Slugs Page 15

  When he’d come out of jail he’d returned to Merton and, much to his surprise, the local vicar had offered him the job as grave digger. Naturally he had jumped at the chance, although wondering why the old boy was so forthcoming with his offer. Charlie guessed that the vicar saw it as some kind of spiritual exercise - forgive sinners and all that. Charlie smiled to himself. Maybe it had worked because, since becoming town grave digger, he hadn’t been in trouble with the law.

  But, then again, dead bodies didn’t make very good witnesses.

  The idea had first come to Charlie after he’d seen a body laid out in the Chapel of Rest, just prior to a funeral some four years ago. The body had been of a man in his seventies and, before any mourners arrived, Charlie had wandered into the Chapel and looked into the open coffin. The body was to be buried with all its jewellery, including a gold and diamond ring which Charlie reckoned must be worth at least £500. He’d stood in awe, gazing at the glittering prize, wondering how much he could get for it if he ever managed to flog it. The point was, how could he get it? Then, that night, lying on his bed smoking, he’d had a brainwave. Along with the job of grave digger came a small wooden building which was little more than a three roomed hut. It stood just inside the main gate of the cemetery and Charlie had made it his home for the last six years. He was also entrusted with locking up the gates at night, a job which had to be done from the inside. So, from ten p.m. onwards, he was effectively sealed inside the cemetery. It became his domain. He was king and, as monarch he intended claiming any treasure which might lie in his mouldering kingdom.

  That night, four years ago, he’d dug up the coffin, removed the lid and taken the ring from the finger of the corpse. Unfortunately, it had been a tighter fit than he’d anticipated and Charlie had winced a little when he had to sever the finger with his pocket knife. Still, what the hell, he’d collected a couple of solid gold cuff links and a diamond tie-pin too from his generous benefactor. On his next day off, Charlie had taken his little hoard up to an old friend in London. One ‘Spider’ Wyatt, a fence. Spider had given Charlie 900 quid for the little package, a sum which the fence knew he could recoup three times over. Unbeknownst to Charlie, the ring had been antique. But, it had been the beginning of a blossoming little business venture. Ever since that first night, Charlie had been pillaging the dead of Merton for anything he thought valuable. Just a perk of the job he thought happily as he jumped down into the open grave, screwdriver in hand.

  He usually had to wait until this time to do his little job and, if the body had already been buried, it sometimes took him until four a.m. to complete his task of exhuming and then re-burial. Sometimes of course he was unlucky but, on most occasions he found something worth taking and, just lately, he’d taken to inspecting the mouths of the corpses for gold teeth. The yield had been unexpectedly fruitful, although he had to confess, prizing the teeth from dead mouths was something he hadn’t quite come to terms with yet. But, he put up with the smells and the clammy touch of the bodies. He collected his prizes, hiding them carefully in a locked box beneath his bed. Then, once a month, he’d take a trip up to London and see what he could get for his latest haul. Spider had asked him once where he acquired the stuff and, giggling like an idiot, Charlie had told him. The fence had paled on hearing the news but, goods were goods in his game and the source of these particular valuables made them untraceable.

  Charlie grinned to himself as he inserted the screwdriver in the slit of the first screw. Things had definitely begun to look up during the last four years. Or look down as the case may be. He chuckled to himself and removed the first screw, dropping it into the pocket of his trousers. He’d removed his jacket, despite the slight chill in the air but he knew that filling the hole in would be hard work once he got around to it.

  He removed the second of the six screws and wondered what prize he would find tonight. He’d seen a particularly valuable wristwatch on the corpse when it was lying in the Chapel of Rest and there was no telling what else he would find.

  Smiling happily, Charlie set to work on the third screw.

  Something moved behind him and the sound startled him. His hand slipped and the screwdriver scored a deep furrow across the lid of the coffin.

  ‘Shit,’ grunted Charlie and straightened up, peering over the rim of the hole to see what was happening. He strained his ears for the slightest sound, the moon shining coldly down over the cemetery like an enormous flare.

  He could see nothing and the only sound he heard was the low wailing of the wind as it sighed in the trees. It sounded like someone whistling tunelessly. Charlie remained upright for a second longer then bent once more and set about the third screw. That finally came free and he pulled it out of the hole and dropped it into his pocket.

