The Vorrh

idea which instruments and medications to bring. Hurriedly, he had shoved a handful of this and a handful of that into his stoutest Gladstone bag. It would not do for him to get on the wrong side of August Daren, especially now that his life had taken such a turn towards prosperity.
    He had become quite the authority on the causes and possible treatments of what was commonly becoming known as Fang-dick-krank. He told his patients, the Timber Guild and other municipal authorities that he had carried out extensive research in his private laboratory, and was making steady progress towards a cure of the dreadful blight: in truth, he had carried out a few botched autopsies, treated some of the inflicted with prodigious doses of barbiturates, and questioned some chained prisoners that the police – whom he was now working closely with – brought to him to be examined. His major discovery was that the phenomenon was in decline. This he told nobody, but doubled his extensive efforts to find a cure. He even injected some of the ‘carriers’ with a serum of his own design, and had them released into the community to help stave off the flow of the malicious disorder. With his usual cunning, he would ride his unexpected nag home to a glorious victory of science over evil. He had always been lucky with outsiders, and this one was made of gold.
    His status in the community was growing steadily, and he no longer needed to practise the little bits of unorthodoxy that used to perk up his income. In fact, the less said about those, the better. They, and his business with Maclish, nagged at him. Such practices were yawning bear-pits along his successful path of achievement, and he wished they could be spirited away, or else be filled in with some amnesiac aggregate. The Tulp girl’s knowledge of the Orm had rattled him; it was a step too close to downfall. The subsequent fiasco with the wretched creature they had mistakenly dragged out of the Vorrh had made the whole situation even worse. The Lohr woman was very well connected: a word in the right place could dislodge all his achievements. He knew it was only the concealment of their one-eyed friend that kept those words from being spoken. His knowledge of the cyclops’ existence protected him.
    His association with Maclish was proving troublesome, and it worried at his confidence; the irascible Scot was far beneath him now and unpredictable in his mood swings. Moreover, the thug always blamed him when something went wrong. And wrong was an understatement: they had now used the Orm nine times, and two of those had gone seriously awry. He still believed that the savaging of the Klausen hag had been the Orm’s first outing, and it had led the police straight to his door. All these troubles gnawed at him as he strode purposefully on, towards his undiagnosed patient. His priorities needed to be re-focused and he made his mind up to rid himself of this handful of anxieties as soon as the opportunity presented itself. He was clever enough to silence the women with guile and threat, but the keeper was another matter. That cat would have to be skinned another way.
    * * *

    Maclish was going to be honoured. The guild had invited him and his wife to a special dinner, to mark the company’s increase in productivity; his work force was the greatest contributor to it, and it was cheaper to give an honour than a raise.
    Mrs. Maclish hadn’t been to anything quite so formal for a long time, and she was feeling apprehensive. The bulge of new life was just beginning to show, and she was mildly troubled that it made her look plump, rather than pregnant. They were dressing in the bedroom: he, fumbling and cursing with a collar stud; she, turning and glancing at herself in the full-length mirror of the wardrobe.
    ‘William, which do you think: the blue or the green?’
    ‘I only just bought ye the blue one, wear that.’
    ‘Yes, but which do you think is best for tonight? The green is more my colour.’
    ‘Then why did we buy the blue?’ he said crossly, as the stud sprang from his fingers and disappeared under the bed. He cursed and crawled after it, his shiny black dress trousers ruffling up the small carpet. She ignored his response.
    ‘It’s a choice between them though, I only have the two.’
    ‘Thank Christ for that, or we would be here all night!’ he said from under the bed, his voice humming strangely in the resonance of the china chamberpot. He found the stud and crawled out