John Halkin

BLOODWORM

1

It was one of those desolate London days when the light was grey and the blackened leafless trees seemed to claw at the sky. By the calendar, winter was already over though as yet there was no hint of spring in the air.

Grumbling to himself, his bones chilled to the marrow, the tramp picked his way through the rubble strewn over the short rump of road leading to the old school. On either side the houses were boarded up and empty. Every couple of yards he stopped to get his second wind. Not the man he used to be, he wasn’t. Who would recognise him now?

For a start he had too much kit with him, stuffed into old shopping bags which he had to lug around everywhere, growing heavier with every step. He hadn’t the strength to go any faster, not like the days in Burma when he’d led his platoon through the jungle for three months before those jap planes had machine-gunned the lifeblood out of them. All but three. No, he hadn’t the strength now.

He crossed the school playground, all pitted and broken, then tugged back the corrugated metal sheeting from the doorway, at any rate far enough to allow him to squeeze in. Like having a front door of his own again; once inside he could pull it back into place, shut out the world, be private. He liked that. Approved of it. Though why they wanted to let a good school go to ruin he couldn’t understand. Seemed a waste. Put up in the days when they knew how to build. Solid, old-fashioned workmanship; none of your modem tat.

The beetles emerged to greet him as he went into his usual classroom, and his heart warmed at the sight of them. Like little jewels they were, their heads a deep, rich green and their bodies hard pink, though with green and yellow patches.

‘Hello, my beauties! Glad to see me back, are ye? Turned out on parade to welcome your oP tramp, all present an’ correct?’

For a moment the beetles were absolutely still, about two dozen of them spread out in a loose grouping over the floorboards; then, as if moved by a sudden wave of recognition, they began to scurry about his feet, and more came out of the woodwork to join them.

‘All present an’ correct, are we?’ he repeated contentedly. ‘Like to see that.’

Setting his kit down, he made himself comfortable on the low wooden platform in front of the blackboard, where the teacher must have stood in the old days, ready to whack any young lout with his pointer.

‘You’d not be around then,’ he told the beetles as he groped into his carrier bag to see what food the woman at the Plough had given him this time. A few weeks ago she’d caught him going through the dustbins at the back, hoping for some stale bread rolls and maybe a bit of ham; since then she’d always put a bit out for him, properly wrapped too. ‘No, that’d be before your time,’ he went on, investigating the plastic bag. ‘In them days they’d have put powder down to destroy you. Caretakers! Vicious buggers, caretakers!’

He grunted in surprise. With the end of a packet of sliced bread he found an unopened tin of sardines. Never been touched. Must have a soft spot for him, that woman.

‘Must have a soft spot,’ he said aloud.

The beetles were gathering closer to him, their gem-like bodies gleaming in the weak light, the claw-like antlers growing out of their heads warning their enemies to stay well clear. That was what he liked about them: no one could ever mess them about. Same as he’d been in his day. He’d walked alone. Most men had known better than to try tangling with him.

‘Like an’ like, we are,’ he grunted as he fitted the key over the lip of metal and began turning it to open the sardine tin. Drops of olive oil dripped on to his fingers and he licked them. ‘Like an’ like!’

It was the sound of his voice that attracted them, he guessed; same way he’d talked to the geckos out East; spiders, too, come to that. Anything that crawled; anything that didn’t give a damn. Scorpions, that young python he’d discovered in the monsoon drain outside his billet, hornets, a cobra.. Fellow feeling, they used to say in the sergeants’ mess. Stupid bastards who knew nothing.

‘Urgh… fuck!’

The edge of the peeling tin lid caught the loose skin between his thumb and his hand, slicing sharply into it. Instinctively his grasp loosened, but he grabbed the tin again as it slipped from his fingers, which resulted in a jagged cut across his palm. The blood welled up. He stared, cursing, as it flowed over the deep lines and ridges before dripping to the floor.

Even at that point he didn’t realise the significance of what was happening. He felt in his pocket for a handkerchief — no better really than a dirty snot-rag — to wrap round the wound, not aware of how the beetles were reacting.

First one.. then another.. and a third… all gathering where the blood on the floorboards was still thick and wet…

He could sense one on his foot and glanced quickly down in time to see a generous dollop of his own deep red blood fall directly on its head. In a flash three other beetles had joined it and were busy ripping it to pieces with their sharp claws.

‘Bloody hell, not your own kind!’ he exclaimed, shocked and fascinated at the sight. ‘Didn’t know you buggers did that sort o’ thing!’

Deliberately he held out his hand to let more of his blood drip on to the beetles, chuckling as he observed the effect it was having. A real free-for-all, with beetles crawling over each other, tearing each other apart.

Then the claws penetrated his tom sock, nipping into his ankle; razor-sharp, the way he’d liked to hone his commando knife. He stared down at his foot but it was no longer visible under that mass of green and pink beetles.

‘Gerroff, will yer! Gerroff!’

He tried to shake them off but they were already hooked into his skin; some were climbing his trouser leg, biting into the soft calf-flesh.

‘Ob, bloody hell!’’

Bending down, he slapped at his leg in an attempt to squash them; he succeeded only in covering himself with more blood. It was soaking into his clothes, attracting yet more beetles. They scrambled over him so rapidly, he’d no chance of brushing them off.

By now he was standing up, backing away towards the door, ordering himself to stay cool, to fight down that terrible panic which was arising within him. He had to escape… had to get out… back to the corrugated iron over the door.. squeeze through the gap…

But the classroom held him prisoner. He felt for the door but couldn’t find it. There was only a blank wail, and the fearful knowledge that they were in the room with him.

They were flying at him, those beetles, and landing on his coat… his collar… his face.. Eating into his hand — no, both hands! Penetrating his shirt, exploring up his sleeves, down his neck, and everywhere cutting him with those sharp claws.

‘No door in this room.’ His voice? Scared? ‘No bloody way out. Prisoner. Jap bastards won’t take me prisoner. Rather die. Rather fuckin’ die first. D’ye bear me?'

On his knees now. Jap officer’s sword out. Could see the sun on the blade. All right, you bastard, why don’t you use it? Get it over with? Oh, Jesus, he was using the point. Probing the soft skin of the belly. Cutting bit by bit. Probing. Penetrating.

No, not a sword now. They’d tied him down over sharpened bamboo, smothered him with honey to let the ants feed… the driver ants… he could feel them inside him.. moving about beneath his skin.. Oh, shit that hurts!

The wetness was his own blood seeping out, and the crawling movement — his mind cleared momentarily — came not from jungle ants but from those merciless beetles. He realised he had slumped forward on the floorboards, squirming in agony and then, with a sudden spasm, rolled over on to his back, where he lay spread-eagled, a sacrifice to them.

London, was that where he was now?

Through the intense pain his thoughts still struggled though he knew he was helpless.

Burma?

‘Sergeant Childers, sir!’ he heard himself mumbling. ‘All present and correct, sir! Three survivors, sir! Rest o’ the men… bought it. Sir'.’

2

‘Kath’s disappeared!’

Guy Archer had arrived home from the office late and in a foul mood, only to be greeted by his wife Dorothea’s worried statement. Before he had even put down his briefcase she had launched into a detailed rigmarole about how their eleven-year-old daughter had gone off to play after school, nothing strange about that, of course, nor in not coming back for tea — but once it began to get dark that was a different matter, wasn’t it?

Wearily he agreed that it was.

‘It isn’t like Kath. She’s always home before dark.’

‘She must be at some friend’s house, surely. Have you phoned around?’

‘Everybody. All her friends from school and her ballet class. Guy, we must do something!’

‘Kath’s level-headed. She’s sensible.’ More so than her mother, he thought.

‘Then why isn’t she home?’

‘Maybe she’s as fed up as I am!’ he snapped incautiously, his patience paper-thin that evening. The stripped woodwork was still waiting to be painted, the carpet rolled up, the floorboards bare. ‘This place isn’t exactly comfortable, is it?’

She snorted, but without replying. They’d had this argument a dozen times before. ‘Guy, you’ve got to go and look for her. Now listen, I’ll tell you where she might be.’

He had spoken more sharply than he intended, but that evening he was in one hell of a bad mood. His mouth tasted foul from too much wine at that disastrous business lunch when everything had gone wrong; his head ached at the memory of it. They had lost the big contract, of course — that went without saying — and the responsibility' was his, though the directors were being generous. He must have made every mistake in the book. Here he was, a month away from his thirty-sixth birthday, having thrown away his regular-army commission a year earlier to get his foot on the ladder in the business world before he was too old — and what had happened?

A total balls-up.

We need your sort of experience, the directors had flattered him in their headhunting interviews when he was still in uniform: A levels, B.Sc. from a trendy new-style university, then Sandhurst, service in Cyprus, Northern Ireland, Germany, the Falklands, where he’d picked up that scar across his right temple: it all added up to an impressive CV.

Impressive?

Christ, any eighteen-year old straight out of school could have put up a better performance.

Any babe in arms.

The trouble with the Army, he thought, was that it was too bloody innocent. It didn’t prepare you for human duplicity. It kept you isolated from what went on in the world.

It had been the Army which had put him through university. Straight after A-levels he’d taken a leaflet from one of their recruiting stands and filled in the coupon, not telling anybody, not even his family, until after he’d passed the medical. Financially he’d been better off than other students and his only military duties had been a few hours’ training corps drill each week plus camp in the vacations.

After three years — once he’d picked up a decent science degree — the Army increased the pressure, subjecting him to intensive square-bashing, weapon instruction, assault courses, survival exercises (two men from his batch failed this part and Guy was one of those detailed to be a pall-bearer) and lectures on tactics, until finally he found himself commissioned as a lieutenant.

He imagined he knew it all, and so — in a way — he did: how to kill with a gun, with a knife, with his bare hands, even; how to stay aiive for days on end on a storm-racked mountainside; everything except how to detect the untruths behind a smooth tongue. God, he’d been so bloody naive, it was unbelievable!

Even after his Northern Ireland stint — his descent into hell, he called it — which had brought him promotion to captain, even after the Falldands and his weeks in hospital, he still kept his innocence. The Army had no training programme for the type of jungle warfare he was now encountering in the business world. Computers, yes; technology, yes; but that was the sum of it.

What made him really sick was the realisation that his company had been deceived all along the line. In good faith they had tendered to organise the computerisation — hardware, software, the whole package — of all customer interface operations of a national retail chain, and sent their top specialists to attend the pre-planning sessions, providing all the preliminary advice demanded, only to discover too late that the final contract was to go to another company. Japs, at that.

‘Guy, are you listening to me?’ Dorothea demanded furiously, cutting across his thoughts. ‘You’re not listening!’

‘Yes I am, love.’

At that she flared up, yelling that if anything was wrong with their marriage, he was to blame, not her. God knew she’d tried hard enough! She rued the day he’d ever left the Army, throwing up a good career, because he’d been quite impossible to live with since.

All of which was probably true, but he was in no state of mind to admit it. He fetched his leather jacket, out of habit thrust a torch into his pocket, and declared he was going out to search for Kath.

‘What about the police?’ Dorothea bellowed at him, every fold quivering with anger. She had always been well-fleshed — it still attracted him — but these days she was putting on even more weight. ‘Am I to call them or not?’

‘I don’t know.’ He hesitated. ‘Why not try her friends again first, then the police if you’ve no luck? Doro-love, I’m sure she’s with one of her friends.’

A quick peck to reassure her, then he escaped.

Part of the trouble was that it was a mixed district: decaying Georgian houses, each with a flight of worn steps in front and a yard at the rear. No gardens, nowhere for the kids to play except in the street among the parked cars and builders’ skips. Cheap lets, most of the flats; though a growing number of houses were being expensively reconverted into smart family dwellings. Their own house had been Dorothea’s lucky find, and mainly her money too; in his opinion, moving here had been a mistake, but that was something she’d never admit.

He decided to try Worth Road first. It was the main shopping street, from which all other roads radiated like so many ribs, and an obvious place for kids to congregate. The yellow glare from the harsh sodium lighting lent it a spurious air of excitement, daubing the red London buses with a death-like tinge.

Outside the neon-illuminated amusement arcade a group of black-clad bikers were noisily revving their engines. As he approached they roared off through the traffic, leaving the pavement strewn with discarded fried chicken cartons and coke cans.

But Kath was not in the amusement arcade, neither among the one-armed bandits, nor playing Star Wars. He experienced a pang of disappointment, having been convinced this was where she might be. Moving on, he glanced quickly into McDonald’s, then two smaller cafes. Even into the Plough.

No sign of her.

Nor in the Asian grocer’s, which was still open; nor in the Chinese takeaway.

On the comer he stopped to think it through. Apart from computer games at which she regularly beat him, Kath’s only real passion was ballet, so might she not simply be hanging round the hall where she went for her classes? It made sense.

The ballet school had taken over an unwanted church hall in a gloomy, down-at-heel street backing on to the railway line. He found the place in darkness. The door was firmly locked but there was a bell-push, which he pressed. From the depths inside he heard the bell ringing, but no one came to answer it. With the aid of his torch he deciphered the pale lettering on the noticeboard and discovered this was the only weekday when there were no evening classes.

At first Guy had simply felt irritated when Dorothea told him Kath was missing; he assumed she had merely forgotten the time, the way kids do. But now he was distinctly uneasy. How little they really knew about their own child, he thought. They had no idea what she was like away from her parents. Was she easily led by other people? Easily scared?

Then he had one of those sudden hunches that can twist a man’s guts into tight knots. Farther along the same street was a cul-de-sac which led to the disused church school — St John’s, or some such name. Hadn’t he heard stories of kids playing in there? Drugs.. sex…?

Jesus, be prayed he was wrong!

It was no man’s land, that cul-de-sac, its houses boarded up awaiting demolition, the air stinking of urine and decaying garbage, the street-lamps smashed, all but one at the far end. His feet crunched over broken glass as he picked his way along.

‘Kath?’ he called tentatively. ‘Kath, are you there?’

No response.

He reached the school, a Victorian structure with pointed gables outlined sombrely against the amber haze of the urban night sky. Over the doors and windows old sheets of corrugated iron had been nailed; even in the weak light of his torch it was obvious where the comers had been bent back to make it possible to climb in. The largest gaps he found were at the main entrance, which consisted of two separate doorways side by side with the words BOYS and GIRLS cut into the stone lintels above them.

Guy leaned in. ‘Kath?’ he shouted. ‘Are you hiding in there?’

His voice echoed through the building, but there was no reply. Carefully he climbed in, cursing as he caught his leg against a protruding nail. He found himself in the cloakroom area and played the light of his torch over the rows of low hooks where generations of children had hung their coats: generations of unwashed, sweating, sneezing, coughing, farting kids, who had all contributed towards that characteristic smell which lingered, ingrained in the woodwork. From his own schooldays he remembered it; and from the ancient drill halls and barrack rooms which were still pan: of the War Office establishment.

‘Kath?’

Still no answer. Yet she might be here, lying injured, perhaps. He had to make certain.

It was pitch dark inside and his torch was not too effective. Searching the cloakroom section was a slow business but he did it thoroughly, satisfying himself that Kath was not there before going on to the first classroom which — if anything — seemed even darker. Keeping to the wall, he stumbled against some obstruction which rattled alarmingly. As he shone his torch on it, he saw it was an old blackboard suspended on pulleys enabling it to be raised and lowered within its wooden frame. It was covered with obscene graffiti, aerosol work, evidence that at least some kids had been there.

He swung the torchlight away from it, intending to continue his search, and in that moment he spotted the first beetle. It stood absolutely still: a pink, oval body with dark green and yellow spots. Approximately one inch long, he estimated, with claw-like mandibles — also green — extending perhaps another half inch: not its most attractive feature. In all his travels he had never before seen anything resembling it.

Except perhaps a stag-beetle, he thought; not with that colouring, though. It looked dangerous.

That made it all the more urgent for him to find Kath. If she were lying hurt somewhere and one of these chappies came along… He shuddered as he looked at those claws. ‘Kath!’ he tried once more. ‘Ka-a-ath! Ka-~’

Her name died on his lips as he realised a second beetle was watching him, definitely watching him, its hard body gleaming faintly in the torchlight. Others too came scurrying towards him in the darkness. He was acutely conscious of a whispering, scraping sound as they moved.

‘This is ridiculous!’ he said aloud. He felt definitely uneasy. Uncertain of himself. Yet they were only ordinary beetles, after all — weren’t they? ‘Ordinary bloody beetles!’

But were they? There were so many of them.

None had yet come close to him — the nearest were about three feet away — but in the torchlight he could see how they were grouped in an almost perfect half-circle around him, wall to wall, as if to block his escape. All facing him, not in disciplined lines, of course; there was plenty of creeping about going on, crawling over each other. Nevertheless, he could swear they were deliberately keeping him under observation.

‘For Chrissake, pull yourself together, man!’ Guy muttered, his army training reasserting itself.

He took a step towards them, expecting them to scatter. Instead, one darted forward and mounted his shoe, exploring the naked leg above his sock where the nail had scratched him. Before he could get rid of it, several more joined it.

Suddenly they were swarming all over him.

‘Bloody hell!’ he swore, bending down in an attempt to knock them away.

It was then he felt the first nips. The pain was intense, as if someone were cutting into his flesh with a jagged saw. He grabbed one and it struggled between his fingers, tightening its grip on him till he was gasping in agony. As he squeezed that hard body, a vile stench enveloped his mouth and nostrils; coughing, retching, he managed to tug the beetle clear but its claws remained hanging feebly from his blood-stained sock, which only attracted more beetles.

Some flew at him, taking off for a short crazy flight to alight on his clothes, on his hair, their extended mandibles clawing into the leather of his jacket, into the skin of his neck, the lobe of his ear…

‘Jesus!’

What came from his throat was no more than a croaking whisper. He thought he’d known fear in the Falklands… in Northern Ireland… but never anything like this. Desperately he tried to brush them away, recoiling, reeling, shielding his eyes against them, aware of the pain.. the blood…

He had to get out. His training took over, his mind sharpened. There was only one way, so why hesitate? He had to force himself to do it.

Hordes of pink, menacing beetles still covered the floorboards between him and the door he could see just faintly beyond them. He straightened up and strode purposefully through them, marching as if on parade, compelling his mind to concentrate on that one objective. Their hard exoskeletons cracked and squelched beneath his feet. The vile, acrid smell returned, catching in his throat, making every breath an effort.

From out of the darkness more beetles came flying against him with a rapid whirring of invisible wings, but he staggered on, his shoes slipping over the slimy body-pulp. They were crawling around his ears… exploring his nostrils… slithering down inside his jacket… up his sleeves.. biting wherever they found flesh.

‘Kath!’ he roared helplessly, realising he couldn’t take much more; he was almost on his knees. ‘Kath, for God’s sake shout if you’re here!’ He spat one out of his mouth.

Then — unexpectedly, unbelievably — he broke out of the half-circle and reached the door, though the beetles were still all over him. Grabbing the doorframe to steady himself, he drew a deep breath. His face was dripping blood, he knew; he could feel it trickling down his neck. Tentatively he touched his skin, found the beetle just beneath his jaw and with a snort of repugnance he tugged it off.

Get out, his mind told him dully. Can’t stop here.. had it if you stop here…

But this was the wrong doorway, leading not the way he’d come in, but into another classroom. His torchlight flickered unsteadily; he could scarcely stand any longer. Slowly, wearily, the ideas taking shape only reluctantly in his mind, he began to understand what that foul smell was doing to him. It must be some sort of defence mechanism… a tranquillising poison used to lower their victims’ resistance.

Got to master it, he thought. Question of will-power. Kill the buggers one by one. Then get out of here. Out.

Carefully he let go of the doorframe, transferring the torch to his left hand. The veering light-beam revealed a sight which left him momentarily motionless with shock, as if a massive electric voltage had suddenly pulsed through him.

On the low patform before the blackboard lay a man’s body spreadeagled like so much carrion, its face destroyed — all but the accusing eyes — and its abdomen open to the air, exposed, while several long, pale snakelike creatures appeared to be feeding on it with slobbering mouths.

‘ U-u-uh/’ he gasped, recoiling at the horror of it, his stomach turning over.

Nothing he had experienced in action in the Army had prepared him for that terrible charnel-house vision. His torch rolled across the floorboards as he staggered backwards into the darkness, all reason gone from his tortured mind. Blindly he collided with some invisible object which seemed to give way; then he heard the rending and groaning of collapsing timber; the air filled with an abrasive sour dust which choked up his nostrils, and he realised the room was tumbling around him.

He felt a blow across his shoulders. He was falling: a long slow free fall.. arms and legs spread.. sky a pure black… a rich, velvet blackness which gently… so very gently.. absorbed him.

3

‘Beetles?’

The question was sardonic.

‘That’s right, sir,’ Detective-Sergeant ‘Evan’ Evans repeated steadily. ‘Beetles.’

He was a hefty, broad-shouldered man, big-fisted, with a bluff, heavy voice which bore traces of the Welsh hills and valleys of his childhood. Not a man who was easily thrown, as this smooth-faced uniformed superintendent had yet to discover.

‘Some of his injuries were undoubtedly caused when the school roof collapsed. The joists were riddled with holes like a cheese, just eaten away, whether by the same beetles or not is another question. But they definitely attacked him too. There are witnesses.’

‘Are you sure someone isn’t having you on, Evan?’ ‘Quite sure, sir.’ Why argue, he thought.

‘His name’s Archer, you say?’

‘Guy Archer. Local resident.’

‘What was he doing in the school in the first place?’ ‘Searching for his missing daughter, so his wife says.’ Ironically, he added, the little girl had returned home of her own accord only minutes after her father left to look for her. She had spun some yam about having tried to phone more than once but each time found the line engaged. It could be true, but you could never really be sure what kids were up to. Parents were right to be worried.

‘You’re saying this man Archer might have died if the two teenagers hadn’t chanced along when they did?’ the superintendent commented when he had finished. ‘He’s lucky they reported it instead of just making themselves scarce.’

‘Oh, they did better than that,’ Evan told him pointedly. ‘They managed to raise the beam which was pinning him down and get him out. Quite a risk they took. They could easily have brought the whole building down on top of them.’

‘Hm.’

The superintendent put on his thoughtful look. It was no more than six weeks since he had arrived to take charge of Worth Road’s gleaming concrete police station; six weeks of growing unpopularity. He was a slim, ambitious man in a tailored uniform, his dark hair plastered down. The last of the Brylcreem boys. His nickname ‘Mack’ — short for Machiavelli — had followed him from his previous job. It was Evan’s misfortune that morning to have run into him in the corridor as he was about to leave — when was he not? — for an important top-brass pow-wow at Scotland Yard.

‘And the other body?’ he was asking.

‘In a bit of a mess. They left it there. Once they got Archer out, the boy stayed with him while the girl went to call an ambulance.’

‘You believe them?’

‘Yes, sir. Until someone proves I shouldn’t.’

‘A tramp, I think you said?’

‘The tramp,’ Evan corrected him. ‘Our tramp. That’s who we judge it to be from his clothes, at any rate, and from those plastic bags he carted around with him.’

‘You’re not certain?’

‘The body was badly decomposed. His face had gone.’

‘Why d’you say “our” tramp?’

‘Everyone round here knew him. You must have seen him yourself. Down at the tube station perhaps?’

Before the superintendent could reply, the corridor loudspeaker began to crackle. Telephone call for Detective-Sergeant Evans, the switchboard girl’s voice announced. He excused himself and returned to his office.

‘Detective-Sergeant Evans here,’ he grunted into the mouthpiece.

A high-pitched male voice greeted him and immediately launched into a distasteful list of post-mortem details, repeating them relentlessly to make sure there could be no misunderstanding. As far as they could judge from a body in that state, the tramp had died at least five days earlier. No obvious foul play.

‘That doesn’t mean he wasn’t injured, but merely that the maggots left him so mangled up we can’t be absolutely certain.’ There was a rustle of paper at the other end, then the voice brightened. ‘That’s about it. Interim report only, of course. My hunch, for what it’s worth, is that he died through loss of blood. I’ve seldom come across a body so drained.’

Evan dropped the receiver back on its cradle and vigorously cleared his ear with his little finger. Bloody pathologists, he thought. He didn’t know which he disliked most: the older, hardened types who revelled in macabre jokes, or these bright whizz-kids, all so eager to prove themselves they spared you nothing. After twenty-three years on the force this sort of stuff still made him feel queasy.

Twenty-three bloody years! Now even in his bath he looked like a copper; no one could mistake him for anything else. An archetypal thief-catcher — he knew that was how Mack viewed him — the sort who’d forget to wipe the mud off his boots before treading on the commissioner’s carpet. But then he’d never be invited to cross the threshold anyway.

He realised it was high time he got moving if he was to keep his appointment with the borough engineer. He paused long enough to glance into the adjoining room, where he could hear Detective-Constable McNair’s two-finger typing as he fought a losing battle against the growing mountain of paperwork.

‘Jim, I’m going back to St John’s School to have another mooch around before they knock the place down,’ he called in. ‘Ring the hospital again, will you, to check if the patient is fit enough yet to be questioned.’ Jim McNair looked up from his war-scarred typewriter. ‘He was still out last time I tried.’

‘Well, if he comes round, get down there right away, will you? Don’t wait for me.’

‘Do we know how the old tramp died?’

‘Nothing conclusive. But I can’t believe it was beetles. This isn’t the Amazon jungle, for Chrissake!’

He was still thinking about beetles when he made the mistake of trying to leave the station through the public reception area, only to be waylaid by a middle-aged West Indian who jumped up from the benches the moment he saw him.

‘Mr Evans, I want to know why you’re holding my son.’ The man blocked his path, obviously upset. ‘You think ’cos we black you can do anything you like? What’s wrong with you people? He was trying to help.’

‘You’re Mr—?’ Vaguely he recalled having seen the West Indian before, but where? Hadn’t he been a prosecution witness in that hit-and-run traffic case? Not one of his, but he had been at the magistrate’s court that day. Was that it?

‘My name’s Palmer, Mr Evans, so don’t try denying you’ve got my son in there.’

Evan saw light.

‘Jesus, is Byron Palmer still here?’ he exploded, all the fury of his Welshness breaking through. ‘You’re Mr Palmer, are you? Well, just sit down, Mr Palmer, while I check what’s going on.’

He strode back along the corridor to the interview room, where he found the black teenager who had rescued Archer still sitting at the table coolly checking through his statement. The detective-constable stood at his shoulder.

‘OK, lad?’ he was demanding aggressively as Evans went in. ‘That’s the story you’re sticking to, is it?’

This young DC was lining himself up for a stinking bad report, Evans promised himself sourly. He had disliked the man from the first moment he set eyes on that cropped blond hair and leering, surly face. Nothing in the intervening months had persuaded him to change his mind.

‘What’s going on?’

‘Lord Byron here refused to sign the first statement. Wasn’t good enough for him.’

‘What was wrong with it, Byron?’

‘They weren’t my words,’ the boy said reasonably. ‘What I said had been paraphrased. I didn’t feel I could sign it.’

The DC began to protest but Evan stopped him. The lad was trying it on, seeing how far he could get; as he was still at school studying for A levels it was not surprising he should react this way to the DC’s bullying. And he was a witness after all, not a suspect.

‘Let’s have a look at your statement, Byron,’ he requested.

The lad gave it to him and he skimmed quickly through it. At least his handwriting was clear and easy to read. In all important respects it agreed with what the girl had told them.

‘He still won’t say why he took the girl into the school in the first place,’ the DC pointed out.

Byron’s face darkened.

‘Well, he wasn’t looking for the crown jewels, that’s for sure,’ Evan commented sarcastically, feeling his aversion to the man growing with every minute that passed. He handed the statement back. ‘Just sign it, Byron, will you, then run along. You’ll find your father waiting outside.’

‘And another thing,’ the DC insisted as they stood watching the lad meticulously signing and dating every sheet. ‘How come these beetles didn’t attack you?’

‘They ran off, didn’t they. Like cockroaches run off if you tread near them.’ He didn’t even bother to look up from his writing as he answered. ‘All ’cept a few that were on this guy, an’ they’d gone too by the time we’d got him out from under that joist. One o’ them nipped me, though.’

He pushed his statement over to Evan, stood up and rolled his sock down to reveal a Band-Aid on the brown skin of his ankle.

‘Nipped me through the sock,’ he explained. ‘It bloody hurt. Like sharp scissors.’

‘OK,’ Evan said, getting tired of all this stuff about beetles. There was enough unsolved crime on the books without having to hunt killer insects into the bargain. ‘Cut along, will you, and go gently on your father. He’s worried. If there’s anything more we want to know we’ll be in touch. You’ll probably be called to give evidence at the inquest too, so be ready for it.’

‘And Sharon?’ Byron asked.

‘Any reason why she shouldn’t?’

‘No.’

‘OK, then.’

Impatiently, Evan jammed his foot down on the accelerator and twisted the wheel to shoot into a gap in the increasing traffic. There was an angry trumpeting protest from the car he had so rudely overtaken but he ignored it. He pulled across to the nearside lane and turned into the residential street which led to the disused school.

Beetles! he thought, disgusted.

More to the point, he had to discover how the tramp had died. Natural causes was the obvious explanation. He visualised him crawling into the old school simply to find a corner where he could be ill without interference from any of the local do-gooders. From time to time several people had tried to help him but all he had ever wanted was to be left alone. He would carry his things around in those plastic shopping bags, heading for the warmth of the tube station in winter, or a cool spot in the shade during the hot summer, moving on without a murmur when he was told, no bother to anyone.

Never been seen begging, either. And if some good soul offered him anything, the most he had been known to accept was a hot drink or a couple of fags.

He had never looked well, so his death came as no surprise to Evan when he was called to the school the previous night. Not a pretty sight, those tiny white maggots, pale as tripe, feeding on him like so much carrion, yet his first hunch was that it was probably a natural death. There was no feeling of violence about the way the body lay; if anything, he seemed totally at peace.

Of course, hunches were not enough. Evan could already hear the scorn in his inspector’s voice as he demanded if they were being favoured with more of his famous Welsh second sight. No, he would need more evidence than that. But —

The problem with hunches, he decided as he changed down, was that however groundless they might be, they still nagged away at you like a sore tooth. You could not ignore them.

He left his car on the street at the top of the cul-de-sac, not wishing to risk his tyres driving over all that debris. The panda car was already there — he could see it parked some way down — and behind it were a battered white van and contractors’ lorry, near which half a dozen workmen stood idly smoking while one of them handed round mugs of tea poured from a Thermos.

A cluster of women — one with a pram — turned to stare at Evan curiously as he skirted the lorry and made for the school gate where he stopped for a brief word with the uniformed constable. It seemed the workmen were refusing to set foot in the building until something was done about the beetles.

‘Has the borough engineer arrived? A Mr Simpkins?’ ‘The bloke with glasses,’ the constable pointed out. ‘Third time here this morning. Local residents are up in arms, worried about their kids. It’s eight years, they tell me, since the council decided to knock this place down.’ Simpkins, an earnest-looking man of about fifty, was in deep discussion with a small group of colleagues in the schoolyard. Earlier on, they had probably taken a look inside, for all wore white safety helmets. As far as Evan could judge, some sort of argument was going on and they must have been piling on the pressure, if Simpkins’ expression was anything to go by. He broke away with obvious relief the moment he saw Evan approaching.

‘I’m Detective-Sergeant Evans, Worth Road CID,’ he introduced himself. ‘Good of you to meet me down here, Mr Simpkins.’

Soft soap never hurt, he thought cynically as he watched the man’s face.

‘Glad to see you, sergeant.’ Simpkins’ voice was dry and brittle. ‘We’ve something here which may interest you. Tony, bring that section of timber across, will you?’ ‘Right!’ Tony called back cheerfully.

Tony was a young, bearded man in working clothes which bore traces of sawdust, no doubt from the freshly sawn edges of the length of old beam which he carried over. It was riddled with worm holes.

‘You see the state it’s in?’ he commented, shaking his head. ‘It’s a miracle the school’s still standing.’

Two other people from the group came over to join them: a brisk, impatient man in a shabby sports jacket with a cluster of pens and pencils in the breast pocket, and an attractive woman in her thirties whose strictly-tailored navy-blue costume made her seem out of place among all the rubble.

‘Miss Armstrong, from the Public Health Department,’ Simpkins announced briefly, making no attempt to disguise his disapproval of her presence. ‘And Bill Jenkins here is my deputy. Tony you know — he’s one of our carpenters. It was Tony and Bill who together risked getting this timber.’

‘It’s pretty obvious from these cross-cuts what the trouble is,’ Bill Jenkins explained crisply, pointing to a section at one end where a wedge-shaped sample had been sliced out of the beam. ‘This is what you’d normally expect with a wood-breeding insect — a network of minute galleries where the larvae have chewed their way through. That’s bad enough, but now look a bit farther on.’

