Snakes

by Guy N Smith

  The left barrel, leaden death obliterating the rattlesnake's head, throwing it back into the morass behind, its nerves twitching. And then it was still.

  It was dead.

  Eversham lowered the smoking gun, opened the breech and the spent cartridge cases were ejected, bounced on the drive. He stood there, experienced a euphoria that was only just beginning to make its heady impact on him. A pose he was reluctant to relinquish, the hunter looking down on his trophy, awaiting the arrival of his bearers.

  The garage shutters slid upwards and Keith Doyle emerged, white-faced. Eversham thought the gardener might spew up just to complete the picture. Cynthia still had her face covered; look at it, you two, look at it. It's dead and I killed it. Me, Peter Eversham. They've been hunting the bastards for two days but they didn't do any good until I returned.

  'Well done, Mr Eversham.' A cry of relief, the young red-haired man having to hold on to the car, swaying unsteadily on his feet. 'It trapped me in the garage. We better get the police.'

  'I think this is them now.' Peter Eversham heard the bee-boraf an approaching siren, anticipated the white Escort turning into the drive. He shifted his pose slightly, cradling the gun beneath his arm, sporting style. Take a good look, you guys, I just did what you've failed to do. Send the press, let's get the record straight, nobody's stealing my thunder.

  'I got him,' he told PC Aylott as the constable climbed out of the car. 'It's a rattler, a western diamondback.' I know because I once saw a TV programme about them.

  'He's dead, all right.' Aylott approached the shot-blasted mulch with some trepidation.

  'He is.' Peter Eversham still stood there holding his gun. Jesus Christ, where were the bloody newshounds? They were quick enough off" the mark when some randy vicar or other ran off with the verger's wife, used rolls of film and gave it front page spread, but when somebody shoots a dangerous reptile in an English village they don't want to know.

  There's two rattlers.' The officer stepped back. 'I'd've thought being a pair they would have stuck together. Search parties have spent two days combing the moors and the slopes without seeing so much as a good old British adder sunning itself in the heather.'

  Then they were looking in the wrong place. Eversham just checked himself from speaking his thoughts aloud. The snakes are hanging about the village, right under your bloody noses and you haven't twigged it yet. A man with a gun who knows what he's about might have far more success than hundreds of police and soldiers.

  'I'll have to leave this for the experts to come and have a look at.' Aylott turned back towards his vehicle. 'I'll go and let the Super know at once.'

  And not a bloody word of 'well done' or 'thank you', Eversham reflected as he stood there watching the constable reverse out into the road. Cynthia was getting out of the Jaguar, trying not to look at the remains of the rattler, Doyle was back in his van.

  Eversham glanced down at his gun, a Holland and Holland side lock Royal, the ultimate in English gun-making, a beautifully balanced and efficient weapon. If you knew how to use it, it killed every time, grouse or snakes.

  He looked up at the sky. There were a good three hours of daylight left yet, the perfect evening for a quiet mooch round the hedgerows bordering the barley and oilseed rape fields in the hope of a shot at an unwary rabbit.

  Or a deadly snake.

  Chapter 8

  PETER EVERSHAM moved furtively along the straggling hawthorn hedge just inside the field of growing barley that was showing the first signs of ripening. His every movement was that of the accomplished stalker, one who wished to see and yet not be seen. Neither by the snakes he hunted nor his fellowmen.

  His gun gave him a new sense of power, one that he had not fully appreciated until now. Man was a hunter by nature but it did not end there. He was a born predator even though civilisation had attempted to eradicate it from the species, all part of a Marxist plot to bring about a revolution; they branded the hunting and shooting fraternity as upper-class barbarians, overlooking the fact that thousands of ordinary working men enjoyed field sports. Use an emotive lever to prise the capitalist clique apart and the masses will join the ranks. Eversham's lips curled into a contemptuous smile. Those opposed to killing ought to be here in Stainforth right now and they'd soon change their minds. He wondered how that fellow Cousins, who lived in the village and was always writing the predictable emotive anti-blood-sports letters to the papers, was feeling at this moment. Cowering indoors, doubtless, listening in to every radio and TV bulletin to find out if the hunters had accounted for any of the snakes yet. Tally-ho, go get 'em, you chaps, and we'll forgive you so long as you don't go back to killing foxes when it's ail over.

