Inside the Worm

by Robert Swindells

  ‘YES, SIR?’ THE young constable looked across the counter at the elderly man in grubby overalls. He couldn’t see the man’s boots, but he could see the muddy tracks they’d left on the gleaming lino tiles and they irritated him. There’s a doormat, he felt like saying, so why don’t you use it? He wanted to say that, but instead he said, ‘Yes, Sir?’

  Hughie Ackroyd glared. ‘I want to report an act of vandalism.’

  ‘What sort of vandalism, Sir?’

  ‘Mindless vandalism, of course. The sort you get because bobbies don’t walk the streets any more.’

  ‘And where did this – vandalism occur, Sir? Were you a witness?’

  ‘Of course I was a witness. It was my allotment, wasn’t it?’

  ‘I don’t know, Sir.’ The constable reached out, slid a thick notepad towards himself and fished in his pocket for a ballpoint. ‘I think we’d better start at the beginning. Can I have your name, Sir?’

  ‘Hugh Ackroyd.’

  The constable wrote on the pad. ‘Address?’

  The man sighed. ‘Twenty-two, Alma Terrace. Look – do we have to go through all this? By the time you’ve finished fossicking about, that dragon’ll have vanished without trace.’

  The constable looked up. ‘Dragon, Sir?’

  ‘That’s what I said.’

  ‘You want to report an act of vandalism by a dragon?’

  ‘Yes. Well – it wasn’t a real dragon, of course. It was kids dressed up.’

  ‘Kids dressed up.’ The policeman put down his pen. ‘How many kids were there, Sir?’

  ‘I dunno, do I? They were in this dragon thing. I were packing up for the night – hoeing my last row of spring onions – and this contraption comes running through the gate. It – they – trampled all over my beds, pushed my incinerator over and ran off laughing.’

  ‘I see. At about what time was this, Sir?’

  ‘What’s that got to do with it?’

  ‘It’s procedure, Sir.’

  ‘It’s a waste of flippin’ time, that’s what it is. I might have known there’d be no point coming here. You’re all too busy cruising about in your luxury limousines these days, talking into them poncey radios, so why don’t you just forget it, eh? Pretend I never came in. I’ll take care of this – my way.’ He spun on one mud-caked heel and made for the door.

  ‘I wouldn’t advise—’ The constable broke off as Hughie Ackroyd slammed out. ‘Watch out for those dragons, Sir,’ he murmured to the still-quivering door.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  AS HUGHIE ACKROYD was tracking mud into the police station, Trot was doing the same to the kitchen at home. His mother shrieked as he clomped across the floor. ‘Look at the state of your shoes, David. Take them off at once and leave them on the mat.’

  Trot turned with a sigh. ‘Yes, Mum.’

  ‘Wherever have you been to get them in that state?’

  ‘Oh – around. You know.’ Squatting by the doormat, fiddling with his laces. ‘The park, mostly.’

  ‘You must have been on the flowerbeds to get so filthy.’

  ‘Maybe. We didn’t mean to.’

  ‘No. Anyway, your dad and I would like a word with you.’

  ‘A word?’ Trot’s heart lurched. ‘What about?’ Surely old Ackroyd hasn’t been here, he thought. He couldn’t possibly know it was me.

  ‘About you,’ said his mother unhelpfully. ‘Your dad’s in the front room.’

  Trot left his trainers on the mat and trailed after his mother. His father smiled up at him from an easy chair. ‘Hello, son.’

  Oh-oh. Trot returned the smile. Something’s up. ‘Hi, Dad.’

  ‘Sit down a minute, David.’ His father indicated the other chair. Trot sank into it, watching his parents’ faces. They didn’t look mad or anything. His mother sat down on the sofa.

  ‘So, how’re things going, son?’

  Trot pulled a face. ‘OK, I guess.’ He couldn’t remember the last time his father had asked him how things were going. There probably hadn’t been a last time, so what was all this about?

  ‘Good, good. The play?’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘Your friend – Gary, is it?’

  ‘He’s fine too, Dad.’

  ‘Good. I expect he’s got a girlfriend, eh – good-looking lad like him.’

  The way his father chuckled as he said this switched on a little light in Trot’s head. Ah, he thought. So that’s what all this is about. Girlfriends.

  ‘Er – no.’ He shook his head. ‘Not that I know of.’

