Snakes

by Guy N Smith

  The reptile was close behind him. He didn't look, he knew. He felt its vibrations like a sack of loose beads, its malevolence and determination to overtake him. An anticipation of pain as it struck, an agony that would have him writhing and screaming on the tarmac drive, helpless as it struck again and again, its vile body close to his own, those evil eyes watching his death throes.

  Almost there. He reached up for the handle of the shutter as he ran beneath it, tugged downwards with all his strength. For one terrible moment he thought it had jammed or that perhaps for some reason Peter Eversham had fitted a locking device to stop kids from playing with it. Keith almost yelled his relief out loud as the shutter began to move almost silently on its oiled mechanism, gathering speed downwards, clattering.

  Only then did Keith Doyle look back, had a momentary view of his pursuer before the shutter crashed down to the floor; saw a reptile that was close on six feet in length, light-coloured with distinctive dark diamond markings, looking like the personification of evil in serpent form. It rattled viciously, was still some yards from the garage; Keith's lead had been greater than he had dared to believe. He had won by a clear length. Temporarily, anyway.

  One awful thought that the shutter might bounce back up, or not close properly. He anticipated a metallic bang as it hit the floor; instead there was a well-oiled click, a mechanical sound as though levers had slotted into place. The door locked, held, and there was not so much as a sliver of daylight showing beneath it.

  He leaned back against the wall, thought that he was going to faint and buckled his knees into a crouching position in anticipation of blacking out. The feeling passed. He closed his eyes, could not shut out a mental picture of that rattlesnake, saw again its anger and its hatred for Man; heard its deathly rattle.

  Sweat poured off him. The bloody thing had been lying in wait for him amongst the weeds and if he had not decided to change hoes and thrown the first one behind him, disturbing and frightening the rattlesnake as it waited to strike, then he would not have forced it to give a warning rattle. So close, but he had been given those few vital seconds' grace which was the difference between life and death. Jesus Christ Almighty!

  I'll chop 'em in half with the hoe if I see 'em. Like fuck you will, you stupid bugger.

  His nerves were calming; his heart was not beating nearly so fast, the roaring in his ears had lessened and he had almost stopped shaking. He began to think logically. That key, it was up on the first shelf inside that tin of nails. He stood up, lifted the tin down and had to put pressure on the lid to force it off. Good, the key was there, a front door one ... oh shitfire and Holy Moses!

  Frustration, anger; he closed his hand over the Yale key, would have crushed it to a piece of twisted metal if he had had the strength. He didn't, so he flung it at the wall, watched it bounce on the floor and land in a patch of sticky oil. Far better had there been no key hidden in the garage at all than this one that built his hopes and then destroyed them a few seconds later. For this was a front door key, and to reach the front door it would be necessary to go out across the drive where undoubtedly the snake still lay waiting. The back door, which was in the patio at the rear of the garage and could be reached without going outside, was almost certainly locked. So certain that it was a waste of time even checking it.

  You're a cunt, Peter Eversham. Doyle closed his eyes, clenched his fists. You might be rich and clever but you're a stupid prick!

  A feeling that he might cry, that he had only to let himself go and he would burst into a flood of unstoppable tears. He nearly did but that, like that key lying in the oil-leaks from Eversham's Jag, was just another waste of time.

  Stop panicking and think logically. First, you're safe, no way can that snake get to you. Second, somebody's got to come looking for you eventually. Even if the Evershams have gone to stay overnight somewhere then Mother's going to get anxious come tea-time. She'll give you half an hour then she'll phone PC Aylott. They know you're here and your van's stuck out at the front so when you hear them you've only got to give a shout. The rattlesnake will probably get bored with waiting and slither off somewhere. You just have to sit it out. And my flask and sandwiches are out there in the van.

  He settled down on his haunches to wait, wished that he could doze to pass the time, but when there's one of the deadliest snakes in the world sitting guard outside your stifling prison sleep does not come easily. He looked at his watch and groaned. 11.15 a.m. Seven bloody hours before Mother starts to get worried.

