Guy Smith - Snakes

Her eyelids began to droop. Those helicopters up on the moor were soothing, like the distant drone of bees on the heather. The sort of sound that could send you off to sleep whether you were tired or not.

Barbara woke with a start, sat bolt upright, knew instinctively that she had overslept. She fought to focus her bleary eyes, saw that the cheap alarm clock on the dresser said 2.30. And it was always half an hour slow. Oh, Christ! She leaped off the bed, grabbed her crumpled dress and shrugged it over her head. Michael was overdue for his next feed. It was a wonder he hadn't been screaming the place down, with Bill yelling, 'Shaddup, you little bugger,' or, 'Jesus, somebody go and throttle that babby.'

She ran downstairs barefooted. Bill and Betty must still be in bed or else they had gone down to the pub for a lunchtime pint. That was one bit of bonus peace anyway. Michael had obviously slept right through, which was fine except that in all probability he would not want to sleep tonight. You couldn't win, you were backing a loser whichever way you looked at it.

He must have just woken up. As she stepped out of the back door into the hot charred atmosphere she heard his rattle clicking, or it could have been the beads shooting from one end of the rod to the other.

'There's a good boy.' She quickened her pace across the rough unmown grass. 'He's ever such a good boy. He knew his momma was tired so he's played with his rattle and let his momma get some sleep. I'm going to feed you now, my darling'

She grasped the handle of the pram, pulled it round so that it was back in the shade of the lilac again.

And then she let out a piercing scream that filled the smoky Stainforth air, dung on to the pram in rigid terror. Michael was up in the far corner and it was quite obvious that he was dead, his tiny pink face bloated and purplish, head back, eyes wide and staring, tongue lolling lifelessly out of his open mouth.

In that instant Barbara Brown's mind snapped. She stopped screaming, failed to wonder why Michael's rattle was still clicking and clinking even though he was dead. She reached across to grab him and at that moment the crumpled coverlet moved and from beneath it a living coil began to unfurl, a light-coloured creature with diamond-shaped markings on its back, a head with fangs bared, rearing up, a killer that had patiently lain in ambush beside the corpse of its fast kill.

It struck; once, twice, thrice. Darting blows, each one finding their mark on arms and face. She screamed again, fell back clutching at the pram, toppled it over so that it threw both baby and snake to the ground.

She was doubled up with pain, her brain unable to cope, staggering blindly away, falling once and picking herself up. Oblivious of her own safety, the thoughts of a mother only for her baby, refusing to accept that he was dead. She ran but the snake did not follow; it moved with amazing speed that could easily have overtaken her had it so wished, turning and slithering away beneath the thick lilac bush; eased its way beneath the hedge and into the undergrowth beyond.

Barbara did not run back into the house. No logical reason except perhaps that she had long ago given up asking her mother for help in any matter relating to baby Michael. Instead, she staggered down the front path, through the open gate and out into the road.

The pain was unbearable, anybody except a distraught mother still clinging to the hope that her offspring might be saved, would have collapsed and succumbed to the writhings and convulsions usually caused by a rattler's bite. Somehow she remained upright, staggering, holding on to parked vehicles for support, yelling insanely, her lips blue and puffed, swelling rapidly so that by the time a group of bystanders rushed towards her she was babbling incoherently.

She tried to wave an arm back the way she had come, attempted to scream, 'My baby, save my baby from the snake,' but she only managed a groan.

And that was when her brain and body gave out and she slumped forward in the road.

In the crowd that had gathered somebody muttered 'I think she's dead.' '

KEITH DOYLE had not been to work for two days, not since his nightmarish experience in the Evershams' garage. But he couldn't just sit at home doing nothing; the snakes might not be caught for weeks and it could cost him hundreds of pounds in lost earnings.

'Now, don't you get going out gardening.' His mother turned from the sink, fixed him with a disapproving stare, a pleading, frightened look in her eyes. 'We don't want any more trouble. It's a wonder I didn't have a heart attack last time. I'll sit here worrying myself to death if you go out of the house.'

'There's nothing whatever the matter with your heart,' he snapped irritably. 'You're as fit as I am. You're just using emotional blackmail to try and keep me at home.'

'You'll be safe here.' She dried a plate vigorously, sensed that she was fighting a losing battle, decided to change the subject. 'How's Kirsten? You haven't brought her home lately, is everything all right between you?'

He bit his lip, had to stop himself from snapping, 'It's none of your business, Mother.' He had not seen Kirsten for three days now. After his experience with the rattlesnake at the Evershams' he had spent the whole evening being interviewed by reporters eager for the latest snake story, and when he had finally gone to meet Kirsten she wasn't there. She had probably given him up and gone home. He should have gone to her house but he didn't. Diplomacy, or was it just bloody cowardice? The next morning he phoned the drapery shop in town and Mrs Holloway's caustic voice informed him, 'She's not in today.' That was all, no reason, no 'Thank you for calling, she'll be in tomorrow.' Later he had tried to phone Kirsten at home but there had been no reply. And the phone rang unanswered again yesterday.

All sorts of fears crammed his frustrated mind, relegating escaped snakes to incidentals. Maybe the Davis family had left Stainforth for the time being, were keeping clear until it was safe. Kirsten's parents were like that, the kind who would have fled to America at the outbreak of war. They were the bloody cowards, not him.

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.