  ‘Oh.’ His father shrugged. ‘It’s just that your mother and I seem to have seen quite a lot of Lisa Watmough and the Sunderland girl just lately, and we wondered —’

  ‘They’re in the worm, Dad. We have to practise, y’know?’

  ‘Oh yes, of course. So you’re not particularly interested in either of them, then?’

  Trot shook his head. ‘No way. Ellie-May’s a droop and that Lisa’s got a face like the back end of a motorway pile-up.’

  ‘David!’ his mother frowned. ‘That’s not very nice, is it?’

  ‘What – Lisa’s phizog?’

  ‘No – you know perfectly well what I mean. Talking like that. Lisa Watmough’s quite a pretty girl. I was at school with her mother and she was pretty too.’

  ‘Good.’ He looked from parent to parent. ‘Is that it, then? Can we have the telly on now?’

  His father looked at him. ‘Thirteen’s a difficult age, son. You know you can always talk to me and your mum if anything’s worrying you, don’t you?’

  ‘Sure I do, Dad. Nothing’s worrying me, honestly.’ Quite the reverse, he thought, recalling the expression on old Ackroyd’s face as he watched the worm mess up his stupid garden. Everything’s fine. And it’s going to get a whole lot finer.

  ‘Good.’ His father gripped the arms of his chair and levered himself upright. ‘There’s a film on Channel Four you might enjoy. I think I’ll stroll down to the club for half an hour.’

  When her husband had left the room, Mrs Trotter looked across at her son. ‘Are you absolutely sure you’re not fretting about anything, David?’

  Trot grinned. ‘Absolutely, Mum. There’s nothing I can’t handle. Nothing in the world.’ As he said this, something occurred to him which wiped the grin off his face and caused his heart to kick. How is it, he wondered, that I saw the look on Ackroyd’s face when only Gary has eye-holes?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  FLISS’S MUM LEFT the dress to soak over Wednesday night in a strong detergent, and when she lifted it out of the bowl next morning and held it up to the light, the stains seemed to have gone. ‘We shan’t know for certain till it’s dry,’ she cautioned, but Fliss smiled tightly and said, ‘It’ll be fine.’

  Lisa wasn’t anywhere in sight when she got to the end of the road, but when she was halfway to school she heard someone call her name. She turned. Vicky Holmes was hurrying to catch her up. ‘Hi, Fliss,’ she smiled, falling into step. ‘I – I just wanted to say I think it’s rotten what they did to you yesterday. That lovely dress.’

  Fliss nodded. ‘Thanks, Vicky. My mum washed it. It’s going to be OK.’

  ‘Yes, but still.’

  ‘I know. Gary Bazzard’s a pain. He’s always been a pain, but he seems to have got a lot worse since we’ve been doing this play. The others have too. I think they’re trying to get rid of me.’

  ‘Rid of you – how d’you mean?’ Vicky looked horrified.

  Fliss grinned. ‘I don’t mean murder, Vicky. I mean they want me out of the play.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Dunno. I don’t think they know either.’

  Vicky looked at her. ‘That’s a funny thing to say.’

  ‘Yes I know, but it’s true. It’s like something’s gotten hold of them since they’ve had that costume. Look at Lisa Watmough – she was my best friend.’

  Vicky nodded. ‘I’ve noticed.’ She laid a hand on Fliss’s arm. ‘I’m your friend, Fliss.’


  Fliss smiled. ‘I know, and I’m glad. I mean it.’

  That afternoon there was a long rehearsal in the double-games period. Everybody was in costume except Fliss, who felt a wally in skirt and jumper, waving her plastic sword. She was apprehensive too but she didn’t let it show, and when Gary reached for her she hissed, ‘You dump me down that bank again and I swear I’ll smash your stupid costume once and for all. You wouldn’t like that, would you?’ No reply came from inside the worm, but when Gary’s fingers touched her sleeve the creature shrank back in a most convincing way.

  ‘Begone, foul fiend!’ cried Fliss, pointing her sword towards an imaginary fen. ‘I command you – in God’s name begone, and come this way no more.’ Very quietly, through lips which scarcely moved she added, ‘You don’t get rid of me that easily, Bazzard.’

  The monster slunk away.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  SATURDAY MORNING, FLISS left the house at eight forty-five. It was day one of the Festival, and walking home together Friday afternoon she and Vicky had arranged to meet in Butterfield’s diner to drink Coke and watch the procession with which the Festival was to open. Somebody at school had suggested putting the worm in the procession but Gary had dismissed the idea. He said it would spoil the surprise.