  It was some time before he noticed the tiny circular hole in the shuttered door, about halfway up and the size of one of those spy-holes which they manufacture for house doors so that the occupants can identify a caller before opening up. A circle of daylight, made to take the hook on the end of the rod standing in the corner, an easy means of pushing up or pulling down the shutter. And also a spy-hole.

  He went over to it, put his eye to it; restricted vision, but he could see all he wanted to see, or rather everything that he did not want to. The rattlesnake had not gone away. It had retired to the small low rockery which bordered one side of the drive, and had curled itself up on a flat piece of stone. A casual observer might even have overlooked it—until it was too late! The reptile appeared to be asleep, basking in the warmth of the midday sun. Perhaps it was, but Keith had read enough about snakes to know that this one would be awake and poised to strike a lethal blow in a matter of a second. No way was he prepared to risk making a run for it.

  Relax, you've got a long wait ahead of you.

  5 p.m. The rattler was still there on the rockery stone. Keith peeped out at it, shuddered. It seemed to see him, but that was impossible. The piercing eyes glared, met his. I'm in no hurry, man. I can wait a week if I have to. You'll either die of starvation in there or else make a run for it and take your chance with me. Why not give it a try, see if you can make it to your van?

  No way. I'm OK in here and if Eversham doesn't come back soon then the police will come looking for me. They'll have guns, they'll blast you to hell. If you've any sense you'll get the fuck out of here whilst there's still time.

  We'll see. The long body moved slightly, settled into a more relaxed, coiled position, an air of permanence about it. It might even have been asleep.

  Keith's thoughts moved back to Kirsten. Oh Christ, he wanted to sec her tonight more than he had done any other night. And that bastard out there was stopping him. His gaze alighted on a shovel propped up in the corner and he wondered if it was any match for a western diamondback. If nobody came then he'd give it a try; use it as a shield to keep the fangs at bay, then a swift chopping movement for the kill.

  He wondered what a beheaded snake looked like, did the body keep on squirming like a worm's when you cut it in half? Sever the head, then chop the rest up into little lengths, let them all wriggle together. Whatever, he had to see Kirsten tonight.

  He must have slipped into an uneasy doze because suddenly he was sitting bolt upright, eyes darting about the gloom of the stifling garage. What was that, that fucking rattler hadn't managed to find a way in, for Christ's sake, had he?

  Fear chilled his sweat, had him cowering back against the wall. He heard the rattle, a steady clicking like slow castanets. Menacing. No, the bugger wasn't in here but it was certainly active outside.

  Even as he moved back to his spy-hole in the shutters Keith Doyle heard the sound of an approaching vehicle, the drone of a high-powered engine out on the road, slowing, almost stopping.

  Turning into the wide driveway.

  And suddenly he wanted to yell his jubilation aloud, they're here, you fucking snake bastard. They've arrived and you've left it too late. You'll be blasted to pulp.

  A sudden cooling of Doyle's celebrations, a foreboding that sent a warning chill up and down his spine. Oh my God, they won't know the rattler's there, I've got to warn them. He watched, waited until the approaching vehicle came into his arc of vision, recognised the sleek white Jaguar, Eversham at the wheel,
the blonde at his side, puzzled expressions, saying something to each other. The gardener did not need to lip-read to know what they were saying. 'Now who the bloody hell's shut the garage up, and what's Doyle's van doing here at this time of day?'

  Keith thought for a moment they were going to swerve and pull up in front of the porch. Instead the car came straight on, eased up to within a foot of the garage shutter and stopped with the engine ticking over. The occupants were talking again, obviously puzzled.

  Keith switched his gaze from the car to the large flat rockery stone, the one on which the rattler had lain for the past seven hours. The snake was not there any longer; there was just the lump of rough stone with creeping plants growing all around it. It might never have been, this terrible day might have been just a sweltering, feverish nightmare.

  He had to force himself back to reality, thrust away the role of spectator. That Diamondback was cunning, it had slid off into the surrounding cover, was lying there waiting to strike, sensing easy prey.

  The car door clicked smoothly open and Keith Doyle saw the powerful figure of Peter Eversham about to emerge.

