At eleven-thirty that Tuesday night, while Fliss lay dreaming, Ronnie was shuffling unsteadily along the footpath which led to the bandstand. A fine drizzle was falling. On his left was the kiddies’ playground where the swings hung motionless on dripping chains and the slide gleamed wetly in the light from a distant streetlamp. To his right, the ground fell away in a long slope, thickly planted with trees and shrubs. At the foot of this slope, hidden even in daylight by the trees, was a stretch of level grassland on which, from time to time in the summer months, funfairs and circuses would pitch their camps. Now, as he headed for his bed at the end of a better-than-average day, Ronnie thought he heard voices on the slope. Now Ronnie was a cautious man even when drunk, and he knew there was a better-than-even chance that anybody you’d meet in a public park late at night would be up to no good, so he swerved off the path and pressed himself up against the wet trunk of a thickish tree to see who might appear.
There was a scraping, crackling sound like something big in the shrubbery. Whatever it was, was coming up the slope pretty fast. Ronnie pressed himself more closely to his tree and peeped round, and it was then he saw the dragon. He screwed up his eyes and shook his head and looked again but it was still there, coming off the slope on to the footpath. Its teeth gleamed white and its eyes blazed red. He couldn’t make out its colour in the dark, but as it crossed the path and headed for the playground he saw that it was incredibly long. He stood absolutely still and held his breath as the monster’s whiplike tail hissed across the tarmac. He hugged his tree while the great shape crossed the playground, nor did he stir for some time after darkness swallowed the beast and all was quiet.
When Ronnie finally let go of the tree and resumed his journey it was twenty minutes before midnight. Half a mile away, Fliss had just woken from her nightmare. It was still drizzling.
Ronnie reached the bandstand and got into bed. He lay on the dusty boards and thought about the dragon. For a while he told himself he’d report what he’d seen. He’d tell the police or the local paper. His fuddled brain created a fantasy in which for once, people were interested in him. A fantasy in which he was somebody because of what he had seen.
It soon faded though. He’d had a good day. A two-bottle day. Who needs fame when there are bottles waiting to be drained? And what’s a dragon, compared to some of the creatures Ronnie Millhouse had seen? Pink lizards. That kangaroo in pinstripe suit and bowler who’d tipped him a fiver. The bright green ants who sometimes ate his hands. No. He’d not tell. Why should he? Waste of time.
Drizzle fell endlessly. Wind lifted a corner of his paper blanket. Ronnie Millhouse slept.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
‘MORNING, MUM, DAD.’
Lisa sat down, reached for the packet and sprinkled cornflakes in her bowl. She’d overslept. Dad was halfway down his second cup of coffee and Mum had had to call her twice. She avoided their eyes, hoping they’d say nothing, but it was a forlorn hope.
‘Tired, are we?’ her father enquired.
‘She ought to be,’ said her mother, ‘coming in at midnight, bold as brass, saying she’s been busy. I’ll give her busy if it ever happens again.’
Her husband nodded. ‘Where was she, that’s what I’d like to know.’
Lisa sighed. She hated it when her parents discussed her as if she wasn’t there and besides, they’d been over all this last night. ‘I told you,’ she mumbled. ‘I was at David Trotter’s, working on the worm.’
‘Till midnight?’
‘Yes, Mum. It was a big job.’
‘It must have been. I’m surprised at the Trotters, letting kids your age stay out till that time. Didn’t they realize we’d worry?’
Lisa shook her head. ‘They were out, Mum. I told you.’
‘We know what you told us, young woman,’ rapped her father, ‘and now I’ll tell you something. If anything of this sort happens again I’ll be along to school to see Mr Hepworth, and we’ll have you out of that play. I’m not having a daughter of mine staying out all night at thirteen years of age, no matter how busy she is. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, Dad.’
‘Well, I certainly hope so. And I hope you can attend to your lessons today without falling asleep at your desk.’
