Inside the Worm

by Robert Swindells

  Fliss nodded. ‘Sure, but look at the time. Why didn’t you wake me? You know we’re doing the play today.’

  ‘Of course I know, Fliss. It’s at two o’clock. Your dad and I are ready, but there are three hours yet and we thought you ought to sleep on awhile after the dreadful night you had.’

  ‘Did I have a dreadful night? I’m fine now.’

  Her mother nodded. ‘You certainly did, young woman. Two o’clock this morning, screaming your head off. You’d had a nightmare. Something involving a grave, from what I could make out. Don’t you remember?’

  ‘No. Well – vaguely. I was in my grave, I think, and somebody was singing.’

  ‘You frightened me half to death, I know that. There’s nothing worse than being woken in the middle of the night by a scream.’

  ‘Sorry, Mum. I think I know what brought it on.’

  Her mother nodded grimly. ‘So do I, dear. It’s this play. It’s been worrying you for weeks. It’s been like having a little stranger in the house, the way you’ve mooned and fretted. Not like you at all.’

  Fliss nodded. ‘I know.’ And I’m still worried, she thought. More than worried. I’m scared. Not of Gary Bazzard and the others, though. No. Something else. Something’ll happen today. Something that isn’t in the script. I know it. I can feel it deep down, but I can’t talk to you about it, Mum. Or Dad. You’d think I was barmy. No, it’s something I’ve got to face by myself. Aloud, she said, ‘Is my dress ready?’

  Her mother nodded. ‘I ironed it. Nobody’ll notice the stain. Dad’s put it on a hanger in the car.’

  ‘Good. I mustn’t forget my sword.’ A plastic sword, she thought. What use will that be when it comes – whatever it is?

  She tried to eat breakfast, but could manage only orange juice.

  ‘You can’t fight a dragon on that,’ joked Dad. Fliss forced a smile.

  And so it was that at a quarter to twelve on that sunny April Saturday, Fliss set out with her parents to face whatever it was that awaited her on Elsworth’s Festival Field.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  TROT HAD BEEN up and about since six. He’d woken at five-thirty, full to bursting with energy and anticipation. Unable to suppress this he’d slipped out of bed, dressed silently and let himself out of the house.

  He spent nearly an hour tinkering with the worm. He tapped extra staples into the frame at points where wire and wood threatened to part company. He used superglue to fix a couple of loose teeth. He gave the fabric a vigorous brushing where it had picked up splashes of mud, and touched up the paintwork here and there on the head. He whistled as he worked, because he felt that today was going to turn out special for himself and his three friends. Today they’d leave something behind and start something new and nothing would ever be the same again.

  At eight o’clock, Gary phoned. Was he ready? Was everything set? He sounded high, and told Trot that he’d phone Lisa and Ellie-May to make sure they were ready.

  Ready for what? As he put down the phone, Trot felt a surge of dull fear. What was happening to them all? What was it they’d got into? How would it end? There were no answers to these questions. The fear was a part of the excitement – the sick kick he felt – and all Trot knew for certain was that the sensation was mounting and that he couldn’t stop now if he tried.

  It’s going to be terrible, he moaned. The worst thing that anybody ever did. I don’t know how we can even think of it.

  Roll on two o’clock.

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  AT TWENTY TO two, Fliss slipped away from her parents with the bridesmaid dress folded over her arm and the sword concealed inside it. The field, outside the roped-off central arena, was thronged with people, and she had to dodge and weave her way through them as she headed for the marquee in which she and the others would change. There were still a few picnickers, but most people had packed away lunch and were watching two clowns wobbling on unicycles around the oval of cropped grass which formed the arena, juggling burning torches. The marquee stood at one end of the arena and when Fliss reached it, most of the kids were there already.

  ‘Here’s our Ceridwen,’ grinned Mr Hepworth as she ducked inside.

  Mrs Evans smiled tightly. ‘Just in time, Felicity. Hurry up and change now.’

  The marquee was crowded with Vikings and villagers. Fliss glanced around till she spotted Gary and the others, but they were occupied with their costume and didn’t glance her way. She swallowed hard, told herself not to be silly, and began to change.

