Simon Ian Childer

by Tendrils (epub)

‘I’ll go get Mrs Carter,’ Billy told his mother, then ran to the kitchen door. He went outside and hurried across the small field that separated their house from the Carters’, their nearest neighbours. He was pleased to see Mrs Carter in her back garden hanging out washing. He would ask her to come and glue his mother’s head back logether again.

  As he ran across the field he called out to Mrs Carter, but she didn’t turn round.

  And as he got closer to her he saw she was standing very still. Just like his mother had been . . .

  He hoped Mrs Carter wasn’t playing a funny game too.

  5

  The persistent ringing dragged Anne Thomas up out of her deep sleep. Dazedly she checked the clock on the bedside table. It was nearly noon. She realized she'd been sleeping for over fourteen hours. So why did she feel so dreadful?

  Her tranquillizer-fogged brain succeeded in identifying the source of the ringing. It was the front door bell. Moving sluggishly she got up, slipped on a robe and went downstairs.

  She found an attractive young woman, wearing designer jeans and an expensive-looking leather jacket waiting on her front doorstep. The girl’s face registered embarrassment as she took in Anne’s robe and general state of disarray. ‘Oh gosh, I’ve got you out of bed. I’m so sorry . . .’

  it’s alright,’ said Anne, it’s time I got up anyway, Miss - ?’

  ‘Carey. Robin Carey. I’m from the Daily News. Your husband said it would be alright if I came round to see you . . .’

  Anne frowned. ‘Clive? You’ve spoken to him?’

  ‘Yes. I called him at his laboratory earlier today. I would have phoned you to warn you I was coming but he said your phone was off the hook.’

  ‘Yes . . . yes, it is,’ said Anne distractedly, trying to get her thoughts organized. It was odd that Clive had given his approval for this visit, considering his aversion to all reporters, even ones as pretty as Miss Carey. She obviously possessed an unusual amount of charm.

  Anne opened the door wider. ‘Come in,’ she said. ‘But

  I must warn you that I’ll be incapable of saying anything rational until I’m on my third cup of black coffee.’

  Robin sat in the Thomas kitchen feeling a little uneasy. She hadn’t liked lying to Anne Thomas but it seemed to be the only way of getting to see her. Her big fear now was that Anne would ring her husband to confirm the story. She’d been listening intently for the tell-tale ding of a phone being picked up somewhere in the house but so far all she’d heard was the burbling of the coffee-making machine.

  She had to suppress a guilty start when Anne walked back into the kitchen. ‘Sorry to keep you waiting,’ said Anne, ‘but I had a major repair operation to perform. I hope you can see some improvement.’

  Robin could. The wan and rather haggard figure who’d met her at the door had been transformed into an attractive woman in her early thirties. Her long blonde hair now had a healthy glow to it and the summer frock she had put on revealed a slim and youthful figure. Only the shadows under her eyes remained to hint at the ordeal she had recently undergone.

  After pouring them each a large cup of coffee Anne seated herself opposite Robin, leaned her elbows on the table and said, ‘Alright, how can I help you, Miss Carey?’ ‘Oh, please call me Robin. And first of all I'd like to say I’m a great fan of yours. I really enjoy your books.’ Anne smiled at her and said, ‘You read children’s books?’

  ‘I borrow them from my niece. She’s a big fan of yours as well. But your books are much more than just children's books. And I know quite a few adults who read them apart from me. You must have a sizable cult following among grown-ups . . .’

  ‘Which has yet to be reflected in the sales figures,’ said

  Anne. ‘But thank you anyway. Now what do you really want to talk to me about?’

  Robin took a deep breath. ‘Well, if it isn’t too painful for you I’d like to discuss the accident on Monday.’

  After a pause Anne said, it is painful for me. I don't like to even think about it. But I will talk to you about what happened. I think it’s important that the full story be told. Some of the things that have been said in the newspapers and on TV have been absolutely ludicrous. So where do we start?’

  Robin got a notepad and pen out of her shoulder bag. She opened the notepad and said, ‘Just describe everything you can remember, from the moment you arrived at the site . . .

