Venom

by Alan Scholefield

  “Come on then,” Bulloch said and they began to walk slowly through the mist, that was lit by the street lamps, to the house, which was dark.

  Half way there she faltered and turned to Bulloch. “You really want an expert,” she said.

  He looked down at her. “You are an expert.”

  “Yes,” she said after a moment.

  “There’s no time to get anyone else,” he said, and his mind was saying: You don’t want any more experts. You don’t want any more people. Keep it simple. Uncomplicated.

  “Yes, I suppose so,” she said and they went on.

  They stopped outside the house in the position that Bulloch had made his own and he said softly, “Let me talk.” Her mouth was dry and she nodded.

  “Can you hear me?” he said.

  After a few seconds they heard the double-glazed window being slid to one side. “Yes,” the now-familiar voice said in its heavily-accented English. “I hear you. I do not wish to talk further unless you have an agreement–”

  “Listen, there’s something you should know.”

  “You listen. In one hour from now we send you a present. One hour. You understand? We do not wish to talk. You think you can frighten us by taking away the voi–the motors. But you bring pain for the boy. You understand me?”

  “Yes, I understand you. But there is something you don’t know. This lady–”

  Marion stepped in front of them and said in a voice she hardly recognized as her own. “Can you hear me?”

  “Yes. Of course.”

  “What I am about to say you will think is a trick,” she said and realized she was talking as though he were a child. “I’m not a police woman,” she said. And then thought: get on with it

  “My name is Dr Marion Stowe,” she said to the blank face of the house. “I work at an Institute which studies snake poisons. I have come to warn you that there may be a poisonous snake loose in the house.” She had caught her breath but her voice still sounded high. There was no reply from the window.

  “This afternoon the little boy Philip went to fetch a pet snake in Camden Town. He was given the wrong one. Instead of a pet snake he was given a black mamba by mistake. He brought it back in a travelling crate. Please do not for any reason open the crate . . .” Her voice tailed off. “The police asked me to tell you this . . .” She hesitated. “And so I’ve . . . well, I’ve told you . . .”

  “Tell them about the anti-venom,” Bulloch whispered.

  “Oh, yes,” she said. “I’ve brought an antidote in case anyone is bitten. But that won’t happen if the snake is still in the crate. That is all I have to say.” She turned and was about to walk away. Her legs felt weak and trembly.

  Suddenly the voice at the window said, “The snake is not in the crate.”

  She turned back, a feeling of relief surging through her body. “You mean the crate was empty all the time!”

  “The snake is not in the crate. He is loose in the house.”

  Inside the house Howard heard what Jacmel said with a sense of shock. He had been sitting still, trying to keep his arm from moving and waking the boy, thankful that Philip had been asleep when Jacmel had given the ultimatum, unwilling to imagine that such a thing could happen, much less be spoken of, but finding little reassurance in the fact that they were in London and not back in the Mau Mau emergency in Kenya. After what had happened to the policeman he had no doubt that if Jacmel made a threat he would carry it out.

  Whatever Jacmel said they had been affected by the removal of the cars. It had shown that Bulloch was made of pretty strong stuff. Dave was afraid, that was obvious. And Jacmel? Afraid was putting it too strongly. But less confident, surely. Or was Howard fooling himself? And did he want Bulloch to be made of strong stuff? When the big jets were hi-jacked and the demands were made you wanted governments to be strong, like Israel; no bargains with terrorists. Hard luck on the hostages, but that’s life. Give in now and you have to give in again . . . and again . . . etc. But what about when you were a hostage? Then you weren’t so keen on the strong stuff; then you wanted people who would give a little.

  His mind returned to what Jacmel had said about the snake, that it was loose. He had told Dave that police knowledge of the snake would weaken their position so why had he changed his mind? Howard did not see a reason and nor, if his expression was anything to go by, did Dave. How it would influence them he could not tell.

  Jacmel spoke again. “The snake has attacked someone,” he said.

  “I cannot hear you.” Her voice rose clearly on the bitter air that was seeping into the room through the partially open window, reminding Howard of someone else, but who he could not recall. “You say the snake is loose in the house; has it bitten anyone?”

  “Yes,” Jacmel said. “It is what I say. It has bitten someone.”

  “The boy?”

  “Not the boy.”

  “Who then?”

  There was a pause, then Jacmel said, “It is the maid, Louise.”

  “When was this?”

  “Just now. A few minutes ago.”

  In the street Bulloch said softly, “He’s lying. Too bloody coincidental. You tell him there’s a snake in the house and suddenly he tells you someone’s been bitten.”

  “If the maid has been bitten, then she’s dying,” Marion said.

  “Could you tell? From what he says?”

  “I think so.”

  Jacmel’s voice came down to them. “You have something for the poison. Cannot you use it? We did not know the snake was dangerous. It was the boy’s.”

  “When was she bitten?” Marion said.

  “I told you, a few minutes past.”

  “Where?”

  “In the left arm. Half way up.”

  Bulloch said softly, “Ask him why she doesn’t tell us herself.”

  “Why does she not speak to us?” Marion said, falling into the Frenchman’s idiom.

