Inside the Worm (12 page)

His manager had called the police and they'd arrived while Len was striving to soothe his customers.
They'd taken statements and poked about a bit, but they hadn't seemed all that interested and Len had suspected his little spot of bother wasn't serious enough for them. Nobody was dead or in hospital, nothing had been stolen, and any loss would probably be covered by insurance.

So at eight-thirty Sunday morning, after a restless night and with a pounding head, Len rang the station to demand a progress report. The sergeant at the other end was polite, but not helpful. Investigations had been made, and were continuing. There had been no significant developments so far, and if there were developments, Len would be informed. At this stage, said the sergeant, they were treating the matter as a prank, probably by children, which had got out of hand.

Which means, muttered Len, when he'd hung up and was making coffee, that you don't intend doing anything about it. You'll stick the statements in a file, shove the file in a drawer and forget about it. But I won't. I won't forget. I'll do my own investigating, and woe betide whoever did this when I get hold of them.

IT WASN'T UNTIL
seven in the evening that the Detective Constable got back to Percy Waterhouse. During the afternoon the Keeper had seen a woman he'd assumed was the veterinarian, squatting among the remains of his tulips with some sort of measuring device, but he hadn't gone out. He was too depressed to feel like talking, and anyway she was working for the police and probably wouldn't have told him anything. He'd watched through the window till the woman finished whatever it was she was doing and left with the uniformed constable, and he'd almost given up hope of hearing anything that day when he answered a knock on the door and found the detective on the step.

‘Evening, Sir. May I come in?'

‘Of course.' Percy stepped back to admit him, then closed the door and showed him into the sitting-room. ‘Have a seat. Coffee?'

‘Oh, no thanks. I had one at the station.' He smiled apologetically. ‘There isn't a lot I can tell you, actually.'

‘What did the vet say?'

The policeman shrugged. ‘Not a lot. Reckoned the prints were like nothing she'd seen. Said they might have been made by a very large reptile but were far more likely to be an elaborate hoax.'

‘Hoax?' cried Percy. ‘Why would anyone want to pull a hoax like that – and how would they do it?'

The detective shook his head. ‘I've no idea, Sir. We checked to see whether any large reptiles have been reported missing. They haven't, though we're continuing to monitor that. And we've searched the park. Oh, and I think I should tell you that while we were doing that, Jimmy Lee came sniffing around.'

‘Jimmy Lee?'

‘Yes, you know – chap from the local rag. Reporter. Nose like a ferret and features to match. Anyway, we had to tell him something so we gave him the elaborate-hoax line.' He grimaced. ‘No doubt there'll be a piece in the
Star
about it. Thought I'd warn you.'

‘Yes, thanks. And you really believe it was a hoax?'

‘It's the likeliest explanation, Sir. We don't get a lot of large reptiles in Elsworth and anyway, what sort of reptile would do this sort of damage to a garden? Though as I said, we're still checking for possible escapes.'

‘Well.' The Keeper gazed glumly out of the window. ‘All I can say is, if it was a hoax I hope you catch the hoaxer. Oh, and by the way, there's at least one chap who'd go along with the large reptile theory.'

‘Who, Sir?'

Percy smiled. ‘Ronnie Millhouse. Swears he saw a dragon in the park the other night.'

‘Yes, well.' The detective smiled too. ‘Ronnie's got a whole menagerie of creatures inside his head, and they're all pink.'

‘Not this one. Green, he reckons. Sure you won't have that coffee?'

‘No thanks.' The policeman stood up. ‘I'd better be off, Sir. We'll keep you informed if there are developments.'

‘Thanks.' They walked to the door and Percy let his visitor out.

‘G'night, Sir.'

‘'Night, Constable.'

He stood for a while, staring morosely at what was left of his garden. Then he sighed deeply, turned, and went inside.

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.'

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.