Michael Pearce - The Snake Catcher’s Daughter

“Up to a point, yes. Philipides rang him that afternoon and said enough to incriminate the pair of them. I took it all down and showed it to Wainwright the next morning.”

He walked over to the window and poured himself some water from the earthenware pitcher which stood next to the shutters of all Cairo offices where it would cool.

“Even then it wasn’t simple,” he said. “Wainwright just wouldn’t believe me. I had to go to the Consul-General. Over his head. That made me popular, I can tell you! In the end, I got the C-G to agree but it took three weeks to persuade Wainwright to suspend the two.”

“By which time-”

“No, they couldn’t very well destroy the evidence. They tried intimidation first, put a lot of pressure on the officer. I had to give him an armed guard. I was terrified he would give way. They tried it on me, too.”

Owen smiled.

“Yes, well, that didn’t get them very far,” said Garvin. “But it was pretty unpleasant. I carried a gun with me all the time. Then they tried to discredit me. They dredged up the earrings. Said that I was in the habit of accepting presents and only made a fuss this time because I wanted more. Fortunately, I’d told Judge Willis all about it the day it happened. It just shows you can’t be too careful.”

He pushed the shutters slightly apart to encourage a breeze. Normally they kept the offices dark and cool but the prolonged hot spell had made them like ovens.

“Next, they said it was political.”

“Political!”

“Yes. They said it was all a trick to get Egyptians out and British in. They made great play of that when it came to the trial, and the Parquet was content to let it run because they wanted to make their own political point. They gave me a real grilling. Went on for days. Apart from the officer, and he was my subordinate, I was the chief witness, you see. To the telephone conversation, anyway, and that was crucial, because it was only that, really, that tied the Mamur Zapt in. In the end, though, it suited them to go for a conviction.”

“Which they got.”

“Yes. Well, I say ‘got’. Both were found guilty and sent to jail but the Mamur Zapt was released almost at once on compassionate grounds. He knew too much about all the people involved. The politicians were dead scared that if they didn’t look after him, he would spill all the beans.”

“Where is he now?”

“Enjoying a fat pension in Damascus.”

“It sounds as if he’s got it all worked out,” said Owen. “I’ll bear his example in mind.”

“There are other examples, too, you might bear in mind,” said Garvin. “Wainwright got the push shortly after. I got promotion.”

“Thank you. What about McPhee?”

“That bum!”

“How does he come into it?”

“Well, they needed a replacement as Mamur Zapt. The one thing he had to be, in the circumstances, was honest.”

“Well, he is that,” said Owen.

“I managed to get it made temporary. The price was that when they filled the post he got moved sideways to Deputy Commandant. I’m trying to make that,” said Garvin, “temporary, too.”

In this hot weather, Owen liked to sleep outside. He had a small garden, which the house’s previous occupant, a Greek, had developed in the Mediterranean style rather than the English, more for shade than colour. It was thick with shrubs but there was a little open space beneath a large orange tree and it was here that Owen disposed his bed, not too far in under the branches in case creepy-crawlies dropped on him during the night, but not too far out, either, where the moonlight might prevent him from sleeping.

This morning he awoke with the sun, as he always did, and at once reached his hand down for his slippers, tapping them automatically on the ground to dislodge any scorpion that might have crept in. Then he slipped them on and made for the shower. The water came from a tank in the roof and was still warm from the previous day’s sun. He was just reaching out happily for the soap when he heard the slither behind him and froze. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the tail disappearing into the wall.

“Jesus!” he said, and dispensed with the shower for that morning.

The snake catcher came that afternoon. He was a gnarled, weather-beaten little man with snake bites all over his hands and carrying a leather bag and a cane.

“Another one?” he said. “It’s the hot weather that’s bringing them out.”

“I didn’t see what sort it was,” said Owen, “I just caught a glimpse of the tail.”

He took the snake catcher to the showerhouse and pointed out the hole. The snake catcher sniffed at it and said: “Yes, that’s the way he came, but he doesn’t live there.”

He went round to the back of the showerhouse and showed Owen the hole where the snake had got out. A slight, almost imperceptible track led into the undergrowth.

“Not been doing much gardening, have you?” said the snake catcher. “He’s all right in there.”

He followed the trail in carefully.

“There he is!” he said suddenly. “See him? Down by that root.”

It would be just the head and eyes that were visible. Owen couldn’t see anything.

The snake catcher stood and thought a bit. He was working out where the tail was.

After a while he put down the leather bag beside Owen and circled round behind the snake. This was the tricky part, he had told Owen on a previous occasion. The next bit was more obviously dramatic but this bit was tricky because the tail would often be coiled around roots or undergrowth and it was not always easy to tear it loose.

Owen liked to watch a craftsman at work. He took up a position where he could see.

The snake catcher began to move cautiously into the undergrowth, peering intently before him. He came to a stop and just stood there for a while, looking.

Suddenly, he pounced. The snake came up with his hand, wriggling and twisting. He threw it out into the open. It tried at once to squirm away but he cut off its escape by beating with his cane. The snake came to ground in the middle of the clearing.

The snake catcher crept forward and then suddenly brought the cane down hard on the snake’s neck, pressing it in to the ground. Then, holding the cane down with his left hand, he reached out with his right hand and seized the snake with thumb and forefinger, forcing the jaws open. He dropped the cane and held out the skirts of his galabeah so that the snake could strike at them. He let it strike several times. Yellow beads of venom appeared on the cloth. When he was satisfied that all the poison had been drawn, he opened his bag and dropped the cobra inside. Snake catchers hardly ever killed their snakes.

“What will you do with it?”

“Dispose of it through the trade. Some shops want them. Charmers. Some people buy them for pets.”

“You’d need to know what you’re doing.”

“Most people don’t,” he said. “That’s why there’s always a demand for new ones. They die easy.”

“It’s not the other way round? The owners that die?”

“We take the fangs out first. That makes them safe. The poison flows along the fang, you see. The trouble is, they use the teeth for killing their food. Once they’re gone, they don’t last very long.”

“What about milking?” asked Owen, displaying his newfound knowledge.

“It’s all right if you know what you’re doing. There is a sac behind the fangs where the poison is. You let it strike-that’s what I was doing-until the sac is drained dry. Then you’re all right for about a fortnight.”

“If you had a lot of snakes,” said Owen, thinking about the cistern where they had found McPhee, “you’d have to know each one.”

“Well, you would know each one, wouldn’t you, if it was your job.”