  She’d put on the dress and was buckling her white sandals when the vicar arrived. He said something to Mr Hepworth, who clapped his hands to get everybody’s attention. ‘Listen,’ he said. Andrew Roberts continued practising his narrative on Barry Tune. The Deputy Head glared at him. ‘When you’re quite ready, Andrew Roberts.’

  ‘Oops – sorry, Sir.’

  Mr Hepworth sighed. ‘The Reverend East has a few words to say to you all, so pay attention.’

  The vicar beamed. ‘Good afternoon, everybody. In a minute or two I shall go to the podium to announce the commencement of your splendid production, but I thought I’d drop by here just to say how much I appreciate all the hard work you people have put in in the three weeks since Easter, and to tell you how much I’m looking forward to your performance.’ He smiled. ‘Good luck, everyone.’

  ‘Thank you, Sir,’ chorused Year Eight, high on adrenaline. The vicar walked out into the sunshine.

  Mrs Evans cleared her throat. ‘Right, Year Eight, this is it – your big moment. You’ve worked terrifically hard and everything’s fine, so don’t worry. Go out there and enjoy yourselves, and the whole town will enjoy you too.’ She smiled. ‘Stand by, villagers. Ready, Ceridwen? Worm?’

  There was a crackling noise through the public-address system as the vicar stepped up to the mike. ‘Mr Mayor. Lady Mayoress. Ladies, gentlemen and children.’ His voice echoed tinnily over the field. ‘What a perfect day we are having to round off a truly memorable week.’ He paused, smiling as a rumble of assent came from the crowd. ‘We’ve been blessed with fine weather, not only today but all week. Each of our various events has gone splendidly and here we are, bathed in glorious sunshine and having the time of our lives.’ More assent from his listeners.

  ‘Let us not forget though, the reason for all this festivity. Let us remember whose heroism, whose martyrdom we celebrate here today.’ A respectful silence settled over the field as Toby East spoke of how, exactly one thousand years ago, the village of Elsworth had been delivered from evil by the valour of its own dear saint, the maid Ceridwen, and of how this brave lass had later died a cruel death rather than renounce her faith. ‘To remind us of these events,’ he cried, ‘and to bring to a climax this week of celebration, the children of Year Eight at Bottomtop Middle School now present their own production, entitled Ceridwen – Heroine-Saint of Elsworth.’

  The vicar, with a sweeping gesture, indicated the marquee. There was a ripple of applause as Andrew Roberts emerged, followed by the villagers with Ceridwen in their midst. Andrew mounted the podium as the vicar vacated it. The villagers continued to the far end of the arena where a cluster of stalls and booths became the ancient village.

  The narrator approached the mike. He was carrying his script, but in fact he was practically word-perfect without it. Vikings peeped from within the marquee as Andrew’s voice rang out.

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  ‘“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.”’

  An area behind the marquee was the fen. As Andrew paused in his narrative, the worm came capering round the side of the marquee and entered the arena. Gasps of admiration and surprise came from the crowd, but these became boos and hisses as the spectators entered into the spirit of t
he event. At the far end of the arena villagers cried out, pointing and scrambling to hide behind stalls and one another as the monster advanced. Fliss, who was not to appear till the worm had taken four victims, watched anxiously from behind a booth.

  Everything went according to script. Gary’s arms shot out and seized Tara Matejak, who screamed and writhed lustily as she was half carried, half dragged across the arena and away behind the marquee to the boos, whistles and catcalls of the crowd.

  Michael Tostevin was the second victim. He threw away his mattock and tried to run, but the worm easily overcame him and he was borne away, howling, to join Tara.

  When Haley Denton was seized, she managed to squeeze the contents of a sachet of ketchup all over her throat and chest. Cries of disgust and revulsion rose above the booing as she was dragged off, gurgling realistically and oozing gore.

