Slugs Page 6

  Paul was playing on the lawn, sitting contentedly beside the rabbit’s pen, watching as the small white creature hopped about, stopping every now and then to munch on the pieces of lettuce which Carol had dropped in half an hour ago. Paul was four now and he’d never even seen his father. Carol watched him and felt the anger rising once more inside her. Fate had dealt her a truly cruel blow. Not only had she been left to bring up a child on her own, the child had been born slightly retarded. She bit her bottom lip, angrily. It was almost as if she blamed Tony for her son’s mental deficiency. But the real anger she felt was with herself. God, she’d been a fool in those days. A sixteen-year-old girl trying to act like a woman. Tony had been twenty-four. She’d built her world around him, ignoring the warnings from her parents and friends. What did they know? He loved her and she used to show them the gifts he bought her to prove it. He loved her and she loved him. He took her virginity but she didn’t care, she had given it up willingly. She had talked about getting married, though he never seemed to take much interest when it got around to that subject but then, she had told herself, not many men do talk about marriage. They made love often and he guided her, taught her things she had never even known about, introduced her to all manner of physical pleasure. And she had accepted it all. She loved him and that was all that mattered to her.

  But then she became pregnant and Tony changed. They rowed constantly and, finally, he had given her his ultimatum. Get an abortion or the relationship was over. He even offered to pay for it himself.

  She refused. He left her.

  ‘Bastard,’ she muttered to herself, the memory still hurting even four years later.

  Of course her parents had gone through the customary procedure of disowning her. Being Catholics in a religious area didn’t help matters, she supposed. Whatever would the neighbours say? How could you do such a thing, Carol? The recriminations had flown back and forth and she’d moved out. First to a flat and finally to this house she had now, on the new estate. She’d left school at sixteen with no qualifications but she’d managed to get a cleaning job at the local hospital. The meagre wages from that, together with her supplementary benefit and child allowance just about paid the rent and kept her and the child in food and clothes. With Paul being handicapped, the Government, in its infinite wisdom, saw fit to give her an extra couple of quid on top of the usual rate. And so she managed. At times she wondered how but things never got too desperate. She’d made lots of new friends on the estate, one of whom looked after Paul while Carol went out to work at nights. Back to her old job at the hospital. She sometimes wondered what it would have been like if Tony had stayed with her. Would she have been a wife by now instead of an unmarried mother, disowned by her own family? Many a night she lay awake wanting him with her. But recently, she wouldn’t have cared who it was who shared her bed.

  She pushed the thoughts to one side and made her way downstairs. Paul didn’t hear her as she walked up behind him and he giggled when she tickled his ribs. He looked up at her with wide, questioning eyes for a second, almost as if he didn’t recognise her. Then he gurgled something unintelligible and returned his attention to the small rabbit. Carol knelt beside him and wiped some saliva from his mouth with the tissue which she took from her jeans pocket. He didn’t move, his mind still pre-occupied with the tiny white animal hopping about before him. Carol had bought it about a week ago and the man next door had helped make a pen for it. A nice bloke, Carol thought. Pity he was married. The rabbit had been an endless source of fascination for Paul and Carol could now leave him out in the garden all day, just watching the little creature.

  ‘Paul,’ she said, stroking his hair: It was blond, like her own. Soft and sleek as she touched it.

  ‘Paul.’ She gently turned his head so that he was looking at her. Once more she was faced with that vacant expression. ‘Mummy’s just going out for five minutes,’ she told him, reaching once more for the tissue. She wiped the mucus from his nose and balled up the tissue. ‘Will you be all right?’

  He smiled. ‘Yes,’ he said, quickly. Shaking his head about. ‘Yes.’

  ‘You watch bunny, all right?’ she said. ‘Mummy be back in five minutes.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said again, looking back at the rabbit. He raised one chubby hand and waved in the direction of the animal. ‘Bunny.’

