by Guy N Smith
Kirsten looked beautiful, he decided. A queen amongst young girls. He would always remember her this way. But it did not alter the fact that their priority was to get away from here. All the same he could have stayed here just gazing down at her for ever.
He felt her stir. Her breasts rubbed softly against him, her eyelids began to flicker. Damn it, I've woken her up just when she needs all the sleep she can get.
'What time is it?' She tried to stretch, pushed her feet against the old van heater, the one that had no means of being switched off, roasted you in summer and did not work much at all in cold weather.
'Ten past four,' he murmured, adjusted his embrace. 'No, hurry, sleep on as long as you like.'
'No ... hurry . . . I'll be late for ... Oh, God! 'It's all right.' He kissed her softly. 'We're safe, a bit uncomfortable but everything's all right.' 'Is it ... still there?' 'Don't look.'
She struggled with him, twisted her head round, the terror back in her wide eyes. Then she gave a cry of mingled relief and amazement, euphoria. 'Keith, it's gone!'
He didn't dare to look where Kirsten had looked, barely comprehended her words. It hasn't, it can't, because it won't go away whilst it's got us trapped in here, you could tell that by the look in its eyes.
'Keith, look. I tell you it's gone!'
He turned his head slowly. She was right, the snake was no longer on the bonnet of the van.
'We can go then.' She was half-crying, fumbling for the door catch when he caught her wrist.
'Just hold on. We have to be sure, Kirsten.' 'Of course it's gone.'
'We don't know for certain, and until we are certain you don't get out of this van.'
'How do we find out then?' she was becoming angry. 'I say it's gone and we'd better make a run for the road before it comes back.'
Keith began to ease open the driver's door, just a couple of inches, enough for him to see outside, scrutinise the ground on the offside of the vehicle. Clumps of grass that were dying from lack of moisture, stunted growth that should have been luxuriant towards the end of June. Sparse, hardly room enough for a mouse to hide just here. The drought was beginning to bite.
'Well,' she said, craning her neck, trying to see past him, 'what did I tell you? It's got fed up with waiting and cleared off.'
He did not reply, opened the door another few inches, remembered what had happened outside the Evershams' garage, how the rattlesnake had lain in wait underneath Peter Eversham's Jag.
'What are you doing, Keith?'
He pushed the door and held it at arm's length, lowered his head and shoulders, ready to draw back at the first sign of danger. His long copper hair flopped down, felt below the sill. Almost afraid to look, but he had to.
'God? Keith Doyle's whole body recoiled like a whiplash, slamming the van door in the same motion as he fell back into Kirsten's arms.
'What is it? It ... isn't . . .'
'Yes,' he sighed, closing his eyes. 'Our friend of last night is lying stretched full length under the van patiently waiting for us to emerge!'
Kirsten instinctively raised her feet up off the floor, felt physically sick, did not waste her breath asking what they were going to do. That was obvious, they stayed right there, hoped that eventually somebody would come.
'At least we can shout for help,' she said at length.
'We'll try in a bit when people are up and about,' he replied, remembered how this sandpit was virtually soundproof; that was the argument the local bikers had used in the big row a few years ago, claimed that the pit deadened the sound of their motorbikes, had almost convinced the local authorities. But he did not tell Kirsten that because her nerves were already at breaking point.
They sat there, pressed up against each other, watched the first rays of the morning sun turn the vegetation on the top of the quarry a rich golden colour. Anywhere else they could have appreciated the beauty of Nature's splendour. Here it was horribly threatening. And in a few hours it was going to get very hot. The temperature inside the van would rise, become unbearable.
'I ... I'll have to ... go somewhere.' She blushed, had probably fought against the physical urge for some time.
'Well, you can't go outside.' Damn it, this was unnecessarily embarrassing.
'I've got to.'
'There's a gardening bucket somewhere in the back amongst all this clutter.' He turned round, rummaged behind the seat until he found it, pulled it out. 'You can use that.'
