Snakes

by Guy N Smith

  There were people in the bar, he heard their voices and the wafting aroma of beer almost tempted him inside. God, he could swallow a pint of lager at one go. But the thought of his aunt all alone dissuaded him. She would doubtless be worrying, probably had been all day and he was later than he had anticipated. The trouble with Elsie Harrison was that she was always so precise—what time will you be home, John? Even when he just popped out for a quick half.

  Between ten and half past meant she started looking out for him at five to ten. He had not failed to notice the pack of low-alcohol shandies lined up on the shelf in the fridge, a subtle move on her part to keep him in at nights, depriving him of that one half-hour of freedom down at the Rising Sun. But nobody had bargained for this crisis. And John Price would stay in Stainforth until every one of those poisonous creatures was accounted for.

  He noted that the living-room and kitchen lights were on in the bungalow, experienced a fleeting sense of guilt. Like the times he used to come and stay when he was a teenager and he'd been to a disco at the hall which did not finish until the early-hours. And a fatigued Aunt Elsie was waiting up for him. You know I can't possibly go to sleep until you're safe back, John. Emotional blackmail.

  He pushed open the gate and his booted feet crunched on the gravel. Next door was in darkness and their car wasn't parked outside where it usually was. Probably they had done what quite a lot of the residents had done, fled Stainforth until it was all over. You couldn't blame anybody for that. John wished there was somewhere his aunt could go in the meantime but he knew only too well that no way would Aunt Elsie be persuaded to vacate her home, not even in the threat of a nuclear war. 'This is the place I'll die in, John,' she had told him some time ago. 'The only time I'll leave here is when they carry me out feet first.'

  He slowed his step, saw the light shafting out through the partly open back door. Now that was naughty of her, hadn't he reminded her before he left that morning to keep all doors and windows shut?

  He pushed open the door, saw the empty kitchen, a plate and cup on the draining board. Silence except for the hum of the fridge. Even those over-sweet commercial shandies would be welcome right now.

  'Aunt Elsie,' he called. 'I'm back.'

  No answer. Still, she was becoming a trifle hard of hearing even if she refused to admit it. She was probably asleep in the armchair in the other room. I didn't hear you come in, John. What time is it?

  The clock on the cooker read 10.20. He strode to the door which led through to the living-room; that was open a few inches too. He flung it wide and stood aghast, petrified at the scene which greeted him, his brain struggling to accept what his eyes saw.

  The old lady was dead, there was no doubt about that. She lay face downwards on the carpet, her white hair having flipped out of that bun, spraying across her head and shoulders in the manner of a shroud which tried to hide the corpse it covered. The grandfather clock ticked loudly, steadily. Mournfully.

  Even as his brain registered shock, he saw the snake. It was on the mat only a few inches from his feet, a long length of serpent that did not move, just saw and was afraid because it had wandered out of its own environment into the domain of Man.

  John Price did not hesitate. He stooped and with one lightning movement he grabbed it just below the head, scooped it up and held it out at arm's length, felt its futile struggles begin, its helpless wriggles.

  'You bastard,' he hissed, 'of all the land you've got to roam in peace you have to come in here and kill an old lady.'

  Swiftly he carried it across the kitchen to the open back door and with one deft movement he hurled it out into the night, watched the shadows swallow up the four-foot-long thrashing creature, heard it thud softly on to the lawn.

  He stood there in the doorway, trembling and feeling slightly sick. Then he came to a decision and with feet that dragged he began to retrace his steps down the main street and into the village.

  They were still drinking in the Rising Sun. Nobody could blame them for that but when you had a personal tragedy you instinctively resented the way life went on without so much as a hiccup. Only a few lights showed in the houses now. Bed was a good place to be and in your own house with the doors locked you felt safe. You kept your feet under the sheets even on a hot night because that way nothing could come up from under the bed and entwine your ankle, slither up you and bite you.

  'You still around!' there was sarcasm and resentment in PC Aylott's voice as John Price entered the office.