  Cousins was a convener in one of the factories in the city, a trouble-maker, had instigated a strike only a few weeks back over some petty formality. In his spare time he campaigned against blood sports and was anti anything that people enjoyed doing.

  Eversham had had his own brushes with the unions and on a couple of occasions he had dug his heels in and won. If necessary, he would shut his business down and take early retirement. 'It suits me,' he had told a shop steward. 'It's you chaps who'll lose out. I can sell my premises and machinery and put my feet up. Your chaps will just be out of a job. Please yourself.'

  Now he was going to make the headlines again. He paused alongside the overgrown hawthorn hedge, took stock of his surroundings. There was too much damned cover, the barley waist high and reaching right up to the hedge. A fox could sit and watch you from a few yards away and you would have no idea it was there. Or a snake.

  He thought about moving on up to the grassland beyond but the reptiles were unlikely to be where they could be spotted easily. They would be in the thickest cover. Maybe he should have fetched Kell, the springer spaniel, from the kennels where he had been boarded whilst the Evershams were away. Kell had a keen nose, he was able to scent out a skulking shrew; anything that breathed, he found. It was too late now, Eversham must play a lone hand.

  He pondered on a plan of action. Assume that the snakes were in the barley. In all probability they would not be found round the edge but would be deep in the stalky growth. It was no good blundering through it, they would hear him coming and either slink out of the way or else attack, a sudden ambush. Yet there was a way . . . Modern farming methods and the use of poisonous chemicals caused barren patches of ground amidst the crops, destroyed the vital minerals in the soil and created mini-deserts in the seemingly lush growth akin to clearings in a forest. Find one of these and take up a position there. Vision on all sides, no chance of being attacked from behind and ... he trembled with excitement, if he imitated a rabbit squeal from time to time one of those reptiles was sure to come on the run. Easy enough, the same way that you fooled a fox on a summer evening; you sucked the back of your hand noisily and it sounded like a wounded or snared rabbit squealing. Old Kenning, the gamekeeper, had taught him how to do it. Now he would put that knowledge to good use.

  Peter Eversham moved forward into the growing barley. It swished loudly as it yielded a passage for him, springing back into place, swaying and rustling. He was decidedly uneasy, the shotgun held at hip-level, safety-catch pushed forward. Christ, you couldn't see to shoot anything in here, you wouldn't see a snake until . . . don't think about it. They'll probably be scared to hell if they hear you, take off in the opposite direction. Or attack.

  Something moved to his right, three or four yards away, sent the ears of corn swinging. Oh God, he half-turned, had the gun to his shoulder in readiness, beads of sweat forming on his forehead. All in the imagination, your nerves are stretched. Don't let 'em, you are the hunter out here, Peter Eversham, you have a weapon far more lethal than the deadliest snake in the world.

  He took another step forward and the corn rustled again, a sound as if the wind was blowing, yet heavier, a small body crashing through the forest of stalks screened from his view. He almost panicked and fired blindly; I've got a gun, you bastard, don't you come anywhere n
ear me.

  Then sudden relief, a releasing of pent-up breath, lowering the gun. Whatever it was, it was darting away in the opposite direction. A rabbit probably. Or a hare.

  Now there was a sense of urgency about Peter Eversham's movements, crashing his way through the ripening crop, searching desperately for a clearing somewhere.

  He had gone about a hundred yards before he found one to his liking. Not quite as big as he had hoped, possibly five or six yards in diameter, but it would do. He might blunder around all evening without finding exactly what he was looking for and time was not on his side.

  He settled down on his haunches, tried not to notice that he was trembling slightly, and glanced up at the sky. The sun was low in the west, perhaps an hour and a half away from dusk. He'd give it an hour, no more; the last thing he wanted was to be walking back through that barley in the dark.

  He waited five minutes, time to let anything that had heard his noisy passage forget about it, then he pressed his lips to the back of his hand and began to suck. It wasn't easy but after several attempts he produced a fair imitation of the squeals of a terrified or injured rabbit. 'Don't overdo it, rabbits don't squeal continually,' Kenning had said. 'Give a call every few minutes.'