'Keith, I . . .'
'You'll have to.' He tried to sound sympathetic, knew that he would have to urinate too very shortly. 'I'm going to use it myself in a minute.'
She struggled with her inhibitions, finally crawled over into the back.
'What wouldn't I give for a nice cup of tea,' he said. Keep talking, don't make an issue out of what we'll both have to do several times before somebody finds us. 'Some toast, too.'
'Don't, you make me feel hungry.' She rejoined him in the front: 'Do you think we could try shouting yet?'
'We'd better leave it a bit.' No use exhausting ourselves, every hour from now onwards is going to take it out of us. 'If I know my mum she'll have raised the alarm by now. We can keep the windows open an inch or so and listen. As soon as we think we hear anybody we'll yell our heads off.'
But there was only silence. Just the buzzing of insects in the surrounding undergrowth. They might have been a thousand miles from civilisation, marooned on a dried-up waterhole in the middle of some vast arid desert.
Keith had dozed. Suddenly he was awoken by a movement, jerking him back to reality; not the restless stirring of his companion, but a sudden surge by Kirsten, the click of the catch on the passenger door, the creaking of rusty hinges.
He moved fast, grabbed her shoulder with one hand, reached across and slammed the door with the other; locked it.
'Stop it!' She let out a scream, struck at him with clenched fists. Her features were screwed up into a mask of panic and desperation, her voice shrill with rising hysteria. 'Let go of me, Keith. You've no right to keep me here against my will. I'm going to jump out, run for the road.'
'You'd maybe get ten yards.' He snatched her wrists, held them in a strong grip. 'If that. You bloody stupid girl, you wouldn't have a chance. Your only hope is to stay here.'
She struggled frantically, tried to bite him, was twisting her body round in order to free her legs so that she could kick him. 'Let go of me, you bastard. You brute, I'll . . .'
That was when he hit her, released his hold on her and in the same movement brought the flat of his hand hard across her face, threw her head back. She screamed but her struggles stopped. And then she began to cry uncontrollably.
'I'm sorry.' He pulled her to him, kissed her tenderly, 'Believe me, Kirsten, I'm so sorry.'
'And I'm sorry too,' she replied after a while, squeezed his hand. 'I must have been mad. I don't know what came over me, only that I felt I'd go crazy if I stayed in here a second longer. I promise I won't do it again.'
'I hope not,' He reached under the seat, came out with a hammer, placed it in the glove-box, stail sticking out. 'See that?'
'What's that for, to hit the snake over the head with?'
'For you to hit me over the head with if I suddenly try to make a break for it. Just hammer me good and hard, lay me out.' There were times when you had to make a joke out of a crisis.
They both laughed.
Then it was back to waiting. And praying.
For once Joan Doyle had not waited up for her son to come in. He'd be all right, he'd only gone down to the Davises and you could not really expect a man (she was repeatedly trying to convince herself these days that Keith was no longer a boy) to be home prompt from courting.
At eleven o'clock she made herself a cup of tea and sat and drank it in the kitchen. It was one of those evenings when she found herself indulging in reflections, a nostalgic mood brought on by her son's courting. She hoped that he would marry Kirsten, in a way it would be like getting married herself all ove
r again, reliving their happiness, remembering how things had once been between herself and Bob.
She knew that she could be very attractive if she took the trouble to make herself up; forty-four was no age, really. There was plenty of time left to find herself a man, start all over again. No, definitely no! It would not be the same the second time round, far better to grow old with the memories she already had, just remember that one chunk of her life from twenty to thirty-two, the best years. All the same, sometimes she despaired at the thought that in all probability she would never ever enjoy a physical relationship with a man again; the thought could age one prematurely, turn you into a kind of maiden aunt. If you let it.
She felt guilty about the things she sometimes did to herself in the solitude and privacy of her own bed on those nights when the urge got too much for her. A flood of guilt just confessing to herself that... whatever would Keith think of her if he ever found out? The shame of it all. But he wasn't likely to, there was no way he was going to know unless she told him and she would never admit to that even with her dying breath.