The second cross-cut revealed a pattern of branched galleries, each at least half an inch in diameter, leading deeply into the heart of the timber.

‘These holes are much larger than we’d usually find,’ he went on. ‘And d’you see this cavity here? I’ve never come across anything like it.’

‘The galleries show a similar pattern to those of death-watch beetles,’ Miss Armstrong observed in a cool, factual manner as though quoting from a textbook. ‘But of course these are very much bigger. I’m told the beetles themselves are very colourful. We know very little about them as yet.’

‘They bite,’ Evan informed her.

‘Several beetles bite. It’s not an unknown characteristic. Very few attack human beings, or even come into contact with them. But it can happen.’

‘Can it now?’ He thought of Guy Archer, who had lost so much blood after being bitten that when they got him to hospital he had needed an immediate transfusion. Was this what had happened to the old tramp? If so, he would never be able to prove it. ‘I need to go in there once more,’ he said, making up his mind.

‘You’re just in time then,’ Simpkins told him uncompromisingly. ‘That building has to come down, sergeant. Today. I know we’re not supposed to destroy evidence and al! that, but there’s no way I can accept responsibility for leaving it standing. It’s much too dangerous. Bill here wants even more drastic action.’

Bill Jenkins nodded, turning to him. ‘Bum it down, sergeant, that’s the only way. Douse it in kerosene and let the flames do the job for you.’

‘I don’t agree, of course,’ Simpkins stated, though without getting worked up about it. ‘Demolish first, then bum, that’s the usual way. And the safest. But if, as you say, the men refuse to work on the demolition, we might be left with no choice, though I’d like clearance from the fire brigade first.’

‘While you’re discussing that. I’ll just take a quick scout around,’ Evan intervened drily, not wishing to be drawn into the argument. ‘Then you can get on with whatever you have to do.’

‘You’ll need a hard hat if you’re going inside,’ Simpkins warned him. ‘Better take mine while I have a word with the men. For God’s sake don’t try moving anything, or you could bring down the whole building on top of you. Bill, go with him, will you?’

‘Right.’

i’ll come along too,’ said the woman from the Public Health Department, adjusting the white helmet over her straight blonde hair.

‘You can do just what you want, Miss Armstrong,’

Simpkins said, his annoyance with her showing through again.

‘I shall.’

Evan cursed silently, preferring to be alone when he paid his ‘morning after’ visit to the scene of an incident. The previous night the whole team had been there, scene-of-crime officer included — just in case a crime had been committed. Now all he wanted was a few minutes’ quiet contemplation to help him put his thoughts in order.

But he had no choice, that was plain enough.

The battered sheets of corrugated iron had been removed from both boys’ and girls’ doorways, and some of the rubbish cleared away to make access easier. He was about to enter when Bill Jenkins suddenly stepped in front of him.

‘Mind if I go first, sergeant?’ His voice was quiet but firm. With Simpkins out of the way, Evan noted, he had assumed an air of relaxed authority which suited him. ‘just to check it’s safe.’

Evan nodded, then — after a second or two — followed him in. Miss Armstrong was close behind him. From her quick, uneven breathing he guessed she must be more nervous than she had seemed.

They were in the cloakroom area, which he remembered from last night. Its parallel rows of black metal frames studded with coat hooks — all set low enough for children to reach — stirred up half-forgotten pictures from his own early childhood in Wales; and so, too, did that sour, institutional smell. All the lower windows were covered with protective corrugated metai to keep the vandals at bay. As a result, not much light entered the building, but Bill Jenkins carried a powerful hand-lamp with which he examined the walls and the exposed beams and trusses high above them.

‘It all looks solid enough,’ Evan commented, joining him.

‘If any of that timber is infested to the same extent as the section I’ve just been showing you, the sooner we’re out of here the better. One big sneeze could bring it down.’

‘I need to go into the classroom where the body was found.’

‘Go gently, then. That really is dangerous. There are some beams still in place that look like they could come down any minute.’

‘I promise not to sneeze,’ Evan told him. ‘Just a quick look.’

‘Bill, could you shine that light on the floor?’ Miss Armstrong asked suddenly. ‘Over to the right.’

He did as she asked. The moving light threw eerie shadows of the wire mesh in the coat frames.

‘What is it?’

‘Thought I heard something, like scratching. Listen!’ They stood in silence, all three of them close together, and Evan could have sworn the building was whispering to him. Or sighing. More Celtic twilight stuff! his inspector would have snorted, but he’d have been wrong. There was a definite noise, loud enough for a tape recorder to pick up.

‘Beetles?’ Miss Armstrong whispered.

‘It’s timber,’ Bill Armstrong answered her shortly. ‘It’s a live material, timber. Expands… contracts… Let’s hope that’s all it’s doing.’

Once more he swept the lamplight over the exposed beams but they still looked solid enough to last for ever.

Miss Armstrong guessed what was in his mind, ‘How long d’you reckon we’ve got?’

‘Mary, why don’t you wait outside? As soon as the sergeant here has finished, we’ll join you. Please.’

‘I’m not here out of idle curiosity!’ Her reply was tart, putting the deputy borough engineer firmly in his place. ‘These beetles also concern my department.’

Evan shrugged and made for the classroom door, leaving them to argue it out by themselves. The place was still in the same mess but so gloomy, with so little light penetrating from the boarded-up windows, that he had to go back to borrow the hand lamp.

Most of the room lay under a tangle of criss-crossed beams, broken laths and plaster. A brown bloodstain on the floorboards indicated where Guy Archer had been found, though it was partly covered by a fallen joist, perhaps the one which had held him pinned down: if so, he was lucky it had only been a glancing blow. Another couple of inches in the wrong direction and it might have fractured his skull.

Turning his back on the bloodstain, he began to pace out the distance to the door, then verified what the two teenagers might have been able to see from there with the help of Byron’s lighter. Not much perhaps, but there had also been Guy Archer’s torch on the floor.

And they both stated that they had not noticed the other body till later. Their story seemed consistent, at least.

The spot where the old tramp had been found was unmistakable. It was well away from the debris of the collapsed ceiling, though there was plenty of plaster dust. Chalk-marks on the boards outlined the position. While drawing them, the tough young DC with the cropped blond hair had suddenly straightened up and rushed out to bring up his supper, and Evan thought the better of him for it.

‘Not a nice way to go,’ came Bill Jenkins’ voice at his shoulder. ‘Of course, we knew the old boy was dossing down in here. 1 did, at any rate. But he wasn’t doing any harm, so why not let him, I thought. Been dead some time, had he?’

‘So I’m told.’

‘That’s the way it often is. They die alone.’

‘D’you think the local yobs may have taken a hand?’ Evan speculated.

‘I shouldn’t think so. There’d be talk.’

‘You’d hear?’

‘The men would. We’ve quite a few jobs going on in this neighbourhood. They’d be bound to pick up some rumour.’

Evan shone the lamp again over that part of the room. Some footprints in the dust, of course; that was hardly surprising with everyone tramping through. If there had been a struggle, any evidence of it had been wiped out. Yet what about the loss of blood mentioned by the pathologist?

‘That other bloke was lucky the kids found him before he bled to death,’ Bill Jenkins said, voicing Evan’s own thoughts.

‘Have you seen any of these beetles?’ he asked abruptly.

‘Not alive. A few mangled remains. Very bright colours. Quite unusual.’

‘I’ve not seen any either. I wonder why not.’

‘I reckon there must be plenty up there in that timber.’ He nodded up to the joists which were still in place. ‘Or under the floor.’

For a moment neither of them spoke. The uneasy rustling, creaking, cracking murmur of the building said all that was necessary.

Then, as if on cue, they heard a quick scream of terror from the cloakroom area behind them, followed by a whimpered ‘Help me!’ They rushed back to find the Public Health woman cowering against one of the metal frames.

Clinging to her fingers, like some ethnic ring, was a large pink and green beetle. She was staring at it, her eyes wide with fear. Blood dripped from her hand, splashing on to her shoes.

‘For God’s sake hold her up!’ Evan snapped as she began to slip down, her face drained of all colour.

While Bill Jenkins took her weight, Evan hung the lamp on the nearest coat hook and grabbed her wrist. Keeping her hand quite steady, he gripped the beetle between his finger and thumb, expecting to be able to lift it off easily, but it stuck to her flesh as firmly as if it had taken root.

Changing tactics, he shifted his grip and felt the enamel-like hardness of its smooth outer shell as he attempted to crush it. Again she screamed, hysterically gabbling incoherent pleas for help until her voice broke into choking and coughing when the insect emitted a foul, defensive smell: its own poison gas.

‘Her feet!’ Bill Jenkins gasped, struggling for breath as she slumped against him. ‘More beetles on her feet. Christ, look at the buggers!’

They were crawling over her shoes, investigating the blood.. over his own shoes, too… and even more were scurrying towards them across the floor.

‘Out!’ he heard himself yelling. ‘Let’s get out of here! Quick — get a move on!’

Even as Evan spoke the word he felt the first incisors penetrating his skin immediately above his shoe. The pain was sharp and precise, as if a surgeon’s scalpel were slicing through his skin. Elbowing Bill Jenkins aside, ordering him to get out first and find some help, he slipped his hands under Miss Armstrong’s arms and began to drag her out.

It was not the best way to carry a person needing help, he knew, but with those bright, antlered beetles exploring her ankles it was the best he could do. After that first bite he realised he risked getting them on to his clothes if he tried to lift her properly.

Help came even before he had reached the door. Alerted by the screams, Tony — the bearded carpenter — had guessed what was going on and run for the insecticide spray. The beetles recoiled, then scuttled away as he generously sprinkled the floorboard with the liquid; only five or six of them remained behind, their limbs twitching in their death throes.

‘Her legs! Spray her legs!’

But Tony had already seen the beetles fastened like leeches to her ankles and calves. The spray was adjusted to allow the insecticide to come out in fat drops with which he carefully drenched each single beetle on her legs and her hand. One by one they succumbed and fell away from her.

Two beetles were found on Evan himself — one on the upper part of his foot, and the other a few inches up his trouser leg. He allowed the ambulancemen to put temporary dressings on the wounds but refused to go to hospital.

Miss Armstrong looked as though she had been in an accident. Blood stained that neat, business-like costume and was trickling down her legs, which were a mass of cuts where the beetles had attacked her. There was even a smear — almost certainly from her injured hand — across her straight blonde hair. She had come to her senses again but her face was pale and drawn, betraying her sense of shame at her hysteria.

As the men seated her in their folding chair, which they then lifted into the ambulance, she asked Evan: ‘Did you collect any?’

‘Any what?’

‘We need some of those beetles as specimens,’ she said weakly, i was trying to pick one up but it got on my cothes and started to run up my sleeve. That’s when it did this to my hand. Then the others came..

A shudder shook her whole body. She bit her lip, gazing at him almost reproachfully, but the reproaches were all for herself.

‘Made an exhibition of myself, didn’t I?’ she went on. ‘Made myself look a real idiot.’

‘Carry on like that an’ you’ll worry yourself to death,’ he scolded her sympathetically. ‘Could happen to anyone.’

‘Don’t think I always behave this way, because I don’t,’ she retorted defensively. ‘It’s just that.. Well, those beetles took me by surprise. I had a vision of them crawling all over me.. under my clothes… everywhere… I couldn’t stand it. They’re so… so small. And so quick. I’m sorry.’

Once the ambulance had left with her, Bill Jenkins and Simpkins made their plans for burning down the building. On this question at least there was no longer any disagreement between them. Nor, as the school stood surrounded by what had once been the playground, did any objection come from the fire brigade. There was plenty of space between it and the nearest houses, and they supplied a tender to be on stand-by during the operation. The only delay was caused by the decision to send for several barrels of strong hydrocarbon-based insecticide, which was then splashed liberally around all openings — doors, windows, collapsed walls, everything— before setting light to the place. They were determined to trap the beetles inside.

Evan watched as the first billows of black smoke appeared. His wounds smarted persistently, making his entire leg feel painfully raw, as though the skin had been ripped away from it. For a second or two the men’s emphatic voices began to seem oddly unreal and he wondered if he was going to faint.

‘Soon be a big blaze,’ Bill Jenkins said, coming across to join him. ‘I might have known Mary would try to collect one of those beetles in a matchbox.’

‘Was it a matchbox?’ Evan was surprised.

‘Something like that. Must have been. She’s as stubborn as a mule. God, the rows we’ve had! She’s always on the phone to us about something or other.’

The flames broke through, appearing first around a sheet of corrugated iron covering a large window, licking at the edges and then withdrawing as though disappointed at not finding anything to bum, then returning with greater vigour from both sides at once. A second window began to bum, with long tongues of orange flame shooting fiercely out of the gaps between the frame and the metal. There was a cracking of bursting glass, and a louder crash from falling timber and masonry inside. Soon the fire was in command of every opening, doors and windows alike; flames misted and turned, darting out with a sudden eagerness, then retracting playfully for a few seconds before their next hungry assault.

Bill Jenkins gripped his arm. ‘Listen!’ he hissed. ‘Can you hear that?’

The fire was hot on his face and every breath of that sour, smoke-laden air punished his lungs. He wanted to back away but Bill Jenkins was insistent.

‘Can’t you hear them?’

Through the roar of the flames came a strange chirruping as though dozens of referees’ whistles were being gently blown in unison, just loud enough to move the pip in the barrel.

‘Beetles? Is that what you’re thinking?’

‘What else?’

‘But they can’t live in that heat, surely!’

A red-hot sheet of corrugated iron tumbled down from a burning window frame, bending like a doubled-over potato crisp as it hit the hard surface of the school playground.

‘Best stand a bit farther back,’ a fireman advised.

They were running out the hoses, Evan noticed. The fire was much fiercer than anyone had imagined. He turned to Bill Jenkins, about to comment that the whistling seemed to have stopped, when a loud rumbling and tearing prompted him to look back, just in time to witness the entire roof falling in.

Even higher flames shot up from the heart of the building, and the heat became so intense they were forced to retreat several yards.

But one thing was certain, he felt: after this there would be no more talk of beetles. Nothing could possibly survive in that furnace.

4

Guy moved his fingers, flexing them under the bandage which covered all but their very tips. With those fingertips he could feel a dam in the sheet over him: quite a long darn too, curving gently like a segmented worm.

He must be in bed, he realised — and he accepted the fact without understanding. A high, narrow bed.

Because of the bright irritation of the daylight he kept his eyes half-closed, though just beyond arm’s reach he was aware of vague, insubstantial shapes. A chair, perhaps? A small table with… was that a vase on it? A vase with flowers? No? He couldn’t really focus on it.

In any case, everything was blotted out by a patch of blue moving across his line of sight: smooth blue material with buttons, and a belt.

‘Awake now, are we?’ The voice was cheerful and friendly, with an Australian accent. ‘Like something to drink?’

‘Champagne,’ he responded drowsily.

‘You an’ me both!’ she laughed. ‘Only this ain’t the Ritz, worse luck. Try some o’ this water to be goin’ on with. OK?’

He took a sip, with her holding the glass for him.

‘Urgh…’

‘It’s an acquired taste, they say!’ she joked, taking the glass away to place it on the bedside table. Then her tone of voice changed. ‘Feel sick, do you?’

‘I’m all right.’

‘Use this bowl here if you feel sick. An’ that’s the bell-push. If you need any help, jus’ press it, OK?’

Her face dissolved into a mysterious mist. Briefly it sharpened again but the shape refused to hold. His fault. The thought shocked through his mind like a blinding revelation: the molecules were drifting apart and she’d cease to exist, this Australian nurse, if he didn’t concentrate.

He frowned, trying to make sense of what his optic nerves were telling him, identifying her cropped, untidy blonde hair beneath a perky cap.

‘I’m in hospital!’ he decided, unnaturally loud.

‘Clever boy! How did you guess?’ The Australian voice held no malice, only a light, gurgling laugh. ‘They brought you in last night, only I don’t suppose you remember.’

‘No.’

‘Me neither, tell you the truth. I was off duty. Think you feel up to holding this thermometer under your tongue while I check your pulse?’ Giving him no chance to reply, she slipped the glass rod into his mouth. ‘No, no need to talk.’

Closing his eyes, he rested his head back on the cool pillows to digest the information. He was in hospital, hands bandaged; dressings on arms and legs too, and on his chest. What had happened he was still not sure. Had he been involved in some sort of accident, in a place overrun with beetles? But his mind wandered again. Concentration slipped down.. down.. until it was lost.

Light years away the nurse’s cool fingers held his wrist, though he knew his arm was floating independently by the bedside, no longer part of him. But she returned it to him, removing the thermometer from his lips, and with a start he came back to a hazy consciousness.

‘You can drop off back to sleep now, Mr Archer,’ that same voice announced from another world. ‘Oh, your wife’s been, 1 meant to tell you. She’s had to go again but she’ll look in later. Meanwhile, you have a good rest — right? OK?’

‘Kath?’

‘Who?’

‘My daughter. Kath. Is she all right?’

‘Oh, you’ll have to ask your wife when you see her. I’ve only jus’ come on, so I know nothing ’cept you bein’ attacked by a swarm o’ some insects or other. What were they — wasps? Look more like snakebites to me, leastwise that’s what I’d think back home in Australia.’

‘Beetles,’ he corrected her drowsily.

With his eyes closed he could see them now: beautiful, terrifying beetles with pincer claws. A whole battalion of them.

‘Beetles? Christ! You mean beetles did that to you? What kind were they, for Chrissake?’

‘Mm-m..’ He was too sleepy to answer.

‘Don’t you worry, Mr Archer. We’ve no beetles in this hospital. The new matron wouldn’t let so much as a greenfly live, not on the wards. She’s a stickler. So ring the bell now if you need anything. Oh, an’ don’t try to get out o’ bed by yourself, not till we say so. OK?’

But her voice had retreated again down the long misty tunnel and his reply died on his lips as he realised she could not possibly hear him, not so far away in the dark caverns.

Snakes, she’d said, hadn’t she?

She must have known.

Plenty of snakes around now in the graveyard, upstanding like waving grass, undulating sensuously, in turns dipping their heads into the pink mess which had once been the old tramp. No — several tramps, one lying on each grave; dead, of course. Dead meat opened up to feed the—

They weren’t real snakes, were they? More like giant worms with dark eyes which regarded him gravely.

He wanted to scream but the tramps — one by one — turned their bulging eyes towards him and placed their raw forefingers warning!)' across their thick lips. Attempting to read their names on the worn headstones, he found the lettering illegible, their identities lost. Meanwhile the worms continued feeding, taking their time, their open mouths slobbering at him.

Until they began to fade.

So too did the corpses and the gravestones, like a slow dissolve in an old black-and-white movie. First soft focus; next the image blurring to the point where even the outline lost all meaning; finally the disappearance: the blank screen on which only the tired print’s scratches were to be seen, flickering and dancing.

Disappeared: that was the key word.

Again he saw Dorothea greeting him when he arrived home, before he had put his bag down even. ‘Kath’s disappeared!’ A memory, of course, a mental voice reassured him calmly. He was reliving — vividly — a larger-than-life memory. In full colour.

‘Kath?’ he demanded urgently, conscious that he was speaking aloud even in his hallucination. ‘Where’s Kath?’

‘Kath’s at school.’

It was Dorothea’s voice. That flat, down-to-earth manner could not be mistaken. Yet—

Delirium? Or dream?

He was puzzled that Dorothea should be here in the graveyard with him. Why had she said nothing about the giant maggots which she must have seen?

Reluctantly he opened his eyes, turning over in bed to put the question to her, half-expecting to find nobody there, the way it so often happens in dreams. But he was wrong.

‘Kath’s all right! Didn’t they tell you?’

He felt Dorothea’s wet kiss on his forehead and was aware of her fleshy forearm stretching across him as she tidied his bedclothes. A cold, irrational instinct warned him that he had arrived at the dangerous stage when hallucinations seemed most real. Once he entered this dimension he might never escape.

‘I don’t believe you’re properly awake,’ the hallucination said, and it was her familiar laugh, though sounding oddiy forced.

‘I think I’m awake,’ he heard someone replying. His own words, were they? Hard to tell.

‘Well, your eyes are open,’ she retorted with another laugh. ‘I don’t know if that means anything!’

‘Kath’s at school?’ he asked, still suspicious.

‘Where else whould she be at this time of day? Oh, Guy, I’m sorry, it’s all my fault it happened like this. I got so worked up when she didn’t come home, then the moment you’d gone out to look for her — there she was! Been home with some other kid, of course. A new kid I didn’t know.’

‘A new kid?’

She was going on at such a pace, he was not taking it all in.

Still talking about Kath and her new friend and the school and the ballet lessons, she fetched a chair from the table by the window and sat down close to his bed. Her face still had that pure Italian madonna look which had immediately attracted him to her when they first met, though these days she wore her dark hair cut short and trimmed to lie flat against her head, hardly covering her ears. More practical, she said. But secretly he preferred it long.

He was giad to see her, though. Just to know she was there brought a relaxing calmness to his mind. He tried to say so, but she did not pause long enough to listen. That was typical of Dorothea.

Then the blonde Australian nurse reappeared, bearing a jug of fresh water for his bedside table. Something snapped in his head as he realised he was truly awake this time.

‘Back in the land o’ the livin’, are we?’ she greeted him with a quick friendly smile. ‘You’re lookin’ a bit better. Like to sit up for a while? Not too long to begin with, but five minutes won’t harm. Lift yourself!’

Nothing ethereal about Australian nurses, he thought. Good earthy flesh-and-blood there. She smelled inviting too.

He grinned sheepishly at Dorothea, who had moved back to give the nurse some room. ‘I’m not quite sure what happened,’ he toid her. ‘You did say Kath is all right?’

She would drive past the old school to see for herself, Dorothea decided as she eased her Renault 5 out of the narrow space where she had left it behind the hospital. For one thing, she found it hard to accept that mere beetles could inflict so much injury on a man such as Guy. Or the tramp, for that matter.

On her first visit to the hospital during the night she’d been terribly shocked to see him lying there so pale and drawn, looking like death, both hands in bandages, and other dressings on his neck and part of his face. His legs and chest too, according to the doctor. ‘Unfortunately they aren’t clean cuts,’ she had explained briskly. ‘Mrs Archer, they may take some time to heal and we must expect scars. As for infection, well it’s possible. I’ve sent samples to the lab for tests and we’ll just have to keep our fingers crossed.’

‘What kind of infection?’ Dorothea had asked. ‘What exactly d’you mean?’

But she had known the answer as soon as the words crossed her lips. Insects carry parasites. Bloody hell! she swore to herself, her hands gripping the steering wheel. Why did this have to happen now?

The moment she drove into St John’s Road she noticed the spreading pall of dark smoke above the rooftops, but not until she had passed the church hall did she realise it was the school which was on fire. At the top of the cul-de-sac she slowed down, then stopped.

People stood around in little groups, quietly looking on as the old school burned. Even the fire brigade appeared to be taking the whole thing quite calmly; they had sent only one tender whose crew — despite their oilskins and helmets — seemed resigned to simply waiting. Probably at this stage nothing more was possible, she thought. She didn’t bother to get out of the car. The roof had already gone; as she watched, the end wall collapsed spectacularly, as if it had given way at the knees. She heard the roar and clatter of tumbling bricks; then a pause, a drawing of breath, and the flames shot up again triumphantly.

‘So much for the beetles,’ she said aloud. ‘Now I’ll never know.’

She considered walking over for a closer look but spotted the plain-clothes man, Detective-Sergeant Evans, who had cross-examined her about Guy at some Godforsaken hour that morning. He was the last person she wanted to meet. Even if he had some answers by now, she knew he would never tell her; not why they were destroying what evidence there was in that burning school. That would be against police training.

As a breed, she thought as she wound up the window and drove off, she preferred beetles.

Miraculously she found a space to park directly in front of her own house. It was two o’clock. She had planned to make do with a quick snack and then carry on painting the spare room but she was restless. She stood in the hall, debating with herself whether to stay in or have a bite in the Plough. It was the sight of Guy’s briefcase still lying where he had left it which decided her.

The whole business with Guy had thrown her mind into a turmoil. Only this time yesterday she had been seriously considering — not for the first time — whether the best solution for their marriage might not be a legal separation, but she could not spring that on him now he was in hospital, could she? It would have to wait, and God alone knew what problems that might cause.

In any case, she was certainly in no mood to be painting wails. She dropped her handbag on the telephone table, took out her keys and some money, and left the house.

In the Plough everything seemed so normal, it was unreal. The usual lunchtime business crowd had been in-she could see that from one glance at the multitude of dirty glasses to be washed and the remnants of food scattered around the tables — though many had already gone back to their offices and others were leaving even as she arrived. She was relieved to see that her favourite stool at the comer of the horseshoe-shaped bar was free and she hoisted herself on to it.

‘Hello, Thea! Be with you in just a sec.’

Brian was serving today. With a slight frown of concentration he picked up four whiskies simultaneously, spreading his long fingers to hold the glasses together as he conveyed them to the waiting customer on the other side of the bar. ‘Sorry to hear about Guy,’ he called out as he took the man’s ten-pound note and crossed to the till.

‘How is he?’

‘He’ll live, I suppose,’ she replied wearily. ‘It’s all such a mess, Brian.’

‘So we were just saying. What a thing to happen!’ He gave the man his change, then returned to move some of the used beer glasses out of her way and give the top of the bar a wipe. ‘The usual, Thea?’

‘Gin and tonic.’

‘A large one? I’m sure you need it.’ He held up the glass under the inverted bottle, waiting for the measure to refill before drawing off the second tot.

No need to worry about letting her guard down with Brian, she felt, and that was a comfort. With him she could always relax, perhaps because he seemed vulnerable himself. Guy didn’t think much of him, of course, though she’d never understood why. He looked so young, with that light-coloured hair and his skin like a boy’s, much younger than he probably was.

‘We’ve been so busy today, you wouldn’t believe!’ he said as he dropped the ice into her gin, then cut a sliver of lemon. ‘Ten minutes ago you’d not have got in through the door, we were so packed. Thinning out now, though.’ He opened a bottle of tonic and set it on the bar in front of her, next to her glass. Lowering his voice, he added: ‘See that girl talking to the feller with the beard? Far side o’ the fruit machine? She was asking for you earlier.’

‘Don’t know her.’ She tasted her gin, letting it trickle smoothly down her throat, actually sensing her tensions begin to ease. ‘Do you?’

‘Can’t be sure. So many come in here. She knew your name, yours and Guy’s. Asked for Guy Archer’s wife. Someone had told her you often come in here.’

‘Huh.’

Dorothea eyed the girl suspiciously. A narrow face with thin, mean lips. Round, metal-framed National Health glasses. Frizzy light hair too, which didn’t help.

She took an immediate dislike to her.

‘Hard to believe she’s one of Guy’s girl friends.’

‘Does Guy have girl friends?’ Brian enquired guilelessly. ‘I’m surprised he has time.’

He was beginning to rinse the beer glasses and his back was turned to her, so she could not see his face as he spoke. Just as well, she thought, as she took another gulp at her drink.

‘I was at that hospital at five o’clock this morning,’ she started to tell him, dismissing the girl from her mind. ‘That was the second time. They’d already sent me home to get some sleep once, then they phoned and wanted me back. He’d taken a turn for the worse, they said. Well, I knew what that meant. But he pulled through. Guy’s tougher than you’d think.’

‘Must have been awful for you.’

‘I don’t know what I feel, honestly I don’t.’

She was holding her glass with both hands, staring into it and rolling it between her palms while she talked.

‘I hate insects.’ The bubbles still rose through what little drink was left in the glass. She drained it. ‘I’ve always hated insects, and I imagine the feeling’s mutual. They’ve had a go at me often enough. Give me another drink, Brian, love. Today I’ve earned it.’

‘And everyone’s sure it was beetles?’

He dried his hands on a tatty piece of towelling and reached for her glass.

‘What else?’ she shrugged.

She watched Janet from the food bar — a short, thin woman getting on for fifty — bustling around collecting up the dirty plates from wherever the customers had left them: on the tables, on window ledges, perched on top of the fruit machine, even under the chairs. With a heavy pile in her hands she paused to enquire if Dorothea wanted anything before they closed up.

‘Oh, I don’t think I could face eating. What is there?’

‘Not a lot. Salads are finished, so is the quiche. We did have shepherd’s pie, but that’s gone. Of course there’s bangers… and sandwiches.. cheese…’

That first gin was already warning her that she’d better get something inside her, appetite or not. Cups of tea apart, she’d had practically nothing for twenty-four hours. Heaving herself off the stool, she went across to the food bar to see what was left. Perhaps a couple of cold bangers, she thought at first, but the sight of the three remaining sausages lying on a lettuce leaf like fat, brown slugs made her stomach turn. i’ll have a ploughman’s,’ she told Janet. ‘And don’t stint the Branston.’

The girl with the frizzy hair was looking in her direction, she noticed. Then the man she was with made some remark and she laughed. Getting up, she came over to the food bar clutching her bag. Right, Dorothea thought. Opening gambit. Tackle her directly.

‘They say at the bar you were asking for me.’

The girl seemed taken aback; then she produced a smile like a curling leaf. ‘Oh, you must be Mrs Archer?’ ‘What of it?’

‘I’m Tessa Brownley, from the Gazette.’

Christ, a journalist! Dorothea thought contemptuously. That was just about the last thing she needed right now.

Reluctantly she agreed to answer a few questions. At least the Gazette was only a local weekly, not one of the nationals. Not that there was ever much in it: three or four pages of weddings, funerals and borough council scandals, and the rest was all advertisements.

She carried her plate over to a vacant table, fetched her drink from the bar and settled down to eat, taking her rime. ‘Right,’ she said, her mouth full. ‘What d’you want to know?’

The questions, as she’d expected, were unoriginal.

How old was Guy, how long had they been married, how many children did they have, where did they live and how long for — all the usual family stuff. Why, she wanted to know, had he gone into the derelict school in the first place? Had he known about the tramp?

‘You’d better ask him that,’ Dorothea grunted, spreading pickle on her cheese. ‘I’ve no idea.’

She noticed with distaste that the journalist girl’s own lunch consisted of two of those disgusting sausages, which she gnawed as she scribbled the answers in her notebook.

‘I tried to interview him this morning but the hospital wouldn’t let me in.’

‘Wouldn’t have done you any good. He wasn’t conscious this morning. Can’t you journalists leave a sick man alone?’

‘Mrs Archer, believe me, we’re all terribly sorry about what happened.’

‘Are you? I’m not even sure I know what happened. Suppose you tell me.’

The girl hesitated. ‘Are you serious?’ she asked.

‘Of course I’m bloody serious! They say he was bitten by beetles, I ask you! What kind of beetles do that to a person? He’s had an emergency operation, two blood transfusions, the doctor’s still not certain if he’s going to live or die, and I’m expected to believe it was beetles. I came—’ Her throat dried on her. She gulped down the rest of her drink. ‘I came past the school where it happened. They’ve burned it down. Destroyed the evidence. Do you know why? Because I bloody don’t.’

‘You suspect they’re trying to cover up?’

‘Listen, Miss… whatever your name is…’

‘Tessa.’

‘The police never let on, or didn’t you know that? Why set fire to the place if there’s nothing to hide?’

‘I’ve just been talking to a man who was there,’ Tessa announced crisply. She put down her half-eaten sausage and wiped her fingers. ‘Let’s have him over. I’ll introduce you.’

The young bearded man came across to join them. He was, she explained, a carpenter working for the borough council and could tell her far more than anyone else. In fact, that morning he’d been there when they took the decision to burn the school down.

‘My name’s Tony,’ he said, shaking hands with her. He pulled over a chair and sat down. ‘What d’you want to know?’

‘You’re sure you’re allowed to talk about it?’ Dorothea demanded suspiciously.

‘No one told me not to.’

Though she had no reason to doubt his word, she listened with some scepticism as he described the extent of the damage to the building caused by the infestation. She’d heard all about death-watch beetles, she said, but they didn’t feed on people as well, surely?

‘In the first place, it’s not the beetles that eat into the timber, but their larvae. Worms. Maggots. After a while, when they’ve fed long enough — which can be two or three years — each one becomes a chrysalis, and out of that comes the beetle. All this goes on inside the wood, in those galleries that they make. Eventually' the beetle crawls out through what we call flight holes.’

‘And you know all about it?’

‘Lot of old buildings in this borough. They sent me on a course.’

. ‘All right, then. Tell me, have you ever heard of death-watch beetles biting humans?’

‘Oh, it wasn’t death-watch, not this time. These beetles were quite different. Look, I’ll show you.’ He groped into his duffel bag and produced a plastic sandwich box with a rubber band around it. ‘They’re bigger than death-watch, these are.’