  Eversham was desperate for a smoke. He resisted the temptation until his keen memory churned out something he had read somewhere, or maybe seen in a TV documentary, something about wildfowl hunters in the Fens during the last century carrying burning peat to mask any scent they gave off. Perhaps, then, a cigarette would be to his advantage and, anyway, didn't most of the old big-game hunters in Africa always smoke a big foul-smelling pipe?

  He put a cigarette to his lips, flicked his lighter and inhaled the smoke gratefully. Come on, you buggers, I'm ready for you.

  Half an hour passed. The sky was beginning to turn saffron and the only creatures which seemed to have located Peter Eversham's hiding place were swarms of tiny midges; their ploy was to hover incessantly over your head and whilst you were swatting at them, a small detachment would come in from behind, find a patch of exposed flesh and alight on it. He blew smoke at them but it did not deter them. And when finally they did decide to depart they left him scratching a number of itchy swellings on his neck and ears.

  He tried the rabbit call again. Much better now, it really sounded something like a distressed coney. Surely a snake in an alien environment wouldn't be able to tell the difference anyway, probably had never seen or heard the good old English bunny in its life.

  Peter heard a helicopter coming down off the moor, crouched low and ducked his head. Deafening, the wind from the vanes wafting the corn, flying at no more than twenty feet. The machine passed just to his left and he raised his eyes to follow its departure. It swung round, headed back towards the village. What a bloody waste of time, he thought. If they can't spot me in the barley how the hell can they expect to see the snakes?

  Boredom added to the discomfort of his crouched position. He found himself studying the engraving on his gun, marvelled at the intricacies, the workmanship that made English guns the best in the world. In the right hands, with the right cartridge, this gun would kill anything. Snakes were no exception, he had proved that already. And he would prove it a second time.

  He had a feeling that he was not going to see the snakes tonight. Another few minutes and he would pack it in, head for home. One more cigarette and I'll go. He sucked his hand once more; now that was the best rabbit call he had done all night, enough to make . . .

  A swishing of wings above his head made him start and he was just in time to see a diving sparrow hawk check, jink and change direction. Hard luck, you bugger, Eversham smiled to himself, I must be good to fool you. You thought you heard your supper squealing but you had one helluva shock. The moral of that story is don't take anything for granted.

  The tall corn was beginning to cast its shadows across the small clearing, thousands of nodding, swaying heads that were to be given a brief few hours' rest from the labours of ripening, a sun-soaked crop that could be part of Man's winter food store, grain for malting, seed for poultry. A source of life.

  And death!

  Peter Eversham started, almost dropped his gun. There was a snake directly opposite him, its body partly concealed by the barley forest. Red, black and yellow with white rings, gaudy with all Nature's warning colours blended into its scaly skin. A black snout, eyes that watched unblinking, fearlessly, full of hate.

  He had not heard its approach, not so much as the disturbance of a barley stalk, a hunter that had slithered silently in answer to that false cry of pain, perhaps had not even been fooled by it, had come in search of Man,

  A length of ash fell from the cigarette between Peter Eversham's lips, powdered on his shirt. Sweaty hands gripped the gun. Bring it up slowly, don't make a sudden movement, don't let it even guess what you're going to do. He wondered what species the snake was, how fast it was capable of moving. Right now it didn't look to be in any hurry, probably thought it had him for the taking anyway.

  He was trembling so much that he could scarcely draw a bead on the reptile, the twin barrels quivering, moving from side to side. And still the snake did not move.

  The gun bucked, the heel of the stock hammering against his shoulder because he held it too loosely. A vivid flash lit up the tiny clearing, forked lightning that propelled leaden death, a report that shattered the stillness, went rolling across the landscape towards Stainforth, its echoes rumbling and dying when they reached the distant moorland.

  The snake slumped forward, a coil of bloodied rope that did not so much as twitch; pulped, unrecognisable. Harmless.

