CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
JIMMY LEE’S SCOOP had broken too late for Monday’s Star, so the people of Elsworth knew nothing of the dragon-and-tulip affair as the children of Bottomtop Middle streamed into school that Monday morning. Year Eight had planned no rehearsal for today – Mrs Evans had told them there was such a thing as being over-rehearsed – but in the event they had to sacrifice double English and get into their costumes because the vicar arrived during registration to ask how things were progressing.
They did it on the field, it went smoothly and the Reverend Toby East was impressed. When it was over – when Gemma Carlisle, the Viking Chief, had dragged Ceridwen off to her martyrdom between the goal-posts – he applauded. He actually stood there on the touchline with a smile on his face and clapped. Mrs Evans, who had stood beside him throughout the performance, clapped too. She felt she ought to, since Mr East had given the lead. He turned to her, beaming. ‘Splendid!’ he cried. ‘Isn’t it absolutely splendid, Mrs Evans?’
‘Oh yes,’ smiled the teacher, who would rather have been taking the double English lesson she’d prepared. ‘Our Year Eight is a very able group, Mr East.’ The children, who had heard the vicar’s enthusiastic remark, came trooping across the field wearing bits of costume and smug grins. Even Fliss was smiling. Nothing unpleasant had happened and she was feeling better.
The vicar beamed at her. ‘A fine Ceridwen, my dear – serene and lovely as the saint herself if I may say so.’
Fliss dropped her eyes, felt herself blush and murmured, ‘Thank you.’ She wished he hadn’t singled her out for praise – Gary Bazzard wouldn’t like it, and she was anxious that he should be propitiated till after Saturday.
The vicar said something to Mrs Evans, who nodded. He turned to the children. ‘Would the four children who play the worm please remain here for a moment?’
Fliss saw that his smile had gone and felt a spasm of unease. Please don’t stir them up, she thought. It’s me that’s got to face them on Saturday.
Mrs Evans touched her shoulder. ‘Come along, Felicity.’ The class was making its way back into school. Fliss followed, hoping the vicar had kept the four to praise them; knowing he had not.
‘Now.’ The vicar regarded the quartet sternly. ‘I’m going to ask the four of you a question, and I want you to answer me truthfully. Is that understood?’
Gary Bazzard nodded. The others mumbled, ‘Sir.’
‘Where were you at ten past eleven last Saturday morning?’
‘At my granny’s,’ said Gary at once. ‘You can ask my mam.’ The others looked at him and said nothing.
The vicar sighed. ‘And you, young lady – where were you?’
Lisa looked from Gary to the vicar and back again, biting her lip. ‘It’s no use, Gary,’ she said. ‘He knows.’
‘Yes.’ The vicar’s tone was icy. ‘He knows, but he’s waiting to hear it from you. Where were you?’
‘Butterfield’s,’ mumbled Lisa.
‘Supermarket,’ said Ellie-May.
‘In costume,’ admitted Trot.
‘Thank you,’ said the vicar quietly. ‘You might be interested to know that one of the shoppers in Butterfield’s that morning was my wife. Your antic upset her quite badly, but unlike everybody else she knew about the play and realized where the monster must have come from.’ He frowned. ‘I suppose you know what a wicked thing it was that you did?’ Nobody answered. ‘You know, don’t you, that your silly prank might have had disastrous consequences? Somebody frail – a weak heart perhaps, and they might have died. Did you think about that? Did you consider the possibility of somebody being trampled, crushed – somebody’s baby? Did you think at all before you did what you did?’
Lisa sniffled. ‘No, Sir.’
‘No, Sir.’
The vicar gazed at them. ‘Why did you do it, eh? Whatever possessed you to do such a thing?’
‘Possessed?’ Gary glanced sharply at the vicar. ‘Nothing possessed us, Sir. It was a stunt. A publicity stunt, to advertise our play. We thought it was a good idea, Sir, that’s all.’
The vicar looked at the boy. ‘Your idea, was it?’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘Well, it was not a good one, Gary. Far from it. People were injured. Frightened. Property was damaged. And there was nothing to connect the event in people’s minds with your play. If, as you say, it was a publicity stunt, it was poorly thought out and brutally executed, and I’m ashamed of you. Your classmates have worked hard to produce an outstanding presentation, and the four of you have let them down with this act of – of vandalism. Do you know that the police are involved?’
