Venom

by Alan Scholefield

  Well, he still touched them now and then when he got the chance–and he did get his chances; payment for favours received you might say, but as often as not he passed them by. Fifty-two years old, and a lot of whisky and fags and something had to go. Age. Old Age. He’d never see sixty-five, thank God. There’d be no geriatric ward for him. If nothing else got him this bloody cold would. He had an impulse to stamp his right foot. Fought it. Won. And then turned slowly back to look at the house. As he did so he-saw a window open.

  * * *

  From the house the two men watched him. During the past thirty minutes as Bulloch had stood in the freezing mist, tension had built up in the room. It had begun as an edginess, a layer on top of the tension that existed already. It had been the contemptuous way in which Bulloch had turned his back on them that had worked it up and up.

  “Bloody old git,” Dave had said. “What the hell’s he think he’s up to?”

  Bulloch might have been made of stone, for there was no movement whatsoever. Jacmel and Dave were waiting, although they did not realize it, for him to turn back again. That was how the tension arose. Subconsciously they knew he had to turn round, the unknown factor was when. It was like an unresolved phrase in music, the notes hanging in the air without the resolution to give them shape. Bulloch had performed half the musical phrase by turning away but they knew he had to turn back because until he did, whatever was going to happen next could not happen.

  From the sofa Richard Howard could not see what was happening but he could gauge the effect on Dave. His hands seemed to be sweating continuously and when he removed them from the gun to wipe them on his pants Howard could see damp patches on the barrel and stock. During most of the half hour in which Bulloch had his back to the house Jacmel hardly moved, but Dave began to display a nervous pattern of movements starting with the hand-wiping. Then he would raise his hand and use his sleeve cuff to wipe his forehead as though sweat was gathering there. He did this regularly once every three or four minutes until Howard could almost time him. Then, abruptly, he broke the pattern. His hand had gone down to wipe itself dry when suddenly it shot forward, grabbed the window and flung it open. It was at this moment that Bulloch turned to face the house once more.

  “Don’t you turn your back!” Dave shouted wildly. “You turn your back on me once more and I’ll fucking shoot you!”

  Jacmel took one step, slammed Dave against the wall and beat him with the side of his left hand. Dave held on to the curtain, blood trickling from a cut on his lower lip.

  “Can you hear me?” Bulloch’s voice came through the partly opened window.

  “I can hear you,” Jacmel said.

  “You ready to send the boy out yet?”

  “Where is your superior?”

  “Superior?”

  “Yes, your superior,” Jacmel said and for the first time Howard heard a slight note of anger. It was very slight, almost imperceptible, but it was there, like a faint pulse. Again he thought Bulloch had made a small gain.

  “What for?” Bulloch said.

  “You went to get . . .” Jacmel paused as though sensing where the next question might lead him.

  But Bulloch was not going to let him off. “Oh, you mean just now. No, no. I went to have a pee and a cup of coffee. You can talk to me all right. By the way, if we’re going to talk we’d better know who we are. What’s your name?”

  “My name is immaterial.”

  “I see. What about the other lad? He’s the chauffeur, is he? You’re English, laddie. Bit out of your depth in this one, aren’t you?”

  The two men at the window remained, silent and after a while Bulloch said, “Well, no matter. We’ll know in a wee while. By the by, my name’s Bulloch.”

  Dave swung towards Jacmel. “He’s the copper who–”

  “Be silent!”

  “For Christ’s sake,” Dave hissed. “He’s the bloke who broke the Sutherland Street siege. It was all in the papers. I tell you he never gives in.”

  “He will give way in this one,” Jacmel said. He turned to the window again. “Hey, policeman!”

  “I hear you.”

  “Good. Then listen well. We want money. A car. And one hour.”

  “How much?” Bulloch said and Howard saw Jacmel turn to Dave and smile. “How much d’you think a copper’s life’s worth?”

  “We want a hundred thousand pounds, but not all in English.”

