Guy Smith - Snakes

'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 over 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.