The mood was coming on her tonight and she knew she could not stop it. That was one reason why she wasn't going to sit up and wait for Keith; she found all kinds of other excuses but she knew the real one and it made her feel guilty.
She left the hallway light on and went upstairs. Keith would be all right.
Joan Doyle studied her nakedness in the full-length wardrobe mirror, experienced a glow of self-satisfaction. Her figure was still passable, her breasts were still firm and had not sagged, just a few wrinkles on her stomach and a couple of stretch marks. She would not be ashamed to let a man see her nude. That in itself was an exciting thought.
Her inhibitions always disappeared when she put the light out, it was as though she stepped into another world.
She tossed the sheets aside and lowered herself on to the bed, smoothed her fingers sensuously up and down the insides of her thighs, escalated her feelings. She was quivering all over, trembling with anticipation, determined to take her time and enjoy every second of it. Goodness, it was ages since she had been in a mood as strong as this; if a man had walked into the bedroom right now she would have let him have his way, pleaded with him to do it if necessary. Seduced him, thrown herself at him.
A thought crossed her mind; she wondered if Keith and Kirsten did . . . no, she didn't want to think about it. Just herself, the time that soldier had dated her, the year before she had met Bob, had walked her across the fields and down to the meadow by the river. She had told him 'no' over and over again but finally she had said 'yes' and they had not got home until well after midnight.
She couldn't hold off much longer, her slender fingers going to places she had been determined to keep them away from for a while yet, moving faster and faster. And faster. Her whole body was caught up in a maelstrom, taut as a bowstring. And then everything seemed to give. She thrashed and writhed, rolled from one side of the bed to the other and back again, over on to her stomach, crying her joy into the pillow.
The aftermath was so relaxing, like floating in a warm bubble bath without a care in the world, savouring the drowsiness, trying to hold off sleep as long as she could. Was that a door closing downstairs? She couldn't be sure but anyway it was a good job that Keith was late home because he might have heard her otherwise. She would have to be careful in future but it would be a long time before she got in a mood as strong as that again.
Her fantasies and memories followed her into sleep. Bob, tall and strong on their wedding night. She had lied and told him she was a virgin. She couldn't have done otherwise without admitting to having gone with Alistair that evening and she'd never do that.
In the darkened council-semi nuptial chamber, she was aware of her new husband alongside her, of his efforts at marital seduction. Secretly she was crying out for him to roll on top of her. Those rough hands of his, a brickie's callouses scraping their way up her legs. She eased her thighs apart, an invitation to him to feel in between them. Go on, Bob, touch me there.
He did, but somehow it was no longer sensuous, his roughness abrasive to her own sensitivity, a cold hard probing finger when it should have been soft and warm. Another movement that hurt her, gouged her soft moist flesh; catapulted her back into wakefulness.
If it was an erotic dream then it did not vanish with waking. The hand feeling her was still there, clumsily manipulating female organs that shut off instantly. She sat up, wanted to push it away.
And at that moment she saw it, a long dark shape like a trailing length of rope starkly outlined against the white background of the under sheet, draped from the foot of the bed right up on to her unclothed body. Moving, wriggling, a squat head erect and looking down at her.
She did not scream, she was incapable of doing anything except lie there and watch with terrified fascination and loathing, its very touch robbing her of all her powers. Her mind was a total blank, clinging to disbelief, seeing it move nearer . . . and nearer.
The reptilian intruder struck with a lightning lunge of its head, buried its fangs into the soft flesh of a breast, the terrified woman arching upwards with sudden pain, her spinal cord cracking under the pressure. Her body was on fire, a burning sensation spreading out in all directions, flaying arms and legs, slapping and kicking and trying to dislodge the creature that was now entwining itself around her. So cold, so strong, so dominant in an obscene simulation of reptilian and human copulation.
