Fliss shook her head. ‘I don’t see why. It’s only a play when all’s said and done.’
‘Ah, but is it?’
‘What d’you mean? Of course it is.’
‘I dunno – maybe it is, maybe it isn’t. Inside that worm last night it felt like something bigger, Fliss. Much bigger.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, Lisa. You’ve been talking crazy-talk ever since this play thing started and I wish you wouldn’t. It scares me. I’ll be glad when the Festival’s over and the worm’s gone for good.’
‘If.’
‘Huh?’
‘If, not when. How do you know the worm’ll go? It might win this time.’
‘Don’t be daft.’
Lisa shrugged. ‘OK.’ She looked at her watch. ‘Two minutes to nine. Last one in school’s a creepazoid.’ She broke into a run and Fliss followed, wondering what old Hepworth would say when she told him she wasn’t going to play Ceridwen.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
THE PLATE ON the door said ‘Deputy Head’. Fliss knocked. ‘Come in.’ She pushed open the door. Mr Hepworth smiled from the swivel chair behind his cluttered desk. ‘Now then, Felicity, what can we do for you?’
‘I don’t want to be Ceridwen in the play, Sir.’
‘Why ever not?’
‘I don’t really know, Sir. I mean, I know it sounds daft but I had this dream. This nightmare, about the worm. It scared me. And then last night—’
‘What about last night?’
‘Well, I don’t want to get anybody into trouble, Sir, but something happened last night at David Trotter’s and that scared me too.’
Mr Hepworth leaned forward across the desk. ‘What sort of something, Felicity?’
‘The worm, Sir. We finished the worm and they got inside it and—’
‘Who? Who got inside it?’
‘Ellie-May Sunderland, David Trotter, Gary Bazzard and Lisa Watmough, Sir. They’re playing the worm.’
‘I see. Go on.’
Fliss related the evening’s events, including her flight from the garage. When she’d finished, the Deputy Head nodded. ‘I can see how a thing like that might upset you, Felicity, but I’m not altogether surprised that it happened, considering who was in control of the worm.’ He sighed. ‘Whatever possessed Year Eight to put Gary Bazzard in the worm’s head?’
‘Well, he wanted to be the Viking Chief, Sir, but we’d decided to have a girl for that part, so Gary got the worm’s head as a sort of consolation.’
‘Well, it’s Year Eight’s production and we promised not to interfere, but I have to say that Mrs Evans and I probably would not have set our hearts on consoling Gary Bazzard, Felicity. The class gives him a leading role and he shows his gratitude by intimidating you with what sounds like a typical display of hooliganism. That’s the sort of lad he is, I’m afraid.’
Fliss shook her head. ‘It’s not that that bothers me, Sir. Gary’s all mouth. I can cope with him any time. It’s – other things that have happened. Things that have been said.’
Mr Hepworth shook his head. ‘You’re going to have to explain that, Felicity. You’ve lost me somewhere along the line.’
Fliss tried, but the things she had to say sounded ridiculous even to her, in the Deputy Head’s office in broad daylight. The way they’d found everything they needed to make the worm. Lisa’s remarks about fate. How the creature had turned out perfect without any striving on the part of its makers, and how easily the four children had learned to work it, as though they’d been doing it all their lives. And the change which seemed to have come over Lisa since she’d become involved. It was worrying stuff when you put it together but she spoke stumblingly and without conviction, presenting the teacher with a hopeless jumble of suppositions. When her voice tailed off in mid-sentence, he smiled.
‘It’s up to you, Felicity, but if you want my opinion it’s this. Both you and Lisa Watmough have highly developed imaginations, and you’ve allowed them to run away with you a little. This, coupled with Gary Bazzard’s typically idiotic antic, has given rise to needless anxiety on your part, the upshot of which is that you now wish to relinquish your part in the play.’ He smiled again and shook his head. ‘I don’t think you should do that, Felicity. I feel you’d regret it later, when Year Eight’s production turns out to be the highlight of the Festival. No. If I were you I’d be inclined to carry on. Put a bit of a curb on that imagination of yours, and remember that life is full of coincidences which may seem to add up to more than coincidence when you get a string of them together. And if I were producing this play, which I’m not, I’d stick Richard Varley in the worm’s head and demote young Bazzard to understudy.’ He arched his brow. ‘All right, Felicity?’