‘Police?’ Trot looked scared.
‘Of course.’ The vicar sighed again. ‘Oh, it’s all right. You needn’t worry. I’ll go to them. Tell them it was a publicity stunt gone wrong. I’ll talk to Mr Butterfield too. It will be all right. But I want you to promise me that you’ll never ever do anything of the sort again. Do I have your promise?’
They nodded. ‘Yes, Sir.’
‘Good. Then we’ll say no more about it. That’s a very fine costume you’ve constructed. Most realistic. Keep on rehearsing, and good luck for Saturday.’
‘Thank you, Sir.’
The vicar strode away, and the quartet walked slowly across the yard. ‘What now?’ asked Lisa. ‘We’ve given our promise.’
‘Our promise?’ Gary kicked a stone. ‘What’re you – an infant? Our flipping promise!’
‘He’s the vicar, though. A promise to a vicar’s sort of special, isn’t it?’
‘Oh, yes.’ The boy grinned wolfishly. ‘It’s special all right. ‘I’ll get special pleasure out of breaking it, that’s what’s special about it.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
TUESDAY MORNING, SEVEN-THIRTY. The Morgans at breakfast. Mrs Morgan sips coffee. Mr Morgan hides behind the Star. All you can see of him is his fingers and the top of his balding head. Fliss takes the last slice of toast from the rack and begins to butter it. Her knife makes a scratchy sound on the toast. The Star is lowered slightly. Her father glares at her over the top of it. He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t need to. ‘Sorry,’ murmurs Fliss. She butters more quietly. The Star rises to its former position. Silence, which Mr Morgan breaks with a scornful laugh. His wife and daughter glance up, waiting to know what’s funny. Without lowering the paper, Mr Morgan begins to read aloud. Fliss wonders how he knows they’re listening.
‘Park Keeper Percy Waterhouse called the police on Sunday morning when he found his formerly beautiful garden had been wrecked in the night. When the constabulary arrived at the scene, huge reptilian footprints were found all over the Keeper’s tulip beds. A veterinarian who examined the prints dismissed them as a hoax, and a police spokesman told our reporter, “We don’t get a lot of large reptiles in Elsworth.” However, when our reporter spoke with Mr Ronnie Millhouse, a resident of the park, Mr Millhouse claimed to have seen a large dragon there only a few nights ago. Most people would doubtless be inclined to discount this evidence, but before doing so they ought perhaps to consider the following: Elsworth once played host to a very large reptile indeed. This reptile was no hoax – it ate people. The beast was never killed – it was simply banished to the fen. This was exactly one thousand years ago. This week the people of Elsworth are celebrating its banishment.
Prematurely—?’
Mr Morgan stops reading. The silence lasts several seconds.
‘Go on,’ says Mrs Morgan.
‘That’s it,’ her husband tells her. ‘There’s no more.’
‘What an odd story,’ says Mrs Morgan.
‘Damned silly if you ask me,’ growls Mr Morgan. They both chuckle.
Fliss does not.
Because of the impromptu run-through for the vicar on Monday, Tuesday’s rehearsal was cancelled. Fliss was glad. She couldn’t get the Star story out of her head. Common sense told her that Gary and the others must have been on the rampage again, but would they dare do such a dreadful thing? And
what about the prints? How had they managed those? She longed to ask Lisa but knew she mustn’t. Lisa wouldn’t tell her anyway. From time to time during that seemingly endless day she watched Lisa and the other three, hoping they’d give themselves away by some word or expression but, though the dragon story was the chief topic of playground conversation, she detected nothing which might indicate their guilt in the affair. She discussed it at lunchtime with Vicky, who said it couldn’t have been them – the footprints would have been far too difficult to fake.
Nevertheless, Fliss worried. She worried all day at school, and all evening, moping around at home. Finally, at nine o’clock, she could stand it no longer. She should have been thinking about going to bed, but she knew she wouldn’t sleep till she knew what had happened Saturday night in the park. Her parents exchanged glances when their daughter announced that she fancied a pizza takeaway and got into her jacket, but the takeaway was only round the corner. ‘Don’t be long, dear,’ was all her mother said, and her father chipped in with, ‘And don’t talk to any strange men.’
