Just before 9 a.m. a slightly built woman aged about 30 came into the lab. She had light brown hair and wore very thick glasses. She gave Robin a curious look as she hung up her coat and put on a white smock, then walked over to where Thomas was working. ‘Morning, Clive,’ she said in an American accent. ‘What’s going on?’ Thomas made a grunting sound without looking round. He was busy with a large, cylindrical piece of equipment that had a small TV monitor attached to it. Robin had no idea what it was.
‘Er, are you going to introduce me to your friend?’ asked the woman, indicating Robin.
Again his only response was a grunt. The woman then noticed one of the trays containing a worm segment. She peered hard at it and said, ‘Clive, is this what I think it is? It looks exactly like the thing in Anne’s photograph.’ This time Thomas didn’t answer at all. After another look at the thing in the tray the woman hurried out of the room. A few minutes later she returned, accompanied by three men. One of them was the fattest man Robin had seen in a long while. All of them glanced briefly in her direction as they entered, but their interest was centred elsewhere. They gathered round the worm segment like a group of relatives admiring a new-born baby.
‘Good God, Lisa!’ exclaimed the fat man. ‘You were right! It is one of them!’ He turned to Thomas. ‘Clive, where on earth did you get this?’
Still engrossed with the TV monitor, Thomas jerked his thumb towards Robin. All eyes turned towards her.
Nervously, she said, ‘I live in St Albans. I was attacked last night, but I was lucky . . She told them about the fan.
When she’d finished the fat man said, 'You certainly were lucky, young lady. There have been no other reported survivors of a direct attack.'
'I know,’ she said, hoping that Thomas wouldn’t mention she was a reporter just yet. She didn’t want to be thrown out of the lab before she found out what Thomas was learning about the worm.
The fat man turned back to Thomas. 'Well, Clive, what is the thing?’
Thomas sighed and switched off the machine. When he turned round she saw his face was even more haggard than before but his eyes were disturbingly bright. He gave a long sigh and said, ‘I can’t tell you what it is but I can tell you this - it’s of extra-terrestrial origin.’
His words were met with a long silence. Finally the fat man said, ‘I don’t understand what you’re saying, Clive. Extra-terrestrial . . . ?’
‘Extra-terrestrial,’ repeated Thomas. ‘Not of this earth. Alien. From outer space. Something from another planet. I can’t think of any other definitions of extra-terrestrial, Henry.’
The fat man looked stricken. ‘You can’t be serious.’ i’m afraid so.’ Thomas nodded towards the tray. ‘What we have there is part of a genuine creature from outer space.’
The fat man groaned.
12
Have you lost your senses completely, Dr Thomas?’ asked Renton coldly.
Thomas regarded Renton’s angry, thin-lipped face with weary indifference. He suddenly felt very, very tired. All lie wanted to do was lie down somewhere and sleep for a long time. Preferably forever.
He scanned the other faces surrounding him - the lab was full of people now - and read different things in their eyes; curiosity, amusement, sympathy and pity, but not one message of unspoken agreement. Even Lisa was looking at him as if he’d just announced he’d seen a leprechaun in the men’s toilet.
Tiredly he said, ‘I don’t like it any more than you do but it’s the only explanation. That organism . . .’ - he pointed at the thing in the tray - ‘. . . did not evolve on earth. It has a cellular structure unlike anything else on this planet. The only thing it has in common with life-forms on earth is that it’s carbon-based.’
i thought you said you found silicon-based compounds,’ said Mitchell accusingly.
Thomas nodded. ‘I did. In the cell membranes. But the bulk of the cell material is carbon-based. It is not a silicon-based life form, though what the function of the silicon compounds is I can’t say.’
Renton gave a derisive snort, it’s a mutation, that’s all. You have no evidence that it’s of extra-terrestrial origin.’
‘I told you before, Professor Renton,’ said Thomas wearily. ‘The cells have no nuclei. No chromosomes. No
genes.’
impossible,’ sneered Renton. ‘You just haven’t detected them yet.’