  Carol smiled. ‘That’s right, bunny.’ She kissed him on the forehead and walked back up the garden to the house. Her purse was on the kitchen table and she opened it to reveal a pound note, some silver and an assortment of other stuff including a bus ticket, a coupon cut from a newspaper which granted her 3p off her next purchase of a certain brand of tea bag and a couple of photos. The sort taken in photo booths. The faded monochrome snaps showed her and Tony together. She snapped her purse together again and left the house. The precinct of shops was only down the road and she needed some bread and a pint of milk. Thank Christ the Giro is due in the morning, she thought.

  Paul heard the clicking of his mother’s heels as she walked up the path and out of the gate but he didn’t turn to watch her go. He was too interested in the rabbit. He gurgled contentedly, the spittle oozing down his chin and forming a silvery pendant as it hung there.

  The rabbit had stopped to eat and it crouched before him devouring the remnants of the lettuce which it had been given. But suddenly, it jumped back, licking at its paw.

  Paul laughed, throatily, watching the animal. He could see something red on its fur, on the paw it was licking but he didn’t know what it was. Neither did he realize what the slimy black thing was that burrowed slowly up from the place where the rabbit had been crouching.

  The slug pulled itself free of the ground and slid across the ground towards the rabbit, its antennae waving about in the air, the shorter forward tentacles flicking across the ground.

  The rabbit watched the slug warily for a second and was about to leap aside when it squealed in pain. It managed to drag itself a few inches and this time, Paul saw one of the monstrous black things clinging to the animal’s leg. The rabbit turned and bit into the second slug but the first and larger of the creatures had reached it by now and the terrified mammal was pulled down as the slug fastened itself onto one of the rabbit’s ears. Blood ran freely from the wound as the slug used its sharp row of radular teeth to shave off pieces of the animal’s flesh.

  Another slug, fully six inches long, broke the surface, dragging its vile form towards the stricken rabbit. It drove its sickle shaped tooth into the animal’s side and the fur was suddenly stained crimson. The rabbit shook its head madly from side to side in an effort to dislodge the monstrous black thing but its efforts were useless and now half a dozen of the revolting gastropods were burrowing up from beneath it, each slithering across to join the attack. The rabbit tried to move but its tiny form was weighed down and all it could do was squeal as the slugs ate it alive.

  Paul watched, mesmerised, his mouth open. Once he chuckled, not really knowing why but then he wrinkled his forehead as he saw the rabbit being reduced to a blood-spattered heap of fur. It had stopped moving and the slugs seethed over it, eager for the taste of its fresh, warm blood. One of its ears was eaten away, the other severed half way up. It hung uselessly, like a broken twig and, finally, the rabbit was pulled to the ground, its bloody fur almost invisible beneath the black mass of feeding slugs.

  Paul gurgled as he watched, his head on one side.

  Carol glanced down the garden as she walked round the house into the back garden. She looked down and saw Paul, still staring into the rabbit pen. Carol took her small bag of groceries into the house and put them on the kitchen table then she kicked off her shoes and padded down the garden towards her son, who, apparently hadn’t heard her return.

  ‘Paul,’ she called but he didn’t turn and it was then that Carol realized something was wrong.

  She couldn’t see the rabbit.

  Hurrying down to the pen she stopped behind Paul, looking at the sight before her. The grass ins
ide the pen was covered in blood and pieces of fur, here she noticed a lump of bone, beside it a piece of intestine. She turned away and closed her eyes, trying not to be sick. Gradually she regained control and looked more closely at the scene of carnage in the pen. The rabbit had disappeared completely.

  Carol knelt beside Paul and held him tightly in her arms but he seemed unconcerned. He waved a hand towards the empty pen and shook his head.

  ‘What happened?’ she asked him, tears in her eyes. She glanced at the blood-stained grass once more and this time she caught sight of the mucoid fluid which also covered the pen. It sparkled in the sunlight, diffusing into a dozen different colours.

  ‘Paul,’ she repeated, holding him close to her.