  Chapter 7

  PETER EVERSHAM was a stone overweight but disguised it with his height. Well built, the hallmark of the affluent, a slightly flushed complexion which he told everybody was due to his outdoor activities, certainly not blood pressure. Sleek dark hair brushed straight back, a neatly clipped moustache, his suits hand-tailored out of a tweedish cloth to enforce his self-styled country squire role, and strengthen his claim to chairmanship of the Stainforth Parish Council.

  He rented the grouse shooting on Stainforth Moor, fished for salmon in Scotland and played golf on Wednesdays and Sundays. He was president of the Stainforth Country Club which was set in its own grounds two miles outside the village and had very little to do with Stainforth.

  Eversham owned the Eversham Engineering Company Limited with its three subsidiary companies. He had made his first million in 1979 and doubled that by 1982. Whilst other businesses foundered, Eversham Engineering appeared to flourish during the recession.

  Cynthia had insisted on accompanying him down to the sales conference in Sussex. She had her reasons, her suspicions about those overnight stops of her husband's in Brighton. But nothing untoward had occurred; even so Cynthia was not fully convinced. Peter needed an eye kept on him, there were too many rumours, allegations, for her liking, and if they had not been founded on truth then almost certainly Peter Eversham would have sued somebody for slander. He issued writs in the way that many people send greetings cards in the festive season. Cynthia told herself that if Peter could have an extra-marital affair with herself behind his first wife's back then he was equally capable of deceiving her.

  They had read about the escaped snakes in the morning paper before leaving Brighton. On the way home they had listened to several bulletins on the car radio.

  'Doubtless the media have blown it up out of all proportion.' Eversham was in the fast lane doing 95, watching his mirror in case a police car hove into view; they had experimented using helicopters to trap speeding motorists some time ago and he was on the alert for those also. With two endorsements already on his licence he could not risk a third. 'The devil of it all will be the crowds of sightseers that will converge on Stainforth. The bloody place will look like Butlin's on August Bank Holiday.'

  'But there's no getting away from the fact that there are snakes on the loose around Stainforth.' Cynthia Eversham was tense, more so today than she usually was when sitting in the passenger seat alongside her husband. 'Couldn't we have stopped over in Brighton until next week?'

  'Whilst the cat's away the mice will play,' he laughed. 'I don't like leaving my business interests in the care of other people longer than is absolutely necessary.'

  You mean you're playing golf tomorrow, she smiled cynically to herself. She was at last beginning to understand the man she had married. Subtle, selfish, and above all ruthless.

  They left the motorway, picked up a sign for Stainforth. 3 1/2 miles. Cynthia's mouth was dry, there was a churning in her stomach that was not wholly due to carsickness. If there was one thing that repelled her it was the thought of snakes. Ugh! She recalled that time when she was five and her parents had taken her to the zoo; she had not wanted to go into the reptile house but she'd had no choice. Those snakes, they all looked the same, slimy and squirmy, and when one slithered up to the glass of the case she was staring into she had gone hysterical. Adults didn't understand; her mother had grabbed her, slapped her and told her not to be so stupid. Stupid? Even now she sometimes had nightmares about those vipers, waking up in the middle of the night in cold fear, certain that there were cold slippery serpents wriggling about in the bed.

  'Home, sweet home.' Peter slowed, had to take a wide sweep to negotiate their own drive entrance because a shabby old caravanette, hand-painted in a bilious orange colour, was parked on the verge by the stone pillars. Several more vehicles were lining the village street. 'The sightseers have arrived, I see. Hey, what's Doyle still doing here at this time? He finishes at five.'

  'Maybe he had a late start,' she replied uninterestedly.

  'And the garage shutters are down.' He was annoyed because he wanted to drive straight into the garage. 'As I said, you can't leave other people unsupervised for long.'

  The Jaguar rolled to a halt in front of the garage. Eversham felt an urge to blast the horn, fetch that gardener on the run from whatever he was doing, ask him what the bloody hell was going on. Instead, he eased open the driver's door, began to swing himself out. And that was when he heard the banging on the inside of the garage door, the steel shutter vibrating. Somebody was shouting.