‘I’ve done several scans on different cells with the electron microscope. Same results each time. No nucleus in any of the cells. Period.’
‘But without any genetic material it would be impossible for the cells to reproduce themselves,’ said Mitchell.
‘By the methods we’re familiar with, I agree,’ said Thomas. ‘But perhaps this life form uses an alternative system. I detected a large number of what I presume to be mitochondria in the cytoplasms. Various shapes and sizes but none of them identifiable to me. It may be that apart from the breakdown of food into energy and the synthesis of the structural materials of the cell, which are the functions of mitochondria in cells that have evolved on earth, these alien ones also control replication. But however they do it they don’t use either DNA or RNA.’ Renton’s expression grew almost murderous, then abruptly softened and he said, with patently false concern in his voice, ‘Dr Thomas - Clive - you’re under a great deal of strain at the moment. It’s understandable, after the shocking death of your wife the night before last. You shouldn’t be at work, you should be resting somewhere. It’s not surprising that you are behaving in this erratic manner and coming up with, er, somewhat farfetched theories. I suggest you take some leave, say a month, and come back when you’re feeling better.’
‘My going on leave won’t change the results of my analysis, Professor Renton,’ Thomas told him. ‘You can’t simply ignore my findings.’
Renton’s mask of concern was already beginning to slip as he said, ‘I assure you more tests will be carried out on the specimens until we establish the real truth about them. I’m certainly not calling up the Minister of the Environment and telling him that one of my scientists thinks we’re being invaded by monsters from outer space.’
I le turned and glared at the others in the lab. ‘And I want this kept absolutely quiet, understand? Not a word to anyone.’ He turned back to Thomas. ‘And that especially goes for you. You keep your crazy ideas to yourself. I find myself reading about them in any newspaper and your career here is over.’
It was only then that Thomas remembered the woman reporter. He glanced round the lab for her but she was not there. She had already gone. Back to her paper, no doubt.
But he couldn’t care less.
Thomas had trouble driving home. As the whole St Albans area had been evacuated he was stopped several times by both police road-blocks and army patrols. But by using his CPHL identification he was able to persuade them that he was there on official business and he was allowed through.
It was noon as he pulled up in front of his house and the sun was shining brightly in a cloudless sky but the tree-lined street was completely deserted. No children playing, no housewives in their gardens, no traffic. The street was dead. Empty. Like his own house. And his life.
He paused at the front door, steeling himself for what lay beyond. Then he put the key in the lock, opened the door and went inside.
Her presence was everywhere, as he’d feared. It was as if she’d stepped outside for a moment but would be returning shortly.
He went into her small workroom. There was an unfinished page still in her typewriter. Part of her new children's book which would now never be published. He read the page with stinging eyes then went into the living room and opened the drinks cabinet. He poured himself half a tumbler full of whisky and took it up to the bedroom.
In there her presence was stronger than ever. He opened the wardrobe and stared at her clothes. He reached out and touched the fabric of one of her blouses. It was impossible to believe she would never wear it again.
He went and sat heavily on the
bed. His body ached with physical and emotional fatigue. He drank some more of the whisky then noticed the bottle of tranquillizers on the bedside table. He picked them up and read the label. Valium. He shook two of the tablets out onto his palm and swallowed them with a mouthful of whisky. Idly, he considered swallowing the rest of the tablets but decided not to. Not yet, anyway. He wanted to sleep and dream. He hoped Anne would visit him again in his dreams, as she had that morning. He took the phone off the hook and lay back on the bed.
He didn’t dream of her. He didn’t dream of anything, but he did, finally, hear his name being called. It sounded like Anne’s voice but he couldn’t be sure. He opened his eyes. ‘Anne?’ he cried.
There was silence. He looked blearily at his watch. It was now after 10 p.m. And it was dark. Then he remembered the worms.
He felt no real anxiety as he got up, turned on the light and went downstairs. He was past caring about his own life, but the worms continued to obsess him. He wanted to know as much as he could about them before he died. He couldn’t die without knowing exactly what it was that had killed Anne.
