Snake in the Grass

by Dominic Luke

  ‘I don’t like Ash so much. He’s a bit weird. He kept trying to give me drinks. He’s your mate, isn’t he?’

  ‘N-not … not really.’ I don’t have any mates. I’m too much of a freak. Dean took a deep breath, held it, afraid to say anything in case it was the wrong thing. ‘H-how do you know?’ he ventured at last, letting out his breath at the same time.

  ‘How do I know what?’

  ‘That you’re … squiffy. Drunk.’

  ‘Oh, that.’ Cally giggled. ‘I just feel as if I am. I’ve had three WKDs and half a spliff.’

  ‘Alcohol depresses the central nervous system.’ Dean remembered the notes he’d made before coming to the party, notes for his experiment. It was easier, somehow, to quote his notes than to think of anything original to say. ‘It takes ninety minutes for the liver to metabolize one ounce. The effects of alcohol include impaired coordination, s-slurred speech, p-p-poor judgment … euphoria … emotional … um, um … emotional d-d-disregulation….’ Dean faltered. His cheeks were burning up. She was still staring at him. Her pupils were big and black and round, mesmerizing, you couldn’t escape them. ‘… memory lapse …’ he muttered. ‘Memory lapse, r-respiratory f-f-failure … c-c-coma … d-death….’

  ‘What is all that?’

  ‘Research. For my experiment.’

  ‘What experiment?’

  ‘It’s … er … it’s nothing. It doesn’t matter.’

  She got up, came and sat next to him on an upturned terracotta pot. She was so close, the shed so confined, that he was in danger of touching her if he so much as moved a muscle. Not that he didn’t want to touch her, but there was the question of personal space (his as well as hers). Also, he was worried about what it would feel like, touching her – her touching him. What if he didn’t like it? How could he possibly enjoy it when his head was full of the most vile, putrid things: the musty compost, the tattered webs; John Beresford rolling around on Charley’s bed like a witless animal; the panther toying with him like a cat with a mouse? What if he’d been spoiled? What if he turned out to be a freak in this as in so much else? He’d wanted to kiss Cally’s feet, for goodness’ sake. That couldn’t be normal – could it?

  ‘Dean?’

  ‘What?’ His voice sounded weirder than ever, a sort of hoarse whisper: a fake voice to go with his fake face.

  ‘You’re very clever, aren’t you?’

  ‘I know.’ She’d noticed. She’d noticed!

  ‘Dean?’

  ‘Uh?’ He grunted, couldn’t find any words – couldn’t think of any words.

  ‘Can I ask you something? It’s sort of … personal.’

  ‘Uh.’

  ‘Do you ever see your father? Your real father, I mean. Mr Collier is your stepfather, isn’t he?’

  ‘My f-father ran off, left us. He ran off with his secretary – I mean his business partner’s wife. I hate him.’ There were lots of words in stock on this subject – too many, in fact. None of them would be of any use in making Cally think better of him.

  ‘Do you ever see him?’

  ‘Not if I can— No.’

  ‘That’s … that’s how I used to feel about my mother. It’s how I still feel, sometimes. My mother gave me away, she didn’t want me, left Grandma to look after me. My mother’s a hippy with no sense of responsibility. That’s what Grandma says. But—’ Cally lowered her voice, leant closer. ‘I found out something. My mother tried to see me. Grandma stopped her. At first, I was glad. But now I wonder if …’

  She was breathing heavily, her chest going up and down. It was making him dizzy – or was that down to the mouthwash liqueur?

  … poor judgment … emotional disregulation….

  ‘Dean?’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘Do you … do you think I’m like my mother? Sometimes I think I am. Sometimes I want to be. Other times I think I’m more like Grandma. But most of the time I think I’m not like anybody. I don’t fit in. When I was at my old school, I thought it was because I was in the wrong place. I thought if I went to the college in town I’d feel different – like I belonged. But I don’t. I don’t feel different.’

  She was looking at him intensely – anxiously – her eyes big and luminous. He wished he could answer her questions, but even if he’d known the right words he wouldn’t have been able to speak because there was something wrong with his heart. It was going like the clappers, pumping blood like mad – but pumping it to all the wrong places. His brain was getting nothing, was being starved, turning to mush.

