Venom

by Alan Scholefield

  Another man came in behind Howard. For a moment everything was confusion. “I tell you, she was bitten by a bloody great black snake.” There was hysteria in Dave’s voice.

  “There’s nothing to worry about,” Howard shouted. “It’s harmless. Where is it?”

  They looked round the room.

  But the snake had vanished.

  Part II

  Friday 6.12 p.m.–7.22 p.m.

  “It’s a house snake,” Howard said. “In Africa they keep them to eat rats and mice like we keep cats. D’you think I’d have ordered the boy a venomous snake! It’s shock. That’s all.”

  He tried to recapture the fleeting seconds. He had come into the room after she had been bitten and had not seen the snake. But there was no venom in a house snake and it was her own bloody fault for interfering. And who the hell was this Frenchman? Boyfriend probably. Just like bloody servants, the moment the boss was away they took advantage.

  Louise had been helped into a chair in the Great Ngorongoro Crater Menagerie; her face was chalky white and her lips were blue. She stared at them in terror, unable to speak.

  “Did you see the snake?” Jacmel said.

  Howard shook his head. “Gone by the time I got here. Heard her scream though.”

  “It was big?” Jacmel said.

  “Huge,” Dave said. “Bloody great monster.” His face was puffy with fright.

  It would be a bloody python next, Howard thought. Thirty . . . forty . . . fifty feet. Bigger than the room . . . bigger than the house . . .You could never trust a layman to give you an accurate description of anything in the bush, especially if he was frightened. He remembered clients from his days in Kenya: buffalo the size of cathedrals with horns into the middle of next week, and lions as big as eland. Yet when you saw them they were creatures you knew, often smaller than average. It was the adrenalin talking.

  “Black,” Jacmel said.

  “Like a shadow,” Dave said.

  “Tell me again.”

  “She’d pulled off the top of this box–” Dave began.

  “Travelling crate,” Philip said. He had been standing at the door between the two rooms while they spoke. When the snake had emerged from the bag he’d felt as though his chest was going to burst, the excitement had been so intense, and then events had moved so rapidly he had not time to think of his breathing. Miraculously, when the snake had disappeared and he could collect his thoughts, he found he was still breathing smoothly.

  Dave turned on him. “Why don’t you shut your mouth–”

  “You wouldn’t say that if Mrs Blanchet was here,” Howard began.

  “Well, it’s true. It’s his fault. Keeping snakes isn’t natural.”

  “Enough.” The word came from Jacmel, not loudly but carrying an imperative.

  Dave looked at him defiantly. “Well. . .” he said, to have the last word.

  Howard glanced thoughtfully at Jacmel and turned to Dave. “Did you see what happened?”

  “He didn’t,” Philip said. “I was the only one in the room. She took the top off the travelling crate. It caught the string on the bag and pulled it loose.”

  Howard said gently, “Did she know what was inside?” Philip shrugged, seeing which way the conversation was moving. “I don’t know.”

  “You didn’t tell her?”

  “No.”

  “Why didn’t you stop her, Phil? You knew what was inside.”

  “How was I to know she was going to open the bag? Anyway, I couldn’t breathe.”

  “Remember our pact,” Howard said. “We said we weren’t going to mention it the whole weekend.”

  “Well, it’s true.” The tone was sullen.

  “All right, Phil, no one’s blaming you.” The boy turned and went into his own room.

  “I am dying,” Louise said.

  “Nonsense,” Howard said. “I keep telling you it’s a harmless snake.”

  “I am dying.”

  “C’est pas vrai, chérie, il y . . .”

  “It’s shock,” Howard said. “But I think we should get some help.”

  “Help?” Dave said. “What do you mean, help?”

  Howard ignored the chauffeur and moved past him to the telephone in the hall outside.

  The receiver was on the table. He picked it up. “Hello?” he said, but there was no response. He replaced it and checked the doctor’s number on the list Ruth had given him. He began to dial.

  “What are you up to?” Dave said. He was standing behind Howard.

  Again Howard ignored him. “I said, what are you doing?” Dave moved forward and grabbed the receiver, trying to wrench it from his hand. The two men struggled for a moment then Dave released the phone and, bending swiftly, dragged the wire from the wall breaking it at the junction box.

