Then sudden relief, a releasing of pent-up breath, lowering the gun. Whatever it was, it was darting away in the opposite direction. A rabbit probably. Or a hare.
Now there was a sense of urgency about Peter Eversham's movements, crashing his way through the ripening crop, searching desperately for a clearing somewhere.
He had gone about a hundred yards before he found one to his liking. Not quite as big as he had hoped, possibly five or six yards in diameter, but it would do. He might blunder around all evening without finding exactly what he was looking for and time was not on his side.
He settled down on his haunches, tried not to notice that he was trembling slightly, and glanced up at the sky. The sun was low in the west, perhaps an hour and a half away from dusk. He'd give it an hour, no more; the last thing he wanted was to be walking back through that barley in the dark.
He waited five minutes, time to let anything that had heard his noisy passage forget about it, then he pressed his lips to the back of his hand and began to suck. It wasn't easy but after several attempts he produced a fair imitation of the squeals of a terrified or injured rabbit. 'Don't overdo it, rabbits don't squeal continually,' Kenning had said. 'Give a call every few minutes.'
Eversham was desperate for a smoke. He resisted the temptation until his keen memory churned out something he had read somewhere, or maybe seen in a TV documentary, something about wildfowl hunters in the Fens during the last century carrying burning peat to mask any scent they gave off. Perhaps, then, a cigarette would be to his advantage and, anyway, didn't most of the old big-game hunters in Africa always smoke a big foul-smelling pipe?
He put a cigarette to his lips, flicked his lighter and inhaled the smoke gratefully. Come on, you buggers, I'm ready for you.
Half an hour passed. The sky was beginning to turn saffron and the only creatures which seemed to have located Peter Eversham's hiding place were swarms of tiny midges; their ploy was to hover incessantly over your head and whilst you were swatting at them, a small detachment would come in from behind, find a patch of exposed flesh and alight on it. He blew smoke at them but it did not deter them. And when finally they did decide to depart they left him scratching a number of itchy swellings on his neck and ears.
He tried the rabbit call again. Much better now, it really sounded something like a distressed coney. Surely a snake in an alien environment wouldn't be able to tell the difference anyway, probably had never seen or heard the good old English bunny in its life.
Peter heard a helicopter coming down off the moor, crouched low and ducked his head. Deafening, the wind from the vanes wafting the corn, flying at no more than twenty feet. The machine passed just to his left and he raised his eyes to follow its departure. It swung round, headed back towards the village. What a bloody waste of time, he thought. If they can't spot me in the barley how the hell can they expect to see the snakes?
Boredom added to the discomfort of his crouched position. He found himself studying the engraving on his gun, marvelled at the intricacies, the workmanship that made English guns the best in the world. In the right hands, with the right cartridge, this gun would kill anything. Snakes were no exception, he had proved that already. And he would prove it a second time.
He had a feeling that he was not going to see the snakes tonight. Another few minutes and he would pack it in, head for home. One more cigarette and I'll go. He sucked his hand once more; now that was the best rabbit call he had done all night, enough to make . . .
A swishing of wings above his head made him start and he was just in time to see a diving sparrow hawk check, jink and change direction. Hard luck, you bugger, Eversham smiled to himself, I must be good to fool you. You thought you heard your supper squealing but you had one helluva shock. The moral of that story is don't take anything for granted.
The tall corn was beginning to cast its shadows across the small clearing, thousands of nodding, swaying heads that were to be given a brief few hours' rest from the labours of ripening, a sun-soaked crop that could be part of Man's winter food store, grain for malting, seed for poultry. A source of life.
And death!
Peter Eversham started, almost dropped his gun. There was a snake directly opposite him, its body partly concealed by the barley forest. Red, black and yellow with white rings, gaudy with all Nature's warning colours blended into its scaly skin. A black snout, eyes that watched unblinking, fearlessly, full of hate.
He had not heard its approach, not so much as the disturbance of a barley stalk, a hunter that had slithered silently in answer to that false cry of pain, perhaps had not even been fooled by it, had come in search of Man,
A length of ash fell from the cigarette between Peter Eversham's lips, powdered on his shirt. Sweaty hands gripped the gun. Bring it up slowly, don't make a sudden movement, don't let it even guess what you're going to do. He wondered what species the snake was, how fast it was capable of moving. Right now it didn't look to be in any hurry, probably thought it had him for the taking anyway.
He was trembling so much that he could scarcely draw a bead on the reptile, the twin barrels quivering, moving from side to side. And still the snake did not move.
The gun bucked, the heel of the stock hammering against his shoulder because he held it too loosely. A vivid flash lit up the tiny clearing, forked lightning that propelled leaden death, a report that shattered the stillness, went rolling across the landscape towards Stainforth, its echoes rumbling and dying when they reached the distant moorland.
The snake slumped forward, a coil of bloodied rope that did not so much as twitch; pulped, unrecognisable. Harmless.
The gun was still at Peter Eversham's shoulder. He was aware of the pain where it had kicked him but he ignored it, just stared in disbelief. The patience of the hunter had paid off; just when you thought nothing was going to show up your prey emerged. You could never be certain of anything, that was the spice of hunting, what drove you on just when you had almost given up.
'COMPANY DIRECTOR KILLS TWO OF THE ESCAPED SNAKES'he saw tomorrow's newspaper headlines in his imagination, a wad of papers on the desk in his office. The Sun, Mail, Express, Star. Television interviews, describing how he went out and lay in wait, lured it with his calling, his expertise, his knowledge of the ways of the wild. But you'll have to take the dead snake home to prove it!
His flesh crept and pimpled, a shudder ran right up his spine and into his scalp beneath the deerstalker hat. Christ, I don't have to touch that thing, do I? Of course you do. I can't. You must, else they won't believe you and if you don't take it now you might not find it again. Foxes might come in the night and eat it. 'COMPANY DIRECTOR KILLS RATTLER, CLAIMS HE SHOT A SECOND'Oh, yeah!
He drew on his cigarette, glanced around in the shadows, looking for a couple of sticks, wondering if somehow he could make a cradle out of them and carry it at arm's length. Yuk! But you don't often find sticks in the middle of fields of growing corn. He didn't have a piece of string either with which to make a loop to drag over it, pull it along behind him. He didn't fancy the idea, it would be like the creature was pursuing him in the dark, swishing along behind him. It might not be dead, it might bite!
You're crazy. Just frightened, everybody's entitled to a few fears when it starts to get dark, aren't they?
He stood up, tried to get his bearings. A landscape of silhouettes in the gathering dusk, the village on his left, the moors starkly outlined above them, a mass of deep purple that would merge with the night sky before long and obliterate everything. And all around him a sea of corn, no distinguishing features. Christ on a bike, I've got to get the fucking thing home somehow!