  “And?”

  “A car. The yellow one down there. The Ford.”

  “And?”

  “When we bring the boy out the road is clear. And we have one hour before the police begin anything. Otherwise–” Jacmel turned into the room and took Philip by the shoulder, forcing him to the open window. “Can you see him?”

  “Yes,” Bulloch said, and Howard heard a sudden change in tone as though some of the confidence had gone. “Yes, I see him.”

  At that moment the lights of one of the cars at the end of the cul-de-sac flicked on and off twice. Jacmel and Dave saw it, as did Bulloch, and for a second the lights lit up the figure of Philip standing on the balcony. Then Jacmel pulled him backwards and returned him to the sofa.

  Dave said, “He’s going back. It’s some sort of bloody signal!” He turned on Jacmel. “You don’t understand,” he shouted. “He’s a bloody killer, that copper.”

  “Calm yourself,” Jacmel said, and Howard could see he was making an effort with Dave. “Be calm. Remember we have the boy.”

  “Yes, but what can we do? Where can we go? What the hell can we do in an hour, where can we hide?”

  “But we already have a place,” Jacmel said. “You have seen it yourself. We can be there in five minutes. There is food, drink, everything. The rent is paid. We do not have to move for a month if we do not wish. By that time who will be looking for us? A few police, that is all. The next crime and the next and the next will have happened. We will be stale.”

  It took some seconds for this to sink in, then Dave seemed to relax. “Yeah,” he said at last. “That’s true. Shakespeare Close.”

  Jacmel had been about to stop him, but was too late. Howard was watching the Frenchman’s face. It seemed suddenly to become resigned. “Yes,” he said. “Shakespeare Close.”

  That was the part he should never have heard, Howard told himself. Never. Never. Never.

  * * *

  “What the bloody hell is it?” Bulloch said to Rich as he shambled back to the end of the street. “I thought I told you–”

  “I wouldn’t have called you if it wasn’t important, sir,” Rich said, unabashed.

  “It bloody better be.” He was fuming, anger spurting in all directions, much angrier than he had any need to be. Rich wondered why.

  “What is it?” Bulloch said. He could still feel himself shaking with rage. It had swept over him the moment they had brought the boy on to the balcony. Then the headlights coming on as though it had all been rehearsed. Flick. And there he was, lit up like someone in an opera or play. White. Ghostly. A kid. Ten years old.

  “Glaister’s taken a call, sir.”

  “Well?”

  “It’s some woman, sir. About Inspector Nash, and something about a snake, sir.”

  “A what?”

  “A snake, sir.”

  “What the hell’s the use of you and Glaister if you can’t stop these cranks?”

  “Didn’t sound like a crank according to Glaister, sir. She’s a doctor, sir.”

  “I’m bloody impressed! Anyone can say they’re a doctor. How the hell does she know anything about Nash? I mean how the hell did she know it was Nash who was shot? We haven’t released his name, have we?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Well, how then?”

  “She phoned Gerald Road. Wanted to speak to him. Said she’d spoken to him earlier.”

  “This makes less and less sense. She spoke to him about a snake, is that it?”

  “As far as we can make out.”

  Bulloch’s anger began to wane
. “All right. Get her here.”

  “We’ve sent a car, sir. She should be here any time. That’s why we called you.”

  “Bloody marvellous. Got a cigarette?”

  Rich found him one and lit it.

  Then he said, “They’ve brought round the note from Nash’s desk.”

  He passed it to Bulloch who held it close to the car’s interior light. “Coffee,” he read aloud. “Tea. Spuds. What the hell’s all this, Rich?”

  “Here, sir,” Rich said, pointing farther down the paper. “It’s this address, sir. Four-twelve.”

  “So what? We know the address. We’re here, outside the bloody place.”.

  “And there,” Rich said, pointing again.

  “What’s it say?”

  “Mambo, sir.”

  “Mambo? What the hell’s “mambo”?”

