Guy Smith - Snakes

I'll chop 'em in half with the hoe if I see 'em. Like fuck you will, you stupid bugger.

His nerves were calming; his heart was not beating nearly so fast, the roaring in his ears had lessened and he had almost stopped shaking. He began to think logically. That key, it was up on the first shelf inside that tin of nails. He stood up, lifted the tin down and had to put pressure on the lid to force it off. Good, the key was there, a front door one ... oh shitfire and Holy Moses!

Frustration, anger; he closed his hand over the Yale key, would have crushed it to a piece of twisted metal if he had had the strength. He didn't, so he flung it at the wall, watched it bounce on the floor and land in a patch of sticky oil. Far better had there been no key hidden in the garage at all than this one that built his hopes and then destroyed them a few seconds later. For this was a front door key, and to reach the front door it would be necessary to go out across the drive where undoubtedly the snake still lay waiting. The back door, which was in the patio at the rear of the garage and could be reached without going outside, was almost certainly locked. So certain that it was a waste of time even checking it.

You're a cunt, Peter Eversham. Doyle closed his eyes, clenched his fists. You might be rich and clever but you're a stupid prick!

A feeling that he might cry, that he had only to let himself go and he would burst into a flood of unstoppable tears. He nearly did but that, like that key lying in the oil-leaks from Eversham's Jag, was just another waste of time.

Stop panicking and think logically. First, you're safe, no way can that snake get to you. Second, somebody's got to come looking for you eventually. Even if the Evershams have gone to stay overnight somewhere then Mother's going to get anxious come tea-time. She'll give you half an hour then she'll phone PC Aylott. They know you're here and your van's stuck out at the front so when you hear them you've only got to give a shout. The rattlesnake will probably get bored with waiting and slither off somewhere. You just have to sit it out. And my flask and sandwiches are out there in the van.

He settled down on his haunches to wait, wished that he could doze to pass the time, but when there's one of the deadliest snakes in the world sitting guard outside your stifling prison sleep does not come easily. He looked at his watch and groaned. 11.15 a.m. Seven bloody hours before Mother starts to get worried.

It was some time before he noticed the tiny circular hole in the shuttered door, about halfway up and the size of one of those spy-holes which they manufacture for house doors so that the occupants can identify a caller before opening up. A circle of daylight, made to take the hook on the end of the rod standing in the corner, an easy means of pushing up or pulling down the shutter. And also a spy-hole.

He went over to it, put his eye to it; restricted vision, but he could see all he wanted to see, or rather everything that he did not want to. The rattlesnake had not gone away. It had retired to the small low rockery which bordered one side of the drive, and had curled itself up on a flat piece of stone. A casual observer might even have overlooked it—until it was too late! The reptile appeared to be asleep, basking in the warmth of the midday sun. Perhaps it was, but Keith had read enough about snakes to know that this one would be awake and poised to strike a lethal blow in a matter of a second. No way was he prepared to risk making a run for it.

Relax, you've got a long wait ahead of you.

5 p.m. The rattler was still there on the rockery stone. Keith peeped out at it, shuddered. It seemed to see him, but that was impossible. The piercing eyes glared, met his. I'm in no hurry, man. I can wait a week if I have to. You'll either die of starvation in there or else make a run for it and take your chance with me. Why not give it a try, see if you can make it to your van?

No way. I'm OK in here and if Eversham doesn't come back soon then the police will come looking for me. They'll have guns, they'll blast you to hell. If you've any sense you'll get the fuck out of here whilst there's still time.

We'll see. The long body moved slightly, settled into a more relaxed, coiled position, an air of permanence about it. It might even have been asleep.

Keith's thoughts moved back to Kirsten. Oh Christ, he wanted to sec her tonight more than he had done any other night. And that bastard out there was stopping him. His gaze alighted on a shovel propped up in the corner and he wondered if it was any match for a western diamondback. If nobody came then he'd give it a try; use it as a shield to keep the fangs at bay, then a swift chopping movement for the kill.

He wondered what a beheaded snake looked like, did the body keep on squirming like a worm's when you cut it in half? Sever the head, then chop the rest up into little lengths, let them all wriggle together. Whatever, he had to see Kirsten tonight.

He must have slipped into an uneasy doze because suddenly he was sitting bolt upright, eyes darting about the gloom of the stifling garage. What was that, that fucking rattler hadn't managed to find a way in, for Christ's sake, had he?

Fear chilled his sweat, had him cowering back against the wall. He heard the rattle, a steady clicking like slow castanets. Menacing. No, the bugger wasn't in here but it was certainly active outside.

Even as he moved back to his spy-hole in the shutters Keith Doyle heard the sound of an approaching vehicle, the drone of a high-powered engine out on the road, slowing, almost stopping.

Turning into the wide driveway.

And suddenly he wanted to yell his jubilation aloud, they're here, you fucking snake bastard. They've arrived and you've left it too late. You'll be blasted to pulp.

A sudden cooling of Doyle's celebrations, a foreboding that sent a warning chill up and down his spine. Oh my God, they won't know the rattler's there, I've got to warn them. He watched, waited until the approaching vehicle came into his arc of vision, recognised the sleek white Jaguar, Eversham at the wheel, the blonde at his side, puzzled expressions, saying something to each other. The gardener did not need to lip-read to know what they were saying. 'Now who the bloody hell's shut the garage up, and what's Doyle's van doing here at this time of day?'

Keith thought for a moment they were going to swerve and pull up in front of the porch. Instead the car came straight on, eased up to within a foot of the garage shutter and stopped with the engine ticking over. The occupants were talking again, obviously puzzled.

Keith switched his gaze from the car to the large flat rockery stone, the one on which the rattler had lain for the past seven hours. The snake was not there any longer; there was just the lump of rough stone with creeping plants growing all around it. It might never have been, this terrible day might have been just a sweltering, feverish nightmare.

He had to force himself back to reality, thrust away the role of spectator. That Diamondback was cunning, it had slid off into the surrounding cover, was lying there waiting to strike, sensing easy prey.

The car door clicked smoothly open and Keith Doyle saw the powerful figure of Peter Eversham about to emerge.

PETER EVERSHAM was a stone overweight but disguised it with his height. Well built, the hallmark of the affluent, a slightly flushed complexion which he told everybody was due to his outdoor activities, certainly not blood pressure. Sleek dark hair brushed straight back, a neatly clipped moustache, his suits hand-tailored out of a tweedish cloth to enforce his self-styled country squire role, and strengthen his claim to chairmanship of the Stainforth Parish Council.

He rented the grouse shooting on Stainforth Moor, fished for salmon in Scotland and played golf on Wednesdays and Sundays. He was president of the Stainforth Country Club which was set in its own grounds two miles outside the village and had very little to do with Stainforth.