‘Tony, you didn’t mention you had some with you!’ Tessa exclaimed sharply.

‘Didn’t ask, did you?’

‘But are they — safe?’

‘Hope so,’ he grinned as he slipped the rubber band off. ‘We’re in dead trouble if they’re not.’

Easing away the lid, he tipped the beetles out on to the table: four of them, lying motionless in a little heap. With the tip of his forefinger he separated them, turning over one which had landed upside down.

‘Jesus!’ she heard Tessa mutter under her breath. ‘That’s what they look like?’

‘Dead, of course,’ Tony said.

Dorothea could not contain her own reaction. ‘But they’re beautiful!’ she exclaimed in astonishment. ‘The colours!’

They were not completely identical but near enough. Their heads were a rich, deep green, reminiscent of shot silk, though with a couple of bright yellow spots, one at either side, and speckles of the same two colours decorated the enamel-pink body, which seemed as perfect as a Faberge pendant. Without their protruding crayfish-style claws, each beetle, she estimated, was about the size of a lOp coin, but oval in shape; the claws added an extra, menacing dimension.

‘Don’t you think they’re beautiful?’ she demanded of Tony.

‘Dangerous.’

‘Aren’t most beautiful things?’

‘These are really vicious, you can be sure of that,’ he insisted seriously. ‘I’ve seem ’em in action. Those little claws are what you’ve got to watch out for.’

Tessa shuddered, then gave the nearest a tentative little push with her finger, drawing back quickly in case it snapped at her — even in death.

‘I wish you’d said earlier you’d got them, while the photographer was still with us,’ she grumbled. ‘I’m going to need a picture.’

‘My God!’ Brian had joined them from the bar. He gazed at the dead beetles with a mixed expression of horror and fascination, then called back: ‘Janet, come an’ give yourself a thrill, darlin’! Did you ever see the like?’ Janet was unimpressed. ‘You might have some consideration, bringing in dead beetles. People come in here to eat, you know. What if the food inspector drops by?’

‘But they’re gorgeous, aren’t they?’ Dorothea repeated, determined to find someone who agreed with her. She felt slightly drunk. Despite her bread and cheese, those two large gins on an empty stomach had done their work. ‘Don’t you think so, Janet?’

‘Thea!’ Brian protested with a little laugh. ‘How can you say that after what they did to Guy?’

‘Only time I saw one, I stamped on it. Didn’t give it a chance. One look o’ them pincers was enough for me.’ Janet made her remark as though it were the most natural thing in the world. Then she stopped and gazed around at them, surprised. ‘What have I said?’

There was a shocked silence. They were all staring at her.

‘Where did you see ’em, love?’ Tony asked gently. ‘Here, of course, in the Plough. Down in the cellar. Mind you, that was three or four weeks ago. Haven’t spotted nothing since.’

More silence, as though no one dared make the first move. Then Dorothea spoke. Someone had to say something.

‘Well, I’m going to have another drink,’ she announced defiantly. ‘This just isn’t my day.’

By the time Dorothea left the Plough that afternoon Tony, accompanied by the landlord, had already examined the cellar. To everyone’s relief, he discovered no sign of beetles, neither pink-and-green nor any other kind. All the same, to be on the safe side he phoned the borough council to report Janet’s story, predicting that they would insist on a proper inspection in view of what had happened at the school.

Dorothea made her way home, feeling exhausted. She had one more large gin inside her, which — she realised as she fumbled to get her key into the lock — was a mistake. In her state, after almost no sleep and nothing to eat, she should either have had a proper meal or else cut down on the drink. Eleven years as an army wife had taught her to know her own capacity. Under the right circumstances she could still be on her feet while everyone else was crawling in the sawdust, but not without food or sleep. That was her weak point; always had been.

But what the hell, it’s not every day your husband gets eaten by beetles, she said to herself as she went into the hall, slamming the front door shut behind her. And Christ, I needed it, that drink!

In case the hospital had rung while she was out she checked the answering machine. The first message was from Guy’s office, wondering where he was. Hell, she’d forgotten she should have let them know; it had just slipped her mind. Otherwise the only call was from the temp agency asking her to confirm if she was free to take on a two-week holiday-relief stint starting on Monday. Personal secretary in a financial adviser’s office.

She shrugged, deciding to answer later, and left the machine on.

Guy was right about the house not looking like home yet, she brooded when she went into the living room, almost stumbling over the rolled-up carpet. There was nowhere comfortable to sit downstairs. All the woodwork was stripped ready for painting, and it had been that way for weeks now. She just hadn’t got round to doing it. The furniture was still the old rubbish she’d kept when they sold her father’s house, stuff he’d often talked about throwing out before he died, but good enough to use till she got all the decoration finished. It wouldn’t matter if she got spots of paint on it, because she intended to replace everything.

During all those years in married quarters a house of her own had been a dream. Now, with the money left to her in her father’s will, she’d made it come true: her house, in her name. And not a comer in it anywhere where she could just drop into an armchair and relax without being reminded of how much work still remained to be done.

Except her bathroom.

Glancing at her watch, she reckoned she’d just enough time for a slow, luxurious bath before she had to collect Kath from her class and take her to visit Guy. She kicked off her shoes and went upstairs.

The marital bedroom with its bathroom en suite, as they say in the estate agents’ handouts, was her pride; the few visitors they had so far risked inviting had all been taken up to admire it. It had quiet good taste, she thought yet again as she stood in the doorway to admire her work. Japanese wallpaper with a delicate hint of distant mountains, Finnish curtains, Austrian furniture, and a thick, comforting carpet which gently caressed her feet. As for the bathroom, she’d been lucky to find a suite in that delicately mottled green, and even luckier to come across contractors capable of doing such an excellent job of conversion. She almost purred with delight every time she walked into it.

Turning on the water, she went back into the bedroom to strip off her clothes — God, she felt as though she hadn’t been out of them for a month! — and tie a towel around her hair. In front of the full-length mirror she paused, passing her hands over her hips as she examined herself critically.

In a second she’d get on the scales to check properly, but she could swear she hadn’t lost any weight. For a week now she had been cutting down, watching every mouthful, suffering agonies whenever she passed a cake shop, yet with nothing to show for it. She tried to press her abdomen flat but it bulged between her spread fingers. She gripped the flesh of her thighs; there was too much of it, she knew.

Guy didn’t complain, of course. ‘A figure like a Renoir calendar,’ he’d tell her, his hand skating lightly over her breasts, arousing her.

No, what was wrong with their marriage was not that. It was her. She was bored; she’d had enough of it. Eleven years after all — Christ!

He irritated her much more than he used to. Little things. The way he carefully squeezed out the smallest quantity of toothpaste as though it were made of gold dust. His habit of picking his toes before he got into bed. The way he slurped his cornflakes in the morning. Things she hadn’t really noticed when they first married.

But she’d been in love then; already pregnant and crazily in love.

Going into the bathroom to turn off the taps, she tested the temperature of the water with her hand. It was, just about right, and those new bath salts smelled so inviting. The scales could wait, she thought.

Before stepping into the bath she glanced quickly back into the bedroom to check the time on her bedside clock; as she did so, she caught a quick glimpse of something reflected in the full-length mirror. Her whole body tingled and came out in goose pimples. She could swear it was a beetle, identical to those Tony had shown her in the Plough.

Hurriedly she looked around, not daring to move from the spot. Nothing near her feet; nothing visible at all. Naked but for the towel around her head, she felt totally vulnerable. Yet — had she really seen a beetle? That rapid flash of green and pink glimpsed from the comer of her eye as she was moving — had she merely imagined it?

Treading cautiously, she went back to where she thought she had been standing, keeping her eyes on the mirror. No sign of beetles or any other insea, but she noticed a face flannel had fallen down from the mottled green washbasin: was that what she had seen?

She bent down to pick it up, her eyes searching the floor. Then she investigated the pile of thick towels too, turning each one over to make quite sure.

Nothing.

Nor in the bedroom either, not that she could see.

‘Nerves!’ she decided aloud, scoffing at herself. ‘And if you don’t get into that bath now, Dorothea Cunningham, it’ll be too late to have one at all.’

She stepped into the water, though the sound of her own voice scarcely reassured her. Slipping down comfortably until she was lying full-length, she let the warmth take over and soothe her fears, cocooning her against all dangers.

It was only later — when she was wondering idly whether it was time to get out and fetch Kath — that she suddenly realised she had used her maiden name, Cunningham. That was something she hadn’t done for ages, she thought.

5

What bugged Guy most was not the scar tissue on his hands and face where the beetles had chewed into him. He already had one long scar, a memento from the Falk-lands; a few extra were no great tragedy, though Dorothea nagged him to try plastic surgery, which he refused to do. Why tempt fate?

What bugged him most was the fact that even after six weeks he couldn’t rid his mind of the vision of giant worms feeding on the dead tramp’s decomposing body. That’s what it was, of course: nothing but an apocalyptic vision far removed from reality.

At first he’d imagined he had actually seen such things during those last few seconds in the school before the ceiling collapsed; now he knew — or rationalised, at any rate — that it had been an hallucination, his mind playing tricks on him, part of his delirium as he teetered on the edge of death in hospital.

Yet in that case why did he still wake up in the morning convinced he had seen giant worms, after all? It made no sense.

‘You’re still suffering from the after-effects,’ Dorothea always dismissed his worries. ‘No one else saw anything of that kind, though they had plenty of opportunity. You’re the only one. And, Christ, aren’t beetles enough for you? I just wish you’d shut up about the whole business. It gives me the willies, you going on about beetles and maggots and things.’

Naturally she was right about no one else having seen them. In the grey light of daytime he could even accept that it must be some kind of nervous reaction. It was only when he got into bed again and dropped off into a half-sleep that the giant worms became real once more, as if deliberately taunting him.

During his first restless weeks of convalescence he had questioned everyone who had been anywhere near the school, including the police. The only person he did not succeed in contacting was a Miss Armstrong of the Public Health Department, who was away on sick leave.

Detective-Sergeant Evans answered all his questions patiently, assuring him that the only worms either he or the other police officers had seen had been maggots the length of a thumb nail. If Guy didn’t believe him he was more than welcome to speak to the ambulancemen, or the pathologist who had conducted the post mortem. Which he did, but their stories were identical.

From the detective-sergeant he also obtained the addresses of the two teenagers who had rescued him. He owed them at least a word of thanks. He tried the boy’s home first, a flat on the seventh floor of a high-rise block. One lift seemed to be functioning but three people were already waiting for it, middle-aged women who eyed his scarred face suspiciously, their flow of talk drying up the moment he joined them. He decided to walk up.

The man who opened the door was no less wary. He was still holding the West Indian World which he must have been reading, while from inside the flat came the sound of television. Guy apologised for disturbing him and asked to speak to Byron.

‘Who wants him?’

‘My name’s Guy Archer. I’d like to thank him.’

‘Oh?’ A look of enlightenment spread across his face but he was clearly not pleased. ‘Haven’t you brought him enough trouble, getting his name taken by the police?’

‘Are you his father?’

‘What if I am? OK, jus’ you wait there, man. I’ll ask if he wants to talk to you.’

Through the open door Guy caught glimpses of the nicely furnished flat, and from the kitchen came the smell of fresh baking. It made him feel like an intruder. His visit was so obviously unwelcome; the arguing voices he could hear were evidence enough, though the words were indistinct. Then an inner door opened and a girl came out. She was about sixteen or seventeen, he reckoned; a delicate beauty with a light milk-chocolate skin and dark, lively eyes.

‘I’m sorry, Mr Archer. Byron can’t talk to you right now. It’s not — convenient.’ She smiled at him in a shy, embarrassed manner. ‘I’m Sharon. We’re both glad you’re all right again.’

‘I didn’t mean to butt in, only to say thank you. And if there’s anything I can do to show my gratitude, I’d—’

‘Such as what?’ a voice challenged him from the far end of the passage.

‘You must be Byron,’ he said.

‘Must I?’

‘Byron, be polite!’ The girl was clearly shocked.

‘If you want to do something, tell the fuzz to lay off us. They’ve been round asking questions again. Stupid questions.’

‘I’m sorry. I didn’t know.’

‘Didn’t you?’ he retorted bitterly. ‘Well, you know now.’

‘Byron’s mother hasn’t got over it,’ Sharon said. ‘In this block it usually means only one thing when the fuzz call. She’s very upset.’

‘I knew nothing about it,’ Guy repeated. ‘I thought everything was tidied up.’

‘You must take us for idiots,’ Byron accused him. it was about you they were asking, and how you’d seen maggots big as snakes or some such rubbish. Well I told them we hadn’t; if anyone thinks differently he belongs in a loony bin.’ He began to shout. ‘They were uniformed fuzz in a panda car, don’t you understand? All the neighbours imagined they’d come to arrest me or something. I don’t mind what they think, but it’s not right for fuzz to come here upsetting my mother when she’s not been well. Maggots big as snakes? You do belong in a loony bin!’

He pulled Sharon back into the flat and slammed the door.

Guy made his way back down seven floors of stairs, conscious of how his footsteps echoed loudly in the graffiti-scored stairwell. At least he’d discovered that someone at Worth Road police station was taking him seriously, though maybe the boy was right. Maybe he did belong in a loony bin. The worms had become an obsession. They didn’t exist — how could they? Not that size.

Oddly enough, a few days later Dorothea took up Byron’s theme, and she was deadly serious about it too.

They were getting up in the morning and the sun was shining through the bedroom curtains, the first real sun they’d had that year, which put them both in a good mood. If she hadn’t made a point of asking, he might never have mentioned that he had seen the giant worms again in his sleep. They came almost every night these days.

‘Perhaps you need analysis,’ she commented. She was standing naked on the bathroom scales, frowning at the reading they gave. ‘I heard the other day about quite a good psychiatrist. Should I get his address for you?’

‘For God’s sake, what could a shrink tell me that I don’t know already?’ he protested, laughing it off. Her pale, well-fleshed body would not have been out of place in a royal harem against a setting of rich velvet drapes and gilt mirrors. And perhaps with a little wiry dog at her feet. ‘Doro-love, if you stand like that much longer, we’re both going to be very late for work.’

‘You should be so luckv!’ she retorted.

Stepping off the scales, she came towards him, flaunting herself at him, a great tease; then she stopped in a pool of sunlight which tinged her whole body with gold.

‘Oh, isn’t it gorgeous!’ she cried, stretching out her arms and throwing her head back. ‘Oh, I do hope we’re going to have a hot summer this year!’

He reached out for her but she eluded his grasp skilfully. Grabbing a fresh towel which she had earlier taken out of the chest, she dodged back into the bathroom and closed the door behind her.

At the office that morning Guy was tied up at a directors’ meeting which went on too long and left him in a foul temper wondering why he had ever quit the Army. It was already after one o’clock when he got away. On his desk he found a note from Sarah — his blonde, shock-haired secretary — saying she’d gone to lunch. She added that a Miss Mary Armstrong of the Public Health Department had rung three times asking for him. Could he give her a call?

Later, he decided. By now she was probably at lunch herself.

First he had to sort out the usual crisis over delivery dates, this time for a special order of desk-top terminals. Drawing the phone nearer to him, he began to tap out the Yorkshire suppliers’ number to ask them what the hell they were playing at. They had a firm commitment, properly negotiated, so what possible reason could they have for not meeting their deadlines?

It was three-thirty before he managed to find a minute to call Miss Armstrong. To his relief she had a pleasant, young-sounding voice and a brisk, businesslike manner.

‘I believe you were trying to get in touch with me, Mr Archer,’ she began. It was an obvious opening gambit. ‘I’m sorry I’ve been so elusive but since I came back from leave, things here have been rather hectic.’

‘Oh, it was nothing urgent,’ Guy said. ‘I merely felt it might be useful if we had a talk. In view of our similar experiences, I mean.’

‘I apologise anyway. I should have rung you back sooner. However, in the light of what has been happening, I think a meeting is now urgent.’

‘Happening?’

‘You don’t know? I’m afraid the infestation is spreading.’

‘Beetles?’

Instead of answering, she asked if he could spare half an hour to go over to her office, preferably that same afternoon. A worried note in her voice put Guy on his guard. It was her department’s job to deal with bugs and pests, wasn’t it? All he wanted was to be able to clear them out of his mind.

i’m afraid you’ve picked just about the worst time,’ he replied cautiously. ‘Perhaps later in the week or…’

She interrupted him. ‘Detective-Sergeant Evans tells me you witnessed something rather unusual at the school.’

‘Yes.’ it’s in that connection. I’d rather not say anything more on the phone.’ i’m no longer totally certain what I saw.’

‘Please, Mr Archer, I do need to consult you. It won’t take long, and it is very urgent.’

Sarah came into the office to say that the Yorkshire people were on the line once more. Was he free to talk to them? She was holding the call.

He nodded.

‘Miss Armstrong, will six o’clock suit you? I don’t think I can make it before that. If I’m held up I’ll ring you back. Now, how do I find your office?’

He grimaced at Sarah as he scribbled the details on a pad, then put the phone down; she smiled back sympathetically. As sales director he had his share of nuisance calls and he preferred to let her think this was one of them, i’d better talk to Yorkshire, I suppose,’ he said, i’ll put them through. Cup of tea?’

‘Try me!’

By the end of the afternoon he’d succeeded in bullying and cajoling his way through the crisis, provided everyone kept the promises he’d extracted from them. The Yorkshire company had agreed to overtime working to sort out its production line problems, while his own customers had reluctantly accepted his assurances about the extended installation dates. It could all still backfire, of course; in which case it would be his head on the block. Not for the first time.

At a quarter to six, for once feeling he was on top of the job, he tapped out Miss Armstrong’s number again to warn her he would be late. He still had a couple of letters to dictate into the machine ready for Sarah to type the following morning.

By the time he got away, the evening traffic was at its densest and he found himself boxed into a line of cars which were hardly moving; a long wait, then a slow crawl forward of two or three yards perhaps, then more waiting. A boy thrust an evening paper through his open window, which he bought, but he could see nothing in it about beetles.

What had she meant, he wondered.

It was almost seven when he arrived at Worth Hall, where the Public Health Department was housed. He gave his name to the uniformed commissionaire behind the desk, half-expecting to be told that Miss Armstrong had already left. But no, she was still there. The commissionaire spoke to her briefly on the phone, and then announced that she would be coming down.

She kept him waiting for several minutes. To pass the time he read the posters and announcements displayed on the partition screens in the stately old entrance hall. Beside the main door was a print of Worth Hall as it had been in the eighteenth century: a pleasant country mansion in a landscaped park, the sort of house he often dreamed of buying when he had made his first million.

‘Fancy it?’ Suddenly she was standing at his shoulder. ‘1 hat’s the original house, before the Victorians added their extra wings and outhouses.’

‘What happened to the wide open spaces around it?’ ‘Oh, there’s still a comer left — the borough sports-ground!’ She laughed deprecatingly. ‘The rest has been built on. Is it any wonder nature sometimes bites back? Anyway, I’m Mary Armstrong. You must be Guy. Sorry to keep you waiting.’

For some reason he had been expecting her to be an over-earnest, slightly untidy social-worker type, not this smartly turned-out woman in a sleek, no-nonsense suit, her face alert and intelligent, with just a touch of make-up — pale lipstick, nothing obtrusive. As businesswoman of the year she’d have been a press photographer’s dream. Not a single blonde hair was out of place.

Her office, she explained, was on the second floor of the Victorian east wing in what had once been a servant’s attic.

‘A bit of a climb, I’m afraid!’ she apologised. ‘We’ll go up the main staircase, it’s quicker. This is the original oak panelling, by the way. You’ll see it all the way up. I suppose we should be grateful some planner hasn’t ripped it out by now. Knowing this council, they must have been tempted.’

It was a wide wooden staircase with ornate bannisters, perhaps as old as the house itself. The space behind the wall panels was probably ideal breeding ground for insects of all kinds, Guy thought.

On the top landing she led the way along the corridor, then up more narrow stairs until they arrived at her office. She took a wallet of keys out of her bag.

‘The department’s labs and so on are in the basement,’ she explained crisply as she opened the door. ‘But I’m using this office for more confidential work.’

On her desk — it was the first thing he noticed — were three beetles, each preserved in liquid in a specimen case made of transparent plastic. At the sight of that familiar pink-and-green colouring he stopped dead, his throat suddenly dry. They were the first he’d seen since that night in the school.

‘Oh, sorry about those, Guy!’ She gave another of her deprecating little laughs. ‘I keep them on my desk to help convince the unbelievers. Fetch yourself a chair.’

Her office was surprisingly small, with only just enough space for her desk, a filing cabinet and some shelves. The only free chair stood next to the dormer window and he had to stoop to avoid hitting his head on the sloping ceiling. He moved it closer and sat down.

‘You said the beetle infestation was spreading,’ he prompted her.

‘We’ve had some twenty reports of beetles like these, though usually no more than two or three at a time. Some have been seen near where you live. The Plough public house, for instance.’

‘I know about the Plough. Where else?’

‘Guy, that’s not the point. Take a look at these.’ From the filing cabinet she produced a slim folder, which she opened, extracting several large photographs. She handed them to him. ‘They’re rather nasty, I’m afraid. I hope you’re not squeamish.’

Guy sorted through them with distaste. They were colour pictures, brutally factual, of a dead dog. Part of its neck and body had been eaten away, exposing the rib-cage.

‘I’d guess they were taken by a police photographer.’ Feeling slightly sick, he returned them to her desk. ‘I hope he enjoys his work.’

‘There’s a post-mortem report from the vet.’

She passed him two sheets of typed headed paper, stapled together. Guy glanced through it, though much of the detail was expressed in specialist veteminary terms which he only partly understood. A red line had been drawn in the margin alongside the last paragraph, which stated that, in the writer’s opinion, ‘the extent and nature of damage to the tissues indicate feeding by a larger, possibly toothless animal. They are not likely to have been caused exclusively by beetles of the type discovered dose to the body.’

‘What exactly does that mean?’ Guy asked.

He eyed the preserved beetles on her blotter. They looked menacingly attractive as the light caught them. Like expensive brooches.

‘Loose fragments of tom flesh,’ Mary explained patiently. ‘As though something — some creature — had been tearing at it. Either without teeth, or the teeth were badly worn down. That’s what he told me.’

‘How can he be sure?’

‘He was ten years in Kenya before he took his present job. Worked on a game reserve. Another thing, you’ll see from this fourth paragraph that the body was completely drained of blood, as though it had been sucked dry.’ Her briskness began to falter. ‘The dead tramp was in the same condition.’

‘Where was the dog found?’ inside a disused workshop in Miller Road. The place had been standing empty for a year or more. Quite an old building; they used to make furniture there. Well, recently the property was bought by an Asian company specialising in video cassettes. Multi-copying, that sort of thing. All quite legal and above board. The contractors moved in to start work on the conversion and discovered the dog there, plus several beetles which they killed.’ ‘None of the workmen hurt?’

‘No. Luckily they were local men and knew what to expect. They cleared out right away, then contacted my department. Guy, this PM report worries me. In fact, it’s why I rang you. I’d like you to describe exactly what you saw when you found the tramp. About the snakes, I mean.’

Guy shrugged. ‘You seem to have heard it already.’ ‘Detective-Sergeant Evans told me something.’ Reaching over to her desk, he picked up one of the beetles and examined it. ‘These things were flying at me from all over the place, crawling under my clothes, biting… If you want the truth, I was in a blind panic. I don’t know whether I saw anything or not.’

‘Guy, I do know what it’s like,’ she said meaningfully, ‘I couldn’t breathe either, because of this smell they were farting out at me. That could have been hallucinatory, I suppose. Like mescaline or LSD or something,’ He returned the beetle to the desk. ‘We have to look for the most rational explanation.’

‘What did the snakes look like?’

‘Snakes? Long… swaying.. squirming… curling., But no, they weren’t actually snakes, though they were similar. These were more like worms, though with big, slobbering mouths.’

‘Why d’you say slobbering?’

‘Dripping. A sort of dark saliva.’

‘And teeth?’

‘No. Oh no, I’m sure I’d have noticed teeth.’

‘What about their bodies — did they have scales, like snakes?’

‘Segmented — as I said, like worms. Very clear segments, I can swear to that.’

‘And how big were they?’

‘About the size of a cobra. And they held their heads in much the same way as a cobra. Look, it was typical nightmare stuff!’

‘They had eyes?’ she bore on relentlessly, scribbling her notes as she spoke.

‘Oh yes, they had eyes all right.’ He paused. ‘Now tell me you saw them too!’ he challenged her.

‘I didn’t. My panic took a different course. Mine was… well, simple cowardice.’

‘It’s nothing to be ashamed of,’ he assured her. ‘Faced with the unexpected.’

‘I couldn’t move, couldn’t think… I was completely paralysed by blind terror. I’m not proud of how I behaved.’

‘So that’s why you keep these beetles on your desk,’ he commented, thinking he understood. ‘To prove something to yourself.’

Her reaction proved him right.

‘Mr Archer, can we stick to the subject?’ Her voice was coldly venomous, is there anything more you can say about the snakes?’

‘Worms,’ he corrected her, feeling suddenly more relaxed. ‘I prefer to think of them as worms. Or maggots.’ ‘Why?

‘That’s what they resembled. Oh, I know it’s all totally bloody improbable, not to be taken seriously. 1 was scared, same as you were. Out of my mind.’

‘Nevertheless, what you describe could well fit the vet’s report on the dog,’ she observed thoughtfully. ‘We can’t dismiss it.’

‘Then what happened to the things afterwards?’ he demanded uneasily. He wanted to believe they were mere figments of imagination, that was the trouble; he couldn’t face the idea that they might be real. ‘Where did they go? Why did no one else see them?’

She didn’t argue, but began collecting up the photographs, post-mortem report and her page of notes, placing them in the folder. On the shelf beside her desk he noticed she had gathered a small library of books about beetles, timber pests and other insects, some six or eight volumes at least. He asked what she’d learned from them about the pink-and-green variety.

‘Nothing, I’m afraid,’ she answered as she locked the filing cabinet, it’s not been recorded, certainly not among British or European beetles. I only hope we’re not going to see a plague of them. I’ve already sent out warning notices to all the schools in the district.’

‘What are the chances?’

‘How do you rate them?’

He evaded the question. ‘Oh, I’m no expert, Mary. I can’t judge.’

‘The workshop where they found the dog,’ she began to explain, not looking at him but arranging the preserved beetles in a tidy line on her deak, ‘is — well, it’s a brick-and-timber building, quite old, and they’ve discovered the beams are badly infested. I went up there myself this morning on the scaffolding. You can see whole clusters of flight holes in every beam. Big ones, same as at the school. Quite clean too, which means they’re recent.’

‘And the new owners bought the building in that condition?’ It seemed incredible.

‘Either their surveyor fell down on the job — which he denies — or else a rapid deterioration has occurred in the months since his report was written. Hard to say which. According to the specialist I met, wood-boring larvae would normally take years to cause that degree of damage, except perhaps in the tropics, and we’ve hardly been enjoying a tropical climate for the past year.’

‘Flight holes mean beetles,’ he pointed out.

‘Yes.’

‘So where are they? From what you say, it should be overrun with them by now. I imagine there are none in the workshop or you couldn’t have gone in there.’

‘Well, for the sake of the men working there they’ve done some general area spraying inside, and I believe they’ve put Vapona strips in the roof-space, so it’s not surprising if no beetles have been spotted.’

‘Dead or alive?’

‘Dead or alive,’ she confirmed.

‘They must be somewhere.’

‘Apart from the two or three discovered near the remains of the dog, there has been no sign of them, not a single one,’ she told him. She had again picked up one of her preserved beetles and glanced at it nervously from time to time as she talked. ‘We have two theories. You can take your choice. Either they’ve left the building completely, which means they could be anywhere. Or else they’ve retreated farther into the timber, and we’il find that out tomorrow when we start the full pesticide treatment on the beams themselves.’

‘You’ll be there yourself?’

‘I intend to be,’ she nodded, matter-of-fact. ‘And I’d be grateful, Guy, if you could join me at least for the first hour or so. If anything does come out of the woodwork I’d welcome your opinion on it.’

Despite that brisk, down-to-earth manner her nerves were as taut as violin strings, Guy thought as he drove home afterwards. It needed only one little thing to go wrong for her to snap. He recalled the lectures he’d heard in the Army on the psychology of fear. She betrayed several of the obvious signs, though that was not surprising after what she’d been through.

He parked in the only available space and strode up the road to the house. It was well after eight o’clock, he’d only had a sandwich for lunch, and he was hoping that for once Dorothea might have cooked a meal. He still missed not being able to go to the mess if there was nothing at home.

But she had company. Even before mounting the steps he could hear the laughter and his heart sank. Glancing in through the uncurtained window he saw she was perched on a step-ladder, paintbrush in hand, and sporting a smock and mob-cap; with her, helping, were that pansy creep Brian from the Plough and another man he didn’t recognise. To judge from the row they were making they all found it a great giggle.

‘Hello, darling!’ Dorothea called out cheerfully from the top of the ladder as he let himself in. ‘Pete and Brian are giving me a hand. Isn’t that sweet of them?’

‘Very,’ Guy agreed drily. He’d half a mind to throw them out and their paint-pots after them. ‘Kath home?’ ‘Upstairs watching telly with Susi from her ballet class. Can you run Susi home later when it’s time, ’cos I shan’t be finished. Oh, and if you’re hungry there’s a meat pie in the kitchen and a fresh jar of pickles. I found a new shop.’ With the back of her hand she brushed some stray hair away from her forehead, leaving a slight smear of lemon-coloured paint.

‘Hi, Guy!’ Brian simpered with a little wave. ‘I do love Thea’s colour scheme, don’t you? It’s a gift she’s got. I envy you!’

Guy ignored him. Briefly he stood in the living room doorway watching them. Despite the number of empty beer cans, they were doing a decent job, he noted grudgingly, but he said nothing. As he turned to go upstairs he heard another laugh from Dorothea.

‘Oh, I’d never let Guy touch a paintbrush!’ she declared without lowering her voice. ‘He’s just about OK with a hammer or changing a plug-yes, I’ll give him that, he can change a plug — but I wouldn’t allow him anywhere near paint! God, you should’ve seen the mess that time he tried. Only that once as well, I can promise you!’ More laughter from her two acolytes. She was in her element this evening, Guy thought.

He shrugged and continued upstairs.

The two girls sat huddled together over the microcomputer, squealing with excitement as they fought out their duel on the TV screen, shooting down each other’s spacecraft as they streamed into the attack.

‘Oh, hello, Daddy!’ Kath greeted him, her face glowing, when she realised he’d come into the room. ‘Shan’t be — owV Something absorbing was happening, though he couldn’t immediately see what it was. Kath was balanced on the very edge of her seat, her eyes gleaming, her long dark hair — which was usually tied back in a pony-tail during the day — now loose over her neck and shoulders. The girl with her, frowning in concentration, he had never met before. Her face was thin, slightly peaked, and framed by short mousy hair.

‘Got you! she yelled out triumphantly. ‘Got you, Kath! Got you this time!’

‘You haven’t!’ Kath’s voice was defiant. ‘Not yet you haven’t!

‘There!’

A couple of final manoeuvres with the joystick and Kath was defeated. A slurred blee-blee-blee-eep came from the set and the screen cleared momentarily before the opening positions appeared again.

‘Daddy, this is Susi. She goes to my ballet class. I beat her twice, then she beat me once.’ Kath stood up but only to settle herself more comfortably on the low chair she had pulled up in front of the micro-computer. ‘So we’ve got to play one more game to see who really wins.’

‘Hello, Susi,’ Guy said.

Susi flushed. ‘Hello,’ she muttered abruptly, suddenly shy.

‘Mummy said I must tell you there’s food in the kitchen if you’re hungry,’ Kath went on impatiently. ‘I’m sure you are hungry. It’s all down there.’

Guy laughed. ‘OK, if you want to get rid of me…’

They had been doing their homework earlier, he noticed; their exercise books, papers and crayons were still spread out over the table. Among them was a large drawing of a beetle, its colours vivid and its claws rampant. Threatening.

‘What’s this?’

‘Oh, just one of those beetles,’ his daughter replied impatiently, her hand poised over the joystick. ‘There was a poster came to the school and we were told to copy it.’

‘If we see one we’re supposed to tell a grown-up,’ Susi added, overcoming her shyness.

‘A poster?’ Mary Armstrong’s doing, Guy thought, it’s been stuck up on the wall. Daddy, are those the beetles that bit you?’

‘With their claws,’ he admitted. ‘These big claws out at the front, like horns on a reindeer.’