  It took Anne forty-five minutes to reach the end of her story, with Robin only interrupting occasionally with questions. When she’d finished, Robin stared at her with wide eyes, it’s incredible! Nothing at all like the official version! What do you think that acid-like stuff was? And why is the government being tight-lipped about it?’

  Anne shrugged. ‘I can’t answer either question.’

  ‘And that other stuff that they brought up earlier - the geologist, Yates, told me about that too - you actually saw it?’

  ‘Yes. But not up close.’

  ‘What did it look like to you?’

  ‘Well, strangely enough it reminded me of something. I couldn’t remember what at the time but now I do . . .’ ‘What is it?’ Robin asked eagerly.

  Anne shook her head, it’s silly really - years ago when I was a little girl I kept silkworms as part of a school project. All ended in tears because no one had told me you had to kill the things in order to get the silk but . . . well, anyway, that’s what this material reminded me of . . .’ She gave an embarrassed smile.

  Robin frowned. Tin afraid I don’t follow you.’

  ‘The cocoons,’ said Anne. ‘The material from the drill hole reminded me of my silkworm cocoons.’

  'Oh,’ said Robin, trying to hide her disappointment.

  I hat was not exactly the revelation she was hoping for.

  Both women jumped when a phone suddenly started to ring in another room. Then Anne said, ‘Excuse me,’ and hurried away to answer it.

  Shit, thought Robin. It was sure to be her husband and when she told him she had a reporter in the kitchen he’d blow his top. No doubt he’d tell Anne to throw her out forthwith . . .

  The expression on Anne’s face when she returned confirmed Robin’s worst fear. She looked very worried. Robin forced a smile and said brightly, ‘What’s the problem?’

  ‘That was Clive. My husband,’ said Anne distractedly. ‘He had hoped to come home for lunch but something serious has come up . . .’

  ‘Really? What is it?’ asked Robin, relieved to hear that she had been spared an unexpected face-to-face encounter with Dr Thomas.

  ‘He wouldn’t say exactly. Some kind of outbreak, I think. In Harpenden. But it must be serious because I’ve never heard him sound so concerned before.’

  ‘In Harpenden, you say?’ said Robin, making a mental note to check up as soon as she got back to the office. ‘Outbreak of what?’

  ‘That’s all he said. And that he wouldn’t be home until late. I wonder what’s going on? I hate it when he keeps me in the dark about his work . . .’

  ‘Er, did you mention I was here?’ asked Robin casually. ‘Didn’t have a chance. He was in a hell of a rush.’ Robin breathed a silent sigh. Then she quickly drank the remains of her coffee and said, ‘Well, I must rush too. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate the interview.’

  ‘Glad to help. As I said, I think it’s important that the true facts about Monday be known. But I must admit I’d have been hesitant to talk to you if Clive hadn’t okayed it. He’s in a difficult position with his government job and everything, and I’ve already been a big enough embarrassment to him recently with all my protest work . . .’

  Robin nodded. ‘I quite understand, Anne,’ she said and wished she didn’t feel like such a prize heel. She was glad she wasn’t going to be around when Anne and her husband saw the late edition of her paper tonight . . .

  It was not until nearly 7 p.m. that he completed his analysis. His results were confirmed by Lisa, his assistant. When they’d compared their notes they just sat there in the l
ab staring at each other in silent bafflement. Finally Lisa said, ‘I feel now I know less about all this than when we began this afternoon . . .’

  Thomas sighed. ‘My feelings exactly. Renton’s going to be wanting some answers any moment now and what can we tell him?’ He glanced over at the cadaver of the old woman lying on one of the lab tables. A large incision ran from the base of the neck to the crotch. The top of the head had been removed and there were smaller incisions in each of the limbs. The body had been completely empty. Not a single bone, organ or drop of blood remained. All they found were small deposits of a greyish jelly lining the interior of the hardened skin.

  It was the same with the cattle, which had been dissected by a different team down in the Animal Diseases Block. The same chilling emptiness in each carcass apart from the traces of grey slime . . .

  Lisa took off her glasses and massaged the bridge of her nose with thumb and forefinger. She looked tired. ‘Ever hear of “mutes”?’ she asked Thomas.

  ‘Mutes? What’s that - short for mutants?’ he said, equally weary.