  The fourth one was a real bastard and seemed to have been wedged in with a power designed to thwart Charlie in his task. He put all his weight behind the screwdriver, trying to move the recalcitrant screw. Muttering to himself, Charlie strained with all his might to remove it, splitting the wood in one place where he bore down too hard. But, eventually, it began to give. He smiled, a thin film of perspiration forming across his forehead. He wiped it away with the back of his hand and set to work on the fifth screw.

  That one came away much more easily and he moved towards the last one. The final obstacle between him and his goal.

  Again something moved, closer to him this time, and he swallowed hard, his hand shaking for some reason. He wasn’t sure whether to straighten up or not.

  He remained still, the screwdriver firmly planted in the groove of the screw head.

  The sound came again. It was much closer this time - less than ten feet away he guessed.

  A thought swept through his mind. Had he remembered to lock the cemetery gates? Had the vicar walked in on him? Charlie strained his ears, trying to catch even the slightest sound. He slowed his breathing, the air stuck in his throat.

  Very slowly he rose to his feet, the sound drawing closer. It sounded like a low snuffling, followed, a second later by a high-pitched scratching. Holding the screwdriver like a weapon, Charlie stood up.

  He scanned the area around him.

  Nothing moved.

  Then he saw it, crouched on the marble Plinth in the centre of one grave.

  A mouse.

  Charlie breathed an audible sigh of relief, angry with himself for being so jumpy. He watched the little mouse as it nibbled at some freshly laid flowers. Charlie was about to return to the coffin at his feet when he heard a screech which froze his blood.

  Like a winged torpedo, an owl hurtled out of the night sky and, in one practised movement, snatched up the mouse in a powerful talon. Clutching its prize, it flew off towards one of the nearby trees to eat. Charlie watched it, the moon reflecting in its baleful eyes. It seemed to be watching him, looking up every so often, fixing him in that glassy stare. He turned his back on it and ducked down into the grave, removing the last screw. That done, he dug his fingers under the lid and lifted it free, pushing it up onto the side of the hole.

  He looked down.

  Had he been able to, Charlie would have probably screamed, as it was, he could only stand transfixed gazing down into the coffin, his mind reeling. He gagged and fell back against the grave wall.

  The corpse was completely hidden beneath a slimy, seething black mass of slugs.

  The stench which emanated from this vast horde was almost palpable in its intensity and Charlie tried to turn away but, with the same sort of deadly fascination with which a mongoose watches a cobra, he kept his gaze locked on the hideous sight before him. His hesitation proved to be his undoing.

  A number of the slugs had already slithered over the edge of the coffin and two or three were sliding up Charlie’s boots, up inside his trouser legs, heading for the warm flesh of his calves. He felt the sticky slime on his legs and, a second later, he screamed as the slugs bit into him. Blood began to course down his legs as the beasts burrowed deep into his muscles
and Charlie groped at the side of the grave, trying to pull himself up but, as he turned, he stepped on one of the monstrous slugs. Its body was crushed under his boot and Charlie slipped in the pulped mess.

  With horror, he realized he was falling.

  He pitched forward, falling right into the middle of the slithering mass, into the coffin itself. He lay on top of the devoured corpse and, for nauseating seconds found himself staring into the skeletal face which seemed to grin up at him from its silk-lined box.

  Charlie screamed again and tried to rise, dozens of the slugs clinging to his body, boring into his flesh. Eating him alive. He pulled a couple from him, horrified when they turned in his grip and drove their razor sharp central teeth into his fingers. He shook his hands in an effort to dislodge the creatures but they remained firmly anchored. Charlie felt something ripping at the muscles of his back, eating through to his kidneys. His back was covered in the vile things, the weight of their thick bodies holding him down. With a monumental effort, he rose, tears of pain and terror mingling with the blood on his cheeks as one of the slugs ate its way into his face. He grabbed a tuft of grass at the grave side and tried to haul himself up but his arms were weak. Blood gushed from his many wounds and he could feel nothing from the knees downward.

