Inside the Worm by Robert Swindells Page A

and drove on, and by eight o’clock he’d convinced himself he’d seen nothing unusual. Not that morning, nor any other morning of his life. For Stan, the unusual was deeply suspect and probably didn’t exist.
    Trot closed the garage door as silently as possible and tiptoed into the house. It was still only six o’clock. As far as he could tell, nobody had stirred. He crept upstairs and into the room he shared with his eight-year-old brother. As he eased the door closed, Jonathan rolled over in his bed and mumbled, ‘Hnnn – where you been, David?’
    â€˜Sssh!’ Trot pressed a finger to his lips. ‘Mum and Dad are still sleeping, kiddo. It’s early. I went to the bathroom, that’s all.’
    â€˜Hmmm. OK.’ The child rolled over again, pulled the duvet up around his ears and went back to sleep. Trot sat down on his own bed and bent forward to unfasten the laces of his Nikes, grinning as he did so.
    Brilliant. It was brilliant. I’d give a million quid to see that wassock’s face when he looks out the window.
    The wassock Trot referred to was Percy Waterhouse, the Park Keeper, who was forever chasing teenagers, including Gary and himself, away from the kids’ playground. Most teenagers still have a bit of the kid in them and they like the occasional swing or go on the roundabout and there was no harm in it that Trot could see, but Percy didn’t agree. Big lugs, he called them, shouting and shaking his stick. ‘Gerrawayfromthereyabiglugs!’ What was a lug anyway, and who’d call their kid Percy, for crying out loud?
    Anyway. Trot kicked off his trainers and stretched out on the bed with his hands behind his head, smiling at the ceiling. We paid him out this time, that’s for sure. I wish I could be there when he sees what’s left of his tulips. He’ll go ape-shape. Cry in his cornflakes. He’ll call the police but they’ll not catch us.
    A little voice in Trot’s head told him that what they’d done was wrong, but that only served to broaden his grin. Wrong? Of course it was wrong. That was the whole point. He and his friends were discovering that doing wrong was fun. Oh, there was fear – a nagging, niggling fear behind the euphoria, which had little to do with the police and everything to do with the fact that, inside the worm, the four ofthem became one, in ways which Trot preferred not to think about. They saw through Gary’s eyes, didn’t they? Danced to his tune, submerged their minds in his, but so what? The kick was awesome, and afterwards they were their old selves again, so that was all right, wasn’t it?
    Well, wasn’t it?

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
    ELLIE-MAY SUNDERLAND’S SISTER was away at college, so there was nobody to wake and ask her where she’d been when she slipped into her room. The Sunderlands always slept late on Sundays, so once she had her door closed she was safe. She should have been able to sleep, but for some reason she couldn’t. She got undressed and slid in between the sheets, but then she just lay there thinking. She thought about how excited it made her feel to get into the worm with the others – how wonderful to be part of that invincible team. She remembered yesterday in Butterfield’s – how people scattered at their approach. Their cries. The expressions of fear and disbelief on their faces. A part of her – some part she paid noattention to because she didn’t want to – kept asking how you could see the expressions on people’s faces when you’re the end bit of a worm. Deep, deep down, she knew that something was happening to the four of them. Something awful. Trouble was, the excitement was so intense she didn’t want it to stop, and so she tried not to think about it. Instead, she thought about the Park Keeper’s tulips.
    Terrific tulips they were. White and yellow, purple and scarlet, all round the Park