Fliss nodded, looking into her lap. She wasn’t convinced, not really. But she’d failed to convince the teacher so perhaps he was right. It did all seem a bit far-fetched now. Very far-fetched, in fact. She looked up. ‘I’ll try, Sir,’ she said.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
SHE HADN’T LONG to wait. While she’d been seeing the Deputy Head at morning break, Trot and Gary had collared Sarah-Jane and told her Trot’s mum was finishing the skin, and that the worm would be complete by midday. Sarah-Jane persuaded them to go and fetch it in their lunch break so they could have a run-through with it. Then she went along to the staffroom and persuaded Mrs Evans to release Year Eight from English that afternoon for a rehearsal.
When Mrs Trotter’s car pulled into the parking lot at ten past one that day, a crowd gathered to watch Trot and Gary unload their creation. It was in three separate pieces, but one of those pieces – the papier-mâché head and neck – was impressive enough to draw gasps and whistles from the watchers. ‘Woweee!’ cried a first-year kid. ‘Look at it – it’s so real, like they chopped the head off an actual dragon.’
‘Yeah,’ breathed another. ‘And look at the eyes, man. They stare at you, don’t they? I reckon they can see.’
A posse of kids trailed after the two boys as they lugged their burden up the steps. They’d have followed right into school if two prefects hadn’t been guarding the door. Trot and Gary were stowing the worm in the Year Eight stockroom when Mrs Evans came in. ‘So this is it, eh?’ She gazed at the head. ‘Ugh!’ She shivered. ‘I wouldn’t want to meet that on a dark night, David. Did you do all this yourselves?’
‘Yes, Miss.’
‘Well, you’ve made a really good job of it, I’ll give you that. Papier-mâché isn’t the easiest stuff to work with, and those eyes are most effective. What are they?’
‘Car reflectors, Miss.’
‘Car reflectors. Yes. Well – I can’t wait to see the creature in action.’ She smiled. ‘Well done.’
‘Ta, Miss.’
‘Ta?’ Mrs Evans shot Gary a disapproving look. ‘Surely you mean “Thank you, Miss”?’
‘Oh – yeah. Thank you, Miss.’
‘Hmmm.’
As Mrs Evans left the room, Mr Hepworth stuck his head round the door. ‘What’s this I hear about a monster?’ His eyes fell on the head. ‘Good heavens.’ He came forward, stretching out a hand to touch its glossy skin. ‘You’ve done a remarkable job here, lads. I don’t wonder young Felicity had a nightmare.’
‘Did she, Sir?’ Gary’s face was all sweet innocence.
The teacher looked at him. ‘Yes, Gary Bazzard, she did, and if I hear of any more hooliganism on your part, you’ll be out. Not only out of the worm but out of the play completely. I’d have thought by Year Eight you’d have grown out of that silly behaviour.’
‘What silly behaviour, Sir? I don’t know what you mean.’
‘Yes you do, and it’s got to stop. As of now. Understand?’
‘Yessir.’
Mr Hepworth departed and they finished stowing the worm. As Trot closed the stockroom door, Gary spoke softly. ‘There’s a snitch in our midst, Trot. A tattletale.’
Trot nodded. ‘Sounds like it. What we gonna do?’
‘Oh, I dunno
. Trot. I’ll think of something.’ Gary smiled. ‘Something messy, I shouldn’t wonder.’
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
THE HALL WAS in use for PE, so they had to use Mrs Evans’s room for the tryout. She supervised the stacking of chairs and tables along one wall to make floorspace, then disappeared in the direction of the staffroom with a pile of marking.
‘Right.’ Sarah-Jane perched herself on a window-ledge to do her producer bit. ‘How are costumes coming along?’
‘Mine’s ready,’ said Gemma, ‘but it’s at home.’
Fliss nodded. ‘Mine too. Nobody said we were rehearsing today.’
‘I know,’ grinned Sarah-Jane. ‘It was a spur of the moment decision. I couldn’t wait to see the worm in action. Has anybody brought their costume?’