  “She is in the bedroom. She has . . .” They could almost hear him searching through his vocabulary for the English word.

  “ . . . She has fainted. When she was attacked she fainted. We thought it was from the shock.”

  “What is happening to her?”

  “There is a black mark on the arm. It goes up to the shoulder. And also there is . . .” He paused again. “. . . ordure . . .” He used the French word as though too delicate to speak its English equivalent.

  Marion turned to Bulloch. “Those are two of the symptoms. Especially the loss of bowel control.”

  “He could have made it up,” Bulloch said.

  She shook her head. “No. Not the part about the bowels. Only . . .”

  “What?”

  “That part comes later. I mean, he says she’s just been bitten. She must have been attacked earlier.”

  “Why didn’t you tell us sooner?” she called, usurping Bulloch’s role for the moment.

  “She is of no concern to us,” Jacmel said brutally. “But if you wish her to live you must use your . . . your medicine quick.”

  Marion turned to Bulloch. “He’s right. If you want to give her a chance we’ve got to act fast.”

  “All right.” He turned to the house and said, “We’ll leave the . . . medicine on the steps. You can get it.”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “You know why not. You have men in the windows.”

  “I’ll give orders not to fire.”

  “No.”

  “What then?”

  “Let the doctor come in. We will give her free passage.”

  “Impossible,” Bulloch said without even consulting her. There was silence for several minutes then Bulloch said, “Are you there?”

  “Where else?”

  “We will leave the medicine on the steps. It is in a satchel. It’s the best we can do.”

  “No.”

  “Don’t you care about the woman?”

  “I told you. She is not our concern.”

  “Why won’t y
ou?” Marion said, her voice high with urgency.

  “Ask yourself, madame doctor. We do not know even if you are a doctor. You say you are, but we cannot know. You say you wish to save this woman but we do not know. You say you have medicine in that bag but it may be a bomb.”

  “Please believe me,” she said. “I am what I say I am. You must believe. Otherwise–”

  The silence lengthened and the cold crept into their bones. “You’ve done all you can,” Bulloch said softly but she disdained to answer. He sounded as though he, like the man in the window, considered the dying woman to be no concern of his, she thought.

  Then the Frenchman’s voice came down to them again. “I have seen her,” he said. “She is very bad. She has strange feelings in her tongue.”

  Marion turned to Bulloch. “That’s another symptom! A sort of numbness.” She turned back to the house and shouted, “You’re letting her die!”

  “There is one way,” the voice said.

  “What’s that?” '

  “We bring her to the steps and you inject her there.”

  “I don’t like it,” Bulloch said.

  “What else can we do?” she said, feeling again the dryness in her mouth. “He doesn’t care whether she lives or dies.”

  I don’t either, Bulloch thought, angrily. This was another bloody complication. And yet if they didn’t make some effort . . . If she died and they hadn’t tried . . . “It’s up to you,” he said. She looked down at the ground unable to answer.

  Bulloch turned to the window. “Bring her down and I'll do it,” he said.

  The voice said, “No.”

  Marion looked up. “Bring her down. I’ll come.”

  “I’ll cover you,” Bulloch said. “We’ve got marksmen.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake . . .” she said.

  “Once you have put her on the steps you will retire inside the house,” Bulloch shouted. “If there is any movement at the windows or if the front door is opened while Dr Stowe is attending to the maid, my men will fire. Is that understood?”

  “Yes. Stay there,” the voice said. “I will bring her down.”

  * * *

  Inside the house Jacmel turned to Howard. “We go down now. You go first.”

  “What the hell’s going on?” Dave said.

  “Watch the boy,” Jacmel said. “If there is trouble . . .”

  “What are you doing?”

  “Don’t worry. Watch the boy.” He pointed the gun at Howard who was gently disengaging himself from the sleeping child. “Come.”

  Jacmel followed him to the door. “You go first.” Again Howard moved into a waking nightmare, this time in reverse; the room was now the only safe place in the house because he had searched it and made it safe, everywhere else was a no-man’s-land of shadows and corners and places where the eye could not penetrate; the snake could be anywhere. They began to go down the stairs. How long ago, it seemed to Howard, that he had last descended; then he’d had plans, he had been going to do great things. He remembered himself telling the boy to run. It seemed another age, for now he had no plans; he did what he was told to do; fear had filtered out all plans, all other feelings.

  They reached the bottom of the stairs and there was the mound that had once been Louise. Jacmel bent and pulled back the rug and Howard flinched as he saw the dead face. The eyes were open and something–he could not tell in the dim light whether it was blood or some other liquid–was oozing from partially open lips. The lips themselves were drawn back exposing her teeth. The big body had stiffened in a sprawling position and the black area of poison was clearly visible where she had torn away her bra exposing her heavy breasts.

  “Undress her,” Jacmel said.

  Howard knelt at the side of the body and began to unfasten the remaining buttons on the front of her black-and-white maid’s dress.

  * * *

  In the street Bulloch had moved farther from the house and Marion Stowe had gone to the circle of brilliance cast by a street light. She was very frightened and now she tried to damp down her fear by concentrating on what she was doing. She broke the seals on the plastic cover of a hypodermic and then on the needle and fitted one to the other. Then she selected a small bottle and checked the label. It read: “Polyvalent anti-venene for snakebite. Batch 745/3655SA 10 ml. Use before 1/1/1979.”