  “You little twerp!” Howard said. Then Dave hit him; he was slightly off-balance so the blow was not as hard as it might have been but it landed in Howard’s stomach, where the claws had churned, where the stitches had been, and it felt as though someone had directed an open flame to his muscles. He cried out and fell against the wall, both hands covering his abdomen. He looked down expecting blood to flow over the top of his trousers, but none appeared. He felt a tug at his arm and saw, in a kind of pain-filled haze, the figure of Philip.

  “Dick, are you all right?”

  He tried to speak but could only gasp.

  “He’s hurt!” Philip shouted. “You’ve hurt him!”

  “What is wrong?” Jacmel had left Louise to come out on to the landing. “What has happened?”

  “He hit him,” Philip said angrily. “He hit Dick!”

  Howard began to move along the wall, not knowing where he was going, but moving, sliding, trying to find in movement a panacea for the pain. He was giddy and his face was wet with sweat. He knew it had to stop. He also knew he could not take much more without fainting. The pain came in burning waves, each one threatening to engulf him.

  Then he felt Philip’s hand under his arm and he followed blindly. They moved back into the boy’s bedroom and he felt himself being guided on to the bed. He lay back, closing his eyes, and Philip pushed the pillow under his head. In a few moments he began to feel better. Seemingly the pressure on his stomach had been relieved and the pain receded. He opened his eyes and saw Philip above him. The boy’s face was drawn and white and he seemed to be breathing badly. Howard was about to say, “Something’s wrong, Phil,” when he realized this would be the worst thing. So he began to form a sentence which would have implied the opposite until he realized how absurd that would sound. There was something wrong; very badly wrong. He knew it; Philip knew it; and they, the others, knew that he and Phil knew it.

  “In, out,” he gasped. “One, two, one, two. Regular. Regular.” Talking made the pain come back but he went on. “That’s the boy. One, two, one, two.” He found he was whispering. “In, out, in, out.” His stomach was suddenly gripped by heated pincers and he fainted. He could not have been unconscious for more than a minute or two but when he awoke the pain had slackened and he looked up into Philip’s face. The boy had been bending over him and his hand was against Howard’s cheek. Then Howard noticed that his breathing was becoming more regular. Thank God for that, anyway. There were two aerosol inhalers in the house but sometimes even they did not work. His mind was already making adjustments to the future. People don’t pull telephones out of walls for fun. It had to be a robbery. Louise, Jacmel and Dave, all in it together. So Barbot was simply a fake. Jacmel, of course. Jacmel was Barbot. And they had wanted him out of the house for half an hour or so. It was all the time they needed. A few paintings, Ruth’s jewellery in the wall safe in her bedroom, the silver, her gold lighter, bits and pieces; half an hour, no more, and when he came back Louise and Dave and Philip tied up, perhaps, locked in a room, and months later the share-out.

  There was a sudden shout from the room next door and Howard turned so he could see through the door. Jacmel was standing in front of Dave and thou
gh he was a shade shorter he seemed taller and bigger. “Muscles!” Jacmel was saying. Howard saw him make a muscle in his arm. “In your head,” he said brutally. “That is where your muscles are.”

  “What you expect me to do?” Dave said angrily. “Please, Mr ‘Oward–” He mimicked Jacmel. “Please don’t use the telephone.”

  “There is a time for muscle,” Jacmel said. His voice had dropped in pitch and Howard thought it sounded more menacing than when he shouted. “What do you know of it? Nothing. Strong with old men!” He paused. “I will tell you when to use your muscles. You understand that?”

  The voice had dropped even farther and it sounded to Howard as though it was coming from far back in his throat, the way a lion sounds when it is angry. “I will tell you when,” he went on. “I will tell you what to do and what to say and how to act. You understand that? I will tell you when to breathe!”

  Dave’s voice, the aggression gone: “You’ve got no right to talk to me like that.”

  Jacmel said something that Howard could not hear. Then Dave’s voice again: “You mean we go on? But. . .”

  “Don’t think; I will think. Go down to the front door and watch. We must go in five minutes, no later.”