She reached Trot’s gateway and hesitated. Suppose Trot and the others weren’t here? She knew they met most evenings, but maybe not tonight. Well, she told herself, if they’re not here I’ll knock on the door and ask to see Trot. I’ll tackle him head on – ask him straight out whether he and the others wrecked the Keeper’s flowers, and how they made the prints. It might even be easier if he’s by himself. I’ll swear not to tell on them, if only he’ll set my mind at rest. Yes. That’s what I’ll do. I sort of hope he is alone. She took a deep breath and strode up the path.
They weren’t there. The garage door was up, but the place was empty. There was no car. And when she crept inside and looked around, there was no worm either. The costume had gone.
She tried the house. There were lights on inside, but nobody answered her knock. With the car gone, it was likely the Trotters were out for the evening. And with the worm gone, it was likely the foursome were out for the evening too.
Where? As she turned and hurried down the path, Fliss felt a tingling in the nape of her neck. She half ran along the road, glancing back from time to time to make sure nothing was following her. She was so scared she almost forgot to get her pizza, and when she got it home she couldn’t eat it. She shot it into the pedal-bin and ran upstairs to her room. Her parents exchanged glances again.
‘Hormones,’ said Mrs Morgan.
‘Aaah,’ said Mr Morgan.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
IF THERE WAS one thing Jimmy Lee enjoyed more than sniffing out a good story, it was his pigeons. They were racing pigeons and Jimmy had twenty of them, not counting squabs. He kept them in a loft he’d built himself, on an allotment opposite his house. This allotment was on the same block as Hughie Ackroyd’s, and the two men were on nodding terms. Hughie didn’t care for pigeons and Jimmy wasn’t interested in growing vegetables, but they did have one thing in common – they were both worried about the kids who hung around the abandoned greenhouse. Bored kids often got up to mischief, and a neat garden or a well-ordered pigeon loft might well act as magnets to acts of casual vandalism.
So when Jimmy looked out of his window that Wednesday morning and saw that the door of the loft was swinging in the breeze, his first thought was that his birds had had a visit from those flipping kids. Fearful for the welfare of the squabs, he pulled on some clothes and hurried across the road, to find that the situation was very much worse than he had feared.
The first thing he noticed was the smell. It was a pungent smell and Jimmy recognized it. It was the smell of burnt feathers, and he could smell it before he reached the loft. He hurried forward, cursing under his breath, and cried out in horror and disbelief at the sight which met his eyes.
They’d had the place on fire. The structure itself hadn’t burned, but the inside walls were scorched as though somebody had stood in the doorway and discharged a flame-thrower. Dead birds littered the floor, their plumage blasted off. Charred feed-bags spilled their contents among the corpses, and inside the nest-boxes his precious squabs lay roasted on beds of blackened straw. So intense had been the heat from whatever it was the vandals had used, that the loft’s window had cracked across two of its four panes. A quick count told Jimmy that not all of his birds had died, but of the survivors there was no trace.
He was trudging back, intent on calling the police, when he saw the footprint. There was only one, in a patch of soft earth near the gate. Jimmy squatted, tracing its outline with a finger. It was big – maybe thirty centimetres across, and it had been made by something heavy because the depression was at least four centimetres deep. In fact, it was exactly like the prints the police had shown him in the park yesterday.
‘Some hoax,’ he muttered, straightening up, wiping soil from his finger on his jeans. ‘Some rotten hoax.’ Tears of grief and rage pricked his eyes. He kicked a stone viciously with the toe of his trainer and strode towards the house.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
‘MR BAZZARD?’
‘Yes.’
‘We’re police officers. You have a son, I believe – Gary, isn’t it?’
‘That’s right. Why – what’s he done?’
‘I haven’t said he’s done anything, Sir. We’d like a word though. Is he in?’
‘Yes. Upstairs. You’d better come in.’
