Guy Smith: Snakes

Staggering, holding on to each other, they set off down the track to freedom, their course erratic as they skirted dense clumps of vegetation that could have concealed a lurking snake. Their flesh crawled, their pulses raced and the effort was almost too much for them. But not quite. They made it out on to the road.

THE PACKED church created an atmosphere that for John Price transcended sadness. More than just the death of a fond relative; a tragedy, a horror, a waste of life. Somebody who was about to embark upon a journey prematurely, had not had a chance to say her farewells.

Every pew was crammed full and outside crowds thronged the driveway from the church doors to the lych-gate, spilled out on to the road and lined the pavement. TV cameras trained on the cortege, the climax to a drama which the whole nation would watch tonight, had been following in instalments for days.

John fought back the tears which welled up behind his eyes, knew that they had the cameras on him in close-up during the slow walk back from the graveside. An interval of fifteen minutes just for respectability (we don't want to be seen to be rushing it), and then it was the turn of Barbara Brown and her child. Then Eversham. Later in the week it would be Joan Doyle (God and the undertakers alone knew what would be in her coffin, a bloodstained bedsheet probably, there wasn't anything else); that corporal's body had been taken south to be buried in his home town. And they still had not found PC Aylott.

The media were highlighting John's role in the whole bloody business. At least Rick and Tick were safe back in that old suitcase now hidden inside the coal-bunker. Tomorrow, or the day after, he would smuggle them back up to Scotland; he must get the petrol pump on the Mini fixed first, though. You had to think of mundane things like that to convince yourself that it was all real.

The mongooses had been seen and recognised, but nobody knew any more than that. Maybe Burlington suspected; John thought he might be questioned later. But what the hell, the snakes were dead, accounted for, they had found the corpses. The mongooses would just disappear, not to be seen again. If people wanted to hunt them, let 'em. They had never found that puma down south and that was all of twenty-five years ago, nor the cat beast that had ravaged flocks of Welsh sheep more recently.

John made it back to the main street, all eyes still on him. That's John Price, he knows all about snakes, got a degree in 'em. Ugh! A news reporter stepped out of the crowd, barred his way, a microphone thrust at him like some threatening weapon.

'Where do you think these mongooses came from, Mr Price?'

'I haven't a clue.'

Liar! You read it in the other's eyes, the implication in his tone of voice.

'Do you think all the snakes are dead?'

The million dollar question. Have we got 'em all?

'Mongooses are pretty thorough hunters.' He chose his words carefully. 'They just live for hunting snakes. If there are any left they'll surely get 'em.' He pushed his way past the reporter, increased his step until he reached the bungalow.

Are all the snakes dead?

Maybe, maybe not. That initial inventory of the escaped reptiles was compiled by a process of elimination from the intended recipients of the reptiles not from that cowboy zoo. Nobody really knew.

Only time would tell.