Slugs Page 17

  ‘Well, the water’s off isn’t it?’

  Brady grinned, watching as the young man poured some of the clear liquor into two beakers. He handed one to the Health Inspector who drank deeply. The fiery liquid burnt a path to his stomach and he blew out his cheeks.

  ‘How much of that poison have you got?’ he asked.

  ‘Enough to make up five gallons,’ Foley told him. ‘Our only other problem is how to get it into the sewer. We can’t just pour it into the first outlet we find.’

  ‘Palmer should be able to help us there.’ Brady looked at his watch. ‘Where the hell is he?’

  ‘Someone is going to have to go into the sewer tunnels,’ said Foley, softly.

  Brady didn’t answer, he just took another swallow of vodka. That particular thought had already occurred to him.

  It was nearly seven thirty p.m. when Don Palmer finally arrived. He parked the white van outside the museum between Foley’s Volkswagen and Brady’s Vauxhall then walked up the steps to the main entrance.

  In his years of living in the town, Palmer had never visited the museum and now he walked slowly through the lower gallery, admiring the handsomely mounted exhibits and making a mental note to bring the kids along some time. They’d enjoy this, he thought. The little cockney made his way up the stairs to the enquiries desk, his footsteps echoing through the silent building.

  As he reached the landing Brady appeared in the doorway of the lab and beckoned Palmer up.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ he asked, grinning. ‘Have they got a badger stuck down the toilet?’

  Brady ushered him into the lab where he was hastily introduced to Foley. The men all sat down again and Palmer gratefully accepted the beaker of vodka which the young curator offered him.

  ‘My old lady will think I’ve been out boozing,’ he said, smiling, taking another sip of the liquor. It was as he put the beaker down that he noticed the dead slug.

  ‘What the fuck is that?’ he said in awe, his mouth dropping open. He looked first at Foley and then at the Health Inspector.

  ‘It’s a slug,’ Foley told him.

  ‘Leave it out,’ Palmer said, his smile gradually dissolving. ‘Slugs are little things about that size.’ He held open his thumb and index finger to indicate the length he spoke of.

  ‘Have you seen the paper?’ Brady asked him, pushing it towards him.

  Palmer nodded. ‘Terrible business.’

  ‘They were killed by slugs,’ said the Health Inspector flatly. ‘All three of them and Ron Bell, he was killed by them too.’

  ‘I knew old Ron,’ said the cockney, softly. Then his voice took on a harder edge. ‘Killed by slugs? Is that some sort of bloody joke?’

  They told him. Step by step, every incident, every sighting, every death. Brady told him about the slime trails, about the creatures in his garden, of how one tried to bite him. About the taps.

  Foley explained how they fed, moved and bred. Palmer listened to every word, his face set in an attitude of horrified resignation as if that was the way it was and he would just have to get used to it. He paled visibly as the catalogue of horrors continued.

  They told him about the poison and about how they intended destroying the slugs. Foley even gave him a demonstration on the last remaining creature. And the little man listened to it all, waiting until there was no more to be said. Silence descended once more on the small lab and, outside, the sky began to darken for it had taken them well over seventy minutes to tell him everything. Every mind-bending, horrifying, nauseating detail.

  ‘Dear God,’ he said, softly. He drank what was left in his beaker and gripped it until the glass threatened to break.

  ‘Dear God.’

  ‘We need your help, Palmer,’ said Brady, putting one hand on the sewage man’s shoulder.

  Palmer shrugged and turned almost robotically to look at the Health Inspector.

  ‘It could have been my kids, my wife,’ he said, quietly. Visibly shaken, the sewage man put down the beaker and shook his head.

  ‘How can I help?’ he asked.

  ‘We need a map of the sewer system,’ Brady told him. ‘And we need some information.’

  At last, the little cockney seemed to come out of his bewildered state. He shook his head, as if trying to dispel the horror of what he’d heard. ‘I’ve got maps in the van,’ he said, getting to his feet.

  Foley, too, stood up.

  ‘I’d better make up the rest of that poison,’ he said and disappeared into a small room just off from the laboratory itself.