  The slugs had already eaten his legs to the bone.

  He managed to haul himself up, his upper torso actually leaving the hole but then the sheer weight of the creatures defeated him and, as a particularly large one began to burrow into the hollow at the base of his skull, he slipped back. He crashed heavily into the grave, falling once more onto the devoured corpse, his body twitching now as the slugs swarmed over him, one of them eating through the fluid filled cavity of his eye. Blood burst from the socket and Charlie found himself in darkness.

  The last thing he saw was the gold wristwatch, dangling on the end of a half-eaten arm, just before his face. Then, with a final wail of despair he succumbed. The slugs slithered over him, seemingly galvanised by the flow of warm blood which pumped from his body.

  The owl looked up from its meal as it heard Charlie scream. It sat on the branch of the tree, watching as the man died. Its huge eyes blinked, then it hooted twice, the sound flowing out on the wind like some kind of death knell.

  Twenty-one

  Mike Brady sat gazing at the phone, a pencil stuck in his mouth like a cigarette. He finally pulled the pencil out and began drawing circles on his blotter. The air conditioner in the office had packed up and the heat was oppressive even so early in the morning. His wall clock showed ten fifteen a.m. He exhaled deeply and reached for the phone, using the end of the pencil to dial. As he did so he thought back to what had happened the previous night. The idea of slugs in the water pipes both revolted and horrified him and, once again, he wondered just how far the contamination had spread. Before he and Kim had left for work that morning he’d secured all the taps with rags. Just in case. Kim, still slightly shaken by the previous night’s occurrence, had promised that she would insist all water used at the nursery would be boiled before use. He had given her some story about mould in the pipes in case any of the other staff asked why.

  The line was engaged and Brady tapped the pencil irritably on his desk. He let the insistent tone continue for another moment or two then pressed the cradle down and dialled again.

  It was still engaged.

  ‘Come on,’ he muttered, trying his luck a third time.

  At last he heard the familiar purring and he put down his pencil, waiting for the receiver to be picked up. A moment later an officious sounding woman told him that he’d reached the local doctor’s surgery.

  ‘My name’s Brady,’ he told her. ‘I’m the Health Inspector. I’d like to speak to Dr Warwick please.’

  He was told that the doctor was in surgery.

  ‘It’s important, please put me through if you can,’ Brady insisted, picking up his pencil once more. He began turning it over and over in his hand.

  The receptionist told him again that the doctor was in the middle of his surgery, adding that he had a patient with him at that minute.

  ‘Well can you put me through when that patient leaves, I’ll hang on.’

  Brady was told that it would have to wait until surgery was finished.

  ‘Listen, you put me through when that next bloody patient has left or I’ll be down there myself,’ he rasped, finally losing his temper. ‘This is important.’

  The receptionist reluctantly agreed, swayed by his angry tone and Brady heard her put the receiver down on her desk top. He held his own phone, the far off noises of the surgery drifting through to him. Finally he heard a high pitched bleep and the receptionist picked up the phone and grudgingly told him that he was being connected. There was a moment’s silence, a hiss of static then Brady heard another voice.

  ‘Dr Warwick speaking.’

  Brady introduced himself. He’d known the doctor for five or six years but the men were still to reach the familiarity of first name terms.

  ‘What can I do for you, Mr Brady? I am rather busy this morning,’ Warwick told him.

  ‘I’d like to know if there’s been anything unusual this morning,’ said Brady.

  Warwick was puzzled. ‘Like what?’

  ‘Any patients complaining of sickness, headaches anything like that?’

  The doctor was mildly irritated. ‘Mr Brady, I don’t discuss my patients’ problems over the phone. In fact, I don’t discuss them at all.’

  ‘I realize that,’ said the Health Inspector. ‘All I want to know is, have there been any peculiarities? Any people suffering from the same symptoms?’

  ‘I cannot divulge personal information, Mr Brady. I’m sorry,’ said Warwick, condescendingly.

  ‘I’m not asking for names and addresses for Christ’s sake,’ snapped the Health Inspector. ‘I just want to know if you’ve had any patients exhibiting the same sort of symptoms, similar symptoms to each other.’

