Snakes

by Guy N Smith

  Today he had to do something positive.

  'You two haven't had a tiff, have you?' Oh Christ, Mother was always so persistent, never let anything drop.

  'Of course not. She mentioned something about they might be going to stay with relatives until the snakes were all caught.'

  'Then you don't have any reason to go out, Keith.'

  Oh bloody hell! 'I'm going up to Yardleys'. All I have to do there is to cut the lawns. I don't have to weed overgrown borders where . . . where snakes might be lurking.'

  'The lawns don't need cutting.' Joan Doyle was tight-lipped, clutching at straws now. 'Nobody wants their lawns mowing when the sun's scorching up the grass day after day. The lawn will die if you mow it.'

  'It'll grow long and straggly if I don't take the top off it very soon.'

  'I wanted you to do a job for me today.'

  'Like what?'

  She hesitated for a second or two. 'The garden shed needs a good tidy out.'

  'I tidied it out last week, or hadn't you noticed?'

  'Oh ... and the attic's due for a turn out. There's so much lumber up there now that there isn't room to put anything else in it.'

  'You'd suffocate up there in weather like this,' he said, walking towards the door. 'I'm going up to the Yardleys'. I could be back mid-afternoon. Depends if she wants me to do anything else apart from mowing the lawns, so don't you get fretting.'

  He stepped outside into the hot morning sunlight, slammed the door behind him; end of bloody conversation! 'Strewth, it was going to be a bloody stinker again today, it wasn't nine o'clock yet and you could feel the heat building up. He looked up into the clear blue sky, tried to spot a wisp of fluffy white cloud somewhere but there wasn't one. The weathermen had it easy, they did not even have to rely on satellite pictures. Hot and dry; outlook—continuing.

  Keith reversed the van out into the road. He was low on petrol, the needle hovering on the red warning line at the bottom of the gauge; but there was enough to get him up to the Yardleys' and back. Right now he did not have the inclination to go up to the Esso garage on the main road.

  As he pulled away he became aware at once of the absence of parked vehicles along the village main street. The police had put road-blocks on the roads leading in and out of Stainforth. You've had your fun, Joe Public, now piss off and let us deal with the snakes. There would doubtless be the usual outcry from those evicted, a police state and all that balls.

  The van missed, picked up again. It was due for a service, Keith reminded himself. Maybe tomorrow he would go up to the garage, fill up with petrol and get them to service it. There wasn't going to be much work available in the near future. Jesus Christ, fancy Eversham being stupid enough to go out after the snakes in the barley. The firemen had found his charred corpse after the blaze had been put out. Presumably the snakes had got him. They had certainly killed Barbara Brown and her baby. Now everybody in Stainforth was really looking over their shoulders.

  Keith wondered about going to the Evershams' again. Not just yet, anyway. Cynthia Eversham would not want to be bothered with the garden for some time; another regular job gone overboard thanks to these fucking snakes. She would probably sell up and go back down south to her family.

  The Yardleys lived in a modern detached house at the very end of the main street. A stark box, 'No taste,' as everybody in the village said—a box and a quarter of an acre of lawn. They had not even got any borders. Suburbia had come to Stainforth with disgusting authenticity.

  He pulled his van into the tarmac drive and the engine was only too ready to die. Climbing out, aware of the stillness, the absence of commuter cars backing out into the road, heading east to the town. Wasn't anybody going to work today? Maybe everybody had moved out temporarily; we'll come back when those awful snakes have gone.

  Eileen Yardley appeared in the doorway of the house, an expression of mingled disbelief and disapproval on her moonish face. Tall and thin, any grey in her shoulder-length hair obliterated by a jet-black rinse, she had a reputation for complaining. She complained regularly to the council, the electricity board, the post office, and wrote a good many more letters to the local newspaper than they ever published, something else which she complained about. At forty-five she was reasonably attractive but her goal in life was a mystery to everybody who knew her. She was in search of some level of status, obviously, and perhaps with her husband having failed in his attempt to secure promotion at the local council then she had to draw attention to herself, a constant battle to get her own way against the System. Nobody really knew and perhaps she did not either.