  Dave left the room. Five minutes. That meant they’d already stripped the house. Five minutes. What could he do? Stop them? How? He moved and the pain came back, not so badly this time, but enough to make him gasp. There wasn’t anything he could do, not the way he was now. Even if he were fit, what about the boy? If he were to try something they’d get the boy. What would Ruth rather have: her jewels or her son? That’s what it amounted to. He looked up at Philip and smiled.

  “I’ll look after you,” Philip said.

  It surprised Howard, for it was much what he had been going to say to Phil. He observed the boy. His breathing was rapid but regular and a little colour had returned to his cheeks. Howard realized that looking after someone else took his mind off himself, and said softly, “I know you will, old son.”

  He looked past Philip and saw Jacmel and Louise in the menagerie. Jacmel had helped her to her feet and was walking her up and down the carpet. He spoke all the time. Howard’s French was average but he was speaking too softly for him to hear all that was being said. As far as he could make out, he was encouraging Louise to walk. Telling her there was nothing wrong. That the shock would pass off. That they had to leave soon. This he said in different ways over and over as though to impress it on her mind.

  Then she began to cry; it was a pathetic, low-keyed weeping, without passion but full of despair. Jacmel continued encouraging her, his tones those of a lover. Abruptly she said, loudly and clearly, so that Howard understood every word, “My left leg is numb. I cannot feel it.”

  “Sit,” Jacmel said. “I will rub it for you. It is nothing. It is all part of the shock.”

  She said, “What do we do?”

  “As we planned.”

  “Where is Dave?”

  “He watches the door.”

  “Oh, God, it is all over with me.”

  “No, chérie, it is nothing. Everything will be as before.”

  She began to weep again And even Howard felt pity. Then he thought: when they go, what will they do to us? His mind began to look for a way out, even for the boy alone, but Jacmel was facing into the bedroom. Phil wouldn’t stand a chance. He thought of the guns on their rack in his sitting-room. The shotguns; the rifles. What wouldn’t he have given for the feel of one in his hands? And he wanted a drink very badly.

  * * *

  Howard was not the only one to remember the guns. Dave had seen them several times; once, when Howard had been out and the house deserted, he had even gone into the room and taken down one of the shotguns. It was a Purdey. He had heard of them but had never seen one. They were supposed to be expensive but he could not tell the difference between this one and the old shotgun of his dad’s. He had aimed it at a pigeon in the square and in his imagination had blown its head off. He had shot it sitting, of course, only fools waited until they rose in the air. Now, on his way to take up his position at the front door, he recalled the guns. The Frog had said no guns, but he had one himself. Anyway, things were different now. He tried Howard’s door. It was open. The guns were in their place on the rack and he lifted down the Purdey, broke it, and looked through the barrels. Clean. The gun seemed to give him back his confidence. He had been very frightened. He had been frightened when the telephone had rung and the police had been on the line; frightened when the snake had attacked Louise, and even with the gun, he was still frightened. Things had gone wrong too quickly. Every instinct told him to split: open the door, get in the car and drive like hell. And yet, what if things stopped going wrong? What if Jacmel was right? The police couldn't know, for the simple reason that nothing had happened yet for them to know.

  He lifted the gun to his shoulder, fast, smooth, imitating his dad, who had taught him to shoot in the woods up past Bell Hanger. They were supposed to kill only wood-pigeons, grey squirrels or crows, for his father had no land of his own but scratched a living off thirty rented acres in Hampshire. But when they got a chance they took a pheasant or a partridge, even a roe deer if they felt safe enough. He thought of the farm: a few cows, a few pigs; ducks, geese, bantams; always underfoot, always in and out of the house crapping on the lino. Christ, what a life. Dirt. Cold. His mother pregnant every bleedin’ year. Five brothers and three sisters and he, Dave, the youngest–by seven months. Seven. Not twelve or eleven, not even bloody nine; seven. No one had ever mentioned that to him. When he was twelve years old he had to take his birth certificate to school. That’s when he had seen the date of birth, five months earlier than he had always thought. Which meant he was seven months younger than his brother Charlie, not a year like they’d told him. So if his mother was carrying Charlie when he, Dave, was born, then who the hell was his mother? The answer to that had not taken long. His dad never went anywhere and even if he had, his dirty broken teeth and his smell would have turned the guts of the oldest tart in Pompey. No, it had to be nearer home; at home.