  Elsworth was a small town and Butterfield’s was its only supermarket. The diner which was tacked on its side was a favourite meeting place for kids. As she turned on to the road which dropped down into town, Fliss was thinking about the bridesmaid dress. Dry and ironed, it bore an indistinct mark where the edge of the stain had been, but this mark was so faint you’d have to know it was there before you’d see it. It certainly wasn’t going to stop her wearing it for the play next weekend, so Gary Bazzard’s dirty trick didn’t matter any more. And, she told herself, since I’ve found a brand-new friend, Lisa Watmough doesn’t matter either.

  It was five past nine when Fliss reached Butterfield’s, and Vicky was already there. She’d bagged a table by the window so they could watch the parade in luxury and pull faces at any boys who might go by. She had a can already, so Fliss got a Coke from the cabinet and paid at the counter before sliding in beside her.

  ‘Hi, Vicky. Been here long?’

  Vicky shook her head. ‘Three, four minutes. Grant Cooper and Michael Tostevin just went by. They’ve gone to McDonald’s.’

  ‘How d’you know?’

  ‘They mouthed it through the window. Probably hoped we’d join them.’

  ‘No chance.’

  ‘What’ll we do after the procession?’

  Fliss shrugged. ‘Whatever you like, as long as it doesn’t involve Grant and Michael. I see enough of them at school.’

  They lingered over their drinks, turning and giggling when a knot of older boys looked in the window. One of them was tall and lean, with thick black hair and a cheeky grin, and Fliss wished he’d come in and whisk her away to somewhere romantic, but he only stretched his mouth with his forefingers till it looked like a letterbox and wiggled his tongue at them. As he was doing this, the Mayor’s limousine came cruising by at the head of the procession and the boy moved away, looking abashed. The girls’ vantage point turned out not to be so great after all, because their view was partly blocked as shoppers lined the pavement to watch the floats. As soon as the last float had passed, Fliss and Vicky slurped up the dregs of their Cokes and went outside.

  They strolled through the town. The spectators were dispersing, leaving crisp packets and bits of torn streamer on the ground. When they came to where the Odeon used to be, there was just a gap with bits of smashed masonry and the marks of heavy tyres. They stood for a while gazing at the gap, and Fliss told Vicky about the demolition man and the fabric he’d given to Lisa and herself.

  They walked on, through the shopping centre and into the square. The parish church – St Ceridwen’s – overlooked the square, and as the girls approached they saw that somebody had stuck a colourful poster on the notice board. They stopped to read it.

  ONE THOUSAND YEARS IN ELSWORTH

  it began. ‘What a thought,’ groaned Fliss. ‘One Saturday morning’s bad enough.’

  ‘Yes, but look,’ cried Vicky. ‘It mentions our play.’

  ‘Where?’

  The poster listed a whole lot of things which would happen during the coming week. Fliss’s eyes slid down the list. There was the procession they’d just watched, with a prize for the best float; a Festival Queen, whom they’d glimpsed enthroned on the back of a lorry; a knockout quiz competition; a prize for the most original shop window display, and much else besides. At the foot of the list, in brilliant green, was this:

  SATURDAY MAY 1ST. ON THE FESTIVAL FIELD. A THRILLING RE-ENACTMENT BY CHILDREN OF BOTTOMTOP MIDDLE SCHOOL OF SAINT CERIDWEN’S OWN STORY. SEE THE LEGENDARY CONFRONTATION BETWEEN THE DREADED ELSWORTH WORM AND THE FRAIL MAIDEN. SEE TERRIFIED VILLAGERS AND MARAUDING DANES. SEE CERIDWEN MARTYRED FOR HER FAITH. OUR TOWN HAS SEEN NOTHING LIKE THIS IN A THOUSAND YEARS.

  ‘Bit over the top, isn’t it?’ said Fliss. ‘People’ll be expecting a Hollywood epic and all they’ll get is us, trolling about like wallies in a bunch of home-made costumes.’