‘Antlers,’ said Susi, nodding wisely. ‘My sister’s class have got two beetles in a jar, but not like these. I mean, they don’t have antlers or anything, but they’ve got spots an’ so on. Green spots, anyway. Leastways they’re green if you look close up. I thought they were black at first. Her teacher says they’re like big ladybirds. I don’t think so.’

‘Who is her teacher?’ Guy looked at the two girls’ bright eager faces and felt apprehensive. ‘D’you know her name?’

it’s Mrs Burrows, only she’s having a baby so there’s another person there now called Lise.’

‘Lise what?’

‘Dunno. I think they just call her Lise, don’t they? D’you know her name, Kath?’

‘Everybody calls her Lise.’ Kath gazed at her father pointedly. ‘Daddy, your meat pie’s getting terribly stale. Aren’t you going to eat it?’

Guy laughed. ‘OK, young missie!’ It was a joke they shared since hearing the phrase used in a TV play one Sunday tea-time. ‘But when I’ve had my supper I’ll be back up to drive Susi home. Right?’

Perhaps he should call at the school to inspect the beetles for himself, Guy considered uneasily as he went down to the kitchen. But then he dismissed the idea. Susi had insisted they were devoid of antler- claws, hadn’t she? There must be thousands of different types of beetle in

Britain alone, never mind the rest of the world. They couldn’t all be dangerous.

He’d mention it to Mary Armstrong though, he decided, if she wasn’t too busy when he met her next morning. Perhaps she could find a moment to check it out.

6

It was three o’clock in the night when Bob Fraser turned into Miller Road in his little Ford van. The three street-lamps evenly spaced along the full length of the road produced only isolated pools of light to break up the darkness. No moon that night, and enough cloud to obscure all but the brightest stars: perfect conditions for a break-in, he thought, driving slowly to check on the few vehicles parked at the roadside.

Outside the old furniture workshop he pulled in and stopped, switching off the engine.

‘OK, Grimsby, calm down now,’ he reassured the Alsatian in the back of the van. ‘No need to get excited.’ He reached forward for the microphone.

‘Bob here. D’you read me?’

‘Go ahead, Bob,’ the speaker crackled.

‘Routine check. I’m in Miller Road, just about to inspect the furniture workshop. Over.’

‘Roger. Time now three-oh-five. Over.’

‘Three-oh-five — check. Everything looks very quiet. I’ll switch over to personal radio. What channel? Over.’ ‘Channel five. Over.’

‘Channel five. Over and out.’

Putting the microphone down, Bob unclipped his personal radio from his jacket and made sure it was set to channel five. Then he stepped out on to the road, locked the door and opened the back of the van, slipping the lead on to the Alsatian’s collar before letting him out.

The dog was restless tonight, which was unusual. Normally he was so quiet in that van, you wouldn’t know he was there, and that made him ideal for this sort of security work. Bob had acquired him as a pup from Grimsby Jake, a tough giant of a man, all muscle, who had picked up the nickname because that was his home port.

For five years he and Jake had gone to sea together on the same trawler, weathering the roughest storms, dodging the Icelanders’ gunboats in the cod war, getting pissed in the same bars ashore, in one mad month even laying the same bird turn and turn about till they signed on again to get away from her. Only that time — ay, he remembered, that was the time they were rammed by the Icelanders and had to be fished out of the sea by a Royal Navy' corvette. It was soon afterwards the cod fishing stopped altogether. Jake took over a pub — he’d been putting money aside for years, the bastard, and telling nobody — married a widow-woman, and that’s when he came by the Alsatians. He gave one to Bob as a free gift, his way of saying push off, those days are over. Finite.

Bob had understood all right; no hard feelings. For old times’ sake he’d called the pup Grimsby.

So he’d come south to the Smoke — no jobs in the north anyroad — and settled down. Married. Couple o’ kids. He could’ve joined the boys in blue, the ‘Met’ they called it down here — they were always looking for dog handlers — but he couldn’t see himself snapping handcuffs on some poor drunken sod who’d only gone out for a good time, then dragging him off to court. Come to that, he earned more with this private security firm, and it was varied work. This week’s was a cushy number, driving around doing spot checks on business property, and he didn’t mind nights.

‘Come on, boy!’ he said, not bothering to keep his voice down. Any villains must have heard the van drive up anyway. ‘Let’s go an’ do the rounds.’

The furniture workshop, as he called it, was an unoccupied rectangular building in pale brick. It was set a little way back from the road and on its concrete forecourt stood a pile of breeze-blocks and a couple of builder’s skips. No lights were on inside. Bob flashed his powerful torch over the front, lingering on the wire-meshed windows; then he went up to the large double doors to test whether they were still firmly locked. Everything seemed much the same as on his previous visit earlier that night.

‘Have a look down the side, shall we?’ he suggested to Grimsby. ‘Let’s go.’

He liked to do a thorough inspection each time. His usual method was to work out for himself how many different ways he could break into the building if he wanted to, and he’d double-check all of them.

Suddenly Grimsby growled, and he felt the lead in his hand become taut. He stopped absolutely still.

‘Quiet, boy,’ he said softly.

From inside he heard a creaking sound, as though someone had trodden on a loose floorboard. Again a low rumble came from the Alsatian’s throat, and he bent down, putting a hand on the dog’s neck to reassure him.

More creaking, followed by a strange tearing and cracking which he couldn’t quite identify.

Right, this was it, he decided. He slipped the personal radio out of his pocket and pressed the control button, holding it very close to his mouth.

‘Bob here, Jimmy. D’you read?’

‘Go ahead, Bob.’

‘Suspect intruders in furniture workshop. Quite a racket going on in there. Over.’

‘OK, Bob. Message understood. Smokey bear on his way. Stick around till he shows, but for God’s sake keep out o’ trouble, will you? Over and out.’

‘Smokey bear’ was their code for the police. Bob knew too well what would happen when they arrived. There’d be sirens wailing and lights flashing, waking up the entire neighbourhood; by the time they reached the workshop any intruders would be well away — and his chance of earning a bonus gone with them. Well, he’d have to see about that, he and Grimsby. A good team they were, when they put their minds to it. The best.

Still keeping Grimsby on a short lead, using his torch only sparingly, he made his way along the dark path to the rear of the building. The small door next to the lean-to shed was the obvious weak point, and he expected to find that was how the intruders had broken in, but he was wrong. It was undamaged, solid to the touch. The windows then, he thought, stepping back to take a look at them, but then he heard the same noise again. Only longer this time, like a crackling roll of thunder.

‘Jesus!’ he swore under his breath. He could sense how Grimsby had suddenly become tense, backing away. "What the hell are they doing in there?’

The whole building seemed to be tearing itself apart. A loud creaking and rending as though in agony was followed by two cracks like rifle-fire; then a heavy tumbling of bricks, dust and debris as the upper part of the rear wall collapsed.

Recoiling in the darkness, Bob managed to release the Alsatian before a fresh shower of mortar and masonry enveloped him, smashing against his head and face and sending him reeling back. The hard dust was in his eyes, in his nostrils, choking him as he fumbled with his personal radio in a desperate attempt to call the office for help.

‘Jimmy, the whole fuckin’ building’s cornin’ down on top o’ me!’ He coughed and spluttered and spat, gasping for clean air but succeeding only in gulping in more of the filthy dust. ‘Jimmy, for God’s sake, get somebody here quick!’

An ear-piercing, unnatural keening split the air, a heart-rending sound which he knew could only be Grimsby, though he’d never heard such a banshee racket from him before, not from his dog.

‘Grimsby!’ he yelled, struggling in the blackness to get to his feet again, puzzled that his legs were now entangled in loops of sharp wire which dug into him. ‘Grimsby — here, boy!’

He almost made it, almost managed to push himself up on to one knee; then his precarious balance was lost and he fell painfully back, hitting his head. One more yelp from Grimsby; one only, and then nothing. Oh shit, if only he could seel

He lay there, winded, flat on his back, his whole body aching. The wound on the back of his head throbbed violently when he touched it. His fingers were sticky with blood. Cautiously he tried to sit up but his ribs gave him hell, one twinge of pure, searing pain after another. Yet he had to move somehow, hadn’t he, before the rest of the wall came down on him?

Directly above, where the darkness was less intense, he could pick out a few stars. He’d known about stars on the trawlers. Watching over him, he’d sometimes thought. Idiot idea.

But something was blotting them out, a pale, long shape like a bare arm with the fist clenched, undulating, slowly curving down towards him… A cold, treacly liquid was splashing on to his face, over his mouth and nose, and instinctively he turned his head away. In the next second came a slow, agonising suction on his neck till his skin burst, leaving a raw open wound. He was screaming, he realised that, screaming and struggling; but it all merged with a dancing, whirlwind dizziness and pinpricks of light before his eyes in a million colours. Disconnected thoughts and memories jumbled together until all consciousness was sucked down into a dank, dark tunnel through stinking rocks to the place where ice-cold Arctic waves were waiting to receive him. He heard Jake’s laugh down there, fuckin’ oP Grimsby Jake half-seas-over, and his voice intoning the hated words: ‘.. commit his body to the deep to be turned into corruption… into corruption.. commit his body to the deep to be turned… and turned.. and turned…’

That morning Guy was already up by six o’clock. He collected his tilings together in the half-darkness and retreated to Dorothea’s Hollywood-style bathroom to shave, wash and dress. Needing a clean shirt, he went back into the bedroom and opened his end of the wardrobe as quietly as the sliding door permitted, but Dorothea heard him just the same. From the heaped-up duvet came her muffled voice furiously informing him that he must be mad getting up in the middle of the night, he wasn’t in the Army now, and must he be so bloody noisy about it?

‘Sorry, love,’ he answered cheerfully, found a shirt and returned to the bathroom. She’d never been an early-morning person; in the Army he’d always left quarters long before she was awake.

Except perhaps in Cyprus. Things had been different there.

When he was ready he went quietly through the bedroom again to replace his slippers under the bed, return his electric razor to the top shelf of the wardrobe and take a clean handkerchief from the drawer.

Til not bother to come up again, Doro-Iove,’ he said gently, bending down to kiss her tousled head, the only part of her which was visible. ‘Leaving earlier this morning. Sorry I woke you.’

‘Oh, go to hell!’ came her reply from under the duvet. He grinned. That sounded more like her.

But sitting in the kitchen over coffee and toast — he always made himself toast for breakfast — he wondered again what was going wrong between them. Whatever it was, it had been happening for a long time now. Of course life in the Army hadn’t suited her, not as an officer’s wife. That was one thing. She’d trodden on a lot of corns — often deliberately, he suspected. She had a tongue like a sting-ray and a sharp eye for other people’s weaknesses. It was what had attracted him to her in the first place, that and the fact that she didn’t give a damn about anybody, however high-ranking. She was her own woman, was Dorothea.

And she could be bloody funny. At times she’d had the whole mess rolling about the floor.

In Cyprus, at the beginning, their love affair had seemed like a hurricane — even to her, he remembered. One night, lying back exhausted on the bed, both of them bathed in sweat, she’d suddenly blurted out: ‘Christ, and this is only Act One!’ For months afterwards it had been a private joke between them which she repeated at the most inopportune moments, such as the time they were taking sherry with a visiting Anglican bishop and his wife.

‘You’ve got a touch of Cyprus fever, that’s ail!’ the adjutant had dismissed it, laughing at him. ‘For God’s sake, take sick leave, take her to bed, and don’t get up till you’ve worked it out of your system.’

But he never did — work it out of his system, that is. As for her, he couldn’t be sure.

Though if he’d wanted to be sure of everything in life he would never have married her in the first place, a girl he’d known only three or four weeks, who’d gone to Cyprus on a package holiday with her boy friend, only to walk out on him after a quarrel in a late-night bar. They’d all thought Guy was mad, everyone in the mess. ‘Lay her an’ leave her!’ they’d unanimously advised him. But it was the madness that had appealed to him, that great feeling of kicking free. And it was that which was missing now, perhaps — for both of them.

‘Daddy?’ Kath was in her dressing gown, her long dark hair in a tangle around her face. ‘Can I have some coffee? Please?’

‘Couldn’t you sleep?’

He poured an inch of the strong black coffee into a breakfast cup and quickly warmed up some milk to add to it.

‘I’ve been awake for ages, she said. ‘I was thinking. These scars on your face really don’t make you look all that different.’

‘Who said they did?’ He turned off the gas and carefully poured the milk into the cup.

‘Susi. She saw the photo I’ve got in my room, the one from last year. Her father doesn’t have any scars.’

‘Oh?’

‘But he doesn’t live with them in their flat either, so that makes us even,’ she commented inconsequentially as she slotted a music cassette into her tape recorder and switched it on. ‘We’re going to do an evening of dance.’ ‘At the ballet school?’

‘Yeah. I’ve got to do a pas de deux with Susi, just the two of us. This is our music. She’s good. She’s the best.’ Guy glanced at the clock and saw it was already twenty to seven. He’d promised Mary Armstrong he’d be punctual at the workshop. Seven sharp, she’d said.

‘Kath, I’ve got to go,’ he told her regretfully, getting up. He rinsed his cup and plate under the hot tap. ‘You’d better get yourself washed and dressed now you’re up, and you might have another look at your homework. You know what your teacher said last week.’

‘Daddy, there’s loads of time,’ his daughter responded airily, not without a touch of condescension. Til dry your things. Don’t worry.’

Driving to Miller Road took him less than ten minutes. Even at that time of the morning there was plenty of traffic about but it was moving rapidly with no hold-ups. It was not until he entered Miller Road itself that he realised something was wrong. People were standing about in tight, subdued little groups and at least three police vehicles were parked there, together with a couple of borough council lorries as well as the woodworm contractors’ vans and a dozen or more ordinary cars.

He drove slowly, searching for a space for his own car, and spotted Mary Armstrong talking earnestly to Detective-Sergeant Evans. Behind them he saw the collapsed building. The old brick walls were still standing, though truncated; between them Say a tangle of snapped-off joists, floorboards, window-frames and broken slates — all that was left of the upper part of the workshop. He wondered what the hell had been going on.

At the end of the road, in front of a terrace of high gloomy Victorian houses with thin, ill-fitting curtains on their windows and clusters of unwashed milk bottles standing empty on their doorsteps, he discovered a gap into which he could manoeuvre his car. Getting out, he paused to kick some of the broken glass away from his tyres before locking the door and hurrying back to join Mary and her policeman friend.

‘We were too late, Guy,’ she greeted him in that oddly emphatic manner she affected. “The infestation must have been far more advanced than any of us thought. You know Detective-Sergeant Evans?’

Guy nodded. ‘Morning.’

‘Good morning, Mr Archer. Not a very nice sight this, is it?’ The Welsh accent seemed more marked than before. ‘Shortly after three this morning it happened, which is only four hours ago, when you think of it. We’ve had a narrow miss. Lucky we weren’t all inside. As it is,

there’s one roan dead. Security guard.’

‘And his dog,’ Mary added.

She was shivering in her thin raincoat, Guy noticed, and her face was deathly pale.

The destruction of the building was complete. Even the segments of side walls still standing contained jagged cracks and bulged dangerously. The heavy beams lay splintered and torn like so much matchwood, in places actually bending under the weight of fallen masonry. Exploring the edges of the rains was a young bearded man in overalls; in his gloved hands he carried a chain-saw.

‘That’s Tony from the borough council,’ Mary explained, pointing him out. ‘It wasn’t council property but we do have an interest. The contractors have engaged a top academic expert to examine the site, but it could take weeks before his report is available, so I asked Tony to sniff around for me. He’s one of those pearls you don’t find very often — a skilled craftsman who really has a nose for the job. I’d trust him above any academic.’

‘Let’s get this straight. You told me yesterday this place had a clean bill of health from the original surveyors, but then flight holes were discovered in the timber after the new owners had bought it.’

‘More than you’d expect in such a short period of time,’ she confirmed.

‘Fair enough, but what then? The specialist contractors come in. They examine the timber and say they can treat it. In my book that means they judged the building was still safe. Are you saying they made the same mistakes — the first surveyor and the contractors?’

‘I’d have thought it much too early yet to reach any conclusions,’ the detective-sergeant intervened.

‘ What if we assume both were right?’ Guy persisted, wanting to follow the argument through. ‘At the time?’

‘Then we have here a variety of woodworm which can chew through timber faster than anything yet known,’ Mary observed. ‘But that’s ludicrous.’

‘Not only ludicrous, but in my opinion impossible,’ a new voice commented sharply. The man who joined them wore an expression of — perhaps permanent — disapproval, which his heavily-framed glasses and balding head seemed to emphasise. In his fifties, Guy estimated. The voice went on: ‘You’re the chap they found at the school, aren’t you?’

‘That’s right,’ Guy agreed amicably. ‘At death’s door.’ ‘Similar sort of business to this.’

‘So it seems.’

‘My name’s Simpkins. Borough engineer. I see that experience left you with a few marks. Is there nothing the doctors can do about those scars?’

‘They say they can’t guarantee success.’

‘So you decided not to let ’em try, eh? Wise man. You do realise the borough council can’t he held responsible? You were trespassing where you shouldn’t.’

‘Quite,’ Guy said briefly.

‘As for this incident here, it’s too early to say. It was a very old building, after all. Probably poor maintenance over the years, plus some subsidence, I’d not be surprised. It was a chapel before the furniture people moved here just after the war. Strict Baptist. I remember it from the thirties when I was a boy. In those days this was quite a respectable street.’ He turned towards Mary, addressing her personally. ‘Miss Armstrong, there’s a young lady from the press buzzing around like some inquisitive fly, poking her nose in. I’ve had a word with the town clerk. He’d be grateful if none of us said anything to her at this juncture. Glad to meet you, Mr Archer… detective-sergeant… Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ll be on my way.’ He moved off a few paces, then stopped thoughtfully and came back.

‘Would you believe it, the town clerk was still in bed when I phoned! After seven o’clock and he wasn’t up yet! Amazing!’

Without waiting for their reaction he went directly to one of the parked cars, got in and drove off.

‘If anyone’s unbelievable it’s that man!’ Mary exploded the moment he was out of earshot. ‘Probably poor maintenance'. Has he ever known that to cause a whole building to collapse like this one, overnight? Nothing left standing? He’s trying to cover up. There’s no other explanation. Not that it surprises me. It doesn’t surprise me in the least.’

‘What are you implying, love?’ the detective-sergeant asked gently.

Before she could reply, the man she’d called Tony came across from the rains of the workshop with a length of sawn-off timber in his hand. It was pock-marked with flight holes.

‘This is no more than frass!’ he exclaimed, his excitement betraying itself on his face. ‘What we call frass — all eaten away! Look, I’ll show you. I’m no Tarzan, but I reckon I can break this in half in my hands.’

Still wearing his thick gloves, he gripped the timber with both hands and tore a piece out of it as easily as he might break bread. Inside, the wood was dry and powdery, riddled with a network of passageways.

‘If you ask me, this is all recent,’ he said. ‘You see it’s quite clean.’

Guy took a pinch of the wood powder and rubbed it between his fingertips. It was as fine as castor sugar. Here and there in the channels he found dry curls of what appeared to be pink skin or leaf. He picked one out.

‘Abandoned cocoons,’ Tony told him. ‘That’s my guess, but I could be wrong.’

‘But no larvae?’

‘Haven’t seen any.’

‘It might help your experts if we were to find some specimen larvae, I imagine?’ Guy asked Mary. ‘Must be some among all that timber.’

‘You can try, she answered doubtfully.

‘Tony?’

‘I dunno.’ He tossed the piece of frass aside. Pulling off a glove, he nibbed the back of his hand over his eyes. ‘It’s not too easy to get at, not the way it’s all lying at the moment. The ground floor went down with the rest of the building into some sort of cellar underneath. We’d have to risk climbing'down there.’

‘I don’t want either of you taking any chances,’ Mary insisted. ‘It’s probably crawling with beetles.’

‘Haven’t seen any.’ Tony shook his head. ‘No beetles, no woodworms, nothing. It’s as though now they’ve done their job they’ve all moved on.’

‘You don’t mean that?’ Her voice was tense, Guy noted. Yet what Tony had said was blatant nonsense. Had to be.

‘Quiet as the grave, that place,’ Tony repeated. ‘No life there at all’

Mary shuddered, then turned impulsively towards the detective-sergeant, putting a hand on his aim. Tony grinned at Guy, raising an eyebrow and indicating with a slight movement of his head that they should take a look at the devastated building together.

‘From this side it’s quite useless,’ he explained, picking up his chain-saw from the low wall where he’d left it. ‘But I found a spot round the back that might be possible. There’s a path.’

What remained of the path was now an obstacle course buried under smashed glass, roof-slates and rough fragments from the old brick wall. Their progress along it was made slower by the need to be constantly on the alert for beetles. The yard at the rear, Tony explained when they reached it, was where the security guard’s body bad been discovered.

‘Badly chewed up, from all accounts,’ he added.

The yard surface was potholed and had dark, greasy patches left by dc: ades of spilled oil. Alongside a broken fence were stacks of worn-out tyres and rusting metal drams. The back wall of the workshop had not been totally destroyed.

‘We can get through here.’ Tony led him to a gap where the doorway had been.

i’ll go first,’ Guy said.

The remains of the door, splintered and jagged, still hung loosely on one hinge; it had been tom free from the others by the impact. The doorframe itself leaned over at an angle. It was partly blocked by rubble, but he managed to manoeuvre himself through on to a remaining section of stone flooring not more than a square metre in size. First he tested it with one foot, gingerly holding on to the door-jamb till he was confident it would take his weight.

Tony joined him.

The slightest movement sent dust and debris showering down into the deep opening immediately before their feet. Beam ends, some with long bent nails protruding from them, stuck out of the rubble like fat thorns; other sections of timber lay across them, or were threaded between them: one touch might cause the whole lot to shift dangerously.

Every beam was peppered with flight holes. Hundreds of beetles must have emerged from them, he speculated; unless — the thought sent shivers through him — they were still hiding inside, waiting for the right moment.

it’s possible,’ said Tony when he mentioned it. if they are like death-watch beetles, they’ll wait till the temperature is right before coming out. That’s when you’ll hear them tapping — tic-toc-tic-toc — signalling for a mate.’

‘Then if we want some of the larvae, a beam with only few flight holes might be best. Or none at all.’

‘Perhaps.’ Tony seemed doubtful.

‘Such as that one down there, if we could reach it.’ Guy pointed to the one he meant.

‘With all that stuff piled on top of it? You must be joking.’

‘We’ve got the chain-saw. We’ll cut a section out of it.’

Tony squatted on his haunches to take a closer look. ‘One slip an’ we’d break our necks.’

‘My neck,’ said Guy. ‘I’m not asking you to do it. Look, I think this is important. The sooner we can get the boffins working on these worms, the happier I’ll be.’

About five feet below the ledge on which they stood, a square corbel of chipped stone jutted out from the old brickwork. There wasn’t much of it, but enough for a foothold perhaps. Guy took off his jacket and hung it from a protruding nail on the sagging doorframe.

A bit farther along the wall was a red-painted reel of fire-hose. To get hold of it he had to lean out over the sheer drop, digging his fingers into the brickwork’s crumbling mortar to steady himself. At the third attempt he managed to grab the nozzle and Tony helped him back to safety.

‘Got a knife?’ Guy grunted.

‘Sure.’ Tony produced a clasp knife.

‘Hand this down to me when I’m ready, will you?’ He cut off a usable length of hose. ‘I’ll secure the timber with it before I start cutting.’

‘OK.’

Carefully Guy lowered himself over the edge, groping with his feet until he found the stone corbel. Slowly he transferred his entire weight to it. Taking a breath, he began to shuffle round till he faced the beam he wanted. Beneath him was a drop of maybe fifteen feet down a twisting funnel through the debris of fallen beams, Victorian brickwork and heavy slabs of plaster, with rusty nails and sharp daggers of broken glass to lacerate him if he fell. It would need only very little blood to attract the attention of any beetles nearby. He could picture a whole army of them waiting for him down there, and with them a squirming mass of giant worms stretching up through the rubble towards him.

In an effort to clear his mind of such nonsense he closed his eyes for a second.

‘You all right?’ Tony asked anxiously.

Guy forced a laugh. ‘Just remembered something, that’s all,’ he replied without lying. ‘Something bloody stupid.’

Fear was irrational, he knew that well enough; as irrational as dreams about bloody outsized maggots.

‘I think this is going to work OK,’ he said, forcing himself to concentrate. ‘No problem reaching the beam, which is half the battle. I’d prefer a length of rope rather than the hose-pipe, but I suppose it’ll have to do.’

Slipping off his leather belt, he swung it around the beam; it needed a couple of attempts before he managed to catch the buckle and thread the tail end through it. In order to fasten it tightly, he borrowed Tony’s knife and made an extra hole; it would be wasted effort if the belt slipped after all. Next, he asked for one end of the hosepipe, which he tucked through the belt, then passed back up to Tony.

‘Right — now the saw.’

‘You come up now,’ Tony offered, it’s my job to do the cutting. Never used one of these things, have you? They can be a bastard if you’re new to ’em.’

‘Just start the bugger and hand it down to me,’ Guy told him impatiently. ‘And keep hold of both ends of that hose-pipe. We don’t want to lose the wood after all this.’

‘OK, but don’t blame me if you cut your leg off.’ He was only half-joking, Guy realised.

He gripped the chain-saw firmly. Balanced on that minute stone slab with his back against the brick wail, it seemed to kick and rear like an old Lewis gun.

The beam was in front of him. All he had to do was reach out and let the chain-saw slice through it, while praying that it wouldn’t shift once the cut was made. The chain ground against the wood, sending chips flying in every direction, then bounced away. He brought it down again, holding it steady, and it ate through the beam as hungrily as if it had been on field rations for a month.

‘Oh, fu—!’ he started to curse. The newly sawn ends were shifting. With a sudden rending noise the main part of the beam sagged, leaving a two-foot gap. ‘No. No, it’s OK!’

The near part of the beam — the section that mattered— had hardly moved at all. Holding the snarling saw in one hand, he tested the beam with the other. It was not too firm, though the weight of rabble was still keeping it in place.

‘What d’you think — risk it?’ he called to Tony.

‘I can’t judge. Better leave it if it’s too loose.’

Guy decided to try. He had to swing the saw above his head to avoid the twin strands of fire-hose — no thicker than an ordinary garden hose — then down on the left side, hoping he could steady it long enough to make the cut.

But everything was against him this time. He was holding the saw at too awkward an angle and was forced to stand half-twisted away from the wall, which made balancing a problem. To make matters worse, the beam end began to dance about the moment the high-speed chain touched it.

•Cursing, he lifted the saw clear, but simultaneously the timber seemed to jump up with it, and in that split second he knew he was going to fall. He’d leaned over too far; trying to straighten up, his arm hit the wall; he’d no hope of steadying himself.

Time stretched. His mind rationalised every move as though he were watching himself from the outside: how he dropped the saw and it clattered down screaming into the pit; how he put up a hand to grasp the top of the wall but it wasn’t there; how he felt his foot shifting involuntarily away from its stone perch as he teetered wildly to avoid the inevitable plunge downwards; and how — when he least expected it — that beam which had been the cause of it all came swinging towards him.

An arm went around it instinctively; one hand gripped the hose.

‘Steady there!’ came Tony’s voice. ‘You OK?’

Guy regained his foothold and gradually straightened up, while Tony kept the hose-pipe taut,

‘Think so. Give me a second to get my breath back.’ The beam — that is, the remaining five or six feet of it— had worked itself loose from the rubble, he realised; it was now hanging freely with the help of the hose-pipe looped through his belt. Bracing himself against the wall, Guy released his hold on it.

‘Tony, you can pull the beam up now,’ he instructed. ‘Sorry about your chain-saw.’

‘The borough council’s, not mine!’ Tony replied cheerfully. ‘Old Simpkins won’t be too pleased. Wait till I’ve shoved the beam outside to give you more room when you climb up. Don’t go away!’

Guy edged round until he was facing the wall again and was able to hoist himself up on to the narrow ledge. A comer of the brickwork broke off as it took his weight, slithering and bouncing down into the pit, and he felt sick at the sound of it. Getting to his feet again, he glanced down; no trace of the chain-saw among the rubble, though he could still hear the motor chuffing away.

‘You’ve managed?’ Tony grinned at him through the half-blocked doorway. He seemed surprised. ‘Go rock climbing, do you?’

‘Something like that.’ Guy tried to slap some of the muck off his clothes. They were in such a mess, he’d have to go home and change before putting in an appearance at the office. ‘Let’s take that timber round to the front. I’d like Mary to be there when we split it open.’

‘What d’vou bet we don’t find anything?’

‘In that case we’ll have wasted our time.’

Guy retrieved his belt and jacket, then set off back down the pathway towards the road, leaving Tony to follow, shouldering the length of timber. It may well have been a waste of time, he reflected; on the other hand, every little they learned helped to construct the picture. So far — Mary would agree — they had so few pieces of the jigsaw as to be practically useless.

He found her talking to a short, stumpy girl arrned with a shoulder bag, notebook and pencil, though she seemed to be writing nothing down. Press, he thought. The round metal glasses magnified the girl’s eyes; her curly unkempt hair looked like a wig which had been caught out in a storm, then merely left to dry without further attention: the overall effect was remarkable, particularly side by side with Mary’s precise neatness.

‘Guy! What happened?’ A look of shock crossed Mary’s face when she saw him. ‘You haven’t hurt yourself, have you?’

‘It’s only dirt,’ he said briefly. ‘We cut another specimen length, but perhaps you’d prefer to examine it later on.’

He glanced pointedly at the girl reporter, remembering what Simpkins had said about the press. Mary obviously took his meaning but chose to ignore it.

‘This is Tessa from the Gazette. I’ve just been explaining it’s too early to be able to comment on what might have caused the workshop to collapse like this. But Set’s see what you’ve found. No harm in her looking on.’

Guy showed her the section of beam. Probably it had been part of the original Victorian chapel; it was quite roughly hewn and obviously old. Several long dark cracks ran along the grain.

‘No flight holes,’ Mary commented.

‘Which is why I chose it.’

Guy explained his theory. She looked doubtful, pursing her lips and shaking her head.

‘Let’s find out then,’ he said.

Tony had been back to his car to fetch his tool kit. From it he selected a large chisel and a mallet. His first couple of cuts met firm timber; he didn’t pursue them, but tugged the chisel out again and tried elsewhere. The third attempt was more rewarding. With one tap from the mallet the chisel blade plunged into the wood almost up to the haft. It splintered so easily that within seconds he had split some of the beam away and revealed the delicately intricate network of galleries.

‘There’s the worm!’ Guy exclaimed, pointing at a naked, whitish slug snuggling in one of the channels through the wood. ‘I was right after all!’

‘Urgh!’ Tessa from the Gazette offered as her contribution. ‘How horrible!’

Til fish it out,’ Tony said. ‘We’ll take a closer look.’

He was about to poke it out of its groove with his little finger when Mary stopped him.

‘Tony, be careful,’ she warned him urgently. ‘We don’t know anything about it yet. That’s not an ordinary woodworm.’

‘If you say so.’

This time he pulled on his work gloves, then used the chisel blade to coax the maggot to leave the protection of the wood. It began to explore this unfamiliar metal object, which was exactly what he wanted. Transferring it to the palm of his left hand was no problem at all.

‘Urgh!’ said Tessa for the second time.

As he examined it, Guy’s apprehension returned. In every respect it seemed identical to the giant worms of his nightmares — yet what could that mean? Was it merely his imagination blowing them up to mammoth size? In that case, maybe he really should see a psychiatrist.

‘Segmented,’ Mary observed, glancing at him as though sharing his thoughts.

Tony gave it a push with his forefinger, wanting it to move over the chafed leather palm of his glove. Its reaction caught them all unprepared. Bunching itself up, in one swift movement it began to bore head-first into his hand.

A yell of agony burst from his lips, followed by curses as he struggled to get a grip on it to pull it away.

It went directly through the leather like a tungsten bit through soft wood. Blood welled up as it penetrated his flesh, and he gasped at the pain.

Guv grabbed his wrist, held it firmly and tore off his glove. The worm’s head was already appearing through the back of Tony’s hand. Its skin was no longer pale, but flushed red with the blood it had consumed. With a sudden twist it was completely through, and was beginning to explore other parts of the hand when Guy succeeded in knocking it away.

Mary and Tessa sprang back but they need not have worried. Guy had seen where it landed and — regardless of the trouble he had taken to find this specimen — he quickly trod on it, grinding it to death. When he took his foot away, all that was left of the larva was a damp pink smear against the grey paving stone.

7

Guy had offered to drive Tony to hospital himself, but Mary insisted so vehemently that it was her responsibility, and her face had become so drawn, so intense, that he dared not contradict her for fear of how she might react. Besides, having something practical to do might be the best thing for her, he thought.