  The constable was checking out a sheet of 'snake sightings'. Ten of them, inevitable but all figments of the imagination. Maybe some of them were hoaxes but they all had to be checked out. There was a minority of the general public that was a bloody nuisance when any major crisis cropped up. Sensation seekers, downright bloody liars and a sprinkling of idiots who over-reacted.

  'Elsie Harrison's dead.' John thought his voice seemed to come from somewhere a long way away. A whisper that echoed, mocked. Dead . . . dead . . . dead.

  The policeman's expression altered, his pale blue eyes narrowing, thin lips barking one word, a question. 'How?'

  'A snake. 'John's ears were roaring, his tongue felt dry and swollen. 'She . . .'

  'A snake.' Aylott stiffened and his expression said, 'You better not be lying, laddie, because I've got a whole sheet of reports here that are downright time-wasting fucking lies.'

  'It was only a grass snake,' the other's voice was low but he had got it back under control. 'Got lost, or maybe it was just curious, there could be any one of a dozen reasons. Anyway, it must have wandered into the house and ... and it gave my aunt a heart attack.'

  'I see.' Ken Aylott stared at the wall beyond his visitor, tried not to show his disappointment and anger. This was all he needed, a harmless snake adding to his problems. The villagers would panic. He needed to catch some sleep too.

  'You killed it?'

  'No, I threw it outside.'

  'You didn't kill it!'

  'There wasn't any point, not even after it had killed my aunt. How the hell was it supposed to know everybody would be scared of it when in all probability it was terrified itself?' 'I'll come back with you and take a look.' Aylott stood up, sighed. And kids like this got degrees for studying bloody snakes, he reflected. So what the hell am I doing working the clock round as a village bobby and can't even get promotion?

  Chapter 6

  KEITH DOYLE had overcome the depression of the unemployed this last six weeks. No longer did he feel a reject, tossed on to the scrap heap, a leech on society, every week when he collected his benefit. You could sit around for ever waiting for something to crop up but if you had any bottle you got up off your arse and did what Muhammad was eventually forced to do.

  The idea of a gardening round appealed to him. It was creative and you could see something for your efforts. With two full-time gardeners already in Stainforth there didn't seem much chance of edging in but Keith had already spotted both their weaknesses. There was a niche awaiting the right man.

  Old Fred Stokes was an experienced gardener but he was a stubborn old bugger. You took him on for P2.50 an hour but he was the boss. Some folks liked their lawns cut short and kept that way but Fred maintained that you needed a minimum of half an inch of grass growth at all times so that was what you got whether you liked it or not: he did everything his way. The Evershams preferred their rose beds dug over twice a year but Fred insisted on hoeing them instead because he claimed that digging damaged the roots of the bushes. And if you sacked Fred then you only had one alternative—William. Unless, of course, you decided to look after your own horticulture. Anyway, the Evershams got rid of Fred eventually because Peter Eversham was another guy who liked his own way.

  William was big and strong, approaching forty, and as willing a worker as you would find anywhere; a workhorse that toiled eight hours a day for P2 an hour; but he had difficulty in distinguishing weeds from flowers. 'If in doubt, pull it out' was his motto. He weeded laboriously but if he
left a tuft or two of unsightly grass sticking up in the border then it didn't really matter. If you wanted some planting done then you had to be sure to instruct William to weed the border first; he had been sacked by the Willetts because he planted the autumn bulbs straight into a weed-covered bed. Neither was he particular about raking where he had trodden, so even if you got your border weeded it looked as if some of Farmer Mason's cows had wandered in off the road and trampled it down for you.

  So Keith Doyle struck a middle course. For P2.75 an hour you got the job done as you wanted it and tidily finished. Much to old Fred's chagrin Keith took over up at the Evershams' and the recommendation of the wealthy company director fed to him getting regular weekly gardening jobs at four other executive-style dwellings in Stainforth's 'commuter-belt'.

  With the summer at its height, the weeds and hedges growing prolifically, Keith Doyle was grossing P110 per week. It would slow down in the winter months of course, but doubtless the likes of the Evershams would be glad of a general handyman to do odd jobs about the place.