He went outside into the back garden and got an axe from the tool shed. Then he went to the living room, turned on the radio so he could hear the news bulletins, and sat down in the dark with the axe across his knees and the bottle of scotch beside him.
The night passed slowly. On several occasions he thought he saw movements out of the corner of his eye but when he looked there was never anything there.
He even felt disappointed when the first light of dawn appeared. The worms wouldn’t come now. And according to the radio his wasn’t an isolated case. There were no reports of worm attacks at all. Not in St Albans or anywhere else.
When the sun rose he returned upstairs, took two more valium and went back to bed.
That night he went through the same routine but again the worms failed to make an appearance. It was the same the following day. By the fourth day a government spokesman on the radio was saying with tentative confidence that the danger might be over - that the worms had only been a temporary phenomenon - but that everyone should remain alert for the time being. He added that there was no truth in the story published by a popular newspaper that a government scientist was claiming that the worms were from outer space.
Thomas smiled when he heard this. So that reporter had done it again. Not that he cared less this time. Instead it amused him to wonder what Renton’s reaction had been when he saw the paper. No doubt Renton had tried to call him about it but hadn’t been able to get through.
From the fifth day onwards Thomas entered a state of increasing apathy. He gave up his nocturnal guard duties and stopped listening to the radio. He spent most of the time asleep and got out of bed only to open another bottle of wine or spirits. He’d run out of Anne’s valium and was now taking pills from his own supply of barbiturates. He ate only occasionally, his appetite being almost non-existent.
By the end of the second week there was little to distinguish between his sleeping and waking moments. During one rare period of lucidity he heard someone ringing the front door bell but he ignored it. Another time he became aware of the shouts of his neighbour’s children in the front yard and realized that there were people living in his street again, but the knowledge meant nothing to him.
He would have been totally content if only Anne would visit him in his dreams as she had that first morning, but she didn’t . . .
He woke into bright, dazzling sunshine. The bedroom was hot and he was soaked in sweat. He felt thirsty so he staggered to his feet and went downstairs. It was only as he reached the bottom of the staircase that he realized someone was both ringing the doorbell and banging on the door itself. He’d been hearing the sounds in the background ever since he woke up but it had taken this long for them to penetrate his consciousness.
He contemplated not opening the door but the very persistence of the ringing and the banging drew him unwillingly towards it.
The bright sunlight made him blink as he opened it. Then he gasped. Standing there, her hair aglow as if it was on fire, was Anne.
He tried to speak but all of a sudden the floor tilted beneath his feet. He felt a pain in the back of his head and then the blackness rushed into his mind like air into a vacuum.
He opened his eyes and focused on the face that was hovering above his own. He groaned when he saw it wasn’t Anne but Robin Carey.
‘Thank God,’ she sighed. ‘I was getting really worried about you. If you hadn’t come round soon I was going to call 999.’
‘Go away . . .’he croaked. ‘Get out ... of my house.'
‘What have you been doing to yourself, Doctor? Or what haven't you been doing to yourself?’ she asked. ‘You’re nothing but skin and bone. I was able to carry you to this sofa all by myself. When did you last eat?’
‘Told you ... get out . . .’ he said weakly and tried to sit up. She put her hands on his shoulders and pushed him back down. He had no strength to resist.
‘I said, when did you last eat?’ she repeated firmly.
‘I don’t know . . . yesterday . . . day before . . .’
‘Or last week. And it must be more than three weeks since you changed your clothes or had a bath. Don’t take offence, Doctor, but you stink. In fact, this whole place stinks. What have you been breathing since the air gave out?’ She got up off her haunches and went and opened all the windows in the room. He watched her helplessly. He wanted to throw her out but he couldn’t summon the energy to get off the sofa.
She came back and stood over him. ‘First things first - we’ve got to get some food into you. Where’s the kitchen?’