  Brady was left alone in the lab. He looked at the body of the dead slug and felt an involuntary shudder run through him. He suddenly felt as if he needed Kim. He would have to phone her soon and try to explain what was happening. She would wonder where he was. He exhaled deeply and leant on the work top.

  Moments later, Palmer returned carrying a couple of rolled up pieces of paper. He took off the elastic bands and spread them out on the work top. Brady anchored them at the corners with bottles, beakers and anything else he could lay his hands on and then the two of them began to scrutinise the maps. The plans reminded Brady of the London Underground; lines criss-crossed and intercepted each other, some drawn in red, some in black. There were large red circles on many places on the maps and each was marked with a number.

  ‘What are those?’ asked the Health Inspector, pointing to one of the numbered circles.

  ‘Manholes,’ said Palmer. ‘Each number designates the street it’s in.’

  ‘How the hell do you remember which is which?’ Brady wanted to know but Palmer merely smiled.

  ‘It’s all part of the job.’

  A moment or two later, Foley walked back into the lab. He removed a pair of rubber gloves and dumped them on the bench nearby.

  ‘Poison’s ready,’ he said.

  ‘You reckon you’re going to dump that stuff into the sewers?’ said Palmer.

  ‘It’s the only way,’ said Foley.

  ‘There’s already a high concentration of methane down there now. That’s highly combustible too,’ said the sewage man. ‘If you set off an explosion down there, it’ll ignite the methane as well.’

  ‘What are you saying?’ asked Brady.

  Palmer exhaled. ‘I’m saying that the combined effect of that poison and the methane could cause a class one explosion.’

  Brady swallowed hard. ‘Oh Christ.’

  ‘Is that for certain?’ Foley wanted to know.

  ‘There’ll be an explosion,’ Palmer told him. ‘No doubt about it, all we don’t know is what the effects could be. ‘

  ‘What’s the worst that could happen?’ asked the Health Inspector.

  Palmer shrugged. ‘You could blow every manhole cover in town off. If the explosion was big enough you’d blast every water appliance from its housing. You might even bring the street down.’

  ‘Maybe?’ said Foley, hopefully.

  Palmer nodded. ‘That’s the worst that could happen. But, every house has a vent outside it. Those vents would take up a lot of the blast. They might just be able to cope with the increased pressure. It all depends on how big the explosion is.’

  ‘Then we’ll have to take that chance,’ said Brady, flatly.

  ‘So now we have to find them,’ Foley said and, for long minutes, the room was plunged into silence.

  ‘The first body was found near the new estate,’ said Brady, finally. ‘And most of the incidents have happened in that vicinity.’ He scanned the map. ‘Where would that be on here?’

  ‘Ron Bell’s house you mean?’ Palmer said and jabbed a finger at the map. ‘There. It’s got a vent in the back garden and it’s also got a manhole just outside in the street.’

  ‘We could get into the sewers there,’ said the Health Inspector. ‘How do these damn networks connect?’ he said to Palmer.

  The cockney ran his index finger over three or four of the sewer pipes which were shown in black on the map. ‘All the pipes converge into one central chamber. The ma
nholes are the routes into those vaults. That’s what the numbered circles are. Each one of those has got a big chamber underneath it. There’s one every two or three streets.’

  Brady stroked his chin thoughtfully for a second.

  ‘Could we crawl through those pipes? Like we did under that old woman’s house?’ he asked.

  ‘We could, but we’d need special breathing apparatus. Those sewers are deeper than the rest. The pressure is far greater,’ Palmer explained.

  ‘What sort of apparatus is it?’ Foley wanted to know.

  ‘Just a face mask connected to an oxygen tank,’ Palmer told him. ‘But there’s one snag. The tanks only hold enough air for thirty minutes.’

  Another heavy silence descended finally broken by Brady.

  ‘It’s the only way. We have to go into the sewers.’

  ‘What exactly do you think you can do?’ Palmer demanded. ‘If there’s as many of those bloody things down there as you reckon, how the hell are you going to kill them all?’

  ‘I’ll crawl along the pipes,’ said Brady, quietly.