  Vicky chuckled. ‘Doesn’t matter, Fliss. They’ll love it anyway. They always do when kids’re performing. It’s like the infants’ nativity play where someone forgets her lines or bursts out crying or goes wandering offstage looking for Mummy. The teacher’s going ape-shape thinking the whole thing’s ruined, but it isn’t, because the mums and dads think it’s really cute. They’ve seen the play fifty times before anyway, and it’s the things that go wrong that make it interesting.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Fliss wasn’t entirely convinced. ‘We’re not infants, Vicky. You heard what Mr Hepworth said. The whole town’ll be watching us. It’s the last thing, you see – the climax of the Festival. It’s a big responsibility and it scares me.’

  They moved on, strolling in a great circle round the town centre till they found themselves outside Butterfield’s once more.

  ‘Another Coke?’ suggested Fliss.

  Vicky shook her head. ‘I’d better go. We’re off somewhere in the car this aft – some garden centre or something, and I’ll have to get changed. What you gonna do – find that lad you fancied?’

  ‘Which lad?’ Fliss looked indignant. ‘I don’t fancy anyone. I thought I’d walk round the supermarket – get a choc bar or something.’

  Vicky grinned. ‘I’ll believe you. Thousands wouldn’t. You around tomorrow?’

  Fliss shrugged. ‘Dunno. Depends what the wrinklies’re up to. I’ll give you a ring.’

  Vicky departed and Fliss went into Butterfield’s. It was hot and busy and she knew she’d spend half her time being jostled and the other half dodging trolleys, but then nothing’s much fun by yourself and it was too early to go home. If she’d known what was about to happen among those crowded aisles, she’d have gone home anyway.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  WHILE FLISS AND Vicky were reading the poster outside St Ceridwen’s, Gary and the others were arguing in Trot’s garage, which had become a sort of headquarters for them. This was where they stowed the pieces of the worm, and where they usually met. It was a big garage with plenty of space to spare even when the Trotters’ Astra was in it, as it was now.

  ‘I still say let’s frighten some people,’ insisted Gary. ‘We all know how great we felt after we did it to old Ackroyd.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Lisa, ‘but that was at night, and in a quiet spot. Going downtown in broad daylight’s another matter. We’d get arrested.’

  ‘It was you got in trouble for being out late,’ countered Trot. ‘So Saturday morning should be just the job, right?’

  ‘Yes,’ put in Ellie-May, ‘but what about the police, Trot? Wouldn’t we be disturbing the peace or something?’

  ‘Would we heck! Listen – Gary and me aren’t stupid. We’ve got it all worked out. You know the other week, when the bookshop did that promo on kids’ books?’

 
Ellie-May looked at him. ‘Yes – what about it?’

  ‘Well – they had guys dressed up, didn’t they? There was a bogeyman, a puppy and an owl, all walking up and down the street in front of the shop. Did they get arrested?’

  ‘Well no, but they were advertising something, weren’t they?’

  ‘Exactly!’ Trot smiled. ‘And so are we. If anybody asks, we’re advertising our play, right?’

  Ellie-May shook her head. ‘I’m not sure, Trot. I don’t know if we’d get away with it.’

  ‘’Course we would. And anyway, nobody’s going to ask. Come on.’

  Fliss was making her way towards the checkout with a three-pack of Snickers in her basket. The narrow aisle was thronged with trolley-pushing shoppers and their children. Just in front of Fliss, a kneeling youth was taking tins of peas from a trolley and stacking them on a shelf. The trolley blocked off half of the gangway, creating a bottleneck into which impatient customers were funnelled, pushing and shoving one another in their eagerness to progress.

  Fliss was being swept towards this bottleneck and wishing she’d gone home with Vicky, when she became aware of some sort of commotion between the checkout line and one of the exits. She couldn’t see very well because the stacked goods on the shelves were higher than she was and because people were craning to see, but there seemed to be violent movement in the crowd over there and she could hear exclamations of anger or maybe surprise.

  Seconds later, the forward momentum of the crowd she was in ceased. For a moment, Fliss and those about her stood absolutely still. Then somebody screamed and the surge went violently into reverse as those at the front recoiled from whatever it was they could see. Fliss back-pedalled desperately as a tidal wave of shoppers threatened to overwhelm her. To her left, an old lady cried out and toppled, clawing at a pyramid of cans in a useless bid to stay on her feet. The pyramid collapsed, pelting the woman with cans as she fell. Other shoppers, skidding and stumbling through scattered cans, abandoned their trolleys, which became rolling barriers against those who came after. A child fell and was snatched by its mother from the jaws of certain death.