  'You're not going to work today, surely, Mr Doyle?' A harsh accent that jarred the nerves of anybody within earshot. 'Not in this terribly hot weather. And I heard you'd had a most frightful experience up at the Evershams.'

  'Grossly exaggerated.' Christ, he couldn't tell the whole story all over again. 'But the lawns need cutting, Mrs Yardley, else that spiky grass will grow so that the mower won't take it, I thought I'd raise the blades a bit, just take the top off, tidy it up a bit.'

  'If you really want to.' She pulled the door another inch or two towards her; she ought not to have it open at all. 'It's entirely up to you. My husband's stopped over in town, these road blocks waste such a lot of time and in the evening there is a queue almost to the motorway.'

  With any other woman I'd take that as an invitation, Doyle smiled wryly. Either George Yardley was staying in town because he had a ready-made excuse to be away from his wife's incessant complaining or else he was scared stiff of the snakes. Eileen wouldn't get up to anything whilst he was away. She would simply brood and write more letters to the paper.

  'You do what you think best.' There was only a crack of open door now, the dark-haired woman peering out from behind it. 'Ring the bell when you've finished and I'll pay you your money.'

  He walked up to the garage, could not help a shudder as he lifted the up-and-over door; all so reminiscent of the Evershams'. But, like a racing driver who has walked out of a bad pile-up, he had to get right back behind the wheel if he wasn't going to lose his nerve.

  The mower was a fifteen-year-old Atco. You tugged your guts out until it fired and then dodged the cloud of pungent fumes. Keith had cleaned the plugs, fiddled with the carburettor on more than one occasion but it made no difference. Age caught up with everything eventually.

  The lawn was virtually a patch of uncut hay, it really did not need cutting. An excuse really, the need to be doing something. Anything. But whatever he did he could not get Kirsten off his mind. He had to know today what had become of her, whether their relationship had finally tottered over the brink. He could not stand not knowing any longer.

  Up and down that lawn, cutting dead brown swathes that would need weeks of rain to recover. Emptying the grass-box on the pile behind the flowering cherry tree; mowing again, now hurrying because he wanted to get finished. Then he would go up to the Davis household. If they were not at home then perhaps the neighbours might have some idea where they had gone.

  In the midst of his thoughts the engine stuttered, cut out in a final puff of two-stroke smoke, an ageing monster that had finally given up its battle with life.

  Silence, complete and utter. You could not even hear the cars on the distant motorway. It was like standing in the middle of a ghost village that stank of lawn mower fumes and burned barley. The smell of death.

  'Hi, there.'

  Keith Doyle turned slowly, saw the dark-bearded young man, roughly his own age, coming up the drive towards him. He nodded, remembered having seen him around the village but could not quite place him. A visitor, one who had been before.

  'You're Keith Doyle.' The stranger extended a hand, 'My name's John Price. I'm staying down at Mrs Harrison's.'

  'Of course.' Keith just checked himself from blurting out, 'The old lady who had a heart attack when a grass snake got in the house?' 'You're the zoologist who is helping them hunt the snakes.' It all clicked into place.

&nbs
p; 'That's right. And not having much luck, I'm afraid. I heard about your own experience, it must have been absolutely terrifying.'

  'I had a near scrape.' Keith's legs felt wobbly just recalling that flight from the border with the fattier hard after him; once he reached the garage, though, he wasn't in much danger. He had to keep consoling himself with that fact. 'I had to come out and do some work today, not just for the money but because I'd go bloody crazy if I stayed indoors.'

  'Me, too.' John Price began rolling himself a cigarette. 'They don't need me at present.' He waved his free hand vaguely in the direction of the moors. 'We've scoured the moors, acres of barley have been devastated by fire, and yesterday they hunted the remaining fields. Nothing at all. The snakes seem to have disappeared totally.'

  'You think they might've moved on?'

  'If so there have been no reports of their having been sighted. I have my doubts.'

  'Meaning they're still in Stainforth?'

  '.' reckon so, right under our bloody noses. But where? I was hoping that as a jobbing gardener, knowing the village and the gardens, you might have some idea.'