  “Dance, sir. Your era.”

  “Don’t talk balls, Rich. What’s he writing down a dance for?”

  “Don’t know, just thought you’d like to see it, sir.”

  Bulloch stared at it for a long moment then put it in his pocket. “What about Blanchet’s London man?”

  “He’s on his way.”

  “And Blanchet?”

  “Vienna’s still fogbound. We phoned Schwechat and–”

  “Who’s he?”

  “Vienna airport. They say all flights have been diverted to Rome.”

  “And the mother?”

  “British Airways say her flight has been diverted to Paris. We could try the airport there, sir.”

  Bulloch considered for a moment. He still didn’t know who was in the house. Not the names. She’d know a couple. Perhaps more. Couldn’t be sure. One thing was certain though, she’d be hysterical and what he didn’t need now was an hysterical mother. Anyway Blanchet’s London director might know. Try him first. “No,” he said. “Leave her. Nothing she can do.”

  “It’s her child, sir.”

  Bulloch felt rage boil up inside him. “I know it’s her bloody child! We all know that!” He felt Rich’s eyes on him and knew what he was thinking. But she was a complication and he didn’t want complications. Everything simple. Just himself outside and the dirt inside. Like the Sutherland Street siege. Like the Turkish Airlines siege. Two gunmen in the airlines office. Two gunmen in the old woman’s flat. Two gunmen now as far as he could make out. The pattern was the same. Why change things? Pressure. That’s what did it. You put the pressure on and held it on. Under pressure people became desperate and desperate people did stupid things.

  “Did you see the boy, sir?” Rich said.

  “Yes. Yes. Yes. I saw the boy.”

  “The doctor says she thinks there’s a snake in the house, sir. A poisonous one. Inside, sir.”

  “You’ll believe anything, Rich.” But in spite of himself Bulloch felt a stab of unease which even his protective anger could not entirely blanket. He had only ever seen one snake in his whole life, in Burma, deep in the jungle, right at the end of the war. It was after the morning brew-up and he had gone out a hundred yards or so from the camp to relieve his bowels. He remembered the morning clearly, dappled sunlight and shade. A feeling of security because the Japs were known to be miles away. Hadn’t even got a gun, just a few squares of paper torn from an old magazine. The snake had been in the middle of the path. Huge, ten or twelve feet long, about four feet of its body off the ground and a great flattened hood. Hamadryad they’d told him afterwards when he described it. The King Cobra of Asia. The bloody thing had sat there looking at him, hissing like a steam pump. Everyone said snakes were more afraid of you than you of them. Balls. This one hadn’t moved. Just waited for him to come on. Ready for him. He’d got the fright of his life. Nothing had ever scared him as much before or since. He had stopped dead. The snake had raised itself even more, threatening to come forward and attack. Bulloch had retreated backwards down the path until he’d felt safe enough to turn; then he’d run like a buck into camp. He’d been so frightened he’d been constipated for days.

  But that was in Burma. In the jungle. He’d never heard of a snake in Eaton Square.

  * * *

  In the dark cloacal depths of the house the snake began to move. She had moved several times since she had taken refuge in the warm-air system, compelled to go deeper and deeper into the maze of pipes by impulses coming from her brain. These were triggered by the vibrations that regularly rippled through the house. To a human being they would have been imperceptible, but to a waking reptile whose survival depended upon an alarm system able to pick up the faintest scratchings of a rat in the midst of a field of sugar cane, these vibrations were severe enough to cause fear, and fear produced the need for safety. All these were unconscious needs, for her brain, in the evolutionary pattern of brains, was very small and very primitive. Her behaviour was limited to bio-chemical reactions which in turn started neurological processes. In simple terms they were like equations: vibrations caused unease, unease could only be alleviated by safety, therefore search for safety. But still other mechanisms in her brain were telling her that these air ducts, warm, dark, familiar in the sense that her earlier homes had been in warm dark places, were safe. Yet the vibrations continued. Earlier she had moved yards at a time when the vibrations began; now, though still uneasy, she had got used to them and moved less. Also the vibrations were becoming less frequent.