Joan Doyle screamed just once before she died, subconsciously tried to check that cry of terror in case it brought Keith rushing into the room. She felt her life being squeezed from her, an expulsion of air and vomit. Bursting like a balloon filled with water might have done.
And after it had feasted for the second time that night the African rock python left by the way it had entered, out through the open window, negotiated the drainpipe with ease, and slunk away in the direction of the old graveyard.
Man was easy prey if you were cunning enough to single out an unsuspecting victim. Now it would sleep the daylight hours away in the safety of that underground lair.
Chapter 14
JOHN PRICE was knocking on the door of the Doyles' council house shortly after seven o'clock the next morning, an air of urgency and frustration about him. Where the hell was the guy? His van was not parked in the short drive. Perhaps Keith's mother could give him some information. God, was she bloody well deaf?
In the end he gave up, turned away and headed back towards the police station. Christ alone knew where they were going to search today, there weren't many places left.
He slowed his step, halted. No reason except a kind of premonition, his thoughts going back to the Doyles. Keith was hardly likely to have left for work at this hour of the morning so where had he gone? None of your bloody business, John Price. And his mother? Gone with him probably.
The zoologist stood there, his forehead creased. He felt a nagging concern. In all probability there was a simple, innocuous answer to those questions. At any other time, yes, but with the occupants of Stainforth hiding behind closed doors and windows, nobody went out much at all except for absolute necessities. Mrs Doyle was probably still in bed, and Keith had not actually promised to help him. Hell, he didn't need him. Yes he did, he needed company, somebody to talk to, to pool a few ideas, maybe throw a different angle on the whole thing.
Slowly John began to retrace his steps towards those few council houses, his uneasy feeling growing stronger by the yard. There had been horrific deaths, nobody was safe. You got to believe that almost anything could happen to anybody, including yourself.
He knocked on the door again, louder this time, thumping it so that the woodwork rattled. No answer. He walked round the side of the house; for some reason council-house dwellers seldom opened their front doors, everybody using the rear entrance, a sort of tradition that dated back to wartime days.
He tapped on the glass panel of the back door, did not expect any answer. He could see into the
small kitchen, through into the hallway. A light was burning and that was damned odd; he got a peculiar sensation in the pit of his stomach, an apprehension that was manifesting itself. There's something terribly wrong here, John Price.
He tried the door, it was unlocked, swung right back on its hinges. You've no business opening people's doors. Or going inside. But all the same he stepped over the threshold. You could find yourself in an awful lot of trouble, you ought to go and fetch PC Aylott or one of the other policemen.
Mounting the stairs, his feeling that all was not well escalated with each step and then when he was almost at the landing the stench hit him, a vile odour that brought back memories of those hours he had spent in the laboratory at university carrying out experiments on dead creatures, steeling himself to the stink of dissected bodies, intestines, blood. Offal.
God, this place stank. I don't know what the hell's happened, maybe I should go for the police. You might as well check first.
He recoiled in the bedroom doorway, had to lean against the wall for support, heaved and almost threw up, wanted to turn and flee and would probably have done so had his legs not suddenly weakened until they were scarcely able to support the weight of his body.
The crumpled bed sheets were soaked in blood which had saturated the mattress and dripped right through to form a pool on the carpet beneath. The wails were splashed and streaked with crimson, and a vile slimy matter which he recognised instantly as human intestines, adhered to the flowery wallpaper in places, hanging down in strings. A human intestinal explosion had taken place, whoever had been in this room had been crushed with such force that they had burst. And then disappeared, the remnants of the corpse vanished completely.
It was the python, of course. Even in his state of dazed shock John Price read the scene as others might read a book. The constrictor had entered by the open window—had scented a victim inside and scaled the wall by means of a convenient drainpipe; no trouble at all. Then, having devoured its prey, it had returned whence it had come. And that was what was eluding everybody, the whereabouts of the snakes' lair.