by Shaun Hutson
‘The trowel,’ gasped Harold, his face purple, eyes bulging like a thyroid sufferer.
Her groping hands found the implement and she stood before him, mesmerised.
‘My hand,’ he mumbled. ‘Cut it off.
She shook her head, her own voice now beginning to rise.
‘No,’ she said.
‘Do it,’ he shrieked and his tortured voice spurred her into action. Raising the trowel above her head, she took a last look at the torn and crushed wrist then brought the blade down with terrifying force.
Both of them screamed as the heavy implement scythed through the already shattered wrist. There was a strident snapping of bone and the hand was severed, propelled some distance from the shattered stump by the jets of blood which erupted from the arteries. Harold slumped to the ground, the remnants of his lower arm spouting red geysers into the air. Jean dropped the trowel, blood from the hewn limb splashing her feet and legs.
Harold had passed out.
Jean bolted from the greenhouse, racing back to the house and the phone. Her screams had alerted several neighbours and lights flickered on in the kitchens of the houses next door.
In the greenhouse, the three slugs finished feasting on Harold Morris’s severed hand then, leaving only their thick mucoid trails as evidence of their presence, they slithered away.
Eleven
‘You know, we should have lived in a bloody flat. Then we wouldn’t have had all this trouble,’ said Brady, driving his spade into the hard ground.
He turned a few more clods then leant on the spade, the perspiration running freely down his body. He’d removed his shirt even before he started digging and now he felt the unrelenting heat of the sun on his back.
‘There’s two reasons why you’re so worn out,’ Kim told him. She was kneeling beside him, pulling weeds from the lawn which was long overdue for a cut. ‘You’re either out of condition, or…’ She looked at him, a mischievous smile on her lips.
‘Or what?’ he demanded.
‘Or you’re feeling your age.’ She laughed.
Brady picked up a handful of earth and threw it at her. He returned to his digging, determined to prove to her, and to himself, that he wasn’t unfit. But, Christ, his body was crying out for a rest. He ached all over and he’d only been out there for an hour. Perhaps Kim was right, perhaps he was out of condition. He slowed his pace a little and looked down at her. She was wearing a pair of dirty old jeans and just her bikini top and he looked admiringly at her deep tan. His own torso was milk white, only coloured in places by the hot sun which had reddened it. Brady didn’t tan, he fried. He too wore a pair of old jeans, which hung low at the backside. Together with his big wellingtons, Kim said he looked like a farmer.
Doing the garden was something which Brady had always hated and, in blistering heat such as this, he disliked the task even more. The earth was baked hard, as ungiving as concrete and he had to drive the spade down with all his strength to even break it. But, he struggled on, turning the clods, stopping every now and then to mop his brow with a sodden handkerchief. In the end he gave it up, knotted the white linen square at each corner and pulled it onto his head. Kim looked up and immediately dissolved into fits of laughter.
‘You look like Fred Gumby,’ she said, referring to the resident idiot of past Monty Python shows. She got to her feet and padded back up the lawn towards the house. ‘Fancy a drink?’ she called.
He panted exaggeratedly and allowed his tongue to hang over his bottom lip.
‘I’ll take that as a yes,’ said Kim, smiling.
Brady returned to his digging. Inside his thick gardening gloves, his hands felt as if they were on fire but the old spade had a shaft which had grown ragged over the years and he didn’t fancy getting splinters, so he struggled on. As he threw himself into his job more, it began to seem less of a battle. Even so, Brady didn’t think he could ever acquire a liking for gardening. He and Kim had lain in bed until ten that morning, as was their custom on a Saturday. They had woken at nine and made leisurely love, each seeming more responsive than usual. Brady smiled to himself at the recollection. They would probably just sit out and enjoy the sun when he finished digging. He wondered if he might try his hand at growing some vegetables and he surveyed his expanse of earth like some " feudal baron looking out over his grounds.
It was as he looked down that he saw the first of the slugs slithering onto his spade.
