'See you then.' He eased himself over into the back with some difficulty, his body cumbersome, stiff and weakened. Don't look back or else you won't go.
Sickle in one hand, he felt for the door lever with the other. The catch was stiff, always had been. In fact, he had never operated it from the inside, never had to, He had to force it, a screeching and grinding of metal, a noise that seemed to vibrate on his teeth the way it always had in his boyhood days when some of the kids ran their fingernails along the paintwork of the school bus.
But he did glance backwards, he could not stop himself. He saw Kirsten's pallid, frightened features, switched his gaze to the bonnet. The make was gone, had read his movements and slid away to lie in wait for him!
He crouched, tensed himself for the leap, knew what an ungainly turkey poult perching for the first time felt like, sensed that his leg muscles were flaccid, useless; a parachutist on his first leap, holding on, afraid to let go. Now!
If he had not leapt out then he would never have done, a frog-like hop, a long-jumper striving for length. He hit the ground, staggered, went over, twisting an ankle as he fell awkwardly. A combination of pain and fear swamped him, jerking his head round, trying to see . . .
The snake was underneath the van, seemingly a coloured extension of the exhaust system, stretched full length and poised, about to propel itself at him. And, oh Christ, the van doors were still wide open, Kirsten staring out after him in shocked horror.
'Close the bloody doors!' he yelled. Because that's your only chance. I'm done for!
The coral snake edged forward a foot or so, mocking him with that same cold merciless reptilian expression. So sure of itself, not hurrying, knowing his terror and wanting to make him suffer the agonies of hell. Damn it, Kirsten had not moved, was just kneeling on the front seats staring at him, wondering why he did not scramble up and run.
Keith saw the strike coming, the raised head, the snake's body tensed for the rush which would take it to him. He closed his eyes, knew there wasn't a jack-damned thing he could do about it. They had suffered the agonies of heat, thirst, hunger, terror, he had planned this do-or-die rush for freedom with such precision and now he was going to die. Kirsten, too. They might as well have given up and died at the very outset. He had failed.
He heard it coming, felt the vibrations of its thrashing body, its hissing. He braced himself in readiness, but nothing touched him, no revolting rough, cold, scaly skin, no agonising stabbing of poisonous fangs. Nothing but the sound of its flayings and hissing, interspersed with a rapid chattering noise which he thought might be distant machine-gun fire.
He forced his eyes open, did not for one moment believe what he saw. His mind had snapped, it was delirium brought on by snake venom. Whatever it was, it could not be happening.
The coral snake was writhing, its lashing tail striking the van doors, pinioned to the ground by two brownish-grey creatures which had a secure hold on it, clasping it by its evil head, biting deep into the tough skin, bleeding it to death like a helpless calf in a slaughterhouse.
The snake was growing weaker, its efforts now only a token resistance, whipping faintly with its tail, its hate and fury spent.
Then going limp.
And dead.
The mongooses backed off, stood there watching Keith inquisitively. Wary. Was it permissible to kill snakes? They did not know, they were not taking any chances. Next second they were gone, diving back into the undergrowth; only the swaying stalks of seeding wild willow herb and bracken fronds marked their exit.
Kirsten was out of the van, struggling to help Keith to his feet, crying, holding on to him. The relief, the sudden turning of the tables was too much for her. 'What were . . . they? she asked.
'Well, they looked like mongooses to me.' He winced, tried to put his weight on his injured foot and decided against it. 'Can't be sure but I'm not going to argue. The snake's dead but there might be more of 'em around. Come on, let me lean against you and between us we ought to be able to make it down to the road.'
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.
Chapter 20
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.