  The gun was still at Peter Eversham's shoulder. He was aware of the pain where it had kicked him but he ignored it, just stared in disbelief. The patience of the hunter had paid off; just when you thought nothing was going to show up your prey emerged. You could never be certain of anything, that was the spice of hunting, what drove you on just when you had almost given up.

  'COMPANY DIRECTOR KILLS TWO OF THE ESCAPED SNAKES'—he saw tomorrow's newspaper headlines in his imagination, a wad of papers on the desk in his office. The Sun, Mail, Express, Star. Television interviews, describing how he went out and lay in wait, lured it with his calling, his expertise, his knowledge of the ways of the wild. But you'll have to take the dead snake home to prove it!

  His flesh crept and pimpled, a shudder ran right up his spine and into his scalp beneath the deerstalker hat. Christ, I don't have to touch that thing, do I? Of course you do. I can't. You must, else they won't believe you and if you don't take it now you might not find it again. Foxes might come in the night and eat it. 'COMPANY DIRECTOR KILLS RATTLER, CLAIMS HE SHOT A SECOND'—Oh, yeah!

  He drew on his cigarette, glanced around in the shadows, looking for a couple of sticks, wondering if somehow he could make a cradle out of them and carry it at arm's length. Yuk! But you don't often find sticks in the middle of fields of growing corn. He didn't have a piece of string either with which to make a loop to drag over it, pull it along behind him. He didn't fancy the idea, it would be like the creature was pursuing him in the dark, swishing along behind him. It might not be dead, it might bite!

  You're crazy. Just frightened, everybody's entitled to a few fears when it starts to get dark, aren't they?

  He stood up, tried to get his bearings. A landscape of silhouettes in the gathering dusk, the village on his left, the moors starkly outlined above them, a mass of deep purple that would merge with the night sky before long and obliterate everything. And all around him a sea of corn, no distinguishing features. Christ on a bike, I've got to get the fucking thing home somehow!

  It's dead, it can't hurt you. He steeled himself, called on every bit of logic he could muster in a mind filled with the human revulsion for reptiles, bent forward and stretched out a hand; make sure you don't touch the head.

  It wasn't slimy, sort of dry and rough to the touch, a limp thing that might have been a perished length of garden hose. Coils
of it, he could not even hazard a guess at its length as he dragged it out of the barley, wondered how long it would take him to reach the village. As soon as he came to the road he would drop his burden, leave it there for some other bugger to fetch.

  Gun in one hand, a loop of snake in the other, he set off. His progress was not easy, the corn seeming deliberately to obstruct his passage; once he tripped on a stone and almost fell, cursed profusely.

  And then, without warning, the pain hit him, blinding agony that began in the calf of his right leg and travelled up his body, had him arching his back, staggering. Screaming. It was as though every vein were filled with burning acid, his limbs stretched to breaking point, a fiery haze shimmering before his eyes like an electric storm lighting up the night. He dropped the dead snake. It fucking well wasn't dead after all! Oh, Jesus God, it's bitten me!

  His brain could not grasp the situation. A lifeless half-coiled reptile thudded to the ground and in its place was a live vicious serpent, a multi-coloured assailant that thrashed and struck, a berserk attacker in the falling darkness, striking, falling back, striking again; pursuing his shambling movements, hissing its fury.

  Peter Eversham still had the gun, an unfired cartridge in the left barrel. He tried to bring it round to bear on the snaking shadow but it was too close. Between his flailing feet, wicked fangs darting upwards. His abdomen seemed to contract then expand, airborne with the force of the pain, pulling that trigger in a last gesture of defiance.

  He heard the report somewhere beyond the roaring in his agonised brain, the noise receding, rolling away into the distance. Falling.

  He braced himself as the ground came up to meet him, frothing through clenched teeth, wide-eyed and sightless. Rolling. Now prone, aware of a constant movement, a sharp needle that injected him repeatedly until his nerves were numbed and he felt no more. Trying to piece everything together but the fragmented logic eluded him. A dead snake, so how could it have bitten him? It was dead all right, he'd seen it, felt it. It didn't make sense. Cynthia ... she wasn't around anywhere, was she? Or Doyle, the gardener? If Doyle was around then why was the garden in such a fucking mess, all overgrown like this?