Inside the Worm (15 page)

Fliss swallowed hard. ‘Yes, I've heard. What about it?'

‘We did that.'

‘What? I don't believe you. You wouldn't burn little baby birds in their nests.'

‘We wouldn't, but we did. And we wrecked Percy Waterhouse's tulips, and we got away with it too.' Lisa's eyes gleamed. ‘The police came to Trot's. Searched.' She laughed. ‘They wouldn't tell us what they were looking for, but we knew. They were looking for some gadget they thought we had for making footprints. They didn't find anything, of course, and Gary said, “Even if we did have a way of making prints, there'd still be our own footprints, wouldn't there? How would we get rid of them, Officer?” Lisa laughed again. ‘Officer, he called him, in this very sarcastic voice.'

Fliss looked at her. ‘And what's the answer, Lisa? How do you do it?'

Lisa's grin faded. She shivered. ‘You wouldn't believe me if I told you,' she said. ‘I can hardly believe it myself.'

‘Try me.'

‘No. Listen, for the last time. Something's started here which nobody can stop. I tried to tell you right at the beginning, remember? I said it was as if something was taking over, making things happen. Well, I was right, and now this thing's in control and none of us could stop even if we wanted to. You'd have to be inside the worm to understand, but you're outside and you're in the way, and that's not a smart place to be. We've been friends, Fliss, and that's why I'm warning you. Stand aside, or suffer the consequences. I can't make it any plainer than that.'

Fliss gazed at her. ‘I don't believe you, Lisa. I don't understand some of what's happened but I think it's you and Gary and Trot and Ellie-May, playing some sort of game. You've done some cruel, stupid things to try to frighten me, but I don't believe you burned the pigeons. Somebody else did that, and you're just using it to make yourselves seem ruthless. I'm going to be there on Saturday, and that's where your game will have to stop because there's nothing special about the four of you, Lisa. Nothing. You're a bunch of kids, that's all, and once the play's over they'll scrap the costumes and that'll be that.' She spun on her heel and strode off down the driveway.

Lisa gazed after her. ‘You're wrong, Fliss,' she murmured. ‘You've no idea what you're up against, but you'll find out. Trouble is, by then it'll be too late.'

FRIDAY AFTERNOON HAD
been set aside for a last full-dress rehearsal on the school field. They hadn't rehearsed Thursday afternoon, but the whole of Year Eight had gone with Mr Hepworth across town to get a look at the Festival Field. Sarah-Jane had taken notes and made sketches, so that everybody would know where to stand and how to move during the actual performance.

Lunchtime. For Year Eight this meant a quick bite, then off to the changing-rooms. They'd done it all before and things had generally gone well, but everybody was feeling nervous just the same. This was it. The final run-through. Next time they took the field, it would be the real thing.

Fliss hung back a bit when it was time to change. She wasn't in the early part of the play anyway, and she didn't particularly want to run into Lisa and Ellie-May. All they had to do was put on green tights – they'd get into the worm on the banking behind the goal-posts – so they shouldn't be long in the changing-room. She loitered in the yard till she saw them leave, then went in.

She'd hung the bridesmaid dress on a peg that morning so that any creases might drop out. As she approached it, she saw that somebody had fastened a small sheet of paper to the bodice with a pin. With hands that shook she pulled out the pin and smoothed the paper. It had been torn from a jotter, and somebody had scrawled a verse on it in pencil:

She read it through twice. Whoever had written it had used block capitals so there was no handwriting to identify him, but Fliss knew who the poet was. She balled up the paper and flung it into a corner. ‘Never give up, do you, Gary Bazzard?' she murmured. ‘But you might as well, because here comes the bridesmaid.'

The rehearsal went perfectly. Mrs Evans and Mr Hepworth watched from the touchline as the worm terrorized the villagers. This was Year Eight's favourite bit, and it went on for some time. It never got boring though – the worm was wonderful to watch, and each of its victims had a different way of screaming. They watched as the beast came strutting from its fen to claim another life and found Ceridwen standing in its path. They thrilled in spite of themselves as the creature lunged, roaring, at its frail adversary, but they knew nothing of Fliss's relief when it brushed her dress, grew docile and slunk away.

The rest was easy. Gemma led her Vikings in a series of convincingly bloody raids on the village. More screaming. Having subjugated the villagers, Gemma demanded that they worship Viking gods. Ceridwen refused and was butchered. There was a brutal-looking axe and plenty of tomato ketchup, but no screaming. Year Eight had decided that saints don't scream.