  Keith puckered his lips, scratched his shock of unruly copper hair. 'Couldn't rightly say, there are so many patches of wilderness. I could name several gardens that I go to that could hide a hundred snakes, and a lot more that I don't work in.'

  'The authorities are worried now that the reptiles might actually be in the village.' Price drew deeply on a crumpled cigarette, inhaled the strong smoke. 'They're going to search every garden, hedgerow and patch of wasteland in Stainforth today. They just asked me to stand by in case they need me for identifying any species they might be lucky enough to shoot. The inhabitants arc scared already but that's nothing to what they're going to be when gangs of armed searchers and dogs start invading their gardens. The media doesn't help. Every morning there's a blown-up picture of some deadly snake on the front page of just about every paper. The police have booted out the sightseers, sent 'em packing in no uncertain terms, and sealed off the road. I'm half expecting them to evacuate the village. It would certainly be the safest thing to do.'

  'I'll keep my eyes peeled.' Suddenly Keith felt very cold standing there in the hot sunshine. The last thing he wanted to see right now was another snake. 'Well, I reckon this mower has finally had it, so that's as good an excuse as any to pack it in for today.'

  'Fancy a pint? The Rising Sun is remaining open, regardless.'

  'I'd like to,' Keith shuffled his feet awkwardly. 'In fact, there's nothing I'd like better, but I haven't seen my girlfriend for three days. She's not at work and maybe her parents have left the village for a time. I've got to go and see what's happened.'

  John Price nodded. 'I'll see you around then.' He dropped his gaze, added with a hint of embarrassment, 'I think that maybe two fellers moving quietly and knowing what they're about might stand more chance of finding these snakes than a whole army of searchers beating hell out of the vegetation.'

  'Is that an invitation to join you in a snake hunt?'

  'Yeah, I guess it is.'

  There was a long pause, an uneasy silence before Keith replied. 'Maybe, I can't rightly say at this moment, it all depends on my girl. I got problems, you see. Tell you what, I'll try and get 'em sorted out today and if everything's OK you and me'll take a look around tomorrow, I can't commit myself further then that at this moment.'

  'Fair enough,' John Price dropped the butt of his cigarette on to the tarmac, ground it to shreds with his heel. 'You come down to my place, Mrs Harrison's bungalow, early in the morning and we'll see what's doing then.'

  Keith watched the other walk back down the drive, slow loping steps, another man who had to be doing something or else he would go crazy.

  And as he pulled the clapped-out Atco back up the drive to the garage the gardener was praying that the search parties might find the reptiles today and destroy them. If they did not then he would be as scared as the rest of the villagers. He hadn't promised to go on a snake hunt, though.

  But he knew that he would help John Price to seek the killers out all the same.

  As he drove out of the Yardleys' gateway he had to wait for a convoy of army Land Rovers to pass, open-backed vehicles packed with men in camouflage clothing, armed with shotguns. Slowing, pulling into the side of the road, beginning to disembark. So sinister in the main street of an English village.

  Keith's flesh crept and his mouth was dry, the kind of dryness that even a lager at the Rising Sun would not alleviate. Basic fear, terror because there was no doubt in his mind that the snakes were right here in Stainforth village. Hiding out somewhere.

  And nobody would sleep easily in their beds again until every one of those killers was dead.

  Chapter 11

  'I'M GOING to see Kirsten, Mother.'

  Not wholly a lie. I'm going to try and see Kirsten, Mother, do my damnedest. She wasn't at home earlier and the car wasn't in the garage, and in all probability my guess was correct that they've left Stainforth for the present. Except I've got a feeling that they'll be back soon. Maybe I'm clinging to vain hopes but at least if I go down there and hang around I'm actually doing something. I can't stay here and be interrogated all evening.

  'Are you sure it's all right to go out?'

  'Well, I've been out most of the day gardening, haven't I, and I'm OK.' Liar, you changed your mind and went for a pint in the Rising Sun after you'd been to the Davis house. A pity you didn't go with that Price feller in the first place. Still, it had helped to fill the day in.