He didn’t answer. She thought for a moment and said, it’s okay, I remember.’ As she walked out of the room he thought bitterly, Yes, you do know . . . you’ve been here before ...
She returned some five minutes later holding a large mug. She helped him to sit up and held the mug to his lips. ‘It’s beef and vegetable soup. Drink!’ she commanded. He did as he was told, lacking the willpower to resist her. His total weakness was beginning to disturb him.
When he’d finished the soup she let him lie back and left the room again. The next time she returned she was carrying two cups of coffee. She handed him one and took the other over to an armchair. She sat down and watched him thoughtfully. He tasted the coffee. It was very sweet. He didn’t like sugar in coffee as a rule but saw the logic in what she’d done. The large amount of sugar would provide him with a quick energy boost.
‘You must have loved her very much,’ she said quietly. ‘To want to kill yourself this badly.’
He glared at her. ‘Okay, Miss. You’ve done your good deed for today, now piss off. I don’t need your help or your pity.’
‘You need someone’s help by the look of you. But I’m afraid my motives for this visit are not exactly altruistic. I needed to talk to you . . .’
‘I don’t like reporters. I particularly don’t like you.’
She smiled faintly. ‘That’s obvious. But I think you’ll be interested in what I have to tell you.’
‘I doubt that very much,’ he said sourly.
‘How up to date are you on the worm plague?’
‘Not at all,’ he admitted. ‘Have there been any more attacks since the one here in St Albans?’
‘Nope. Not a single one. And that was nearly a month ago. No sightings either. The things have vanished. Despite all the holes dug around St Albans and a complete search of the sewer system not one worm has been found. Not even a dead one.’
‘What’s the official verdict?’
‘Same as before. That they were a short-lived mutation of some kind. The State of Emergency was ended last week but checks are still being made in the sewers all round the country and the police and the army are still on full alert. And, of course, there is going to be a full-scale government inquiry.’
‘Of course,’ he muttered. It was the British politician’s answer to everything.
‘
There’s still a lot of public nervousness about the worms but people are beginning to try and forget the whole thing. My last follow-up story on it was buried on page 5.’
‘My heart bleeds for you,’ he said dryly.
She ignored the sarcasm. ‘But I've got a strong hunch iMis thing isn’t over yet. In fact it’s going to get a lot
worse.’
‘And what do you base that theory on apart from your icporter’s reluctance to lose a big story?’
This . . .’ she said, taking a map out of her jacket pocket. She unfolded it and handed it to him. ‘Look.’
He looked. It was a map of Hertfordshire. Someone had drawn a line through Harpenden and St Albans. ‘So what?’ he asked.
The first attacks took place on the northern outskirts of Harpenden. The second ones occurred in the south of the town. And then came the St Albans attacks. The line I've drawn connects them all up . .
‘So?’ he said, impatiently. ‘We already know the things were moving southwards. And why do you have the line extended north of Harpenden? There were no attacks before that.’
Quietly she said, ‘The line begins at a point west of Stevenage, which is the location of the NIREX drilling site.’
He stared at her and then at the map again. ‘Good God,’ he whispered. ‘You’re right. There could be a connection.’
She leaned forward, i’m glad you think so. No one else has so far. My editor has refused to let me do a story on it but I know I'm right. The worms, or whatever they are, started at the site and then moved south. And now I believe they're under London.’
‘What?’ he said, startled. ‘What makes you think that?’
‘The disappearances. People are starting to disappear.’
13
She made him have a shower. He refused to at first but she insisted, saying that she wouldn’t tell him any more of what she’d learned until he not only had a shower but also put on some clean clothes.
The soup was already making him feel stronger but even so he needed her assistance to get up the stairs. By the time he’d had the shower he felt much better and his mind was clearer too. He headed back downstairs, aware now that he was ravenously hungry. On the way down he heard noises in the kitchen and for one terrible moment his mind played a trick on him and he thought it was Anne. He had to pause and hang onto the bannister as the rush of grief caused a constriction round his chest that made it impossible for him to breathe.
Simon Ian Childer Page 9
