The Way Of The Worm

by Ramsey Campbell

  “Dominic, I hope you wouldn’t think I could.”

  “Something somebody made up took him away from us.” Apparently in case I didn’t feel accused he said “I wish to God he’d never known either of you.”

  “I understand how you feel, but Jim wouldn’t have—”

  “Don’t you dare try and speak for our father.”

  This left me feeling I couldn’t speak for myself either, and I was about to say goodbye when a woman called “What’s wrong, Dominic?”

  I was so distracted that I almost began to answer. “Maybe you should speak to this, this friend of dad’s,” Jim’s son told his mother, immediately adding “No, you shouldn’t. Goodbye, Mr Sheldrake.”

  I felt expelled into the growing darkness that the lights in my house seemed powerless to fend off. At least Jim’s wife and their sons weren’t alone, but this only reminded me how painful my second call might be. I held the phone and tried to prepare, which simply left me unable to think. At last I keyed the number, and was striving not to hope my call would go unanswered when the bell was silenced. “Carole Ashcroft,” Carole said.

  She sounded so breathless she’d left her emotions behind—as if her voice had no room for them, at any rate. “Carole,” I said, “it’s Dominic Sheldrake.”

  “Bob’s still on her way home. I believe she’s on the tube just now. Her phone’s not responding.” Carole took a breath that might have given me a chance to speak. “Shall I tell her you called,” she said, “or is there a message?”

  “Carole, she isn’t—” This was a uselessly false start, and I could only add “She isn’t on her way.”

  “She’s still there with you and your friend.”

  “No.” This only meant I had to say “She isn’t coming back.”

  I could have thought I sounded guilty of stealing Carole’s partner, which was variously and grotesquely inappropriate. I might have preferred Carole to say almost anything other than “What do you mean?”

  “There’s been an accident, Carole, a fatality.” Perhaps I imagined this would make it easier to say or hear “I’m truly sorry, but she’s gone.”

  A silence left me fearful that Carole hadn’t heard until she said “Gone how?”

  “I’m afraid she was drowned.”

  “Drowned.” More fiercely still Carole said “Who drowned her?”

  “I don’t know that anybody did.” I managed to move closer to the truth by saying “She was running away and she fell in the river.”

  “Bob wouldn’t run away from anything. That’s why she wrote about that woman and how she behaved with her father.” In a challenge that sounded not too far from threatening Carole said “Did you see her run?”

  “I did, and I saw why.” For a moment I wanted to tell Carole the truth, but was sure the attempt would be vain. “The train she was on hit our friend Jim’s car,” I said. “He’d had a stroke, I was told.”

  I was feeling disloyal to Jim, and wondering how long it would take me to accept my own manufactured tale, when Carole said “What are you asking me to believe? That wouldn’t make Bob do away with herself.”

  “There was more to it, Carole.” I had to risk asking “How did she act after she’d exposed the Nobles and been in court?”

  “She was nervous but she wouldn’t take anything for it. I’m sure the things that Noble girl put in her head were catching up with her. I encouraged her to write about them and that whole family. I supported her.” Before I could judge whether Carole was expressing regret she said “You’re honestly telling me she’s gone. There’s no possibility of a mistake.”

  I sensed how rigid she was holding her emotions. “I only wish there were.”

  “I should have come with her to see you. I offered but she said it had to be just the three of you.” As I searched for a response Carole said “So now you’re on your own.”

  I took this for sympathy and almost told her she was too. I was about to offer all I could when Carole said “Where were you when all that was happening?”

  “On my way there. I’d have given anything to be in time. I ought to say I wasn’t saying Bobby drowned herself. As I said, she fell in.”

  “That’s right, she was Bobby to you.” However Carole meant me to take this, she went on at once. “On your way where?”

  “We were supposed to meet Bobby at Crewe. She sent texts from the train.”

  Carole paused, apparently preparing to ask “Can I have them?”

