so many of them on the corridor, closing in on him, forcing him back to the stairs where the others were waiting, that he felt completely trapped. *

‘Christ, they’re only bloody beetles!’ he lectured himself as he hastily fumbled with the fire extinguisher, but nothing could stop the panic rising inside him, the sickness in his belly, the dryness in his throat.

Too many of ’em, his mind nagged at him. Too many o’ the buggers. It was the claws he couldn’t stand the sight of, those flexing, serrated claws…

Bringing the nozzle up, he squeezed the trigger control for one short, quick burst. The effect made him cry out in triumph. It was like spraying the beetles with crushed, powdered ice, they lay motionless, glistening like Christmas decorations'wherever the stuff hit them, while those on either side, sensing the danger, scattered in confusion.

He could have walked across them as easily as he might tread on fallen leaves in a winter landscape, but some instinct made him glance back at the stairs. The foremost beetles had almost reached his feet, while some of the stragglers, with a quick whirring of invisible wings, were hopping up to join them. Directing the nozzle at them, he sprayed the stairs generously.

More movement was now audible from behind him but this time he didn’t wait, realising that sopner or later the fire extinguisher would be exhausted, leaving Mm defenceless. On the corridor the ‘snow’ his CO2 had created was already melting and the limbs of the frozen beetles were beginning to jerk back into life.

He headed down the stairs, calling out for Bob as he went. ‘Bob! Bob!’

Something moved in his hair; and on his collar — or was it merely imagination? He shifted the fire extinguisher into his other hand, but before he could investigate one more Soud groan shattered the silence. It was followed by two loud cracks and he felt the stairs trembling.

‘Bob!’ he yelled out, hurrying down. ‘For God’s sake, Bob, where the hell are you?’

Taking the steps two at a time, his foot suddenly slid from beneath him. He landed hard on his back, then rolled uncontrollably over and over until he hit the bottom, skidding over the polished floor. It must have been in that same second that the horrifying tearing, wrenching noises began and the entire wooden staircase collapsed in on itself, taking the decorated bannisters and a large part of the old wall-panelling with it.

Painftiliy George got to his feet. Nothing broken, he thanked God, though he was bruised all over and every movement was agony. On his jacket he found a beetle, its claws limp, probably broken; he brushed it off easily and stamped on it. The used fire extinguisher he left lying where it had fallen.

‘Bob!’ he shouted again, limping over to their room. Lazy bugger probably had the television too loud, he thought, though how anyone could have failed to hear that row was beyond him.

Telephone for help, that was his duty, he knew. A 999 call for an ambulance.. fire brigade… oh, for God’s sake they must send somebody. That movement on his collar was still there, he could feel it crawling on to his neck, exploring… He wanted to put his hand up to — Jesus, that hurt! He must have pulled a muscle, he realised. He couldn’t raise his arm… couldn’t…

‘Bob, you sod!’ he started to say as he reached the room, their little cubby-bole where they could have a quick brew-up. But in the doorway he stopped dead. ‘Holy Mary, Mother of God.. ’

His lips formed the words, but they were no longer meant as curses. This time he was genuinely praying in a way he’d seldom prayed before, not since his ship had been shelled off the coast of Korea, his first action, while still only an ordinary seaman, less than six months in the Andrew and so scared he shit himself.

He was scared again now. His bowels rambled in protest.

Bob lay arched across the seat of his chair, his dead eyes staring upwards. A long, pale, snake-like thing fed on his exposed throat. It looked up and stared at George with hard eyes, the blood slobbering from its hideous mouth.

Must phone, he thought. Whatever happens, must phone for help. An warn people.

Shaking, he picked up the receiver, dialling 999 by sense of touch only, not daring to take his eyes away from that thing across the room. It was such a slow business waiting for the dial to spin back after each figure, it seemed like an eternity. Still the snake didn't move; it remained raised over the dead fireman as though undecided what to do about this newcomer.

There was blood on his neck; or sweat. He could feel it trickling down under his collar, then over his skin, prickling and sensitive to every' change. Blood — must be, though he dared not look away from that snake.

He dialled the third 9, his hand trembling.

More like a giant grub, it was, its segments bulging like over-stuffed sacks and glistening damply. It still didn’t move, and nor did he. The number at the other end was ringing, but no one was answering.

Then, in a flash it shot across the room and its mouth' fastened over Ms throat. He strutted, trying to tug it dear, but the pain was too intense; Ms arms were merely flailing in the air, unable to grip anything. He stumbled back against a chair, knocking it over, and he fell with it.

'Can I help you?’ the girl's voice reached him from the receiver. ‘Hello? What service do you want, please? Hello?’

‘Worth Hall,’ he gasped. ‘Snakes. Worth Hall.’.

The obscene wMte slug shifted, coiling over bis face, its mouth still fiercely sucking at his neck with such power that he felt his blood-vessels bursting under the pressure and knew that his blood was being hungrily drawn out. His arms and legs were tingling — which was odd, he thought. No rush of wind around him. That’s what he’d have expected.. failing… falling… down from the clouds… he’d have expected wind, gale force.

He floated. So gently.

Not on water. No, he wasn’t at sea any longer. He was floating down through the air, quietly cushioned, like one of those gliding seagulls he’d so often envied.

They spread wide their wings, quite effortlessly. Skimming down over the surface of the waves.

‘Hello? Hello?’ someone was saying, some girl.

Hello.