  ‘I often feel,’ Cally continued in the same breathless voice, ‘as if I can only be my real self when I’m with the horses. It’s like … like the horses are my only friends. Do you understand, Dean? Do you?’

  ‘The horse. Equus ferus caballus.’ He was on safer ground here, didn’t have to think, the words came by themselves: Wikipedia was coming into its own. His eyes had swum as he read about horses on the internet, thinking of Cally in her jodhpurs, wondering what it would be like to be Cally’s horse, to be ridden by her. His eyes were swimming now, for that matter. He couldn’t focus. And his heart—

  …respiratory failure … coma … death….

  He shook his head, trying to clear it of the fog. But perhaps it wasn’t his eyes so much; perhaps it was because it was so gloomy in here; perhaps that was why he couldn’t see. And his heart: well, it might be in overdrive, but it was still working. He wasn’t dead yet; not even in a coma.

  ‘Equus ferus caballus,’ he repeated. ‘A single-hoofed mammal, domesticated around 4000BC. Horses have a well-developed sense of b-balance, can s-sleep both standing up and lying down….’

  ‘Oh Dean!’ Cally’s eyes shone ever brighter. ‘So you do understand! I guessed that you would. Grandma doesn’t get it at all. She says horses are there for our convenience, not to make friends with – but then she says that about people, too. Only people with breeding are worth getting to know, she says.’

  ‘Equus. Equus ferus.’

  ‘Mmm, yes! I like it when you say that, Dean! You sound so clever, so brainy! I’m not clever at all. I’m not level-headed, either. It’s because my father had dreadlocks.’ She leant even closer, whispered, ‘I feel sad sometimes. I can’t help it. Grandma says it’s a congenital weakness, a blemish in the blood stock. One shouldn’t give in to it. One should fight it.’

  ‘Unhappiness, depression,’ said Dean. ‘Feelings of….’ He took a deep breath, then rattled the words off. ‘Feelings of sadness-anxiety-emptiness-hopelessness-worthlessness—’ It seemed to be pointless, unhappiness: a waste of evolution. He had wanted to find out why it even existed. And so, as with horses, the internet had prepared him, given him the right words. It was like fate, as if his whole life had been leading up to this moment, everything falling into place. ‘Feelings, er, feelings….’ He stammered, trying to remember his lines. ‘Feelings associated with … with chemical changes in the brain, substances such as serotonin, dopamine, norep – nor – nor—’

  ‘Yes!’ cried Cally. ‘Yes! But it never feels like that, does it! It never feels like chemicals. That’s what’s so beastly about it. I’m so glad you know, Dean. I’m so glad you understand. Somehow I knew you would, ever since that day when I saw you on the pub car park in your Morris kit. You looked so strong and sensible. You looked so … so fit! It made me feel all … all gooey inside—’ She broke off, put her hand to her mouth, giggling. ‘Oh God! Listen to me! I sound like such an idiot! How embarrassing!’

  He didn’t think she was an idiot. He might have done, once, in the days of mummies and daddies. Not now. But he couldn’t tell her that because his heart was going off the scale. The pressure was building up inside him. He felt as if he might explode at any moment. His knee was touching hers, their thighs were rubbing together, their elbows clashing, their shoulders butting against each other. It was sending him loopy. But if he was quick, there’d be time for one last experiment – one last, desperate experiment before he—

 
He took hold of her hands, drew her even closer. Lips to her lips. His chest against hers. Arms round her.

  So this was how it felt. Not foul, not vile, not odious, but—

  … impaired coordination … emotional disregulation … euphoria….

  This was it. The end.

  His heart really was exploding now.

  TWENTY-TWO

  COLLECTING FOR THE Exhibition was a thankless task, Gwen said to herself as she trudged along High Street past the church, weary. One could be forgiven for thinking that art had not been invented in these parts. She had a most meagre return after three hours of trekking round the village. An old lady in one of the bungalows had lent a portrait of Princess Diana composed of different coloured foil wrappers (‘It’s taken me ten years, dearie. You will be careful with it, won’t you? What? What did you say? You’ll have to speak up, dearie. It’s no good, you’re mumbling. I haven’t got my hearing aid in.’) Mrs Wetherby had produced some embroidery. Mrs Pole had nothing to offer – nothing except a cup of tea and a chat. The chat had lasted three-quarters of an hour. Mrs Pole, thought Gwen wryly, had undoubtedly raised gossip to an art form, but it was not the sort of art that could be displayed in the village hall.