If they'd been anywhere near Fliss at two o'clock Saturday morning, they'd have learned how wrong they were.

SHE AWOKE TO
utter darkness and a rank odour she could not at once identify. She was cold, and her bed seemed to have grown hard while she slept so that her back, bottom and heels felt bruised. Groaning softly, she tried to roll on to her side, but her right knee encountered an obstruction which prevented it bending. Puzzled, she flexed it again and felt the kneecap press against something which did not yield.

Unease stirred in her. She lifted an arm, and the hand struck something solid no more than a few centimetres above her face. A whimper constricted her throat. She groped frantically with both hands in the blackness, and the nails and knuckles scraped something smooth and hard. She tried to fling her
arms wide, but her hands thudded into solid matter, producing a hollow sound and causing pain. As this pain ebbed, she recognized the smell which filled the darkness. It was the reek of wet earth.

She could hear voices. Children's voices, chanting in unison:

and it was then that she knew she was in her grave.

Screaming, she shot bolt upright and nothing stopped her. The mattress gave under her hands and bottom, and the reek of earth faded. There were footfalls and a flood of glorious light and then she was clinging to her mother, sobbing and shaking and babbling something about a grave. Her mother rocked her and stroked her hair, but it was some time before Fliss grew quiet.

SUNLIGHT LAY IN
dapples on her duvet when Fliss woke up. She knew she'd been dreaming, but could not remember her dream. It felt late. She rolled over, grabbed the clock on the bedside cabinet and gasped. Eleven. It was eleven o'clock. Practically everyone in Elsworth would be making their way to the Festival Field by now, ready for the afternoon's festivities. People would have been working since early morning, erecting stalls and stands, tents and booths. Hanging flags and bunting. Putting up signs and notices.

‘Mum!' She sprang out of bed and began pulling on her clothes.

Her mother came hurrying up the stairs. ‘Fliss
– are you all right, dear?'

Fliss nodded. ‘Sure, but look at the time. Why didn't you wake me? You know we're doing the play today.'

‘Of course I know, Fliss. It's at two o'clock. Your dad and I are ready, but there are three hours yet and we thought you ought to sleep on awhile after the dreadful night you had.'

‘Did I have a dreadful night? I'm fine now.'

Her mother nodded. ‘You certainly did, young woman. Two o'clock this morning, screaming your head off. You'd had a nightmare. Something involving a grave, from what I could make out. Don't you remember?'

‘No. Well – vaguely. I was in my grave, I think, and somebody was singing.'

‘You frightened me half to death, I know that. There's nothing worse than being woken in the middle of the night by a scream.'

‘Sorry, Mum. I think I know what brought it on.'

Her mother nodded grimly. ‘So do I, dear. It's this play. It's been worrying you for weeks. It's been like having a little stranger in the house, the way you've mooned and fretted. Not like you at all.'

Fliss nodded. ‘I know.' And I'm still worried, she thought. More than worried. I'm scared. Not of Gary Bazzard and the others, though. No. Something else. Something'll happen today. Something that isn't
in the script. I know it. I can feel it deep down, but I can't talk to you about it, Mum. Or Dad. You'd think I was barmy. No, it's something I've got to face by myself. Aloud, she said, ‘Is my dress ready?'

Her mother nodded. ‘I ironed it. Nobody'll notice the stain. Dad's put it on a hanger in the car.'

‘Good. I mustn't forget my sword.' A plastic sword, she thought. What use will that be when it comes – whatever it is?

She tried to eat breakfast, but could manage only orange juice.

‘You can't fight a dragon on that,' joked Dad. Fliss forced a smile.

And so it was that at a quarter to twelve on that sunny April Saturday, Fliss set out with her parents to face whatever it was that awaited her on Elsworth's Festival Field.

TROT HAD BEEN
up and about since six. He'd woken at five-thirty, full to bursting with energy and anticipation. Unable to suppress this he'd slipped out of bed, dressed silently and let himself out of the house.

He spent nearly an hour tinkering with the worm. He tapped extra staples into the frame at points where wire and wood threatened to part company. He used superglue to fix a couple of loose teeth. He gave the fabric a vigorous brushing where it had picked up splashes of mud, and touched up the paintwork here and there on the head. He whistled as he worked, because he felt that today was going to turn out special for himself and his three friends. Today they'd leave something behind and
start something new and nothing would ever be the same again.