  ‘No. It stands for “mutilations”. It was a phenomenon l hat got a lot of publicity back home in the States. The first case was reported in 1967, in Colorado. A horse was found with its entire skin missing, all its blood drained, various organs missing and strange markings on its carcass. Since then “mute” cases have been reported in over thirty states, involving deer, cattle, dogs and horses. The phenomenon peaked in the seventies and has faded away since then, though cases still turn up . . .’

  ‘Interesting,’ said Thomas. ‘What’s the explanation for them?’

  ‘No one knows,’ said Lisa. ‘Oh, there are lots of theories ranging from the way-out, including UFOs and devil-worshippers, to the mundane, such as that the animals are the victims of natural predators. But no single explanation has yet been completely satisfactory.’

  ‘You’re suggesting that the same thing is starting over here in England?’

  She shrugged. ‘It’s only a suggestion.’

  ‘But our cattle weren’t skinned. And all their organs were removed. Does that fit in with any of the reported “mute” cases?’

  ‘No,’ she admitted. ‘And as far as I know there haven’t been any human “mute” cases in the States . . .’

  ‘And we’ve got eight of them on our hands,’ said Thomas grimly. Apart from the old woman a further seven victims had been discovered during the day, all of them on the outskirts of Harpenden and in a half-mile radius from the old woman’s cottage.

  ‘What’s your theory then?’ she asked, a shade testily.

  ‘I don’t have one. How on earth can anyone or anything remove every bone and organ from a body and leave the skin intact?’

  ‘Don’t forget the puncture marks.’ A small, clotted hole had been found on all of the human bodies and animal carcasses. In each case it had been located on one of the extremities.

  i’m not,’ said Thomas. ‘But I’m not sure what conclusion to draw from them.’

  ‘They must be the point of entry, and exit, for whatever ate the contents of the bodies.’

  He stared at her. ‘Ate the contents?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, defiantly, it’s the only explanation.’ ‘My dear Lisa, I know we’re both very tired but aren’t you getting a little carried away? I know of no conceivable creature or organism capable of doing what you suggest.’ She put her glasses back on and stared at him. ‘Worms,’ she said.

  ‘Worms?’

  ‘Yes, worms. Perhaps a mutated version of one of the bigger parasites like Ascaris lumbricoides or Diphyllo-bothrium latum . . .’

  At that moment Mitchell came hurrying into the lab. He had been making periodic visits all afternoon to check on their progress, becoming, in Thomas’s opinion, an even bigger damned nuisance than usual.

  ‘Well,’ he said, rubbing his hands briskly as if it was cold in the lab, which it wasn’t. ‘What’s the verdict?’ Thomas took a deep breath and said, ‘The verdict, Henry, is that all that remains of the victims is the derm, the epidermis and body hair. The derm and epidermis have undergone some form of mineralization process involving a massive build-up of silica in the cell structure. The hair, however, is relatively unchanged, though some build-up of silica in the follicles can be detected . . .

  ‘The interiors of these petrified corpses are totally empty apart from small traces of this . . .’Thomas handed a test tube to Mitchell. Mitchell held it up to the light and peered at the greyish jelly it contained. ‘What is it?’ he asked.

  ‘A mixture of things. Water. Amino acids. Monosaccharides, glycerol and carbon dioxide . . .’

  ‘Yes?’ Mitchell looked at Thomas expectantly.

  Thomas shrugged. ‘That’s what’s in it but I can’t tell you what it is. I also found small traces of chemical structures I can’t identify. One of them seems to be a complicated protein made up of an unusual number of polypeptide chains. I suspect it may be some form of enzyme but I can’t identify it.’

  ‘Is that all?’ asked Mitchell, almost plaintively.

  I'm afraid so.’

  Mitchell’s round face twisted up as if someone was exposing a part of his copious anatomy to a bare flame. ‘It’s not very much, is it? I mean to say, Professor Renton’s not going to be very happy with it, is he?’

  ‘I’m not very happy with it myself, Henry,’ said Thomas blandly. ‘But what do you expect me to do? Invent answers?’

  i’m not criticizing you, Clive, it’s just that . . .’