  At this rate there was not going to be a lot to see – and less than a month to go! As she knocked on the pub door, her feelings of agitation grew. What was the point in the clocks going forward, what was the use of all the extra hours of daylight, when it was all going to waste?

  There came the sound of a key turning in the lock, then the door opened to reveal the Stasi.

  ‘Oh, there you are, Gwen! We thought you’d got lost!’

  Gwen followed the Stasi into the lounge bar. The bar lights were off, the pub being shut at this hour of the afternoon. It gave their meeting an illicit air, thought Gwen as she plonked her offerings on the table and sank thankfully into a chair: as if they had gathered to drink moonshine, looking over their shoulders for any sign of the revenue officers.

  The turnout was poorer than usual. No sign of Dick Emery or Sandra. Apart from Gwen and the Stasi, only Lydia and Terry had turned up. Terry, of course, was not technically a member of the committee but he was becoming something of a fixture. One assumed, Gwen said to herself, watching the pair out of the corner of her eye as she eased her feet out of her shoes and raised her aching ankles to rest on the shelf under the table, one assumed that Lydia had a soft spot for the man, though one failed to see why. Then again, Lydia was a bit of a mystery all round. Full of surprises. Who’d have thought she would … and with Richard, of all people. One had imagined that she would have grown out of that sort of thing at her age.

  The Stasi, examining the contributions that Gwen had brought, snatched up the collage of foil wrappers. Gwen winced. (You will be careful with it, dearie.)

  ‘Isn’t Lady Di a bit old hat – a bit twentieth century?’ said the Stasi.

  ‘I was under the impression,’ said Terry rather shyly, ‘that the whole point of the Exhibition was to give people the opportunity to express themselves, to show that art is not just something other people do, but that there’s an artist inside every one of us.’

  ‘That’s all very well,’ said the Stasi, waving Princess Diana back and forth, ‘but what exactly is art? I wish Sandra was here. She could tell us.’

  ‘Where is Sandra?’ asked Gwen, hoping to imply by her rather strained question that the Stasi should put the foil picture down before she did it permanent damage.

  ‘Boyfriend trouble,’ said the Stasi confidingly. ‘I had to send her home last night. She was a bit tearful. He’s not worth it, I told her: no man is worth it.’ She cocked an eye at Terry, seeming to suggest she thought him more unworthy than most. ‘We had a bit of a heart-to-heart, if I’m honest. I gave her some advice. You know how it is, people do tend to confide in me. I suppose it’s because I’m such a good listener, ha ha ha!’

  Gwen glanced across at Lydia, sitting hunched and withdrawn, and it suddenly occurred to her that there might be more to Sandra’s boyfriend trouble than met the eye. If Lydia had been entangled with Richard, and Richard was entangled with Sandra…. But, really, one didn’t like to dwell on other people’s … well, entanglements: not in broad daylight. There was something indecent about it.

  The Stasi, to Gwen’s relief, replaced the foil picture on the table and waved her hands in the air instead, saying, ‘I suppose we could call it an arts and crafts Exhibition, and then we could include more of Jean’s embroidery and Old George’s wood carving too.’

  ‘But George said he doesn’t—’

  ‘That’s just his little joke. I know better, ha ha ha!’

  Lydia moved impatiently in her seat, spoke for the first time. ‘I had rather hoped, having spent so much time on this Exhibition, that it would be … special in some way.’

  ‘It will be special,’ said the Stasi confidently.

  ‘But will it make a difference?’ cried Lydia.

  ‘Is that want we want?’ The Stasi was doubtful. ‘To make a difference?’

  ‘It is what I want,’ said Lydia. ‘I want not to have wasted my time.’

  ‘You will be proving that art is for everyone, not just for some self-proclaimed elite,’ Terry interjected. ‘That will be the difference.’

  ‘But when it’s all over,’ said Lydia, ‘will anything have actually changed?’

  ‘It’s not easy to change things,’ said Terry.

  Lydia rounded on him. ‘Are you saying that it’s pointless? Are you saying that we might as well not bother?’