  He gurgled something and at first she thought he said ‘cat’, but when he spoke again she was able to make out the word.

  ‘Black,’ he said in his clumsy, clipped tones. He waved towards the pools of blood and slime.

  ‘Black.’

  Ten

  The sun was bleeding to death in the evening sky, flooding the heavens with vivid patches of gold and crimson. Some of them eventually darkening into a cool purple as the evening drew in. Birds returning to their nests were black arrowheads against the red back-drop and the mottled sky was like a child’s colouring book, layers of colour splashed brilliantly one on top of the other.

  Harold Morris looked up from the begonia he was tending and marvelled at the multi-hued glory of the dusky heavens. there was nothing in the world he liked more than to be out in his greenhouse on an evening like this. Even beneath the canopy of glass and wood, the air had cooled to a pleasing temperature and Harold worked enthusiastically over his plants, tending them with a care which people usually reserve for small children.

  He’d always been a keen gardener but since being made redundant from Merton’s chemical works over a year ago he’d turned his hobby into something approaching an obsession. The greenhouse had been purchased with part of the sizeable pay-off he’d received. The remainder had gone into the house, new carpets and, for the first time during their thirty years’ marriage, a colour television. Harold’s wife, Jean, was totally mesmerised by the new acquisition something which Harold himself was thankful for because it kept her out of his way while he tended to his plants. The rest of his redundancy payment had gone towards purchasing two tickets for a flight to Australia.

  Their only daughter had emigrated, with her husband, six years ago and now Harold and Jean were preparing themselves to fly over for the christening of their grandson in just under a month. Harold smiled happily at the thought, dropping some Baby-Bio into a pot where he was nurturing an orchid.

  As well as flowering plants he also had a sizeable choice of vegetables growing in the greenhouse and, together with those in the patch at the bottom of the garden, Jean seldom had to buy any from the shops. Apart from his cucumbers and tomatoes, Harold had also been able to grow a fair crop of aubergines. They were his particular pride and joy.

  He sipped slowly from the tin of lager beside him, putting the can down beside a set of shears which lay on the work top. Then, picking up his trowel, Harold set about re-potting some geraniums.

  The sun had fallen far below the horizon by now and night was seeping slowly across the sky, staining the clouds like ink on blotting paper. Harold squinted in the gloom for a few more minutes then crossed to the light switch at the end of the greenhouse and snapped it on. The bank of fluorescents flickered into life bathing the place in a cold white light. He then adjusted the thermostat control, raising the temperature just four or five degrees. He picked up the can of lager and drained the last dregs, rattling the empty receptacle in his hand before tossing it into the bin beneath the work top. He looked at his watch and decided that he had time to finish tending to the fresh crop of tomatoes before he went inside to watch the football.

  It was almost ten p.m. and Harold felt like another can of lager. It was warm in the greenhouse and he had worked up a powerful thirst. He pulled off his gloves and dropped them onto the work-top, then he headed up the garden towards the house.

  From beneath the bottom of the work top, the first of the three slugs slithered up, its posterior tentacles waving about. Moving slowly in their mucoid trails, the black beasts, one of them as thick as a man’s index finger, crawled over the trowel leaving their mark on it. They paused at the place where Harold had left his gloves and then, after a moment’s hesitation, they slithered inside. Harold found jean dozing in her chair, the TV still on at full blast as yet another American cop series drew mercifully to a close. He stood in the doorway of the sitting room, rolling the icy can of lager across his forehead. Jean seemed to sense his presence and opened her eyes. She looked round and smiled.

  ‘I thought you were busy with your plants,’ she said, yawning.

  ‘And I thought you were watching that,’ he said, motioning towards the TV.

  Jean reached for the remote control and turned down the sound.

  ‘I nodded off,’ she confessed. ‘It must be this heat.’

  ‘It’ll be lot hotter than this in Australia,’ he told her, sipping at his lager.

