Inside the Worm by Robert Swindells Page B

Keeper’s house – a rippling sea of colour with the house in the middle like a galleon. Every spring they were there, and people would make a detour in their journeys across the park to look at them. Ellie-May could remember when she was very young, being taken by her mother to see the flowers. How tall they’d seemed on their long stems – half as tall as Ellie-May herself. Nobody grew tulips like Percy Waterhouse, and he was proud of them.
    Not now though. Not this year. It’s amazing what eight busy trainers can do to a bed of tulips in the space of a couple of minutes. When Ellie-May closed her eyes she could see what they’d done. She could see the blooms lying bruised and broken on the trampled earth, their lovely petals crushed and stained with soil. She could see the torn leaves, the snapped-off stems tilted drunkenly one against another like the masts of a wrecked armada. She could see all of thiswhen she closed her eyes, as though the backs of her eyelids were a screen on which a video played, and it didn’t make her feel good. She’d felt good while they were doing it. Then, her excitement had been intense, exhilarating. She’d laughed and whooped as she stomped and trampled, laying waste in seconds what had taken months to create. It had imparted a sense of power, a feeling that ancient wrongs were being avenged.
    But now she only felt sad. Sad and frightened. What she and the others had done was wrong. She knew that now. Wrong, and stupid. Turning beauty into ugliness. Joy into tears. Good into evil. She thought of resigning her part – of giving up her place in the worm – but even as she thought about it, she knew she wouldn’t. It was too wonderful, that buzz – that overwhelming wave of excitement, that sense of power. For some reason Ronnie Millhouse came tottering into her mind. Ronnie the drunk, who couldn’t give up the thing which was destroying him. I’m hooked, she thought, just like Ronnie. The notion appalled her, but there it was.
    â€˜We do the most awful things,’ she murmured aloud. ‘Roll on the next time.’

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
    â€˜ WELL – WHAT D’YOU reckon?’ Percy Waterhouse looked at the Detective Constable. It was ten o’clock Sunday morning and the two men were standing among the Park Keeper’s vandalized flowerbeds. ‘It was obviously kids – it always is, but which kids? Have they left any clues?’
    The policeman shook his head. ‘That’s what I’d have said, Sir. Kids. In fact, I’d have bet on it, but it seems I’d have been wrong, on this occasion.’
    â€˜What – you mean adults did this? But why, in heaven’s name? It’s so senseless.’
    The detective shook his head again. ‘It wasn’t adults either, Sir, as far as I can tell. It appears to be the work of some sort of animal.’
    â€˜Animal?’ cried Percy. ‘That’s absolutely impossible. What animal would work its way systematically round a garden, breaking every single bloom? I don’t believe it.’
    â€˜Well, Sir, I wouldn’t have believed it myself, but there are no human footprints that I can find. Not one.’
    â€˜But you found animal prints?’
    â€˜Oh yes, Sir. Everywhere.’
    â€˜And what was it – a dog? A pack of dogs? What?’
    â€˜I don’t know, Sir. Not yet. I’d like a veterinarian to look at them before making any comment.’
    â€˜Will you show me some of these prints? I think I can recognize dog prints without having to ask a vet.’
    â€˜Certainly, Sir. Look here.’ The Detective Constable stooped and pushed some bruised stems aside with his palm.
    Percy Waterhouse squatted and peered at the trampled soil. What he saw made him draw breath sharply. ‘Good lord!’ he gasped. ‘What on earth made that?’
    The policeman withdrew his hand and straightened up. ‘What