It was nearly ten to nine when Lisa finally got out of the house. It was still raining, and she wasn’t surprised to find no Fliss waiting at the end of the road. She wasn’t surprised, and she didn’t care. She didn’t want to talk to Fliss. It would be no use talking to her. Fliss didn’t know. She hadn’t been there. You had to have been there to know how it felt, running through the dark. The dark in the park. She smiled briefly at the unintentional rhyme. The park after dark, where you’d hardly dare venture in ordinary circumstances because of the hooligans and the glue-sniffers and the funny men Mum was always on about. You’d stay away if you’d any sense, unless you were part of the worm.
Part of the worm! She laughed out loud, remembering. What a fantastic feeling, running through the dark, fearless because you are part of the most fearsome thing in the park. Fearless because nothing exists which can harm you. There is nothing which wouldn’t run screaming and blubbering at your approach. Hooligans, glue-sniffers, funny men. All fleeing, fleeing before – before ME! Lisa’s exultant laugh turned a few heads among early shoppers as she ran with her head thrown back and her hair flying, to recapture a scrap of last night’s fierce, narcotic joy.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
‘“THE TIME – A little over one thousand years ago. The place – Elsworth, then a mere village, set in the midst of—”’
‘Can’t hear him!’
‘Speak up, you mumbling creepazoid!’
‘OK, you lot, you’ve made your point.’ Sarah-Jane looked across the field to where Andrew Roberts stood between the goal-posts, clutching his script. ‘You’ll have to project a bit, Andrew. Remember we’re outside and there’s a bit of a breeze.’
The narrator nodded. ‘Shall I start again, then?’
‘Please.’
It was lunchtime. Year Eight, resplendent in full costume, were rehearsing on the school playing field before a packed audience. It had stopped raining only an hour before and the grass was wet, but Sarah-Jane had been determined and so here they were, Vikings and villagers, saint and serpent, in full regalia, hoping to get through the whole thing before the bell.
‘“The time – a little over one thousand years ago. The place – Elsworth, then a mere village, set in the midst of misty fenland. Elsworth, a once quiet village where terror now reigns, for the nearby fen has become the dwelling-place of a monster – a monster known to every terrified inhabitant as THE WORM.”’
Behind the narrator and his goal-posts, the field fell away in a steep grassy bank to the stone wall which at this side marked the boundary of school property. After rain, the strip of land between the foot of the bank and the wall became waterlogged, forming a moat of brown water and sticky mud. As Andrew spoke the worm appeared, lurching up the bank to the cheers and whistles of the watching multitude before trotting the length of the field on eight muddy feet to assault the goal-mouth at that end, which was crammed with villagers. This time, Joanne O’Connor was selected as the creature’s first victim and pushed out towards the penalty spot. The worm ran at the girl as if it meant to boot her into the back of the net, but at the last moment Gary reached out and grabbed her. The crowd roared, drowning Joanne’s half-genuine scream as she was hustled over the halfway line with her feet off the ground.
‘Right!’ Sarah-Jane flapped a hand at the worm. ‘You can put her down now, Gary – we get the idea. Brilliant solution by the way, but time’s short. Can we go to Ceridwen please?’
Fliss, who’d been standing on the touchline trying to keep the hem of her dress clear of the mud, felt her heart kick. She’d known this moment would come, but had expected Sarah-Jane to allow the worm a few more victims before calling on her. She caught her bottom lip between her teeth and stepped forward, holding a plast
ic sword, hoping nobody would notice her nervousness.
‘Gary.’ Sarah-Jane gestured towards the banking from which the worm had made its entrance. ‘Out of sight, please. Fliss – you walk out of the village while Andrew’s doing his next bit and stand on the halfway line. When the worm rushes you, raise your sword as if you’re going to slash at its neck. Gary.’ The worm paused, seeming to glare at the director with its mad eyes. ‘You shoot out your arms to grab her like you did with Joanne, but as soon as your hand brushes the dress you back off, looking submissive. Can you do that?’ The worm made no reply, but turned and loped off towards the banking. When it was out of sight, Sarah-Jane nodded to the narrator, who began to speak. Fliss swallowed hard and set off for the middle of the field.
‘“—armed only with a short sword and her faith, stood directly in its path.” ’ Andrew stopped speaking. The worm topped the rise to the cheers of the spectators and came trotting towards Fliss, its great head swaying from side to side. Fliss swallowed again, gripped her sword tightly and lifted it above her head.