  Jean sighed wistfully. ‘You know, Harry, I still can’t believe we’re going to see Roger and Carol again.’ She smiled. ‘And the little boy too. Won’t it be marvellous?’

  ‘You’ll be telling me next you were pleased I got made redundant,’ he said, smiling.

  She held out a hand to him and he bent and kissed her on the top of the head.

  ‘Will you be much longer?’ she asked him.

  Harold shook his head. ‘I’ll be hurrying in to you my dear,’ he said, bowing exaggeratedly.

  ‘And the football,’ she said, smiling.

  He winked at her and walked out. The cool evening air seemed full of the scent of flowers and Harold inhaled deeply. In next door’s garden he heard a snuffling sound and, a second later, saw a hedgehog scuttle across the lawn ahead of him, trying its best to avoid the light coming from the greenhouse.

  Stars stuck to the black velvet sky like pieces of tinsel which some giant hand had hurled. Harold smiled to himself and pushed open the door to the greenhouse, the temperature immediately hitting him. He hadn’t realized just how hot it was in there but, after a moment or two and a hefty pull from his lager can, he re-adjusted to the heat and looked at the waiting tomatoes.

  He reached for his gloves.

  Yes, the tomatoes were coming along beautifully this year, he thought, pulling on the first of his gloves. Last year’s crop had…

  He stopped trying to drag the second glove on, feeling something wet and slimy blocking the fingers.

  ‘What the hell…’

  He never finished the sentence. Suddenly, searing pain exploded through his hand as three sets of jaws fastened themselves on his exposed fingers. The slugs inside the glove eagerly devoured the flesh offered to them, quickly tearing it away until they were nearing the very bone itself. Harold was frantic, his bulging eyes watched the material of the glove undulating rhythmically as blood began to run from his wounds and dripped from his wrist. Now he began to groan in terror, the groans gradually turning to shouts.

  The pain in his hand was agonizing. Already the slugs had eaten away three of his fingers and now they slithered over the back of his hand, digging deep into muscles and sinew. Harold tugged at the glove, staggering drunkenly around the greenhouse.

  He couldn’t get it off.

  And now his shouts became screams as he wrenched at the glove, still unable to remove it. Blood was now soaking the thick material and his arm was rapidly going numb. Harold felt the bile rising in his throat and he thought he was going to faint, but, if anything, the pain in his hand kept him conscious. White hot agony lanced a path up his whole arm. Again, almost blind with pain and terror, Harold tugged at the recalcitrant glove, screaming even louder when it wouldn’t come off.

  He groped for the shears, the realization sweeping over him. The terrifying fact of what
he must do momentarily numbing even the screaming agony in his hand. He managed to push open the twin blades of the razor sharp shears and, tears rolling down his cheeks, he put his wrist between the twin steel jaws. With his free hand he brought all his weight down on the handle, shrieking with renewed intensity as the blades sliced through the flesh of his wrist. There was a sickening grating sound as they scraped the bone and Harold was splattered with a geyser of his own blood as the veins in his arm were severed. But, despite his frenzied efforts, the shears would not cut through the bone. Skin and muscle tore like fabric, exposing ligaments and twitching sinews and he pounded on the handle like a madman, sweat pouring from his face.

  It was then that Jean appeared in the doorway of the greenhouse. She had heard his screams and came running and now the sight which met her caused her stomach to somersault. She saw her husband pounding madly on the handle of the shears, the twin blades of which closed around his wrist. She saw blood spurting into the warm air, saw the shining white of bone through the pulped and torn crimson mass that had once been flesh and muscle. Blood had sprayed in all directions, onto the dusty worktop, over the glass panels of the greenhouse where it trickled down like sticky crimson rain. Harold’s white shirt was covered in it. He was on his knees now, a second away from unconsciousness, the shattered wrist still firmly held in the jaws of the shears and it was at that point she ran to him. Fighting back her sickness, not even able to scream, she watched the glove, moving seemingly with a life of its own as the slugs ate further into his hand.