Brady knocked it off, pushing the creature aside with the shovel but it was then that he noticed just how big the bloody thing was. He watched as it slithered away leaving its slime trail behind.
‘Good God,’ muttered Brady, watching the silvery trail glistening in the sunlight. His mind began to race. Ron Bell’s house. The house in Elm Drive. The sewer pipe and now here, in his own garden. He knelt, watching the vile creature closely.
Then he saw another one, as black as night and, Brady guessed, a good six inches long. He swallowed hard, feeling the urge to squash the revolting creatures beneath his spade but he could do nothing but watch in fascinated distaste as the two slugs crawled over the rough ground.
He looked back at the ground he’d already dug. There were more of them. In the six or seven yards of ground which he’d overturned, the Health Inspector counted at least a dozen of the black beasts.
‘Percy Thrower, your drink’s here,’ called Kim, seating herself in a deckchair and sipping her own glass of Bacardi and coke.
Brad ignored her, his eyes still riveted to the slugs.
‘Mike,’ she called again, noticing that something had caught his attention.
‘Come and look at this,’ he said, without taking his eyes off the slugs nearest to him. The first one had once more slithered on to his spade and, this time, Brady watched it as it crawled up the smooth metal.
Kim joined him, the glass still in her hand. She caught sight of the slug and shuddered.
‘Oh God, what the hell are they?’ she said, moving behind her husband as if for protection.
‘They’re slugs,’ said Brady, still watching the crawling monstrosity.
Kim laughed nervously. ‘But slugs are small.’ She felt the disgust rising within her. ‘These are too big.’
The Health Inspector was adamant. ‘They’re slugs.’
The one on the spade had almost reached the shaft now and Kim watched it with revulsion, her eyes darting over the ground in front of her which seemed to be alive with the black creatures.
‘Kill it, Mike,’ she urged, watching the beast slithering up the wood but Brady merely reached out and plucked the thing up, holding it between the thumb and forefinger of his thick gloves. It writhed slowly between the digits and reminded the Health Inspector of a fat snake. Its eye stalks swayed as if in slow motion and its mouth moved soundlessly giving the man a glimpse of its many-toothed maw.
‘For God’s sake, Mike,’ Kim persisted. ‘Kill the bloody thing.’
Suddenly the slug seemed to twist in Brady’s grip, its slime making it difficult to hold, and, before the Health Inspector could react it had driven its vicious sickle shaped tooth into the tough material of his glove.
‘Jesus Christ,’ he yelped, the sudden attack startling him. Kim put a hand to her mouth to stifle a scream as she watched her husband pull the glove free and throw it to the floor. The slug remained anchored by the tooth, not losing its grip even when Brady hurled it to the ground. Almost with relish he stamped on the hideous black thing, its body making a loud squish as it was crushed. The noise made Kim want to cover her ears, reminding her, as it did, of diarhoettic excretion. Brady ground the thing into shapeless pulp beneath his boot, using the end of the spade to scrape it off his glove. He pulled the glove back on, examining the hole which the tooth had made.
‘The bastard tried to bite me,’ he said, incredulously. Another eighth of an inch and it would have tasted flesh and that was enough to make Brady shudder.
‘What kind of slug bites a man?’ asked Kim, looking at the squash
ed remains.
‘That’s what I intend to find out,’ said Brady, straightening up. He looked at Kim, seeing the uncertainty in her eyes and his tone softened. ‘Go and get me a jar, love,’ he told her. ‘Anything with a screw top lid.’
She nodded and hurried back up the garden. Inside the house she picked up the money jar. They collected all their copper in it, counting it out when the huge jar was full. But, fortunately, it had only recently been emptied and there was less than thirty pence in there. Kim hurriedly emptied it, allowing it to spill out onto the kitchen table, ignoring the coins which fell to the floor. Then, she ran back to where her husband stood watching the other slugs. She put the jar down on the grass and Brady unscrewed the top. He studied the seething black shapes for long seconds then, quick as lightning, he picked one up and dropped it into the jar. He repeated the procedure with one of the larger ones, careful that the vile thing didn’t take a chunk out of his finger. Kim shuddered as she saw the things slithering about on the glass, their bodies gliding on the trail of mucus they secreted. Brady snatched up a third slug and dropped it in with the others then he screwed the lid of the jar on as tightly as he could. For long seconds he watched the obnoxious animals slithering around in their efforts to escape then he crossed to the deckchair where his shirt lay discarded. As he buttoned it up, Kim looked into the jar.