  Joanne O’Connor was to be victim number four. Fliss watched tensely as the girl moved on to the arena wielding a hoe, pretending to till the soil. Up to now everything was normal and Fliss felt a flicker of hope. She recalled what she’d said to Lisa on Thursday. ‘—that’s where your game will have to stop because there’s nothing special about the four of you—’ At the time she hadn’t been nearly as sure as she’d sounded, but now she dared to hope that she’d been right.

  Joanne was working her way along a row of imaginary carrots with her hoe. The worm was taking an unusually long time to appear and Fliss could see that Joanne was nervous. The poor girl didn’t dare look towards the marquee because she wasn’t supposed to see the worm approaching, but she was biting her lower lip and Fliss knew she just wanted her part to be over.

  Fliss slitted her eyes against the glare of the sun and peered towards the marquee. As she did so, she heard a shrill scream and a figure appeared, running. It was Haley Denton, and she was followed by Tara Matejak and Michael Tostevin. Michael was trailing smoke and, as he pelted into the open, Fliss saw a flicker of flame and realized his tunic was on fire.

  There were cries from people in the crowd. A woman ducked under the rope and sprinted towards the boy. She was carrying a car blanket. As Fliss watched, paralysed with shock, the woman brought Michael down with a rugby tackle and rolled him in the blanket. A man ran out to help her, but he’d got less than halfway when the marquee whooshed into flame and the worm came out of the smoke with fire in its jaws. The man cried out, skidded to a halt and ran back, scattering hysterical Vikings. The shrieking crowd milled as the monster blasted to left and right with jets of searing flame.

  Andrew Roberts flung away his script, dived off the podium and vanished into the crush. Joanne O’Connor abandoned her hoe and ran screeching towards where she thought she’d last seen her mother. An Army sergeant from the local recruiting office shouted to his five men to get into the armoured personnel carrier they’d been demonstrating. There was no live ammunition, but he thought that if they could ram the creature they might maim it. It was a bit of good thinking – one of the few bits to emerge in what was otherwise a shocked and panicky rabble – but it was to no avail. The first soldier was still some metres short of the A.P.C. when it was seized by two terrified civilians, who drove it off at speed.

  The worm had advanced and stood now in the centre of the arena, snorting and clawing the turf with the talons of a gigantic bird. Its mad red eyes rolled this way and that and came to rest on the woman whose prompt action had saved the burning boy. She had flung her body across Michael’s to prevent him rising. Now, as the monster swung its gaping maw her way, she cringed beside the heaving mound of blanket, helpless to save herself.

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  ALL OF THIS had taken place in the space of a few seconds, during which Fliss, transfixed with horror, had seen all of her worst fears realized. Even as her brain was telling her such things were impossible, she knew that the Elsworth Worm had returned. Her four classmates, together with the contraption they had made, had undergone an incredible change to become the nightmare beast which now possessed the field. The beast which had burned the pigeon squabs and trampled the tulips. The beast which had rampaged through the supermarket a week ago, creating panic. The beast which was about to annihilate the woman who now crouched helpless in its path.

  She didn’t think. She was incapable of thought. But as the worm prepared to blast its victim, she ran on to the field, waving her pathetic sword and shouting to attract the beast’s attention.

  The worm swung its great head, watching Fliss through hate-filled eyes. A long, low growl came out of its throat. Through the corner of her eye, Fliss saw her father leap the rope, heard him scream her name. She dashed on. It was as though some force had assumed control of her mind, of her actions. She felt no fear now.

  With a shattering roar, the worm launched itself to meet her, discharging a shaft of flame which passed so close she felt its searing heat. As they met in midfield she swung the sword at the creature’s scaly neck, but it glanced off as though the beast were clad in steel. The monster dwarfed her as it reared to rip with its claws. She ducked and dodged as razor talons flailed the air. The flimsy sword windmilled around her head till, inevitably, it struck a horny claw and was torn from her grip.

  It’s over now, she thought. It must be. One slash of those talons and I’ll fall in shreds. And even as she thought this, a voice in her head was crying, ‘Forward. Only forward.’ She pressed on without knowing why, ducking and weaving. So close was she now to her adversary that the worm could neither see her nor bring its fire to bear, and every time it backed up to get her range, Fliss moved with it.