They were ail on edge, every one of them. Tessa from the Gazette was actually trembling as she tried dutifully to write down the main points in her notebook, getting on Guy’s nerves with her questions. Only Tony himself seemed absolutely calm as he patiently allowed Mary to plug both ends of his wound with lint from the first-aid box in her car. When she had finished, he nodded and got into the passenger seat without accepting help from anybody.

‘Guy, I’ll call you later in the day,’ Mary said with a quiet urgency before she drove off. ‘Will you be in your office?’

‘Mostly.’

He needed to think it all through, he felt, as he stood watching her car slowing down at the end of the road and seeming to pause for a few seconds before slotting itself into the main stream of traffic. He needed to look at the facts again, including this latest incident, if only to work out why each encounter with these insects left him with such a strong sense of foreboding.

Tessa put her finger on it when she asked, ‘Other insects feed on humans, don’t they? Yet we don’t feel half so scared of them. It’s spooky.’

She was right, too. These were different.

Stooping, Guy picked up the beam section he and Tony had gone through so much trouble to obtain. Balancing it upright on one end, he considered for a moment stowing it in his car boot in case they could Seam something more from it. Christ, as if they hadn’t learned enough already! The way that worm had bored through Tony’s hand was something he’d never forget, not as long as he lived.

Yet…

He hesitated. Taking the timber with him would mean cutting it in half to get it into the boot, which was a prospect he didn’t welcome. God knew how many other worms were hidden inside. Nor did he like the thought of taking them anywhere near Dorothea or Kath.

Impulsively he carried it over to the ruined building and tossed it into the rubble. ‘Best place for that!’ he declared. ‘Could be full of woodworms.’

‘Bloodworms,’ Tessa said.

Her thin lips twisted into a weak smile, then she made some more notes.

‘Hell!’ he exploded at her. ‘D’you have to write everything down?’

Parking close to his own house proved impossible, as usual, but eventually he found a space at the far end of the road, reversed into it, then got out, locked the car and began to walk back. To judge from the pointed glances he received from passers-by he must have looked a bit of a scarecrow.

Dorothea thought so too when she saw him.

‘You back? What happened — did they sack you?’ She sounded amused rather than concerned. ‘And bloody hell, your clothes! Guy, have you been mugged or what?’ Briefly he explained about the collapsed building and how they had needed a sample of the timber for tests. Then he told her what the worm had done to Tony’s hand.

‘So you had to climb down there!’ she exclaimed, disgusted. ‘Guy, you might have been killed!’

Yet a look of understanding crossed her face as she went to him and there was a glint of interest in her eyes which he hadn’t seen for years. ‘But you knew that, you bastard,’ she went on, her voice softening. ‘You bloody knew it. You’re still the crazy boy I married, aren’t you?’ She leaned forward to kiss him and he felt the tip of her tongue darting rapidly across his, though before he could respond she’d pulled away again and begun to brush the dust off her dark blue suit.

‘Oh, look at my skirt! This is muck off your clothes. You’re quite hopeless, Guy. You should’ve stayed in the Army instead of selling adding machines, or whatever it is you do. An eternal boy scout, that’s you!’

‘Why are you al! dressed up?’ he asked, noticing that she was wearing the new suit they had bought together on a shopping spree only a few weeks earlier.

‘Temp job, phoned through this morning. Managing director in the City. One of his secretaries was in a traffic accident so they want someone right away.’

That must be why she was in such a good mood, he thought, She’d nagged for years about buying a house of their own, but she was only really happy when she could get out of it.

‘I must go,’ she said in a rush, ‘but have a look at the front _room first. Tell me what you think. Though don't get too close to the wall; I don’t want your dirt on the fresh paint.’

All the woodwork was jet black, the end walls a deep green and the two longer walls a light rusty colour. The room, though empty of furniture, seemed dark and forbidding. Guy made some complimentary noises, but then said:

‘Kath’s in school, I suppose?’

‘Where else?’

‘Did she mention beetles to you?’

‘What beetles? Oh, Guy, can’t you get your mind off beetles?’

‘She said something about one of the classes keeping two beetles in a jar. We should get in touch with the school and check up on it. You know her teachers, I don’t, so I wondered if you…’

‘Not this morning. I’m off to work.’ Dorothea went back into the hall and examined herself in the mirror. ‘You’ll have to do it, Guy, if you’ve so much time. Never been to her school, have you? Now’s your chance.’

She picked up her handbag, opened it to check that she had everything, offered Guy a quick peck on the cheek and went.

Guy felt unaccountably hungry. He glanced into the kitchen but Dorothea had obviously not yet been shopping that morning. No eggs even. She and her helpers must have used up the last few the night before, after finishing the painting, and the bacon with them. He made himself a round of bread and marmalade to eat while he was changing.

Upstairs, he stripped everything off and stood under the shower for a couple of minutes to wash the dust out of Ins hair. Plenty of old woodwork in these houses too, he thought as the hot water streamed down over his body; of course they’d had a full report from the surveyors but…

But.

That was the problem. The workshop owners had taken that precaution too. Where had it left them?

While he was dressing he put a call through to his office to warn his secretary that it might be noon or later before he could get to the office.

‘Mr Rawnsley phoned again,’ she informed him, slightly offhand. He heard a whisper in the background; he’d probably caught her gossiping again with the girl from the next office. ‘He says he’s sorry but he can’t make it tomorrow. Could you lunch with him today by any chance? I said I’d ring him back.’

‘Damn.’ That was the third time Rawnsley had cancelled, but it could be an important order if they got it.

‘I’ve checked your diary. You’ve nothing else written in A sotto voice See you later told him her visitor had left.

‘Same time, same place, I suppose? You’d better tell him it’s all right. Say I’m looking forward to it. Oh, and Sarah—’

‘Yes?’

‘Be nice to him.’

‘Aren’t I always?’ she laughed. ‘But he is a bit of a creep, you must admit.’

A creep with the power to channel a six-figure commission in their direction, Guy recalled as he replaced the receiver. Half a million at least.

He searched the telephone book for Kath’s school, intending to warn the head before going along, but he must have mistaken the name because he couldn’t find it. It was not a name they ever used. Both Kath and Dorothea — who had taken her along there when they moved into the district — simply referred to the place as school. He considered trying directory enquiries but decided it would be quicker just to drive there. Before leaving his house, he searched the kitchen cupboards for a container of some kind. The best he could find was a small, empty biscuit tin, which he slipped into his briefcase.

The school was a huddle of single-Storey inter-linked, brick buildings with large windows and flat roofs on which the most distinguishable features were the squat water tanks. Around it was a generous playground area with one section set aside for the teachers’ cars; all the marked-out spaces were occupied. Guy parked near the main entrance and went in search of the head’s office.

Beside a glass-paned hatch marked Reception he found a bell-push, which he pressed. The glass was frosted but he could see someone moving about inside; yet two or three minutes passed before the hatch slid open. The woman behind it held a clutch of forms in her hand and could hardly spare a moment to glance up from the file she was checking. When Guy asked to see the head, she pushed a strand of greying hair back from her face and sighed.

‘Parent, are you? He’s not meeting parents till four o’clock. Didn’t you read the circular?’

Guy decided that being a parent was not the best idea.

‘I’m here on behalf of the Public Health Department,’ he lied cheerfully. It was not such a big lie either. He was doing Mary’s work for her as he hadn’t managed to tell her about the beetles that morning. ‘We’ve had information about a couple of beetles being kept in one of your classrooms.’

‘That’ll be Miss Tumstall. Regular zoo, that classroom. Is there something wrong?’

‘I’d just like to see them, that’s all,’ he said almost apologetically. ‘No, I don’t imagine there’s anything wrong, but we have to check.’

‘Well, the head’s busy and I’m up to my eyes, but if you can find your own way to the classroom…. Second corridor on your right, third door along.’

‘Thanks.’

Schools were a strange world of their own, he thought as he counted the doors, and quite unlike anything outside. Even the sounds were different — that unceasing concert of chattering voices in the background, the whispers, the mock groans and stifled laughter, the chairs scraping over wood-block floors, the teachers’ persistent questions and the mumbled answers… He hadn’t really once been part of that life himself, had he? And the smell: why did schools always have a special smell?

He found the right door and was about to open it when from inside he heard a class of very young children — perhaps no older than six or seven years of age — beginning to chant an old nursery rhyme which he recognised. He stopped abruptly to listen.

Ladybird, ladybird, fly away home,

Your house is on fire, your children are gone,

All but the little one under a stone,

Ladybird, ladybird, fly away home.

They spoke the last line very softly. Through a glass panel in the door he could see the young teacher conducting them, mouthing the words with them. When they had finished they sat wide-eyed and silent.

The teacher broke the silence. ‘And we can imagine the little baby ladybird hiding under the stone,’ she was telling them as Guy went into the room. ‘But that’s just a story because ladybirds are really beetles, lovely tiny beetles, and what does that mean?’ A scattering of hands went up. ‘Yes, Joan?’

‘Beetles don’t have babies like we do,’ Joan said promptly. ‘They lay eggs, and the e^s grow into worms… and..

"And what happens then?’ But she noticed Guy. ‘Oh, we’ve a visitor!’

‘Miss Tumstall? Fin Guy Archer from the Public Health Department. I believe you’re keeping a couple of unusually large beetles here in a jar.’

‘Yes, d’you want to see them?'' She seemed surprised. ‘Just a minute, 111 tell the children. They’ll be very excited.’

Guy watched her as she talked to the class. She was very lively and obviously gifted with the ability to infect them with her own enthusiasm. Her face was full of expression: rather narrow but with high cheek-bones, big brown eyes and a nose that was slighdy prominent, though not too much; he could easily imagine her starring in some major historical film. She was certainly beautiful enough. He found himself speculating— there in the classroom — what she would look like if she left that rich brown hair free instead of keeping it combed back into a tail held in place by an ordinary rubber band.

‘Now, who 'is going to escort Mr Archer round our menagerie?’

A scattering of hands went up. ‘Lise! Lise, me!’

‘Joan, then. Because it was Joan who found the beetles, wasn’t it?’

The little girl, very self-conscious, led Guy to the rear of the classroom, where several hutches were displayed along a wide shelf. ‘ ’Course, we don’t always keep ’em in here,’ she informed Guy. ‘We take ’em out sometimes. That’s our gerbil. We call him Joe.’

In the hutches were one gerbil and two rabbits, all seemingly contented with their lot. Next along the shelf was a large glass sweet-jar of the kind shops use. It contained some pebbles, sand and fragments of wood, together with a fresh cabbage leaf and two motionless objects which looked like coloured stones: beetles.

‘Giant ladybirds,’ Joan said. ‘ ’Course we only call ’em that. We’re not sure.’

Guy experienced that familiar tightening of Ms stomach muscles as he bent down to inspect them through the glass. The dark green spots against a hard pink background were immediately recognisable, though it was true they had no antlers nor the usual yellow patches.

‘We’re not certain what to feed them on, if anything at all,’ Lise explained cheerfully, and loud enough for the class to hear. ‘I’ve checked in the books. It seems some beetles do eat and others don’t.’

‘Did you manage to find this variety in your books?’ ‘No, ’fraid not,’ she admitted. ‘D’you know what they are? We think they’re a bit like big ladybirds because of the spots, but they could be scarabs, from the pictures. I don’t really know much about these things.’

‘You didn’t see the public health poster?’

‘Yes, but these are quite different!’ she exclaimed. ‘For one thing, where are the antlers?’

He shook his head. That colouring was too similar to that of the beetles on Mary’s desk for him to be happy leaving them there with all the children around. Kath, too, was probably in one of the other classrooms along the corridor. It would be stupid to take such a risk.

i’m sorry, I must take them away to be checked, Miss Turnstall,’ he told her, trying not to sound too brutal about it.

‘Lise,’ she said. ‘All the children call me Lise. Can you bring them back if they’re harmless?’ i’ll do my very best,’ he promised, meaning it. Turning to the class, Lise announced the sad news that their pet beetles were being ‘taken into custody’, as she pot it. ‘But Guy here seems such a nice man,’ she added, her eyes challenging him, i’m sure he’ll look after them, won’t you, Guy? And next time he comes here he’ll be able to tell us what they’re called.’

‘Yes, I hope to do that.’ Seeking all their expectant faces before him, he felt some more reassurance was necessary. ‘So will you lend them to me? Please?’

It was decided he should keep them in their jar rather than attempt to transfer them into the biscuit tin he had brought in his briefcase. The metal screw-top closed it securely, though Lise explained that she had punched some air-holes in it. She came out into the corridor with him.

i’m trying to foster a love of nature in these town children, and some respect for the world we live in,’ she told him, keeping her voice down, i don’t want them frightened.’

‘Nor do I, but there’s no harm in taking precautions. You said it was Joan who found the beetles. D’you know where?’

‘At home, I think she said. Her parents have a music shop. You probably know it. They specialise in reggae, highlife, that sort of thing.’ in Worth Road, on a comer?’

'That’s the one.’

‘Lise, could you ask her again when it’s convenient? And then ring the Public Health Department. Ask for Mary Armstrong. This is serious, you know.’

‘Even without antlers?’ she started to argue, but at that moment the bell rang and she had to hurry back into the classroom.

Guy made his escape from the school, dodging through the shoals of animated children who were pouring out into the corridors. Reaching his car, he laid the glass jar carefully on its side on the passenger seat, threw his briefcase into the back and drove slowly out of the playground.

His first stop was Worth Hall, where this time he found a woman on duty at the reception desk. Miss Armstrong was out, she told him, but she directed him to a room in the basement. There he handed over the jar to a young man in a white lab coat, who also lent him a memo pad on which he scribbled a quick note to Mary.

‘Those beetles could be highly dangerous,’ Guy warned before he left.

The young man tipped the jar sideways to examine them more closely. ‘Similar colouring,’ he observed, ‘but no antlers. Could be females.’

‘Glad I brought them in then,’ Guy answered. Bloody hell, he thought, why hadn’t he considered that? ‘Could you tell Mary I’ll call her later this afternoon in case there’s anything more.’

On leaving Worth Hall he drove directly to the office. It was shortly after eleven and with any luck he’d manage to get some of his correspondence cleared before he went out for his appointment with Rawnsley. First, however, he rang Hatchards to ask what books they had about beetles; something he should have done weeks ago.

Hazel Roberts stood outside the fishmonger’s and pondered. Nothing on offer was cheap, but then she hadn’t expected it to be, not in this West End shop, which catered mainly for top restaurants and directors’ dining rooms; even for younger royalty, she’d heard it said. The trouble was, she’d hunted ail over and this was the first place she’d found with fresh lobster and she had wanted to give Jim a treat. Since their holidays in Cornwall, lobster with mayonnaise was one of his favourites.

But it was so terribly expensive.

Even lying there on that marble slab it exuded an air of expense-account luxury, she thought; an aura of success — maybe because of those horrible claws, which looked so much more dangerous once they were boiled that bright red. Straight out of the sea — she remembered from Pol-perro harbour — they had seemed to her eyes rather pathetic.

She moved away, uncertain whether she should really spend so much money, though with Jim coming home for a late lunch she had to make up her mind quickly. His interview for the new job — branch manager at Swift’s (Everything You Need Under One Roof) — started at three-thirty and she was determined he should go there feeling he could win.

But perhaps lobster was not the right choice, not at that price. Once he actually got the job, yes. Then they’d have something to celebrate.

Not for lunch today, though, she decided regretfully.

No, she’d buy a nice piece of steak instead. There was a good butcher’s a couple of shops along the same road; she'd pop in there.

By herself, she thought as she waited to be served, lunch was a meal she never bothered about. She might do an egg if she was hungry but mostly a sandwich was all she needed; or a Danish pastry when she was flush. Once on her birthday she’d really indulged herself and bought a great doorstep of Black Forest gateau with extra whipped cream. She’' regretted it afterwards, though; the cream had been a bit off.

‘Nice bit o’ rump!’ the butcher exclaimed, placing the meat in front of him and picking up his knife.

He cut the steak lovingly and she noticed how red his strong hands seemed, matching the meat itself. He was a big, jovial mas with a long, drooping moustache, quite different from Jim, who was short and wiry, Ml of nervous energy.

‘That do you, love?’ the butcher asked, transferring the steak to the scale. ‘Don’t overcook it, mind, or you’re wastin’ your money. Keep it a nice pink inside.’

She hoped it was right. Jim always seemed so much more confident once he had a good meal inside Mm; he was funny that way, quite unlike her. She usually couldn’t care less one way or the other. But he’d been a bit down recently and he needed that job. 'It would suit him, quite apart from the extra money — and she wouldn’t say no to that.

At home she left the steak on the kitchen table, still wrapped in its paper, while she got on with scraping the new potatoes which he preferred to chips these days, specially since reading that article on cholesterol. What if she was making a fuss of him? Didn’t he make a fuss of her too? Her friends said they overdid it and they’d change when they had children, but she knew she couldn’t have children; you have to play the cards you’re dealt, don’t you?

Anyway, those seven years she’d been married had been the best she’d ever known, whatever other people said, Jim was easy to get on with; in fact they suited each other, unlike some of the girls she’d shared a flat with before. As for jobs, he didn’t mind whether she worked or not; she might even find another some day. She’d had a whole string of different jobs in her rime and ended up hating every one of them,

‘Sight, now what’s next?’ she asked herself after setting the table. ‘Mustard, salt, bread, butter…’

The potatoes were already boiling, but she’d not start grilling the steak till he got home. She could get everything ready, though.

Unlike her own local butcher, who usually put his customers’ meat into little plastic bags which he sealed to prevent the juices spilling out, the jovial man with the drooping moustache prided himself on more traditional methods. Already as she removed the outer wrappings she noticed stains where the blood was seeping through. Jim was going to enjoy this, she felt sure. Come to that, so was she. Sharing a meal with Jim was always so much better than eating alone.

Among the folds of paper something moved.

Hazel blinked, wondering if she was imagining things.

Then she saw it again: a definite movement. A mouse? Oh, God, no! Don’t say they had mice!

Yet…

It was a nasty pink creature with yellow and dark green spots which crawled out from the grease-proof paper around the meat. She shuddered at the sight of it. Growing out of either side of its head were lobster-like claws, and for a second or two she was convinced it must somehow have come from the fishmonger’s slab, from among the crayfish and prawns, the lobsters and crabs, the mussels and oysters and cockles and squid and..

But alive? Urgbl

No, that wasn’t possible. She stared with growing horror at how it seemed to be tearing obscenely at a comer of blood-red steak, squatting over part of it as the claws went to work. Then another of the creatures appeared out of the crumpled wrapping paper, joining the first.

She bit her lip, not knowing what to do, undecided whether to risk trying to snatch the meat away from them. Squash them, she thought in a panic, that’s the best thing. Reaching into the cupboard, she found her roiling pin and was poised to bring it down hard on the nearest one when she noticed more.

Her kitchen table was always kept pushed up hard against the wall immediately beneath the window. On. the ledge, scrambling busily among the flower pots, were several of these creatures — whatever they were — and even as she watched, two of them dropped down on to the table, scurrying over towards the meat.

The sight made her suddenly furious. After all the trouble she took to keep her kitchen absolutely spodess, and then to find it crawling with these horrid things! Well, they weren’t going to rain that steak, whatever else they touched.!

She grabbed it, intending to wash it under the tap and cut off the bits they had spoiled, but one of the beetles turned on her, slicing through the loose skin between her thumb and hand.

‘Oh hellV she swore at the quick stab of pain. ‘Bloody hell and—’

Ignoring the sharp pain, she took a grip on the beetle with her other hand and tugged it off, throwing it to the floor and stamping on it, but accidentally dropping the meat at the same time. From the wound the blood welled out, dripping down on to her skirt and shoes. She could have cried; she’d wanted to make it so nice for Jim before he went off for his interview.

Bending down to retrieve the steak she discovered more beetles crawling over her shoes, attracted by the blood, but even at that point she felt more angry than scared. She attempted to brush them away but they clung to her tenaciously, their nippers cutting through the nylon into the top of her foot.

God, they hurt!

She picked them off one by one, tugging them clear, but others came to take their place. Then she sensed something drop on to the back of her neck; fearfully she reached up to check and discovered two more on her forearm. They began probing her flabby flesh.

‘Oh, Jesus, I’ve got to stay calm!’ she whispered, forcing herself to flick them away from her arm. ‘I know I’ve got to stay calm… mustn’t panic…’

The beetle on her neck was now edging its way around her collar-bone towards the front, then heading upwards till its sharp claws lightly touched the base of her throat, nipping casually at the skin. A second one joined it, aiming along her jaw-line… passing her ear…

Her nerve broke. She screamed: a high-pitched, insane scream, and she couldn’t stop.

Those pincer claws dug into the lobe of her ear, while the beetle at her throat continued merely to explore, and yet another came jumping at her from out of nowhere, landing just above the cleavage of her breasts in the V-neck of her knitted jumper. The more she longed to brush them away, the deeper they dug into her, till she was on her knees begging them to leave her alone, to, let her live.

She felt so helpless… so useless… her screams were no more now than pathetic whimpers.

All over the floor they were scrambling towards her, hundreds of them emerging from every comer of the skirting board, swarming over her raw, bleeding ankles, biting through her tights into her calves, into the soft patches behind her knees, probing higher beneath her pleated skirt.

Over her hands too, jabbing their claws into the bulging veins and arteries of her wrists… climbing up her naked forearms… under her short sleeves… making their quick, neat incisions like razor-slashes in her neck…

Feeding on her, her mind told her. They were simply feeding on her and she couldn’t prevent it happening] Her strength had simply ebbed away.. her will-power gone… even her voice, save for one last strangled., choking yell of agony as & beetle penetrated her open rnouth and set to work on her tongue.

Oh Jim, she thought.

Though he seemed so far away now. Jim.

Five minutes later Jim Roberts arrived home, letting himself in. ‘Hazel, I’m back!’ he called out, hanging up his coat in the hall.

Then he went into the kitchen.

At three-thirty that afternoon the managing director’s secretary at Swift’s Retail Holdings PLC slipped discreetly into the boardroom where the interviews for the post of branch manager were being held. As Mr Roberts had not turned up, she whispered in his ear, would it be in order for her to send in the next candidate?

Rawnsley had come up trumps. During lunch at his Pall Mall club — selecting an old mellow claret of rare vintage to accompany the tender venison — he announced that his board had voted in favour of going ahead with the plan to scrap their existing system of computerised stock control and invest in the new generation technology. Guy returned to his office feeling more than pleased with himself. To provide the full range of hardware and tailor-made software for a major national motor maintenance chain could put his own company firmly into profit for the current year. This time the scheme felt right too, and that was important. Once — while still in the Army — he’d been allocated the task of escorting one of Australia’s self-made millionaires on a Ministry of Defence PR exercise to demonstrate their management training operations, which was the military’s latest fad. ‘Success in business?’ the Australian had drawled. ‘First, know what you’re talking about — that’s ten per cent. Next, use your head. Judgement — that’s another ten per cent. For the rest, gut feeling. Hunch. An’ you can’t teach hunch.’ Guy’s bunch was that this deal would work out just right.

‘I’ve put a message on your desk,’ Sarah greeted him when he walked through the door. ‘Seems to be urgent.’ ‘Who from?’ he asked.

She gave him one of her quizzical smiles. ‘Miss Armstrong again. Could you meet her this afternoon? She gave an address. Said it was urgent, but it was over an hour ago when she phoned.’

Guy glanced at his watch. It was already past four o’clock. On his blotter was the tom-off sheet from the message pad with the address in Sarah’s handwriting. His in-tray was piled high with the paperwork he should try to get through before the end of the day, and his managing director would want to know about the Rawnsley deal.

‘Did Miss Armstrong say anything else? Any details?’ ‘Nothing.’ Sarah thought back, frowning. ‘Except something about two more. There are two more. But then she said no, just give you the address.’

‘Bloody hell!’ She must mean two more people killed,

but by what? They now knew both the beetles and their larvae were equally deadly. ‘Look, Sarah, can you check this address in your A to Z while I find out if Mrs Lee can spare me five minutes?’

‘Think she’s out,’ Sarah told him, taking the paper. Guy tried her number on the intercom and got her secretary. It seemed that Mrs May Lee, the company’s managing director, had gone to Cambridge and was not expected back that afternoon. At least that got one problem out of the way, though he felt a pang of disappointment; after his big disaster earlier in the year he’d been looking forward to reporting this little triumph.

‘The road is not far from where you live,’ Sarah said, coming back into his office with the open book in her hand. She showed it to him. ‘Worth Road.. turn into Egerton Street… then left, and left again.’

‘They’re all clustered around the same district.’ The thought had suddenly struck him that none of the known incidents so far had been very far from the old school. ‘All within about a mile radius.’

‘I’ve not the slightest idea what you’re talking about,’ she retorted. ‘What’s the big mystery?’

‘Beetles.’

‘You mean the kind that—’ She pointed to his face. ‘Urgh, hope I never meet any.’

‘Sarah, so do I.’

He would have to return afterwards to clear the stuff in his in-tray even if it meant working through the evening, he decided. At Sarah’s insistence he delayed long enough to sign four or five letters that had to get into the post; then, apologising to her for having to rush off once more, he headed for the door.

‘Don’t get yourself all chewed up again, will you?’ she said lightly as he went out.

Her words stayed with him as he drove, cursing the traffic. She was right about the address being close to where he lived; in fact, it was no more than a few streets away, and under those circumstances he knew he would never have been abie to concentrate at his desk. Probably by this time Kath would be home, and the thought of her playing alone in the house worried him. Before returning to the office later he’d have to drop in to see how she was, because he doubted if Dorothea would be back.

Following Sarah’s instructions, he found the street without difficulty. People were standing about on the pavement in uneasy little groups, obviously curious about what was going on. A pest-control van was parked in front of number 20, which was one of the terrace of small Victorian villas. Nearby were two police cars.

The house door was open, but when Guy tried to go in, he was stopped by a uniformed policewoman.

‘D’you live in this house? she questioned him.

‘My name is Guy Archer,’ he told her. As he spoke he realised he’d slipped into his old authoritative military manner again, a habit he’d been struggling to lose. Softening his tone, he continued: ‘Miss Armstrong of the Public Health Department asked me to be here.’

‘Wait outside, I’ll check.’ Unsmiling, she disappeared briefly into the house, returning almost right away. ‘Miss Armstrong will come out.’

She looked very young and attractive in her uniform. He was tempted to ask her about the two casualties, if only to get her talking, but one glance at her set face was sufficient to inhibit him.

Mary did not keep him waiting. ‘Oh, Guy, am I glad you’re here!’ she exclaimed as she came out of the house. The WPG stood to one side to let her pass. ‘This is an awful mess, much worse than we feared. The whole ground floor is badly infested with beetles. We must have killed hundreds already. The men are still spraying.’ ‘What did you mean on the phone by “two more”?’ ‘That was your secretary, was it, who took the message? I didn’t want to upset her. Mary frowned, clearly worried. ‘It was a Mr and Mrs Roberts. Apparently Mr Roberts’ sister had a key and let herself in when they didn’t answer the bell. She found them in the kitchen. Dead, of course. Beetles crawling all over them.’

‘And worms?’ he demanded.

His mouth tasted stale as he suddenly visualised him self back in that old school with the beetles exploring his face and penetrating under his clothes; and then he saw the dead tramp again with those giant creatures feeding on him obscenely..

‘No,’ she answered very definitely. ‘No maggots, no worms, whatever you care to call them. Unless they’re buried in the woodwork somewhere. Beetles are bad enough by themselves. Guy, you should have seen those poor people. The sight would scare anybody. I wanted to run out of the house screaming; but of course I couldn’t, could I?’

She was confessing to him, he realised. Her hand was on his arm and she was standing very close to him, as though afraid of being overheard.

‘1 can tell you, because you’ve experienced it as well, that same fear,’ she went on. ‘Evan doesn’t understand, though he tries. He thinks being bitten by insects is merely unpleasant and nothing else, but when you know you can’t escape from them, there are so many, and they’re overwhelming you, and there’s nothing you can do to.. ’

'Mary, get a grip on yourself,’ he said quietly. ‘Calm down now.’

‘Don’t worry, I didn’t let the side down.’ Her voice had hardened. ‘Not this time. But seeing those people dead in there brought it all back. I’m not normally like this.’

‘Tell me, was there any smell from the beetles this time? he asked. ‘That poison gas they seem to use?’

‘Oh yes, that too. Which didn’t help.’

‘I still wonder if that doesn’t have an effect on the nerves,’ he suggested. ‘We talked about this before.’

She shook her head. ‘Guy, I’m rather ashamed of being a coward. It’s something I never knew about myself before and it’s not easy to live with.’

He made another attempt to reassure her, but she refused to listen to any excuses. Instead, she changed the subject and began to explain how she had sent the two beetles in the jar to an entomologist friend at Oxford; he already had three or four antlered specimens, she said, and if there was anything in Guy’s theory about the defensive gas, he was the man to find out. While she talked, Guy stared at the house where the Robertses had died, irritated that there seemed to be nothing he could do. He interrupted her at one point to ask if he might take a look inside, but she told him he’d only be in the men’s way, which was probably true.

‘By the way. I’ve some news for you, Guy,’ she added. ‘Tony is going to be all right, though they’re keeping him in hospital overnight, apparently. And Evan — Detective-Sergeant Evans — has been talking to the pathologist doing the post-mortem on that security guard who died at the workshop. They say he bled to death. ‘I saw no blood on the ground.’

‘Nor did the constable who found him. As though something had sucked him dry — those are the words he used. It ties up with the tramp and the dog.’

From the house came the voices of the pest-control men, and a second later ‘two of them appeared at the front door carrying some of their equipment. One was a lanky, youngish man in stained white overalls and he seemed to be in charge. He came over to tell Mary that they had done all they could for the time being, but they would be back in a day or so to see how effective the treatment had been.

‘Nasty little brutes, aren’t they?’ he commented cheerfully, removing the face-mask which had been hanging loosely around his neck. ‘Nearly took a bit out o’ my finger, one o’ them, only I had my gloves on. But he’ll not try that again. I broke him in half.’

‘Downstairs, were they?’ Guy enquired curiously.

‘Odd that,’ the young man agreed. ‘Usually wood-borers get established in the loft. In the rafters. The grubs can live there in the timber for years before you know you’ve got ’em. Not these buggers, though. Couldn’t find any trace of anything under the roof. Come from beneath the floorboards, these have, an’ behind the skirting. Still, you live an’ learn!’

Two more men came out of the house and began loading the gear into the van.

‘Hey! One of the neighbours detached himself from the group a few yards up the street and came striding towards them. ‘Hey, you’re not packing it in, are you? What about the other houses?

Guy had noticed him before. He'd driven up in a sleek BMW, which glinted ostentatiously in the pale sunshine, like something out of a commercial. He was a tough-looking character in jeans and a brown leather jacket; probably he’d been in more than a few brawls too, judging from his face and hefty fists.

‘Know nothing about any other houses,’ the young pest-control man said. ‘We was told only this address.’ ‘Look, mate. I don’t care what they told you. I want my house checked same as this one.’ He blocked the pavement in front of the van, refusing to let the men pass. ‘At least have a dekko, for Chrissake! I’ve got my kids living there. How would you feel?’

‘Yeah, he’s right!’ The other neighbours had joined him and were crowding around. ‘You can’t jus’ quit like that, not without doin’ somethin’.’

‘I do what the office tells me.’ The young man was defending himself. ‘You book with them if you want your houses done,'

‘You’re not Moody leaving here till you do have a look,’ the brown-jacketed tough threatened.

The young man turned to Mary in despair, it’s more than my job’s worth,’

‘To spare five minutes?’ The policewoman came across to find out what was going on, and he turned to her, ‘Look, miss. We know what you’ve been up to in that house, an’ we want our places given the once-over while these blokes are here.’It’s not too much to ask, is it?’ Mary cut in before the policewoman had a chance to reply. ‘Where d’you live?’ she demanded.

‘Me? Nest door. Number 18.’

‘We can at least carry out a quick inspection, can’t we?’ she pleaded with the young man. Til sign your worksheet and take responsibility.’ i’ll have to ring the office first,’ he said grudgingly. ‘Do it from my house then,’ the worried tough told him, only slightly mollified. ‘But get a move on. Kids an’ the missus are over at her sister’s, but I’ll have to fetch’em any minute.’

With an apologetic glance in Guy’s direction Mary followed the two men into number 18.

The dead couple’s front door was still open, though the WPG had left to go into a huddle of consultation with two of her colleagues near a panda car. Guy seized the opportunity to slip inside. In the narrow hall the pungent smell of insecticide irritated his nostrils, making him sneeze. The carpets had been turned back and in several places sections of floorboards removed. In the kitchen — where the bodies had been discovered — the cupboards and all the floor-tiles had been ripped out to reveal the joists underneath. Even without stooping Guy identified the powdery frass around the flight holes.