  The vibrations were caused by Circle line tube trains travelling from Victoria to Sloane Square. They passed near the house, thirty feet below street level, causing a series of small vibrations just perceptible enough to keep the snake uneasily alert and to cause her to move from time to time along rivers of warm air.

  * * *

  Dr Marion Stowe had never been in a police car before. Like millions of others she had seen them in the street, part of the urban furniture, and on television in a dozen police series. As a child she had seen movies in which they burst along London streets, bells clanging; now they made different sounds which she vaguely associated with France. Had she been asked she might have answered that police cars did not have to observe traffic regulations as did everyone else, but the one she was in, driven by a young man whose neck seemed to grow out of his shoulders like the trunk of a sycamore, stopped at red lights, kept on the correct side of the road, did not sound its siren as they did in TV thrillers. It was only when he cut away from the main thoroughfares and took a series of one-way streets towards Marble Arch that she saw how fast they were travelling.

  “Would you like to sit back in your seat, madam,” the young driver said. “You’ll be more comfortable that way.”

  She had not realized it, but she was perched on the edge of the rear seat, tense and strung-up. She leant back and felt her muscles relax. What he had meant was, sit back for your own safety.

  She huddled in one corner and stared out at the swiftly-passing buildings. They were in a series of small streets just north of Upper Berkeley Street and the shops had no interest for her. The sense of unease which had begun with the realization at the Institute that a mistake had been made returned more strongly and she wished, not for the first time that evening, that she had someone to talk to about it. No, not someone, Tim.

  Unease. That was the understatement of the year. Fright. Apprehension. Those might be better words.

  Her mind went back over the evening. She had phoned Nash early, say six-ish or perhaps six-thirty, somewhere about then. Afterwards she’d gone home and she and Susan had had scrambled eggs and bacon because after tracking down Mrs Loewenthal she had forgotten about the Chinese food. They had eaten early and by eight-thirty Susan had been asleep. It was always the same on a Friday night, the child was dead tired after a full week’s school and went out like a light. And often Marion followed her to bed herself feeling the need for all the energy and enthusiasm she could muster on the two days of the weekend, the only two days she had Susan to herself.

  She had not been able to settle. She had switched on the TV but, although her eyes followed
the pictures, her mind did not absorb the content. She tried to read but concentration was even more difficult. Finally, about nine o’clock, she found herself staring at the wall, tense and anxious, waiting for Nash’s call. He had promised to phone back. But no call. Well, she had told him to get in touch with Mr Beale at the London Zoo, told him they had procedures for snake-bite, told him that in all probability Mr Beale would alert St George’s hospital. What more could she do?

  At nine o’clock she switched on the BBC news and stared numbly at the screen. She could not recall clearly what the main item of news had been, something about North Sea oil, and she had a blank about most of the other items. It was near the end that the newscaster had said, “Reports are coming in of a shooting in Eaton Square. We have no details yet but hope to have further information in our late night news . . .”

  That had been all. Eaton Square. It was such an unlikely place. Brixton, Southall, the East End, these were the territories one associated with shootings. But Eaton Square was too rich and too elegant. It was then that she had wanted Tim so badly. He’d always been able to take the tension out of things. He’d been cool and soft-voiced. That had had a lot to do with it psychologically, she had always thought, the soft voice. Things took on a different aspect when discussed softly. By nature she was an erupter, a shouter; which is why Tim had been so good for her. She saw him now, tall, slightly stooping, an expression of faint amusement at the corners of his eyes. Hard to imagine that three years had slipped by since he’d gone. Three years, almost to the day, since they’d phoned her from the hospital to say he was dead. At first she couldn’t believe them, wouldn’t believe them, for she had seen him off to work that morning.