  His mother had died when Dave was two and the young kids had been looked after by his eldest sister, Mary. She was a big, dim girl in her early twenties with a mental age of nine or ten. When he’d asked her, just put it straight to her, she’d said yes, that was right, that she’d often taken the old man on when their mum was carrying. Still took him on occasionally.

  So therefore, he said, she must be his . . . he must be her . . .

  Yes, she said in her dim but kindly way, that’s exactly what he was.

  He’d gone away then, walked up to Bell Hanger and sat down under one of the beech trees and after a while he had walked down into the town and nicked a bike. He’d been caught, taken to juvenile court and let off with a warning. The following day he had smashed in a shop window with one of his dad’s crowbars, but all he’d got for that was probation. It was when he had started shoplifting that the law lost patience and sent him to a borstal. Once inside he relaxed. It was what he’d wanted in the first place. He had never gone home again, never, not even when the old man was dying.

  He became an “institution kid”, being passed from one Welfare State institution to the next and by the time he was eighteen he had all the hallmarks: he was self-absorbed, secretive, emotionally stunted, ill-educated, but with a veneer of sophistication and good manners. Of all the lessons he had learnt, two were more important than the rest: look after number one and do anything you like but don’t get caught. And one ambition: never, never be poor again.

  He was helped into the big world outside. First he became an assistant storeman at a factory whose liberal management employed ex-convicts and young offenders. He took his driving test and became a van driver. He earned good wages and on top of that, pilfering brought in the extra to buy luxuries. From van driving he joined a private hire firm in London and from there he became a private chauffeur–moving always to where the money was. One day, he knew, some
thing would happen and he’d be rich. One day . . .

  But so far he had never been in the right place at the right time. Again he thought: what if Jacmel was right, that they could still get away with it? Five minutes, that’s all, another five minutes and they’d have the boy out of the house. Home and dry. Mrs Blanchet would never go to the police, never. He knew that as well as he knew his own name. Every time the boy sneezed she rushed for a doctor; she was never going to involve the police in something like this. That was the basis of the whole thing. And the clever part was that they were asking for an amount which the Blanchets could afford. Sometimes he wondered if they shouldn’t have planned for more, these people were rolling in the stuff, but three hundred thousand, Jacmel had said, and to tell the truth it seemed right. It split right too.

  He walked over to Howard’s desk and began opening drawers. In the bottom drawer on the right hand side he found what he was looking for, a box on which was printed, “Eley Grand Prix Waterproof Cartridges. High Velocity. No. 6”. He took half a dozen, slipped them into his pocket, then put two into the gun itself, closed it and let himself out of Howard’s flat. He stood at the bottom of the stairs, the gun in his hands, listening to the mutter of Jacmel’s words and the slow movement of Louise across the floor, backwards and forwards, backwards and forwards; you’d think he was trying to sober her up. He didn’t trust either of them. He didn’t trust Jacmel because, well, he just didn’t. And Louise. . . no, not really. She was good crumpet, he had to admit that, even though she was a bit saggy. But sometimes he’d had a feeling that her heart wasn’t in it. They’d first done it three months back. That had been a bloody lark: right on Ruth’s bed one day when she was out and the boy was at school. It had come as a bit of a surprise; not that he didn’t think he was attractive to women, that was a cast-iron certainty. But she’d never given him a clue she was that way inclined. One day she’d given him his lunch and opened a bottle of wine and they had drunk it, and then another, and they’d drunk that, too, and somehow he had found himself in Ruth’s bed with Louise all over him. For days afterwards, whenever he saw Ruth he smiled to himself thinking of what they’d done between her sheets. One of the things he remembered most about Louise was the tufts of hair under her arms. He’d found it sexy. Funny, that. And the way she’d put Mrs Blanchet’s jewellery on. Stark naked wearing rings and ear-rings and necklaces. She’d looked like a bloody savage.