Dead beetles lay near the bottoms of the walls, on the draining board, in the sink, around the fridge, on the window ledge…

‘Bit of a mess, don’t you think? Bit of a bloody mess?’ The detective-constable had come up behind him, walking lightly. Guy recognised him from the hospital: a thin, slightly angular face and a receding hairline.

‘Mr McNair, is it?’

‘That’s right, sir. I noticed you coming in here.’

When he returned to the street the pest-control men were preparing to start on number 18. Mary was chatting to the tough; he was eating out of her hand, Guy noticed. He pointed to Guy’s scars.

‘Do that, did they?’ came the inevitable question. ‘Can’t understand why something wasn’t done then, right away, instead o’ waiting all these weeks.’

The young foreman had armed himself with a crowbar. He would start, he informed them, by taking a general look at the woodwork in the kitchen and removing any skirting boards; meanwhile, everyone else should stand back to gi ve him and his assistant plenty of room.

‘This isn’t your ordinary woodworm, or your death-watch beetle,’ he warned them, undisguisedly nervous. ‘It’s a kind I’ve not come across before, but what they did to those two people next door doesn’t bear thinking of. All I hope is that they haven’t spread into this house.’

At first it seemed as though number 18 was free of them after all. Two of his men carried out the kitchen table and chairs, stacking them up in the garden. Then they moved the fridge out of the way to allow him to examine the full length of the wall at the point where it met the composition-tiled floor. Behind him stood his assistant with the spray, ready for action the moment they spotted anything moving.

Using the crowbar, he began to ease the skirting board away from the wall, but nothing came scurrying out. Not even a spider.

it could be your house is OK,’ he said, taking a breath, i don’t want to cause too much damage.’

Tuck the damage.’

The next wail was concealed behind a row of low cupboards with a sink unit set between them. They emptied out one cupboard chosen at random. Its contents were coloured plastic bowls, a couple of packets of detergent and cleaning materials, all of which they took outside. 'Flie foreman went down on his knees, bending low to peer inside, then glancing up with a confident smile as if to indicate that everything was in order. To make quite sure, he took the crowbar and gave the back of the cupboard a couple of smart taps with the curved end.

From the dull, yielding sound it made, everyone in the kitchen realised that the wood must be rotten through and through.

The crowbar fell from his hand with a clatter and he cried out — a strangled cry of fear and disgust — as he half-crawled, half-rolled away. Not quite fast enough, though. He was still on his hands and knees when the beetle appeared, its hard body gleaming regally against the dark flooring. Within a foot of the foreman’s knuckles it stopped, its claws flexing in anticipation, and there they faced each other, both briefly motionless.

It reminded Guy only too vividly of his own confrontation in the old school — how first one beetle, then a second, and a third, and a dozen more beetles came forward to observe him as a hunter might observe his prey before attacking. He could sense what the young foreman must be going through in those vital seconds; that paralysis of will that made it impossible to escape.

The man’s assistant was fumbling with the tap on the pesticide cylinder, but it was plain he was going to be too slow. At Guy’s elbow was an upturned mop, which he seized, slamming the hand-end down on the beetle’s back and grinding it against the floor till the juices squelched out of it.

‘Get to your feet, man! Quick! On your feet!’ he yelled at the foreman. He grabbed his arm to pull him up, at the same time shouting back to the assistant: ‘Start spraying, for Chrissake! What the hell are you waiting for?’

Already the poisonous acid fumes from the dead beetle were catching at his breathing. He struggled to help the dazed foreman out of the kitchen while the man with the spray directed a cloud of pesticide towards the cupboard.

‘Guy, watch your feet!’ Mary screamed the warning at him.

He glanced down in time to see a second beetle beginning to explore the edge of his shoe with its claws. His reaction was instinctive. Bringing his foot down on it with his full weight, he felt its hard shell crack under the pressure. Fresh waves of defensive odour rose from its squashed remains.

Coughing, his eyes watering, he managed to drag the young foreman out of the kitchen.

The tough was also coughing as he shoved past him. ‘Scared o’ beetles? What’s the matter with you lot?’ he was sneering as he struggled for breath. ‘Christ, what a pong! But that’s all they are — little fuckin’ beetles! Here, gimme that!’

Grabbing the spray-lance from the assistant’s hand, he stood defiantly in the middle of the kitchen directing pesticide at any beetle that ventured too near. They were emerging now on every side. Several came from the gap where the skirting board had been removed, others from behind the sink, or crawling out around the central-heating boiler, or even appearing — only God knew how— along the shelf among the pots and pans. Keeping clear of the floor, which by now was fairly soaked in pesticide, they began climbing over the walls, dropping off one by one as the fumes overcame them.

Guy left the foreman partially recovered and instructing his men to ‘get that madman out of here before he kills himselP. Mary was already outside where he found her insisting vehemently to the policewoman that the entire row should be evacuated immediately.

‘She’s right,’ Guy said. ‘If those other houses are as badly infested as these two, there could be several more people dead before morning. The question is whether the whole street shouldn’t be cleared.’

Mary frowned at him, annoyed at his interference.

‘I’m making this an official request,’ she informed the policewoman idly, ‘from the Public Health Department. Will you please call up your superintendent and tell him what’s happening here. I could go and search for a public callbox, but that would only waste precious time.’

The policewoman undipped her personal radio and went a step or two away while she contacted the station for instructions.

‘I’m not staying,’ Guy announced. ‘I’ve got an eleven-year-old daughter at home, probably alone in the house. I must make sure she’s all right.’ He paused, troubled. ‘It’s a whole new ball-game, isn’t it? Those two people in number 20, and now what we’ve just seen next door?’ ‘Beetles, Guy,’ she said with emphasis. ‘Not snakes, nor anything like them. The same this morning at the workshop — that was a tiny maggot we saw, however vicious. A grub. No snakes there either.’

‘And what killed the security man? His body drained of blood, but only that one wound?

She shook her head, not answering. Over by the house he saw the tough being helped out by a couple of the pest-control men. It was a stupid thing to do, breathing in all that insecticide, but he could not help feeling a lot of sympathy for the man. No normal person could merely stand by and watch his home being desti yed by a handful of beetles.

Christ, of all things — beetles!

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.

10

‘Proceed, to Red Lion public house, comer of Hill Street…’

The panda car radio was never silent for long at that time in the evening but Police Constable Reed listened with only half an. ear as he manoeuvred through the impatient traffic and headed for Worth Road. He felt he’d earned his supper break after sorting out those rowdies who had been upsetting the owners of an Indian takeaway. No a..Tests, not this time; just the sight of the uniform and a firm word of warning: he’d been surprised himself how easy it had been. Little more than kids really, overgrown kids who were not yet accustomed to their newly acquired, muscle and gruff voices. Now he was looking forward to a cup of tea and a bite to eat in the canteen. Perhaps pie and chips. Something to set him up for the night.

Then the radio' voice — it was Meg this evening, Constable Meg Beamish, the divisional heart-throb — called his number. He reached for the microphone to acknowledge.

‘Proceed to Worth Hall. Investigate reported snakes. 999 call broken off. Receiver not replaced. Over.’'

‘You did say snakes? Over.’

‘That’s right, snakes. Repeat snakes.’

Must be a hoax, he thought. Snakes — well, that was at least original. Fire was the hoaxer’s favourite; or, these days, a bomb. He’d never come across snakes before.

Switching on his siren, he had the satisfaction of seeing the traffic part in front of him like the waters of the Red Sea. A few minutes later, passing the police canteen block, he felt a twinge of irritation at the hoaxer; if he got in too late he’d find all the pies gone.

From outside, Worth Hail showed no sign of anything wrong. Most of the lights were still on, though through t he uncurtained windows the building had a bare, empty look. Pity, really; it must have been a nice house in its day, while people still lived in it, he thought. He drove around to the back but there was no one about; certainly no disturbance of any kind.

He returned to the main entrance at the front, got out of the car and went up the steps to ring the night bell. No one came to open the heavy door, so he rang again and hammered against one of the panels in case the bell was out of order. Retreating back down the steps he surveyed the brightly lit windows. Nobody visible.

Going back to the car, he unclipped his microphone and called up the station to report. Tokyo Meg — as someone had dubbed her, and the name had stuck — replied crisply that Sergeant Taylor had fresh instructions for him.

‘Jack, we’re sending someone over with a key,’ came the sergeant’s voice. ‘Do not attempt to enter the building alone. I repeat, do not attempt entry. There’s a car on its way now with back-up. Over and out.’

His chances of a hot pie that night were rapidly receding, he thought glumly; by the time he got back the chips would be dried up again, too. For what? A stupid hoax? Some schoolboy prank? Unless…

He went back up the steps and tried the bell once more. In a public building of this size, there must be at least one man on duty all night, so why the hell didn’t he answer?

‘An don’t give me that crap about snakes,’ he muttered aloud. ‘Not in London.’

This time he heard something moving inside. Not footsteps though, but something more… He pondered, listening as the odd sound started afresh. A heavy object being dragged across a floor? A sack perhaps? A carpet?

‘Anybody in there?’ he shouted, banging at the door. ‘Open up! Police!’

Instead of a reply, a loud creaking noise came from the depths of the building. It was followed by a crash, which was so violent that the windows seemed to rattle in their frames. He recoiled down the steps to the tarred driveway, half-expecting the portico to collapse on top of him, but it remained solidly in place as though nothing had happened.

The office strip lights, visible through the bare windows, were rocking gently on their chains; otherwise nothing seemed to have changed. No broken windows. No cracks in the walls. He went farther back — as far as he could — to take a look at the upper windows and the roof, arguing to himself that if an inside floor had collapsed, the obvious cause might be fire.

No smoke, though. No flames; not even the smell of burning.

Much to his relief, he heard the sirens of the approaching police cars and a minute later they were drawing up on the drive next to him. Sergeant Taylor was the first to get out.

‘Anything happened, Jack?’

Constable Jack Reed told him about the crash which had shaken the whole building. ‘Not an explosion,’ he added. ‘More like a floor collapsing, if you ask me.’

‘What-about round the back?’

‘I took a look when I got here. Not since. No sign of a break in, though; not that I could see.’

By the size of the team the sergeant had brought with him he must have rounded up everyone in the canteen, he thought: four men plus the new policewoman who’d been transferred to their division only a couple of weeks earlier. Serita, her name was, he remembered; Indian girl with soft dark eyes. With them was a blonde woman wearing a pale raincoat, her face tired and drawn. From what she said, it seemed she held a key to a side door.

‘Serita and Bill, you two take a peek round the back,’ the sergeant ordered. He was dearly not in the best of moods. ‘If you find anything, use your radio. Don’t attempt to deal with it on your own. Duncan, you stay here to keep an eye on the main door. The rest come with Miss Armstrong and me.’

‘There should be two men on duty inside the woman in the raincoat explained without bothering to introduce herself, but he remembered the public health officer was a Miss Armstrong, wasn’t she? The one Detective-Sergeant Evans was so struck on?

She led them to one of the Victorian wings, then down a short flight of steps to a locked door which she said gave access to the public health laboratories in the basement.

‘I should go in first. I know where the light switches are.’

Her voice sounded unsteady and he realised she must be highly strung. Well, they had all heard what happened at that house overran by beetles, but surely she didn’t expect any in her own department’s offices?

‘Just tell me where to switch on, miss,’ the sergeant reassured her. ‘You stay out here.’

‘I wouldn’t dream of it, sergeant,’ she told him tartly. ‘I can’t have you stumbling around in the dark kicking things over.’

Pushing in front of him, she inserted the key in the lock and turned it, then waited for a second with her hand on the door knob. ‘When 1 go in, don’t crowd roe,’ she said. ‘I hate being crowded.’

Which was another way of saying they should keep the doorway clear in case she had to beat a hasty retreat, Jack thought. Were these beetles really that dangerous, then? He’d heard they could kill, but surely if they were spotted in time…?

Miss Armstrong held out her hand for Ms torch, switched it on, then quietly opened the door and went inside. A moment later the lights were on and the sergeant joined her in the corridor. Jack followed him in.

No sign, of damage inside, just a row of closed doors, which turned out to be locked when he checked them. Against one of the walls — probably in contravention of fire regulations — was a pile of cardboard cartons bearing the name of a firm of laboratory suppliers.

‘Welt!’ site said brighdy, not disguising her relief. ‘So fax so good. Everything seems quite norma! down here. Now I’ll show you up to the reception area. There’s a staircase at the far end.’

‘Miss Armstrong, thank you very much for your help.’ The sergeant took over firmly. ‘Now if you’ll just wait outside and leave this to us. The stairs are along here, you said?’

ill go at least that far with you.’

‘Outside,’ he repeated. ‘Please.’ i’ll be in this office if you need me. Now I'm here there’s some work I can be getting on with.’

From her shoulder bag she took another bunch of keys and unlocked the door marked GENERAL OFFICE, jack saw the resigned look on the sergeant’s face and thought it best to say nothing. They couldn’t force her to leave her own office, and the whole thing might still turn out to be a hoax.

The sergeant called in the other two constables from outside. They were to go with him up to the reception area, he ordered, while Jack was to stay and keep an eye on things in the basement corridor. ‘OK, Jack?’

‘OK,’

Sergeant David Taylor knew that he ought to have consulted a doctor weeks ago about the pain in his side, but as usual he’d ignored it, hoping it would go away of its own accord. It hadn’t, of course. That evening it was giving him hell. He had to force himself to keep moving just to stay alert.

He found the narrow stairs described by Miss Armstrong and went up first, with the two young constables following immediately behind. Good lads, they seemed, and well able to look after themselves in a rough-house. They had only recently joined the division, during the great upheaval initiated by the new super, and as yet he’d hardly had time to get to know them.

Near the top of the stairs he paused to peer cautiously around the comer, uncertain what to expect but already aware of a sour dusty smell in the air, like a demolition site.

‘Bloody hell!’ he exploded when he saw the mess.

Where the old ornate staircase had stood there was now only a high pile of fallen timbers, with beams and sections of broken-off bannisters sticking out in all directions, resembling some gaunt modem sculpture. Miraculously, the lights were still burning, though the air was hazy with dust, and he could see that the collapsing stairs had brought down part of the ceiling with them as well as some of the joists, leaving a gaping hole where the first-floor landing had been. The reception counter was smashed, and the area behind it lay under rubble.

‘Right, both of you now!’ He snapped out his orders. ‘Two men were on duty in here and they may still be alive. Don’t take any risks. Watch yourselves!’

As the constables brushed past him, spreading out to examine the perimeter of the damage, he undipped his personal radio. The pain in his side sharpened as he began to speak, leaving him gasping for breath. Recovering a little, pressing his hand over the spot in an attempt to relieve the agony, he tried again. He should be in hospital, he realised; he was putting men’s lives at risk.

‘A-ah..

He was starting to call up Tokyo Meg to request emergency services when he saw the beetles scampering towards him across the floor. His voice dried up at the sight of them. They were large pink creatures with flexing claws, a whole army of them purposefully approaching him, and in that split second he at last understood what all the panic was about. He recoiled before them, longing to turn and run.

Then his years of self-discipline took over. He brought the microphone up to his mouth, pressed the switch and began again. Already beetles were swarming over his shoes and socks… biting into his ankles… penetrating up his trouser leg as high as his calves… his knees… his thighs…

Their sharp claws cut through his flesh, but he remained stock-still while he delivered his message.

\.. over and out!’ he finally signed off, and the radio dropped from his hand. He began slapping his clothes and stamping on his attackers in an effort to fight them off.

‘Jones! Phillips!’

Where the hell were those constables? No sign of them when they were needed. Desperately he brushed the beetles away but there were too many of them. They were coming at him like a determined, unstoppable column of driver ants. Oh yes, he knew all about driver ants from when he’d served in the Kenya police. Strip the flesh from your bones, they could. Crushing them was no use, not in those numbers. This was his lot.. no escaping them… His mind was in a spin. These were ants, weren’t they? Or beetles? He no longer knew.

i no longer bloody know!’ he yelled out, sinking to his knees in a pool of his own blood. ‘Philips! Jones!’

One of the constables appeared — he couldn’t see which — and draped over him was a long, pale thing which he could swear must be a tapeworm, curling and squirming across the dark blue tunic.

But his eyes were misty, deceiving him, and the images multiplied, crossing and re-crossing each other in a drifting dance.

Now they were exploring his shirt, those beetle creatures, and testing the naked skin of his belly.

‘There.. there…,’ he begged as they reached the spot on his side where the pain was most intense. ‘That’s it! Right where it hurts! Bite into it… A-a-ahV

Christ, he thought, it was like hot knives — hot surgical knives slicing out the source of the pain. He surrendered himself to them, lying there with his legs awkwardly twisted beneath him, his blood easing out, and his thoughts whirling in a nonsensical dance with the red driver ants… the faces he’d known in Kenya… way back… way back… until the darkness came to swallow all.

Constable Jack Reed had just returned to the open doorway for a breath of fresh air when his old mate Constable Duncan Monroe came running across. They had done their training together, he and Duncan, though these days they didn’t see much of each other off duty.

‘Something odd’s going on in there,’ Duncan said tersely, ‘though God knows what. Did you hear his message?’

‘What there was of it. Fire brigade and ambulance, that’s all I got. Was there more?’

‘I dunno. Maybe his radio’s malfunctioning. I tried to raise him but he’s not answering.’

i’ll go and check. Stick around, will you, just in case.’

He sprinted down the corridor, found the narrow staircase and went up two steps at a time. Emerging into the reception area he stopped dead, dazed with shock. The place looked as though a bomb had hit it. Worse than that, the body of young Tim Jones lay spreadeagled on its back over a heap of fallen timber. Feeding on it — actually feeding on it — was a long snake. No, not a snake, he realised, but something more like a worm with a pale segmented skin the colour of liver sausage and pinkish patches. He knew right away what it must be. That man Archer who’d been attacked in the old school had cross-examined him about seeing snakes, and a few days later he and Tim Jones had gone in the panda car to bully that black kid into telling the truth.

Archer was right, though.

He stepped back, retreating towards the staircase and trying to avoid looking at the twisted remains of Sergeant Taylor, over which the vicious, clawed beetles were crawling like maggots over rotting meat. Somehow these beetles and the snakes belonged together, his mind told him dully, but he couldn’t understand why.

‘Duncan, d’you read me?’ he called on his personal radio.

‘Go ahead, Jack.’ it’s like a bloody battlefield. Cover me while I try to get out in one piece, will you? Use anything — fire hose-anything you can lay your hands on. But for Chrissake be quick.’

The beetles were ignoring him, perhaps because they were still busy with poor old Dave Taylor’s body; from the way they were chewing into him there’d not be much left for his widow to identify. But what about Bob Phillips, Jack wondered. He might be hiding somewhere, too scared to move. Couldn’t go off and leave Mm there, not if he were still alive.

‘Bob!*' he shouted, ‘Bob, it’s me — Jack! Give me a yell if you can hear me!’

He took a step or two farther in.

The giant worm paused in its feeding on, the dead constable and raised itself up to stare at the intruder — at least, he could have sworn that was its purpose — but it made no move to attack Mm. The more blood it drank, the more the pink patches on its skin seemed to be spreading, he noted; the mere thought of it made him feel sick.

"Bob! Can — you-hear — me?’ he bawled out again. ‘Bob!’

Looking around, it was like finding himself in the centre of one of those old illustrations of damnation filled with medieval terrors. He was more frightened than he’d ever thought possible, yet determined not to let it take over, Mo panic, that had always been his motto. Flay everything cool.

‘I’m ready for you, jack,’ came Duncan’s steady voice from the stairway. He was another one who’d still be ice-cold even in hell, Jack thought. ‘The Armstrong woman suggested the fire extinguisher. Said it’ll slow ’em down even if it doesn’t kill ’em. Can you make it over here?’

The beetles had moved, cutting him off from the entrance to the basement stairs. He stepped farther out into the middle of the corridor, intending to go around the sergeant’s body and reach the stairs from the other side, but immediately the beetles began to regroup.

‘Bloody hell, they seem able to read your mind!’ Duncan exclaimed when he saw what they were doing.

‘It’s more than that.’ Jack tried to speak calmly but his voice cracked. Hoarsely he.went on: ‘They’re getting ready to attack.’

Forty or fifty of them at least, he reckoned. If they all came at him at once he’d stand no chance.

‘Stand by,’ said Duncan, raising the nozzle of the fire extinguisher. ‘Let’s see if this thing has any effect.’

It was like a sudden snow storm as he sprayed the beetles with the compressed gas. They froze to the floor, glistening as the ice crystals formed, jack seized the moment and started, forward, intending to walk straight over them. Had he been wealing old-fashioned police boots he’d have mads it; as it was, these rubber composition jobs couldn’t get a grip on the ice and his foot gave way under him.

Duncan lowered the nozzle and came to help him; even as he was still falling jack realised it was a mistake. Above Duncan’s head, along a timber ledge at the top of the panelling, lay another of those pale giant worms.

‘Duncan!’ he screamed out in a desperate attempt to warn him. ‘For God’s sake, get clear!’

It dropped directly on to his shoulders, draping itself over him like a long scarf, then twisting its head upwards, its whole body rippling as it prepared to attack.

Duncan grunted with astonishment, his eyes bulging in terror as he dropped the fire extinguisher, which went bouncing and rolling down the stairs far out of reach. Hastily Jack tried to get up, but he was too slow. From behind he heard a movement; then something heavy thrashed against his back. A second later he felt a burning sensation on his neck, sharpening into an unbearable pain.

Then everything became vague, save for a crazy singing in his ears as his blood drained out. Something crashed down across him, a writhing, yelling body which was not his own. Oh no, because his own body was floating now, freely levitating above the rooftops.

Higher into the dark sky… higher… until the great cloud dispersed him, accepting him into itself.

It had been the note of urgency in the constable’s voice which brought Mary Armstrong out of the office to ask what was going on,

‘Beetles!’ His total bewilderment had been plain to see on his face. "What the hell can I use- against beetles?’

So she’d advised the fire extinguisher and started to explain the effect: on insects of a rapid drop in temperature. He hadn’t waited to hear her reasoning. Grabbing the nearest extinguisher, he’d dashed towards the stairs. She didn’t even have a chance to ask if anyone was hurt.

She knew exactly what she had to do and went about her preparations briskly. At the old school she’d gone to pieces at the sight of beetles, but all that was well in the past by now; this time she had total control over herself. What she needed was hard information, including photographs, to back up the report she’d been working on when Evan phoned her about the key. The department’s camera was ready to hand on the desk, freshly loaded.

But first she telephoned Guy.Archer, who had seen more of the beetles than anybody — which made him a useful witness; unfortunately, the only reply came from an answering machine. Leaving a message, she then dialled the number the inquisitive girl journalist had given her earlier in the day. This time she felt quite certain of herself; in fact, if she were to get her way she needed, the press on her side.

‘May I speak to Tessa Brownley?’ she requested when at last the call was answered.

‘Speaking.’

Mary gave no details — she knew none to give — but merely said there was an emergency'at Worth Hall and Tessa should get there as quickly as possible if she wanted a story for the national papers, That should be enough to get her moving, she thought as she put the receiver down.

Taking the camera with its flashlight attachment, she went towards the door, but then stopped.

‘God, I’m scared!’ she whispered aloud to herself.

Every time she even thought of beetles that same feeling returned.. that same uncontrollable nausea…

Going through the connecting door into the laboratory she found a bottle of ether, which she gingerly placed upright in her shoulder bag, using a thick wad of folded report forms to keep it in place. Anything was better than facing those creatures with empty hands, she decided.

The basement corridor was empty. Only the footprints left by the police’s rubber-soled boots on the polished floor reminded her that she was not alone in the building. Then, as she approached the narrow staircase — servants’ stairs in the old days — she heard a long-drawn-out bellow of anguish, probably coming from the area. It was followed by the clattering and banging of something heavy falling down the stairs. Not till it got to the bottom did she see what it was — the fire extinguisher.

Every instinct screamed to her to turn and run, to get out while there was still a chance. She stood there quivering with anxiety, biting her lip until it hurt, not able to make op her mind what to do.

‘Some scientist, you!’ she told herself scornfully. Disjointed memories flashed through her mind and they were so vivid, she almost cried out. Wasn’t this why she’d had to drop out of medical school — cowardice? Hadn’t she fainted at her first sight, even, of the severed human arm they had expected her to dissect? But she couldn’t go on through her whole life like this, could she?

Could she?

That afternoon, going into the house where those poor people had died, she had felt no qualms at all; but then the pest-control people had gone in first, hadn’t they? And she’d not been on her own, but part of a team.

But the police were still here, weren’t they? Doubtfully she looked down at the fallen fire extinguisher, and a sick feeling in her stomach told her what had almost certainly happened.

She placed a foot on the first stair… then the next… and one more… and…

‘No, it’s too late to go. back now/ she muttered, gripping the camera firmly. But she couldn’t help wondering at the sudden quietness at the top of the stairs. No voices, nor any of those strange groans and cracks she had heard earlier. ‘I need the photos,’ she added as she forced herself to go on. ‘I need the evidence.’

She reached the main floor, and a low moan of sheer terror escaped from her iips. The rains of the staircase and the public reception area were shocking enough in themselves; far worse was the vision of those horrifying serpents feeding on the tom bodies of the policemen who had brought her here only fifteen minutes ago. Four of them, she counted, though it was no longer possible to identify-their faces.

‘Right!

The sight of the carnage strengthened her, giving her a renewed sense of determination. She brought up the camera, adjusted the short, stubby zoom lens to give a sharp, close picture of the two snakes feeding on the body of the dead sergeant — recognisable only from the stripes on his tunic sleeve — and pressed the trigger button.

But they weren’t snakes at all, her mind told her feverishly as she went on to take one picture after another. The sharp image of them in the viewfinder of the SLR camera revealed exacdy what they must be. Apart from their size, they were identical with the tiny woodworm which had eaten into Tony’s hand at the workshop that morning.

Only this time they were flushed pink, gorged on the blood of their victims.

At the first lightning flashes from the camera they had reared up, proof — if she’d needed any — that they were not blind. Now they began to squirm across the floor towards her, six of them altogether, moving purposefully as if nothing could stop them. She could feel the tension building up inside her and longed to let everything go in one hysterical scream; instead, she disciplined herself to take one more picture, wide-angle, backing down a couple of steps to get them all in, before leaving the camera to swing from the leather strap around her neck while she groped in the shoulder bag for the ether bottle.

Struggling to get the rubber bung out — it was firmly wedged in the neck — she went down a couple more steps. The giant, blood-hungry worms came closer, wriggling forward very slowly now, but never pausing. What if she made a quick dash for it down the stairs while they were still sluggish? Should she risk it?

No.

No, she knew that sluggishness would drop away from them like a sloughed off skin. They would be after her the moment she turned her back, trapping her on the narrow staircase. She had only one chance; if she couldn’t open the ether bottle she’d have to break it.

That meant going back up those four steps, with the worms getting closer every second. Biting her lip, trying to keep a grip, she forced herself to do it. As she reached the top, the worms began to rear up expectantly, a dark fluid slobbering from their mouths as if in anticipation.

She raised her arm and, with all the strength she could summon up, smashed the bottle against the hard parquet flooring. A second later she was stumbling down the stairs as fast as she could, without waiting to find out how successful she’d been. The glass had at least cracked, she was sure of that; she’d heard the sound, and the whiff of ether had been unmistakable, but that was all she knew.

Somehow she got to the bottom of the stairs without falling and blindly ran along the basement corridor towards the outer door, slamming it shut the moment she was outside and hastily attempting to lock it.

As if — she told herself bitterly when her panic had again subsided — as if a mere wooden door, however thick, could stop those things coming through if they chose.

The sirens wailed urgently through the darkness but then abruptly cut out as the ambulance and fire tender entered the drive, followed by a police Rover. The sleek superintendent had come along in person, she saw, as the men got out with a slamming of doors and their heavy voices broke the eerie silence at last; she felt a quick surge of disappointment that Evan was not among them. At that moment she could have done with his steady, common-sense voice to reassure her.

‘Where’s Sergeant Taylor?’ the superintendent was demanding. ‘See if you can find him, somebody. He should be here.’

‘Your sergeant is dead,’ she announced bitterly. ‘They're all dead in there.’ She described the scene she had just left.

‘Who are you?’ He eyed her camera. ‘Press?’

‘I work here.’

‘Mary Armstrong, sir,’ one of the constables intervened. ‘Public Health Department. Sergeant Taylor was on his way to pick her up when he left the station.’

‘Very well, Miss Armstrong. Tell me exactly what we’re to expect when we go inside.’

Mary tried to persuade him against sending men into the building, but he refused to listen to reason, commenting only that ‘the men know their duty’ — whatever that might mean. To her knowledge, at least four were already dead and three missing, but that argument cut no ice with him. He questioned her in detail about the damage in the reception area and whether or not the main entrance was blocked, then went into conference with the fire brigade officer about the best way to tackle the problem. Her report about the giant worms or ‘snakes’ he merely pooh-poohed. ‘Pure hysteria,’ she overheard him saying.

The Indian WPC and the constable called Bill were also cross-examined* but they had been watching the back of Worth Hall most of the time and had no very clear idea of what had been going on.

A young fireman, obviously very worried, took Marv by the arm and spoke to her confidentially. ‘You mentioned beetles, is that right? And… snakes?’

‘They look like snakes, but they’re not. They’re more.. well, they resemble worms, only very much bigger.’ ‘That’s what I heard.’

She glanced at him sharply. ‘Heard?’

‘We’re from Hammersmith,’ he explained with a wave of his arm towards the fire tender. ‘Don’t know what’s up, but you’ve got crews from all over Greater London in this borough tonight. Real bloody disaster area this is. First it was the disco, jammed fill! of people, and the ceiling collapsed on top of the poor sods. Then there’s a fire at that pub opposite the tube station — some talk of beetles being seen there as well — not to mention the coach-load of OAPs involved in that multiple crash on the main road. I tel! you, lady, that radio’s on the whole time in my cab, and it hasn’t stopped all the way here, not once,’

‘And the worms, or snakes? What have you heard about them?’

‘Snakes and beetles — seem to belong together, don’t they? I dunno. I’ve been five years in the fire service, and I’ve never come across anything like this.’

‘Have any been reported at the disco?’

‘Christ knows what’s going on there. Talk about panic stations! The OAPs’ coach was the same, by all accounts.

A snake, they said. Caused the driver to swerve straight into a pantechnicon. Killed outright. Hell of a mess. They’re using cutting gear to get the old folk out.’

From Worth Hall came a deep, shuddering sound followed by a series of loud cracks and a sudden rush of falling masonry as if the entire building were about to fall down. The noise increased, becoming a long roar; the lights in the offices went out abruptly, leaving only the car headlamps to cut into the darkness.

Mary remained standing where she was, ignoring the fireman’s shouts that she should move farther back. She felt no sense of shock, not any longer, but only a quiet, hopeless despair. It was a major part of her job to deal with the hazards of insect infestation and vermin, but the usual procedures seemed so inadequate. A quick, staccato clattering told her that the roof slates had gone; one even shattered on the ground at her feet. Staring upwards, she could just make out the shapes of the rafters against the dark, amber-tinted sky.

Then a police searchlight came into play and she heard the gasps of fear around her as it illuminated the swarms of flying beetles emerging from the broken roof.

‘Bloody hell, what’s that?’ the young fireman muttered.

Despite the distance she could identify the pinkish sheen of their hard outer skeletons and that vague, veillike aura around them which was probably caused by their rapidly moving wings. A mating flight, she thought; wasn’t that the whole purpose of the beetles’ existence? They were the imago stage of the life cycle. It was their basic task to reproduce, laying their eggs in the minute hair-cracks of any suitable length of timber they could find, dozens of fertile eggs from every beetle couple, each generation multiplying many times over.

Bringing more buildings crashing down around them as they burrowed their way through the wood.

Gulping in the protein-rich blood of any human victim who ventured too close.

The fireman’s comforting hand was on her arm again, but then his fingers tightened. ‘Look!’ he breathed. ‘On the roof!’

Near the chimney-stack was a dark, moving form rearing up from one of the rafters. It reached upwards like an undulating tentacle, ten feet long at least. Everyone else saw it too, for there was a sudden murmur of curiosity mixed with apprehension.