  I could hardly refuse. “I’ll forward them now.”

  There was silence while I did, and after that as well. “Thank you,” Carole said at last. “Do you know where Bob is now?”

  I’d expected her to question the messages, but wasn’t about to prompt it. “They took her away in an ambulance.”

  “Didn’t you give them my details?”

  “Of course I did. Your name and address. I didn’t have your number with me.”

  “I should wait to hear, then.” With what I suspected was the last of her restraint, to be abandoned as soon as she rang off, Carole said “Will you be attending her funeral?”

  “Try and keep me away.”

  I regretted the form of words before it was finished, but perhaps Carole hadn’t time to take offence. “I’ll be in touch,” she only just said, and ended the call.

  Now there was nothing to distract me from how empty the house was or from fearing that I mightn’t stay alone much longer. I couldn’t wish for Lesley or my friends when recalling them might inflict monstrousness upon them, the revenge of the Nobles. Christian and his progeny were the visitors I dreaded, in whatever hideous form they took. Every moment felt like imminence, all the more acute when no intruder appeared. As the vacant minutes became hours that gathered into days I began to feel almost resigned to the encounter that I fancied was biding its time so as to aggravate my dread. I deserved it, after all, for bringing it upon Bobby and Jim. I even slept, sometimes in bed, despite repeatedly starting awake for fear of drifting into someone else’s experience, past or still to come. I had a nightmare notion that if I found myself sharing memories that weren’t mine, the Nobles would hunt me down through time while I was helplessly lost. Perhaps they would already be there, waiting somewhere I couldn’t even call on my own strength.

  I was dozing in the front room as Gene Kelly celebrated a storm when my phone jerked me awake. Previously I’d thought I could never tire of Singin’ in the Rain, the greatest analysis of cinema on film. I hoped the call might be from Carole, though I suspected it was from the police, but it was neither. “Dad, it’s Toby.”

  “Toby, it’s good to hear from you,” I said, hoping this would be the case. “What can I do for you?”

  He hesitated long enough to let me think he had no answer before saying “Will you come back to the church?”

  “I don’t think I’d be very welcome, or at ail.”

  “We’ll make sure you are, I promise.”

  “Who will? Certainly not Claudine.”

  “Yes, dad, Claude too, so that shows you ought to come. She’s seen you were only concerned when you said what you said. It’s all forgiven.”

  “That’s very Christian of you both.” While this felt mean, the name clarified my suspicions. “Whose idea was it to entice me back?” I said.

  “Ours, of course. We’re in charge.”

  “Not the ones who used to be.”

  “If you mean Christian and his family, how can you think that after what happened to them?”

  “You share all their ideas, don’t you? And you aren’t telling me you really think they’ve gone themselves.” I would have liked not to feel provoked to ask “Haven’t you seen them since?”

  “Dad, we’re calling a retreat for members of the church. I’ll swear to you on whatever you like it’s our idea alone.”

  I was unexpectedly offended that he should have borrowed the concept of a retreat—a meditative gathering of the kind I recalled from my childhood religion. He hadn’t answere
d my question either, and I couldn’t judge how slyly skilful his response had been. “I’m not a member,” I said.

  “You’re as good as one. Dad, this is the most important thing we’ve ever done and we want you to be there.”

  “If you believe it’s so important I won’t argue with you, but you mustn’t expect me to join in.”

  “Dad, it’s for your good.”

  I’d been close to promising to attend if I could simply observe, but this antagonised me beyond bearing. “Just let me decide what is. I’m not past making that decision for myself yet.”

  “You can’t when you don’t even know what’s involved.”

  I knew that in a sense the Church of the Eternal Three was responsible for the deaths of my friends, which made me retort “Then let me know.”

  “Dad, will you trust us? If you come you’ll see we were right, I promise.”

  I couldn’t shake off the conviction that I’d endowed him with some of my own deceitfulness, and I wasn’t about to be lured into the church. All the same, I said “When’s the occasion?”

