Swiftly he carried it across the kitchen to the open back door and with one deft movement he hurled it out into the night, watched the shadows swallow up the four-foot-long thrashing creature, heard it thud softly on to the lawn.
He stood there in the doorway, trembling and feeling slightly sick. Then he came to a decision and with feet that dragged he began to retrace his steps down the main street and into the village.
They were still drinking in the Rising Sun. Nobody could blame them for that but when you had a personal tragedy you instinctively resented the way life went on without so much as a hiccup. Only a few lights showed in the houses now. Bed was a good place to be and in your own house with the doors locked you felt safe. You kept your feet under the sheets even on a hot night because that way nothing could come up from under the bed and entwine your ankle, slither up you and bite you.
'You still around!' there was sarcasm and resentment in PC Aylott's voice as John Price entered the office.
The constable was checking out a sheet of 'snake sightings'. Ten of them, inevitable but all figments of the imagination. Maybe some of them were hoaxes but they all had to be checked out. There was a minority of the general public that was a bloody nuisance when any major crisis cropped up. Sensation seekers, downright bloody liars and a sprinkling of idiots who over-reacted.
'Elsie Harrison's dead.' John thought his voice seemed to come from somewhere a long way away. A whisper that echoed, mocked. Dead . . . dead . . . dead.
The policeman's expression altered, his pale blue eyes narrowing, thin lips barking one word, a question. 'How?'
'A snake. 'John's ears were roaring, his tongue felt dry and swollen. 'She . . .'
'A snake.' Aylott stiffened and his expression said, 'You better not be lying, laddie, because I've got a whole sheet of reports here that are downright time-wasting fucking lies.'
'It was only a grass snake,' the other's voice was low but he had got it back under control. 'Got lost, or maybe it was just curious, there could be any one of a dozen reasons. Anyway, it must have wandered into the house and ... and it gave my aunt a heart attack.'
'I see.' Ken Aylott stared at the wall beyond his visitor, tried not to show his disappointment and anger. This was all he needed, a harmless snake adding to his problems. The villagers would panic. He needed to catch some sleep too.
'You killed it?'
'No, I threw it outside.'
'You didn't kill it!'
'There wasn't any point, not even after it had killed my aunt. How the hell was it supposed to know everybody would be scared of it when in all probability it was terrified itself?' 'I'll come back with you and take a look.' Aylott stood up, sighed. And kids like this got degrees for studying bloody snakes, he reflected. So what the hell am I doing working the clock round as a village bobby and can't even get promotion?
Chapter 6
KEITH DOYLE had overcome the depression of the unemployed this last six weeks. No longer did he feel a reject, tossed on to the scrap heap, a leech on society, every week when he collected his benefit. You could sit around for ever waiting for something to crop up but if you had any bottle you got up off your arse and did what Muhammad was eventually forced to do.
The idea of a gardening round appealed to him. It was creative and you could see something for your efforts. With two full-time gardeners already in Stainforth there didn't seem much chance of edging in but Keith had already spotted both their weaknesses. There was a niche awaiting the right man.
Old Fred Stokes was an experienced gardener but he was a stubborn old bugger. You took him on for P2.50 an hour but he was the boss. Some folks liked their lawns cut short and kept that way but Fred maintained that you needed a minimum of half an inch of grass growth at all times so that was what you got whether you liked it or not: he did everything his way. The Evershams preferred their rose beds dug over twice a year but Fred insisted on hoeing them instead because he claimed that digging damaged the roots of the bushes. And if you sacked Fred then you only had one alternative—William. Unless, of course, you decided to look after your own horticulture. Anyway, the Evershams got rid of Fred eventually because Peter Eversham was another guy who liked his own way.
William was big and strong, approaching forty, and as willing a worker as you would find anywhere; a workhorse that toiled eight hours a day for P2 an hour; but he had difficulty in distinguishing weeds from flowers. 'If in doubt, pull it out' was his motto. He weeded laboriously but if he left a tuft or two of unsightly grass sticking up in the border then it didn't really matter. If you wanted some planting done then you had to be sure to instruct William to weed the border first; he had been sacked by the Willetts because he planted the autumn bulbs straight into a weed-covered bed. Neither was he particular about raking where he had trodden, so even if you got your border weeded it looked as if some of Farmer Mason's cows had wandered in off the road and trampled it down for you.
So Keith Doyle struck a middle course. For P2.75 an hour you got the job done as you wanted it and tidily finished. Much to old Fred's chagrin Keith took over up at the Evershams' and the recommendation of the wealthy company director fed to him getting regular weekly gardening jobs at four other executive-style dwellings in Stainforth's 'commuter-belt'.
With the summer at its height, the weeds and hedges growing prolifically, Keith Doyle was grossing P110 per week. It would slow down in the winter months of course, but doubtless the likes of the Evershams would be glad of a general handyman to do odd jobs about the place.
'You're asking for trouble lurking about in weed-covered borders.' PC Aylott had stopped him on his way to the Evershams' that morning, and run a suspicious eye over the old van's tyres. 'The snakes could be anywhere.'
'I'll watch out for 'em,' Keith smiled, ran his fingers through his mop of unruly red hair and mocked the policeman with his clear blue eyes. 'Chop 'em in half with the hoe.'
'On your own head be it,' Aylott turned away, called back over his shoulder, 'Neither a hoe nor five 'A' levels are much of a protection against pythons and rattlesnakes.'
Keith dismissed the policeman from his mind. The other had a chip on his shoulder because he hadn't got sergeant's stripes, and thought the people of Stainforth were a community of country bumpkins. Maybe the Force were just trying to cool Aylott's ardour by leaving him in Stainforth; didn't want him getting officious when promotion finally came his way. And in the meantime he was getting up everybody's nose.
The young man turned in through the stone-pillared gateway that was the entrance to the large black and white timbered residence where Peter Eversham and his wife lived. The Jag wasn't parked in front of the house so maybe the owner had left early for the city. Or else Cynthia, his blonde attractive second wife, had persuaded him to take her to a hotel well away from Stainforth until the snakes had all been shot. That was OK by Keith except that he would not be paid until they returned.
He parked his van, opened up the back to get at his tools. A good gardener always carries his own tools, he told everybody, not like Fred Stokes virtually demanding that his employers carry a full range of implements and that every one bore the Spear and Jackson trademark.
He pulled out a long, three-pronged hoe, held it spear-like. Yes, I'll chop the buggers in half if I sec 'em. Now, what was that ditty they used to recite at school about snakes . . . Oh yes, he remembered it now, chanted aloud.
Old King Nick had a six-foot dick,
He showed it to the lady next door,
She thought it was a snake