Nobody had, but it didn’t really matter. The only costume anybody was interested in at the moment lay in three pieces in the Year Eight stockroom. Trot and Gary carted it out and there was no shortage of volunteers to help Ellie-May, Lisa and the two boys into it. When the last tape was tied, Gary led his team on a trial circuit of the classroom under the admiring gaze of their classmates. Mrs Trotter had stuffed and sewn the long tail beautifully. It was rounded and tapered and flexible and it looped and snaked across the floor as the monster circled.
‘OK,’ said Sarah-Jane, when the worm had done three circuits. ‘That’s beautiful, but I got us off English and we’re supposed to be working.’
‘Let’s do the bits where the worm seizes villagers and drags them off,’ suggested Keith.
There was a general cry of ‘Yeah!’ and Sarah-Jane nodded, pointing. ‘That’s the village, over in that corner. Get over there if you’re a villager.’
‘Which bit’s Norway?’ demanded Barry Tune. Sarah-Jane looked at him. ‘What d’you mean, which bit’s Norway? What’s Norway got to do with it?’
‘That’s where the Vikings were when the worm was eating peopleburgers,’ said Barry. ‘So that’s where us Vikings should stand.’
‘Don’t be daft,’ snapped Sarah-Jane. ‘The Vikings aren’t in this bit. They can stand round the walls and watch.’
‘Boring,’ muttered Barry. ‘If there’s one thing a Viking hates, it’s being bored.’ Some of the other Vikings muttered their agreement. Sarah-Jane ignored them. Meanwhile the villagers had crammed themselves into their corner and were arguing over who should be the first victim, while the worm glared balefully at them through its mad red eyes.
After some pushing and shoving, Tara Matejak was thrust forward by Michael who cried, ‘Here’s your starter, worm.’
‘Just a minute!’ Gary, who was moving towards the girl, stopped at the sound of Sarah-Jane’s voice. Sarah-Jane glared at Michael. ‘Is that what you intend saying on the day, Michael Tostevin?’
The boy grinned. ‘’Course not.’
‘Then don’t say it in rehearsal, OK?’
Michael shrugged. ‘OK, Miss. Sorry, Miss.’ Some of his friends tittered.
Sarah-Jane sighed. ‘OK, worm – carry on.’
When it came to it, the business of seizing and dragging off proved far more difficult than anyone had envisaged. The jaws of the monster were not a moving part. They were set permanently agape and could seize nothing, so that Tara had to co-operate in her own abduction, thrusting her hand into a corner of the worm’s mouth and walking beside it in such a way as to suggest that she was being dragged by the arm. It wasn’t completely successful, and Trot undertook to devise a way of enabling the beast to grab its living meals more convincingly in future.
Fliss observed all of this with apprehension, praying that time would run out before Sarah-Jane decided enough villagers had perished and called upon Ceridwen to confront the worm. She’d promised Mr Hepworth she’d try, but her classmates’ dexterity inside that awful disguise disturbed her even here, and she was far from happy. It must have been her lucky day, because the buzzer went as the beast prepared to bear away its sixth victim.
‘OK.’ Sarah-Jane slid down from her perch. ‘Wrap it up, everybody.’ She smiled. ‘That wasn’t bad, but I want all costumes in school tomorrow.’ She turned to Trot, who was struggling out of his disguise like a moth from a chrysalis. ‘Don’t forget, Trot – the worm needs to be able to grab its prey.’
Trot nodded. ‘I’ll think of something.’
Sarah-Jane turned to speak to Fliss, and was mildly irritated to find she was no longer in the room.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
SHE WAS PASSING the Deputy Head’s office on her way out when the door opened. ‘Ah, Felicity, come in a minute, will you?’ Mr Hepworth stepped to one side and she went in. He closed the door and stood with his back to it. ‘Now – how did the rehearsal go?’
‘All right, Sir.’
‘No trouble from our friend Mr Bazzard?’
‘No, Sir.’
‘Good. I had a word with him and it seems to have worked. So, are you feeling a bit happier about things now, Felicity? We wouldn’t want to lose your talents, you know.’
Happier? Fliss would have laughed out loud if she’d dared. Mr Hepworth had had a word with Gary, which meant Gary knew she’d complained. He’d have her marked down as a sneak. He’d tell the others. Her name would be mud.
‘I – dunno, Sir. We didn’t get to my part. I’ll try.’
‘Good girl.’ He opened the door. ‘Off you go, then. And let me know if you have any more hassle.’