  ‘Of course not. But it doesn’t come easy. I should know. It’s a struggle even to get people to come out and vote. Most people – ordinary people – are too busy trying to survive. They don’t have time for widening their cultural horizons, let alone to consider the eclectic questions of society. Ordinary people have been fucked over by the ruling classes for so long they hardly know their arses from their elbows.’

  Gwen felt her hand twitch. She had a good mind to box Terry’s ears. There was no need for bad language. And the conversation was rather drifting from the point. He was going on now about working at the grass roots, effecting change from below, which had nothing to do with the Exhibition. It was, in fact, politics. Why did he feel the need to reduce everything to politics? No wonder Basil gnashed his teeth whenever Terry’s name was mentioned.

  Gwen stole a glance at Terry: the baggy jumper, the grizzled beard, the air – really – of neglect. Was it possible – was one meant to assume – that he was the father of Lydia’s baby? But if that was the case, why had Lydia been so convinced that the baby was Richard’s?

  Thinking of her visit to Mrs Pole earlier, Gwen shuddered to think what the village gossips would make of Lydia’s pregnancy. It would be grist to their mill, Mrs Pole’s in particular. She had been disappointed by the death of that fat, smelly dog, which had closed off one line of attack, but there were others. Miss Taylor frequented charity shops. Miss Taylor had gentlemen callers. Several credible witnesses attested to the fact that Miss Taylor talked to herself. It only went to show that—

  Gwen wrinkled her nose, not sure what it went to show. Mrs Pole tended to lead one up the garden path and then leave one standing. If one was honest, one shouldn’t just sit there and let oneself be swept along by it all. One should nail one’s colours to the mast. One needn’t be a shrinking violet all of the time.

  She felt the blood rush to her cheeks, remembering one occasion at least when she had been quite the opposite of a shrinking violet – only a few hours ago, too! Had she really told Basil that she would be busy collecting for the Exhibition all afternoon and that if he wanted his supper on time he might consider lifting a finger for once? But if one had the temerity to do that, then surely one could venture to say to Mrs Pole, Oh, Lydia Taylor? I quite like Lydia Taylor, actually….

  Gwen looked again, sidelong, at Terry, someone who did – it had to be said – nail his colours to the mast; someone who was not afraid to irrit
ate people (imagine Mrs Pole’s face if one admitted to liking Lydia Taylor).

  ‘… I’m not sure. What do you think, Gwen?’

  ‘I’m sorry? Excuse me?’ Gwen looked up, realizing that she had stopped paying attention to the conversation some time ago. Lydia was staring at her expectantly. ‘What do I think of what?’

  ‘Terry’s suggestion of standing for the parish council.’

  ‘It would be a start,’ said Terry. ‘One small step.’

  Gwen stifled a sigh. This was what happened if one took one’s eye off the ball for even a second. The conversation not only drifted, it became completely irrelevant.

  Lydia seemed to interpret Gwen’s silence as disapproval. ‘No, Gwen’s right. I couldn’t. I’ve no experience. I’ve no interest in politics.’

  But Gwen, slowly cottoning on, suddenly saw light at the end of the tunnel. There was only one vacancy on the parish council, Imelda Darkley had said so. If someone else was to fill that vacancy, then she – Gwen – would be free not to.

  ‘I think it’s a marvellous idea, just the thing!’

  ‘Do you really?’ Lydia was dubious.

  ‘What about me?’ The Stasi was not one to be left out of things. ‘Couldn’t I stand too?’

  ‘Why not?’ exclaimed Gwen delightedly. ‘The more the merrier!’

  ‘Then it’s settled,’ said the Stasi, but at that moment a lugubrious voice from behind the bar interrupted her.

  ‘Before you get any ideas like that, dearest, you might consider focussing on your own business for a change. It’s five past seven.’ It was the landlord, tousle-haired, grumpy, glowering at his wife.

  ‘I’m in a meeting,’ snapped the Stasi. ‘Can’t you see?’

  ‘But it’s your turn,’ said the landlord through gritted teeth, ‘to open up.’

  ‘It won’t hurt for you to do it. It’s not as if you’ve anything else to do.’

  The landlord snatched a bunch of keys from the bar and stomped off to unlock the door. Doing as he’s told, thought Gwen. She looked with grudging admiration at the Stasi, who did not seem in the least put out by her husband’s bad mood, as if it simply didn’t matter. It was enough to make one envious.