  Palmer shook his head. ‘You’d never make it on your own. It’s like a bloody maze down there.’ He swallowed hard. ‘I’ll have to go down with you.’

  The two men looked at each other for long moments then Brady continued.

  ‘There’s only one way of doing it,’ he said. ‘We’ll have to crawl through the pipes and lure the slugs towards one of these central chambers. Once we’ve done that, you,’ he looked at Foley, ‘release the poison into the sewer.’

  ‘You’re acting as human bait,’ said the curator, flatly.

  ‘There’s no other way,’ Brady said.

  ‘How the hell do I know where you are? Once you’re down there, I won’t be able to tell whereabouts in the pipes you are. If I release the poison while you’re still down there, you’ll be blown to pieces along with the slugs,’ Foley said.

  ‘We can keep in contact with two-way radios,’ said Palmer. ‘We use them all the time when we’re working down there.’

  Foley nodded.

  ‘If we keep in constant contact, you can track us on the maps,’ Palmer said.

  ‘That’s it then,’ said Brady, flatly. ‘Palmer and I will go into the sewers near Ron Bell’s house. Foley, you track us on the two-way. We’ll try and lead the slugs to one of the central chambers. Once we’re there, give us five minutes to get out and then let the poison go.’

  ‘And what if you’re not out in time?’ said the curator.

  Brady hesitated a second. ‘Let it go anyway.’ He turned to Palmer. ‘You don’t have to do this you know.’

  The little cockney looked at him. ‘Like I said, you’d have no chance down there on your own. I can’t stand by and let you kill yourself.’

  ‘Brady. Don’t you think it might be an idea to search that old house first, before you two go into the sewers?’ said Foley. ‘I mean, some of the slugs could still be in there.’

  The Health Inspector nodded. ‘You might be right. We’ll do that first.’ He turned to Palmer. ‘You go and get the gear from the van, you and I will travel in that. Foley you take the poison in your own car.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’ asked the curator, watching as Brady made for the door.

  He turned. ‘I’ve got to make a phone call.’

  Foley went to fetch the poison, Palmer scuttled off to fetch the equipment they would need and Brady wandered down to the enquiries desk. He perched on the edge of the desk and pulled the phone towards him, trying to steady his shaking hand as he dialled. Outside, the sky was like a blanket of mottled black velvet, just the pinpricks of stars glinting on it. The trees outside the museum swayed gently in the cool breeze, the wind blowing through their leaves like some disembodied voice. Brady drummed impatiently on the desk as he waited for the received to be picked up and, when it finally was, he recognised a familiar voice.

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘Kim,’ he said.

  ‘Mike, where the hell are you?’ She sounded distraught. ‘I called your office twice but there was no answer. I was getting ready to call the police, I wondered if you’d had an accident or ...’

  He cut her short. ‘Listen to me, love. I’m at the museum.’

  ‘What are you doing there?’

  ‘Foley’s found a way to kill the slugs,’ he told her.

  ‘Mike,’ her voice had taken on a note of pleading.

  ‘We’ve got a good idea where they are. I’m going down into the sewers with one of the men from the department.’

  He heard the first unmistakable beginnings of a sob.

  ‘Mike, please don’t. You’ll...’ Her voice was cracking.

  ‘Kim. Listen to me. They’ve got to be destroyed.’

  There was silence at the other end of the line, only the low crackle of static breaking the solitude.

  ‘Kim,’ he repeated.

  ‘Yes.’ Her voice was strained.

  ‘I want you to keep all the taps covered and lock the doors and windows.’

  Silence.

  ‘Kim. Did you hear me?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He sucked in a tortured breath, wanting so much to be close to her, to hold her. ‘I love you, Kim,’ he said, swallowing hard.

  She was quiet for a moment then he heard her thin, worried tones once more. ‘You know, I was just thinking,’ she said, laughing hollowly. ‘How ridiculous it is for a man of forty to be crawling about in sewer pipes.’ She was crying again, sobs jerking her body as she tried to retain her composure.

  Brady gritted his teeth. ‘I’m still thirty-nine,’ he said, trying to laugh but it wouldn’t come and he could only close his eyes as he listened to her crying.