‘What are you going to do?’ she asked.
‘Find out what’s happening around here,’ he said. ‘Come on.’
A little bewildered, Kim slipped her shoes on and followed him out to the car.
Brady fumbled in his pocket for the keys, hastily unlocking the driver and passenger doors. They both slid in, Kim yelping in pain when her exposed back came into contact with the blistering hot plastic of the seat. Brady handed her the jar of slugs which she held rather uncertainly, then he stuck the key in the ignition and started the engine. Neither of them spoke and, even as he drove, the Health Inspector couldn’t resist the odd anxious look at the three slugs. Almost as if he feared they would escape their glass prison.
He put his foot down, wondering whether the perspiration on his face was entirely the product of the scorching day.
Twelve
The car park of Merton Museum was empty but for a battered old Volkswagen which lay baking in the sun.
Brady brought the Vauxhall to a halt beside it and both he and Kim got out. She handed him the jar with its monstrous black contents and wiped her hands on her jeans. Together, they approached the small flight of steps which led up to the main entrance of the museum. It was a grey stone building, three storeys high, which had been erected about ten years ago and, from the outside it looked like a block of flats but with fewer windows. The windows that were visible reflected the sun back at the two visitors as they advanced, making it difficult to see inside. A feat made all the more impossible because the venetian blinds were down. There was a small notice board outside telling of forthcoming lectures to be given there, or of special attractions to be found in the building itself but Brady was not interested in those.
Followed by Kim, he strode up the stairs, clutching the jar to him as if it were some priceless artefact he’d just dug up. The doors to the museum were open so the two of them walked straight in.
The ground floor was a natural history gallery and they found themselves faced by hundreds of stuffed birds and small animals. A thousand dead eyes followed their progress. Kim glanced into the glass cabinets. She had been here twice before with classes from the nursery and the place always gave her an odd feeling. It was almost like being in a glass fronted zoo, where all the inhabitants were in a state of permanent suspended animation. The baleful eyes of a Tawny Owl fixed her in a glassy stare and she walked on as if mesmerised by the dead orbs. The silence in the building was almost oppressive but at least it was cooler in here and both of them were glad of the respite from the blistering heat outside. Despite the apparent absence of visitors (something which seemed to be a feature of the place), the museum was freshly dusted and spotlessly clean, the wooden floor in particular so heavily polished Kim could see a distorted reflection of herself in it.
They moved through the ground floor gallery, eventually arriving at a staircase. A sign at the bottom proclaimed:
ART GALLERY
LIVE EXHIBITS
ENQUIRIES
A large white arrow showed the way and the two of them followed its course eventually emerging on a landing. To the right lay a desk on which were piled various postcards and brochures depicting exhibits in the museum. There were also pencils bearing the legend Merton Museum. A black sign told them it was an enquiry desk and another pointing arrow indicated a bell and invited them to ring for attention. Brady promptly pressed the button, looking around impatiently when no one appeared. He pressed it again, keeping his finger on it this time, the high pitched ringing echoing through the silence.
A door behind the desk opened and a young man in his early twenties emerged. He held the remains of a sandwich in his hand and was chewing the rest with difficulty, as if he’d taken too large a bite. He raised a hand in greeting, still unable to speak because of the welter of bread and salad in his mouth. Kim smiled, Brady ran an appraising eye over the youth. He wore a pair of faded jeans, crisply pressed all the same, and a T-shirt with ‘Iron Maiden’ emblazoned across the front. He finally managed to dispose of his mouthful of sandwich and smiled happily at the waiting couple.
‘Good afternoon,’ he said. ‘Can I help you?’
