He was scared again now. His bowels rambled in protest.
Bob lay arched across the seat of his chair, his dead eyes staring upwards. A long, pale, snake-like thing fed on his exposed throat. It looked up and stared at George with hard eyes, the blood slobbering from its hideous mouth.
Must phone, he thought. Whatever happens, must phone for help. An warn people.
Shaking, he picked up the receiver, dialling 999 by sense of touch only, not daring to take his eyes away from that thing across the room. It was such a slow business waiting for the dial to spin back after each figure, it seemed like an eternity. Still the snake didn't move; it remained raised over the dead fireman as though undecided what to do about this newcomer.
There was blood on his neck; or sweat. He could feel it trickling down under his collar, then over his skin, prickling and sensitive to every' change. Blood — must be, though he dared not look away from that snake.
He dialled the third 9, his hand trembling.
More like a giant grub, it was, its segments bulging like over-stuffed sacks and glistening damply. It still didn’t move, and nor did he. The number at the other end was ringing, but no one was answering.
Then, in a flash it shot across the room and its mouth' fastened over Ms throat. He strutted, trying to tug it dear, but the pain was too intense; Ms arms were merely flailing in the air, unable to grip anything. He stumbled back against a chair, knocking it over, and he fell with it.
'Can I help you?’ the girl's voice reached him from the receiver. ‘Hello? What service do you want, please? Hello?’
‘Worth Hall,’ he gasped. ‘Snakes. Worth Hall.’.
The obscene wMte slug shifted, coiling over bis face, its mouth still fiercely sucking at his neck with such power that he felt his blood-vessels bursting under the pressure and knew that his blood was being hungrily drawn out. His arms and legs were tingling — which was odd, he thought. No rush of wind around him. That’s what he’d have expected.. failing… falling… down from the clouds… he’d have expected wind, gale force.
He floated. So gently.
Not on water. No, he wasn’t at sea any longer. He was floating down through the air, quietly cushioned, like one of those gliding seagulls he’d so often envied.
They spread wide their wings, quite effortlessly. Skimming down over the surface of the waves.
‘Hello? Hello?’ someone was saying, some girl.
Hello.
10
‘Proceed, to Red Lion public house, comer of Hill Street…’
The panda car radio was never silent for long at that time in the evening but Police Constable Reed listened with only half an. ear as he manoeuvred through the impatient traffic and headed for Worth Road. He felt he’d earned his supper break after sorting out those rowdies who had been upsetting the owners of an Indian takeaway. No a..Tests, not this time; just the sight of the uniform and a firm word of warning: he’d been surprised himself how easy it had been. Little more than kids really, overgrown kids who were not yet accustomed to their newly acquired, muscle and gruff voices. Now he was looking forward to a cup of tea and a bite to eat in the canteen. Perhaps pie and chips. Something to set him up for the night.
Then the radio' voice — it was Meg this evening, Constable Meg Beamish, the divisional heart-throb — called his number. He reached for the microphone to acknowledge.
‘Proceed to Worth Hall. Investigate reported snakes. 999 call broken off. Receiver not replaced. Over.’'
‘You did say snakes? Over.’
‘That’s right, snakes. Repeat snakes.’
Must be a hoax, he thought. Snakes — well, that was at least original. Fire was the hoaxer’s favourite; or, these days, a bomb. He’d never come across snakes before.
Switching on his siren, he had the satisfaction of seeing the traffic part in front of him like the waters of the Red Sea. A few minutes later, passing the police canteen block, he felt a twinge of irritation at the hoaxer; if he got in too late he’d find all the pies gone.
From outside, Worth Hail showed no sign of anything wrong. Most of the lights were still on, though through t he uncurtained windows the building had a bare, empty look. Pity, really; it must have been a nice house in its day, while people still lived in it, he thought. He drove around to the back but there was no one about; certainly no disturbance of any kind.
He returned to the main entrance at the front, got out of the car and went up the steps to ring the night bell. No one came to open the heavy door, so he rang again and hammered against one of the panels in case the bell was out of order. Retreating back down the steps he surveyed the brightly lit windows. Nobody visible.
Going back to the car, he unclipped his microphone and called up the station to report. Tokyo Meg — as someone had dubbed her, and the name had stuck — replied crisply that Sergeant Taylor had fresh instructions for him.
‘Jack, we’re sending someone over with a key,’ came the sergeant’s voice. ‘Do not attempt to enter the building alone. I repeat, do not attempt entry. There’s a car on its way now with back-up. Over and out.’
His chances of a hot pie that night were rapidly receding, he thought glumly; by the time he got back the chips would be dried up again, too. For what? A stupid hoax? Some schoolboy prank? Unless…
He went back up the steps and tried the bell once more. In a public building of this size, there must be at least one man on duty all night, so why the hell didn’t he answer?
‘An don’t give me that crap about snakes,’ he muttered aloud. ‘Not in London.’
This time he heard something moving inside. Not footsteps though, but something more… He pondered, listening as the odd sound started afresh. A heavy object being dragged across a floor? A sack perhaps? A carpet?
‘Anybody in there?’ he shouted, banging at the door. ‘Open up! Police!’
Instead of a reply, a loud creaking noise came from the depths of the building. It was followed by a crash, which was so violent that the windows seemed to rattle in their frames. He recoiled down the steps to the tarred driveway, half-expecting the portico to collapse on top of him, but it remained solidly in place as though nothing had happened.
The office strip lights, visible through the bare windows, were rocking gently on their chains; otherwise nothing seemed to have changed. No broken windows. No cracks in the walls. He went farther back — as far as he could — to take a look at the upper windows and the roof, arguing to himself that if an inside floor had collapsed, the obvious cause might be fire.
No smoke, though. No flames; not even the smell of burning.
Much to his relief, he heard the sirens of the approaching police cars and a minute later they were drawing up on the drive next to him. Sergeant Taylor was the first to get out.
‘Anything happened, Jack?’
Constable Jack Reed told him about the crash which had shaken the whole building. ‘Not an explosion,’ he added. ‘More like a floor collapsing, if you ask me.’
‘What-about round the back?’
‘I took a look when I got here. Not since. No sign of a break in, though; not that I could see.’
By the size of the team the sergeant had brought with him he must have rounded up everyone in the canteen, he thought: four men plus the new policewoman who’d been transferred to their division only a couple of weeks earlier. Serita, her name was, he remembered; Indian girl with soft dark eyes. With them was a blonde woman wearing a pale raincoat, her face tired and drawn. From what she said, it seemed she held a key to a side door.