Guy Smith - Snakes

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.

'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.'