That’s when it all went wrong. Gary’s arms appeared, but he didn’t brush the dress. Instead, he grabbed her on the run and turned, and Fliss found herself being carried swiftly back the way the worm had come. She kicked and shouted and laid about her with the sword but it was no use. Gary’s hold was like the hug of a bear. Ignoring Sarah-Jane’s cries, he carried Fliss to the top of the slope, hissed, ‘Tattletale!’ through the eye-holes and flung her down. Helpless, she half rolled, half skidded down the banking and into the moat. The crowd, believing this to be part of the show, cheered themselves hoarse as she lay winded, feeling the spread of clammy wetness which would turn the white dress brown.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
THE SHOW HAD to go on, and the Vikings were making their first raid as Fliss picked herself up and ran sobbing to the girls’ changing-room. She pulled off the sodden dress and held it up. It was so obviously ruined that she flung it to the floor and flopped down on a bench, weeping. Her first thought was, Right – that’s it. I’m out. As soon as I get cleaned up, I’m off to Hepworth to tell him I’m not doing it. She stripped for the shower, and as she stood under the warm torrent it occurred to her that Gary and the others might actually be trying to get rid of her. They want me to quit, she told herself. That’s why Gary does rotten things to me while Lisa and the others ignore me. They want me out and Samantha in.
She didn’t know how she knew this but it felt right, and it brought about a change of mind – a fierce determination. No, she thought, turning off the shower and rubbing herself with a scratchy towel, they’re not going to force me out if that’s their little game, because I won’t go. I’ll hang on. I won’t even mention this rotten trick to Mr Hepworth or Mrs Evans. I won’t tell Mum either. I’ll say it was an accident. I slipped and fell down the banking. Mum’ll know a way to save my dress. Next rehearsal, Gary Bazzard and his friends are going to find me there as if nothing’s happened. And the one after that, and the one after that – right up to the great day itself. And if they don’t like it, they can go take a running jump.
While Fliss was undergoing her change of mind in the shower, Gary, Trot, Lisa and Ellie-May were stowing the dismantled worm in the Year Eight stockroom. Their mood was subdued as they awaited the consequence of their leader’s vicious act. ‘You’re an idiot, Gary,’ said Ellie-May. ‘I bet she’s in with old Hepworth right now, laying it on. We’ll all be out, you see if we’re not.’
Gary shrugged. ‘She asked for it, and anyway, I couldn’t help it. Something came over me.’
Lisa shot him a venomous glance. ‘Something came over you? We’re gonna lose the best kick any of us ever had, and all you can say is something came over you?’
‘I don’t think she’ll tell,’ said Trot.
Gary sneered. ‘You’re joking.’
‘No I’m not. I know Fliss Morgan. She’s got a stubborn streak. You and Lisa have been making it pretty obvious we don’t want her around. I reckon she’ll stick, just to spite us.’
Ellie-May sighed. ‘I hope you’re right, Trot. I want to do the park again like last night. It was the most fantastic feeling I’ve ever had.’
‘Well that’s what I mean!’ cried Gary. ‘That feeling. It comes over you and you can’t help what you do. It’s – awesome.’
‘Yeah!’ Trot smiled dreamily. ‘Maybe next time we’ll run into somebody – somebody we can scare.’
‘If there is a next time,’ muttered Lisa.
The four spent the afternoon in a state of suspense, but nothing happened. Fliss avoided their glances in class and kept well away from them at break, but nobody was summoned to the Deputy Head’s office and Mrs Evans gave no sign she was aware of anything amiss. The only sticky moment came at home-time, when Mrs Evans found Lisa carrying part of the worm through the girls’ cloakroom.
‘Where are you going with that, Lisa?’
‘Taking it home, Miss.’
‘What on earth for?’
Lisa’s brain raced. ‘Er – safety, Miss.’
‘Safety? What d’you mean, safety?’
‘Schools get broken into, Miss. We wouldn’t want vandals smashing up our worm.’
‘I see. So you intend carting the whole thing backwards and forwards every time there’s a rehearsal?’