‘I want to speak to whoever’s in charge, please,’ Brady told him.
‘Fire away,’ said the youth, smiling.
The Health Inspector looked surprised and the young man saw the hint of disbelief on his face. He smiled.
‘I know I don’t look like a museum curator,’ he said. ‘That is what you were going to say, isn’t it?’
Brady too smiled. ‘As a matter of fact it was.’
‘John Foley,’ he announced, offering his right hand which Brady shook, introducing himself in his official capacity and Kim who smiled at the young man.
‘And you’re in charge?’ Brady asked, as if anxious for reaffirmation of Foley’s words.
‘Monarch of all I survey,’ he said, smiling. ‘What can I do for you?’
Brady indicated the jar. ‘Ever seen anything like that?’
Foley bent lower, peering through the glass. He frowned and shook his head as he watched the slugs sliding around in their own slime. ‘Where the hell did you find these?’ he asked.
Brady told him. ‘One of them tried to bite me,’ he added, producing the holed garden glove as evidence.
‘Christ,’ said Foley, picking a piece of ham from his tooth. He opened a flap in the desk and walked through, leading the couple up a short flight of stairs to a room marked: ‘Staff Only’.
‘Come in here,’ he said, holding the door open for his two visitors.
The place was like a small laboratory and Kim wrinkled her nose as the unmistakable odour of formaldehyde assaulted her nostrils. The room was small and very hot until Foley flicked on the twin rotar fans above them. Soon, a cooling breeze began to waft around the room. It contained a table with a stainless steel top, a couple of sinks and, on. the work bench which took up three sides of the laboratory, there stood some empty fish tanks.
Brady set the jar down and looked around. Foley pulled up a stool and peered once more at the large slugs in the glass container.
‘Do you run this place on your own?’ the Health Inspector wanted to know.
Foley shook his head, taking a pair of plastic gloves and a set of stout tweezers from a drawer beside him. ‘No. During the week I have an assistant and a woman comes in to clean up but apart from that, I do the lot. Including the exhibits.’ He motioned to a newly finished badger which stood on the work top on the other side of the room. ‘And no jokes about mounting and stuffing please,’ he said, smiling.
Brady grinned but it faded as he saw Foley slowly unscrew the top o
f the jar. The young man was watching the slugs intently, still not able to believe their size. One was near the top of the jar and it was this one that he aimed his tweezers at, a little disturbed when he saw that they would not reach across its girth. He discarded them in favour of a longer and larger pair, then, cautiously, he removed the lid and inched the tweezers towards the black monstrosity.
‘Be careful,’ said Brady, feeling Kim take hold of his arm. They both watched as Foley made sure he had a good grip on the implement, then, with a swift movement, he gripped the slug in the tweezers. It wriggled, contracting its body, immediately exuding more slime which dripped onto the work top. Foley held it firmly in the tweezers and pulled a plastic tray towards him. He carefully deposited the slug onto it and then, noticing that the other two were slithering up to the lip of the jar, he promptly knocked them back in and screwed the lid on once more. He picked up a second pair of tweezers and pulled the slug out to its full length. For the first time, Brady saw that the tray in which he’d put it had a scale on it, like a ruler.
Foley exhaled deeply. ‘Five and a half inches,’ he said. ‘Where did you say you found this?’
Brady repeated his story.
‘Is it a slug?’ Kim asked.
‘Oh yes,’ Foley told her. ‘It’s a slug all right but I’ll be damned if I’ve ever seen one this size before.’
‘What kind is it?’ Brady asked. ‘I mean what species?’ Foley shrugged. ‘I haven’t a clue.’
‘I thought you were supposed to be the expert,’ the Health Inspector said.
The young naturalist looked at him. ‘Mr Brady, you probably know as much about slugs as I do. In fact no one seems to know very much specific about them and I certainly don’t know anything about this kind.’ He nodded in the direction of the captive slug which was writhing and contracting its body beneath the grip of the tweezers. The mucoid coating seemed to be filling the tray around it.