  It couldn’t continue, and Fliss knew it. She felt herself tiring. Dimly, she was aware that the Festival Field was emptying as townspeople scrambled over walls and fences or fought their way through gateways. Perhaps, she thought, some will escape if they flee, but the worm will have its revenge on Elsworth, and slake its thousand-year hunger with Elsworth’s dead. She wished her parents would save themselves, but knew they were near for her sake. Her limbs felt leaden and she couldn’t get her breath. She knew that soon she must fall.

  It happened almost at once. The worm backed up and, as Fliss followed, her sandal came down on a stone. She stumbled and fell, and before she could roll or rise, she was pinned to the turf by a great taloned foot. She gritted her teeth and screwed up her eyes, awaiting the blast which would finish her.

  It didn’t come. Instead, the worm emitted a chilling screech and the foot was snatched back. Fliss rolled and looked up. There stood the beast, but as she watched, its image began to shimmer and warp like an object underwater. She screwed up her eyes and shook her head. It was changing, shrinking. The coils of smoke, the jets of flame, became wisps and tongues which flickered out and dispersed before her eyes. The scaly armour seemed to soften and hang in folds and wrinkles, and the creature’s sinewy limbs disintegrated, becoming thin and pale as the talons in which they ended curled and shrivelled like feathers in a flame. The screeching roar dwindled through cough, bark and groan till it resolved in the anguished cries of children.

  A wave of nausea swept through Fliss and she closed her eyes. When she looked again the worm had gone. On the scorched and trampled grass lay a smashed thing – a contraption of wood and cloth and wire in the midst of which sprawled four ashen-faced children. A hand plucked at the sleeve of her dress. Fliss turned. The woman she’d saved gazed into her eyes. ‘What – what was it?’ she croaked. ‘What happened?’

  Fliss shook her head. She felt unutterably tired. ‘I don’t know,’ she murmured. ‘But whatever it was, I think it’s over now.’

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  A WEEK WENT by before life in Elsworth returned to something like normal. During that time, two explanations emerged for what had taken place on the Festival Field.

  The vicar said that Elsworth had once more been threatened, and once more delivered.

  The Star abandoned its earlier sensationalism and said that the townspeople had been the victims of a collective hallucination, and o
f mass hysteria.

  The town’s churchgoers tended to favour the vicar’s version, while the police and most other people went along with the Star. No prosecutions followed the recent spate of vandalism. Nobody felt like delving any deeper into the matter for fear of uncovering fresh mysteries. No. It was over and done with, whatever it was. Forget it. Life goes on.

  Fliss could not forget it, and neither could Lisa, Ellie-May, Gary or Trot. They’d survived, but their horrific experience had left them feeling isolated – set apart somehow from the world of friends, family and everyday life. Saturday found them huddled in the greenhouse on the abandoned allotment. The spell of fine weather had broken down. Rain hissed and rattled on the grimy panes, there was no sign of Hughie Ackroyd, and they were glad of the warmth which came from the rusty stove.

  They’d sat for some time in silence, letting a chill which had little to do with the weather thaw from their bones, when Lisa said, ‘I don’t know how you can stand to be with us, Fliss, after what we did to you.’

  Fliss shook her head. ‘It wasn’t you, Lisa. It wasn’t any of you. You were possessed – taken over by something. It started as soon as you were chosen to play the worm. It had waited a thousand years and it didn’t rush. It took over your minds, little by little. Then it started changing your bodies, though you didn’t know it. On Festival Day, behind that marquee, it extinguished you altogether and became itself once more – the Elsworth Worm, bent on revenge. If others had been chosen, the same would have happened to them.’

  ‘I know.’ Ellie-May shivered. ‘I could feel it. It was like – you know – you get an urge to do something you know’s wrong, but the thought of it’s so exciting you can’t stop yourself. It was terrific and horrible, both at the same time.’

  ‘I felt like that,’ nodded Trot. ‘I wanted to do the worst things I could think of, even though they were stupid and cruel. I just couldn’t help it.’