  ‘I love you,’ she said, softly.

  ‘Keep the supper warm eh?’ he said, his voice sounding empty. He slowly replaced the receiver, sitting for a moment or two on the edge of the desk. He massaged the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger and exhaled deeply. A moment later, Palmer appeared at the bottom of the stairs carrying an armful of things. He walked past Brady and up into the lab where he deposited the gear on a bench. The Health Inspector joined him.

  ‘Put it on now, it’ll save time,’ said Palmer, thrusting a protective suit into the other man’s hand. Both of them hurriedly pulled on the thick overalls, the little cockney completing the task first. He reached for one of the two-way radios which lay on the bench and handed it to Brady. ‘Ever used one before?’ he asked.

  The Health Inspector shook his head and Palmer hastily demonstrated how the set worked, repeating the procedure when Foley joined them. The curator was pushing a metal drum before him and the other two men could hear fluid slapping about inside it.

  ‘I’ll need a hand to get it downstairs,’ he said.

  Brady helped the younger man with the bulky drum but, they eventually got it down the stairs and out into the waiting Volkswagen. The drum had a nozzle attachment to which Foley fitted a pipe. At the far end it sported what looked like the bowl of a watering can. He propped the large drum up on the passenger seat. Brady handed him the maps of the sewer and, after one final re-cap on the workings of the radio, he started the engine.

  Palmer and Brady climbed into the white van and, with the breathing apparatus cradled on their laps, they drove off. Foley followed close behind.

  Brady looked at his watch.

  It was nearly ten fifteen p.m.

  Less than fifteen minutes later, both vehicles pulled up outside Ron Bell’s house.

  Twenty-three

  ‘There’s the manhole cover,’ said Palmer, pointing towards the large metal disc which lay in the road nearby.

  Brady nodded. ‘We’ll look inside first.’

  They clambered out of the van, leaving their masks and oxygen tanks on the seats. Foley was strolling across to join them. He’d pulled on a leather jacket just before they left but, despite the protection it offered, he was still shivering slightly.

  ‘Cold?’ said Bra
dy.

  Foley smiled, thinly. ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘Come on,’ said the Health Inspector and, led by him, they made their way up the path towards the front door of the house where Ron Bell had died. It looked even more forbidding in the darkness and Brady’s mind was suddenly wrenched back to that hot morning weeks before when he and Archie Reece had discovered the mutilated remains. Weeks. It seemed like years since all this trouble began. Brady flicked on his torch and the powerful beam lanced through the darkness, lighting their way. He shone it over the front of the building and it reflected back off the dust covered windows. The waist high grass waved silently in the breeze and Foley cursed as he stepped into a patch of stinging nettles. The other two men looked round at him and he shrugged.

  ‘We can get in along here,’ said Brady, leading them towards the window which he and Reece had climbed through, what seemed like an eternity ago. Brady clambered through first, his nostrils immediately assailed by the stench of damp and decay. Next came Foley and, finally, Palmer who, as he was clambering in, accidentally brushed against a sliver of glass which opened a minute slit in his overalls at the top of the thigh.

  The three men stood in what had once been the dining room and shone their torches around. The walls were peeling and the paint had come away to reveal layers of different colour, now faded and mildewed. The floorboards felt spongy as the men walked across them and Foley put a hand across his mouth, finding it difficult to breathe in the fetid atmosphere.

  Something came hurtling at them from the shadows and Brady cursed.

  It was a moth. It fluttered around for a second before disappearing through the broken window.

  The trio moved on, into the sitting room where the corpse of Ron Bell had first been discovered. Brady showed them where the body had been lying. The room was completely empty. All the furniture had been removed, dust several inches thick showing where the sideboard had once stood. There were marks scored in the muck, tracing the path where the heavier objects had been dragged from the house. Their footsteps were strangely muffled as they moved about in the sitting room and the silence seemed to wrap itself around them like a cloak. Torch beams cut through the blackness, the tiny spots of light seeking clues, wondering if they were going to see the first slithering dark shape dragging itself along .