  “As soon as we can get everyone together, and that includes you.”

  This was one insistence too many for my taste. “Let me know when it’s scheduled,” I said with dwindling interest or enthusiasm, and asked after the family before bidding him goodbye. I’d sensed none of the desperation that must have made him call. If I’d had an inkling of the reason I would never have let him go—if I’d grasped why he was leaving so much unsaid.

  23 - The Retreat

  “Dominic, this is Dominic.”

  “So is this.”

  Perhaps he thought the politest response to my rickety quip was silence, after which he said “I want to apologise for some of the comments I made last time we spoke.”

  “Just some?” I didn’t say that, nor “Which ones?” Instead I told him “Honestly, I understand. I understood.”

  “We appreciate your judgment, and we know our father would.”

  I was aware of an omission. “How’s your mother, Dominic?”

  “She spends her time praying for him. You’ll be seeing her yourself.”

  We’d met just once, at the wedding. She was a slight but intense woman who had grasped my hand in hers, renewing her appreciation of my friendship with her husband, whenever I’d encountered her at the reception. “When will that be?” I said.

  “At our father’s funeral, we hope.”

  “Of course I’ll be there. When and where?”

  “On Monday at Holy Trinity Church in our road.”

  The name and the place were Catholic, so that I was disconcerted how they brought Christian Noble and his brood to mind, but this wasn’t why I felt reluctant to speak. “Monday,” I said.

  “This coming Monday, yes. Next week.”

  I held back from retorting that I didn’t need the clarification. “When on Monday?” I said with little hope.

  “Noon, and you’re welcome to stay for the wake.”

  “I’m glad I am. I would, but Dominic, please don’t be offended, only Bobby’s funeral is that day too.”

  “That wouldn’t have occurred to us.” Just as tonelessly he said “What time?”

  “In the afternoon, but I have to travel there. It’s near London. Not that near.”

  “So which do you think you’ll attend?”

  However neutral this was meant to sound, there was no mistaking its intention. “Dominic,” I had to say, “I’ve promised Bobby’s partner I’ll be there.”

  “We wouldn’t want you to go back on your word to him.”

  “Her.”

  “Just as you like.” His pause suggested thought, but perhaps be was trying to restrain his next observation. “You may as well know,” he said, “Rob and I took some time to persuade our mother you should come.”

  “I’m awfully sorry,” I said, not least from feeling I might deserve to be excluded for my part in Jim’s death. “I hope she’ll understand. I hope you do.”

  “You can’t expect us to alter the arrangements just for one person.”

  “I wouldn’t, I’m sure you wouldn’t expect it of Carole either.” When I heard no response I said “At least your family hasn’t been left on their own.”

  This earned a pause I could have thought was hostile. “Can I make a donation at least?” I said.

  “A donation.”

  “Not to the costs.” As I realised too late that his repetition hadn’t meant that, I said “Or are you having flowers?”

  “No flowers,” Dominic Bailey said with such distaste that I was reminded of the vegetation in the crypt beneath the Trinity Church of the Spirit. “They’re a waste of resources. We’re inviting donations to the parish. I don’t know how that sits with you, since you’ve lapsed.”

  “I’ll be happy to make one in Jim’s memory.”

  “Then perhaps some good has come out of all this. Let me give you the information.” Having read out the bank details, which my phone helped me type, he said “If your situation changes, you could let us know.”

  Presumably he meant if I should change my mind. At the weekend I phoned Carole to check the schedule, but as I feared, it hadn’t altered. Wishing I could attend Jim’s ceremony distracted me from other preoccupations—the monstrous intrusion I fancied was biding its time, the retreat Toby proposed. At least he hadn’t called again, which I took to mean he had yet to arrange the event. I didn’t hear from him until I was on the train to Bobby’s funeral.