  Warwick sighed. ‘Mr Brady I...’

  ‘Doctor, this is important. I have reason to believe that the entire water system of Merton could be contaminated. Now, all I’m asking for is a little help. If you don’t want to help me, fine, but I’m warning you your bloody surgery is going to be knee-deep in people if you don’t.’

  There was a long silence at the other end of the line and, for a moment, Brady thought that the doctor had put the phone down but then he spoke again, his tone much more subdued this time.

  ‘What makes you think the water supply is contaminated?’ he asked.

  ‘That’s information I can’t divulge,’ said Brady.

  Warwick chuckled mirthlessly. ‘Touché.’

  ‘So, doctor. About your patients, have there been any similarities in their symptoms?’

  The doctor exhaled deeply. ‘Well, now you come to mention it, there have. I’ve seen twelve patients since eight thirty and nine of those have been complaining of more or less the same problems.’

  Brady reached for his pencil once more, pulling a pad towards him. ‘Such as?’

  ‘Nausea, headaches, sensitivity to light, diarrhoea. Fever in one or two cases and some vomiting. Is that enough for you?’

  Brady finished writing.

  ‘What do you think it is?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s difficult to say without the benefit of more extended diagnoses such as blood and urine tests but at first sight I’d say it was probably a virus of some kind,’ Warwick told him.

  ‘Did you prescribe anything for it?’ asked Brady.

  ‘Only a Kaolin solution to stop the diarrhoea and vomiting. As I said, without further tests it’s difficult to say what’s really causing the trouble.’

  ‘If it was a virus,’ said the Health Inspector, ‘wouldn’t you prescribe antibiotics?’

  ‘That depends on the severity of the symptoms. But, as I’ve already said, I’m not absolutely sure it is a virus. However, I will admit that if it is, your theory about it being carried by water is probably correct.’<
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  Brady felt icy fingers tugging once more at the back of his neck. ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘Because all water transmitted viral diseases exhibit symptoms like those I’ve just described to you. But to be honest, Mr Brady, the likelihood of it being a virus is small. Most diseases of that kind are transmitted by animals. Yellow fever by mosquitoes, Bilharzia by snails. Those types of disease are confined to areas where sanitation is bad, you wouldn’t find anything like that...’

  Brady cut him short. ‘You said something about snails.’

  ‘Yes. There is a species of snail which spreads a disease called Bilharzia,’ Warwick explained, his voice breaking up into a soft chuckle. ‘But it’s not that, Mr Brady. The snail which carried the disease is confined to Africa and Asia.’

  The Health Inspector wrote it on his pad all the same.

  ‘If there’s nothing else, Mr Brady’ said the doctor ‘I do have other patients waiting.’

  ‘Yes. I’m sorry,’ said the Health Inspector. ‘Thank you very much for your help.’ He put the phone down and sat silently at his desk, reading the notes he’d scrawled:

  1. Virus?

  2. Water carried, contamination?

  3. Nine cases so far.

  4. Slugs in water pipes?

  He underlined the last several times then got to his feet and headed out of his office towards the stairs which would take him up to the second floor and the offices of the Water Board.

  Frank Phillips was trying to light a fag. He had dropped his lighter the day before and now the bloody thing wasn’t working. Grunting to himself he put it back into his jacket and started hunting through his pockets for some matches. He found none and plucked the cigarette from his mouth angrily. It lay on the desk before him, defiantly. Phillips was in his late fifties and had been Merton’s Water Board Inspector for the last nineteen years. He was a hard; uncompromising man, disliked by nearly everyone in the building but he was good at his job and when he snapped his fingers everyone in the department jumped. He ran a hand through his grey hair and picked up the first of a pile of complaints, glancing over it. He looked at the cigarette lying beside him then continued reading the sheet of yellow paper before him, simultaneously cursing the heat. His shirt was sticking to his back, dark rings of perspiration fanning out from beneath his arm pits. He got up and crossed to the water dispenser which stood in one corner of his office. Phillips took a plastic beaker from the pile beside it and filled it, drinking the clear liquid down in two enormous gulps. He filled the cup again and returned to his desk, reaching for the second sheet of paper in the tray to his left.