  ‘Look, all I can do now is try to isolate the suspected enzyme. It appears to be in a loose, inert complex with the substrate of animo acid molecules which suggests that this jelly solution is the end product of whatever process the enzyme provokes into reaction. If I can isolate it I can start testing it on a range of organic compounds until I discover its exact function; But that may take a long, long time, Henry.’

  ‘Yes, yes, I appreciate all that, Clive,’ said Mitchell. ‘But the Minister of the Environment is pressing us for an immediate explanation of these bizarre occurrences.’ He walked over to the old woman’s cadaver. ‘I mean, can you prove that this was once a real human being?’ Thomas frowned for a moment, then his face cleared. ‘Ah, I see you’ve been talking to one of the police forensic boys. A Dr Pickersgill, am I right?’

  Mitchell nodded and said, i must warn you that his theory has gained wide acceptance in police circles. Some kind of elaborate hoax seems to be the only rational solution.’

  ‘Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you but I’m convinced that was a living and breathing human body, Henry. Just take a look at the hair if you want proof.’

  ‘The hair could be implanted. And you said yourself the skin has undergone a form of mineralization. Perhaps it was never real skin in the first place.’

  ‘Then someone’s gone to a hell of a lot of trouble to make it look real, down to sculpting cell outlines at microscopic level. And if it’s a hoax, with a bunch of crazed medical students running around leaving these replicas behind, what happened to the eight people they were based on? Not to mention the herd of dairy cows?’ ‘The police are working on that now.’

  Thomas threw up his hands in disgust. ‘Great! Just great! And while they’re running around looking for these mythical kidnappers there could be more outbreaks of this - this whatever it is - in Harpenden tonight!’

  ‘Clive,’ said Mitchell pleadingly, if you could only come up with a rational alternative explanation I’m sure the police would be happy to have it . . .’

  ‘Worms,’ said Lisa quietly.

  Mitchell turned and blinked at her with surprise. ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Lisa has this theory that giant, mutated tapeworms are responsible,’ explained Thomas resignedly.

  Mitchell looked incredulous, in Hertfordshire?’ Suddenly the door to the lab was flung open and Renton strode in. He was a small man but made up with his imposing manner for what he lacked in height. And tonight he looked more imposing t
han ever, his face set in a grim, stony mask.

  To Thomas’s alarm he marched straight up to him and flung a newspaper down on the table beside him. ‘I hope you’ve got a good explanation for this, Thomas,’ said Renton coldly.

  Thomas looked at the front page of the paper. It was the Daily News. The headline read: GEYSER OF ACID AT ATOM WASTE SITE. Below was the following subheading: in an exclusive interview with the News the wife of government scientist Dr Clive Thomas reveals the true story of the horrific disaster at the NIREX drilling site.’ The byline was ‘Robin Carey’.

  He looked up and found himself staring into Renton’s gun-barrel-like eyes.

  ‘Well?’ demanded Renton.

  6

  Ian was getting excited. It was going to be a good night, he knew it. Even the presence of so many police cars on the streets of Harpenden didn’t deter him. On the contrary, it added to his excitement.

  He took one hand off the wheel and fondled his growing hardness through the cloth of his trousers . . .

  The street he was in was useless. It was terraced; the thin, tightly glued houses with their shoebox front gardens offered him nothing. He drove on.

  Presently he came to a more suitable area. The houses were all detached and set well back from the street with gardens that provided plenty of cover. He parked his car and got out. He was a nondescript-looking man in his early forties. He wore dark, casual clothing and rimless glasses. The latter made his bland, round face resemble that of a startled owl.

  Ian walked briskly along the ill-lit street. That was part of the secret. You had to look as if you belonged there. If you acted furtively you automatically gave the game away.

  As he walked he threw quick glances at the windows of the houses he was passing. Finally he spotted a suitable candidate for closer investigation - a big living room window with undrawn curtains. He stopped as if to tie a loose shoelace, cast a swift glance up and down the street as he bent down, then ducked into the garden’s dense shrubbery.

  He crept stealthily up to the window, crouching low, and peered in. He was immediately disappointed. All there was to see was a middle-aged couple watching television. For a while he stared at their dull, listless faces as they in turn stared at the nine o’clock news on BBC 1, then returned to the street.