  'Like I told you earlier, Keith, the soldiers have been all through the gardens in the village today. Gave me quite a turn, I can tell you, men with guns on the lawns, poking in the shrubs.'

  'But they didn't find anything, did they, Mother?'

  'No-oo-oo . . . but they might have.'

  Jesus Christ, there might be a nuclear war tonight and we'll al! be blown to blazes! 'Don't you worry, these snakes have probably high-tailed it out of the area and in a couple of days Stainforth will be declared safe and the roads opened up again.'

  'Maybe.' Joan Doyle resigned herself for the second time that day to the fact that there was no way she was going to stop her son from going out. 'What time will you be back?'

  'Shouldn't be too late.'

  The only way he could end these conversations was by going out and closing the door. She would sit up and wait until he returned; damn it, that was her fault.

  He looked at his watch. A quarter past eight. He had not realised that it was as late as that. Nevertheless, he had given the Davis family plenty of time to return home if they were going to. And if they hadn't then he might just go back to the Rising Sun again.

  Damnation, he still had not filled up with petrol. It was too late now, the garage would be closed. The needle had dropped into the red sector on the gauge. But that usually meant there was half a gallon left in the tank. Or thereabouts. A mile to the Davis house and a mile back, it should be plenty. There were times when you had to be an optimist.

  You're wasting your time, Keith Doyle. What else can I do? I have to do something. It's all part of a parental plan by the Davises. Take Kirsten out of the environment, work on her. You're wasting your time on that Doyle boy, even if he has got a string of qualifications he hasn't got a. job. You've been in Stainforth too long, you haven't widened your scope. There are shoals of fish in the sea.

  The snakes came in very convenient when you needed a seemingly bona fide excuse to whisk your daughter out of the clutches of a man you did not approve of. Oh yes, they had come just when they were needed as far as Jack and Mary Davis were concerned.

  But if Kirsten is pregnant that really throws a spanner in their connivings, Keith smiled to himself. They would have to let her make the choice then. Or would they? Surely they would not force her to have an abortion?

  Army vehicles still lined the village street but there was no sign of the hunters. They would keep at it until darkness fell. He remembered that hal
f-promise about tomorrow. I don't have to go with John Price, I only said I'd give it some thought.

  And then he saw Kirsten Davis!

  The sudden shock caused him to swerve, bump against the kerb. It can't be, I'm having hallucinations. The right place, just past the church, the time was right too. Except that their meeting had been arranged for three days ago.

  The van's brakes squealed their protest, the engine stalled and he was leaning across the passenger seat to pull the door catch down with a hand that shook.

  Kirsten was wearing a light blue dress, almost a mini, that showed her shapely legs off to perfection. A low-cut neckline, a cleavage that had you wanting to see the rest. Only her expression worried him; pale-faced, eyes that were red-rimmed from crying, black pouches beneath them from lack of sleep. Distraught, her hair was not as immaculate as it usually was.

  As she swung herself into the passenger seat and slammed the door his hopes plummeted, almost had him wishing that he had gone to the Rising Sun instead and kept on kidding himself that everything would be all right; not knowing for sure meant that you still had illusions. But eventually you had to face up to reality.

  'We'd better go somewhere where we can talk.' Her voice faltered and she stared straight ahead of her.

  'All right.' His stomach was churning. Hell, that wasn't easy, not only was he almost out of petrol but half a mile further on there was a police road block. 'Let me think ... I know, the sandpit.'

  She nodded but did not speak. The 'sandpit' was a played-out sand quarry just to the rear of the churchyard. It had not been quarried for twenty years and up until a few years ago the village bikers used to scramble there at weekends. There had been complaints about the noise, a petition, and nowadays nobody went there except teenage courting couples who did not have transport to take them further afield.

  A bridle path, just wide enough to take a car, led off from where the wall bordering the cemetery ended. A hundred yards, rutted and dipping sharply, terminating in five acres of overgrown scrubland surrounded by high precarious sandcliffs, thorn bushes and saplings somehow securing a hold and serving to create an atmosphere of dank loneliness. Even in the heat of summer it was cool in here.