  'You're asking for trouble lurking about in weed-covered borders.' PC Aylott had stopped him on his way to the Evershams' that morning, and run a suspicious eye over the old van's tyres. 'The snakes could be anywhere.'

  'I'll watch out for 'em,' Keith smiled, ran his fingers through his mop of unruly red hair and mocked the policeman with his clear blue eyes. 'Chop 'em in half with the hoe.'

  'On your own head be it,' Aylott turned away, called back over his shoulder, 'Neither a hoe nor five 'A' levels are much of a protection against pythons and rattlesnakes.'

  Keith dismissed the policeman from his mind. The other had a chip on his shoulder because he hadn't got sergeant's stripes, and thought the people of Stainforth were a community of country bumpkins. Maybe the Force were just trying to cool Aylott's ardour by leaving him in Stainforth; didn't want him getting officious when promotion finally came his way. And in the meantime he was getting up everybody's nose.

  The young man turned in through the stone-pillared gateway that was the entrance to the large black and white timbered residence where Peter Eversham and his wife lived. The Jag wasn't parked in front of the house so maybe the owner had left early for the city. Or else Cynthia, his blonde attractive second wife, had persuaded him to take her to a hotel well away from Stainforth until the snakes had all been shot. That was OK by Keith except that he would not be paid until they returned.

  He parked his van, opened up the back to get at his tools. A good gardener always carries his own tools, he told everybody, not like Fred Stokes virtually demanding that his employers carry a full range of implements and that every one bore the Spear and Jackson trademark.

  He pulled out a long, three-pronged hoe, held it spear-like. Yes, I'll chop the buggers in half if I sec 'em. Now, what was that ditty they used to recite at school about snakes . . . Oh yes, he remembered it now, chanted aloud.

  Old King Nick had a six-foot dick,

  He showed it to the lady next door,

  She thought it was a snake

  And hit it with a rake,

  And now it's only two foot four.

  Keith laughed. Snakes didn't worry him much because it was most unlikely that they would be hanging around the village. They would be up on the moors. He could hear a helicopter in the distance. Best of luck, mate.

  As he started work on the circular border adjacent to the large lush green front lawn, a more serious expression had him pursing his lips. He saw in his mind Kirsten, his twenty-year-old dark-haired girlfriend. Kirsten's father was a bank manager in the city, a real snob, and thought his daughter could do better for herself (the family) than latch on to a jobbing gardener, even one with a string of 'A' levels. They were putting pressure on Kirsten to finish with Keith. And Keith had an additional problem, one that might bring matters to a head, make or break his relationship with the girl. Kirsten's period was a week overdue and last night she had been almost distraught about it.

  'I could be pregnant,' she had sobbed on the verge of panic. 'You know how regular I am as a rule.'

  'It could be due to a lot of things,' he had replied, but didn't give any reasons because he couldn't think of any. 'You'll probably start tomorrow.' 'And if I don't?' 'Well, the day after then.'

  'A lot of help you are. Daddy will murder me, you too. You know how he disapproves of you.'

  'Just because I don't have a desk job and I've decided to work rather than just sit around on my bum like thousands of other unemployed youths.'

  'He doesn't see it that way. He says you're an embarrassment to him, especially now you're doing the Evershams' garden because the Evershams are important customers at his bank.'

  'Big deal.' Keith felt icy fingers clutching at his heart, Kirsten being wrenched from him by parents who had dominated her all her life. 'Maybe your folks would like me to do their garden for them.'

  'You're impossible,' she snapped. 'Anyway, I don't think you're pregnant.'

  'You don't think!' She almost screamed. 'And what do you know about it? But I'll tell you this, Keith, we continue going out together and if I let you have sex with me again, you're going to wear something every time. None of this not taking precautions a few days either side of my period. If I have another period!'