  'Mr Eversham, Mr Eversham, don 'I get out of your car. There's a rattlesnake on the rockery!'

  Peter Eversham froze, heard the words but their meaning did not sink in. He recognised Keith Doyle's voice but what the blazes was the stupid bugger doing inside the garage with the shutter down? And another thing . . .

  What the fucking hell was wrong with the car? A noise as though the exhaust had suddenly come loose, was banging and rattling on the underside. But it couldn't, the car was stationary.

  'Peter!' Cynthia Eversham screamed, panicked, and grabbed her husband's arm, overbalanced him back into the seat.

  'What the . . .'

  Even as he fell he saw the snake, a thing like a thick painted hosepipe darting out from beneath the Jag, its vicious strike missing him and pinging on the inside of the open door. Cynthia was yelling, shrieking hysterically, and then the car door obeyed the laws of gravity, swung softly shut on the slight incline. Clicked.

  'Jesus God!'

  'It was a snake, Peter. It tried to . . .'

  'For Christ's sake, shut up,' he pushed her away, and in the same movement eased the handbrake off, felt the car begin to roll slowly backwards. And as it did so the occupants heard something happening beneath them, that frantic rattling sound again, interspersed with lashing noises as if a horse whip was flaying mercilessly on the underside of the car.

  Still rolling backwards. Cynthia screamed, clutched at her seat, saw that vile light-coloured reptile with the black diamond markings thrashing frenziedly on the tarmac in front of them. It wriggled, tried to leap, fell back, squirmed and convulsed, turned its repulsive head towards them, as if mouthing insane reptilian curses. But something was wrong with it, even in her state of terror she saw its injury, the lower part of its body crushed and flattened like the hose that time when Doyle had washed the car for them and had left it lying on the drive and she had backed over it.

  'Oh, my God!' she was going to be sick any second. 'Peter, you've run over it!'

  He jerked the handbrake back on, halted the car, then started the engine, drove forward in a wide sweep that took him to the front of the house alongside Doyle's parked van. He killed the engine, glanced in his mirror. The rattler was thrashing fiercely from side to side, rattling and hissing its pain and fury but it wasn't going anywhere.r />
  'Peter, don't get out!'

  'Stay where you bloody well are.' He slammed the car door and ran for the porch, fumbling for his key.

  Breathlessly he leapt up the stairs, on to the landing, into the bedroom. Fumbling under the bed, pulling out a dusty leg-o'-mutton leather gun case, his trembling fingers scarcely capable of undoing the straps. Metal clinked as he fitted barrels and stock together, slapped the wooden fore-end into place to hold them together, grabbed some orange-cased 12-bore cartridges out of a carton on top of the wardrobe, spilling the rest on to the carpet.

  Back down the stairs, loading the gun as he went, almost slipping on the polished wooden blocks of the hall floor. Outside, seeing Cynthia still sitting in the car, hands pressed to her pallid face in fear and anguish, mouthing something at him. Shut up, you stupid bitch.

  The diamondback was still very much alive. It was throwing itself from side to side, manoeuvring a course towards the front door, propelling its awesome body in spite of its terrible injuries, malevolently rattling its hate for the man who had done this to it. Only one thing was uppermost in its pain-crazed mind—to kill!

  Peter Eversham was trembling as he lifted the shotgun to his shoulder, a big-game hunter suddenly faced with a charging wounded water buffalo; its life or his, there would only be one survivor. He had his life in his hands.

  Ten yards, maybe less. He tried to draw a bead on the head but it darted from one side to the other, dodged away from the shaking twin barrels as though it knew. Oh Christ, so different from driven grouse that couldn't fight back.

  Five yards. He swung his sights on to the body, the lower damaged part that dragged behind the rest, took a trigger pressure. A deafening blast, and somewhere in the background he heard his wife screaming, saw the snake jerk and roll, seem to twist back on itself as though it was trying to view the damage.

  At that range the concentrated shot charge was still strung together, had cut through skin and tissue, almost severed the lower body. A slimy pulp streaked the tarmac. And in that split second Peter Eversham finally got his bead on the head.