‘One of your snakes, Miss Armstrong?’ The superintendent sounded less certain of himself. He snapped out an order. ‘Can’t you do better than that with the light? Robbins, give him a hand! Get some light on that thing.’ The beam moved slowly across the rooftop, finally nesting on the giant worm, which now seemed much bigger than she had previously thought. It was a deathly white. Its tail draped over several of the rafters, while its head appeared to be weaving about as if trying to find a way of escaping from the powerful light. Hastily Mary fumbled with the camera, setting aperture and shutter speed for maximum exposure, but before she could bring it up to her eye the creature had slowly withdrawn its entire length back into the building.

‘Well, that’s it, isn’t it?’ the fireman was stating firmly, i mean, that’s it! After that, you’ll not find any of our crew willing to go in there.’

Mary gazed up, still clasping the camera in the hope that the worm would reappear, however briefly. She was scarcely aware of yet another car arriving, nor of the door-slam when the driver got out and came over towards her.

‘Miss Armstrong, can you give me some explanation?’ A girl’s voice, but tense with barely controlled hostility. Mary looked round and recognised the young reporter from the local paper, Tessa Something-or-other.

She’d forgotten all about having phoned her.

‘No,’ she replied tersely.

The girl’s thin lips tightened at her answer, but what else was there to say?

‘No, I can’t,’ she repeated, despairing. ‘Believe me, I only wish I could.’

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…

12

Dorothea stood on top of the step- ladder, poking her head through the hatch leading into the loft. A strong smell of insecticide was evidence that Guy must have splashed a lot of it about up there. The real problem, she decided, was to judge how thoroughly he’d inspected the timbers before treating them. As she flashed the torch around she could almost hear her father’s voice again. ‘Depends on the condition o’ the wood, lass,’ was his usual refrain when asked how long a job might take. The men used to laugh about it behind his back. ‘Ol condition-o’-the-wood Cunningham,’ she’d heard one of them call him, laughing.

Funny or not, she could do with his help now, she thought as she climbed down. That Soft wasn’t something she’d like to tackle on her own, nor the rest of the house, come to that. If he hadn’t died when he did, she could have given him a ring and…

But then she wouldn’t have had the house anyway, not without the money he left her.

‘Has to be done though, somehow,’ she told herself firmly as she replaced the hatch and came down the step-ladder again. ‘By just me an’ Guy if necessary. Hell, I hope it doesn’t come to that.’

Merely hoisting herself up on to that step-ladder had left her out of puff. Too much weight on her, that was a fact. She’d tried everything she knew just to lose a few' pounds but nothing worked. Month after month she seemed to put on a iitde more; the bathroom scales bore brutal witness, and so did her own eyes when she examined herself in the full-length mirror. She was going the same way as her mother, and that really was a depressing thought.

‘ ’Bout time I stopped talking to myself too,’ she said aloud as she went downstairs back to the telephone. ‘That’s a barmy habit if there ever was one. Wonder if Guy ever talks to himself? Bet he doesn’t. God, he bores me sometimes!’

The Yellow Pages still lay open, as she’d left it, at the list of contractors specialising in timber pests, though she’d already put a cross by most of them, having drawn a blank earlier in the morning. Two or three months was the shortest waiting time she’d been quoted; when she’d suggested they might come the same day they had merely laughed.

‘Seen the papers this morning, darling?’ one had sneered at her in a high-pitched nasal voice, which had raised her hackles right away. ‘You’re lucky we’re even answering the blower. Lots of firms aren’t bothering.’ She’d told him — politely enough — to get stuffed, and then she’d gone on to the next, but with much the same result.

Now, taking her ball-point in her hand, she carried on down the list. Several seemed to be permanently engaged, one offered a recorded voice suggesting that she should ring again later, and the rest informed her bluntly that they didn’t want the work.

And that, it seemed, was that. She had no alternative but to ask Brian and Pete. Perhaps if she offered to pay them, they might…

‘Damn!’ she swore, putting the phone down. ‘Damn and blast it!’

Whoever did the work, she realised, it was going to undo all the effort she’d put into getting the house straight. Guy had already made a hell of a mess of the front room; when she’d seen it last night she’d been furious, and she’d have told him about it in no uncertain terms if she hadn’t already heard some news about the beetle attacks from her minicab driver. Plus the message from the Armstrong woman on her answering machine; that voice had reaiiy sounded scared.

Right, Brian and Pete then, she thought; and she could use a drink. She wasn’t thinking straight any longer.

Slipping on her raincoat, she locked up the house and made a beeline for the Plough. What she’d do without that pub she just didn’t know, but then she’d always liked the atmosphere of a good pub. It was one of the things she’d missed on overseas postings.

Not many people in yet, she noticed as she let the door swing shut behind her, and she stood for a moment looking round. No sign of Pete, but Brian was behind the bar. That was something. She went over to claim her usual comer bar-stool.

'Gin and tonic, Brian. Please.’

‘Thea, sweetie! What happened to you last night? You weren’t in.’

‘No, I got back late.’

‘Oh! All right for some. Seen the papers?’

‘Brian, if anybody else asks this morning have I seen the papers,’ she answered heavily, Til throw up.’

‘Oh, you. are in a mood, aren’t you? One gin and tonic coming up! Large one?’

‘Small.’

‘Don’t tell me! You’ve got a hangover.’

‘It’s a busy day. Don’t want to get tiddly,’ she said. ‘Talk about it later.’

‘Be like that!’ He turned away to draw a pint for a thickset grey-haired man in a donkey jacket, a regular she knew only by sight. When he came back to her, he said seriously: ‘These big snake things are no joke, are they? What do they call them? Bloodworms? What does Guy think now he’s been proved right?’

‘Hasn’t said.’ She sipped her drink. ‘But now we have to spray the house. I tried every firm in the Yellow Pages this morning but none of them want to do it.’

‘People’ll be queueing up.’

‘Fra hoping you an’ Pete can help me out. Not as a favour; I mean, there’ll be something in it for you. Can’t expect you to do it for nothing.’

‘Don’t know, sweetie. Have to ask him first. We’re run off our feet here today. Janet’s not come in. The landlord was saying she lives down in Miller Road. That’s one of the places where there was trouble last night, but nobody’s heard anything.’

‘Who’s going to do the food then?’

‘Looks like muggins. Thea, darling, you couldn’t do a turn behind the bar, could you? You’ve done it once before. Should I ask the landlord what he thinks?’

Joe Hanson, the landlord of the Plough, was a burly man with handlebar moustaches, no longer young, who could usually be found reading Sporting Life in the far comer of the saloon, his Labrador at his feet and a half-pint of bitter in front of him. He seldom worked behind the bar, save in the early evening when some of his bookie friends dropped in; on this occasion, his flushed face damp with sweat, he was carrying in the shepherd’s pie fresh from the oven. Cursing, he dumped it down on the hotplate.

‘The bar, love?’ he puffed, mopping his face with the oven cloth. ‘Know the prices? No, ’course you don’t. They’ve gone up since you last did it. I’ll take you on in Janet’s place, though. Pay you for two hours. That’s fair enough, innit? Plus your lunch if anything’s left over.’

Catching Brian’s eye, Dorothea felt she had to agree. There was no other way she was going to get help with spraying the house. She hung up her raincoat and tied one of Janet’s short aprons round her waist while the landlord went through the price list with her. Not that she didn’t know it practically by heart anyway.

‘Anything you need, just—’ He stopped as his eye lit on the pickle jar, which was practically empty. ‘Like pickled onions, for instance. On the shelf in the cellar you’ll find them. I’ll take you down there and show you the book. When you’ve taken something from stock, always enter it in the book.’

He led her through the door at the rear of the food bar, then down a flight of narrow stone steps, which he took one by one. For the first time she realised he was lame. At the bottom he paused to switch on the lights. Beetles had been found down here too, she remembered, as she looked around the eerie place.

A large area of the cellar was taken up by wooden beer barrels and metal kegs serving the bar immediately above, and she found her eyes drawn to the deep shadows between them. She had an uneasy sense that there must be insects lurking there, waiting for their prey. The pale daylight filtering in down the chute from the street revealed a tangle of old, dust-laden cobwebs. No spiders though, and that fact did nothing to reassure her.

‘Are you sure this place is safe?’ She hadn’t meant to use quite those words; they’d just slipped out.

‘Safe?’ A heavy timber partition divided one end of the cellar from the rest; set in it were two doors, and he’d been explaining that the right-hand one belonged to the foodstore. ‘Oh, beetles, you mean? No need to worry on that Score. After Janet found those two, we cleared everything out and had the place fumigated. Haven’t seen any insects here since then.’

He unlocked the door to reveal the wide, slotted timber shelves of the foodstore.

‘Anything to do with food, always take immediate action. Don’t want any trouble with the inspectors, not in a place like this. Could ruin business.’

‘It doesn’t scare you, what’s happening? Since this morning it scares me. Beetles, snakes, buildings collapsing..

‘Get out of London if you feel like that.’

‘And leave the house? Oh, I couldn’t.’

‘Right, do me one favour then,’ the landlord snapped irritably as he turned from the shelves clutching a large jar of pickled onions. ‘Don’t talk to the customers like that. They come into a pub to forget their worries for a while, not to have them rammed down their throats. So stay off beetles, d’you hear?’

Tm not daft!’ she retorted. ‘Give me the pickles an’ I’ll get started.’

Customers were already waiting at the food bar when she got back upstairs and from then on she was not given a minute to herself. It was the usual business crowd, including several she’d seen in the Plough before, but the atmosphere seemed both subdued and apprehensive. No relaxed chatter today, no sudden outbursts of laughter, but a definite mood of fear had seized them. A few asked after Janet, but Dorothea merely replied that she was off sick; none pursued the subject any farther. It was as if they would prefer not to know.

From the snatches of conversation she caught, it was only too clear what they were talking about. The words bloodworm, snakes, and beetles occurred again and again, and three times she overheard people discussing whether it wasn’t too much of a risk coming into the

Worth Road district at all, let alone to the Plough, which was an old building. Hadn’t most of the attacks so far involved old buildings?

The crush was already beginning to thin out and only sandwiches were left when, over the shoulder of the customer she was serving, she saw a young, well-dressed man in a business suit push his way in excitedly, shouting something which she didn’t quite hear. He was heading towards people he knew at one of the tables, but others crowded around him, questioning him.

‘What’s all that about?’ she asked the customer. ‘Search me,’ he said. ‘Make it two rounds of ham, then.’

She fixed two rounds of ham sandwiches and cut through them diagonally, then took his money. As she dropped it into the dll Pete came by, dressed as usual in his dark leather blouson and open-necked shirt, looking as though he never did a day’s work.

‘Hear that, Thea? Link Lane station’s closed because of bloodworms. Really big bastards, they say. You can’t get near the place for ambulances, but most o’ the people are still down there. It’s slaughter.’

‘Oh, Jesus!’ What else could she say? ‘Oh, my God.’ The customer was still standing there spreading mustard on his sandwiches. ‘It’s not just rumour?’

‘Go an’ ask him,’ Pete said. ‘That feller who’s jus’ come in.’

‘Get me a drink, Pete. Anything. Oh, I just don’t know what to think.’

‘Proves your of man knew what he was on about. Somebody shoulda listened to him.’

‘They wouldn’t believe him. None of us did. We might have been able to prevent it.’ She stood there, too shocked to do anything any more.

‘Drink,’ said Pete, and elbowed his way to the bar.

He brought her a large gin and tonic, and asked in that concerned, sympathetic way of his whether she was feeling all right. She looked pale, he said. Making some excuse about having had a late night, she gulped the gin down. What the hell, she thought, hadn’t it been obvious from the start that the attacks were going to get worse? That was something they’d have to learn to live with. The first essential was to get Brian and Pete to help spray the house, and then perhaps she should take Kath down to her sister’s in Dorset, just to be on the safe side.

‘You must’ve needed that,’ Pete commented cheerfully, picking up her empty glass. ‘Refill?’

‘My turn,’ she objected.

‘Oh, we’ll settle up later! Same again?’ But he didn’t wait for her answer.

The news about the tube station left most customers in the Plough talking in subdued voices. Quite a few slipped away, and none of those who remained showed any more interest in her food, though orders for drinks were still brisk. After a time the landlord instructed her to close up; extracting notes from the till, he paid for her two hours’ work, gruffly thanking her.

‘Did Brian ask you about helping me spray the house?’ she asked Pete, joining him at the bar.

‘No sweat,’ he said easily. ‘For you, darling, I’d do anything.’

‘Idiot!’ she retorted, her mood suddenly lightened. ‘Anyway, I owe you a drink, don’t I?’

‘Two.’

She took one of the notes the landlord had pushed into her hand and bought a round for the three of them, though Brian said he’d drink his later.

‘Have you noticed, sweetie? Practically everyone’s drinking spirits. That’s since we heard about Link Lane, that is. And those ambulances just haven’t stopped!’

Another siren wailed from the road outside. God knew how many that made — she’d hardly noticed them, being so sunk in her own problems.

‘From the glum looks on their faces you’d think it was the end of the world,’ she said, meaning the customers. ‘Maybe it is. Who knows?’

'At the last it bitetb like a serpent and stingeth like an adder,' Brian responded, busily washing glasses as he spoke. ‘From the Bible, sweetie. When I was on remand I shared a cell with this vicar who was in for touching up little boys. Always repeating that, he was.’

‘You were in prison?’ She was both shocked and intrigued.

‘Oh, no need to get your tights in a tangle. Jury found me not guilty. Ask me, the police weren’t even trying to track down the right person. Picked me up because I was handy.’

It was turning into a regular drinking session, she knew; but, hell, would they even be alive tomorrow? Someone else came into the Plough with more news of the Link Lane disaster; simply hearing about it seemed to drain all the will-power out of her. She’d learned more about herself in the past twelve hours than she’d ever thought possible. At breakfast with Guy she’d been so high, it was unbelievable; a nervous reaction, of course — she recognised that; afterwards came the plunge into the depths. Now she didn’t know where she was.

At closing time Pete said he’d check the house over to see what was needed. She retrieved her raincoat, managed to get it on unaided and left the pub with him, having extracted a promise from Brian that he would follow them as soon as he’d finished clearing up. Two fire engines were speeding noisily along Worth Road in the Link Lane direction and a helicopter circled overhead. She found herself wishing she and Pete hadn’t drunk so much. Brian was the only completely sober one of the three.

‘That's a right ravioli, innit?’ Pete observed when he saw the state of the front room. ‘Think o’ the hours we spent paintin’ this room, an’ now look at it! A right ravioli.’

‘I don’t know what he’s sprayed an’ what he hasn’t,’ she declared. ‘Same upstairs in the loft.’

‘Let’s have a peek. But it looks like we’d best do the lot. Not that I’m saying’ anything against your husband’s work.’

She laughed as she caught his grin. ‘Poor Guy, he tries.’

Turning, she stumbled over the spraying equipment, which still lay where Guy had left it in the middle of the floor. Pete’s arm steadied her and, still laughing, she found his face close to hers. Their lips met — at first lightly but then, as her hand slipped behind his shoulder to hold him closer, starting to explore and savour. Sensually.

‘The loft,’ she said at last, and broke away from him. ‘This wasn’t what I had in mind.’

‘Wasn’t it?’

‘No!’ She was firm.

On the stairs she stumbled again, but this time clumsily turned her head to avoid another kiss. They continued up to the first landing with his arm around her; then, as she opened her mouth to explain about the step-ladder, he kissed her again. She struggled, but half-heartedly, giggling, and tried pushing him away.

‘Oh, get off!’ But she didn’t mean it; she was fighting against herself more than him. ‘Brian’ll be here any minute.’

‘He’ll be ages. These rooms need doing as well, don’t they?’

‘All of them,’ she said, ‘but—’

Already he had opened the nearest door, the one leading into her bedroom. Inside, he stopped in admiration. ‘Like a film star’s! Design all this yourself, did you? You could do this professionally, you know. Make a mint o’ money.’

‘The spraying’s going to make a mess of it, isn’t it?’

‘The carpet’ll have to come up.’

‘The bathroom, too. It’s a wooden floor under those tiles. Oh, God, why did this have to happen to ruin everything?’

She held him close but with her head turned away, not wanting him to notice that her eyes were wet, but placing his finger under her chin he gently raised her mouth to Ills. Their kiss was long, at first quiet and comforting, but then growing increasingly more urgent, their tongues darting at each other, teasing, daring… He slipped the raincoat off her shoulders and draped it over the chair, then dropped his own leather jacket on top of it. Next her sweater, sliding his hard hands beneath it, caressing her bare skin and still kissing her as slowly he eased it over her breasts and helped her out of it.

The tattoo over his stomach shocked her back to her senses — a flower design, in itself harmless, but what was she doing naked on her own bed with a man who’d had himself decorated in this way, vandalising his body? But by then it was too late to draw back. She felt his weight as he shifted on to her, and his leg pressing between here; yes, and hers parting willingly because she wanted him, hungered for him, tattoo or not.

In those moments it didn’t even matter to her who he was. His body was hard and muscular, serving her purposes, arousing her to.. to…

Oh no, he was going on. He wasn’t finished yet. Oh, my God, it’s not over. Please God it’s not over.

Dorothea awoke with a start at the sound of footsteps on the uncarpeted stairs — light, mincing footsteps. Brian, she thought, horrified. Brian! But how the hell did he get into the house?

She was lying naked on the bed with Pete next to her, flat on his back, snoring, and that hateful tattoo above his navel trembling each time he breathed in. The duvet! She reached for something to cover herself, but it was all in a heap on the floor, everything tangled up together. As she scrambled for her robe, a sharp pain hit her behind the eyes. They’d fallen asleep, she realised through her panic; now she’d woken up with a headache, a dry mouth, a beast of a hangover!

The footsteps stopped outside the door.

‘Brian! Stay out!’ she shouted, desperately trying to disentangle the robe. But she heard the doorknob turning hesitantly. ‘Brian — no!’

Slowly the door opened and Kath stood there, wide-eyed. She was in her school clothes with her bag over her shoulder. A ribbon held her long hair back from her face. Her expression was grave, like marble, as she understood what she was witnessing.

Kath’s hand had never left the doorknob. Before Dorothea could say anything — could even think of anything to say — she had backed quietly out and closed the door behind her. Then came the rapid sound of her footsetps as she ran downstairs, and the slamming of the front door, which echoed through the entire house.

13

By the time the action committee meeting at Worth Road police station was brought to an end that afternoon, they had reached agreement on several recommendations. At Mary’s insistence — and despite some hesitation from Bill Jenkins about how realistic their targets were — they agreed that all schools and hospitals were to be inspected immediately for bloodworm infestation and work begun on treating the timber; meanwhile other public buildings were to be closed until their turn came.

To protect the public, a leaflet and poster campaign backed up by TV announcements was to be instituted. People living in older property would be offered guidance on examining and spraying their own houses. Those with relatives or friends with whom they could stay in the country were advised to leave London as soon as possible, particularly if they had children; their house-keys should be deposited at their nearest police station.

Even while they were discussing these provisions, reports came in of incidents at a famous old hotel near Euston Station and a snooker hall approximately half a mile away. As Evan marked the locations on his map, it was obvious to everyone present that the menace was spreading across London like an ink blot. It was only a matter of time before it reached London University, the West End and Whitehall.

It was at this point that Mary’s friend Derek Owen repeated his view that they would get nowhere without more specimens for detailed study. ‘Bloodworms in particular,’ he insisted. ‘With so many in evidence, surely I’m not demanding-the impossible?’ Guy supported him and, for the second time, offered to do something about it himself. It was an offer which Evan took up without hesitating, and for the next ten minutes he and Guy immersed themselves in a discussion of the best way to approach the problem.

Mary shuddered at the mere thought of the risks they’d be taking. At that table she was the only one who had actually encountered giant bloodworms face to face and knew what they were like, though Guy had glimpsed them briefly all those weeks ago. Derek was right, she thought; they did need specimens.

The atmosphere of that room in the police station was beginning to get on her nerves and she didn’t linger once the meeting was over. With a quick smile which was meant for Evan — though she couldn’t be sure whether he saw it or not — she slipped out and went down to her car, which was parked in the rear yard. Later that afternoon she’d have to put the action committee’s proposals to the borough councillors and attempt to win their support, but she calculated she just had time first to inspect the temporary offices which had been allocated to her department.

It should have been a ten-minute drive, but in fact it took her double that time to get there because of the traffic. From the look of some of the cars with families packed inside and heavy luggage on the roof-rack, the exodus had already started without any prompting from the committee.

At last she turned into Shoreham Road and drove slowly along, trying to identify the building. It was council property, previously used for evening classes, but she’d never been there before and she felt a twinge of fear as she drew up outside. A double-fronted Victorian house with large bay windows, it looked just the sort of place the beetles seemed to favour.

It had been inspected, though; she’d been assured of that. Simpkins himself had brought a team down to give the whole house a thorough going-over before the furniture was brought in. As an emergency measure, the most obvious danger points had been treated with a strong insecticide lacquer spray, with a more thorough fumigation scheduled for the weekend.

it’s pretty bleak,’ her assistant Adrian greeted her as she went in. He was carrying several boxes of stationery through the bare hallway towards the stairs. ‘They’ve given us the big front room on the first floor. Parks and Amenities have the back, with the borough engineer’s lot in the rest. Oh, and Housing’s on the ground floor.’

She followed him up. ‘Bleak’ was the right word for their room, she thought when she stepped inside: yellow ochre painted walls pitted with drawing-pin punctures among a scattering of adhesive-tape stains; uncovered floorboards; uncurtained windows and no lampshades.

‘Until they can salvage our files from Worth Hail, we’re working from scratch,’ Adrian commented as he dumped the stationery on a table near the window. ‘We’ve plenty of blank paper but nothing else. Not even a phone yet.’ i’ve just been with Derek Owen,’ she told him, still looking around. ‘He agrees with you about those two beetles you sent down, the ones from the school. Almost certainly females of the same species, he says.’

At least they’d found some furniture for the place, she thought. Old stuff, but still functional — desks, chairs, a cupboard, even a coat-stand. She put her briefcase on the largest of the desks and sat down, almost instinctively opening the top drawer to see what state it was in.

‘Urgh!’ she exclaimed, recoiling with horror. Her chair fell with a crash as she backed away. ‘Adrian…! Oh, God, are they everywhere?’

Several large beetles lay inside the desk drawer, apparently motionless, their colours — that enamel pink with the luxuriously deep green and patches of yellow — making them look particularly deadly. She could easily have put her hand in there without thinking, her flesh might have been lacerated by those pincer-claws, her blood..

‘Stand clear!’ Adrian was yelling at her, almost elbowing her aside.

In his hand was an aerosol spray. Every office was to be equipped with one, she recalled, as the pungent smell reached her nostrils, forcing her to retreat even farther. But it had no obvious effect. A beetle appeared on the top of the drawer, hauling itself up, unbothered by this attack on it. Adrian gave it an extra squirt, holding the nozzle less than a couple of inches away, but still it moved on.

‘The other drawers, Adrian,’ she heard herself almost sobbing. ‘There’ll be more in the other drawers Come away!’

Instead of getting clear, she was horrified to see him bend down to flick open the top drawer on the other side, but with too much force. The drawer shot out and then dropped on to his feet, though he kicked it away immediately.

Just in time, she thought. Her hand flew to her mouth to stop herself screaming as she saw more beetles emerging from it, scrambling out of the drawer, which was now on its side, like soldiers jumping down from the back of a lorry. They spread out across the floor in that familiar half-circle, cutting him off from any possibility of reaching the door.

‘Adrian!’ she shrieked, beside herself. ‘Walk over them! Use your spray!’

She picked up the nearest chair and began slamming it down on the beetles nearest to her, but it was no use. She killed three or four perhaps, and then the half-circle re-formed, still concentrating on Adrian and ignoring her.

Staring around desperately for some more effective weapon, she noticed the table on which Adrian had piled the new supply of stationery. She dashed behind it, swept the notepaper, internal envelopes and pads of official forms on to the floor, and tipped it over once, then again, until it lay upside down, crushing many of the beetles beneath it. Standing on it, she jumped up and down two or three times, adding her weight to it to make absolutely sure they were squashed to death.

‘Hurry!’ She grabbed his arm, dragging him towards the door. ‘Let’s get out while we can!’

But his legs gave way. She saw blood soaking through his clothes. A beetle emerged from his sleeve, its claws busy on his wrist. It was too late, she realised dully. Much too late.

Then everything was taken out of her hands. The door burst open and three or four other people rushed in, among them Simpkins and Bill Jenkins, shouting something at her as they aimed their aerosols at the remaining beetles regrouping around the edges of the upturned table.

‘So many of them still!’ she tried to warn them.

bier arms were seized and she felt herself being guided away. Adrian must be dead, she was convinced. No one could survive that number of beetles. No escaping from them, not any longer.

It was only then that she realised the truth. Up to that point she had always assumed they could be beaten, these bloodworm-beetles, that it was merely a question of finding the right poison and persuading the powers that be to use it on a large enough scale. When it came to war between the species, insects stood no chance against human beings, surely?

But now she knew that was not the case. She had been wrong from the very start. These bloodworm-beetles reproduced with such rapidity that humans stood no chance against them. Already they had spread in a few weeks from a derelict school to claim a large part of London for themselves. Why should they ever stop?

Oh no, they intended to go on, she could swear to that.

Intended? But that assumed a will-power. A mind. No, there couldn’t possibly be a mind; what she was witnessing was something far more terrifying. It was the instinctive, blind will to reproduce and seek food, a characteristic shared by all living creatures and one which could never be defeated.

A sudden roar of agony from the room snapped her out of her semi-trance, bringing her back to her senses. She was on the landing close to the bannister where they had left her before returning to help Adrian. But what was happening in there? Why all that shouting and screaming?

She forced herself to the doorway to look in. Surely there must be something she could do for them?

Adrian lay slumped on the bare floor, his body unnaturally twisted and beetles crawling over it like ants over spilled jam. Next to him, writhing in pain across the upturned table, was Simpkins, his face a mass of beetles busy with their incisor claws, the blood glistening. The others were trying to lift him, but already she could see beetles on their shoes.. their legs.. their jacket sleeves..

‘The idiots!’ she murmured to herself, shocked, indecisive, knowing that the only sensible course was to leave Simpkins to die, yet feeling she must help them somehow. ‘Oh, the idiots!’

Seizing a fallen aerosol can which lay near her feet, she went into the room, determined at least to save the two rescuers if she could.

The fish and chips in the police canteen were unappetising. Guy pushed his plate away half-finished and went up to the counter for another cup of tea. Evan and Derek Owen, who were sharing his table, had both chosen the minute steak and seemed to be experiencing difficulty cutting through it. For the moment they were in no great hurry. They had decided on their course of action. Now all they could do was wait until the superintendent, who was still in conference at Scotland Yard, rang through to give his permission.

Or to withhold it, Guy mused gloomily. He’d had enough experience of top brass in the past to realise that there was no stupidity of which they were not capable.

Their plan was simple enough. He went over it again in his mind, trying to spot the flaws but finding none. They would operate as a team, the three of them together, with himself in charge making the actual snatch, Evan backing him up with the metal bin in which the giant bloodworm was to be dumped, and Derek — a much older man — coming along mainly to observe how the bloodworms reacted. Derek had also devised a method of calming down any beetles that happened to be around, though Guy was doubtful whether it would really work.

That was the weak point, he knew. If it went badly wrong — if there were so many of the creatures that they were overwhelmed or their retreat cut off — none of them would get out alive.

The biggest problem had been to select the right location. At Link Lane underground station the emergency services were still working to rescue any survivors, but the decision had already been taken to seal the tunnels; anyone still alive on those platforms would have no chance. In any case, the special difficulties ruled out Link Lane for this operation. As for the places attacked during the night, a fire had destroyed one, while others abutted on to neighbouring buildings into which — in several instances at least — the beetles and bloodworms had already begun to move.

That left Worth Hall — set in its own grounds, well distanced from any other structures; guarded too, as he remembered from his own experience that morning; and untouched since the previous night.

At last he reached the cash desk, where he paid for his tea, though it was probably cold by now. Back at the table, he found that Derek had abandoned the attempt to eat his steak and was thumbing through a folder of completed report forms.

‘Odd thing here,’ he commented, looking up as Guy rejoined them. ‘Three different officers — two constables and one fireman who later made a statement — all tell of having seen giant bloodworms while they were involved in rescue attempts, but when they returned only seconds later the bloodworms had gone.’

‘Slithered away,’ Evan said. ‘Under the floorboards, into drains, anywhere.’

‘I’m not so sure,’ Derek argued, frowning. ‘From these reports it doesn’t sound like that.’

‘All in the same place, were they?’ Guy asked. ‘Different incidents. A mile or two apart.’

The loudspeaker interrupted them, calling Detective-Sergeant Evans to the telephone. ‘This is probably it,’ Evan informed them, getting up slowly. ‘Soon know, anyhow. Decisive man, our super. Keen cutting edge. Favourite expression of his, keen cutting edge. Still not sure what it means.’

Guy watched him as he ambled through the canteen to the phone extension near the door. In this past twenty-four hours his Welsh accent had become more marked than usual. He was nervous, Guy realised — who the hell wasn’t? No one in his right mind would deliberately plan to walk into a nest of bloodworms. Volunteer for it, even.

‘We’re on, we can go ahead,’ Evan informed them soberly when he came back. ‘With Macchiavelli’s blessing, for what it’s worth. So let’s get moving.’

Between them, the police and the fire brigade provided the safety clothing which Guy himself had specified. It consisted of boots, heavy-duty overalls, gauntlet gloves which could be strapped tightly over their sleeves, gas masks and dirt-track riders’ helmets with rubber face pieces which buckled under their chins. Not an inch of flesh was left unprotected.

They drove the short distance to Worth Hall in an unmarked police van which also contained the rest of their equipment. It stopped briefly by the gate where Guy had been held up that morning, then went through it up the driveway to a spot approximately fifty yards from the main entrance. This was the door they had decided to use, though after much argument; in some ways the rear door might have been wiser, but it was narrow and they might have to get out in a hurry carrying the metal bin between them.

Standing briefly on the step at the back of the van, Guy took a quick look around him.The police and firemen were standing well back, though hoses had already been run out and were fixed to their tenders. A separate group of firemen clad in full hazardous chemical gear waited to one side, and these were obviously the men who had volunteered to follow them in.

Beyond the trees the journalists had been corralled behind crowd-control barriers. Guy wondered if Tessa Brownley was among them, licking her thin lips with pleasure at having stumbled on such a major story on her own patch. No doubt that was what they were up to as they lurked behind their telephoto lenses, salivating at the thought that something might go wrong: what wouldn’t they pay to photograph a giant bloodworm in action against human victims?

They hadn’t been told the real reason why the authorities had waited until mid-afternoon before tackling the infestation at Worth Hall instead of going in earlier. The leader of the borough council and the police superintendent had agreed — though for different reasons — to suppress the news that the firemen had called an immediate strike when they heard about the bloodworms and the number of policemen killed. It had taken several hours of negotiation before they had consented to enter the building.

Overhead a police helicopter circled, surveying the hall from above.

‘No visible activity,’ came the voice in Guy’s earpiece, a tiny gadget like a hearing aid, which fitted snugly in his ear under the helmet and had a thin wire leading to the miniature receiver attached to his respirator strap, i’ll go round once again just to make sure.’

Guy and Evan stood at either side of the double doors, waiting for the right moment to go in. Derek, carrying a small garden spray for immediate self-protection, waited next to Evan. He had rejected the idea of using insecticide as being too slow-acting; instead, he had filled the spray with ethyl acetate. ‘Far more effective,’ he’d explained to Guy.

‘Clear of all visible activity,’ the observer in the helicopter said again.

Guy signalled to the other two, then inserted the key into the lock, turned it, and pushed open one wing of the double doors, stepping aside again smartly. Derek faced the opening, his spray ready. A moment later he too raised a hand to indicate that they could go in. No sign of any danger.

The entrance hall looked as though a bomb had hit it. Dust and rubble covered most of the floor, heavy beams had smashed through the reception desk, the display screens were broken, an empty gap and a pile of splintered timber indicated where the staircase had once stood, and it seemed nothing had escaped destruction, with the sole exception of the old print of Worth Hali in the eighteenth century, which still hung on the wall where he had last seen it, though slighdy awry.

A muffled exclamation came from behind Evan’s gas mask and he pointed to where the bodies of the dead police officers lay. Their faces were unrecognisable, the flesh gone; beetles swarmed over them as though they were only so much carrion.

Nearby, emerging from beneath some fallen panelling, a large bloodworm came pushing itself towards them.

Guy had designed his own snake-catching equipment. Nothing very original: simply a deep-sea fishing rod which he’d bought from the Worth Road sports shop, replacing the nylon line with a reel of insulated wire with a noose at one end instead of a hook. His sole chance of success lay in his own skill at manoeuvring the noose over the slobbering head of the bloodworm.