  Carefully she inserted the tip of the needle into the bottle and drew up the ten millilitres of anti-venene. She put a second bottle into the pocket of her coat. She had decided that if the maid had been bitten as long ago as she thought then only a massive dose might–might–help. Ten millilitres into the area of the wound, a second shot of ten millilitres into a muscle near by or perhaps under the skin of the abdomen. She should take two needles but she could not take the satchel so she would have to refill the syringe with the contents of the second bottle while she was on the steps. It meant being there longer than she would have liked–and then she thought that was nonsense, any time there would be longer than she liked. She tried not to think about it, to keep her mind clinical, her thoughts on muscles and puncture wounds, poisons and their antidotes, anything but what was happening inside the house or what might happen on the steps. I’ll cover you, Bulloch had said. What did he think this was, a shoot-out in a TV western? She didn’t want him to cover her. She didn’t want anything to do with him. She mistrusted both the man and his motives. She wanted to be home in her flat with her feet up and Susan just along the passage. She held up the syringe to the street light and pressed slightly and a drop of viscous liquid beaded the tip of the needle.

  “They’re coming out now,” Bulloch called softly.

  The front door had opened and two figures were standing in the dark arch. From that distance and with the mist enshrouding the front of the house it was difficult to make them out. They came slowly and she could see the figure of the maid being helped by a man. They walked with great care. The maid was wearing some sort of uniform, no shoes and her feet seemed to drag. She was, in fact, being half carried, for her head and face were partially obscured by the man’s shoulder. From what she could make out Marion thought the woman looked very far gone.

  Slowly the man helped her down on to the top step, both arms under her shoulders, until she settled and lay there on her back, her face turned towards the door from which she had just emerged.

  “All right,” Bulloch called to the man, “you get back inside and we’ll see.”

  For a second he hesitated and seemed about to say something. Was this the Frenchman? She tried to see him clearly but the darkness and the mist obscured him.

  “What’s 'wrong?” the policeman called.

  The man gave a faint shake of his head and then turned and went inside, closing the door behind him.

  Bulloch came over to Marion. “Wait a moment,” he said. He walked half way back to the cars and called Rich. “Tell the marksmen that if anyone opens the door or moves near the window while the doctor is attending to the maid they’re to fire. Understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Bulloch waited until Rich had carried out his order and made sure that those inside the house had heard before he said to Marion, “Whenever you’re ready.”

  She had decided that when the time came she would try to keep her mind blank. She had gone over every possibility while she was filling the syringe: the snake had to be loose, no one could have made up those symptoms unless he was an expert in neurotoxic poisons, and that was too coincidental. So why would they want to shoot her or hurt her in any way? No, she had to accept what was happening at its face value.

  The woman had been bitten, was at this moment dying and she, Marion Stowe, was the only one who might be able to save her. It was a mission of mercy; no one was going to harm her. So when Bulloch said, “Whenever you’re ready,” she nodded and before giving herself the chance to hesitate or to steel herself, she found her legs moving forward of their own volition.

  Like so many other things of which she had been appr
ehensive in the past, she realized that the initial worry was worse than the event itself, for, once she began to go forward she forgot about what might happen to her and began to concentrate on the victim lying at the top of the steps. What would she find? A woman so far gone that no amount of anti-venene could save her? Someone who would plead for a miracle? Marion had seen snake-bite before; once in the lab, and once on a second field trip to Africa when she had treated an African child. On both occasions the snakes had been venomous but neither as venomous as a black mamba. She had never seen a victim of a mamba bite though she knew the symptoms well enough. And so as she moved forward towards Louise the fear she had felt on her own behalf gave way to apprehension for the poor woman who lay at the top of the steps.

  “Good evening,” she said as she began to climb the steps, and thought how fatuous it sounded, but she had said it less as a greeting than as a warning of her approach so that she would not startle Louise. God, what irony, she thought, a Frenchwoman dying on a London pavement from poison put into her by a reptile from Africa.

  The woman made no reply but Marion had expected none. The tongue would be numb and movement restricted; she would be like someone who had had a stroke, partial paralysis would have overtaken the mouth.

  “I’ve come to help,” she said as she reached the top of the steps. “I’ve got an injection that will help.” Her voice was soothing and low.

  Louise was lying partly on her left side facing the house. Her face was in shadow and Marion realized she would have to turn her almost completely over to get at the seat of the wound.

  “I’m going to turn you over,” she said. “It won’t hurt.”

  She put the syringe down on the step and gently began to move Louise so she could get at the punctures on her left arm.

  Louise must have heard her and understood, she thought, for the moment she began to pull her over the maid turned her body to help; she rolled on to her back and Marion looked down into her face. Something dreadful had happened to her. The poison had ravaged her, had hardened the edges and contours. It was hardly female at all. And then the eyes opened and Marion’s heart stopped: she was looking into a man’s face. A man’s face in a woman’s body. And in the left hand was a gun which came up slowly and pressed against her stomach.