  Keith would have liked to phone Kirsten this morning. Just to put his mind at rest. Or otherwise. He could have gone into the house to make the call, there was a key kept just inside the garage, but he would have to think about it. It was something that would require a certain amount of courage. Kirsten worked at the drapery shop in town and Mrs Holloway, the proprietor, was a peculiar old bird. 'I don't like my staff having private calls during working hours,' Keith decided he would leave it a bit, think about it some more. In the end he would probably wait until tonight, meet Kirsten down by the church, if she came. Lately there were too many bloody ifs to everything.

  He attacked the weeds, a legacy from old Fred's days. A marvellous tool the hoe, cutting them all out. You either left them to wither and die in the sun or else you raked them up and carted them away in the barrow. Keith did the latter.

  Ten o'clock was 'bait-time'. Bait was a cup of tea out of a flask and a sandwich. Keith ate the rest of his sandwiches at half past twelve, and by six he was ravenous for the cooked meal which his mother had on the table on his return home. He had lived with his mother in Stainforth ever since his schooldays; his father had run off with a young village girl when Keith was ten and they had not heard from Peter Doyle since.

  Keith was sweating profusely as he sat on the edge of the lawn sipping his tea. He looked up at the sky, a gun-blue universe with not so much as a wisp of white cloud in sight. The farming weather forecast on Sunday lunchtime had predicted dry and hot for the whole week.

  Time to get going again. He peeled off his shirt, dropped it down on the grass. He did not have the inclination to walk back to the van. Just take your time, you've got all day and it's going to get hotter.

  The ground was hard-baked, every weed required a good pull to free it, toss it clear of the soil. He wondered again about Kirsten. A lot of girls had had their futures ruined by this kind of class consciousness, sheer bloody snobbery. He would fight for her every inch of the way. Sod it, she was twenty, old enough to please herself, an adult. But when you were brainwashed, indoctrinated, age didn't matter. Some people got into the habit of doing whatever anybody told them throughout their entire lives.

  He wondered what would happen if she was pregnant. Her old man would go up the wall but that wouldn't remove the baby from inside her. Unless ... God, he wouldn't make her have an abortion, would he? Legalised murder. The bastard would, Keith knew he would, and it made him angry, had him chopping viciously at a clump of chickweed.

  He'd like a baby, a son or a daughter, he didn't care which. One day he would have one. In the meantime he needed the flat hoe on this chickweed. He dropped the one he was using, heard it rattle on the hard ground, picked up the other. The hoe rattled agai
n.

  It was some seconds before he looked round, before he realised that the hoe should not have rattled a second time, could not possibly have rolled and clanked again. Even then he did not spot the lurking creature right away and when he made it out amongst a thick growth of weed he could not be absolutely sure what it was. Unsuspecting, he stood there just staring at it.

  At first he thought it was a frog or a toad; light coloured with dark markings, giving it a kind of slimy slippery look in the bright sunshine. He peered closer, noticed that it tailed off back into the undergrowth, that what he had mistaken for a frog was only its head, that it had a body attached to it, a long thick one that went on and on, partially screened from his vision so that he could only hazard a guess at its length; several feet for sure!

  Keith's mouth went dry and there seemed to be a constriction in his throat. He met those eyes, felt an inexplicable force boring into him, numbing him. A slight shifting of that lengthy body as it began to uncoil, a noise that reminded him of a football rattle on the terraces when he went along to watch United play at home. The sound broke the spell, brought him back to reality, a jumble of warnings. PC Aylott's curt sarcastic tones,' The snakes could be anywhere.''

  He leapt backwards, landed on the lawn, caught his feet in the shirt which he had thrown carelessly down; fell, extricated himself, burst into headlong flight.

  And behind him he heard that rattling, angrier and faster now like far-off bursts of machine-gun fire trying to gun him down. Running blindly, anywhere, his panic like a coronary attack thudding in his chest. He heard his heartbeat (or was it that snake rattling with a deeper tone?), his pulses thudding, a roaring in his ears, sweat lathering his naked torso.

  He did not look back, dared not waste a second; off the lawn and on to the drive. The van was too far away, it would have to be the garage; pull the shutter down as you go through. Oh Jesus Christ, I hope it's flush with the floor because if there's a gap then I'm trapped!