  The motion of the carriage had rocked me to sleep, and I was somewhere I couldn’t see. Though it felt like an absence of light and time, it wasn’t dark. I knew Jim and Bobby were nearby, because I could hear them. “They’ve forgotten us,” they were saying in chorus. While I wasn’t sure whether this expressed wistfulness or relief, I felt they were waiting for me to join in. I was about to plead with them to be clearer and to show themselves when the phone startled me awake.

  Perhaps it had been shrilling for some time, since the man seated opposite me across a table was sending me a frown over the vertical screen of his laptop. “Soy,” I mumbled and groped for my phone, cupping it in both hands when I saw Toby’s name. I might have retreated to the vestibule of the carriage to avoid being overheard, but I was concerned to learn why he was calling. “Dad,” he said, “have you thought again?”

  “What do you want me to think?”

  “About coming to our retreat.”

  “I don’t know what would change my mind.” This sounded so inadvertently ominous that I added “And I don’t want anything to get in and change it.”

  “Here’s someone who may, though.”

  “Grandad, won’t you come? We all want you to. It won’t be the same if you aren’t there.”

  “Macy…” I was appalled not only by her being used to coax me but by the thought that she would be involved in this latest ritual. “Toby,” I said, “isn’t she a little young for that?”

  “I’m not, grandad. I’ve been to all the places mum and dad go.”

  “There’ll be younger ones at the retreat than her,” Claudine said. “We’ve managed to call the whole chapel together.”

  “If you want to see Macy’s looked after you should come to the retreat, dad.”

  While I was dismayed by the methods Toby was using, I’d begun to feel bound to attend. “When is it going to be?”

  “Tomorrow noon at Starview Tower,” Toby said. “We can send someone to fetch you and then you won’t have to drive.”

  Perhaps I didn’t need to find this threatening, but I demanded “Who will you send?”

  “I meant we’ve asked someone who lives near you to pick you up.”

  “You can tell them not to bother. I won’t be at home. I’m on my way to Bobby’s funeral.”

  The silence felt absurdly like a triumph I’d achieved until Claudine said “Toby, maybe it won’t matter.”

  “What won’t?”

  “Dominic hasn’t really been part of the church,
has he? He isn’t really like any of us. Dominic, have you been voyaging much by yourself?”

  “I haven’t and I don’t intend to.”

  “There then, Toby. Maybe you needn’t worry so much.”

  “We’d still like you to make the effort, dad. You could get there in time, couldn’t you?”

  “Perhaps I can.” I was growing anxious to protect anyone I could, Macy in particular, but I said “We’ll see.”

  “We’ll see you, grandad.”

  “Let’s hope so. Now I’m on the train and I shouldn’t disturb people any more,” I said, although other passengers were talking on phones too. “And if I miss your gathering I expect there’ll be more.”

  “There won’t, dad, no.”

  If Toby had dared to be more explicit, how would I have responded? I thought he was simply attempting to exert more pressure on me—to lure me back to his beliefs. “Tomorrow will decide,” I told him and said goodbye without going any closer to a promise. As I pocketed the phone my neighbour glanced over his laptop, inquisitively enough to make me say “My son and his family want me in their church.”

  “Will it keep the peace?”

  This was more direct than I’d meant to invite. “I wouldn’t say it was that kind of church.”

  “In your family, I’m asking. Will it stop them worrying about you?” However intrusive this might be, not to mention patronising, I supposed he could hardly have avoided overhearing my conversation. “I don’t know,” I said, “and it isn’t as simple as that. We’re talking about the Church of the Eternal Three.”

  “That could be what the world needs. Isn’t it meant to be the oldest church?”

  “What else have you heard about it?”

  “Oldest does for me,” he said and kept his deep dark gaze on my face.

  I was reduced to thinking that he surely couldn’t belong to the church, but in some ways this demonstration of its pervasiveness was worse. I looked out of the window until he returned his attention to the laptop, and neither of us spoke again during the hour and a quarter the train had yet to travel.