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Down here in this dark underground place they felt safe. They would remain here as long as possible for even the keen-scented dogs which had hunted the ground above had not smelled them out They had food—rats and mice, an abundance of voles. The king, too, had fed

But every one of them was a killer. Tomorrow, or perhaps the next day, their very nature would drive them out again to kill.

Chapter 13

A SUMMER dawn was beginning to infiltrate the night sky by the time sheer exhaustion finally claimed Keith Doyle and Kirsten Davis, brought brief respite from the sheer horror of the past few hours. All around the birds were beginning to twitter and sing but they did not hear them as they slumbered restlessly in a cramped position, bodies entwined, breathing easily.

It was the numbness in his left arm which finally had Keith stirring, wakefulness coming slowly, his brain gently easing him slowly back to reality. He thought at first that they were in a bed together, like the time Kirsten's folks had gone away for a long weekend and the couple had crammed into the girl's single bed, spent a blissful uncomfortable night together, an experience which they would hold dear for the rest of their lives. It had happened again; a thrill began to course through his body then died as quickly as it had begun. Oh Christ!

The horror was back. He stiffened, didn't turn his head to look out of the windscreen because he knew the snake would still be there on the bonnet, a revolting length of colourful coiled death just watching them.

Kirsten was still sleeping, her face pallid, crumpled dress and hair awry, hunched up in a position in which no human could have slept unless totally exhausted. Keith recalled a remark his father had once made, a disparaging reference to his wife. 'Before you marry a girl you want to see what she looks like first thing in the morning. She can tart herself up for the rest of the day but it's when she wakes up you know what she really looks like.' Not that I'm condoning pre-marital sex, though, just a piece of advice.

Kirsten looked beautiful, he decided. A queen amongst young girls. He would always remember her this way. But it did not alter the fact that their priority was to get away from here. All the same he could have stayed here just gazing down at her for ever.

He felt her stir. Her breasts rubbed softly against him, her eyelids began to flicker. Damn it, I've woken her up just when she needs all the sleep she can get.

'What time is it?' She tried to stretch, pushed her feet against the old van heater, the one that had no means of being switched off, roasted you in summer and did not work much at all in cold weather.

'Ten past four,' he murmured, adjusted his embrace. 'No, hurry, sleep on as long as you like.'

'No ... hurry . . . I'll be late for ... Oh, God! 'It's all right.' He kissed her softly. 'We're safe, a bit uncomfortable but everything's all right.' 'Is it ... still there?' 'Don't look.'

She struggled with him, twisted her head round, the terror back in her wide eyes. Then she gave a cry of mingled relief and amazement, euphoria. 'Keith, it's gone!'

He didn't dare to look where Kirsten had looked, barely comprehended her words. It hasn't, it can't, because it won't go away whilst it's got us trapped in here, you could tell that by the look in its eyes.

'Keith, look. I tell you it's gone!'

He turned his head slowly. She was right, the snake was no longer on the bonnet of the van.

'We can go then.' She was half-crying, fumbling for the door catch when he caught her wrist.

'Just hold on. We have to be sure, Kirsten.' 'Of course it's gone.'

'We don't know for certain, and until we are certain you don't get out of this van.'

'How do we find out then?' she was becoming angry. 'I say it's gone and we'd better make a run for the road before it comes back.'

Keith began to ease open the driver's door, just a couple of inches, enough for him to see outside, scrutinise the ground on the offside of the vehicle. Clumps of grass that were dying from lack of moisture, stunted growth that should have been luxuriant towards the end of June. Sparse, hardly room enough for a mouse to hide just here. The drought was beginning to bite.

'Well,' she said, craning her neck, trying to see past him, 'what did I tell you? It's got fed up with waiting and cleared off.'

He did not reply, opened the door another few inches, remembered what had happened outside the Evershams' garage, how the rattlesnake had lain in wait underneath Peter Eversham's Jag.

'What are you doing, Keith?'

He pushed the door and held it at arm's length, lowered his head and shoulders, ready to draw back at the first sign of danger. His long copper hair flopped down, felt below the sill. Almost afraid to look, but he had to.

'God? Keith Doyle's whole body recoiled like a whiplash, slamming the van door in the same motion as he fell back into Kirsten's arms.

'What is it? It ... isn't . . .'

'Yes,' he sighed, closing his eyes. 'Our friend of last night is lying stretched full length under the van patiently waiting for us to emerge!'

Kirsten instinctively raised her feet up off the floor, felt physically sick, did not waste her breath asking what they were going to do. That was obvious, they stayed right there, hoped that eventually somebody would come.

'At least we can shout for help,' she said at length.

'We'll try in a bit when people are up and about,' he replied, remembered how this sandpit was virtually soundproof; that was the argument the local bikers had used in the big row a few years ago, claimed that the pit deadened the sound of their motorbikes, had almost convinced the local authorities. But he did not tell Kirsten that because her nerves were already at breaking point.

They sat there, pressed up against each other, watched the first rays of the morning sun turn the vegetation on the top of the quarry a rich golden colour. Anywhere else they could have appreciated the beauty of Nature's splendour. Here it was horribly threatening. And in a few hours it was going to get very hot. The temperature inside the van would rise, become unbearable.

'I ... I'll have to ... go somewhere.' She blushed, had probably fought against the physical urge for some time.

'Well, you can't go outside.' Damn it, this was unnecessarily embarrassing.

'I've got to.'

'There's a gardening bucket somewhere in the back amongst all this clutter.' He turned round, rummaged behind the seat until he found it, pulled it out. 'You can use that.'

'Keith, I . . .'

'You'll have to.' He tried to sound sympathetic, knew that he would have to urinate too very shortly. 'I'm going to use it myself in a minute.'

She struggled with her inhibitions, finally crawled over into the back.

'What wouldn't I give for a nice cup of tea,' he said. Keep talking, don't make an issue out of what we'll both have to do several times before somebody finds us. 'Some toast, too.'

'Don't, you make me feel hungry.' She rejoined him in the front: 'Do you think we could try shouting yet?'

'We'd better leave it a bit.' No use exhausting ourselves, every hour from now onwards is going to take it out of us. 'If I know my mum she'll have raised the alarm by now. We can keep the windows open an inch or so and listen. As soon as we think we hear anybody we'll yell our heads off.'

But there was only silence. Just the buzzing of insects in the surrounding undergrowth. They might have been a thousand miles from civilisation, marooned on a dried-up waterhole in the middle of some vast arid desert.

Keith had dozed. Suddenly he was awoken by a movement, jerking him back to reality; not the restless stirring of his companion, but a sudden surge by Kirsten, the click of the catch on the passenger door, the creaking of rusty hinges.