‘Yes, Miss.’
‘Hmmm. Well, rather you than me, Lisa, that’s all I can say. Off you go.’ She went out on to the step and watched for a moment as Lisa joined Gary and the other two in the yard and the four of them went off up the driveway with their burdens. She and the Deputy Head had undertaken not to interfere in the play – it was to be an independent Year Eight effort, and if the children had decided to keep some of their props at home, so be it. Lisa’s reasoning seemed decidedly odd, but then a lot of the things children do seem odd to adults, and Mrs Evans supposed there could be no harm in what they were doing.
Which just goes to show how wrong you can be.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
HUGHIE ACKROYD HATED kids. Until his retirement four years earlier he’d been a crossing keeper on the railway, and it seemed to him that he’d spent half his life chasing kids off the line and the other half making them stay off. The only thing he’d liked about his job was the bit of garden which went with the keeper’s cottage. He’d kept that garden so beautiful that travellers in passing trains used to go ‘Ooh!’ and ‘Aah!’ as they whizzed by, and some of them would look back with their faces pressed against the window till Hughie’s crossing was out of sight.
Now that he was a pensioner, old Hughie didn’t have the garden any more. He and his wife lived in an old folks’ bungalow. The grass outside was mown by the council, which also sent young men to tend the flowerbeds. Bored out of his skull, Hughie had taken an allotment on a nearby block and started growing his own vegetables. He’d turned out to be as good with vegetables as he used to be with flowers, and his leeks sometimes won prizes at local shows, which made him happy.
What didn’t make him happy was this. One of the plots on the block was derelict. It had been derelict for many years and had become a jungle of couch-grass, weeds and brambles. This abandoned plot happened to be right next to Hughie’s immaculate one, and in one corner of it stood a dilapidated greenhouse. This greenhouse had an old iron stove inside, and a bunch of kids sometimes showed up on wet weekends to light this stove and mess around in the greenhouse. They weren’t doing any harm, except that occasionally, when there was nobody about, they’d pop on to somebody’s plot and help themselves to the odd raspberry or handful of currants. They were trespassing though, and anyway Hughie hated kids. If they turned up when he was on his plot he’d shout over the rickety fence which separated his garden from the jungle, shaking whatever implement he happened to be holding, telling them they were trespassing and threatening them with the police. They’d gaze at him sullenly for a while then slink off through the rain, calling him rude names under their breath. This had been going on for
at least two years, and the hatred he felt for them was matched by their dislike of him.
One of these kids was Gary Bazzard. Another was David Trotter. The rest were friends who attended a different school and went round with Gary and Trot at weekends and in the holidays.
Old Hughie’s miserable face floated into Trot’s mind that Wednesday evening when he, Gary, Lisa and Ellie-May were hanging around Trot’s garden gate. Three weeks ago the girls wouldn’t have been seen dead with the boys outside school hours, but lately the four had found themselves drawn to one another by an attraction each avoided thinking about, though they knew it had something to do with the worm. Mrs Trotter, watching them through her front window, told herself that if her son had started taking an interest in girls it was probably that Gary’s fault, and decided to mention it to her husband.
‘What we gonna do?’ said Ellie-May.
Gary grinned. ‘What d’you think?’
‘The park, of course.’ This from Lisa.
‘No.’ Trot shook his head. ‘I’ve got a better idea.’
They all looked at him. ‘What?’
‘Old Ackroyd.’
Lisa frowned. ‘Who’s he?’
Trot explained. ‘He practically lives on that allotment. He’ll be there till it’s too dark to see his stupid lettuces or whatever.’
‘So?’ Ellie-May looked quizzical.
‘So we take the worm over to the allotments, get into it and spook the living daylights out of him. What d’you reckon?’
‘I dunno.’ Lisa pulled a face. ‘He’s old, you said. He might have a heart attack or something.’
‘Will he heck! If he’d a bad heart, he wouldn’t be able to dig that massive allotment, would he?’
Gary shook his head. ‘He’d be at home all the time, watching telly and popping pills. I say let’s do it.’
So they did.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Inside the Worm Page 5
