Guy Smith - Snakes

The mood was coming on her tonight and she knew she could not stop it. That was one reason why she wasn't going to sit up and wait for Keith; she found all kinds of other excuses but she knew the real one and it made her feel guilty.

She left the hallway light on and went upstairs. Keith would be all right.

Joan Doyle studied her nakedness in the full-length wardrobe mirror, experienced a glow of self-satisfaction. Her figure was still passable, her breasts were still firm and had not sagged, just a few wrinkles on her stomach and a couple of stretch marks. She would not be ashamed to let a man see her nude. That in itself was an exciting thought.

Her inhibitions always disappeared when she put the light out, it was as though she stepped into another world.

She tossed the sheets aside and lowered herself on to the bed, smoothed her fingers sensuously up and down the insides of her thighs, escalated her feelings. She was quivering all over, trembling with anticipation, determined to take her time and enjoy every second of it. Goodness, it was ages since she had been in a mood as strong as this; if a man had walked into the bedroom right now she would have let him have his way, pleaded with him to do it if necessary. Seduced him, thrown herself at him.

A thought crossed her mind; she wondered if Keith and Kirsten did . . . no, she didn't want to think about it. Just herself, the time that soldier had dated her, the year before she had met Bob, had walked her across the fields and down to the meadow by the river. She had told him 'no' over and over again but finally she had said 'yes' and they had not got home until well after midnight.

She couldn't hold off much longer, her slender fingers going to places she had been determined to keep them away from for a while yet, moving faster and faster. And faster. Her whole body was caught up in a maelstrom, taut as a bowstring. And then everything seemed to give. She thrashed and writhed, rolled from one side of the bed to the other and back again, over on to her stomach, crying her joy into the pillow.

The aftermath was so relaxing, like floating in a warm bubble bath without a care in the world, savouring the drowsiness, trying to hold off sleep as long as she could. Was that a door closing downstairs? She couldn't be sure but anyway it was a good job that Keith was late home because he might have heard her otherwise. She would have to be careful in future but it would be a long time before she got in a mood as strong as that again.

Her fantasies and memories followed her into sleep. Bob, tall and strong on their wedding night. She had lied and told him she was a virgin. She couldn't have done otherwise without admitting to having gone with Alistair that evening and she'd never do that.

In the darkened council-semi nuptial chamber, she was aware of her new husband alongside her, of his efforts at marital seduction. Secretly she was crying out for him to roll on top of her. Those rough hands of his, a brickie's callouses scraping their way up her legs. She eased her thighs apart, an invitation to him to feel in between them. Go on, Bob, touch me there.

He did, but somehow it was no longer sensuous, his roughness abrasive to her own sensitivity, a cold hard probing finger when it should have been soft and warm. Another movement that hurt her, gouged her soft moist flesh; catapulted her back into wakefulness.

If it was an erotic dream then it did not vanish with waking. The hand feeling her was still there, clumsily manipulating female organs that shut off instantly. She sat up, wanted to push it away.

And at that moment she saw it, a long dark shape like a trailing length of rope starkly outlined against the white background of the under sheet, draped from the foot of the bed right up on to her unclothed body. Moving, wriggling, a squat head erect and looking down at her.

She did not scream, she was incapable of doing anything except lie there and watch with terrified fascination and loathing, its very touch robbing her of all her powers. Her mind was a total blank, clinging to disbelief, seeing it move nearer . . . and nearer.

The reptilian intruder struck with a lightning lunge of its head, buried its fangs into the soft flesh of a breast, the terrified woman arching upwards with sudden pain, her spinal cord cracking under the pressure. Her body was on fire, a burning sensation spreading out in all directions, flaying arms and legs, slapping and kicking and trying to dislodge the creature that was now entwining itself around her. So cold, so strong, so dominant in an obscene simulation of reptilian and human copulation.

Joan Doyle screamed just once before she died, subconsciously tried to check that cry of terror in case it brought Keith rushing into the room. She felt her life being squeezed from her, an expulsion of air and vomit. Bursting like a balloon filled with water might have done.

And after it had feasted for the second time that night the African rock python left by the way it had entered, out through the open window, negotiated the drainpipe with ease, and slunk away in the direction of the old graveyard.

Man was easy prey if you were cunning enough to single out an unsuspecting victim. Now it would sleep the daylight hours away in the safety of that underground lair.

JOHN PRICE was knocking on the door of the Doyles' council house shortly after seven o'clock the next morning, an air of urgency and frustration about him. Where the hell was the guy? His van was not parked in the short drive. Perhaps Keith's mother could give him some information. God, was she bloody well deaf?

In the end he gave up, turned away and headed back towards the police station. Christ alone knew where they were going to search today, there weren't many places left.

He slowed his step, halted. No reason except a kind of premonition, his thoughts going back to the Doyles. Keith was hardly likely to have left for work at this hour of the morning so where had he gone? None of your bloody business, John Price. And his mother? Gone with him probably.

The zoologist stood there, his forehead creased. He felt a nagging concern. In all probability there was a simple, innocuous answer to those questions. At any other time, yes, but with the occupants of Stainforth hiding behind closed doors and windows, nobody went out much at all except for absolute necessities. Mrs Doyle was probably still in bed, and Keith had not actually promised to help him. Hell, he didn't need him. Yes he did, he needed company, somebody to talk to, to pool a few ideas, maybe throw a different angle on the whole thing.

Slowly John began to retrace his steps towards those few council houses, his uneasy feeling growing stronger by the yard. There had been horrific deaths, nobody was safe. You got to believe that almost anything could happen to anybody, including yourself.

He knocked on the door again, louder this time, thumping it so that the woodwork rattled. No answer. He walked round the side of the house; for some reason council-house dwellers seldom opened their front doors, everybody using the rear entrance, a sort of tradition that dated back to wartime days.

He tapped on the glass panel of the back door, did not expect any answer. He could see into the small kitchen, through into the hallway. A light was burning and that was damned odd; he got a peculiar sensation in the pit of his stomach, an apprehension that was manifesting itself. There's something terribly wrong here, John Price.

He tried the door, it was unlocked, swung right back on its hinges. You've no business opening people's doors. Or going inside. But all the same he stepped over the threshold. You could find yourself in an awful lot of trouble, you ought to go and fetch PC Aylott or one of the other policemen.