‘Yessir. G’night, Sir.’
‘Goodbye, Felicity.’
‘Let me know if you have any more hassle.’ That’s a laugh for a start, she thought. I can tell you now there’ll be hassle, but there’s no way I’m gonna let you know. No way.
The drive was thick with pupils going home. Fliss dodged between them, hurrying, looking for Lisa. Lisa knows how these things happen, she thought. She’ll understand. I’ll tell her I didn’t mean to get anybody into trouble. It just came out.
She was through the gateway and well along the road before she spotted her friend. Lisa was walking with Ellie-May Sunderland. They were dawdling, deep in conversation. Fliss put on a spurt and caught up. ‘Hi, Lisa, Ellie-May.’
The two girls regarded her coldly. ‘What do you want?’ asked Lisa.
‘I’ve got something to tell you.’
‘We’re talking. See you tomorrow, OK?’
‘What’s up – what have I done?’
‘You know.’
‘No I don’t.’
‘You split on us to old Hepworth.’
‘No I didn’t. Not on purpose. That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.’
‘We’re not interested in excuses, Fliss. You split on us. That’s all that matters.’
‘Yes, but—’
‘No buts.’
‘Are you out tonight, then? We could—’
‘No. We’re busy tonight, working on the worm.’
‘I’ll come to Trot’s then, shall I?’
Lisa laughed. ‘I wouldn’t if I were you, Fliss.’
‘What d’you mean?’
‘What d’you think I mean? Gary’s after you, dummy. He’d love you to show up at Trot’s. You’d come on foot and leave in an ambulance.’
‘But what about you, Lisa? You’re not Gary. You don’t have to do everything he does. We’re friends, aren’t we?’
‘No, Fliss, we’re not, since you ask. Why don’t you get lost and leave us in peace?’
‘I—’ Fliss realized with horror that she was about to cry. Biting her lip she turned away and crossed the road, half-blind with tears. There was an entry – a narrow walkway between two buildings which led on to waste ground. She turned into it, away from the stream of chattering kids, and when she was alone, she wept.
That night, Fliss dreamed again. She’d grown since her bridesmaid day. The long white dress no longer covered her ankles, so Mum had let down the hem to lengthen it. Now she wanted Fliss to try it on, but the alteration had transformed the dress. Mum couldn’t see it – she was holding th
e thing out for her to slip into – but it wasn’t a dress any more. It was a—
‘A shroud!’ She was screaming, shaking her head. ‘Can’t you see, Mum? It’s a shroud.’
‘Don’t be silly, dear. Come – try it on.’ Mum advanced on her, smiling.
‘No.’ Backing away, hands out to ward off the loathsome garment. Bitter tang of tears in her mouth. Backing towards the door, which opened. Mr Hepworth came in, smiling. ‘Try, Fliss,’ he crooned. ‘Try it on. It is like a shroud, but life is full of coincidences.’
‘No, I don’t want to. Leave me alone.’
‘Typically idiotic antic.’
They rushed, seized her. She struggled, but the Deputy Head was holding her from behind and Mum had the cold fabric over her head. It clung, reeking of sodden clay, smothering her. She jerked herself this way and that. Couldn’t breathe. Dark rising. Can’t breathe can’t breathe can’t breathe —
She woke with her face pressed in the pillow and the bedclothes on the floor.
CHAPTER TWENTY
RONNIE MILLHOUSE WAS the town drunk. Everybody knew him by sight – he was what is known as a ‘character’ – but nobody knew the trouble he’d seen. Like all drunks he’d once had an ordinary life, but then the trouble had struck and he’d taken to the lotion in a big way. Now he spent his days on the street, cadging ten and twenty pence pieces from passers-by. ‘Have you got any spare change?’ he’d ask. ‘A few pence for a cup of tea?’ People either brushed past him looking angry, or fished in their pockets looking embarrassed, and most days there were enough of the latter sort to provide poor Ronnie with the price of several cups of tea. He didn’t waste it on tea, of course. Ronnie’s refreshment usually came in a fat brown bottle with a picture of a woodpecker on it. At night, when the wind blew chill and the stream of passers-by dried to a trickle, Ronnie would make his way to the derelict bandstand in the park, where he had a cardboard box for an hotel and a drift of old newspapers for his bed.
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