The beetles had noticed them and began scurrying over to investigate, but he had no time even to think of defending himself. That task he had entrusted to Derek, leaving himself free to concentrate on the bloodworm, while Evan — who was lumbered with the galvanised metal bin — had to receive it at exactly the right moment.

It was a crazy venture, a small quiet voice in the back of his mind informed him as he stepped forward… then sideways a little… adjusting the position of the noose with each movement of the bloodworm. Vaguely he was aware of Derek scattering balls of cotton wool around their feet; he’d soaked them too in ethyl acetate in the hope that the fumes would at least last long enough to stun the beetles, if not kill them.

Again the bloodworm shifted over the rubble, then — like a spitting cobra — it reared up to confront him.

‘Got it!’ Guy yelled as the noose slipped easily over its head. With his gloved hand he tugged the wire tight. Nylon, he’d reckoned, might cut through the bloodworm if it struggled, whereas this was thick enough to hold it at least until the metal bin was in place. Evan was already there at his shoulder, ready and waiting.

The bloodworm disintegrated.

But that was impossible, his reason told him. It just couldn’t happen!

Yet it was happening. Tiie noose was swinging at the end of the rod, empty. Before his eyes, that giant bloodworm had broken up, fallen apart into hundreds of little, squirming portions. What was worse, he recognised only too well what they were. These were larvae, identical in appearance to the grub which he and Tony had dug out of the timber at the workshop and which had later eaten through Tony’s hand.

The slab of fallen plaster on which the giant bloodworm had squatted before rearing itself up was now covered with these tiny maggots wriggling over each other, twisting and swaying like living pasta.

Derek bent down to give them a soaking in ethyl acetate from his spray. Then Guy recovered from his stupefaction sufficiently to signal that they should all three of them get the hell out of this place.

As they withdrew, the squad of firemen in protective clothing spread out around the building and started preparations for their own operation. Guy stood near the police van watching them. They should have brought the Army in for this job, he thought. It was no part of a fireman’s duty; he wouldn’t be trained for it.

Guy had pulled the main door shut again on his way out, but the firemen now began smashing several of the windows through which they intended to pump their chemicals. Expansion foam had been tried at several incidents, and successfully too; it rapidly immobilised beetles by the drop in termperature and also depriving them cf air, but many inevitably escaped by flying up to the walls and ceilings. A number of firemen had been injured by beetles landing on their clothing; invariably they found some way through to a patch of bare skin.

From what he’d heard, this time they intended to use hydrogen cyanide gas, which was the chemical formally favoured for putting down rabbits and rats. It might kill off enough beetles and bloodworms to enable them to retrieve the bodies of those poor bloody policemen, he supposed. It wouldn’t solve the main problem, though.

Christ, what a mess'.

He glanced at Evan and Derek as they took off their respirators. Lost in thought, both of them. Trying to come to terms with what they’d just witnessed, he decided. In front of their eyes that long, snake-like creature had actually fallen apart — but had it really been there in the first place?

During the short drive back to Worth Road police station none of them had very much to say. Derek sat staring thoughtfully down at his knees, while Evan had retreated behind a stolidly neutral expression which made it impossible to judge his mood. No reaction came from him even when the police driver told them about the latest incidents on the London underground at Piccadilly and Green Park stations.

‘It’s getting bad,’ he added, an understatement if ever there was one.

At the police station he tried again to telephone Dorothea but heard only her voice reciting the usual recorded message. He toyed with the idea of driving home to check on what was happening about spraying the house, but Evan was agitating for them to get down to work on the new evidence they had gathered, so that wasn’t possible.

The desk sergeant also handed him a note from Mrs Lee, who had phoned to say that a Miss Lise Turns tall had been attempting to contact him. There was trouble at the reggae shop where ‘my two beetles’ had been found. Could he get there as soon as possible.

He couldn’t do it, of course, not right away, but he checked with the desk sergeant, who said that a panda car had already been sent there.

Upstairs in the action committee’s room he found Evan grimly adding more ink spots to his map. He too had heard about the reggae shop, though he had no details yet.

‘What about this place here?’ Guy enquired.

‘This police station? It’s a new building, Guy. Steel girders and concrete. Hardly any timber, but I’m told they are going to treat it again. Now, if we can settle down, please. The fact is we failed.’

Derek Owen was standing at the side table, absorbedly spooning coffee powder into three cups and then adding hot water. That’s probably how he looks in his laboratory, Guy thought. Totally absent-minded.

He carried the cups over, then placed an opened bottle of milk and a packet of sugar on the table, and sat down. ‘The ethyl acetate was a success,’ he observed mildly. ‘Stopped them in their tracks immediately.’

‘Think that’s the solution, do you?’ Evan asked him.

‘Not long-term, but it kept us alive. It’s a weapon. I’d say we should buy up as much as we can lay our hands on.’

‘What we really want to know,’ Guy burst out impatiently, ‘is whether we can believe our eyes? Did you two see the same as I did — one bloody great worm the size of a cobra, bigger than that even — suddenly dissolving? Turning into hundreds of little worms not the length of my thumbnail?’

‘We all three of us saw it, Guy.’ Evan was shaking his head as he spoke. ‘And you’re right, we do need an explanation.’

‘I’ll give you two,’ Guy said. ‘Either it actually happened — but that’s impossible. Or else it was simply hallucination. Didn’t you think that when I first told you about them? It’s that defensive gas they give off.’

‘Dr Owen, this is your department,’ Evan said.

‘Hallucinations, I’m told, usually vary with the psychological make-up of the person experiencing them, but the three of us all saw the same thing,’ Derek commented drily, pressing his fingertips together as he spoke, i’d place hallucinations of that kind in the realms of science fiction, I’m afraid.’

‘So according to you, we actually did see what we saw,’ Guy cross-examined him clumsily.

it is possible, yes. I’m trying to recall something I read not long ago about slime moulds.’

‘What are slime moulds?’

‘Myxomycetes,’ he explained, though obscurely. ‘Single-cell creatures, amoebae, come together to form larger organisms, which then have a coherent life of their own in what way?’

‘As slugs, sometimes. Or as fangs. An American professor has done some really first-rate work on them. 'The point is, they can break up again into smaller living creatures. And what’s more, in some formations they can be quite nastily carnivorous.’

‘You’re not trying to persuade me that beetle larvae are single-cell organisms,’ Guy challenged him.

‘Of course not, Guy. Though they certainly start as a single cell. We all do. Look, I think I need to do some telephoning and get my assistant in Oxford to track down a few references. There are various approaches we should investigate.’

in the meantime/ Guy suggested to Evan, i suggest we draw up a new briefing document for all the emergency services on what to expect and how to stay alive. A few practical tips.’

‘Thinking that myself, boyo,’ Evan agreed wearily. His face looked grey and exhausted. ‘That’ll be something else for Macchiavelli to put his name to.’

The situation was worsening by the minute and everyone at Worth Road police station knew it. The only reported success came from Worth Hall, where firemen had at last recovered the dead officers’ bodies, together with those of two civilians. All had been transferred to the overcrowded mortuary.

By now the bloodworm menace was present in most parts of London north of the Thames and there were also unconfirmed reports of casualties in Birmingham and Coventry. From Fleet Street came the news that no national papers would be available for the rest of the week at least, following the discovery of bloodworms in the massive rolls of newsprint which they used on their rotary presses. Their entire stock had been damaged; casualties among their print workers included more than twenty dead.

In the courts, absenteeism among jurors led to the cancellation of trials; no one wished to be trapped in the largely wooden courtrooms. Clerks were becoming afraid even to open cupboards, or to take down a file from a wooden shelf. Throughout the day, a growing number of office staff abandoned their work and went home by whatever means they could, though London Transport reported near-empty trains on those underground lines which were still running. Word about the Link Lane disaster had spread rapidly.

For those at Worth Road perhaps the most shattering news was that Mary Armstrong was dead. No one was quite sure how it could have happened. Only one room in the borough council’s Shoreham Road building had been infested; in fact, earlier that day the whole place had been thoroughly checked. Somehow beetles had found their way in — perhaps flown in through an open window, it was suggested — with the result that Mary, her assistant and the borough engineer had been killed. Bill Jenkins and two others were in hospital.

Evan took the news badly. He reached for a chair and sat down, his face drained of all colour. The detective-constable who had brought the report immediately offered to fetch him some hot tea, or a stronger drink even, but Evan shook his head.

‘Leave me alone for a minute or two,’ he said, his voice flat and neutral. ‘Let me digest it, will you?’

They went out into the corridor, closing the door behind them. The detective-constable offered Derek Owen the use of a desk in the CID office for the time being, and Guy headed for the payphone in the canteen to ring Dorothea again. When he got there he had to wait until someone else had finished before he could try the number. Still no answer; only that bloody recorded message.

Putting the receiver down, he was about to move away when Evan came through the swing doors.

‘They said you’d be down here, Guy. Can I ask you a small favour? I think I’d better go down to Mary’s place right away and pick up my things, like. Before her family turns up, you know? Be grateful if you’d come with me.’ On their way out, Inspector Ryan waylaid them, a sheaf of papers in his hand. It was going to be a bad night, he informed them gloomily; everything pointed that way. All leave cancelled, of course. Temporary beds were being brought in to allow people to sleep when they could, and that went for Guy and Derek too. Action committee members were to be issued with special identity cards and the superintendent had instructed that Evan should be in uniform whenever he visited the site of any bloodworm incident.

‘You too, Captain Archer, if that’s possible,’ the inspector added. ‘It would help our people to know who you are. What’s happening behind the scenes I can’t be sure, but I believe the Ministry of Defence are aware that you’re working with us now.’

It was not until they were in the car and driving out through the gate that Evan risked making a comment. ‘Macchiavelli again, you see!’ he murmured. ‘I’d not be surprised if one day that man doesn’t become prime minister.’

The traffic on the main road told its own story. Cars were bumper to bumper heading north to the motorway as grim — faced families tried to make their escape, taking with them whatever luggage they could cram in. One small saloon with steam rising from its overheated radiator had been man-handled on to the broad pavement to prevent it holding up the others.

Evan had to use his siren to force a way through to the residential streets on the other side; perhaps a uniform might be helpful after all, he admitted reluctantly. Fiddling with the radio, he picked up a message relayed from a police helicopter. Every major trunk road was similarly choked with streams of vehicles all trying to get out of London in what the voice described as ‘the great exodus’.

‘That’s more than simple panic, boyo,’ he remarked sombrely. ‘It’s a deep-seated instinct, that is. They’re not fighting back, but giving up. Ceding territory.’

‘To beetles,’ Guy added.

it’s what it amounts to.’

Mary’s flat was on the third floor of a modem low-rise block with parking space at the side. Evan fell silent as they walked across to the front door, which he opened with his own key. Immediately inside was a bank of mailboxes. A folded brown envelope protruded from the one bearing her name; he tugged it out, then led the way upstairs.

It was a woman’s flat, Guy noted with interest: pretty curtains, scatter cushions, flowering plants, and three pairs of tights hung to dry from a string over the bath. Not much evidence of Evan living there with her. He caught a glimpse of her dressing table through the open bedroom door: the usual paraphernalia of creams and what-have-you was there, all her stuff.

‘Sit down and watch television or something,’ Evan suggested awkwardly. ‘I shan’t keep you a minute.’

Guy went back into the living room and glanced idly at the block of lined paper on the small table she’d used as a desk. On it she had jotted down some disconnected notes on the Worth Hall bloodworms. Estimated size, segmented skin which seemed sufficiently transparent to appear pink after drinking blood, dark eyes, then— Dislike very bright light. Fear? Alarm? Do they feel threatened by it?

He read this note two or three times, wondering if there was anything in it.

‘Sorry to keep you waiting, Guy.’ Evan came back into the living room with an open canvas grip, which he put on the table while he checked through the few books on the sideboard. In it Guy saw brown slippers and striped pyjamas; quite domestic. ‘Mary’s family would be upset to find I’d been here with her, you know. Methodist minister, her father is. Old-fashioned.’ i hadn’t realised,’ said Guy.

‘It’s rum the way things go. My wife died ten years ago in a car accident and I’ve been on my own since then, till I met Mary, like.’ He dropped a paperback travel book into the grip and zipped it shut. ‘Not long ago, either. At the old school it was, day after you were attacked there. Now I’ve lost her too. I haven’t quite grasped it yet.’

Out on the landing, he paused to double-lock the door. ‘Guy, I only hope she didn’t suffer too much pain,’ he went on. ‘Or fear. She used to worry about that.’

Wondering about Kath and Dorothea, Guy asked if they might call at his house on their way back to the station. Evan agreed right away and they drove through the maze of back streets, which he seemed to know like the back of his hand. Already it was noticeable how many fewer cars were parked along these roads; as the lamps came on in the semi-darkness they even looked attractive. He found the house dark and deserted. No message from Dorothea; no indication that Kath had even been home. The step-ladder had gone from the front room but the floorboards were untouched and the spraying equipment lay near them. Upstairs, the bed was unmade; from the way her clothes lay scattered about the room it looked as though she’d left in a hurry. Yet her wardrobe was as tightly packed as ever, he noticed, her favourite suitcase was still there, so where had she gone?

Evan waited patiently while Guy found the phone number of Dorothea’s sister in Dorset and tried to call her. He let it go on ringing for a bit, but then gave up.

‘I’ll get a few things, then I’m ready,’ he said. ‘Can you hang on that long?’

Going upstairs again to the spare room, he dug out his battledress uniform and changed into it. What the Army would say about him parading around dressed like this he didn’t care to think about; at least he felt more comfortable in it. When he went down to the hall again, Evan raised an eyebrow and smiled ironically, but said nothing.

That night was all that Inspector Ryan had predicted. It began with the second meeting of the now slimmed-down action committee, this time with the superintendent in the chair. He treated them to a pep talk stressing the need for as full a picture as possible of bloodworm behaviour patterns ‘if we’re ever to defeat these things’.

As if Mary hadn’t said exactly the same thing weeks ago, Guy thought wearily, though few had listened to her then.

The reports of bloodworm incidents, several of them major disasters, came in with sickening regularity. Guy and Evan, usually accompanied by Derek, went to investigate a number of them on the spot, questioning witnesses and sometimes going into the buildings themselves. Slowly through the night a pattern did begin to emerge.

It was first noticed at London’s historic Guildhall, which had been booked by a City organisation for an important dinner at which the Lord Mayor was to speak. Having paid a hundred pounds a head for their tickets, most of the guests made it a point of honour to turn up, crisis or no crisis. A glittering occasion, it should have been. Everyone in evening dress, a fortune in diamonds around the ladies’ necks…

After the wining and dining, the Lord Mayor was announced. She rose to her feet and in that moment all present were startled by a loud fluttering, whispering sound above their heads. The beetles had emerged for their first flight.

No one recognised them as beetles; that point was important. Those with better eyesight than the rest reported seeing what appeared to be little round balls of hyperactive fluff. This was of course an optical illusion created by the rapid movement of their wings, and it led some people to imagine they must be moths.

On that occasion — it was the only one — very few beetles were tempted by the feast of rich humanity at the tables below them. As it happened, there had been complaints about the stuffy atmosphere in the Guildhall that evening and the top windows had been opened, which allowed the beetles to stream out into the fresh air.

However, the next stage in the pattern followed almost within seconds when, with a deafening series of cracks and groans, the entire building^hook and then collapsed on top of the assembled guests. Many were killed outright; most survivors found themselves buried beneath the rubble.

Then silence. Most mentioned that terrible silence and found it more frightening even than the ear-splitting sounds which preceded it, though no one was sure whether it last for seconds only or longer.

Gradually people’s voices were heard. Whimpering. Moaning. Calling for help.

Beetles crawled out of the dust to explore the ladies’ bare shoulders and deep necklines, and the men’s faces, their hands and wrists, their calves exposed through the tatters of their clothing.

The screaming turned to shrieks of terror as something else appeared from among the filth and rubble, something long and sinuous, a pale worm-like creature, which moved in that odd way, bunching itself up and then pushing purposefully forward as it searched for food. Human, food.

This was the third stage; the emergence of the giant bloodworms.

Yet perhaps there was a fourth stage too. It involved a coach-load of German tourists grimly determined to complete their sight-seeing schedule, come what may. St Paul’s Cathedra! was the last stop on their list, after which they expected to drive straight to Dover for the midnight boat. It was late, of course, but even the floodlit St Paul’s was impressive, their travel-leader told them.

The swarm of beetles which had escaped from the Guildhall via the upper windows was observed flying towards the cathedral by one witness. Briefly they were caught in the floodlighting; then circling lower, seeking the shadows, they alighted on the unfortunate tourists. Few lived long enough to describe the experience.

It wasn’t until the following morning that Guy heard about this incident in any detail. Too much else had been happening. The roof and part of the first floor of the National Gallery had fallen in, though only the night staff had been in the building at the time, so casualties were few. Both damage and casualties at the Palace of Westminster were considerably worse, particularly as the

House of Commons had been crowded at the time for the debate on the Emergency Powers Bill relating to the bloodworm crisis. A high number of MPs present lost their lives and others were reported missing. Two hospitals were also attacked, with more than three hundred dead and injured in both instances, some of them having only been admitted earlier that day to be treated for wounds received in other bloodworm incidents.

While many of the police had taken up Derek’s idea of carrying ethyl acetate sprays for their own protection, these were only effective at close quarters. For general rescue operations the fire brigade still favoured hi-expansion foam as the most rapid way of putting the maximum number of beetles and bloodworms out of action, but by midnight, with every machine out on the road, supplies began to ran low.

So many buildings were affected that the emergency services could no longer deal with every call, but had to pick and choose among them, concentrating on those where they felt they had a reasonable chance of saving lives. Fractured gas mains made the situation worse, and by morning more than twenty fires were still burning in various parts of London.

Guy and Evan drove towards Worth Road in the pale, sickly light of that dawn feeling that they had failed. Derek, too, sitting in the back seat, was staring morosely at the notes he had made of eye-witness accounts; for the past twenty minutes he had not spoken a word. Hundreds of people had died during that night and major London landmarks had been destroyed by these insects, yet a solution was as far away as ever.

‘Go past my road, would you, Evan?’ Guy requested. He was dead tired, drained out, his mouth dry; he felt perhaps he would never sleep again, he was so unnaturally wide-awake, as though drugged, i’d like to check if Dorothea and Kath are all right. Unless they’ve had the sense to get out of town.’

But the road was blocked. The fronts of several houses, including his own, had been blown out, leaving the sagging floors exposed. Their own bed — that ‘film star bed’ as they’d called it when Dorothea had picked it out in the shop — hung over the edge, still unmade, he noticed.

He left the car and went over to question a woman sitting patiently on some suitcases at the roadside. She wore a warm coat and had a scarf over her hair; from her appearance she might have been a refugee anywhere.

‘A gas explosion, they said,’ she explained indifferently, as if none of it really concerned her any longer. ‘Though before that we heard a terrible noise from one of those houses opposite. You lived there, didn’t you? Recognise you.’

‘Did you see my wife? Or Kath — our little girl? About eleven, long hair.’

‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘Saw nobody. My feller’s gone to fetch the car, then we’re leaving. ’What’s the point? London’s finished, innit?’

Guy climbed over the rabble to examine the houses more closely. As far as he could judge, it seemed to have been his neighbour’s place which the bloodworms had attacked, though there was no sign of them now.

‘Dorothea!’ he shouted as loud as he could. The sour dust lingered on the air and got into his throat. ‘Kath! Anybody in there?’

No answer came, of course; he hadn’t really expected one. The steps up to the front door were broken, but several big chunks of brickwork lay there. He managed to clamber over them into what was left of the hall. It was impossible to go any farther and he was turning to go when his foot kicked against the telephone-answering machine. Stooping down, he saw that it was still switched to take messages; he removed the cassette and slipped it in his pocket.

‘Anything?’ Evan asked when he returned to the car.

‘No sign of either of them. God knows where they’ve ended up.’

‘What about the house?’

‘A write-off. No infestation that I could see, but they were there all right. I could sense it. Somewhere among all that rubble.’

During the short drive to the police station Evan began to rhapsodise about bacon and eggs in the canteen. ‘With fried bread, tomato, sausage, all the trimmings. Best meal they do!’

Guy shrugged. A cup of tea maybe, he thought; he couldn’t face food. Though he didn’t say it, he was puzzled at his own feelings about Kath and Dorothea; he was just as fatalistic as that woman at the roadside. Whatever had happened, it was nothing he could control; perhaps that was the reason.

‘Are we being misled about the larval stage, that’s the big question,’ came Derek’s voice unexpectedly from the back seat. ‘They bore through the timber so rapidly, I don’t know what to think.’

‘Weeks rather than months,’ Guy agreed, meaning to encourage him. He recalled what Tony had said.

‘Days rather than weeks would be nearer the mark, judging from how quickly they’re spreading. They’re obviously reproducing at quite an incredible rate.’ Derek fell silent again, deep in thought. Since that earlier meeting his attitude had changed.

They arrived at the station and went to check in. It was one of the rules the superintendent had instituted, and just as well under the circumstances. Several officers had gone missing during the night; at least two were known to have died.

‘Captain Archer.’ The desk sergeant stopped him as he was about to go for a wash. ‘Your wife’s been in looking for you. Left you a note.’

‘She’s gone, then?’ The disappointment hurt like a knife.

‘Wouldn’t wait.’

‘Is she all right? How did she look?’

‘How do any of us look? Like she doesn’t know what’s hit her. Isn’t that how we all feel?’

Guy nodded. He tore open the note, which had been scribbled on police paper, folded and then stapled together. Guy — your daughter Kath has run away, she’d written. Really, this time. It is my fault. I was in bed with Pete when she opened the door and saw us. Made me feel a slut which Fm not, you know that. You won’t like this but there it is. I've searched everywhere and can’t find her. I do blame myself, Guy.

Blunt, uninhibited Dorothea, he thought, hating her. He pushed the note into his pocket.

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.

16

The web stretched across the narrow gap between the fence and the tumbledown old tool-shed. Backing out with the garden fork in his hand, Guy caught sight of it and stopped dead. In the autumn sunshine its delicate silk threads glistened richly; perhaps stimulated by the sudden warmth, the fly trapped in its mesh began to struggle again.

‘Oh, the poor fly!’ Kath exclaimed, joining him.

‘The web must have been in shadow and the fly didn’t see it in time.’

‘But can’t we help it somehow? Set it free?’ i doubt if it could fly again if we did. Probably damaged its wings.’

‘The poor thing!’

‘Oh, and what about the poor spider who is looking forward to his dinner?’ Guy retorted, ‘What about that, young missie?’

‘Huh!’ she said. ‘Anyway, I’m going, Daddy. See you!’

She ran lightly down the path skirting the vegetable beds and seconds later he could see her head in its black peaked hat as she rode off on the pony he had bought for her.

Six months had passed since he was allowed out of hospital and Evan suggested they should pool their resources to buy this smallholding in the depths of Waies. Free-range hens and vegetables, that was his idea; somewhere as far away from the city as they could get. It was perhaps the best decision he had ever made, Guy felt. No profit yet, that was too much to expect in such a short time — though the place was a going concern when they took it over — but they were breaking even on running costs, as well as being self-sufficient for most of their own food.

Kath came to see him more often now too, which was a clear sign that she was beginning to recover from all she must have been through. She had witnessed more death and dying during those terrible days in London than most people encounter in a lifetime. For the first few weeks she had hardly spoken a word, except to Susi. In fact, Lise had been the only person able to get through to either of them.

His big stroke of luck had been Lise. When Kath refused to stay with him in the old house he’d acquired with the smallholding, he’d suggested that Lise might take charge of both girls and she had agreed enthusiastically. He fixed it up with Susi’s father, then bought a small farmhouse on the far side of the village where the three of them could live. The house itself was nothing very much — little more than a cottage really with some outhouses — but there was also a bam which Lise made into a studio where she could paint, plus a couple of acres of land.

Of course the day would come when Kath would want to go off to study dancing — that was still her dream, and Susi’s too — but under present conditions it just wasn’t possible. With London still a wasteland and the bloodworm threat spreading as far as Bristol and Birmingham, most other parts of Britain were overcrowded with refugees. In all major towns he’d heard that house-sharing was now compulsory, schools operated two sessions per day, and only the most serious cases had any chance of hospital treatment.

At least here in the country they were spared most of those inconveniences, Guy thought contentedly. He paused in his work and straightened up to enjoy the feel of the sun on his face. Dorothea would have liked it here.

He could hear Evan’s old Peugeot approaching up the lane even before it came into sight. Sticking his fork into the soft earth, he went over to the yard to help him unload.

‘Got a newspaper!’ Evan called out triumphantly as he drew up. He fished among the things on the seat until he found it. ‘A Manchester one this time. Bought it off a lorry driver. It’s only four pages, but it’s got a crossword.’ ‘Did you go to the post office?’

‘Couple o’ letters and a card — not much, is it? The card’s from Tony. Remember Tony the carpenter? He’s taken his family to Australia to settle. Well, I don’t blame him, do you?’

Guy grunted. From the envelope he could guess already what one of the letters contained. He tore it open. It was closely typed, covering a couple of pages. ‘Anything interesting?’ Evan enquired.

‘Mrs May Lee, my old boss. They’ve opened up again, in York this time. If I want it I can have my job back.’

‘I suppose the money’s good.’

‘Oh yes. No problem there.’

‘With prices shooting up we’d make quite a profit if we sold out now. Even after this short time.’

‘What would you do?’

‘I’d stay here, boyo,’ Evan said firmly. ‘You’ll not catch me moving again.’

‘That makes two of us then,’ Guy told him cheerfully, stuffing the letter into his pocket. The other was a bill. ‘Now, what else did you get? Cement?’

‘One bag, it’s all they’d let me have. No green paint, no writing paper, no salt. Don’t ask me why.’

‘What’s Mrs Roberts going to say about no salt?’

‘I’m thinking you’re the one who should be telling her. It’s your turn to give her the bad news. I did it last time.’ Evan grinned at him broadly. It was a game they’d played ever since they moved in and discovered that Mrs Roberts from the village expected to be kept on as their ‘daily’; she’d worked for the previous owner, isn’t it, and came with the house, if the gentlemen took her meaning.

‘See this?’ Guy had picked up the Manchester newspaper. ‘It’s about our action committee. No names, except your superintendent’s. They’re giving him a knighthood.’

‘Surprise me,’ Evan said. He hoisted the sack of cement on to his shoulder and carried it over to the large lean-to shed by the house. ‘No mention of Mary?’ he called back. ‘No.’

‘Bloody hell, they should have mentioned Mary. Now that really does make me angry.’

Guy read down to the end of the article. ‘Derek’s in. No, that’s about a TV broadcast he’s doing, Wednesday today, is it?’

‘Tomorrow.’

‘Then we’ll watch it tomorrow.’

They watched it together over in the farmhouse with Lise and the two girls. Guy had hesitated at first, worried about Kath and whether seeing the bloodworms on the screen again mightn’t set her back, but it was Kath herself who insisted, quite calmly. She even came across to his chair and put her arm around his shoulders, something she hadn’t done since before it all happened.

‘I know I’ve tried not to see them, but I’ve got to face it sometime,’ she said sensibly. ‘So it’s going to be tonight when your friend explains it all. Don’t you think that’s the best way?’

He had to agree, though he wondered at how much she had grown up. The bloodworms had changed them all, hadn’t they? None of them would ever be quite the same again.

The programme began, in that odd quirky way of television, not at the beginning of the story but with shots of sleek Royal Air Force jets taking off on a bombing mission against London. Target London’, as the commentator called it: though the cameras revealed how little of the capital had remained unscathed even at that stage. Centre Point, the new Stock Exchange and a few other tall buildings were still identifiable, but most of the familiar landmarks were already in rains even before the raids started.

Wave after wave of aircraft were filmed swooping down to drop their napalm with pin-point accuracy — first on Whitehall and the ministries, then the great shops of Oxford Street, the clusters of West End theatres and cinemas, the university, the publishers of Bedford Square, the clubs and palaces of St James’s, the financial institutions of the City.

A brief pause in the bombing followed to give the fire and wind a chance to do their work. Viewers were treated to an extract from the prime minister’s broadcast explaining why it was all necessary, there were pictures of the pilots at lunch, and then came more bombing. Street after street of houses this time, in their desperate attempt to contain the menace.

‘People’s homes,’ murmured Lise. Impulsively she took hold of Guy’s hand. ‘Oh, Guy, we lived through all that.’ At last the more scientific section of the programme was reached, including some superb footage of beetles and bloodworms filmed by the BBC’s Natural History Unit. On the screen, the beetles’ exquisite colouring looked so attractive, people might easily have been tempted to keep them at home as pets.

‘Urgh!’ Susi exclaimed, clutching at Kath as the bloodworms came on the screen. She buried her head against Kath’s shoulder. ‘Oh, I don’t want to watch!’

Kath herself didn’t move, other than to place a reassuring hand on Susi’s arm.

‘The first thing to realise about these very big bloodworms is they don’t really exist,’ Dr Derek Owen’s mild voice began to explain, with a touch of boyish excitement.

Lise snorted.

Then his face appeared in close-up and he went on: ‘Let me tell you what I mean by that. We all know a lot of different people. Now imagine they all come together in a factory, each doing his or her own job. They become something much more cohesive. A unit of production. A workforce. At the end of the shift, off they go to their homes, separate people again. Well, bloodworms come together in much the same way, except that they fasten on to each other physically. They form what we call in nature a colony, functioning as one complete creature. But eventually they separate again, as you can see in this piece of film.’

How they managed to get some of these shots was a miracle, Guy thought as he watched. The film crews must have risked their own lives many times over. Evan and the others all shared his feelings, he could see it from the expressions on their faces, but it was Lise who put it into words.

‘Thank God we’re only seeing it on the telly!’ she cried out with a shudder. ‘Oh, it was awful!’

Derek reappeared, this time in the setting of his own laboratory which for safety reasons had been transferred from Oxfordshire to an unnamed location in Scotland. He gave a brief account of how they had set about building up a picture of the bloodworms’ life cycle, and even mentioned the preliminary work started by Mary Armstrong.

‘Bless the man,’ said Lise.

‘But how can we fight back? By destroying London we saved the rest of the country, but only in the short run — and what a price to pay! Is there no other way?’ His dry, academic manner gave no hint of what he was about to announce. ‘Well, within a couple of days I and my team intend to make the first field trials of a method we’ve been working on for some time now. Quite simply it’s this. We’ll be spraying a test area with a fluid containing not a poison this time, but a virus. In fact, a special type known as a baculovirus which doesn’t affect humans at all, nor any other vertebrate. But it will infect bloodworms, we’ve already demonstrated that much in the laboratory, and it’ll kill them. What’s more, after they’re dead the viruses still live on to attack more and more bloodworms. These are only tests, I want to stress that—’

‘They’ve found the answer!’ Lise jumped up from her chair, overjoyed. ‘Oh, I’m so happy I could kiss him — even there on the screen!’

The general excitement at this news drowned out the remaining minute of the programme. For months they had been resigned to the thought that sooner or later the bloodworms would begin to advance once more towards other towns; now at last they’d been offered a ray of hope. Lise announced that she had a bottle of champagne in the cellar and was going to fetch it.

The moment she was out of the room Kath came over to Guy and hugged him tightly. ‘Daddy, I’m so fond of

Lise, aren’t you?’ she whispered.

Before he could answer, Susi had joined her and he found himself holding both girls in his arms.

A few minutes later Evan commented that Lise had been down in that cellar quite a long time; maybe someone should go and check. A sudden silence: everyone understood exactly what he was thinking.

i’ll go,’ said Guy.

They had all been so elated, they had practically forgotten that the bloodworm menace could still reach them. It needed only a steady wind from the right direction to carry a few beetles into Wales on one of their mating flights, and then…

A sudden fear seized him that Lise too might die in the same way as Dorothea, Mary, Byron, Sharon and thousands of others. Going down the dark steps into the cellar, he discovered no more than one single light bulb burning; it cast deep shadows between all the crates and boxes she stored down there. Among them something was moving.

‘Hello! Come to look for me?’ Lise reappeared through the gloom, a champagne bottle in her hand and cobwebs in her hair, i’d put this behind the cases out of temptation’s way, so of course I had to shift them to get at it.’

‘We were worried about you.’ He tried to say it lightly but failed.

i had thoughts too while I was doing it,’ she confessed sombrely. ‘Visions of being stuck with no way out. Guy, we’re never going to feel safe again, are we? Even if Dr Owen’s tests work and life does get back to normal, we’re still going to stand back when we open a cupboard, or tap out our shoes before putting them on. Just in case.’

‘Just in case,’ he agreed. ‘As you say, we can never really be certain.’

Content

John Halkin
BLOODWORM

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

9

10

11

12

13

15

16