The Thing on the Shore by Tom Fletcher

brushing the shower curtain, and realized just how slippery the surface of the bath was. Suddenly he lost his balance and fell, smacking his elbow on the rim of the tub and hauling down the curtain as he grabbed it for support. He gave a loud cry, the shooting pains in his elbow blanking out everything else, and then his entire arm went numb. The shower head had been knocked askew and was spraying cold water out across the bathroom floor. Arthur imagined he could feel the worms moving all around him and he scrambled to his feet. Clambering out of the bath, he expected his father might come to see if he was OK.
    Harry didn’t come to see if he was OK.
    â€œI was on the phone to your mum,” Harry explained, pleadingly. “She was upset. I heard all the noise, but I couldn’t just—”
    â€œYou were
not
on the phone to Mum!” Arthur shouted, slamming his mug down on the worktop. “You know you weren’t!”
    â€œI … I
was
!” Harry said, and Arthur felt sickened to recognize that frail stammer from the numerous recorded calls he had listened to at work. Harry kept shaking and scratching the back of his hands. “And … and anyway, I don’t know what you’re talking about, going on about these worms. What worms? I … I’ve never seen any!”
    â€œThe
worms
,” Arthur said, between gritted teeth. His eyes grew wet. “I’ve told you about them before, Dad.”
    â€œSon,” Harry said, looking concerned, “I keep telling you, there are no worms in there.”
    Arthur looked down. His wet hair flopped in front of his face. He was still leaning against the worktop. “You just can’t see them because you don’t wear your glasses when you’re in there,” he said.
    â€œThat’s not the case,” Harry protested. “I think you just imagine them.”
    â€œNo, I don’t,” said Arthur. “Go and look! Go and look at them!” He pointed upward, at the ceiling. “They’re still in there! Go and see!”
    â€œI’ve been and looked,” Harry said. “I can’t see anything.”
    â€œBut with your fucking glasses on!” Arthur yelled.
    Harry lowered his head at that, and started scratching more vigorously at the backs of his hands. Red blotches had appeared on his face. It was the first time he’d ever heard Arthur swear.
    â€œNo,” Harry breathed. “You imagine them.”
    â€œI don’t imagine them. You imagine Mum, though.”
    â€œThat’s different. I’ve already explained. I talk to her over the telephone.”
    â€œPut your glasses on,” Arthur insisted. “Put your glasses on.”
    â€œNo.” Harry was shaking his head. He backed away. “You’re going to be late for work,” he said, and then he turned and left the room.
    Harry had suffered poor eyesight for a very long time. For as long as Arthur could remember, his father had worn very thick glasses. At work, Harry needed all onscreen text to be written in font size twenty. Similarly, he needed all of the computer programs to be displayed at twice their normal size. If anybody passing Arthur’s desk glanced over his shoulder as he checked his emails, it would be painfully obvious to them that all of the email messages were from Arthur’s father, all of them asking him for help.
    Arthur got to work just on time. He nodded to the new security guard on the reception desk—one of several new Interext people working shifts to cover the desk twenty-four hours a day—and then he stopped dead.
    The bottom drawer of the guard’s desk was open and a liter bottle of whisky was clearly visible.
    Arthur looked briefly at the security guard, now deep in conversation with a courier, and continued up the stairs before the guard realized that Arthur had spotted thebottle. Arthur shook his head as he went, and grinned. It was the little things