It was six o’clock Wednesday evening. Gary’s mother was out. She worked the evening shift at the biscuit factory. Her husband was glad. She’d have a fit if she was here, he told himself. Police asking after our Gary. He went to the foot of the stairs.
‘Gary!’
‘What?’
‘Someone to see you.’
‘Who?’
‘Police.’ The loud music which had been issuing from his son’s room ceased abruptly and Gary peered over the bannister.
‘Police? For me? Why?’
One of the two officers looked up at him. ‘Come on down, son, and we’ll tell you.’
Gary descended like a man on his way to be hanged. His father led the officers into the front room. ‘Sit down if you like. Do I stay or what?’
‘Stay if you wish, Sir. This won’t take long.’ Both officers remained standing. They looked at Gary. ‘You’re at Bottomtop Middle, aren’t you, son?’
Gary nodded warily. ‘’Sright.’
‘And you’re involved in a play. Part of the Festival.’
‘Yes.’
‘You’re part of a dragon thing, aren’t you?’
‘The Elsworth Worm. I’m the head.’
‘A remarkably realistic beast, by all accounts. Where is it?’
‘Sorry?’
‘Where is it – the prop, costume, whatever you call it?’
‘Oh – it’s at Trot’s place. David Trotter’s. He’s part of it too.’
‘You keep it at your friend’s house?’
‘Yes.’
‘And what do you do – do you get into it sometimes and practise for the play?’
‘We rehearse, yes.’
‘Who’s we, son? How many of you are there?’
‘Four.’
‘Names?’
‘David Trotter. Ellie-May Sunderland. Lisa Watmough. And me.’
‘And you rehearse together?’
‘We have to. It’s not easy, moving together and all that, when only one can see.’
‘I can imagine. Where do you rehearse?’
‘Trot’s garden. The street. Anywhere, really.’
‘Hughie Ackroyd’s allotment, perhaps? Butterfield’s supermarket?’
‘I – we don’t use anybody’s allotment. We did go round the supermarket last Saturday, but that was for publicity.’
‘Publicity?’
‘For the play. It was sort of an advert.’
‘Pretty violent advert, son.’
‘I know. The vicar told us off. It like – got out of hand.’
‘I’ll say it did. And what about the stunt in the park, and the one with Ji
mmy Lee’s pigeons? Did they get out of hand too?’
‘I don’t know what you mean. What stunt in the park? What pigeons? I don’t know anything about any pigeons.’
‘Tell me how you do the footprints, son.’
‘Footprints?’ Gary looked bewildered. ‘I don’t understand.’ He appealed to his father. ‘Dad – I don’t know what he’s on about.’
Mr Bazzard looked at the officer. ‘What’s this all about, Officer? Why are you questioning my son?’
The officer told him. When he’d finished, Mr Bazzard frowned. ‘And you think my son’d do something like that? Destroy somebody’s garden? Burn up a man’s pigeons? He’s just a kid, for Pete’s sake.’
‘We’re not accusing him, Mr Bazzard. We’re simply making enquiries.’ He turned to Gary. ‘David Trotter – you know his address?’
‘Sure. Thirty-three Baslow Grove. He’ll only say the same as me.’
‘I want to take a look at this worm of yours, son. See what sort of feet it’s got.’
‘Our feet. It’s got our feet, that’s all.’
‘Then you’ve nothing to worry about, have you, son?’
They left. Gary told his father about the supermarket and reaffirmed the quartet’s innocence in the other matters the officer had mentioned. Then he went up to his room, turned up the volume on his CD player, and lay on his bed wondering who had set the police on to him, and in what way the blabbermouth might be made to pay.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
‘ARE YOU FEELING all right, Fliss?’ Thursday morning. Fliss playing with her cornflakes, watched by her mother who looks concerned. No, Mother, I’m not feeling all right actually. I’m tired, and I’m scared. Fliss doesn’t say this, though it’s the truth. It would lead to questions she’d rather not try to answer. She wants only one thing. She wants Saturday to come and go so normal life can resume. Till then she wants to be left alone. She forces a smile.
‘I’m OK, Mum.’ I’m not though. I fret, I dream, I fret some more. Things are happening. Frightening things. Things there are no words for. And the ship sails on.
Inside the Worm Page 8
